<div style="background-color:#050505; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><div style="background-color:#101010; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: #6b1f1f"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Pristina;"></span></span></span><span style="color: #101010">____________________</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #d6d6d6"><span style="font-style: italic">“I see no visitors here.”<br/><br/><br/>The long and tapering staircase descending from Deimos’ chambers was precarious at best, and only faintly visible, though it appeared to be perpetually alight with torches whose flames seemed as eternal as the prince himself. The stone steps were roughly cut and uneven against Dahrc’s palm as he descended, and even through the thin light there was no escaping the sight of the stains. The air was thick and putrid, though the rest of the prince’s private tower had smelled of old books and parchment. There was something dark and wretched in this place, and there had been great care taken to keep it confined [i]only</span> in this place<br/><br/><br/>“Blood and bones,” the mutilated woman warned, her voice thick with suspicion as she looked about their surroundings and followed closely at Dahrc’s heel, her arms carrying her down the stairs in a manner that was hobbled and fluid all at once.<br/><br/><br/>Exasperated, as though his intentions should be readily apparent, Deimos sighed, “Well, Dahrc, I typically don’t make a habit of inviting unfamiliar visitors to my home.” The prince didn’t elaborate and the criminal didn’t ask, but instead the two made their silent descent to what felt to be the truest pits of hell, the only sounds keeping the stairway from total and utter silence being the scuffing of their shoes on stone. Even that noise found difficulties in trying to penetrate the thick of the silence, as if it were a tangible thing suppressing sound. <br/><br/><br/>At last, the stairs ended at a single door, weathered and rusted metal adorned with an array of locks. Deimos searched for a key in a sea of keys, all bound by one large ring that might have fit an entire hand through it. Dahrc examined his surroundings as he waited, though individual detail was not as abundant as motifs in this hallway. The stones were all jaggedly the same, with their rough cuts and their stains of blood. The only thing that had changed, he noted after sparing a look over his shoulder, was the passageway itself.  The stairs that they had come down had seemed few in number during their descent, but there appeared to be a long, treacherous climb behind him. The door they had entered through stood miles above their level, and the staircase itself stretched miles further still in a slow and steady slope that stretched just long enough to drive a man mad trying to climb them. There was dark magic at work in this place.<br/><br/><br/>The prince made a small noise of satisfaction as he singled out a key not unlike the rest of the ones hooked to it. Four other keys followed in direct succession. The door was pushed open just a hair, just enough for the sickeningly sweet smell of death to pour through, invading Dahrc’s senses and stirring awake a primal urge within him, one that had not been sated since his desolation of the Prison. <br/><br/><br/>Deimos held the door for a moment longer and Dahrc could slender shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. Still with his back turned, the prince offered a remark over his shoulder. “Again, we have [/i]visitors,<span style="font-style: italic"> my dear convict. What sort of hosts would we be if we did not offer a welcoming gift?” Dahrc could tell that he was smiling. </span><br/><br/><br/>A welcoming gift, the prince had said. Dahrc looked down at the unconscious pile of hair and coat and flesh that lay crumpled on the ground at his feet. It seemed a piss-poor welcoming gift to be sure, but Dahrc was tasked with being a courier, not an inquirer. <br/><br/><br/>The criminal sat patient, perched on a thin slab of stone that was forever frozen in its place in the air, as were the hundreds of others like it, creating a suspended path that twisted and writhed heavenward. The floating stairway ran up into a wide spiral, diameter decreasing in contrast with the altitude until the coil ended at the overwhelming presence of the Gate: the grand doors to nowhere and everywhere all at once. It was the path to the world between worlds, the realm of the living. In spite of the many dead that sought passage through the Gate to reunite with loved ones, the path saw very arrivals and departures. A few brave souls with an Orpheus complex would occasionally walk the threshold into the world above after wandering the depths of hell for whatever it was that they sought, but that was only a few out of the myriad that tried. The only true use the glorified double-doors had was to grant passage to those few that Abaddon allowed to leave. <br/><br/><br/>Dahrc had tried once, so long ago now that it seemed to only come back to him in vague and broken fragments. He remembered standing at the top of the floating spiral, remembered jerking violently at the doors in an attempt for them to give way and let him pass. He had been disheveled then, his breath ragged and his rage emanating from him in great waves. He was being chased by Abaddon, king of kings, the law that maintained the lawless. The last memory he had of that day was the wicked face of royalty staring down at him as he fell from the pinnacle of the staircase, his body falling with all of the physics of a ragdoll as the spiral rushed upward around him. If he could not pass through the Gate, he could not fathom a reason that this Jameson would have any easier of a time. <br/><br/><br/>The folded and crumpled body on the ground shifted in its place, as if Dahrc’s thoughts had somehow cued his awakening. The demon watched with muted interest as Jameson moved to push his upper body up, thin and fragile arms shaking under his weight as they tried to drag his body away. Dahrc slowly rose, rigid and unreadable, taking deliberate steps behind the apparent escapist until one thin ankle was caught beneath the demon’s heavy black boot. The bones made a pleasant crunch as they gave way beneath the sudden weight, but perhaps the most appealing were the screams. <br/><br/><br/>Through the blinding pain, pale fingers curled themselves into the dirt and ash below as the man persisted further. Working through the pain was admirable, Dahrc mused to himself as he leant down just enough to tangle his hand in Jameson’s hair and give him a piece of advice: <br/><br/><br/>“There is no escape.” <br/></span></div></div><div style="background-color:#101010; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #7b2424"><span style="font-size: 200%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Pristina;"><span style="font-weight: bold">N E T H E R</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: #6b1f1f"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Pristina;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Blood and bones.</span></span></span></span><span style="color: #101010">____________________</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #d6d6d6"><br/><br/><br/>The quiet lapping of water on the shoreline provided music to the otherwise eerily noiseless walk along the beach. There was still chatter, but in atmosphere so thick any sound seemed to be absorbed into a vacuum immediately after it was spoken. Even through the prolific silence, the Vagrant was not immune to the hurried crunch of pebbles as the blonde one sought to match his pace. <br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">"'Scuse me, where are we, again?"</span><br/><br/><br/>The Vagrant tossed a look over his shoulder at her, scanning her with tired eyes before returning his stare straight ahead. “Doesn’t matter much where you are, what matters is where y’er goin,” he danced around the question. After a moment - too long of a moment - he continued with a new, darker tone. “Y’er in hell. Won’t be for long, but that’s where you are now. And the lot o’ you are goddamn lucky that you landed on my side of it.” <br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">A chill ran down Anna's spine. "Hell isn't real," she said, out loud, as if that would convince anyone, including herself, that he was lying to her. "Hell is an idea, and we can leave any time we want...?" She had never sounded less certain in her life, a very bad thing for a witch. Witches should always be certain, and even if they weren't, they should at least fake it.</span><br/><br/><br/>“Right, right,” the Vagrant dismissed with a wave of his hand as he scanned the distant horizon, lined by jagged peaks poking out of clouds of dust and ash. Against the night-black environment, he seemed to find what it was that he was looking for. “Well, if y’er so convinced, go ahead and ‘leave anytime you want.’ While y’er busy with that, I’m takin’ this lot to see about <span style="font-style: italic">actually</span> leaving.” <br/><br/><br/>This time, the Vagrant did not even spare her another look, but merely kept walking in his aimless yet purposeful direction. It was almost time.<br/><br/></span></div></div><div style="background-color:#101010; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #7b2424"><span style="font-size: 200%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Pristina;"><span style="font-weight: bold">A M E R S H A M</span></span></span></span></div><span style="color: #6b1f1f"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Pristina;"><span style="font-weight: bold">A nice place, really.</span></span></span><span style="color: #101010">____________________</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #d6d6d6"><br/><br/>The eerie quiet of Mystic Moon was calming. It wasn’t a good calm, it was that sort of calm that Darren imagined that one would have right before they died. He and Jamie use to come around after work and even in the dead of the evening, the cafe would be buzzing with activity. He briefly wondered in the back of his mind if Jamie had felt this calm when he died, or if he was even dead at all. They never found a body.<br/><br/><br/>His mind’s eye played a reel of Jamie, laughing sarcastically at Darren’s conspiracies in that absolutely fucking hateable way of his, pretending he was so much better than the world, and so <span style="font-style: italic">invincible,</span> too. Fuck, he missed Jamie. It wasn’t as if they’d been mates for decades or anything; in truth, they’d only met a few years back when they started working at the hotel at the same time. Even back then, he was always dismissive and prickish, but Darren loved it, and him, like the brother he’d never actually wanted but got stuck with anyway. <br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Excuse me?”</span> the daydream of Jamie asked. But that wasn’t Jamie’s voice, and it decidedly wasn’t Katy’s either. Pulling himself out of his own thoughts, Darren’s tired and dead eyes dragged upward to meet those of the voice’s source. All at once, he woke up and his thoughts came back to him and <span style="font-style: italic">shit</span> he was meeting someone today, that was the entire point of coming here in the first place. <br/><br/><br/>Assaulted by a flurry of disorganized highly-caffeinated thoughts, Darren pushed himself up from his seat and smiled as if he hadn’t been awake for the past 37 hours and counting. “Hi, yeah, sorry. Clayton?” he asked, extending his hand for a proper greeting. “Thanks for, y’know, coming out. Been having lots of trouble getting journalists to hear me out.” His already thin voice trailed off, but Darren only faltered momentarily before offering a smile and taking a seat. “Shall we, then? I ordered you a coffee. I didn’t know how you take it, so I just got it straight. Thought it might be here by the time you got here.”</span></div></span></div><br/><div style="background-color:#101010; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><ul><span style="color: #7b2424"><span style="font-weight: bold">Notes:</span></span> <span style="color: #d6d6d6">There will be one round of posting before my next GM post.</span><br/><span style="color: #7b2424"><span style="font-weight: bold">Tags:</span></span> <a href="//www.creativefreedomrpg.com/memberlist.php?mode=viewprofile&amp;u=100703">@Fearless Sissy</a>; @”Sound of Silence”</ul></div></div>