Greetings! I thank you all so very, very much for your patience in your wait for Chapter Five. Once again, I had to almost start from scratch but this time it was due to having to complete a M-A-J-O-R rewrite of this chapter because I wanted. . . Oooops! That would be telling, wouldn't it?And I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.
Without further ado, I present. . . .
Chapter Five
To L'tirashin, her descent into the Abyss felt much like an endless fall.
As ever, the visual effect of the vortex was confusing. No matter where she gazed, it seemed as if she was always looking down into the spiraling gray and black streaks of the sirocco. Her heat-sensitive sight was of no use either, unable to penetrate the chaos of the magic around her. L'tirashin was even deprived of the reassurance of being able to see any part of her body which appeared only as a vague silhouette against the vortex. This was a first taste of what the Everdark was like for all of the damned souls who had "earned" their place in it. Even powerful wizards and ruthless tyrants found themselves humbled by their entrance to the underworld, as the effect was intended to do. L'tirashin and others of her kind, who were given the great honor of returning to the mortal realms to subjugate entire worlds or tempt influential rulers or beings into joining them, loathed returning to the Abyss as they, themselves, were not immune to the effect of the vortex. L'tirashin closed her eyes to shut out the ocular assault but the wind's cacophony never ceased as it blasted at her from what felt like everywhere at once.
Then, as though a door had been shut, there was calm and silence.
When L'tirashin opened her eyes a moment later, what she saw could have been described as a living nightmare that would have driven mad beings hopelessly sane. Farther than any eye could see, the bleak gray and black landscape of Woeful Iscandar stretched into the distance and curving ever-so-slowly upward until being lost behind the unbroken cover of the roiling, ever-present thunderheads floating above the deeply scarred and broken ground. This portion of the Abyss was perpetually locked in a gloomy twilight.
Amid the impossibly deep chasms, the towering mountain crags, and jutting columns of basalt, life---or
after
life---was as abundant as insects on a fresh corpse. Scenes of torture were common and open for all to see, not confined by the walls of cells or dungeons, allowing the torturers to let their imaginations run wild as to what they could let their victims experience. Vast pits of wriggling worms were the fate of some damned souls. With their forms altered into a larval state, they would spend unknowable years trying to escape the pit---lest they become food for a powerful demon passing by. Lakes filled with putrid waters held some more of the Everdark's residents, each one of them being eternally eaten alive by all manner of life hidden beneath the water's murky brown surface.
Not too far away from her lofty vantage point, L'tirahsin could see one of the many fields where the souls of the especially cruel were impaled on lengthy poles and left to "enjoy" the kind of torment they had inflicted on others. To her right, the demoness watched as a pack of fifty or more gnashers as they chased four times their number of wretches toward a precipice and the twisting, turning, steam-filled canyons below it. Gnashers were mindless demons who were best described as being a fang-filled mouth on a round head, sitting atop two legs that never tired of chasing its victim---even after it was caught.
One of the torments L'tirashin had yet to understand was the one in which women and men, in well-tailored clothes and carrying thin leather bags, were being alternately chased or run over by enclosed wagons with flashing lights on top that screamed at their fleeing target with a noise so piercing and shrill that it even startled some demons. "'Tis a strange multiverse we live in," she once remarked to herself.
All were familiar sights, sounds, and smells that surrounded her. Woeful Iscandar was a region of the Abyss where the souls of those who caused great misery for others spent their eternal damnation.
She was home.
But this was only one layer, one plane, of the Abyss---and there were many. No one, not even the demonic rulers or residents, knew just how many planes existed and, given the chaotic nature of the Everdark, L'tirashin doubted anyone would ever know. Some layers were separated from each other by dimensional barriers similar to those that separated the whole of the Abyss from the material universe of the ephemerals. Other regions of the Everdark were not so neatly divided from each other. At times, the division would not even be noticeable, causing more than one jealous Abyssal master or mistress to make war on his or her neighbor over a trespass that had an equal chance of being real . . or imagined.
Far off in the distance, just as the plane started to curve upward, stood a stronghold many times the size the one L'tirashin had on Tiaceor. The dark, foreboding keep towered over the mountainous crags around it an equal measure as they stood above the dark, oppressive reality of Woeful Iscandar.
Just as L'tirashin spread her wings to take advantage of her extra means of locomotion, a polite cough and a tap on her shoulder delayed her take-off. As she turned, the demoness's highly sensitive olfactory senses caught the faintest hint of a very familiar odor---and one that L'tirashin considered even more heady and intoxicating than any ephemerally created aroma.
Blood mingled with violent death.
Silently, L'tirashin regarded the newest arrival to her reality. He was a man of middle years, dressed all in black but for the white shirt adorned with what appeared to be a choke collar beneath his two long coats and vest with a thin piece of silky white cloth tied in a bow around his neck. Dark, finely-tailored trousers dressed his legs and a pair of shiny black shoes bedecked his feet. The black hat atop his head completed his ensemble as well as giving him the illusion of being almost a foot taller than was actual. In his left hand he carried a small satchel with a handle while, in his right, he carried a cane topped with an ornate gold handle. L'tirashin had to admit he did seem out of place but her keen eyes spotted a tell-tale dot of crimson on the very tip of the downward pointing corner on his otherwise pristine collar, betraying him.
The demoness inhaled deeply. The aroma of fresh, innocent blood was all about him and very unmistakable as she felt it swirl around in her nose, titillating and arousing her. L'tirashin smiled with great satisfaction and malice at the man.
"I know what you've been doing," she said with a sing-song voice but the wicked glint remained in her eyes. "You've been very,
very
naughty, haven't you?"
"I have no idea what what you're talking about," the man stated haughtily, though stretching his neck a bit as if his collar was just a little tight. "Do you know
who
I am, my good . . eh . .
woman
?"
L'tirashin was amused. It had most always been her experience that mortals who had just passed from whatever world they came from and found themselves in the depths of the Abyss could, on rare occasion, remain standing when face-to-face with one of the Everdark's populace. But here was a man who was standing his ground against her as if he were her equal. Beings such as this were truly rare.
And, most often, became very amusing subjects for "extra attention".
As to his question, she knew precisely who . . well, at least
what
. . this man was: a killer. A vile butcher who slaughtered his victims for no other reason than to satisfy some dark need in his equally black soul, a need that would never be appeased no matter how many innocents were place on the alter of sacrifice.
