12097/15 Fears: The Eighth Circle - Malebolge

15 Fears: The Eighth Circle - Malebolge
Date of Scene:	25 July 2022
Location:	Hell
Synopsis:	Jon travels the Eighth Circle of Hell, aided by an Earthan giant who was once a god of Egypt before coming to Satanael, Lord of Malebolge, who offers him a trial in getting beyond his realm.
Cast of Characters:	Chas Chandler, Jonathan Sims

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Chas Chandler has posed:
    The pit up from the frozen Lake of Cocytus is deep and dark. The separation of one circle to the next is unsurprising but even this distance in the bleak darkness might be surprising. The biting cold of the Ninth Circle fades away until the sound of chill winds are all that's left. Eventually that even fades until it is simply silence.

    More time passes. The only indication that Jon is moving is the warmth that continues to blow against his face. The warmth grows and grows until it is the heat of a blast furnace. An actual physical field of heat that presses against Jon's upward climb.

    A dull red light blossoms above in Jon's field of vision. It grows in size until it is clear what it is. A sky, a dull red sky with no obvious source for the illumination that provides enough immediate light to see around but leaves the farthest horizon shrouded in deep shadow.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon has time, while he flies up and up and up, to contemplate his conversation with Annabelle and all the implications therein. It will take more time to sort through his emotions, figure out precisely what he feels about his oldest friend and her current situation, but he'll likely have time, now. Getting back home through /Hell/ is going to be no easy task.

    He has to get home, though. He holds onto the thought, as he flies through the darkness and his wings begin to tire. He knows it's his will flagging. He knows that it's not gravity that he's fighting, or wind resistance, but the oppressive nature of a place meant to punish the wicked and cruel. Were he meant to be here, even the power he now holds would be unlikely to be able to prevail against the sheer force of damnation.

    But they're not supposed to be here. They know that. They need to get home. They need to get back to Cael, and Agnes. They need to be home when Martin comes back. They need to figure out what's wrong with Rien, and help Lydia come back to herself. They need to help fight the Old Ones. They need to see their damn cat again--and Lady will surely miss them.

    So they fly on through the dark, and the dull red light blooming does little to help. It only illuminates how very far they still have to go. Wouldn't it be easier to just give up, and fall back down? Maybe Annabelle will sense they've fallen, and come back for them. Maybe they can gather their power and try the upward flight again when they're more rested.

    It's just about then that he spots the blue butterfly resting on the edge of the pit. It's still terribly far away, but it stands out against the dull red of the sky. It provides a beacon, a goal, and helps his flagging willpower. He takes a breath and presses on toward the top of the pit.

    When he reaches the ledge where the butterfly rests, he's exhausted, and has to grab for the edge and pull himself up and over. Then he just kind of... flops down without really looking around, catching his breath, turning over to stare up at the sky. He knows he can't stay in one place for long. He's in /Hell/, after all. But he /cannot/ move another inch, not without a breather.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The ledge that Jon has landed on looks to be made of some sort of stone. Marble by the looks of it, smooth and unblemished by oher deposits. It's part of some great structure. Other parts of the structure stand motionless in the shadows beyond the dull light. Looming titans of stone and cyclopeon architecture.

    The blue butterfly, shimmering with faerie light flutters in Jon's immediate vision, there is a soothing sense to its presence and it flutters away, up part of the structure where Jon rests. Up against some impossibly large visage carved into the structure.

    Then the visage -blinks-.

    It's a face. A mind-bogglingly huge face. Twenty storeys, thirty, more? The face is as large as the facades of some of New York's highrises. It is made of the same white marble as the place Jon has chosen as his respite point. When it speaks, the voice is booming and as impossibly huge as the figure it comes from. "It is very seldom that we receive visitors from below. In fact, I do not think it has happened since the Morning Star last walked these paths so very long ago."

    The resting point Jon has chosen begins to shift and move as the enormous giant rises from his sitting position. Jon can see that his ledge was actually a massive hand of the giant. When the upward motion stops the ground below is lost perhaps some 400 feet below and the giant holds Jon at a neutral positiong before him. "Do you have a name, wanderer?" the giant asks.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon yelps as the ground beneath him shifts--and turns out to not be ground at all, but a giant stone hand, and he's lying there on the palm. He pushes himself up from the sitting position and stares at the thing with very wide eyes for a long moment before scrambling around to stand, wobbling a bit.

    "I, ahh--" They clear their throat, then take a breath to project as well as they can. "I am Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, avatar of Ma'at." It's not like he can /hide/ that, even here. Maybe especially here. "I apologize for the intrusion. It was by no means intentional."

    He glances up beyond the giant. It's hard to do, like glancing up beyond a mountain when you're standing at the base. It's more looking at the sky, really. "I'm headed... that way. Up." He gestures toward the sky, generally. "If you could be so kind as to provide directions...?"

    This is /probably/ not going to work, but it doesn't hurt to be polite. Usually.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The enormous creature--giant seems so insignificant to describe the being--shakes his head. "I'm afraid that is not how things work here, Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, avatar of Ma'at. I have my orders and I am bound by something greater than simple duty to see them carried out. I will take you to Lord Satanael and he will decide your fate. Once that is done, I return here to my post and my prison."

    He starts forth along the craggy ground, his wide gait covers incredible distance with each step but those steps are slow and ponderous allowing the Archivist to see much of the terrain as they travel. The ruined structures not far from the gaint's position turn out to be other giants, bound by chains to the ground. They're bodies are twisted into painful positions and they weep and cry out to their massive relative, and jailor.

    "Nemty! Aid us!" one cries out through tears. His back is wrenched to near breaking oveer a jagged pointed rock. Nemty, presumably the giant creature's name, ignores the pleas and continues on, his face stoic and impassive as he ferries the Archivist.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Ahh--" Jon hesitates a moment, then says, "'Archivist' is an acceptable form of address." It's what he is, after all, /who/ he is, even beyond his personal name. And in these places titles can matter a great deal.

    "Nemty... one of the oldest gods of Kemet. The god of ferrymen, the center of your worship in Antaeopolis. One of the gods of Upper Egypt. Your toes were cut off for the error of allowing Isis on your boat to the island where Seth was trying to convince the gods that he should inherit the throne from Osiris." Jon slowly takes a few steps toward the edge of the giant's palm and peers over the side, looking down toward his feet.

    Yep. No toes. How does he walk, then?

    Jon frowns. "Odd to find you of all people in /this/ place. Unless exile was part of the punishment. Or did you just get a decent offer when the Christians started setting up shop?" It's said in a tone of curiosity more than judgement. He /does/ wonder why.

    As much as they might feel for the chained-down, broken giants, they remind themself that they /are/ in Hell. There are few here who don't /deserve/ to be here, one way or another. He's been involved in the business of judging souls, and he knows it's not as arbitrary as it might seem to mortals. So he takes a deep breath and focuses on the giant carrying him.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "The rivers of Duat flow through many lands. This was one of them and, taking pity on me, Lord Satanael offered me a position" Nemty replies solemnly, continuing to ignore more pleas and cries for freedom or assistance. "To watch over the giants of earth and the fallen gods of lands that are no more and see that they endure their torment and their punishment for crimes against their own. Disgraced by my brothers... I accepted. It seemed fitting for me to watch as gods suffer, compliant in my transgression against Seth as I was."

    Perhaps it is a part of being a god, but Nemty seems little inconvenienced by his lack of lower digits, his feet plant with heavy rumblings of the earth, disturbing nearby crags and cracked rocky outcroppings. The field of imprisoned giants is vast and seems to form a ring or sorts around a massive pit. The pit Jon emerged from. There is a wall of sorts froming a ring around the field of tormented giants and Jon can just make out what looks like a stairway up to another circular field, but what lies there is unknowable from this distance.

    "I will take you to the hall of the the Lord of this Circle. The lord of Malebolge is a fair creature, if most would consider him evil. It will get you halfway through the Circle. After that..." Nemty shakes his head. "I cannot say what test you will have to perform to gain access to the lands above."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Figured evil would be rather par for the course in Hell," Jon mutters, and then sighs, shifts his stances a bit. The whole place feels... uncomfortable to him. It reeks of isfet, of Chaos, of things that are anathema to who and what he is. And, too, he can feel the Ceaseless Watcher feeding on the fear of the victims of Hell. At least it won't suffer for lack of nourishment, here.

    "Would you like me to carry a message to Duat for you?" He quirks a brow. "It's been a few thousand years, up in the mortal world, and the Pharoahs have not ruled Egypt for a hundred generations. There may be those that would appreciate hearing from you. Perhaps your punishment could even be lessened, or changed." Why should even a god languish for eternity here, after all?

    He peers up at the giant. "Or do you... enjoy your work?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Nemty shakes his head. "No. I leave my brothers to their quarrels and I will remain here. Antaeopolis is gone and the world has no need to revive my cult" he says as the continues along some untold path through the field of tormented giants and forgotten or disgraced gods.

    Time passes. Even with Nemty's great steps it takes several hours to reach the stair that leads up to the next level. Jon can see from his vantage point that flying up the stairs would be a great feat indeed, even with his flight. The stair is nearly two-thousand feet shear and ends in a plateu that only continues vertical it seems there is not one plateau but several that are not connected.

    As Nemty continues, Jon is given a glimpse of this level's inhabitants. Men and women in stacked cells, each with some sort of foul creature with them. The creature belches forth a could of black smoke that touches on the prisoner and corrupts them. Sickness incarnate. Rashes, necrosis, boils, and all manner of other symptoms break out over the victim in differing degrees.

    Nemty whispers to Jon. "The Fraudulent. Those who deceive and lie for their own gain. They suffer sickness that they were free from in their wealth. Each is tormented to the brink of death only to be restored to health by the very creature that spreads their illness... for all time."

    They pass a cell where a woman screams in agony and fear Jon can see in her eyes that all sanity has left her. She screams and screams even as the imp in her cage climbs her back and slides his fingers into her head, driving her to wail in terror even more as her mind is subjected to all manner of imaginable horrors.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon gives up trying to encourage Nemty to conversation shortly after this statement, and lowers himself down to sit on the edge of Nemty's palm, swinging his legs idly as he watches the realm go by. The sheer /size/ of it takes his breath away. Two thousand feet up to the next plateau? And this is only the /first/?

    Their heart quails in despair. How long is everyone back home going to have to wait for them? Will they miss Agnes growing up? Will Martin come back and find them gone? Will Cael believe their promise to return?

    "For all time?" Jon shakes his head. "At some point, they should have paid their dues. Balanced their kharma, so they can go back into the cycle. That just seems--" He sighs. There's not much point in arguing with the ferryman. Even this Lord Satanael is unlikely to be able to /change/ anything.

    And anyway, maybe it /isn't/ 'for all time.' That could just be what they're told. It certainly might /seem/ like an eternity to the prisoners.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    They continue through the bolgia of Falsifiers and see more and more horrors. "Eternity can mean many things to many people? Trapped inside one's mind or one's body for a month can feel like ten thousand years" Nemty says solemnly. They reach another shear wall that breaks after a couple thousand feet. The stair to the next level. "Eventually some depart here for Purgatory or return to the cycle directly, I cannot say how many though... that is not my task to know."

    They move from one pit to another. From a circle where the prisoners are torn asunder by the blade of demon, to a pit of eternal flames, to a field fo serpents where venom destroys or transforms those in their torment.

    At the stair to the fifth level of the Eight circle of Hell, Nemty stops. "Beyond here is where our time together will end, Archivist. I hope that you do make it back to where you belong. This place is not for you or the one you serve. Ma'at was always kind to me and I wish her and you well in your journey." He takes the next step and continues to the fifth bolgia.

    The fifth pit of the Eigth Circle is dominated by a procession leading to a throne. On the throne is a being clad in a dark armor. His face, once beautiful, now holds a perpetual scowl as he listens to the pleas of the vile businessmen who used their positions to gain wealth or advantages over their fellows. Each is given the same sentence a trip into the river of boiling pitch behind his throne. A gathering of thriteen demons with grappling hooks and barbed spears stand guard over the river and ensure that none escape the current of torment and pain that is their due.

    Nemty's appearance doesn't seem to be noticed by the procession but the devil on the throne notices and holds up a hand to stop the procession as the massive god approaches. "Rare is it that you trek from your vigil over the pit to my court Lord Nemty" the devil says as he rises from his throne. "What brings you forth?"

    Nemty kneels and lowers his hand to the ground. "I present the Archivist, Avatar of Ma'at, who wishes passage from beyond the depths to the surface. I know not how they arrived in the bit of the Morning Star, but they are not one of the lost souls or those who are tormented here. I do not believe they are truly meant to be, but that is not for me to decide. I only ask that you allow them to make their case, Lord Satanael."

    The lord of the Eighth Circle eyes the Archivist and one of his perfect brows arches in surprise. He sneers at Nemty and asks, "And who are you to say who belongs and does not belong in this land created by the Morning Star, aged god? Are you so well versed in the realms of Hell to know the sins he has made against his fellows? We will decide. You may go."

    He casually dismisses the old god from his sight with a flick of his hand and looks at Jon for a moment. He decends his throne completely to stand before the Archivist. He is tall, similar to height as Michael and his ilk in their glory, "So -Archivist- you come before a Lieutenant of Hell and ask for release? Know that many before you have done the same. Give me good reason to not have one of the Malebranche toss you into the river of pitch to boil for all time, and I might consider it?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    As he rides Nemty's palm through the realms of Hell, Jon frowns, considering how to talk to the Hell Lord that rules this domain. Should he be polite? Rude? Show strength right off? He finally decides that he's technically a representative of the Duat, if a misplaced one, and should at least /start/ with politeness. Firm, and strong, but polite.

    If that doesn't work, it's a short hop to rude these days. It won't be hard.

    So it is that on being put upon the ground before Satanael the Archivist bows and says, "Thank you for the audience, Lord Satanael. As you might note, I am not actually dead. I arrived in Cocytus through a portal from the space between universes, and I am attempting to return to the world of the living, where I belong."

    A pause, and then he flexes his wings, allowing the circlet of Ma'at to appear on his brow. "I am not merely the Archivist. I am the Avatar of Ma'at, Speaker of Truth, Keeper of Balance." He gestures toward the line of businessmen waiting to take audience with the Hell Lord. "I should hardly think, even if I /did/ belong in Hell, I would be in with /this/ lot."

    ...Rude is /definitely/ not far from the surface, these days.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Satanael keeps his hard gaze on Jon for a moment longer as Nemty slowly departs back to his post above the pit of Cocytus, before he bursts out with a full belly laugh. "Oh... I like this one" he says. "So often the Archivist's are pompouse and look to those beneath them with pity. They don't understand the true weight of their reputations" he places a gauntleted hand on Jon's magically conjured arm. There is enough power in the lieutenant that Jon can feel the energy as a soft thrum of power.

    "I would aid you myself, but as you can see... my duties require me to continue to maintain order here. With the Morning Star's extended vacation, this place has gone to Hell." He grins roguishly at his own terrible joke.

    "But I am not without understanding of your plight" he releases Jon's shoulder and moves back to his raised throne. "As such I will allow the Malebranche to aid you in your quest to find your beyond. They aren't the most trustworthy of guides... but you're a smart one. I have faith that you will give them a thorough test at wordplay."

    He eyes the thirteen demons behind his throne and nods with a smile before turning back to Jon. "I hope that is sufficient accomodations for you?" he asks haughtily as he settles himself back down on the throne and crosses his legs regally.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon flinches at the touch of the Fallen on his arm, brow creasing for a moment. He manages not to pull away entirely, instead leveling that glowing green gaze at the Hell Lord in vague irritation.

    "I met Lucifer once," he says. "Came for a therapy session, actually. Which is right about when my life went to hell, pun entirely intended." A pause, and he flexes the fingers of his right hand, glancing over the thirteen demons. "I still have a couch he cursed with his presence locked away in the Archive." He says it all casually, conversationally, partly to give himself time to think.

    He can't trust Satanael. He can't trust /anything/ here. But he has to get home, and better to try to see his way through the lies of these creatures than take a ride in a river of boiling pitch.

    "I can accept that," he says after a moment. "Bit of a challenge for them, hmm?" He tilts his chin upward slightly. "I'll warn them now, though, and you--I don't know if you keep up on events up in the rest of the world, but I am directly responsible for Saint Michael's new form. Talked him into letting himself die."

    A beat, to focus back on Satanael, and then, "I don't say this to curry favor, or as a threat. In my mind, you're all just two sides of the same coin. But perhaps you'll pay attention when I say that you have a weakness down in Cocytus, given nobody's guarding the place. The Old Gods are able to enter reality through there, quite easily actually. I was just able to walk across the entirety of the frozen lake, alongside a servant of an Old God, without any trouble at all. You might want to get someone on seeing about keeping an eye on your back door before you have an invasion force boiling up from below." He smiles. "Just a suggestion."

    Then he takes a breath. "So. What now?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Satanael shakes his head in disappointment. "Lucifer is an abject fool who can't hold down a steady position for more than a few thousand years" he replies. "-He- is meant to be the protection at that back door" he says. "But of course, he gets bored and decides to flounce off to engage in whatever futility he entertains in the world of mortals. Fa!" He spits to one side of the throne. His saliva an phlegm hiss on the stones of the dias.

    "As for you, what happens now is that you depart under the gaze of..." he looks over a shoulder. "Grace Stomper" he says with a grin back to Jon. "That way..." he points to a thin strip of land that arches over the river of pitch the Malebranche oversee. "If you can best him another will see to you... and another, and another after that, and so on until they either grow tired of your obdurate strength of will..." the smile that splits his face is malevolent, "or you fail. In which case, the river of pitch will accept you as easily as those who are meant for this realm."

    A monstrous looking demon with stereotypical features: cloven hooves for feet, a spade tipped tail, curiving red horns and bat like wings, steps up to the side of the throne. He carries an enourmous morning star in his hands and smiles at Jon. "I will see that the Truthspeaker is free to spout his nonesense among those who boil for all time" he says before ushering Jon away. "Shall we proceed, Archivist?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon fixes Satanael with a brief glare. "I really do suggest you see to doing /something/ about the weakness down there. I don't want to have to come back here to help fix the problem. Again."

    He shakes his head, then, and turns away to regard the cloven-hoofed demon. Well, of course. He rolls his shoulders and sighs. "Alright, then, 'Grace Stomper.' Lead the way." He follows the demon over the bridge, flicking glances around his surroundings. He still has to eat. Will he have to sleep? That's a good question. If he sleeps, here, what will his dreams be like?

    That's a terrifying enough thought to garner a shudder from the Archivist.

    "So what lies are you planning to tell me to lead me astray, then?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    They walk in silence for a way, Grace Stmper seeming content to leave the Archivist to his own musings for a time before they comes to a cross roads. Three options are spread before them" Grace Stomper stops at the center of the crossroads. "You understand that you have no hope of success here?" he says. "You like so many others think they understand the trials of hell and can overcome them with ease. But like them you will end up boiling alive."

    The river of pitch is devoid of victims currently, but it will soon receive more... there is never a short supply of sinners. "There is another route, you know?" Grace Stomper says idly. "Offer your fealty to me and I will set you to the surface as my agent. None of this maze and worthless riddle. All I ask is that instead of doing your service for the ancient Ma'at, judge those you see fit in -my- name."

    His wicked smile is honest enough, perhaps the only shred of honesty in him. "I will grow to be even more than The Morning Star and you will have your life to live with those you hold dear for a span of time close enough to eternity that you won't notice the difference. Doesn't that sound like a btter option than this uselessness?" he gestures to the three paths spread before them both.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon manages not to laugh outright as he looks up at the demon. "You really don't get it, do you? None of you do. I got that offer from the being that created the universe. The Morning Star's /brother/. And I was more desperate back then. I denied him. Why would I accept /your/ offer? I know what making deals with demons gets one."

    He looks toward the crossroads. "I don't pretend to understand the trials of hell. I don't believe I can overcome them with any kind of ease. But I believe I /will/, because I /must/." For a moment, a Third Eye sprouts on his forehead as he tries to see the way through, the teal pathways that might lead him through the maze.

    It's no good. They all look the same. Which tells him he might well come back past this crossroads several times in the future.

    He sighs. "So, go on, what aid do you have to offer? Or is the boilerplate 'sell me your soul to make life easy' all you've got?" A pause. "Incidentally, tell your friends--I know damn well no 'easy' solution ever truly is. It just obscures the actual cost."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Grace Stomper scowls at Jon for a moment, the visage horrible and fearsome before he shakes his. "We are nothing like those arrogant fools in their golden city!" he says irritably. "Very well... you wish advice to survive. I offer you this one line for your first trial."

    He pushes up from the stone path, his bat like wings unfurling and flapping furously to keep his massive girth aloft. "No man walks the same path twice in this land and endures. You, Archivist, are no different."

    He starts away from the crossroads. "I hope you find that helpful, Archivist" he adds with derisive laughter as he departs leaving Jon alone with only the faint cries of a new batch of sinners struggling under the boiling river of tar not far from the crossing.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon glowers after the demon thoughtfully. Would he be foolish enough to try to lie to the avatar of Truth? Would he be crafty enough to speak truly, knowing that Jon wouldn't trust him and that would therefore me the most deceptive thing to do?

    He sighs and shakes his head. Then he reaches out his left hand and snaps his fingers, summoning up a six-sided die. He tosses it into the air and watches it come down on the ground in front of him.

    Four pips. With a shrug, Jon heads for the central route of the three, to see where the path leads.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Jon walks for a while. A long while before much changes. It's all stone path that look similar but just different enough to tell him that they're still on a different route. Eventually they come to a forest. The trees are black and sickly looking with odd white growths of some sort of disease or fungus and the leaves that are mottled with red and ashy grey.

    There are fruits on the trees as well. They look vaguely like pears but they're shrivelled and oddly colored. There are also small rustles of movement in the underbrush. Clearly, -something- lives in the wilderness of the forest. There is no route around the forest it would seem as the trees press up against the riverbank of boiling pitch. Only two ways to go, forward into the dark of the woods or back the way they came.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The fruits on the trees seem almost too easy an answer to the problem of potential hunger, but after a while of walking Jon finally stops to examine them more closely. He reaches up to pluck one and peers at it with every bit of his Sight. It doesn't reek of poison, and while it's not ideal, it might be edible.

    They go ahead and take a bite, and find the fruit, while not exactly /tasty/, at least edible. They keep walking for a little while, waiting to see if there are any adverse effects before going ahead and finishing off the fruit. Then they stop again to gather more of the fruits, conjuring a bag to keep them all in. Enough to keep him going for a while, at least.

    It's while he's stopped--he's definitely going forward, where else is there to go, really?--that he notices the rustles. He eyes the underbrush with a frown.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The fruit's unapetising nature only intensifies with a bite of them. The juice is tinged pink and has a strange coppery taste to it. The flesh is soft and gritty and lacks true flavor. But it -is- a source of sustenance in this place--if lacking true substance--which is more than Jon had before coming to the forest.

    A scrutinizing of the rustle in the brush reveals a massive centipede emerging from under a carpet of the grey and red leaves. It is close to the size of a python, six feet long and at least a foot wide it scurries over the leaves and stops as it notices Jon. It rises up, the long antenae tasting the air around it and sharp manibles clicking together in anticipation of the possible threat that Jon presents.

    While not as apetising as a rabbit or squirrel it -is- a source of protein in this place, one Jon may need in time. If they can manage to subdue it before it makes a meal of them.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sets down the bag of odd pears, uncasing his khopesh and lunging at the creature. It's easy enough to kill the thing, and then he's got a centipede before him, segmented and full of nutty-tasting protein.

    "Plenty of people eat insects," he mutters to himself. "You've lived in America too long, /clearly/." With a shake of his head, he goes about dicing up the corpse, adding the meat to the bag, wrapped in a preservation spell. Then he presses on, through the forest, trying again--and failing, again--to see the path.

    They make a noise of frustration. They /ought/ to be able to find their way through this maze! What use is Ma'at's fate sense if not for moments like this?

Chas Chandler has posed:
    They stumble and trample through the forest for what feels like hours before they come to a clearing. In the middle of the clearing is a crossroads. The same crossroads as before. There is a forest around it where before there was open space and the river of pitch, but it's identical in every way besides. Another demon stands in the middle of the spitting of paths.

    It's form is more human than the last, but it has rams horns and claws for toenails and fingernails. "Took you long enough," it says derisively. Looking on Jon with blood red eyes with slits for pupils. "I am Sneering Dragon. You're off to a terrible start. Hunting and foraging. One might start thinking you're expecting to stick around."

    He gestures absently, seeming bored already with Jon's arrival. "Take your time and catch your breath. I will give you the next piece of your puzzle when you are ready."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Malebolge is a big place," Jon replies. "It's almost like all this was dreamed up in the imagination of someone who /really/ didn't like fraudsters." A brief smirk, then he focuses on peering at the crossroads and comparing it against his memory. Yes, it's the same place. And all paths are equally valid, still. Ugh.

    Then, "Ahh--I see. Grace Stomper tries to convince me to give up God--my patron goddess, in my case--and serve him. You... sneer and try to undermine my confidence. Do people really fall for this shit?" He shakes his head. "I still think just tossing the heart in a lake of fire or having it eaten by a crocodile's a far more just fate, but the popular imagination does love to be lurid."

    After a moment, he turns to the demon, blinking impassively. "Alright, then. What's your advice?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "I care not what you think mortal," Sneering Dragon replies impassively. "I enjoy tormenting your kind and nothing more. What Grace Stomper does is his own choice. We all are broken records here in our own way" he adds.

    Before turning to regard Jon, his own batwings unfurl from his back and lift him into the air. "My advice to you is to turn back and throw yourself into the river of pitch it will save you the trouble of contining this farce." He shakes his head. "But my directive is thus: 'Only those who are blind are truly able to see here.'"

    He rolls his eyes as if his own words bore him. "Do with that bit of information as you will, it matters not to me." And then he is off into the sky back to his other tasks.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon shakes his head, and sighs, watching the demon go for a moment. Then he turns back to the crossroads, and considers for a moment. Shrugging, he conjures a coin--a US silver dollar--and flips it into the air. "Heads, left," he calls out. He catches it in his right hand and slaps it onto the back of his left.

    Tails.

    "Right it is," they say, and turn to head down the rightmost path this time. They have a feeling they know what they're going to find along this path, but in some ways it's the journey that matters here, more than anything else.

    As they walk down this path, with whatever it has to offer, they muse on the problem of their Fate Sight. It helped them in the Jabberwock. It helped them find their way through the maze Michael presented months ago. If there is /anywhere/ it ought to help, it's here in this place meant to punish fraudsters and liars. So why isn't it doing any good?

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The path leads on and on and on for more hours as Jon muses. At some point they leave the forest and cross a baren plain before the hills and slopes of mountainous terrain start to slow their passage. Eventually they find a cave that opens up against a jagged rocky cliff face.

    Just outside the cave is a pack with a bedroll and not much else in it. But it's a resource that could be used and likely will be needed in time. Whether they take it or leave it there is only one way to go. Into the cave. Light is easy enough, Jon's eyes--enhanced by the Ceaseless Watcher--don't care about light and darkness, their job is to see and they do that regardless. The corridor of rock is close on all sides and smells of brimstone and blood.

    There is a rotting smell that underlies it all, the smell of decaying flesh necrotising under time and disease. More time passes. The silence of the caves is broken by the occasional wet drip of something too heavy to be water and the passge of thoughts in their mind.

    Then the corridor widens and widens and widens more before they arrive at another crossing. No, not another. The very same crossroads, only this time inside a cave system. Another demon already awaits their arrival. He is in the air, flapping with exertion as he inclines his head to the Archivist. "Ah... the honored guest himself. I am Evil Tail, the leader of the thirteen." He looks mostly human, garbed in a black tunic and sandals. But the batlike wings and the pitch black eyes, devoid of any color or sclera mark him as something else. "How has your journey through our home been for you? I know it's not the most novel of locales but it serves its purpose for us."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon picks up the bedroll and, after a moment's thought, creates a proper backpack of the sort Martin keeps around for whenever they go on that hiking trip he's always talking about. For a moment, Jon pauses to think of his husband. How long has it been now, since he left? Almost three months? "I wish you'd just come back," he whispers.

    But, then, with how long this might take him... Martin might well be back home before Jon is.

    The thought makes him sigh, and he loads his food into the pack, straps the bedroll to it, then realizes he has /wings/ and has to sit and re-think the whole damn thing. After some struggle trying to re-shape the straps, Jon laughs. The wings aren't even /real/, not entirely. He lets them go, puts on the backpack, then very carefully considers them returning as a cape attached to his arms, the way Scarlet Scarab--or Ma'at herself--wears them.

    Much better. Even if it'll take some getting used to.

    That done, they head into the cave and through the darkness. They don't bother conjuring a light, just press on. And return to the /very same/ crossroads as before. Lovely.

    "I should have just stayed home and walked the Appalachian Trail," Jon replies to the demon, eyeing the left-hand path. Was that always the answer? Follow the left-hand path? It seems too trite. "I think I know where I'm headed, though, so unless you have something /terribly/ pressing...?"

    Is it a /metaphor/, the crossroads? But a metaphor for /what/?

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "Straight to the point" Evil Tail says with a malevolent smile. "I like a man with determination. Then I will give it to you straight and let you be on your way. 'There is only one way to go, all else is lies and deceit.'" His piece said he inclines his head and gives Jon a bow before dispersing into a cloud of sulfurous smoke that fades shortly after as well.

    The metaphor might be that literal. All the paths are the same? It would account for all the traveltime that Jon's taken up in wandering this place, only to come back to the saem crossroad. Lies and deceit masking the truth of what is needed to escape. Only one way to truly tell, if it's honestly that simple... then all Jon has to do is take the final option and shift the narrative to the Seventh Circle.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Is the answer the left-hand path? Or something entirely different? Jon can't see /anything/, any other route, any other path, not with the Watcher or Ma'at's power, either one.

    "Fine," he huffs. "Fine. One more loop, I suppose. I /really/ hope this is the correct choice. This is getting tiresome."

    Then he starts off down the leftmost path, humming as he goes, and then breaking into song properly. The Pump Shanty.

    ~Pump, me boys let 'er fly
    Down to hell and up to the sky
    Bend your backs and break your bones
    We're just a million miles from home...~

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Jon walks through the cave system. The tunnel seems to be almost oppressive in its endlessness alone. How many times have they sung the song? Or how many songs have they ran through in randomness? Does counting even matter? A speck of red light gives some credence to the fact that they are truly moving and they emerge once more into the vast plain with the river of tar running parallel to their path.

    They can even see their destination, the crossroads across a slim bridge over the river. How long has it been since they started? There is no real way to judge the time, aside from perhaps their own fatigue. What would it matter if they did know?

    Coming upon the crossroads once more, they can see there is a change this time. All the paths are blocked off and Lord Satanael stands there in the middle himself. "Well, Archivist? How has your stay in my realm treated you? Well I hope?" he says, with the same haughty arogance as those of his ilk possess. "I see you have found resources to help you survive your journey, we do find resourcefulness and survival enticing traits to live by... I hope they serve you well in the latter treks of your quest." He claps his armored hands together. "What have you learned during your stay with the 'advice' given and the 'hints' from my servitors?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon raises his brows. "Nothing," he replies, succinctly. "Absolutely nothing. But that's because, as I noted earlier, I don't /belong/ here. Even if I were going to be punished for my perceived sins, it wouldn't be in /this/ Circle." He shakes his head. "I didn't need you to tell me that demons will lie to me, or try to trick and tempt me, or undermine my confidence, or any of the rest. I know /all/ too well what comes from trafficking with your ilk outside of the direst need. Both what you are now, and what you used to be. You all, angels and demons alike, make the mistake of thinking yourself better than other creatures. It's not your fault, really. You can't die, so you'll never know some of the fundamental truths of the universe."

    It's quite likely that Jonathan Sims belongs in the Sixth Circle, if nothing else, for heresy. Or maybe back in the center of Malebolge, for pride. He's certainly looking at Satanael as if addressing an equal rather than something potentially more powerful than himself.

    "I thought you wanted to give them all a chance, hmm? Or did you get tired of watching me tromp about?" They shake their head. "What do you want, to let me travel on toward the rings of the Violent? Another ten encounters with your servants? Throw me in the river and see if I can swim upstream?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Satanael smiles and shakes his head. "You learned the lesson well enough..." he says. "I figured I'd give you a taste of the futility of this land that we inhabit. We left paradise in the hopes of finding a place where we could be free..." He gestures at the barren plain and the torment that exists there. "Behold, Archivist... our -freedom-." He spits to one side again.

    "All is failure here. None of it truly has meaning," he says. "So lesson learned. And heed it well for while not all are suited for you... there are some Circles that might be. Or some that might draw you into their torments more than others. You would do well to be cautious in those lands."

    "So you are set here with all avenues before you barred. What has been evading you in your hours of wandering? You have time--all the time in the world in fact--to think and find discovery in your actions" he stands there a lone sentry at the end of a path. "So Jonathan Sims, think."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon rolls his eyes. "You're lying again," he replies. "Or perhaps you don't even see the truth. Everything here has /meaning/. The punishments you dole out are, supposedly, commensurate to the sins of the soul you're punishing. At least in /this/ portion of Hell, if it's anything like the supposed vision of Dante--and it is, thus far. Even if you're punishing them forever, you're punishing them for a /reason/."

    He's irritated, frustrated. "And this isn't freedom. You can't get away from your 'duties' here long enough to go fortify the back door you've left wide open to the /true/ enemy. You don't have /choices/, you just sit here all day and judge sinners. You must be terribly bored."

    After a moment, he glowers up toward the sky. "...Did You set this up? Am I supposed to walk through here and give them lessons, or something? That's... /really/ fucking annoying, if so."

    He closes his eyes for a moment. Why /had/ Annabelle brought him /here/, of all places? Just because she could? He somehow doubts that; there had to be other doorways back into the world she could've taken him through. So why... this?

Chas Chandler has posed:
    It might occur to Jon that, it would be a simple thing for the Presence to guide an avatar of The Web--a human avatar--and force her to take this one path. This one backdoor to Hell with Jon. After all, who better to give instructions to the Fallen in their sullen boredom than the therapist of Lucifer and Michael? Jon -has- seen the leaders of both factions and understands what is needed for them both to coexist. There is a soft nudge at Jon's soul that he knows the answer for those abandoned creatures down here just as well as he knew the answer for the Hosts of Heaven in the war that forged them as they are now.

    Satanael frowns. "You're right of course..." the pride still seeping through him, but the malicious contempt has faded. "We are terribly bored. There is nothing else to do but to judge and punish and even in that we are never given a moment of respite. I cannot step away and fortify the hole in Cocytus because I am not permitted to. It is against the purpose set for me here."

    He gestures to the ground and shakes his head. "Perhaps the Morning Star left it open hoping that the end of all things would fall upon us while he basked in the daliances he engages in up above," he shrugs, his armor scraping together in the action, "or perhaps he simply forgot. Omniscience does not afford one the wisdom to truly act on all that is known. Even our Father cannot force such things."
"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "The Purpose set for you," Jon replies, quirking a brow. "Just like before. Same shit, different day. You rebelled, but you stayed in the same mindset; you never /really/ left. Lucifer probably has the right idea, you know. Say 'nuts' to all of this and head off to the mortal world for a vacation. Or do you /like/ your work? Maybe you enjoy throwing sinners in the river of boiling pitch, I don't know."

    He turns away, pacing, frowning. Why Hell. Why /Hell/? Why not Duat? Why send him back such a /long/ way, through the afterlife of a faith he no longer--

    'You rebelled, but you stayed in the same mindset; you never /really/ left.'

    "Oh, /seriously/?" They sigh, and rub at their face. "Bloody hell." He doesn't even notice the irony of the statement. "Why can't I just let it /go/? I serve the gods of Kemet now, why can't I stop... /believing/?"

    He takes a deep breath in, and then lets it out. "S'pose I'll find out up in the Sixth Circle, hmm?" Heretics. Trapped in flaming tombs, supposedly. That'll be /fun/.

    He wipes at his eyes; he's crying, now. Shakes his head. "You, umm... you might find you've changed," he adds. "I had an audience with the Presence, after I died. I asked Them to allow the archangels to change, and grow. You... were like them, once, right?" He peers at Satanael. "I don't know what it means, but... you might find that though you can't get away from your Purpose, you /can/... mature. Understand more deeply."

    He takes a deep breath. "You'd really better see about sending someone to guard Cocytus with Lucifer gone. Draw straws or something, I don't know, but I'm telling you: the Old Ones are looking for ways into reality now that souls are no longer being diverted toward them, and if you're not careful you're going to find a whole host of horrors coming up the same way I did. And I /know/ you can't want /that/."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Satanael jerks back at Jon's words. "You... you -what-?" he says sounding stupified. "You convinced our Father... to grant us... the potential for... growth?" he asks. He shakes his head. "I don't... I don't beleive that was something any of us ever considered. Fascinating..." he says scratching a clawed finger at his cheek.

    "I suspect it will make the inevitable war more difficult in time, but... for the moment I do appreciate the gesture..." He smirks. "I will admit that I had thought to keep you here working for me... I still may consider it, given that placing Evil Tail is a daunting task. At best, but if the threat is as you claim then -I- am the only one who can think to come close to matching the seal that The Star of Morning was providing."

    He arches a brow at Jon. "I do not suppose asking you to stand in my stead and listen to the cries of the Fraudulent before sending them to their punishments would do any good, would it?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon shakes his head. "I have other duties elsewhere. I'll leave the task of figuring out what to do about Cocytus to you. Maybe you can just set a watch on the place; the people in the ice seem to be suffering as much as ever. But I'm afraid I would both have very little patience with your charges, and try to reform them. I'd show you all the data on how little success negative reinforcement actually has on changing behavior, but I doubt you're terribly interested." He smirks.

    "But, no, I... even if I /am/ the avatar of Ma'at, I have to rely on myself, while I'm here, don't I? Learn my own power, my own strength. If most of the people down here had done that, they might not /be/ here, hmm? A man who is secure in himself has no need to lie so often he winds up punished for it in the afterlife." They sigh, and then close their eyes. The circlet on their forehead disappears; the wings actually stay. They do love having wings.

    But most importantly, they let go of Ma'at's power. Not that they won't call on it if need be, but they put it aside, no longer wrap themself in it to protect their body and mind from the ravages of this place. They stagger for a moment, clutching a hand to their chest, feeling more of the weight of /Hell/ upon them. Not as much as he might elsewhere--he's put even self-deceit aside to such a degree that this Circle has no bearing on him. But the place is still oppressive.

    Then they open their eyes, trying to see which way they truly ought to go.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The landscape around Jon changes as soon as the power of Ma'at is released. The crossroads fade from sight and Jon is standing before the sheer face of the wall around the fifth bolgia. The river flows filled with it's penitents behind the pair of them.

    Satanael seems unphased by the change, perhaps he didn't experience it or perhaps he simply expected it. Whatever the case he sighs. "Worth an attempt at least, I understand. This is not the land for you. I do suppose it is an easy job and if Evil Tail decides to try and usurp my position, he will be sorely mistaken if he thinks to match me."

    Very well, Jonathan" he says taking to wing. "I wish you luck, though you will need more than that to survive your trek." He flies off, supposedly back to his post before setting to whatever tasks he has concerning Cocytus.

    As Jon waits a blue butterfly, flutters by. It stands out sharply against the dull red, brown, black, and grey scheme of this land. Before fluttering over a small indentation along the cliff's face. Should Jon investigate, he will find a stair, trecherously narrow and worn, but seemingly to carry him up to the next bolgia. There is a sense in him that this butterfly might be the key to getting him out of this Circle.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon watches the Fallen angel fly off, a faint tension fading out of his form. Whatever else happens, he's done his duty in making sure that the weakness in the fabric of reality is attended to. He's grateful it provided him and Annabelle a way back in to reality, but it really does need to be watched, if nothing else.

    He looks toward the cliff, then on up past it, across the other four bolgias to the edges of the Seventh Circle beyond. He sighs, shouldering his pack. "This is going to take longer than I thought, isn't it?" he mutters.

    They take a long breath. "I'll be home as soon as I can," they say, hoping the sentiment can reach his family. Agnes and Cael, and Martin, and Chas, and their other friends. They have to get home, however long it takes.

    Well, one foot in front of the other. He heads for the indentation in the cliff face indicated by the blue butterfly.