19050/Field Trip to Hell

Field Trip to Hell
Date of Scene:	14 September 2024
Location:	A sub-pocket of Hell
Synopsis:	A group of heroes go down to Hell itself to face a demon empowering a sorceror and have to push themselves to their mental, physical, and spiritual limits. And in lieu of the demon having a name that the human tongue can pronounce, he is hereafter referred to as 'Bob'
Cast of Characters:	Satana Hellstrom, Frankenstein, John Constantine, Amy Winston, Meggan Puceanu, Rien D'Arqueness
Tinyplot:	Escaped

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Satana Hellstrom has posed:
How did one take the Highway to Hell? By portals. On this dangerous evening (not that most planar levels of Hell had any real concept of time or its passing), in pursuit of something even fouler than the dimension itself, a group of Justice League Dark and their allies had just arrived in a flashing portal.

As far as the eye could see, spat volcanic hellfire pits. The air reeked of rancid, rotting flaming flesh as in pits of magma countless, despite retches would calmber atop one another in a desperate, almost Sisyphyan struggle to escape, only for thier brethren to grab, claw, and strangle them back down. In the twisted skyline, wings beat, the air wept blood, and burning crimson ash wept acid upon the ground.

In this realm, where hate, fear, loathing, violence, and betrayal were but the most marginal of things, all emotions enhanced at a bare modicum.. Here was where suffering reigned.

Whatever Pit Lord might call 'home' to this tormented location and had control over it had defintiely gone for a more classic vibe. Hell was what you made of it, after all.

And here was a demon that the sorceror that hda lead to all the suffering Selkie screaming, rage of freed beasts rampaging.. Here was where the damned lord reigned on a throne of blades and a crown of thorns, and a horde of skulls across the landscape.

Frankenstein has posed:
"Me miserable! Which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep,
Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven."

It might seem appropriate, given the subject matter of the poem, that it is delivered in a voice nearly as figuratively deep as the pit to which it literally refers. But though the voice is deep and somewhat growly, it still possesses a certain lyrical quality, reminding one of a familiar song that's been transposed into a minor key.

The current audience, however, likely doesn't take the time to appreciate this. Most of them don't really seem like poetry fans...

Well out of reach of the throne, but within its view, yet another scene of torture is playing out amidst all of the others. Surrounded on all sides by a throng of demons, a large, lurching sort of figure is attempting to stave off attacks while grimly reciting a passage from one of his favorite poems. It's not an easy task, when one of his hands is busy attempting to compress the wound that was left when his opposite arm was wrenched free from its socket. But though the odds are clearly not in his favor, Frankenstein seems determined.

"You should have stayed on the surface, patchwork man!

"A soulless beast can provide us with nothing more than entertainment!"

"Ha! He's real ugly!"

Another demon swipes at Frankenstein, narrowly missing the creature's neck before getting rebuffed with a very large boot to the face. The Creature attempts to avoid stepping on any of the unfortunate denizens in the wrack of Sisyphean struggle, despite having larger concerns at the moment than protecting the bodies of the already-damned. But at this point, the demon's are merely toying with the unfortunate soulless monster, and his fate is all but sealed. Whatever he hoped to accomplish by entering Hell, it will no doubt remain undone. Strangely, he doesn't seem to terribly broken up about it though.

"Hrrrn... the reak of this place offends even my undead nostrils. But I will remain until I have retrieved the Archangel's Blade, whether it take a moment... or an age!"

He's more optimistic than he looks, apparently.

John Constantine has posed:
"All right, you lot. This bloke, he's been feeding power to the sorcerer what's behind that bloody cave prison," John explains - when they're dumped into the middle of Hell. He pulls a pack of Silks from his coat pocket, but foregoes his his lighter. Instead he lights up using an ember of Hellfire. Why waste lighter fluid unnecessarily? He's just showing off really. Never let them see you sweat in Hell - ever. That rule is more important down here than anywhere else.

Is he always at least a little afraid down here? Who wouldn't be? Anyone in their right mind would be a little rattled over being in Hell. John may not always seem to be in his right mind, but he's a wanted man downstairs - all the more reason to be a little rattled.

But at least he's not bothered by the stench, he's smelled worse.

One of John's eyebrows lift independently of the other when his attention is drawn to Frankenstein. "Well, look there, innit that a sight?"

Lesser demons, beasts with wings and all it, they're not so much of interested to John. His eyes on the prize.

"So, way I see it? Take him out - cut the cunt off from some of his power, ey?"

Amy Winston has posed:
One moment, Amy was out for a jog around the park, the next, she stumbled through the accidental portal, her eyes widening as the stench of sulfur and rot hit her like a wave. The oppressive heat and twisted landscape of Hell itself stretched before her, pits of magma and the grotesque struggle of the damned painting a scene more horrific than she could have imagined. Her heart raced, but she didn't hesitate.

With a sharp breath, she drew upon her magic, the familiar hum of Citrine energy crackling around her. In an instant, a gleaming sword materialized in her hand made of amethyst as she switched to her battle dress, followed by a shield shimmering with protective light. She held them firmly, her grip steady despite the chaos swirling around her.

Surveying the landscape, Amy's lips pressed into a determined line. This place... she thought, her blue eyes hardening as they scanned for signs of allies or enemies. The air itself seemed to thrum with violence and despair, but she wasn't about to let it get to her.

Focusing her mind, she opened up a telepathic channel, her thoughts reaching out into the infernal expanse. << If anyone's alive out here... speak to me. We need to regroup. >> Her mental voice was calm, firm, the kind of authority she'd grown into as a leader on Nilaa. There was no room for fear in this place - only action.

Her stance remained strong, sword and shield raised, ready to face whatever Hell itself might throw at her.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Sisyphus got what was coming to him. Ask his niece Tyro or his guests sacrificed in his hunger to achieve immortality. Ask Merope, who hides her face in shame. One does not reveal truths of the gods without consequence, and the same can be said for the Lords of Hell.

Enter one woman who co-opted Hell and gave its denizens the most frightening gift of all -- hope. Not for nothing do archdukes and princes gnash their teeth if they recognized her, and so Meggan goes to efforts not to be herself at present. The transformation happens the instant a portal opens, and it's no longer the faerie goddess in their midst.

She is instead a black cat, prowling on soft paws up to John. Large, burning eyes consider him, whiskers a starburst of curiosity twitching as she considers him.

Shadows keep to Meggan and Meggan keeps to them. Looking at her is rather difficult without staring hard. Something in the umbral shadows of the luxurious fur, the hellfire mirrors of those unnatural eyes. She turns up her small, heart-shaped nose to the air in the direction of the man battling with plenty of stranger sights, then flicks a pointed ear in Constantine's direction. See, just a black cat.

A black cat fully capable of quoting Milton, it would seem:

"A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time.
The mind is its own place, and in it self,
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less then he
Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free."

If Frankenstein happens to cite one of the greater poets of the English language, who shall deny him? Certainly no Cait-Sidhe or kot Begemot, whatever the feline is. The oddity is how a creature so unprepossessing and diminutive can keep pace with the rest of them, but stranger things happen in realms without standard laws as seen elsewhere. Her thoughts, burning and alit with a riot of golden light and prismatic rainbows, aren't hard to read at all. Entirely the opposite. <<Oh, hullo! Lots of living things around here for a given degree of living. Don't make any promises, just saying.>>

Two more steps and she sits, tail flicking at the tufted, sleek end. Fear not. Fear all, as she extends her perception to other entities around the, just in case.

Rien D'Arqueness has posed:
Rien steps through with the ease of someone that portals around probably more than they should. She has her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, glancing around here and there as John lights up. Taking a moment to let her senses adjust to the different lighting, the usual stink of hellfire, brimstone, and sulfur. The reek of demons. They do just revel in everything gross.

"Well. We're both in Hell, John, at the same time and in the same place. We shouldn't wait around too long or bounty hunters are going to start trying to collect." She doesn't seem OVERLY concerned by it, but there's an alertness down here that she normally doesn't display up above. Earth is, quite simply, not as dangerous.

The intrusion of the telepathic commenication has her head swivelling around. <<Kid? How th... never mind. Describe the area you're in so we know where to head to pick you up.>> There's a glance to John, "Beast, then Beauty? He's closer."

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
No one here is innocent. No one here is naive. No one here deserves getting out. Feral, freaks, monsters. From the smallest of imps to the greatest of devourers. Hell is the great equalizer. Those here who are amongst the damned truly do deserve it by any standard. Hell is equal opportuity after all. Everyone starts off from the bottom.

The group has arrived together in some spots, with others arriving somewhat separated. The various demons are floundering about. Some fighting one another, others watching on bored. Some continuing thier own petty, personal feuds. OThers grand ones. The Justice League Dark?

THey are here on a mission. Others? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

One demon takes a moment and then points a long, long finger over at John. The demon is red, hunchbagged, and has a belly that would put a Hutt to shame, and looks more like a fat goblint han anything else. "Yew? Yew I know! Yer the innocent shishkabeb!" A far less fat demon near him goes, "I think you mean shiskeBAB, boss."

THe fat goblinoid goes to shove a spear through said demon's head. "WHat did I callem?" THe other demons around him would quickly chant, "Innocent shiskabeb!" Before the array would rally over and go to charge at our intrepid heroes!

Over by Frankenstein floats a strange, bewitching lady with long green hair, an outfit consisting of a heavily bat-wing motif, long wings flapping almost cutely behind her, and wings upon her head. "Why, Von Gerdenheim.. Never expected to see you again." The green haired succubae's tone thick with a Scottish accent. "Didn't even know you were still alive." Watching as he would have his blade taken or retrieved.

Amy would be face to face with what could best be described as a zombie with.. Eighties hair, clumps of flesh hanging off him in a style to suggest a leather jacket, thick cracked sunglasses, and a massive guitar. "Gnarly chick. Gotta love the look. Why the sparkles?"

Frankenstein has posed:
"Hrrrn... Life may change, but it may fly not;
Hope may vanish, but can die not..."

Perhaps Frankenstein's grim determination will pay off once again? For it appears that where before there was only the certainty of death and torment for the undying creature, there is now second most welcome of sights for a man in his position: A distraction!

The most welcome of sights would have been an actual rescue party. But Frankenstein doesn't really tend to be missed much when he takes mysterious excursions to Hell.

With the arrival of fresh meat, the demonic hordes have split their attention, which will not really give Frankenstein a fighting chance in the long run, but has certainly extended the amount of time remaining before his total dismemberment.

The mystery of what became of Frankenstein's arm would require very little detective work. It's a case that even a chimp could solve. Several meters away from the hulking figure, a large green arm is currently being fought over by several very small demons, who seem to believe that the still-twitching limb is either a prize worth obtaining, or perhaps a meal worth devouring.

Yes, one of them is definitely trying to bite the forearm, but is unfortunately beaten away by his fellow minor demons.

The distraction works both ways, and Frankenstein finds himself taking a blow to face from a fist that's even larger than his own. That will teach him to look away in the middle of a fight. Just because someone is changing into magical gem armor, that doesn't mean we crane our neck to look when demons are trying to rip us apart.

He's able to fend the demon off, but doing so requires him to leave his arm socket without any compression. Which, is really just messy, as it causes the toxic sludge that pumps through his arteries to spill onto the ground. But Hell is pretty filthy already, nobody will notice.

"M'lady... I know not what game you play, but you have gained the favor of Frankenstein!"

With his sword returned to him, Frankenstein gives a triumphant 'HRRRRRN!' and the demons around him begin to step back. Way back.

"Come now, fiends! Approach in an orderly fashion, that you may fall before the Blade of Frankenstein!"

John Constantine has posed:
John squats down to give the kitty a little rub under the chin and a longer pet between the ears before he straightens again. Intrusiveness into his mind is a little more difficult even when he's not trying to keep someone out. His mind is a worse place than even the hellscape in which they currently stand. But Amethyst's mental voice does ring through, if a little muted. <<Lil' Amy! Well, isn't that just all coincidence and shite?>> John Constantine has lived through enough 'shite' to no longer believe in coincidences. <<Oy, luv, heard it from a 'friend' that maybe that cave warden sorcerer was bargaining with a bloke down here for power.>> Of course any of his 'friends' could easily have steered him in the wrong direction. Well, perhaps not easily but - it *could* have happened.

"I dunno, luv, might be a good thing to have beauty on our side before we go up against that beast?"

A demon John isn't eager to face without all the backup he can get? That must be one Helluva demon.

"Piss off!"

He's not talking to Rien, obviously, nor the little black cat near his feet. The latter he bends and scoops up in one fluid motion to place it squarely on his right shoulder. "There's nothing innocent about me, mates!" he reminds the hunting party preparing to make their move

It's a misconception that a direct blast of Hellfire shouldn't harm a demon - they live in the stuff, right?

Now, John isn't often one for showy displays of out right *power* - it's best to keep the reality of that close to his chest. All bets go out the window when taking a trip below. He raises his hands above his head and by the time he brings them back down again they're both spewing forth Hellfire that he sprays from left to right not unlike a fireman's hose.

Amy Winston has posed:
<< It looks like where the Ruby Wastes meet the Sardonyx Plains back home... except this is much, much worse. >> Amy's voice, usually steady, trembled just slightly, a subtle crack beneath her regal tone. << I don't even know how to describe it properly. >>

Her eyes swept across the grotesque, twisted landscape, bile rising in her throat at the sight of the endless suffering around her. The ground itself seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, pits of molten lava and twisted, writhing bodies creating a nightmarish scene that made her stomach churn. Her grip on her sword tightened instinctively as she surveyed the hellscape.

<< I was just out for a jog... >> She hesitated, a slight shake of disbelief in her voice. << And then a portal opened up, and the next thing I know - I'm here. Wherever here is. >> There was a brief pause as Amy tried to steady her thoughts. The air was thick with dread, and for the first time, she felt the edges of panic clawing at her. This place-it gnawed at her senses, amplifying everything.

A voice cut through the eerie silence, grabbing her attention. Her eyes narrowed as she turned, trying to locate the source.

Amy stared at the zombie in disbelief for a split second, taking in the absurd mix of decayed flesh, eighties hair, and a guitar. << Seriously? >> she thought, her lip curling slightly in distaste. The "gnarly chick" comment only added fuel to her fire.

Without a word, she shifted her weight and lunged forward, sword raised high. The Citrine blade crackled with magical energy, a dazzling streak of light that seemed to cut through the oppressive Hellish gloom. "Because these sparkles are about to wipe that smug grin off your rotten face," she shot back.

With a swift, powerful arc, she brought the sword crashing down toward the zombie, aiming to cleave him in two. Her eyes blazed with focus as she moved, her shield up and ready to block any counterattack. In a fluid follow-up, she slashed horizontally across the cheeks and head of the zombie, decapitating it, determined to leave nothing of the undead relic standing.

The guitar may have once rocked, but Amy's magic-fueled fury was about to play the final note. "Arena Rock is dead."

Rien D'Arqueness has posed:
"Wrong Beast, cher..." Rien taps John on the shoulder and points to where Frankenstein is fighting off the demons. "THAT one could be a very good friend, and we certainly don't need anymore enemies in this place." She doesn't even bother with the smaller demons, opening up a portal and pushing it forward to scoop up some of the incoming rush before letting it close with a small flash of light. "I do hope they enjoy their time in the Void..."

Moving along, she starts towards those that are... well, worth fighting. Grinning as she lets the bone claws slide from the backs of her hands, Rien leaps into the midst of another group, her laughter eerily coming from multiple points as she starts to... blink. Flashing here, there, darting all through the group with claws flashing, slicing and carving through the demon hide as if it were no more difficult than skinning a deer. This is, after all, what she was created for.

At the end of the dizzying number of teleportations that flash one after the other in a blinding array, the quartet she'd attacked are left standing.. briefly. Parts begin to flop and slide, plopping to the ground before dousing the area with an egregious amount of blood and gore as the demons literally go to pieces. Rien is left standing there with a sour expression on her face, lips pursing up before she tilts her head aside and spits, watching it sizzle as it hits the ground. "Blech. Some of it got in my mouth. Teach me to laugh while flaying..."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Hell as a meritocracy ranks up there among the great ironies in creation. A conclave of titled devils, jealous lords unto gods, and the figurehead cursed to oversee the entirety of the place for eternity abandoning it to its fate. What a grand and fitting stage for Justice League Dark and assorted allies to trod upon those much-polished, sooted boards awash in steaming lava and mortal despair.

They are but walking shadows, hobbled players among the mighty and ferocious horrors strutting about in a phantasmogoric proceeding repeating itself from the Fall unto the end. Take one carpet-bagger of a demon dragging its belly across the sulfuric plain to insult John on par with a tosser swilling overpriced, rank beer in some upmarket pub -- in short, not really as terrifying as can be found about anywhere. Spears go a bit further in intimidation, but the sabre-rattling doesn't even warrant a minor hiss out of the cat.

But cats are tetschy creatures at the best of times, not when padding through Hell without a care in the world.

Especially not when getting a chuck under the chin, eyes half-closed in their balefire brightness and the hellish engine under her ribs eliciting a purr. She headbumps John's palm and wheels around to consider whatever excitement awaits. A slow, unobtrusive blink welcomes Rien along with the articulate nod in agreement, and then she's being pulled up onto John's shoulder. There her tail curls around his nape and settles on his shoulder, forming a gorget more indestructible than adamantium claws or uru hammers. Small acts to balance her weight give no impediment to him moving freely to crisp random demons as they come. "Meant some other?" she asks, rasping lightly over the susurrating consonants. Fangs will do that.

Fat goblins and bat-winged succubi probably have much more interesting targets to feast upon than a creature the size of a breadbox. Sparks of magic in a lawful arrangement and the blend of human emotions so different from suffering souls or local denizens stand out strongly in most cases. So she pointedly mews in appreciation for Rien's observations of Frankenstein, apparently up to nothing. If one counts watching their back nothing, for any stray gouts of acid or fire get reversed on their sources.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
The scottish succubus would pout over at Frankenstein, "Oh, another of you. There are so many I lose track. But, do enjoy yourself. You seem to be getting into this sort of thing. Enjoy the unending battle and slaughter! Remember which is the doctor and which is the monster." Then she goes to poof over in a cloud of green smoke that looks like a series of bat-wings vanishing and puffing away.

Shambling along past John laughing madly is what looks like some sort of midget, white furred Yeti. MIdget for a Yeti, not in general. Carrying a huge club made out of bone, it goes to laugh and garbles out with a loud 'Charge' as it goes to merrily hack it's way through anything in the way. It's not on their side, it's not on anyone's side, it's just stuck here the same as any other. And probably if they were in front of it it would go to try and crush them too.

The freakish demon zombie in front of Princess Amethyst goes to snap up with his keytar to try and block the blow, but would stand up about as well as Betamax. She goes to cleave him in twain, bones popping out and head rolling away from the clumphs of his body, going over, "That #*#&'ing hurts but it was $#*##! hardcore." Not exactly an impediment, if only an irritant of a strange nature.

As Rien would bounce, flip, flop, and flap around while managing to get up and start to cut and cull her way through everything in her way, what could best be described as an ancient looking sarcophogus, walking as if it were animated slowly stalking past her. Giving her but a moment of evaluation and assessment in a lifespan of immortality. It would gesture with a hand, a huge fist stretching out from it to smash aside a demon, give her an Egyptian bow, as if one Pharaoh to another.. And stalk along on whatever endless journey it was here on.

This is a fight less about individual enemies necessary but the fact that the legions of hell are endless for a reason. Even within this small realm, there were as many damned as grains of sand on the beach. That could swallow up even hte bravest by sheer mass. Hell won by it's endless reserves o hate, bile, and suffering. One did not foray into the depths without such a warning.

There, in the distance, watches the demon with a name unpronouncable by mortal tongues, that the mere avatar's presence of could unmake aspects of reality by his diabolical nature. A patron of the damned that to even look at upon the terrestrial plane brought about madness, hate, insanity, a cue that only the strongest of will, heart, and face could stomach..

The being with such a long, unpronouncable name that it will hereafter be referred to as 'Bob' purel yto prevent coming up with a nom de guerre that is random keys pressed with apostrophes thrown in at random.

And scuttling past Meggan, that had put up the equivalent of a Somebody-Else's-Problem field scuttles past a woman with long metal claws she was moving along the ground with at a pace as if running. Pale blue skin indicative of a jiangshei, a Chinese zombie, with markings of ward paper dangling down the side of her face, racing along. With an almost veneer of innocence upon her that was somehow mercurial and yet purposeful. Or rather upon them..?

Frankenstein has posed:
"Hrrrn..."

It's the only response that Frankenstein typically gives, and he does not seem ready to change his habits at the moment. Whatever gratitude he might feel toward the strange woman, it will probably have to wait until Christmas card season.

Perhaps surprisingly, the demonic horde doesn't seem to be particularly enchanted by the notion of forming an orderly cue and being disemboweled by a sword-wielding lunatic. Nor do they seem to be as interested in attacking The Creature as they were when he was unarmed figuratively as well as literally. The sword of the Archangel Michael has certainly been in cleaner condition. Wherever the strange lady found it before she returned it to Frankenstein, it was clearly buried within something's guts. This is nothing compared to the level of viscera that will be attached to it soon, however. For within the space of several seconds, the area around Frankenstein begins to erupt in a display of violence so savage, that demonic entrails are being flung about like ingredients in one of the Swedish Chef's recipes.

As the horde begins to clear a space for him, Frankenstein finally has some breathing room. Which would be very handy, if he were one of those people who actually needs to breathe. Regardless of whether he needs it or not, he inflates his lungs, so that he might be prepared in the event that he must shout oaths at retreating demons.

That occasion has not transpired as of yet.

Slinging his sword up and over his shoulder, Frank looks like something from a metal album himself. If only he were flanked on either side by busty, leather clad babes. Or perhaps riding a motorcycle up out of a lake of fire.

But no, he's simply walking, bleeding from his arm socket, and carrying a big sword.

John Constantine has posed:
"Yeah, that's Frankenstein," John replies, voice raised to be heard over the roaring din of his own spouting Hellfire. Frankie, see, was already counted an ally in his book.

Blue skin and long claws incoming? Well, the Laughing Magician drops one of his Hellfire hoses - extinguishing the flames before he murmurs a hasty, "Ready, luv?" to the black cat sitting on his shoulder. It all happens in a blink. With his left hand, he reaches across to his right shoulder and lifts Meggan's feline form. Talk about throwing someone to the wolves, John actually *throws* Meggan at the scuttling creature.

His right hand is still funneling out Hellfire, but he hasn't and endless supply. If he keeps it up, he'll likely have nothing left for what really matters.

Bob.

<<I'm going after ->> Well, that guy.

John leaves little room for anyone to protest before a murmured incantation has him rising into the air. His ariel dance will be more defensive than offensive. Again - have to save the bigger guns for the point of it all - for the end game.

This, however, might just be the end of *his* game.

Amy Winston has posed:
As Amy faces down the grotesque rockin' demon zombie, her blade shimmering with ethereal light as it prepars to slice clean through him. The keytar, a ridiculous attempt at defense, somehow shatters her sword, pieces of it scattering across the ground as the Princess gives a surprised gasp.

Despite the viciousness of her blow, the creature's bizarre voice croaks out, still somehow intact.

Amy's brow furrows, her expression a mixture of confusion and mild exasperation. She wipes the edge of her blade on the hem of her tunic, eyes narrowing as she steps back, surveying the twitching remains. "Really?" she mutters, half to herself, half to the disembodied head. "You're more annoying than dangerous, aren't you?"

She lets out a sigh, rolling her eyes before readying herself again. "Well, let's see if this time, you stay down," she says with a firm resolve, ready for whatever strange insult or quip the creature might offer next.

Amy flicks her wrist, her sword dissolving into pure energy as the violet glow around her intensifies. She lifts her hand, channeling her magic into the air, and with a sharp gesture, blasts of radiant amethyst light erupt from her fingertips. The streaks of power surge forward, colliding with the demon zombie, forcing it back in a dazzling display of light.

Each blast hits with precision, the purple flares exploding like fireworks, illuminating the battlefield around her. "Stay back!" Amy shouts, her voice clear and commanding. The swirling light not only batters the creature but also casts an unmistakable beacon for the others. Her position is unmistakable as the energy crackles and pulses around her, each burst serving as a marker in the chaos.

She grins, sweat glistening on her brow, the adrenaline of the fight coursing through her veins. "Let's make this a show," she mutters with determination, unleashing another wave of amethyst light, driving the monster back even further, step by step.

Rien D'Arqueness has posed:
Flashing a smile at the passing mummy, Rien mimics the bow, then turns to head towards the little flock of demons fighting over Frankenstein's arm. She looses a few flicked blasts of magic from her fingertips to send them flying away from the arm with angry shrieks. Pesky little demons. She picks up the arm and starts after Frankenstein.

John's response has her halting, briefly, head whipping around towards him, "I know WHO he is, I was sayi-... ugh, nevermind. THIS is why people think you don't listen!" He's distracted, but damned if she not going to get that lick in!

Turning back around, Rien moves to catch up with Frankenstein, using his hand to tap him on the shoulder. He's very much taller, so his arm comes in handy just now. "Hey cher. Looks like you lost something. May I?" She motions as if to put the arm back on for him.

Then John is flinging Meggan and Rien has to snort out a small laugh, shaking her head. That poor demon, no idea what's about to happen to it. But when he starts flying off, she lets out a groan, "You idiot!" Still, if Frankie wants his arm back, Rien is offering to help reattach it!

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A sword of any archangel is something to take pause at. Its doubled reflection in the endless balefire gleam of Meggan's feline eyes forms a signature of destruction as long as she stares unblinking at the relic. Something to judge later considering the goo and ichor stuck to the runnel. While Frankenstein pens a lengthy ode to destruction in most peculiar media, she snaps her attention to John and mews.

Hot fingers hurtle the petite creature across the length of the woe-begotten plain. Apparently she's ready. Well, ready or not, the shadows grow lengthy and ephemeral for the fastball special, JLD-style. The attenuated form flows like black fireworks in a realm abandoned by the sun, smudging out all suggestions of familiar shapes into merely suggested arcs of a leg, the blot of ears and snout.

She twists to rebound off a demon busy wading its way after Amy, drawn in by the horrible music and distraction of a broken weapon in the gem-clad princess' hands. There should be no reason for the infernal creature to gasp and choke that loudly for an impact, but it staggers off its clawed feet. In redirecting herself with boneless fluidity, the cat bunches her haunches up and springs off so momentum brings her to a landing in front of the hopping vampire-zombie. Whiskers twitch, her ear swiveling to the noise of--something anyway. Tracking, always tracking.

"No, no, Lei-lei-ko. You're both going the wrong way," comes that high, sing-song lilt as she yawns, showing her pink mouth. What tiny, needle-sharp fangs she has. Albeit the very image of disinterest in violence in this case, peculiar, but so is talking. "Stay clear of the purple. Good fortune to finding your harmony." Amy's fire is easy to spot and she clocks that, but other troubles demand their priority first. Having done her one non-infernal deed, that turn deserves another.

With a twitch of her whiskers, she promptly hops back up into the air like she's climbing invisible disks or a staircase back to where she needs to be. It's not as subtle as prowling around at ground level but it'll work as she keeps trotting toward John, Bob, and anyone else in their vicinity. The slow splendour of darkness weaves around her, taking the form of ephemeral, nocturne-fletched wings trailing stars in their dusty gossamer.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
It's rare that magic is so handily thrown about by JOhn. Magic with it comes a price. To the man that often acts upon trickery, misdirection, and ever so slight nudges to things, there is quite the potential for a massive payment down the line at karma's behest. But this is not such an ordinary realm.

This is hell. Realm of the damned.

Here, all bets and restrictions are off. In a land of rules that are firm, assumptions are cast out the proverbial window (right next to the volcano pit).

The demon hereafter dubbed 'Bob' goes to rise, with a great big pigsticker of a sword. "Con-STAN-Time." Making a show of pronouncing his name horribly wrong. "Unwanted by hell, unloved by heaven. You come here in violation. Here in my realm where you have no power." No meaningful power, at least, as far as the demon was concerned as he rose from a throne of blades and walked upon ground composed of skulls. "You intrude but you are quite wanted here. I am told that your endurance for torture is quite deep. I'll have all the time in the infernal abyss to see how far that goes and sunder it off you." He would cackle maniacally, laughter booming off the nonexistant walls.

Amy gets a parting glare from the head, "Hey, Toots, some of us just gotta make an unliving here. You die, you get stuck, you just gotta keep on going. Sure, I don't get to perform to crowds way I was -supposed- to.." His ripped off hands are crawling along the ground, picking up borked off parts of body to drag them back towards him and start to reassemble themselves. Before he would stand up. "Ugh, hate that." Leg kicking around to whack him in the face. "Dammit, always get those mixed up." THe leg connected at elbow. "Man wish I didn't feel pain.." Tearing off said leg.. Right as all his parts would collapse once more.

Yup, definitely in the 'annoying' category.

And Amethyst faces off against endless legions of the damned. Them rising. Some great, some small. Some terror, some screaming, some pathetic. The legions of hell are endless. She could fight here for a millenia and not even make the smallest of detns. One did not fight hell. One merely escaped it, soul intact at best. She could fight and blast them away.. But they could come after her for all the damned day.

And gonig past Frankenstein now skipping is a teenage'ish looking girl wearing a red cloak and outfit, picnic basket hanging off to the side. Singing ever so sweetly, "To grandmother's house I go!" A pep in her step and a cheer on her face, a smile far too big to match. What sort of a wmoan walked freely amongst murderous monsters so gleefully eyeing them up and down like a shark would bait? Passing by as the others were rallying and coordinating. She goes to hopscotch past Rien, towards where a demon had been carved in two, moaning painfully. She would giggle, "Aww, aren't you in a pickle.." Even as from her basket she would pull out a giant sickle. Then start slashing. Blood and ichor flying in a frenzy as she would continue to madly giggle. "TO grandmother's house I go!"

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
Yet another monster it would seem.

As Meggan goes to take her moment to chime in to the small girls in one making their way along with a hop-hop-chop-scotch, they would give a wave over at her in thanks and continue on their own journey. Darting through to vanish to face another foe in this fragment of a story.

Meggan is thrown as a nuke of righteousness, that's very presence melts away evil and burns it away. 'Bob' goes to scream. "Wicked FAE. Here." He goe sto raise up his hand. "THen elt us play. Tear out her wings. Whomever takes her head gets to die. PERMANENTLY." In hell, what was the richest reward? The thing most desperately wanted?

No, not redemption. No, not power. Nothingness. For everything to end.. And for the pain to finally stop as if it never were. As they would never be.

Charging along past Bob would be two women. One completely albino, from head to scarlet toe and armored combat boots, a set of armor providing only partial coverage and a massive blade screaming in thirst for blood brutally fighting with a red-skinned, bat-winged, fanged fury in a feral frenzy as two women would continue their ancient, millenia old dance of mutual loathing and morbidity. In this world where there was no hope and the best one could hope for was a glance of wishing at purgatory.

HEre in the depths of hell was no place for heroes.

Frankenstein has posed:
It appears that Frankenstein's primary mission has been accomplished. Reunited with his missing sword, he doesn't seem especially interested in lingering in the depths of Hell for some reason. Perhaps it's because he's suddenly developed some interesting hobbies back on the surface? Or maybe he's just not a huge fan of fire.

It's the second option, definitely.

But though fire is possibly Frankenstein's least favorite thing (aside from demons, monsters, and Kahlua), he will have to put up with its presence for a bit longer. With a sword in his only hand, the stitched-together abomination turns over his bleeding shoulder to see his very own hand tapping him. A little bit of further turning reveals that this is his day for having both his figurative and literal arms returned to him by strange women.

"Hrrrn... I have lost nothing. The miscreants absconded with it, for they have no sense of decorum. If you will help me to reattach it, I will be very grateful, but I fear that we have not the time."

Looking almost sheepish, the hunched-over green monstrosity explains: "For you see, I have neglected to bring any thread with me to this fester-..."

Watching as yet another strange woman appears, Frankenstein might reasonably question his sanity. Virtually anything could show up in Hell though, and the young woman with the sickle probably thinks that he's a strange-looking creature. And of course, she'd be right.

Whatever else she's doing, she's providing excellent cover while the monster consults with his new arm-toting acquaintance. He's really had more luck today than he deserves.

"Hrrrn.... I really liked that arm, too."

John Constantine has posed:
"Oy, way I see it? Better to be wanted in the middle, innit? Upstairs, downstairs - both lots want nothing more than to fuck around with humankind. Bloody bullies, all of ya, if you ask me." Never let them see you sweat. John lights his second Silk Cut since this little vacation started. He doesn't correct the demon on the name issue - names have power, why lend this one such if it truly doesn't know his proper name?

Names have power.

While *his* mortal tongue may never be able to pronounce 'Bob's' real name - he can think it so that someone else here can speak it. <<Amy, luv, not to put the pressure on, but this could all be on you, ey? I can't pronounce it, my tongue just won't move that way. But you can. His true name is -------- . Names have power. Use it.>>

Once Meggan's made it to him again, John lifts her to wrap about his neck again. <<Frank - you on this channel, mate? It's me, Constantine. This bloke's been trading power for favors from a sorcerer what's been caging up monsters to play watchdogs over his shite. Lend a lad a hand, ey? Keep keeping its lapdogs busy?>>

"And you know what happens to bullies in the end, ey? They always fall hard."

<<Rien, keep Lil' Amy clear, ey. She needs to concentrate.>>

So, what's his job? Well for now it's just to piss this wanker off a little more.

"Mighty big sword you have there, guv. Over compensating? I've pissed on bigger and badder than the likes of you, havnit I?"

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy stares at the crawling, grotesque remains of the zombie rocker with cold detachment, her eyes narrowing as she watches the head speak with maddening nonchalance, even while disassembling and reassembling itself in grotesque fashion. "You're stuck? Fine," she mutters, feeling the weight of her sword in her hand, "but I don't have time for your self-pity."

The legions begin to rise-endless, hideous, and without mercy. They claw their way out of the ground, their tortured cries echoing around her. Amy tightens her grip on her freshly summoned blade, the brilliant amethyst glow intensifying as she gathers her power. She slashes through the first wave of fiends, her sword cutting through their putrid forms as her magic ripples in the air, blasts of amethyst light erupting from her free hand.

But there's no end in sight.

The ground trembles as more of the damned claw their way up. Her heart pounds, and she grits her teeth, sending more power surging through her veins. Each blast she lets loose is more powerful than the last, amethyst beams exploding in every direction, ripping through the legions like wildfire. Yet, for every one she obliterates, two more take its place.

Her breath grows heavier, and sweat drips from her brow. Still, she doesn't stop. Won't stop. She channels even more magic, the power draining her reserves as the blasts become stronger, faster, wider. "Keep coming then," she growls, her voice thick with determination. "I'll take every one of you down!" Her body trembles with the force of the power she's drawing, the strain becoming evident, but the legions keep rising.

Each blast weakens her, but she doesn't relent. Her amethyst light begins to dim, flickering slightly as she pushes herself beyond her limits. The weight of the endless battle starts to settle in her bones. Exhaustion creeps up on her, and her movements become slower, more deliberate. Her sword drags through the air, and she has to will her body to keep standing.

There's no end.

Her chest tightens, magic flickering in her grasp. She knows she's draining herself, using power faster than she can replenish it. But she won't stop, not now. With every fiber of her being, she fights back, sending one last massive wave of energy crashing through the army.

And then her knees buckle. She gasps for breath, her vision blurring as the endless legions loom before her, still rising.

<< Help. >> She doesn't know if she has enough to flare a portal to get her out of here. Her only option now is to escape to Nilaa. But then there's a new voice. One more familiar. Not the damned clawing at her skin and silk-mist. John's. And he is a beacon she needed. Forced to focus with the name, Amy stops swiping and steps back. "Give me a minute!" she calls out and is immediately starting to form an jewel encrusted spell circle, laying out the various gems she needs for a binding spell and already speaking in that Nilian tongue, eyes blazing a bright violet. "John! Circle will be up soon. Give me a binding spell! I've not done this before! Meggan, feed me a little extra magic through this!" She tosses a large square, perfectly made Amethyst to the fae. "I'm gonna need the boost!" A

Rien D'Arqueness has posed:
Looking up into the face of Frankenstein's monster.. Rien smiles. She's seen worse. WAY worse. At least he's polite! Holding the arm by the tricep, she pulls it back to rest on her own shoulder while giving her head a shake. "Not to worry, cher, I got you covered." Shifting around until she can face the empty socket, Rien is distracted briefly by the Red Riding Hood of Doom. "...that is an interesting twist to the tale.."

She blinks, then looks back to Frankie, setting the arm in place at the shoulder socket, then holding it there with one hand while the other glows with a magical blue energy. Infusing that torn limb with the magical energy, snapped ligaments and muscle starting to re-knit together, halves of torn flesh drawn towards one another, meeting and melding together. It isn't a needle and thread, but thanks to the magic, his arm is reattached, as if it had been part of him the whole time. No stitches required! Stepping back, she motions to him, "Good as new. Now.. you seem to be stuck down here. If you'd like to join us in kicking the demon lord's ass, we'd be happy to bring you back to the surface after."

Patting Frankie lightly on the arm, she winks at him before letting the bone claws slide free once more so she can pop over to Amy's side with a grin. "Hey there. Focus on what you need, I got you." And that is a promise that Rien can keep. She'll stay near Amy, setting up a perimeter of shadowy tentacles and arms that reach out from every crack and crevice to help hold incoming threats at bay while she dances around in the world's grossest game of Ring Around the Rosie. Body parts drop, bodies are booted away; blood, ichor, and far more unmentionable things spill and splatter. Sure, eventually her strength will give out, eventually she will tire. But that's a loooooooooooooooooooooong way off for the mutant-magi. Until then, she's dancing in entrails and skewering faces, and having herself a grand time!

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan shall be sadly put out to discover she missed a conversation about fashion and field surgery. The most interesting things happen in the middle of a battle. Field dressings are most definitely in Rien's bailiwick and she's better suited than cat claws for reattaching dismembered limbs. Even missing out on girls prancing out of faerie tales with baskets and grandmothers to go to! Let it not be said the trip to Hell hasn't been instructive. Loads of questions and answers to be had by sitting around Frankenstein and Amy and the French woman.

Just not right now.

The massive creature enthroned before them seems far more focused on the Laughing Magician than the cat, a good start. Cackling maniacally isn't so uncommon where John goes to immediately cause any concern. Being pulled up into his arms while Bob spits a verse about torture, she curls her tail back around his neck and rubs her cheek to his scruffier one. Slim whiskers trail like a static charge.

"Figure this one's waiting to be summoned for the first time?" Posture fit to conjure references to Bubastis and Gotokuji, Meggan kneads her paws into John's coat. The only thing she isn't doing is waving like Maneki Neko. The ghostly wings dwarfing her, partly unfolded from her back, serve as a visual reference, not needed for flight. Instead they serve a far more useful purpose for all the magic users around, manifesting a fraction of her aura with its abundant, tiny bits of raw magic in the stellar sparks.

Hell isn't all about fire, though Constantine has that lock, stock, and barrel. But Meggan can be its opposition, aspected air and water to go with darkness. Refined fuel offered up to a warlock to replace his depleted stores, or something for the Gemsorceress to convert and kindle.

There is no end. There is.

Her eyes shift colour, auroras blurring circumpolar constellations burning across the tarnished quicksilver sclera. Indigo shifts verdant green, then ignites into white phosphorus. Purring rolls out of her, far louder than her small body should muster, but the low-harmonic vibrations melt through leather and cloth, rattling fur and bone. Stars fall from the empty skies in Hell, each of them streaking through the bloodborne miasma pure as a dream. Each one tastes of drowsy summer afternoons, swimming and sunning on the beach, laughter, fresh gelato, sweat and flushed exhilaration.

"Silly demon. I am no faerie." She yawns again. "I'm with him, staying until he's done with the place."

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
John has a plan. Always count on the man to have a plan. Prepared in advance or improvised out of sheer desperation. One does not fight their way through hell.

Amy is holding her ground, but the ground is starting to try and overcome her. As crawling up from it are bodies. Beasts. Imps. Wretches. Arms starting to come out and crawl over and along, pulling htemselves up. Incinerated by her power and glow, even as more demons charge forwards and towards her, likewise being crunched. It's a gory, traumatizing, terrifying sight as disintegrating corpses by the dozens, hundreds, thousands are hewn away from her, quite perhaps.

That's what they intend to do if they cannot overcome her power. Simply smother her. In demons. In corpses. In wretcheds. This is a fight on hell's turf. There is no sacrifice too great that the realm is not willing to make for it's own twisted amusement.

The mass of a demon ponders at Constantine, "Slipping, Con-STAN-Time. Since you seem so interested then, let me help you." From the ground spring up thousands upon thousands of blades. Swimming through the magma, the rock, the bones and the skulls as if they were waves. Darting past him like dominos tumbling and rising up once more, a sea of slaughter. The air turning infernal, particles turning to glass and ricocheting at him at high speed. Magma rocks turning heavy, gravity itself seeming to be an oppressor as if existence was taking it's proverbial thumb and pressing it over his head and trying to squash him down hard and crush him. "You won't die. You'll wish you could. Because of all the tortures and suffering /I/ can do to you.. There are so many here that want a piece of you that are far, far more upset with you that will do far, far more horrible things."

It is a challenge to JOhn. And his guardian Meggan. Power and destiny of one world to another. One avatar challenging it's opposite of another realm. While the demon would try to crush John with Hell itself, to skewer him and break him as the others would fight, claw, and ultimately die it would try to crush him. All that stood in the way was Meggan.

Lady of Otherworld. Princess, perhaps. Lady of the Seasons. Here two beasts and monsters of different planes went at one another in a cruel sort of game.

Amy drawing about power, desperate for survival and holding her own as she was given a chance, a small respite before being smothered. For Rien and Frankenstein to hack their way to her place and shield her. The question was whether they could get to her and give her that time before Hell itself snuffed her out. If not in body, then in spirit.

Frankenstein has posed:
"Grrrhrrr..."

The Monster manages to keep a mostly straight face as his arm is knit back together with magics. It's unclear if Frankenstein can truly feel pain, but he seemed to find the process at least somewhat uncomfortable. Any discomfort is short-lived, however, as his arm is back as good as before. Finally, a part of his body that's reattached seamlessly. Frank really rocks the whole 'covered in stitches' look though.

"You have my gratitude, m'lady. I will gladly kick this demon lord directly in the ass, for the boots of Frankenstein fall heavily upon the the evil!"

Stretching his arm, then flexing it, he seems satisfied that it will perform as expected. And then, holding the Archangel's Blade with both hands, he dives into the fray with renewed vigor, like God's vengeance made flesh.

<<Hrrrn... I detect the greasy psychic energies of John Constantine...>>

A large horned demon's head goes flying vertically, propelled by a veritable geyser of blackened blood.

<<What games do you play here in the netherworld?>>

A squat, powerfully-built demon is sliced straight up from between the legs, each half of its body remaining standing for a few seconds before they begin sliding apart and fall with separate thuds on the ground.

<<Bah! It is no concern of mine. Frankenstein will deliver a swift death to all who side with the forces of darkness, as is his custom.>>

The Archangel's blade is buried in the chest of a massive multi-armed demon. As it breathes its death rattle, Frankenstein uses his free hand to pull a large antique pistol from his belt and fire it behind his back, removing most of the brain from a creature who thought he'd found the perfect opportunity to sneak up on the Agent of S.H.A.D.E.

Clearing a path through the horde, Frankenstein seems to be making his way toward the Princess of Otherworld, who look like she could probably use a break right about now. A break which will probably not be forthcoming, despite his best efforts to reduce the hellish forces.

John Constantine has posed:
<<Ex Tenebris Inferni, In Nihilum Abyssi, Exilium Tibi, Xh'kthar'zzul'gnar'kth'yl'voth'rax'quor'zhul'kth. - and say it like you mean it, luv. Might take more than one pass, but you'll like have him stunned at the first. Everyone else, be ready, when he feels it start he's going to have his bloody lapdogs yappin' and bitin' hard at anythin' not belongin' here, ey?>>

Now, John Constantine isn't one to let those around him take all the glory. That is to say, he's not going to leave his allies to carry out his plan without his help.

Drawing on the power of his demonically tainted blood, drawing on the power of bloody Hell itself, John, once again, proves that he can sling energy around with the best of them - at least for a little while.

"Meg, luv, make sure they don't leave me behind, ey?>> he murmurs. But he knows that she wouldn't. And it may end without him having to be carried from the Pits - all thanks to the power of one little pussycat. "Remind me to buy you a new diamond collar, luv."

Hell isn't all about fire - but it sure is fun to bring some to the party.

This time what John throws down isn't just the flame from a fireman's hose. This time it's a deluge of flames, a spouting wall of Hellfire as big as the demon is tall and wider still - hoping to catch blades and bone together into a giant melting pot of Hell's minions. All in an effort to weaken him so that Lil' Amy - Princess Purple can step up and do what would normally be *John's* thing in this demonic sideshow of his life.

And, maybe, with just a little luck and help from his friends, keep him alive for the next one.

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy stands in the center of a hastily drawn circle, her breath steady, her eyes closed in intense concentration. The air around her hums with magical energy, the weight of her task heavy but familiar. She spreads her arms wide, fingers splayed as amethyst light begins to gather at her fingertips, shimmering in vibrant arcs that pulse and twist around her.

Her voice rings out, low and commanding, as she recites the ancient words of the binding spell. The light at her fingertips flares brighter with each syllable, swirling upward into a complex pattern of glowing sigils and runes that hover in the air around her. Her focus sharpens, and the power of the spell pulls from deep within her, stretching across dimensions.

As John feeds her the words, Amethyst has always been a quick study of spells, and she begins.

The infernal forces around her surge and writhe, their grotesque forms pressing ever closer, but she channels her focus inward, drawing on every reserve of magical energy she possesses.

With a deep breath, she begins the incantation, her voice resonant and commanding, cutting through the din of battle with a clarity that demands attention. "<<Ex Tenebris Inferni, In Nihilum Abyssi, Exilium Tibi, Xh'kthar'zzul'gnar'kth'yl'voth'rax'quor'zhul'kth.>>"

The air grows thick as the spell takes shape, a faint shimmer marking the boundary between realms. Amy's heart pounds, and she clenches her jaw, pushing more of her magic into the binding. She can feel the resistance-whatever entity she is calling is fighting against the pull-but her will is unyielding. The amethyst light burns brighter still, casting shadows that flicker and dance as the barrier between planes cracks open.

The words roll off her tongue with an authoritative cadence, each syllable infused with raw power. As she speaks, her aura pulses with a brilliant amethyst light, intensifying with each phrase of the incantation. The air around her crackles with energy, the magic growing more potent and focused as she drives the spell deeper into its intended effect.

She pauses briefly, knowing that the spell might take more than one pass to fully take hold. The demonic entities around her seem to falter, their movements becoming sluggish as they feel the initial surge of power. Amy's gaze sweeps across the battlefield, her expression resolute. "Everyone else, be ready," she calls out, her voice a fierce, determined rally. "When he feels it start, he's going to unleash his lapdogs. They'll come at anything not belonging here with everything they've got."

Her command is clear, her confidence unwavering as she prepares to repeat the incantation. She channels another burst of amethyst energy, reinforcing the spell with renewed vigor. The air around her is thick with the energy of the spell, and the infernal forces begin to reel from its impact.

With a final, decisive gesture, she slams her palms together, forcing the two realms to meet. The magic flares violently, and then there's silence.

"-----------! Come forth!" She commands in her mother tongue.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Promises of a present? The cat *is* still Tuath de Danaan at her heart. She won't look down her velvety nose at a present or a compliment, especially coming from a source that makes her tail beat in one solid thump against John's back before he remakes "Towering Inferno", Hellstorm edition.

"Mind the coat." Meggan's reply carries the rumbling harmonics of a purr to it, her claws lightly catching the battered garment that's been to Hell and Heaven and back, not to mention a few points in between. Maybe the real relic isn't the one bestowed by a cursed lineage, but the clothes you wear along the way.

Her nebulous feathered wings twitch and sweep wider, aura practically tangible as it emerges from the spun stuff of psychic energy or invisibility. She can't explain the particulars nearly as well as a trained master of the mystic arts can. The particulars matter a good deal less than the gist of invoking her own magic and channelling it purposefully to rain down in an expansive radius without completely depleting the stores within her.

Or worse, causing her to spontaneously tap into the hell-plane. Effective and deadly dangerous, that, so she withholds the eagerness to spring into the fray against Xh'kthar'zzul'gnar'bob's-yourun'cleha'bol'locks'zhul'th. No matter how hard summer's waning rage yearns to spill into action, her defensive role and comfortable shoulder perch keeps her from trying to mimic the murder squad of Rien and Frankenstein in splendiferous, wicked battle. Hellfire makes her fur feel rather uncomfortable for a few seconds. Purple sparkles shift the spectrum of her vision. More stars crash down around Amethyst, an additional source of power to tap into. Though not in any sense authoritative, the iridescent mana needs no command; the blood of magic itself is above such cares.

Besides, if she were down there, she would miss the plum majesty of Amy sprouting up like flowers in a desert against the massed forces. Her back paws press into John's shoulders, though defying gravity, to the warning call raised on high. Arching her spine, she takes in a long breath far deeper than what her lungs can entirely hold. Something wicked this way comes, a widening gyre.

Lapdogs. The worst kind! The thickening slog of the atmosphere pressing down on them announces the equivalent of the gate opening. What horror dares slip past the guard?

Only a heretic would summon that chatter-bright chirp most common to a housecat about to ambush a hapless fly.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
There is a chorus of pain coming from the demon as his true name is used. As Amy goes to chant it out, forcing her way through the hordes of things trying to smother her in hellborn ash and bodies, as Rien and Frankenstein throw some.. SHADE upon them, she has her room to breathe. And to speak out the very, very specific spell and commands of it.

Names are funny things. They have power. But they require precision and enunciation. Knowledge and power are meaningless if one does not have the control to command shape them. With guidance, given the ability to speak The All Language, Amy goes to get it out.

Blades scythe forth even as the demons scramble away from Amy - or moreso disintegrate like a vampire would to the sun itself blasting down. But in the realms of magic, there are some things of the realm above which still hold true in a twisted way.

Hell is a realm of rules and absolutes. Pacts, oaths, and contracts are binding and must be adhered to, by the highest and the lowest. But other things are also true. Some laws.

Such as inertia. Or in the case of things with John, a Meggan on his shoulder, volcanic-rock sharp blades of glass going through the air at him, thier arcs and power stopped, but carried forwards still. John is fast and agile, but there still could very well be some bits of glass going through him.

So how did the phrase go now?

Oh yes. Bob, we're here to bargain.

Frankenstein has posed:
Unfortunately, one of the 'demonic entities' currently around Amethyst is the very creature who had intended to be of some assistance. The blood of the demon Melmoth practically curdles within Frankenstein's undying veins, and he becomes as sluggish as the demons around him. Only his legendary stubbornness keeps Frankenstein in the fight, though he finds himself relying on his Steam Gun more than usual, to make up for the heaviness of his limbs and the slowness of his brain.

But the though the magics are slowing Frank substantially, they're also wreaking havoc on the surrounding demonic horde, all in all, it seems to be more or less a wash. But if Frankenstein is so allergic to anti-demon magic... maybe he's right where he belongs.

It looks like he might be staying there whether he belongs or not, as he is hit with the mystic blades. Realizing belatedly what is going on, he attempts to shield himself, deflecting some of the eldritch magics with the blade of the Archangel Michael. It works only slightly, and a thick, noxious blood pours from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth as he slumps forward, and falls to his knees. Leaning forward, and holding himself up by a single hand, he communicates his displeasure at the turn things have taken.

"Hrrrn..."

John Constantine has posed:
A slice to right cheek, shallow but might leave a hair of a scar - scar's are sexy or somesuch, right? A tear through the leg left leg of his trousers right above the knee - a shard to be pulled out later. A hit to the side of his neck, a fraction away from creating an arterial spray to rival the horror classics.

John flinches with each, but doesn't stop the deluge until everything else stills.

Once the echoes of the battle die into nothing and silence lays in its wake - John lights another Silk Cut, this time with his trusty battered gold lighter that he loves so much.

"Right then..." John knows he has no chance of speaking the things proper name so, "Bob, let's make a deal, ey?"

Dealings with demons and devils, they always work out so well, don't they?

He leaves that cigarette tucked between his lips as he sates, "You tell me the true and full name of the bloody sorcerer that you've been funnelin' power to and we," he indicates himself and all of his allies, "...won't banish you to the void."

Really, he has no need to destroy the poor wanker - let him have his little corner of Hell. He just needs information.

"Of course, any deal struck here will be considered null and void in the event that you decide to keep feeding this cunt, ey? Really, who would you rather have annoyed with you? Him or the ones that have bloody well bested ya here, on your own turf?"

He casually reaches up to rub the pussycat behind her ears.

"Tick-tock now, I don't have all night - I have a date with a bath and a bottle of scotch."

Amy Winston has posed:
Her legs are covered in scratches. She's battered and bruised. Her mist-silk is torn in places. But mostly... Princess Amethyst is //pissed//.

She takes a step forward, her eyes locked on the demon with a fierce, unyielding gaze. Her voice rings out with a commanding authority that reverberates through the hellish plane, "You heard him, ------. The time for games is over. You will answer John Constantine's query with the truth. No more evasions, no more lies."

The pressure from her magic intensifies, the amethyst light around her becoming a blinding torrent that sears through the darkness. The ground beneath the demon starts to crack and splinter, and the air around it grows heavy with the oppressive weight of her power. "The sorcerer you've been funneling power to-his true and full name. Speak it now or face the full wrath of my magic. This is your final opportunity." Amy's gaze remains unyielding, her expression a mask of stern determination.

"Your fate is in your hands," she continues, her voice cold and unrelenting. "Give us what we need, or be prepared to face the consequences. And remember, Constantine's offer of a deal will be void if you dare to cross us again. Choose wisely."

She pauses, allowing the full weight of her power to sink in, making it clear that there is no room for negotiation or delay. "Time is running out. Deliver the information now, or suffer the consequences of your defiance."

With a final, imperious gesture, Amy signals her readiness to enforce her threat, her amethyst light flaring even brighter, casting ominous shadows around the demon as she waits for its response.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Funny thing about oaths and contracts, how burdensome and freeing they can be all at once.

Like many demons, the cat is so bound down to the tips of her blunted back claws. Not a chance any of those can be easily sundered or broken, not when one of them is all but hammered into her mum's garden guarded by a grim, none-too-friendly archangel. Contracts that bestow such power also provide order to even this sorry backwater of Hell, the common structure that pulls galaxies together and ensure purple is always purple equally applicable to misbehaving chunks of razor-sharp, brittle obsidian.

Non-sentient, inorganic substance very much does not *want* to hit the elemental metaclinging to John's shoulder as he flinches, demands, and contemplates his next Silk Cut. Obsidian deflects away from her -- and thus mostly him -- like a panicked stampede turning away from the President or the Queen. It doesn't guarantee anyone around her will not get hit, but some of the rocky splinters or gobs of fire abruptly veer out of the way exactly like they meant to. Even here, the elements are in kahoots with her (mum).

The weight which should bear down on his sleeve or pull the coat collar uncomfortably back doesn't, an equally silk and smoke presence wrapped in grey musk, soft woods, and impermeable shadows. Her wings contract to her sides, sweeps of darkness swallowed back into themselves, and she drowsily nuzzles into John's fingers, biting one lightly for good measure.

"And bubbles," she murrs, hard to hear, but definitely there. Tail twitching, she settles into a liquid, boneless slump as Amy serves up the dish best served cold.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
The demon struggles over in the restraints, but is one of those rare ones that seems to have common sense. He does not rage, he does not lash over at them. He just glares. As much as a thing made of spikes that lives on a throne of blades and trapsizes on hooves through grounds of skulls and lives in a sea of wretched blades where water rises on the screams of the damned.

"... Very well." He recognizes the reality of his bargaining position, and that there is no sense when it comes to stringing it out.

"In return you shall not violate my realm, my sanctity, and my existence further.." But, rather more thoroughly than that and comprehensively.

"The mage for whom calls himself Kill Power.." Could.. After all this brutality, suffering, anguish, and fighting, that was the name of their..

"His true name is Jonathan Arbuckle."

John Constantine has posed:
Let it be known, that John's reply was simple, "Aye, I'll agree to it."

"What's with all these bloody try-hard names?" First there was that wanker in Thailand that called himself - what was it? Megawhore? Metabore?

He bows - slightly, wouldn't do to have a MegganKitty tumble from his shoulder or worse, scramble to keep purchase and rip his neck to shreds.

"A'right then, Bob, get on with whatever it is you lot do down here." Through all his times here and back again, he never really saw the point of it all.

Doesn't rightly matter, does it? He got what he needed - damn the rest of it to Hell, literally.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
Oh, one more thing.

His name isn't Bob.

And yet that's all anyone will remember