Owner	Pose
Chas Chandler	The Fourth Circle passes in relative peace for Jon. Avoiding the roving bands of eternal jousters and the bulldozing marauders becomes more and more simple for them as they draw closer to the rising wall that separates the Fourth and Third Circles. The solitude has been palpable, and after a time even the watchful eyes of the lord of the field fade from Jon's awareness.     On what is likely to be their last day, something changes for Jon. There is a lurch in the very fabric of the world around them. Everything turns on its side and memory floods back. For Jon this is especially disorienting. Two sets of memory war with each other for supremancy and everything he should know about Rien changes as the hold and shift of the NotRien is released retroactively revealing the masquerade it perpetuated with its very presence.     The disorientation is brief and doesn't change the fact that Jon -must- continue. If anything it bolsters his desire to return to those he cares for. Upon reaching the sheer face demarking the break in the realm of Greed, Jon does as he has everytime before and launches himself into the air. The climb to the Third is shorter than that to the Fourth from the Fifth and after the climb, Jon arrives in the Third Circle.     The first thing that comes to his attention is the rain. It's water, much like the Swamp of the Fifth but the stagnant humidity of the swamp of anger is replaced with a dead chill. It's also filthy. Each water drop splatters against Jon's ceremonial robes and stains the white a muddy brown with particulates.     The next thing that Jon notes is the smell. There is a heavy stench of rotting earth wafting up from large canyons that break the land. The ambient sounds that have lingered on each plain--the moan and mill of each Circle's population--come up from those canyons. Interspersed with the low rumbling chatter of hudreds, or thousands, or millions of people is a gutteral multi-layered roar that is accented with a cry of terror and pain at the end. If Dante's mansuscript is correct the roar could be only one thing: The Hound of Hell.
Jonathan Sims	For a moment, when his memories return, Jon reels. It's disorientating, but not unexpected. If anything, it makes him smile. "Cael was right. She usually is, it seems." But it does, indeed, only bolster his determination to get back home. To find out--how long has it been, for them? Cael was already working on the question of proving Rien wasn't as they thought when he left, so has it really been years for them? Or weeks? Perhaps even /days/? It's a comforting thought, even if he worries whether ot not Rien--the /real/ Rien--is alive.     No way to find out except to get home.     He's prepared for this Circle, knowing there likely wouldn't be much to eat, by doing some extra foraging and experimenting with magic to preserve the food. He's known he'll be unlikely to find any food here--Dante described the land as fallow--so he's prepared to ration out the food. Does he have enough for a whole year? Possibly. He's tried to be very careful with the planning.     He conjures up a shield overhead, to protect himself from the rain, a veil to protect himself from the notice of the Hound--if that's even possible--and continues on.
Chas Chandler	Weeks pass without incident and Jon's planning looks like it might hold out. His rations look like they might be able to hold out given how little each meal takes from them. Except there is a requirement that Jon didn't prepare for, the need for statements. The gnawing is something that starts after the first week; a discomfort that touches not the stomach, but the mind. The urge for information from sources, physical or not, that is only echoed by the lingering presence of the Ceaseless Watcher attached to them.     Jon knows that there are people in the canyon. He's seen them. Multitudes of people huddling and wallowing in the muddy pits of the dark canyons. But he has also seen the master of this realm in his inspections of below.     The Hound of Hell certainly matches legendary accounts of Cerberus, but whether or not it is that very creature, or a demon molded into that appearance is unknown. It prowls the valleys and stalks the huddled masses with impunity, it's three heads sniffing this way and that. The leathery pelt is mottled in places a sign of scars of battle or a mange as a result of the foul environment.     Every now and then it lashes out and devours an unsupecting victim, a gory act that splashes blood and worse along the walls of the canyon. What's left is unrecognizable as ever being human. But then the true terror manifests and the victim regenerates back to whole, only to resume its terrified huddling in the muddy depths waiting for the time that the Hound will come for them once more.     It would be easy for Jon to go into the pit and retrieve what he craves then return to the ledges above, but the danger would be great as well. One thing is certain it's only a matter of time before a choice must be made.
Jonathan Sims	It's not so much that Jon didn't prepare for taking statements--it's that Jon didn't prepare for the /Hound/. He had presumed he could avoid or sneak past the creature, using the magic he'd mastered in the last circle. Or /thought/ he'd mastered, because it turns out to be far harder to hide from something that knows you're coming. The first time Jon ventures down toward the canyons, the three-headed dog sniffs him out right through his veil and barks so loudly Jon flees immediately.     It's not that he's /afraid/ of the thing, really. It's more that he doesn't want to know what trying to face down what amounts to the Lord of this Circle will do. He hasn't fought any of the Fallen, and if he did he'd be facing them on their own turf. For all he knows, the very land itself might turn against him.     He retreats, and thinks about the problem while still plodding along. The next time he tries going down, he douses himself in his own water to try to wash off any smell, and makes sure the Hound is well away from the area before heading down to rip a statement out of one of the sinners down in the slush. It's a close thing--even as the man is finishing a tale of a life spent in sensual indulgence, the Hound is sniffing at Jon's heels, and the Archivist flees back up to the lands above the canyon.     It's enough to tide him over for a little while longer. The three-headed dog never comes up to the top, but Jon doesn't take any chances anyway--he wards and hides his camp when he rests, rations his food carefully, and tries his best to find a way back down into the canyons. The trouble is that now the damn Hound seems to actually be tracking him, always waiting when Jon tries to head down. So he stops trying, determines to just... push on through.     What they find is that going without a statement is much like going without nicotine or, eventually, food. They get restless, irritable. Frustrated. They start considering pulling it out while standing on the lip of the canyon--they even do /try/ to take one at a distance, but find it just doesn't work right. Within a few weeks it's the only thing they can think about. The Watcher is fine, soaking up the fear of the victims down below and Jon's own fear of being stalked by the Hound. But /Jon/, well... Jon starts daydreaming, weirdly, about just what might be in the next statement he manages to get, what he might learn about the person in question, in the same way he daydreamed about food when he was stuck in the desert.     Finally, it gets to be too much. He conjures the strongest veil he can manage, douses himself in water, and heads down into the canyon, determined to sneak or fight his way past the Hell Hound to get a statement.
Chas Chandler	The Hound isn't really a dog; it's a demon that's been reduced to animal nature but kept it's incredible intelligence. In that respect it's very, -very- smart. When Jon makes his way down there's no sign of the creature. No sound, no smell, no whispering magical energies of a veiled monstrosity along the floor of the canyon.     There are huddling, wallowing bodies on the victims of this Circle though. They moan, whine, and dig in the mud scrambling for anything to eat. Finding a man who made his living advertising excess to the masses, Jon starts to draw the statement of his wasted life.     That's when the Hound shows just how fast it can be.     Jon is deep in the statement when the ground starts to shake. Before he can draw away, it's on him. The three heads drive him to the ground; a wave of force encircling the creature and giving it strength even beyond its physical shell. The teeth of the center head clamp down and sink into the flesh of Jon's left leg. Blood spills to mix with the muddy ground. It harasses him, shaking and violently tearing at his body. The leg comes free and the center head of the Hound gorges itself on it even as the left head ravages Jon's right leg. The right head seems content to busy itself in snapping and barking at Jon's face and torso, preoccupying the man's defenses as the other two devour piece by piece.     They take turns. His still phsycial arm goes next as the right head finally gets a turn and they stop for a moment to rip, tear, and clean the flesh from the severed limbs, leaving Jon a bloody, mutilated mess in a pit of disturbed mud. Once the Hound can tear no more from the bones they toss them aside, where the huddled masses flee from or dive on the scarce remains for themselves.     Jon, miraculously, still has enough presence of mind to try and claw his way free but a great paw pins him in place. The backpack is ripped free by the center head. The contents are torn into with a frenzy while the left and right rip his wings from his body; leaving bloody stumps at his shoulders where the mystical but quite phsycal appendages once sat.     When they are finished the trio go for his entrails; tearing, ripping and snarling as they gorge themselves on the hearty organs beneath. They ravage him until there is nothing left of Jon but a ruined mass of flesh that contains the ruined stump of an arm, two massacred shoulders, the left half of his chest and his head--scratched and torn to ribbons, but still whole.     Even as the left and right heads continue to chew the organs they stole form his form the center leans down in Jon's face. Only one eye survived but it's enough that the great muzzle fills his vision. "Be well, Archivist" the Hound says to him. The low rumble of a voice comes without motion from the mouth; a psychic voice rather than anything physical. "I appreciate the meal you have provided. I leave your heart intact so that you provide a plentiful source of tasty meat when you regenerate and ultimately fall to your needs once more."     The task of eating finished, the creature stomps off in search of more prey to fill its neverending hunger a raspy doggy chuckle echoing off the canyon walls as it finds its latest meal quite satisfactory.
Jonathan Sims	Well, this is all just about what Jon expected.     Fighting doesn't work, not so much because Jon is bad at it--he's really quite good at it now--as because he slips in the mud first thing and falls, with the sudden horrible realization that he probably 'belongs' in this circle and the Lord of the realm was just biding his time. So even as he tries to flee some tiny voice in the back of his mind tells him that he sort of /deserves/ this, right? He just can't keep a lid on his addictions. On the need for statements, for nicotine, his delight in alcohol, his craving for /good/ food, not just enough to sustain him...     This is ridiculous.     He's very nearly out of Hell, with just one Circle to go after this and then, presumably, Limbo. And who knows what after /that/ but at least tromping through the land of sinners will be done. And now he's lying in the mud, surrounded by supposed gluttons, slowly and painfully re-growing almost his entire body. Because... why? Because some people see enjoying physical pleasure as an inherently bad thing? And because he's decided he belongs down here with them.     There's anger again, and Jon rides the wave of it again, to focus his will. To regrow his body, cell by cell, painfully and painstakingly. He aches for another statement before long, but can't manage to move. Lungs and head first, because with a voice he can turn his head and force a statement out of someone nearby. The rest of his torso, to protect his heart. His arm, and then his legs.     The process takes /months/, during which Jon has /plenty/ of time to think about /exactly/ what he's going to say to that damn dog when it comes back.
Chas Chandler	And eventually the Hound does return. When it spots Jon's nearly completed regeneration it a good forty paces away "I see you are nearly complete, Archvist" it projects toward him. "Shall we start the chase now or do you want to just lay down and give me an easy meal?" It chuffs out a half-bark, half-sneeze and wastes no time charging its prey.     The ground is churned as it tears up the land and the gluttonous bodies, some still alive others in the process of regenerating for another round of terror are flung against the wall of the canyon as the Hound makes his charge.     It draws closer and closer to Jon, the central mouth opening up to reveal row after row of sharp teeth.
Jonathan Sims	"No," Jon manages, voice a bit raspy after a year of disuse. "Fuck. Off."     He struggles to sit up, glowering at the Hound. "I am /done/. I'm done atoning for perceived sins and submitting to punishment for things I don't even believe are a problem." He gestures at the bodies in the mud around him. "What the hell is the actual problem with gluttony? If you're wasting food, sure. If you're /hurting/ someone. A thirst for power, like Dante put it... that's a problem. But I've never really understood the problem with lust, either, even if I don't have it myself. Why is it so wrong to want to /enjoy/ life? Even greed, and wrath--the problem isn't the supposed sins /themselves/. It's action, or inaction. It's hurting people, including yourself. It's all the same fucking thing, and the Church is so wrapped up in convoluted methods of control that they came up with this complicated mess of a place."     They keep regarding the Hound as they try to get to their feet. It doesn't work--they're still too weak. But the glower in their green eyes doesn't go away. "Well, I'm not Christian anymore. I'm not even /mortal/ anymore. I was /Gaea's/ Champion, and She is the Earth Mother. Am I not supposed to enjoy the fruits of my patron goddess? She encourages us to be happy, to enjoy our lives. Hell, even the archangels enjoy a good donut. Anyway, I'm allowed a few vices, and I'm not giving this up. I'm not going to lie around figuring out how to stop smoking, or eat less. I'm going to /enjoy/ my tobacco and my alcohol and my food, and you can fuck right off." A pause. "And I'm going to enjoy taking statements, too. It's part of what I am, now, and I'm done apologizing for following my Purpose."     A deep breath, let out slowly. "So, no. You can fuck off. I'm done here. Leave me alone to find my way out."
Chas Chandler	The Hound stops a few meters from Jon's position and tilts its heads in a very doglike manner. Then it sneezes again. "Took you only one to get it right" it projects forth in the throaty rumble that is its voice. "Baal said that you were a smart one and he is usually a decent judge of character."     It appraoches the Archivist and lowers its muzzle down. "You are right, your time here is unecessary and I would like to resume my duties on those who deserve such punishment rahter than accidentally chase those who are given permission to indulge and enjoy their lives."     One of the great mouths drops down and scoops Jon into it. The interior is surprisingly dry and warm. It keeps its jaws parted, the teeth forming an organic cage to keep the Archivist safe before it sets off in great leaps across the pit of mud. It doesn't take very long before they approach a shear cliff-face. "You will want to hold on to a tooth, Archivist" the great beast sends before it leaps up.     Great claws dig into the cliff face and hold fast. The dog starts to scale the shear face one paw at a time; slowly at first, but gaining speed with each purchase. It doesn't take long for it to make it to the rim where it rests its mouth and opens to allow the Archivst a chance to depart. "Be well, Archivist. I do not know what Mamon will do with you given your lack of understanding his own portfolio, but he is an imaginative one and likely will find some way to entertain himself." Then the dog lets go and falls back to the muddy pit it calls its home in a silent descent.
Jonathan Sims	Jon was /not/ expecting the dog to just... pick him up and carry him. It's kind of a relief, though. He's really pretty tired of walking (and walking, and /walking/.) And regrowing almost his entire body was also /very/ tiring.     But now he's left at the edge of the Second Circle, without his supplies, without any clue of how to get through the Gate of Hell on the other side. Within reach of his goal, and yet feeling terribly, terribly far from it.     He tumbles on out of the Hound's mouth and lies there on the rim of the cliff, blearily trying to make out what awaits him here. He knows there should be great winds buffeting the sinners here, but other than that... not a clue.
Chas Chandler	A soft pair of voices soud from behind Jonathan. "What have we here?" says a higher pitched but clearly male voice. "Did the gluttonous puppy throw up some scraps to our lord in hopes of praise?"     A sultry female voice answers. "Don't be mean," it says. "Can't you see? It's the Archivist come to Lord Mamon's storm front. We should help him." The sound of soft footfalls moves around Jon and a pair of demons materialize out of the air.     They are both quite attractive specimens of their respective genders, not to short or too thin with well proportioned and toned bodies. "Welcome, Archivist" they say in unison as thunder rolls over the Circle. "To the Storm of Lust."