Stairway to Heaven [IC]

by **Rupudska** » Sat Feb 07, 2015 7:32 pm

A cathedral rolled up the tracks through Hell. It was actually a monstrous train, which fit quite nicely with the monstrousness of its surroundings. It was the Virgil Express, the only high-speed train in Hell, the only luxury train in Hell, and the only train that stopped at all nine circles. Its main role was to transport those demons that could afford it throughout the Inferno, as well as to be the luxury transport of Hell's plutocrats and Princes. And when angels descended to Hell for diplomatic reasons, it served as their transport of choice as well.

But it served another, more noble role, in recent years. Once every hundred years, it would take a small cargo of tormented souls and demons who wanted - and had been selected for - a way out of Hell.

This was one such year. And it was looking to be a very special year.

Second Circle
Anton LaVey Terminus
8:45 AM

As per usual, the first stop was in the Second Circle. Nobody lived in the First anymore, besides Lilith. The wind of the Second Circle howled violently around the train's many gothicesque features, even inside the enormous train station that dominated the Second Circle's famous Anton LaVey Terminus. Succubi and incubi milled about, along with every other demon species conceivable from every other circle of Hell, here either for business, vacation, or the excellent shopping - The Second Circle's shopping district was unrivaled in all of Hell, and exceeded only by the shopping districts of Heaven's Primum Mobile.

The Virgil Express stopped on platform 30 which was almost completely surrounded and blocked off by heavily armed and armored guards, as well as crowd control barriers. There was only one entrance to it now, and that was reserved for a certain succubus who had been given the opportunity to escape Hell.

Of course first she'd have to board the train, and time was starting to run out. The train left at 9, and if she didn't get on, she'd be disqualified.

Fourth Circle, Mining District
9:30 AM

Workin' in the coal mine
Goin' on down, down
Workin' in a coal mine
Oops, about to slip down

It was almost cute how often they played that song by Lee Dorsey in Mammon's gold mines.

Almost. It got grating after the first few months, infuriating after the first few years, and a decade in it was just another part of the tortures. Or at least, so thought Anna Sniegowski as she leaned her handheld drill into the seemingly infinite rock of Hell's gold mine. Of course Mammon wouldn't let them use drills mounted on vehicles - that would be faster, safer, and less work for them. Sure, drills were less work than pickaxes, but drills were also noisy. And it's not like the bastard cared about actually mining gold: Gold was so common in both Heaven and Hell that it had no more value than asphalt did on Earth. Hence its use as pavement in many parts of Heaven and Hell.

Five o'clock in the mornin'
I'm already up and gone
Lord, I'm so tired
How long can this go on?

Mammon must have a fetish or something for music from the eighties, Anna thought. Her next thought was interrupted by her drill jamming. Again. Third time that day. Even if she hated having to dig for gold, she was starting to hate the damn drill breaking just as much. An older inhabitant from the 16th Century said that that meant that she was getting used to how things were, and she'd probably be moved to a worse station soon, perhaps in the next few months.

Well fuck that, she thought. I'll just take advantage of the drill breaking. Means I don't have to lean into this godforsaken thi- A tap on her shoulder quickly derailed her train of thought. She was about to smash the drill into the being responsible when-

"P-Persephone!"

"Yeah, yeah, calm your fuckin' jets. I'm not here to whip you like last time, I'm here to tell you somethin'."

Anna paused. There was probably some ulterior motive for this. There usually was with the wife of Mammon. "What's your angle?"

"No angle. Well, no angle of mine. You've been Selected."

"Selected? You serious?" Anna had been in Hell for only over 30 years, but she already knew what that meant - she had been offered a chance to get out! And obviously she was going to take it.

"Yes, I am serious," Persephone said, handing her a silver ticket, indicating all the details of the Grand Test. "Now get down to the station, the train arrives in ten minutes and leaves in thirty."

Anna didn't need to be told twice. In her rush, she let her drill drop to the ground with an angry clatter. She was lucky it didn't land on Persephone's foot.

Fourth Circle
James Fisk Station
9:55

James Fisk Station was the fourth-largest (and busiest) train station in Hell, after the primary stations of the Sixth, Second, and Ninth Circles, in that order. And as per usual, it was incredibly crowded today, full of demons in crisp business suits and other formal wear walking about, pressed tightly together by the sheer number of themselves.

Persephone had given Anna a credit card and an ID card and told her to buy a suit. No reason why was given, she was just told to get a suit, and when Persephone tells you to do something, you do it. So Anna bought herself a suit. So now, here she was, on Platform 28, climbing onto the Virgil Express for only the second time in her existence. About to ride it for what she certainly hoped would be the last time. Did she genuinely expect this would change herself? No. She just wanted out.

"And bigod I'm gonna take this opportunity to get out," she said, climbing onto the first train car whose sole occupant was a succubus.

by **Malshan** » Sat Feb 07, 2015 9:57 pm

Seventh Circle, Central Ring
Time: Inconsequential

Cold. The everlasting chill of the central ring of the seventh circle permeated all matter regardless of its properties. One could light themselves on fire and still feel the biting chill of the howling wind. Often enough, souls did just this; sometimes out of shear frustration at the cold and sometimes to, however temporarily, escape the bite of a hellhound.

At the moment, one such event was transpiring. A damned soul, lost among the wintery trees of the forest, had been hunted by the resident pack of hellhounds. Toyed with for hours on end, the soul had finally broken down and lit itself up on one of the bonfires lit by the few demons inhabiting the ring for a temporary relief from the cold.

Of course, this didn't deter the hellhound pack from camping around the damned soul, waiting for its flames to finally die down. The soul was still screaming, of course; fire wouldn't kill you in this place of unending un-life. Especially not when there were hungry mouths to feed.

The screaming finally ceased as the flames died down. The soul cowered on the ground where it had fallen, curled into a fetal position as the pack of hounds fought with each other over who would take the first bite.

One hound, the biggest of the nine, eventually won the argument and trotted over to the soul, sniffing its seared flesh. It unfurled its forked tongue and tasted the charred soul, savoring the rich flavor of the meat.

So intent on its potential meal, the hellhound failed to notice a tenth hellhound approach it from the rear. This one was different from the others; blindingly white fur and scales as opposed to the grey, black, and browns of the rest of the pack. It was far larger, as well. The beast padded up behind the ninth and growled softly. It then stood up on its hind legs and swung a massive, clawed paw at the offending hound, sending it sailing off into the trees with a yelp of pain.

The massive, stark white hellhound planted its paws on the ground and, turning to face the pack, howled with a monstrous voice of both man and beast together. The rest of the pack cowered, groveling as they submitted to their Alpha.

Lycaon cut off the howl, letting it die away into a snarl and finally a low growl, satisfied that his position as Alpha was still secure. He turned back to the whimpering soul and repeated the ninth's actions, his tongue whipping away at the soul's flesh, scouring it from the bone.

The screaming continued.

A tall demoness strode among the trees of the seventh circle, central ring, with a look of distaste upon her face. Much as she despised leaving the palace, her master had bade her to deliver a message. To a hellhound, no less. The demoness's upper lip curled in revulsion. A HELLHOUND, being SELECTED? The idea was nigh unheard of, especially one as repugnant as the one in question.

The demoness reached the clearing designated as the current position of the hound's pack and was immediately set upon by the pack's scouts whom she contemptuously flicked aside, their bodies slamming into nearby trees. She noticed a much larger one sprinting toward her, its eyes red with a berserker rage. She sighed and simply held her hand up in front of the charging beast, stopping it short with a concussive blast of energy.

Lycaon slid to a halt and shook his head in an attempt to clear it of the smoke which wreathed it. When he looked up, he saw one of Ares's servants holding out a letter, already unsealed, bearing the heavenly seal and his name upon it. Lycaon's eyes narrowed, but he backed off and bowed to the servant, who promptly disappeared, glad to be able to return to the palace barracks.

Lycaon looked up at the 'sky' of the seventh circle, the trace vestiges of a once human mind surfacing and spitting out a few coherent thoughts. Mostly concerned with revenge against the heavenly host, of course.

Lycaon looked back down, noting that the hound he had slung through the forest was walking back into the clearing. He strode over to it and it bowed to him. Lycaon huffed at him and freed the sign of leadership from his spikes and tossed it to the ground at the ninth's paws before striding away, snapping at the tails of the youngest hounds who got in his way. He soon disappeared into the forest, leaving his sons, his pack, behind.

The ninth hellhound looked down in amazement at the sign of leadership on the ground. A fury rose in his chest as he looked in the direction that Lycaon had disappeared. The desire for revenge swelled once more and he howled, the pack that was now his taking up the howl and making the forest reverberate with the sound.

Seventh Circle, Central Hub
Time: Inconsequential

Lycaon strode through the Central Hub of the seventh circle, ignoring the glares of the fashionably dress demons and demonesses as they passed the feral hellhound Alpha. Many of them covered their noses with dainty handkerchiefs as he passed. Lycaon shrugged and ignored them, remembering to lick at the soul blood that still encrusted his mouth in an attempt to clean himself as he approached the station of the Virgil Express.

Climbing onto the platform, Lycaon settled down to wait. Time flowed differently in Hell, so the train could arrive in thirty seconds or it might take seventy years for it to arrive at the station.

At least he'd eaten something before coming.

A few hours later....

The Virgil Express pulled into the station in the Central Hub of the Seventh Circle of Hell with a hiss of steam and a blast of burning air. Lycaon stood and padded his way to the doors, his Ticket impaled on one of the spines on his back. As the doors opened, Lycaon stood on his hind legs, his body shifting as the bones cracked and re-positioned themselves to allow for bipedal movement.

Lycaon shoved his way onto the train, his scaly skin raking the doorframe, leaving large scratch marks where they made contact. Lycaon did not know what would happen as a result, but he found himself unable or unwilling to care. He would solve the problem as he did all others; either eat it or obliterate it when it reared its ugly head.

Lycaon selected a car and stretched out on the floor, taking up nearly the entire length and filling it with his mass of fur, scales, and plumes of hot hellhound breath.

by **Barapam** » Sun Feb 08, 2015 11:28 am

Daniel Hansen
Ninth circle

He sat waiting on the train station with his ticket to freedom tightly clutched in his hand. He froze. For over seventy years had he been buried in a prison of ice, and the lasting cold in his body caused him to shake uncontrollable. Hell had no warm plaids or hot beverages. Not for the likes of him.

He thought back on when he was given the message. Loki's daughter, the goddess Hel, had came to him. Her father was not bound under a poisonous serpant as the sagas had told, he was in fact the ruler here, at least over that departement. It was instead Satan who was bound, in ice, like Daniel himself.

"I bring you news, o fallen warrior", she had said to him.
"News, of what?" he had answered.
"A chance for you to enter Heaven. You have been selected."
"Heaven?"
"Or Valhall, if you like that name better." She had then read the letter out loud for him. Daniel wasn't sure on what to believe, but if it meant an end to his torment in the ice, then sure. Why not?

"Thank you, I guess. There's just one problem. As you might see, I'm stuck."
"Oh, so silly of me. Here you go." She had reached into her pocket and tossed him a lighter and a tiny ice scraper. "Take your time. But don't be too late. The Virgil Express don't wait." And with that, the demon had left.

To dig himself loose had been a new kind of torment, but at least now he had a goal. The joy of being free warmed him, together with rage and a desire to get revenge on the demons that had tortured him, and most other people too. The entire world. But he was still freezing. He had been given his old uniform back, but that was a small comfort.

Daniel woke up from his thoughts and returned to the present. If it could be called that. There was no clock on the wall. Had it been five seconds or five years? He couldn't tell. Hell found a way to mess with you in every little way.

"If only I had a bottle..." he said out loud, to no one at all.

by **Olthar** » Sun Feb 08, 2015 1:31 pm

One might think that Hell is better for the demons. One would be wrong. Hell sucks for everyone, except maybe the princes. One might also think that succubi have a lot of sex all the time. One would again be wrong. Sex is only for those who hate it. Can't have anyone enjoying themselves. So, it might be a look a bit odd for a succubus to be working as a support column for a dilapidated building, but there was nothing unusual about it.

Lexi had been standing there for years, holding up that one piece of roof in a building no one ever used, and she couldn't even slack off or try enjoying herself as there was another demon sitting around who's entire job was to whip her whenever he felt the inclination. Lexi could only console herself with the knowledge that it honestly wasn't as bad as her last several jobs, not that she'd ever admit it. Then they'd still her elsewhere.

It looked like this day was going to be just the same as all the others when another succubus showed up, one who was both exceedingly beautiful and exceedingly cruel: her boss. Lexi's heart sank. Whatever was about to happen was not going to be good, especially since her boss seemed to be in an especially foul mood. She was quite pissed off. Lexi noticed her saying something to the supervisor who then shrugged and began lazily walking off. She then walked over to Lexi.

"You're done here," the succubus angrily stated, "You've been Selected."

She spat out that last word with an incredible venom while holding out a ticket. Lexi's face light up. Her mind was spinning around with thoughts of happiness unlike any she'd ever known. She was so engulfed in her joy, that she almost missed what came next.

"The train leaves in three minutes," the succubus said with a smirk.

"WHAT!?"

Lexi snatched the ticket and tore out of the building, flying as fast as she could and trailing a string of curses behind her. It was just like her boss to pull something like that. She didn't have any time to collect her things or even get a change of clothes. She was going to show up with nothing but torn rags for the most important moment of her life. She could barely contain her rage.

As she approached the station, Lexi saw that the Virgil Express was still there, and felt relief, though she was far too exhausted to sigh. Landing, she panted heavily, trying desperately to catch her breath.

"Can I help you?" the demon on guard asked in an irritated voice, raising an eyebrow.

Unable to respond, Lexi made a few hand waves, still panting heavily.

"Ticket?"

Lexi presented it. The guard took one look before chuckling.

"That train doesn't arrive for another 16 hours."

Lexi looked up, her eye twitching uncontrollably and a rage boiling up inside her. Turning around, she stomped off. As she left, she could hear the guard bursting out in laughter. She was so done with everything. She couldn't wait to leave.

Sixteen hours later, Lexi returned wearing fresh clothes and carrying a suitcase with some personal belongings. Getting on the train, she sat down in a window seat and smiled as the second circle faded into the distance.

by **Nature-Spirits** » Sun Feb 08, 2015 2:57 pm

Seventh Circle, Central Hub

Being a rock was interesting. The experience was fundamentally different from that of an animate being; there was no feeling involved, no physical needs or desires. A rock simply was.

This particular rock was a small, worn pebble, its smooth surface slate grey. It had an uneven shape similar to that of a kidney, and it was no larger than a fingernail. It was no ordinary pebble, of course. Deep inside this dense, inanimate object, there was life. A consciousness. While, being a rock, it certainly did not experience its surroundings in the way that an animate being would, it observed all that was around it, perceived that it was being kicked and tread upon by the demons walking down the street on which it existed, determined each one's state of mind. It had been doing so for an indeterminate length of time -- it could have been minutes, it could have been years -- and it had not noticed a single thing out of place in the city that was held suspended in the centre of the Seventh Circle.

Then, something different happened. The pebble noticed that it had been grazed by a paw. A rather large paw, in fact. The paw of a hellhound.

This was interesting. What could a hellhound be doing in the Central Hub? They hardly ever made appearances in urban centres; their species tended to prefer the wilds of other regions.

The pebble thought of the hellhound's course. Of all the nearby commodities that it could be heading towards, only a few made sense; hellhounds had no need for most of the things found in the city. The train station was nearby and in the same direction in which the hellhound had been walking; that seemed to be the most logical out of all the options. To where would the hellhound be taking a train, though, the pebble wondered. A sense of time would be useful, it supposed. The affairs of animate beings were centred on time.

Not a moment later, a person stood in the pebble's place, stretching their arms above their head and yawning quietly. They blinked somewhat blearily, then looked down at the simple watch strapped to their wrist. "Hm." They dropped their hand back to their side, turning around in a slow circle to take in their surroundings. The hellhound was nowhere to be seen, but that was of little concern; they would find it if necessary.

In the distance, they spotted a large, dark structure with tall spires that seemed to pierce the sky rapidly approaching. The Virgil Express. Could that be the train the hellhound was planning to take, for whatever reason?

And then it all fell into place. Another hundred years had passed, and today was the day.

Abruptly, they spun around on their heel and began strolling lazily through the streets of the Central Hub. A grin split their face, serrated teeth glinting in the light. Oh, this was going to be very interesting. What fun could be had during this event! It always did prove to be an amusing game -- a short period each century in which they could let loose.

After a time, they arrived at the edge of the disk. Leaning over to look down at the Eighth Circle, they took a deep breath. The distance would likely be nauseating to most, but they found the prospect of falling such a long way exhilarating. The weightlessness, the view, the thrill! And besides, as a mode of transportation falling was no slower than the Virgil Express, and more convenient.

They returned to an upright position. "Hm." Then, with confidence and nonchalance, they jumped daintily into the air, spinning around to wave farewell to the city. Then, silently -- like a stone -- they plummeted.

Ninth Circle

Cocytus was cold.

This was something that all demons knew, and to the yuki-onna, it was simply a mundane facet of quotidian life. They did not care that it was cold -- nor even notice, truthfully. At least, those were Annis's thoughts on the matter. Perhaps other yuki-onna saw things differently, but to her it all seemed inconsequential. In fact, here, close to the edge of the circle, it seemed veritably warm.

In the distance, she could see, quite clearly, the train station for which she was headed. Contrary to some people's belief, it did not snow in the Ninth Circle -- it was too cold to snow in most parts. The air was eternally crisp and clear, making for a perfect view across the horizontal plane of ice, so she had been able to see the train station for quite a long time, now. She was on her way to catch the Virgil Express, which would take her to the Judecca sector. At that point, she was to embark upon a journey up through the circles of Hell to the Gates of Tartarus and Heaven. She was not overly excited or nervous, but it would be an interesting experience, to be sure.

Finally, she arrived at the station, sitting down in a chair and staring straight ahead. She had opted not to take anything with her -- she would acquire what was needed, and she had nothing of any sentimental value -- so all she had was the crisp, clean, pinstripe purple suit she was wearing.

"If only I had a bottle..." a nearby soul muttered to himself. Annis had noted his presence some time ago, but apparently he had yet to notice hers. She had no desire to socialise, anyway, so she saw no reason to introduce herself. She would wait for the train in silence, as had been her intention all along.

by **Occupied Deutschland** » Sun Feb 08, 2015 3:27 pm

Eighth Circle

Pain. Excruciating, intermittent, and just extreme enough to prevent her from enjoying it. That was Hell for her. Had been for...some time. She still recalled the day she'd shown up here, though, so it hadn't been that long yet. One day she would perhaps lose track entirely. Her 'punishers' talked about that day with a revelry sometimes. It was a bit refreshing, to meet someone so wholly honest with their own enjoyment of suffering. They seemed a decent sort. Stupid, of course, since they labored on under someone else's orders doing someone's dirty work for them, but they were honest about the enjoyment they got from their work at least. They reminded her of most of the people that had been in the 'Militia of the Americas'.

In a way, the afterlife was both better and worse than Claire had expected it to be. Better, because despite the painful torment that awaited her for eternity it was an existence. It was worse, however, because she had been wrong about it. In fact, that was most of the reason it would be so terrible. She did not like to be wrong. The worst part of eternity would not be the pain visited upon her, but the knowledge that the cruelest of jokes had been played on her. This thing which called itself 'God', through its agents, had banished her here to be dealt ‘justice’ for her sins. As if it could, or even should, decide such justice and enforce it on human beings.

It was clear that this 'God' was nothing more than another authority seeking its own glorification and power by any means it wanted. What 'kind' 'loving' powerful 'God' would condemn people to an eternity of pain because it allowed evil? Like so many 'mere' humans, it sought only its own ends, and made up justifications for them later. The 'God' who had sent her here was nothing more than the governor of Texas on a spiritual level! A moral tyrant who sought to curse humanity with doubt and invented morality, who either wouldn’t or couldn’t enforce its will on the real world. Either way it didn’t deserve such power.

"Misses Trahan." Claire braced herself for the slashing, cutting pain that usually followed any mention of her name. It wasn't so bad, really. Back in the real, human world, she had even slightly enjoyed similar acts. They had been…inspiration. They had cleared her mind. Now, they reminded her she was still alive, in some sense at least, but they lingered just a hair too long to let her think through them.

The expected pain did not come, however.

"You have been Selected. Get to the train." said the disgusting demon creature, carelessly tossing a silver slip beside Claire. It turned to leave as if delivering that cryptic phrase had been its entire job.

"Huh?" Claire couldn't keep from muttering as she crept one hand to the strange item and began to read.

Claire reread the message. Then she reread it again. Her mouth turned upwards for a moment before confusion forced it down again. Then the she-wolf grin returned in full force, all the pain and suffering of her time suddenly and wholly made-up for. She had suffered for precisely this opportunity.

Claire almost reverently stared at the train when it stopped. It had been but a few years before it had been this very train that delivered her to this circle for what had promised to be centuries or millenia of torment. Now, it was her chance at...well, not quite freedom, but it was a tool that could help her towards it. The beginning of things to come.

Claire stepped onto the train.

by **Cylarn** » Sun Feb 08, 2015 5:21 pm

Working the pepper fields of Hell was an uncomfortable sort of ironic fate befit for a man such as Lawrence Prideaux, himself the son of a plantation owner. He was a slave now, toiling endlessly over the pepper plantations of Hell with only a dated hoe as he tilled and worked the field. He often thought back to his past, back when he used to be someone. In life, he was one of the most brutal men of the 19th Century, distinguishing himself in at least 4 different conflicts in 2 different continents. He knew that he was paying for his own nature, undergoing endless hours of work on the fields with unbearable torture comprising his breaks. Truthfully, he knew he deserved it; he had killed both the innocent and the guilty, and it led his own father-in-law and his comrades to conspire against him, sending him down to the 7th Circle of Hell. And so he toiled, because there was nothing more for him.

"Mister Prideaux," a harsh voice characteristic of one of his demonic overseers called out to the working soul.

He stopped tilling the field, before standing up straight, keeping the blade of the hoe planted in the soil. He took a breath of the hot air, and wiped the sweat from his brow as he turned to look at the demon. With every fiber of his being, he despised the demons that served as his overseers. They knew everything there was to know about him, and they made sure to highlight everything during their ritualistic torture of him. Several times, he had tried to fight back, each time ending in failure.

"What?" he said, speaking with the high-class Southern accent that he had retained despite his interactions with souls of all walks of life.

"The angel Gabriel has - for some odd reason - come to the conclusion that you are worthy of fighting for a chance to enter Heaven," the demon hissed. "Not surprising, given his lack of proper judgement. You deserve to toil these fields for eternity."

At the mention of Heaven, his eyes grew big. Having been in Hell for over a century, this was truly the first good news that he had heard. Suddenly, thoughts of the only woman he ever loved began to fill his head. He hadn't seen Susanna since the day that he had been executed by the British. He watched his love weep as the Color Sergeant gave the order to fire, his eyes burning with rage. There was no other woman that he could connect with; Susanna loved him deeply, and he loved her. Empathy was something he lacked, but with his wife, any emotion was possible. He began to realize that hope was now a possibility in his life.

"Come to think of it, it's an effective form of torture," the demon said, noting his slave's reaction as he revealed a ticket. "You'll fail, and you'll be back here for eternity. However, your train is here. You'd better hurry."

Lawrence replaced words with a glare, as he took the ticket from the demon. He dropped the hoe, and made his way off of the plantation, a smile on his face. For the first time in eternity, he stood high and proud as he strode away from the plantation. His rescue was at hand, and he was going to do whatever it took to leave Hell. Before long, he reached the massive trains, and stepped aboard. He passed his ticket to the conductor, and made his way to a seat, which he immediately slumped down into. He couldn't remember the last time that he found rest, but it was a pleasing feeling. Now, he just needed to find somewhere to freshen up at, and change into something other than the khaki ensemble that he had died in.

by **Barapam** » Tue Feb 10, 2015 10:40 am

Daniel sighed and turned his head, bored by the sight in front of him. The waiting seemed endless, and perhaps it was. Maybe this whole thing was just a trick, an illusion, and he was still trapped in the eternal ice.

"Well, regardless of which it is, there's nothing I can do about it", he thought. A woman caught his gaze. He had no idea how long she'd been there, she had been quiet the whole time. Not that he cared. She was a demon, he saw that clearly, and he had no wish to talk to one of those. Instead he looked forward again on the neverchanging landscape before him. The old soldier shivered in the cold, so much that his teeth clattered. Still, this was warm for being the Ninth Circle. The temperature actually reminded him a little of his last winter on the front. Nostalgia was the only luxuary one could get here, so he decided to enjoy it. One memory was especially fond for him. A few days before Christmas, Daniel's unit had came across a little Russian village, and Daniel had found himself a pretty little Russian farmer's daughter. She could hardly have been over fifteen, but she warmed him very much every following night, even if she always cried and tried to resist. It was a shame he had to shoot her when she tried to flee on Christmas Day.

"Come to think of it, she did look a little bit as the demon woman..." Daniel looked at the Yuki-onna again.

by **Videssos** » Tue Feb 10, 2015 5:23 pm

Seventh Circle

As he had been for the past few decades, Alexander had been trapped atop a snowy, high, rocky outcrop near the edges of one of this ring's many forests. Barely able to move, vines that flourished despite the weather, ensured that he was an easy target for those demons that dwelt nearby, with frozen spikes of ice also piercing his wrists and ankles. Whilst most hellhounds could not easily traverse this obstacle that may or may not have been natural, they were not the main threat in this particular instance. Nearby was a nest in which lurked harpies. Accordingly, they lived up to their reputation, never tiring of cruelty, extreme violence and ferocity. When first exposed to those creatures, Alexander had been expecting that, to some extent. Whilst not anticipating this to be his specific fate after dying, he was whilst alive, quite knowledgeable when it came to mythology and the occult, and knew a fair degree about various creatures of myth and legend. This particular ring of hell brought back memories of time spent in the eastern front, and of the successes and failures wrought in Russia, for the former Nazi.

An icy wind had swept past him, the chill biting into him, though not as much as the claws and teeth of the ἅρπυια, or harpyia as they were known in Greek. His tattered and shredded uniform, the remnants of what an SS-Brigadeführer would have once worn, did little to nullify the effects, and the thin layer of snow that rested upon him only compounded it. Though the marks of talons in his flesh inevitably healed after a short while, their infliction remained as painful as ever. Alexander's silver gaze, which had itself been taken from time to time, by the savage appetites of the nearby harpies, moved up slowly as an unexpected disturbance made itself felt. The wind blew again, this time more fiercely, and soon a figure came into view from behind a flowing veil of snow.

His empty gaze widened for a moment, as he took into his awareness, the presence of one of Berith's servants. Namely, his older sister, Freya von Schwarzthal. Part of him, thinking back, wondered why she had become a demon, whilst he had been brought to hell as little more than a damned soul, condemned as nothing more than to be a plaything to those demons that encountered him. Perhaps he had been denied thus, in some way to spite him. It yet remained a mystery. Refocusing his attention, Alexander's analytical mind had already begun attempting to decipher the inherent meanings in Freya's being there. That was to say, the remnant that hadn't instantly surrendered to despair. Perhaps instinctively, he seemed to begin paying an undue amount of attention to a nearby rock, hoping that

The demoness' lone, crimson eye narrowed on Alexander's immobilised form, and she smiled faintly. Garbed in similar clothing, she was of course wearing it in far better condition. Snow and ice crunching beneath the golden haired demon's boots, she drew to a halt before him, speaking, then, in a voice both darkly amused and coldly precise. "My my, it seems the local flora and fauna have made themselves felt since last I visited..."
"However, dear brother, I shall be... to the point." Freya raised one gloved hand, and snapped her fingers. A wave of flickering grey energy cascaded over Alexander, the vines that bound him disintegrating and falling to ash, the ice and snow steaming and becoming nought but vapour. That same hand darted down again, the fingers tightening around the SS general's throat, lifting him up even as he choked under the iron, vice-like hold.

Abruptly, Freya let go. Alexander fell, and as he lay gasping for breath, the demoness would speak once more, her smile becoming a grin that revealed fangs no human would have sported. "It seems you have been bestowed what some would consider a ...fortunate occasion," Freya conjured a ticket, as if from thin air. Its silvery sheen matched the colour of Alexander's eyes, and with the wind mysteriously absent, it floated down to rest within the grasp of his right hand. "Of course, a worthless wretch of a sibling like you, would no doubt come back in abyssal failure, right? Your Selection is doubtless a waste of time, and likely only a means to ensure that others get to have more entertainment from your ...suffering, if that's the right word..." She paused momentarily, seemingly thoughtful, before adding, mockingly, "I'll see you soon, brother."

A swirling field of semi-transparent energy formed around her, the wind following suit, as she flickered and disappeared into thin air. Her last words echoed around him as she teleported back to headquarters. "Hurry along, and you may even get to the train on time..."

Alexander rose to his feet, rapidly growing more able to move, and less shaky, now that he was free of his confinement. Quickly glancing at the ticket, he placed it in a pocket as he pondered its contents and their meanings with a voracious curiosity. glancing down at the state of his clothes, he sighed faintly, before focusing his attention on to some of the minor alchemy that he could perform at that particular moment in time. His uniform glowed slightly, as the fibres and fabrics reknit themselves, replicating the surviving materials until his clothes were in a much better condition than they had been but moments earlier. Now, he looked at least a little more presentable. His skill in alchemy had certainly come in useful, and it was not for nothing that he was partially named after the famed renaissance occultist, writer, theologian, astrologer, physician, soldier and alchemist, Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim.

At some undetermined point later, Alexander had managed to make his way to the Central Hub of the Seventh Circle. It was not surprising that his uniform would make him stand out to some degree, especially when he was a soul in a Circle where demons were apt to wear such a garb. Though of course that was not to say that there were not other condemned souls once belonging to the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei also in the Circle of Violence. It was merely that all who wore such clothing in the Central Hub were the resident demons, be they police, officials, or whatever else. Nonetheless, there was, unsurprisingly, a certain degree of interest in the presence of an actual Nazi, walking through its streets, towards the train station. Berith's interest in Nazis and Fascism was no doubt shared by much of the populace, and whilst many demons were inherently disdainful towards damned souls, there was also an inherent curiosity.

Thus observed, with some watchers being a bit creepier than others, Alexander made his way to await the Virgil Express. He noticed a hellhound not far away on the platform, and it seemed that as the train made its appearance, and he stepped aboard, that the beast would likewise be present on the vehicle. There were others too, who had gotten on, and doubtless more to come. Alexander himself silently took a seat, his movement alert and precise, yet at the same time casual. His mind ever working, the former general's silver gaze flicked to some of the other residents of the train. Thinking of the hellhound, Alexander recalled some of the names people had once had for him, Krieghund, was one, whilst another was the Mournful Wolf, perhaps on account of his unusual personality. Of course, psychologically analysing oneself was something that had clear limits, especially with how it was essentially impossible to do so objectively. Thus, further investigation, and thus understanding of Alexander's own mind, awareness and personality, was innately flawed.

by **Reverend Norv** » Thu Feb 12, 2015 12:05 pm

Mason Kane had been running for years.

He hadn't been on the run for years. He hadn't been a fugitive for years. Mason had been trained to deal with those possibilities, those eventualities. No. Mason had been actually, physically, running for years. His legs had been burning, his arms pumping, his lungs sucking desperately at the icy air, every moment for more than a thousand straight days.

He had been running for years.

At first, he had run because he was afraid. He had opened his eyes to the leaden sky and felt the icy snow on his back, and rolled out of the way just in time to avoid the gnarled roots that lashed up out of the ground, seeking to ensnare and bind and suffocate him. And somewhere in his frozen soul, Mason had felt fear, and the calm imperative rose out of the great still depths of his spirit: run.

Then, later, Mason had run because he had his pride. When the roots ceased snapping at his heels, somewhere amidst the vast factories and the choking clouds of smoke, Mason had heard a chilling howling in the distance. And he saw them - monsters of fur and scales, some the size of small cars, their eyes aglow. Mason Kane had spent his life as a hunter of men; he knew when he was being hunted. He could feel the hounds of hell trying to herd him, to flank him, to back him into a corner from which there could be no escape.

But Mason Kane was no man's prey, and no hound's neither. And so he ran, cutting through the factories, using the catwalks that were too frail to bear a hellhound's weight. Sometimes he ran backwards to confuse his trackers, or ran knee-deep in frozen water, his gritted teeth chattering. The vague light of day behind the leaden sky waxed and waned, and on Mason ran, gasping for air, blocking out the agony of an exhaustion more painful than any wound, bargaining with himself for one more step. Because he had his pride, and he refused to be outrun by a pack of overgrown dachshunds.

Then, as the months and years rolled by, Mason had run out of stubbornness. He had run because he did not know how to give in. He had run because he knew that if he ever stopped running, he would never be able to start again. He had run because he did not want to fail himself. He had run because it was something to do, because the burn of his legs and the rattling heave of his lungs filled the void within his soul. He had run because it gave him something to care about, and that was the only thing he had left, the only thing that stood between him and the utter empty stillness in which Mason could lose all that was left of himself.

But in the end, Mason had run for one reason and one reason only. When the years rolled on and Mason could no longer remember the sound of human voices or the warmth of the sun or the peacefulness of sleep or the ease of a moment free of pain or even how long he had been in Hell, Mason ran on because it was the one thing, the only thing, that he still remembered. When he had almost forgotten his own name, Mason Asim Kane ran on, because that was who he was, what he did, all he had left of himself: he was the runner.

It was nothing. It was enough.

At the end of an eternity and four long years, Mason Kane stopped running at last, because there was suddenly a man - no, not a man - in front of him dressed in a long dark coat and a military helmet, his face hidden behind a gas mask, and he was pointing a rifle at Mason. And so Mason felt his legs stop, unbidden, and the sensation was so strange that for a moment Mason looked down to make sure that his legs were still there. He knew, in that moment, that he should weep: that he should fall to his knees, drink in the air, sob his relief into the snow. He knew that he should feel that overwhelming tidal wave of gratitude for this one moment of unexpected and unexplained rest.

But Mason didn't do any of that. He didn't even want to. Instead, he stood very still for a long moment, his flat grey eyes considering, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps, feeling the great empty calm rise up within himself. And then Mason took a step forward, and grabbed the barrel of the stranger's rifle, and jammed the muzzle against his forehead. Mason felt the steel circle, cold and hard, pressed between his eyes.

"Do it," Mason said, and his long-unused voice was a rusty croak. "Do it now."

The Spartoi just cackled, a wet gurgle behind the mask. "Oh, no," it growled. "You've been Selected."

Mason just stared, still as a statue, the rifle barrel still pressed into his forehead.

"Selected," the Spartoi repeated. "You have a chance at Heaven, Mason Asim Kane. If you can survive fighting your way through the whole rest of Hell, that is."

Mason bared his teeth. "Do it."

The demon tore his rifle barrel out of Mason's hand and stepped away. "And what do you think would happen if I did?" it demanded. "You will never have rest, Mason. Death is only ever the beginning." The creature threw a scrap of paper at Mason's feet, and the man bent to pick it up. It was a train ticket. Mason stared at it blankly for a long moment.

"You have a train to catch," hissed the Spartoi, and turned away.

Mason raised his head. Through the clouds of smoke and soot, Mason could just barely see a vast city floating far away in the iron-colored sky. A train, he thought. Heaven.

There was no hope within Mason's bosom, no elation. A gust of snow blew into his face, and he did not blink, and felt the icy touch of a snowflake upon the surface of his eyeball, and he wondered for a moment whether he was truly alive at all.

And then the hellhounds howled in the distance, and Mason set his face toward the city in the clouds, and began to run once more.

* * *

So it was, then, that a swarthy man of average height and build, dressed in rags, found himself struggling through the fashionable streets of the Seventh Circle's central hub, until he came at last to the train station. There were others there; Mason saw a tall man in khaki making his way onto the train, and another man in what looked like Nazi uniform, and nearby an enormous alpha hellhound. Mason looked at the beast, and he smiled for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. They never did catch me, he realized, and the old pride of a job well done swelled in his heart once again, and Mason began to remember who he once had been.

His stride a little longer and a little more confident, Mason followed the two men onto the train. He settled down in an empty seat not far from the khaki-clad stranger: near enough to be able to speak to him, far enough not to be caught by surprise if the other man made any sudden moves. Mason offered a single, brief nod of acknowledgement, and then sat down for the first time in four years.

Slowly, slowly, a smile crept across Mason Kane's face, and he chuckled softly deep in his throat. A taste of Heaven right here in Hell, Mason thought, and the raw unanalyzed physical pleasure of rest for his swollen feet made his existence seem, at least for one brief moment, more livable by far.

by **Nekronia** » Thu Feb 12, 2015 4:02 pm

Eighth Circle; Ninth Bolgia

Punishment is one of the most basic and well-known methods to correct behavior, having been practiced in some form since before the dawn of man. However, it is less effective if the target is whole-heartedly convinced that they've done nothing wrong and just view the punishers as being a bunch of pawns with superpowers that they were undeservingly born with. Audience, meet Jackie. Jackie, meet an empty area that doesn't have a camera that you're pretending it does. In a rather accurate example of (as he would put it) how few fucks Jackie gave, he was sunbathing in Hell. Well, not quite sunbathing. To be more precise, he was laying on the rugged floor with dozens upon dozens of edges stabbing through him while PRETENDING to sunbathe. He even has a tarp of some damned's skin as a pretend UV reflector. Hey, they left it laying around, may as well use it for something! He even had ~~sunglasses~~ broken aviator shades on. Meanwhile, nearby, his 'loot' was hanging off of a pole fashioned from bones fixed together, with his ~~jackiet~~ jacket hanging off of it like a hobo stack. The pole was wedged in the rocky terrainn to stay up, in case you were wondering. Anyways, his ~~organ puncturing~~ sunbathing was interrupted by a loud thud and a demonic voice announcing to him. However, he didn't particularly care. He figured he was either going to get robbed, mutilated, or approached, may as well give a pride hit by disregarding the presence of the demon. Or demoness. Jackie wasn't even opening his eyes to check.

"John, you have been Selected t-"

"I'm busy not doing anything, piss off."

"...to have a chance to enter Heaven."

The teen sighed, and slowly slid his scrawny legs up and off the spiked floor with a disgusting unsheathing noise. Once he had his legs in the air, he forcefully slammed his legs down to get momentum and get his upper body upright. He spit out blood from the organ puncturing, and lazily stared the demon in the eye. After no further elaboration, the letter and ticket were handed down to him and he quietly read them. He cheered up at this. He didn't particularly care about this Heaven-and-Hell deal. In fact, some rings of Hell would be rather close to his personal heaven. It was TRYING to go to heaven that was appealing to him. Not the fact he could try to kick powerful and revered saints in an inappropriate place, it was the journey that mattered. Public enemy #1 was uncharacteristically quiet, and quietly grabbed the bone staff and used it to push himself up and eventually off of his feet, dripping blood and organ fluid onto the floor as the wounds sealed up. The demon began to leave with its boots making loud thuds as it walked, however this wouldn't mean goodbye. Jackie grabbing his jacket and opening the improvised sack up so he could wear his jacket again took THAT role. A bloody previous limb of Jackie's fell onto the rocky floor out of the jacket, alongside a half-dozen blaspheming mantises flying away to freedom. One of the mantises seemed to become bored with freedom quickly, and dived down to harass the demonic messenger. The annoying trickster shook out his coat and snickered at the unholy minion's plight as he set off to meet destiny, one foot-mutilation at a time.

...

Some time later, the now-fully-healed Jackie arrived at the train station with still-scarred feet, then took his boots and socks out of his coat's storage pocket. He slide them on, and savored the feeling of his favorite footwear reuniting with him. Funnily enough, having a hot, dry atmosphere perpetually was actually rather convenient for getting all of the blood and juice to dry up and crack off of the body. He checked the ticket, and realized he missed it! Oh, wait. No. I read the time order wrong. I'm slightly early. Eh. Hard to tell anymore, what with time flowing nonlinearly here. Well, technically time ALWAYS flows nonlinearly, and is more like an endlessly fractal web than the straight line we perceive it as. A few centuries ago, a German peasant actually came up with the hyp-...I'm getting tired of monologuing. Everyone just bitches about the killing floor (TEE-EM) or bitches for me to get on it for mutilation. I mean really, it gets fucking boring and no one holds a conversation. The only punishment I'm getting here is being referred to as John and being bored to death. Who am I even monologuing at anymore. ...I just remembered that I left my walking stick out there GOD DAMN IT.

The perpetually irritating teenager gave out an irritated sigh as he slid onto a bench to lay on his gut and wait for the train. Oh, nevermind, it arrived when he laid down. UGHHH. I JUST SAT DOWN GOD DAMN IT I DON'T NEED YOUR SHIT TODAY, MAGIC TRAIN. He rolled off the bench, and shuffled onto the train then onto a seat by himself. He glanced over at all of his comrades, and didn't bother opening his mouth to speak with them. He put calmly placed his busted aviator shades into his coat pocket before following up with going over his future teammates lightheartedly. So, we have an eighteen-hundreds guy, a noble chick, some sort of reporter chick, Hello Nurse, a Nazi guy, a furry, a succubus, some other people, and the set-up to a bad joke.

by **Rupudska** » Fri Feb 13, 2015 5:11 pm

Ninth Circle
Judecca District

And so, the train rolled to a stop at Judecca Terminal with all its passengers on board. Unlike any of the other stations in Hell, Judecca Terminal was far from ornate: In fact, it only consisted of a single platform and a dull grey sign displaying its name in six hundred and sixty six languages. Just past it was a large warehouse roughly one hundred acres in size.

"All right, we're here," said Virgil. "Judecca Terminal, deepest point on Hell's rail network, and the coldest at -70 degrees Celsius. Hope you like your jackets!" Indeed, next to each of the PCs were arctic weather gear befitting of the era they died in, folded neatly in a pile. Anna wasted no time in putting hers on, though with it on top of her suit, it felt uncomfortably warm.

"See that warehouse over there? That's where you'll get your equipment. It's heated, but just enough to keep it above freezing. May as well keep your cold weather gear on in there, you'll need it until at the very least Antenora. And don't worry about damaging them, they'll... probably stand up to whatever punishments Cocytus can throw at them." Virgil didn't sound very convincing.

"Now get off of my train!"

Each and every door and window on the car the PCs were on opened with a loud, dry creak. This rendered the heating systems of the train pointless within precisely ten seconds.

"I suggest you get to the warehouse as fast as you can, folks! And don't worry, it's a lot closer than it looks!"

by **Nekronia** » Sun Feb 15, 2015 2:42 am

Ninth Circle; Judecca District; End a' the Line

After a while of being bored to death, trying to remember and mentally recite quotations, mentally going 'would bang, would bang, would not bang, would bang' over the various human and nonhuman occupants, and generally mentally keeping himself busy as best as he could, Jackie was relieved to have the train actually arrive. The presence of a coat to help him survive was... surprisingly unwelcome to the brat. If this is supposed to be the impossible odyssey through Hell itself, why are we getting nannied? Uuugggh. Really hoping this gets harder soon because this is boring as hell. ...Was this another set-up to a bad pun? God damn it, seriously having too many of these moments lately. I wonder wh- Oh, wait, lethal cold setting in. Right. John calmly zipped the coat on, which wasn't much different than his usual coat. It was SLIGHTLY puffier (housing the insulation, of course), had a fur trim and a zipper, and finally the black color wasn't as flat or painterly. The frivolous punk rolled his eyes at the survival necessity provided, and hastily stood up in his not-so-different outfit. He zipped up, ran at the open exit, and grabbed the top of the frame to do an overdramatic swing and landing on the railway platform. Jackie dramatically stood up from his crouched landing and stared out at the frozen expanse ahead of him, hissing a quiet "Wryyyy~" as he watched the puff of frozen breath escape his lips.

The pseudo-seriousness was simply not meant to last. Jackie 'git gud you filthy casuals' Friedman waved for everyone to follow him with a loud-and-entirely-dismissive "Hurry up scrubs, we have ditches to fill and towns to paint red!" before taking point and leading the way to the warehouse as though it wasn't fatally cold and the explicit statement of hordes of ultra-powerful demons standing in the way of anything resembling progress to Heaven had never happened. His stroll towards the warehouse gave off a distinct vibe as though his rude statement were personified. Hope I'm not being backed up by a bunch of yellow-bellied leeches. Or maybe I do. Let's see what drops we get from the candy shop before I set match size preferences. Hope I get something gimmicky as hell, that'd be- GOD DAMN IT THERE I GO AGAIN WITH THE ACCIDENTAL PUN FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME. THIS MIGHT BE FUNNY IF I HADN'T DONE THIS STUPID SHIT A MILLION TIMES ALREADY. Ugh. But yeah, that'd be fun. Just, get a magical umbrella, 'HWAWK HWAWK HWAWK', fly off to safety and clean my clothes off. Oh, oh! I know! Or a magic bag of infinite lil knives! KIAI! Hm, maybe flame-throwing gloves? HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SANCER! Or how about...

Clearly he intends to defeat the legions of Hell with his sheer gall and frivolity.

by **Cylarn** » Sun Feb 15, 2015 8:05 am

During the train ride, he looked out of the windows at the changing - but ultimately unchanging - landscape of Hell. He almost failed to notice the other gentleman who had entered the cabin, sitting across from him. He looked up towards the man, examining him as Kane gave a nod. Lawrence proceeded by giving an acknowledging nod. From the knowledge gained during his interaction from other damned souls, he could tell by the man's clothes that he was from the period far later in the future. The man's complexion was a mystery, though. His time in the South had given him the ability to recognize mulattoes and "half-breeds," which were not held in high regard by the white populace. For some reason, Lawrence had a feeling that this man wasn't a full-blooded Anglo-Saxon, judging by the tint in his skill.

Before Lawrence could confront the man, the train stopped, and a fellow began to address the souls and demons that comprised the train's population. At the mention of jackets, he looked down towards the overcoat, ushanka, gloves, and scarf sitting next to him, and he immediately clad himself in the clothing. His khaki uniform, tattered and weathered since the day he had died, would do nothing against the extreme cold. He wrapped the scarf around his nose and mouth, shielding them from the cold before his donned his insulated gloves. He listened to this "Virgil" some more, up until he ordered them to the warehouse.

So, it's "this" kind of challenge...

The soldier wasted no time in exiting the train, stepping out into the extreme cold. His clothing prevented severe discomfort, but the blistering cold of the blowing wind penetrated the insulated clothing as Lawrence pushed on towards the warehouse. Upon making it to the doors of the warehouse, he immediately threw them open and made it into the building, moving away from the cold coming from the open door. He looked around at his surroundings for a moment, before pulling down his scarf and turning towards the open door.

by **Barapam** » Sun Feb 15, 2015 1:56 pm

Daniel suddenly found himself on the train. He had no memory of getting on, so he must have been teleported on board. Nothing weird about that here though, it was probably the least dark sorcery going on. He studied the other passengers. Men and women of different races, including demons. One of the men in the wagon had obviously served the Reich just like him, and Daniel gave him a nod.

From the speakers Virgil's voice was then heard. So that's what was going to happen. A pile of clothes suiting for winter warfare were now beside him. A white overall, good for hiding in snowy terrain. Exactly the right size, and exactly the same model he had used in the war against the bolscheviks. As good as new. He put it and the rest of the gear on and went out of the train towards the warehouse.

It was not a long walk, and not tormenting in any way. For being Hell, the whole situation actually felt quite good. Daniel walked in and looked around. Any good weapons here?

Of course. The Norwegian smiled and picked up a Luger, an MP40, an SS dagger and some handgrenades. Now he just needed a sniper rifle, or something similar, a regular rifle could do. A Soviet Mosin Nagant hung on the wall. Say what you want about the red subhumans, but they could sure make decent firearms. Dan took it down and examined it. He could have sworn he had seen this exact rifle before. Had he even used it? Had it been given back to him? Could it by chance be the cursed weapon that killed him?

No answers, but it didn't matter. The rifle was well suited for its purpose. He put it over his shoulders and started to fill his pockets with extra ammunition.

by **Occupied Deutschland** » Sun Feb 15, 2015 2:12 pm

Nekronia wrote:...
The pseudo-seriousness was simply not meant to last. Jackie 'git gud you filthy casuals' Friedman waved for everyone to follow him with a loud-and-entirely-dismissive "Hurry up scrubs, we have ditches to fill and towns to paint red!" before taking point and leading the way to the warehouse as though it wasn't fatally cold and the explicit statement of hordes of ultra-powerful demons standing in the way of anything resembling progress to Heaven had never happened...

Claire raised an eyebrow at the young boy's words as she finished pulling her gloves on. The dude was obviously 21st century, which the jacket had been indicative of enough. He had also boarded the train at the same level of Hell as she had. Which was...something. A useful note, if nothing else.

"Can you believe the kids these days? So easily excited and overeager." She said to no one in particular, stomping her boots against the wall of the train to be sure they were on with a spiteful glance towards Virgil. The action evoked a surge of intense pain from her still tender feet, still suffering from memories of the spiked and rocky ground of the ninth bolgia of Fraud. Claire savored it. This was a pain she was in control of, and damned if that choice didn't feel good after so many years of having it dictated to her by somebody else. Somebody had made a terrible mistake in allowing her that simple matter of choice again. Because she was going to use it all the way to Heaven, and then use it some more.

Claire dallied in the train, eying the others that were with her quite obviously while pretending to fiddle with the various straps and zippers of her gear. The demons were a point of interest purely for the novelty, as well as what it told her about this 'opportunity' to get into Heaven she'd been given. She wasn't sure what, but Heaven letting demons even try to get in seemed...odd. Like Texas giving her the chance for parole back in the human world. Something was off.

Then there were the nazis, one of whom had just walked out. Of course there had to be fucking nazis. At least they looked like the real-deal. That way they were more likely to be right proper German-speaking, Holocaust-admitting, agents of evil instead of the pansy-ass Aryan Nations bastards back from her own time who hadn't had the balls to own up to the evil they wanted. Fuck if you wanted to be evil just admit it, don't propagandize the bullshit into 'good'. Damned holocaust-denying pussies. But these were probably the real-deal. She could live with the real deal. She'd have to. It seemed they were supposed to be in this together.

Claire finally exited the train, having spent a good deal of time quite obviously done dressing and examining the other passengers. She didn't want to be the last one out, though. That would be...conspicuous.

"Virgil, your train stinks of hobo-piss." Claire said over her shoulder as she exited the train. She thought it was funny.

The wind immediately hit her and carried away what little heat there had been left inside her coat. It reminded her of the Reservation in winter. It was cold, windy, and altogether miserable. It was also something she wasn't used to at all. Claire crossed her arms over her chest as she made her way towards the warehouse. She'd gotten used to the miserably warm conditions of her 'home' in hell, and the sudden change was not appreciated. This cold though, this feeling, it wasn't actually miserable. It was just...painful.

Claire grinned slightly into the upturned collar of her coat as she opened the door of the warehouse and entered.

Cylarn wrote:...He looked around at his surroundings for a moment, before pulling down his scarf and turning towards the open door.

Wiping the smile from her face, Claire shut the door behind her after making a very deliberate and exaggerated look for anyone immediately behind her to hold the door open for. Stomping slightly, she nodded at the man watching the door as her eyes bounced over towards the nazi for a split-second. She'd thought the man's clothing looked like it was out of a history book, but she couldn't peg any date closer than 'late 18th-century to mid-20th'. His seeming lack of concern with the nazi might narrow that down a little, though not by much. Hadn't the Brits used the whole khaki uniform ensemble he'd had on the train? She supposed there was an easy way to find out.

"It's goddamned cold out there ain't it?" Claire asked, rubbing her hands together and only afterwards realizing that 'goddamned' was precisely what the cold was. Claire winced mentally at the terrible joke.

by **Reverend Norv** » Sun Feb 15, 2015 4:14 pm

Methodically, Mason donned the arctic clothing with which he was issued. He was slightly amused to discover that it included a hodgepodge of different items that he might have used at different points during his life. There were the trousers, boots, and gloves from a US Army Extended Cold Weather uniform, a parka and watch cap from a civilian manufacturer of hunting gear, and a heavy fleece-lined kaftan from Afghanistan. One garment at a time, Mason swathed himself in the clothes, and then paused, sucking in a deep breath of the cold air let in by the open windows of the train.

I feel warm. After years of running through the snow, the realization was almost unbelievable. And though Mason felt no ecstatic joy at the realization, a kind of glowing satisfaction settled somewhere deep into his gut. I had forgotten how nice it is to feel warm.

Some of his fellow passengers had already decamped from the train. There was the man in the khaki uniform, who leaped off the train without a word. There was one of the Nazis, who moved comfortably off through the snow. He must have fought on the Eastern Front, Mason thought, and then marveled at the idea that the young man in front of him could have participated in Operation Barbarossa. Time clearly doesn't mean what I thought it did. Mason was aware, too, of the fact that he should feel some sense of outrage at the presence of the Nazis, some sense of righteous hate. But he didn't, any more than he felt guilt at all the lives that he himself had taken. We're all damned together, after all, the sniper thought. Even if I were able to feel that kind of anger, what right would I have to judge them men?

Then there were two other, more vocal members of the group - a woman and a teenage boy - whose diction identified them as coming from roughly the same period of history as Mason himself. The boy was hollering enthusiastic inanities at the top of his lungs as he stumbled off through the snow, and Mason wondered for a moment whether he had any desire to save the kid when the shooting started. I should, a part of him confirmed. But not if it puts me at too great a risk.

And that's why I'm in Hell, Mason realized wryly.

The woman, for her part, made a few dry social observations, insulted Virgil, and then approached the man in the khaki uniform, who had swathed himself in cold-weather gear that looked like it belonged to the last part of the nineteenth century. There was something about that woman that seemed familiar to Mason: an unhinged and complete liberation that the sniper had seen in the eyes of some of his SOG colleagues right before they had left the reservation altogether. It was powerful, that unshackled madness, but it was also dangerous - and dangerous for Mason himself just as much as it was for the woman. I should keep my distance from that one, Mason decided.

His observations complete, the American clambered out of the train. His boots sunk into the snow, but his feet remained dry; the howling wind scoured his face, but his head was warm under his watch cap. It seemed like a minor miracle, and though Mason Kane's body was still wracked by a thousand aches and pains, he felt better than he had in what seemed like an eternity.

With a low chuckle and a determined nod, the sniper strode off determinedly through the snow, using the easy sloshing gait he had learned in the snowy passes of the Hindu Kush, toward the warehouse and its contents.

by **Olthar** » Sun Feb 15, 2015 5:03 pm

As the train proceeded through Hell, Lexi chose to watch the passing terrain. She'd never been to any other circle and was curious what they all looked like. That curiosity quickly dried up, however, as she quickly found that everywhere in Hell was dull. Still, it was slightly more entertaining than watching the other passengers. She found no interest in those humans. No matter how low Lexi had been in the demon hierarchy, she was always higher than a pathetic human. Kicking them around was a rare joy. Lexi was beginning to fear that she might be the only demon on this trip, then a hellhound boarded. The succubus stared in disbelief for several moments. Filthy beast, she would have preferred the humans. Right at the end, another demon came onto the train, this time a Yuki-onna. Lexi smiled. At least there was some good company.

When the train pulled into its final stop, Lexi reached for the pile of clothes next to her. Upon feeling little bulk, she looked down and saw only a woolen thong and bra. Gripping them in a clenched fist, she turned to face Virgil.

"Is this some kind of sick joke, you pervert?" she shouted before throwing the undergarments at him.

Lexi then swiped the gear from next to the yuki-onna. An ice demon wouldn't need it, anyways. She put on the coat, boots, gloves, and hat and found them to fit her perfectly. They weren't even the right size for the other demon, and that just made her angrier.

As the doors opened, a cold wind blasted her. It was an unfamiliar sensation. She didn't like it. She couldn't understand how some demons lived in this. Choosing to limit her time outside, the succubus decided to fly. Trying to spread her wings, she quickly realized she couldn't; they were under the jacket. Spewing out a string of incomprehensible curses, she began walking. Damned cold weather. Damned restrictive clothing. Damned snow making it hard to walk. Lexi couldn't wait to be out pf this place.

by **Videssos** » Sun Feb 15, 2015 6:49 pm

With the train's stop reached, Alexander acknowledged the announcement made by Virgil. Accordingly, he rapidly garbed himself with the winter accoutrements made available. Over the SS general's uniform he already wore, he donned a thick black leather greatcoat, lined with fur, a scarf similarly composed of the fur of some unknown animal, as well as padded leather gloves that afforded a mix of cold protection and dexterity. The boots and cap he wore were already sufficient, and little else was needed safe for the weaponry he would likely find soon, presumably at the warehouse outside, if Virgil's words were anything to go by. The clothing he had obtained was also clearly of rather high quality, being clothing he had indeed worn at certain points during the war. Accordingly, with both the wealth he and the family von Schwarzthal benefited from, and friends in high places, the equipment and clothing he had generally worn and used were certainly better than average.

Earlier having scanned and assessed the others, be they demon, human, or subhuman, Alexander had decided that those in whose company he dwelt, would certainly prove interesting in the time to come. Some, such as the boastful, irritating, easily distracted, dark-haired youngster who had first propelled himself out of the vehicle in an act of reckless childishness, were no doubt going to be a pain, as was the unusual American woman. Though she seemed somewhat more intriguing, evidently possessing as she did vibes that indicated a chaotic, bloodthirsty mentality, as well as a sense of humour. There were others, still, such as another American, a man who seemed to originate from the America of a few decades before the German's own birth, as well as another who seemed to be a military man of mixed ethnicity. Not to mention a couple of women who were evidently demons, one a succubus, and the other a Yuki-onna, or snow-woman of Japanese folklore. A number seemed to have formed various opinions of himself after spotting Alexander in his distinctive clothing.

The curious woman earlier, for instance, seemed be fully aware of his nature, yet she didn't seem to care too much, whilst it seemed another, a Norwegian, was a positive factor in the scheme of things. Alexander nodded back to the fellow Germanic, aware that such a potential ally would prove useful in the tests to come. Though Alexander hadn't met the man before, it was clear that he had also fought in the Ostfront, whilst the areas in which the SS-Brigadeführer had been present himself, varied considerably, and he had also played a role in other parts of the SS. Among others, the succubus seemed to possess an air of disdain and contempt, perhaps viewing most of the train's other occupants as trash compared to herself- an easy estimation, considering how many demons seemed to enjoy torturing human souls. That was certainly worth noting. Refocusing his attention, Alexander stepped out of the train. As he moved, the atmosphere around Alexander was somewhat unusual. There was an odd nonchalance merged with a feral wariness, an element of bloodthirsty eagerness combined with melancholy, a mysterious, unreadable segment, and a million other parts far too difficult to identify with ease. Similarly present was a darkness that came with being the perpetrator of the slaughter of untold numbers of people. Alexander himself had long lost count, though he theorised that it was probably in the hundreds of thousands, if not more, be it directly or indirectly. Perhaps millions.

The cold took full force as he stepped outside, but the German occultist was more than used to it by now. As long he wasn't stuck in solid ice, Alexander felt that he would be able to withstand the chilly climate. Both experience in the war, and experience in the Circle he'd resided in, had helped him develop a certain tolerance to the cold. The particular part of the Circle he was in, for instance, was nearly as cold as the Ninth, and he had ended up dealing with that as best he could, for as long as he'd been in Hell. His silver gaze locked onto the warehouse ahead, and Alexander began the voyage through the snow, the gale ineffectually attacking him as he advanced. Ploughing on further, Alexander reached the building, and made his way in after those who had already done so. Within, he found for himself an StG 44, three stick grenades, two of them with a Splitterring fragmentation sleeve, an SS-Ehrendegen- an officer's sword, or sabre, ornately decorated with gold and silver, and covered in runes, Germanic iconography, and an eagle bearing a swastika on the hilt, accompanied by a jewel-encrusted SS-dagger. There was, too, a pistol in the form of Walther P38.

Thus supplied, Alexander also ensured that he had as much ammunition as feasible. Among other things, he curiously noted how the weapons he had come upon were perhaps too similar to particular ones he had possessed in life. Especially the unnecessarily ornate melee weapons. The sword and the dagger bore an odd air to them, as if they were charged with a malevolent energy. Surveying his surroundings once more, Alexander noticed one more thing, a large vial containing a silvery metallic liquid easily distinguishable as mercury. The vial itself was bedecked in occult symbols, of magic and alchemy, and it was something that Alexander recognised as being one of the many staples of his occult interest, and something that would find itself useful in the future. That was, of course, if it wasn't frozen solid due to the troublesome weather. It would be of use when accompanied by his own skills in alchemy, though in this circle, its use was debatable. Certainly with the current temperature outside, anyway.

by **Nekronia** » Mon Feb 16, 2015 10:27 pm

Occupied Deutschland wrote:Claire raised an eyebrow at the young boy's words as she finished pulling her gloves on. The dude was obviously 21st century, which the jacket had been indicative of enough. He had also boarded the train at the same level of Hell as she had. Which was...something. A useful note, if nothing else.

"Can you believe the kids these days? So easily excited and overeager." She said to no one in particular, stomping her boots against the wall of the train to be sure they were on with a spiteful glance towards Virgil.

Over the dead stillness of the frozen wasteland, Jackie overheard Claire's remarks about him and his age group. While he didn't particularly care much of others opinions, he DID have an issue with sensationalist journalists, whom he presumed Claire was among given her outfit and her presence in an area of Hell reserved for fraudsters sowing discord. There might be slaughter-endorsing Nazis in the group alongside physical representations of sin born in Hell itself, but tabloidism? UNACCEPTABLE. Once the two assholes were both in the warehouse, the frivolous prick leaned backwards and gave a lazy stare straight at the mass murderer. The borderline-suicidal behavior was out of genuine obliviousness to her actual history this time, as opposed to the usual indifferent ballsiness. However, a simple bird-flipping would not do for the show-off in this instance. No, no, no, not at all. That's why John was leaning back to stare at her upside down, and to informally give a sarcastic retaliation in tanka format.

"What a big surprise:
It's a reporter-dressed chick,
Bitching on about
Today's youth and their habits."

Jackie rolled his eyes at the situation whilst maintaining his balance. The instigator maintained his egging-on by keeping his silly stance, and dropping the final line of his unpoetic poem:
"Leave that yellow for the snow."

by **Barapam** » Wed Feb 18, 2015 2:34 pm

Daniel looked around in the warehouse. No liquor? Well, that was certainly disappointing. Or maybe not. Even if he was thirsty he still had to keep his head sharp. Still, he felt a bit frustrated. It was nearly a century since the last time he had a refreshing drink, and he wanted one now more than ever. But no. Not even a glass of Akvavit to be found.

Daniel turned his attention to the other national socialist in the room, Alexander von Schwarzthal, to get his mind of other things. Judging from his weapons and his clothes, he had been a high ranking SS officer in life. It made Daniel curious, so he walked up to him.

"Guten Tag, mein Freund", he said in perfect German, altough with a noticable Norwegian accent. "You may excuse me if I don't strictly stick to army protocol, but we're not in the army anymore so..." He shrugged, smiled, and offered the man in front of him a handshake.

"The name is Daniel Hansen, from Oslo. Former Obersturmführer. I fought in Finland and Russia during the war."

by **Occupied Deutschland** » Wed Feb 18, 2015 7:38 pm

Nekronia wrote:...
"What a big surprise:
It's a reporter-dressed chick,
Bitching on about
Today's youth and their habits."

Jackie rolled his eyes at the situation whilst maintaining his balance. The instigator maintained his egging-on by keeping his silly stance, and dropping the final line of his unpoetic poem:
"Leave that yellow for the snow."

Claire’s eyes narrowed slightly as she cocked her head at the boy staring at her. He thought she was…a reporter…because of how she was dressed? Claire pursed her lips and swallowed to fight down the laughter that threatened to escape. Were young people really so unused to professional clothes that they automatically associated it with jobs like ‘reporting’? Or had he just seen her on the news before and mistaken the subject of a news story to be the one reporting it? That was actually a quite amusing possibility.

Hell, perhaps he did recognize her and was just acting as if he didn’t. It’s what she might have done in his situation. Although she would have done it without the kooky, upside-down face he made.

Claire smirked slightly at the young man. Standing like he was it would be incredibly easy to break his neck. Claire’s hand twitched slightly in anticipation as she imagined the crack sound that would come if she made a few simple movements and how his face would empty of that impressively challenging stare. But then, that wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining. The young man seemed like he’d be fun.

Glaring down through the bottom of her eyes, Claire returned the upside-down stare with one of her own. Was he just an idiot? Or was that a cover? If it wasn’t, she had to give him credit. Nobody had quasi-mocked her like that in the human world since she was a teenager. The boy might just have big, brass balls. With a moment of forethought, Claire leaned slightly towards the boy and the smirk became a smile.

“Ooh, I can do you one better, bucko.” she said, wagging a finger at the boy. “You see, there once was this man from Nantucket…”

Claire grunted a laugh without finishing the bawdy limerick, “I’ll let you fill in the rest. You never watched the news much, did you?” Claire shook her head before continuing, laughing in her mind. She’d let him take that question however he wanted, either to confirm what might be his own ideas about her or, if he was just acting, as an admission of what she really was. Oh he could be fun indeed! They'd been told they had to fight their way through a seven-layer dip of demons like the proverbial tortilla chip, playing with her food on the way up was the least she could do to keep things interesting.

“Keep your poems in a diary or something, kiddo. And for fuck's sake if you are gonna speak them, at least make them rhyme like proper poetry. You know, 'Roses are red, Gunmetal is blue' that sort of thing." Claire said, eying the two armed Nazi's with an evident concern. She felt almost naked without her own weapons to put her on an even ground. As dangerous and considerable as her wit and looks were, neither was bulletproof. Nor was either nearly as effective at braining someone from a distance as a bullet or ten were.

by **Nekronia** » Wed Feb 18, 2015 11:30 pm

Occupied Deutschland wrote:[ass-off]

Once again, Jackie was irritated at the wrong topic out of all the items present that would reasonable to be annoyed at. He further ignored the non-German and German Nazis loading themselves up for battle, and focused on the offender at hand. There was one particular aspect that he found to grind his gears, but he decided to address her statements in chronological order instead of in order of viewed importance. The punk-poet swung around so he was facing the direction of Claire with his hip out for a moment to retain balance in his odd maneuver (Hey, balance is a key factor in capoeira and dance. Gotta know where to put the weight.), and assumed a more normal stance with a slight lean forwards for frustrated emphasis. He stabbed his index finger up at her to state "One," and proceeded with his rant after putting it back down: "I do not have context for whatever taboo even you're trying to reference. I don't know when you come from, if you come before or after my time; or from what sensationalist press you came from that warranted you going to the place for sowing discord, and I make my own interpretations so wherever you came from to warrant your inclusion there probably wouldn't be the type of media I'd read, presuming I'm from a time that I COULD have read it. The only obscene thing that came out of your mouth after setting up for a joke was the insult to language arts."

While firmly stating "Two," he did the momentary finger-raise again, this time of course being with the next finger over and flipping the bird to mass murderer. This is the topic that set him off, so it's justified that he would decide to do that. Well, it WOULD be justified if it wasn't... well...

"The lack of rhyming in my poem was intentional. Tanka and haiku are not poetic forms that are supposed to rhyme, and in fact: actually making rhyming lines would be incorrect for the form. I aced AP writing and literature, goddammit, I know my shit."

...Getting mad at a perceived combo of spewing pseudo-intellectualism and ignorance, on top of being a journalist which is a position that should have thoroughly aced language arts. Of course, this is how HE was viewing the situation, as he lacked any and all knowledge of Claire so his opinions were entirely based on incorrect first impressions. His only clues to the contrary were her swearing and subtle hinting at not being a reporter, however he wrote these cues off as her just being cranky from being tortured for however many years then being stuck with Jackie-ass. Regardless of the woman's perceived occupation, it probably would be wise for Jackie to get armed up for the mission and drop the argument in order to prepare. Although, he didn't expect the murderers and rapists to do anything permanently damaging to him here, including the person stuck in Hell specifically for treachery. It's the tutorial. Who the hell dies during THE TUTORIAL?!

The deluded teen leaned back with his hands crossed into his pits in a defiant stance, still annoyed by the woman and still cranky from dealing with cyclical bullshit impeding his previous time-killing attempts to establish a miniature corporate empire in Hell through the power of capitalism. Fucking reporter not knowing shit about poetry. Probably doesn't know shit about prose either, the yellow douche. Absolutely disgusting dot jaypeg.

by **Reverend Norv** » Thu Feb 19, 2015 7:40 am

Mason Kane ignored, at least for the time being, the snarking between Claire and Jackie - though behind his grey eyes lay a flicker of cold amusement. I'm willing to bet that the brunette could end that child with her little finger. Mason had seen enough killers in his time to recognize one easily.

Equally, Mason ignored the Nazis. Though in his heart of hearts, he was unable to muster the righteous anger toward them that he knew he ought to feel, he nevertheless felt at least a flicker of conscience at the thought of cozying up to the men. Or was it professional ethics that held him back? I served my country. My country would have wanted these men dead. I would have killed them. It would be sloppy work, Mason thought, to become friendly with people who, in another time and place, would have been targets.

Even if that other time and place was a universe away.

Pushing away the rising sense of existential vertigo which that thought inspired - Who am I working for? Am I not a soldier anymore? What is my cause now? - Mason strode quickly over to the racks of weapons. He swiftly found the rack assigned to him; there he paused, and shook his head. A low chuckle escaped his lips. Well, I'll give the Devil this: he does his homework.

For years, Mason Kane had worked off the grid, with no chance of resupply or reinforcement. He had entrusted his life to his weapons. And so he had chosen them very, very carefully and kept them very, very well-maintained. Because when he was on his own, with no uniform and no backup, deep in hostile territory - then good weapons were among the very few things that could make the difference between life and death.

And there on the rack waited Mason's weapons, customized to his personal specifications, in pristine condition. There was a Remington Modular Sniper Rifle, capped with a Schmidt and Bender scope, with ten magazines of armor-piercing .338 Lapua. There was a short-barreled Sig Sauer MCX, including a laser sight, reflex sight, and suppressor, with five magazines of .300 AAC Blackout. There was a Ruger LCR, and two speed-loaders of .357 hollow-points. There was a battered tomahawk of anodized steel. There was a lightweight Dragon Skin ballistic vest, loaded with ammunition pouches and gear pouches and a few smoke and fragmentation grenades. There was a civilian hiking pack, already loaded with climbing rope and iodine tablets and a little kerosene stove and some MREs and a lightweight radio and all the other requirements of a long journey through the wild. There was an insulated sleeping bag strapped to the pack, together with two large canteens and a Camelback and a pouch containing night-vision goggles. And, perhaps most importantly of all, there was a pair of full-grain leather hiking boots, already broken in, together with good cold-weather hiking socks.

Mason Kane considered this rack of blessings, and smiled; he felt complete again, prepared, formidable in a way that he hadn't been since the first bullet tore through him in the mountains outside Parachinar. He was himself once more.

But then Mason's face darkened. If they are giving me back my gear, he realized, knowing full well what I can do with it - then we must be up against a threat greater than I can imagine. Mason glanced around the room. And I'll need all the help I can get to make it through whatever comes next.

At the back of Mason's mind, a part of him asked once more: And for what? What awaits if you make it through this? Why even bother? But Mason realized, to his own surprise, that at some level he had already made his decision. This is who I am, what I am. I don't choose the missions, but I do accomplish them. This is my mission now. I will complete it.

With brisk, familiar motions, Mason took his gear. He put on the hiking socks and boots, savoring the almost-forgotten sensation after years spent barefoot in the snow. He loaded his guns, then put half of the spare ammunition into his hiking pack and the other half into the ammunition pouches of his body armor; the snub-nosed Ruger went into an ankle rig. Then Mason strapped the Dragon Skin on over his parka but under the fleece-lined kaftan. He filled his canteens and Camelback with icy water from a nearby pump, and secured the MCX to the side of his pack on a quick-release sling. Then, with a soft grunt, Mason swung the pack onto his back, and cinched down the belt and shoulder straps and load-lifters until it fit comfortably. The weight settled onto him like a familiar friend, pressing his heels more firmly down against the concrete floor, and Mason smiled. Finally, Mason grabbed the MSR from the rack, checked it over, and then held it loosely cradled at the low ready. The sniper took a deep breath of icy air, and let it out again.

He nodded to himself with a deep and abiding satisfaction. He was ready to face the hosts of Hell, and he knew it.

But he couldn't do it alone.

With a sigh, Mason walked over to the boy, who was still sassing the dark-haired woman of about Mason's age; the sniper was vaguely surprised that she hadn't killed him yet. Or at least done whatever the equivalent of killing someone may be when the target is already dead. Without breaking stride, Mason slapped the boy - hard - upside the back of the head. The blow didn't have enough force to knock Jackie over or cause a concussion, but it would rattle his teeth, and hurt like hell for a moment or two.

"We are literally in Hell," Mason growled. "I'm kind of surprised that I need to remind either of you of that fact. We are about to trek an untold distance through Antarctic conditions, and we are going to have to fight our way through opposition severe enough that our sponsors are not worried about giving us whatever equipment we want to do it with." Mason's grey eyes moved from Claire to Jackie and back again. "None of us will survive this alone. We cannot afford freeloaders. We cannot afford anyone who doesn't get with the program. So get with the program. Gear up. Because if the alternative is letting myself get killed because of your negligence, I'll kill you myself." There was no anger - no emotion at all, in fact - in Mason's words. It was as if he was informing his companions of the consequences of touching a hot oven; the threat was just a statement of fact.

"That's all," Mason grunted. He shrugged his rifle into the crook of one arm, and walked over to the warehouse door to wait upon the others.

by **Cylarn** » Thu Feb 19, 2015 9:33 pm

While the others went about their business, Lawrence would join them in discovering their keys to Heaven. He discovered his own personal equipment racks, near to the modern warrior's equipment area. The Confederate gave a truly satisfied grin at the array of familiar gear before him, especially at the Winchester Rifle as the centerpiece of the scene. During his time in Africa, his principal weapon - as well as that of his men - was the famed Model 1873 Short Rifle, a truly reliable weapon. He removed his winter gear, as he examined the rest of the weapons and equipment available to him. In terms of a secondary weapon, he had in his possession a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun, placed in a convenient leather sling holster. For sidearms, he was offered a Webley RIC revolver and a Colt Single-Action Army, one for the belt holster and another for the shoulder holster. In terms of close-quarters weapons, he was issued a Bowie Knife and ankle sheathe, along with an assegai for long-reaching attacks. His further possessions included 2 bandoliers and an ammo belt for accessible ammunition, a small collection of rations, a flask of scotch, 10 grams of hashish, a simple clay hashish pipe, 2 canteens filled with water, ammunition for his weapons, a spyglass, climbing rope, pickaxe, wool socks, matches, a bedroll, a wool blanket, and a large knapsack to carry the gear. If was to be a long journey through Hell, and lugging around the heavy pack was but the least of his worries.

He then equipped his gear, holstering the RIC in the holster on his old uniform. He then put on the overcoat, putting on the shoulder holster, bandoliers, and ammo belt over the coat, while attaching the shotgun to the side of the ruck, using some of his rope in order to secure the item to his ruck. It took some adjustment for his comfort, but he soon got it all together, using the Winchester's leather sling to secure the weapon to his right shoulder.

His eyes scanned the room, looking at the others that inhabited the room. There were the Nazis, though even a bigot like Lawrence disliked them, partly because the demons had readily taken to worshiping the ideology. He largely left them be, though he looked upon the man with the fancy 21st Century gear with cautious interest. The guy seemed like he could handle himself and he seemed like he was easy to work with, but something about the man's complexion was bothering him, prompting him to come to the conclusion that further investigation was necessary. There was squall, who had attempted some form of small-talk with Lawrence. He could never abide by Native Americans, viewing them as an inferior race that was reaching the end of its existence. Out of all of the damned souls, he had the lowest opinion of Claire.

His eyes moved over to the modern man, and Lawrence attempted conversation as he scanned the man's equipment with his eyes.

"That's a motley selection of firepower there, son," he commented in his smooth, Deep Southern aristocratic dialect, before holding out his right hand. "Colonel Lawrence Prideaux, at your service, sir."

Stairway to Heaven [IC]

Stairway to Heaven [IC]

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