Stories from Hell

[Grey]

The Knight & The Dragon


Ur-Sekhem'Gal, who is wisest of the great drakes who ring the forge of Tempered Thunder, and sing burning praises unto Destruction-By-Rebirth, was walking through the gardens of the false sun when a mortal swordsman confronted her, saying:


"I am armoured by courage, and faith tempered my blade;


It is with utmost righteousness that I will strike thee down,


Though in this, I die."


So the mortal struck his weapon against her adamant hide, where it became stuck, and a child of her adoption (for such is the end of all swords).


Thus disarmed, the mortal struck against her adamant hide with his gauntleted fists, which became dust, and disturbed the fine lines of the garden's ash.


Even still, the mortal struck against her adamant hide with his bare hands, and howled in defiance, and was consumed by fire.


And when the newborn stepped from the flames, he turned to Ur-Sekhem'Gal, and raised the cool embers of his eyes to meet her lowest pair, and gave thanks.


Then Ur-Sekhem'Gal ate him whole, for she would prefer that be the end of all knights, and most are not so cooperative.


- Resh Silat, Fifty Tales of Wrath

 

[Grey]

Fulmin & The Preacher


Fulmin, before he was The Stormsword which is on the hip of Ashtar's destroyer-form, or perhaps after (for time is strange in Hell by the reckonings of mortals), sat in the doorway of a Pandemonium tenement, smoking from his beloved pipe.


He had been bidden by the one who would become his master to wait, and so Fulmin waited, but he seethed for patience is not truly of his nature.


It happened then that Lorsvitha, who was a preacher of an obscure cult, saw Fulmin as he walked the street, and then leaned his towering form down to speak with him.


"Excuse me, worthy, but do you have time to talk about the Silver Crown?"


Fulmin did not move, saying: "I have only time. You will find me lacking in curiosity."


"We seek enlightenment by accumulation of silver crowns," Lorsvitha explained, resolute (and this is not the most foolish belief in Hell).


It occurred then to Fulmin that his new acquaintance had the look of a former gladiator, and he stood to make an offer: a duel, and if Lorsvitha won, Fulmin would accept his preaching. Lorsvitha replied that he would not fight, but would defend himself.


"Well then," Fulmin said, cracking his knuckles of smoke and iron. "Do or die, my friend. Do or die!"


A fluffy of blows was exchanged, for Fulmin would not yet draw his blade, and the ferocity of their blows rent the air and cracked the crystalline streets. But Lorsvitha was slow with lack of practice, and Fulmin easily grasped the great horns which crowned his head and dripped with molten silver, and tore the great tusked-head from the body.


When the explosions of the titanic corpse had stopped, leaving the street pitted and broken, and Fulmin felt the approval of Destruction-By-Rebirth from on high, he returned to his step, and sat, and lit his beloved pipe.


There would come another.


- Caelan-lan-Ashtar, On Ascent

 

[Grey]

Sori's Lesson


In a time when, through clever trickery (and murder and theft and blackmail) the light of the Hellsun was dimmed and the Evernight lay heavy upon all the Circles, the wandering swordsdemon Sori Brightsword abandoned her onetime lover to the vicissitudes of civil war for reasons that do not matter yet (though they will become obvious), and came to the Temple of The Eighth Storm.


In this time the roads were treacherous and the tunnels even moreso and really it was wisest not to fly, but Sori was undeterred for she had heard the martial adherents of The Eighth Storm knew the secret of the perfect strike and she coveted this wisdom (for her hair and her sword were her pride).


And so Sori walked a cracked granite road which ran from Pandemonium’s impossible rim into the plains of Wrath, and felt the eye of Destruction-By-Rebirth upon her as an interloper in that realm. Thus as Sori passed a deep cave in the living rock imps emerged to test her, frolicking in flames, throwing stones and fireballs. Effortlessly, Sori deflected these weapons back at her aggressors, who fled as the projectiles missed. Her brow furrowed in irritation. Then when Sori passed a burning lake, Hellhounds which were bathing challenged her with bloodthirsty howls. Sori struck them down, but in no less than two strikes which severed their heads, and she was relieved through her growing frown that these were not true warriors to be offended at her imprecision.


Finally she came to the pillar of basalt that stood taller than the rest under skies that roiled with clouds and lit the ground with lightning, and it was ringed with narrow steps carven from the living rock, and at the base sat a great Demon of Wrath.


“Step aside,” said Sori, “for I wish to learn the secret of the Temple acolytes.”


The monk shook its great shaggy head, tiny bells ringing from its great horns, and it stood up to be twice Sori’s height.


“I am a Temple acolyte, and I refuse,” it said.


Sori drew her blade and set her feet in the martial stance called Golden Devil.


“I ask you again to step aside, or teach me instead,” said Sori.


“Again, I refuse,” said the Demon, bells chiming.


“Once more; step aside,” Sori said, “or teach me.”


It was this third time that the Demon smote her with its great fist and sent her tumbling across the plain.


Sori picked herself up, and flared with light that incinerated the imps which had returned, and once again walked the road to the Temple, and once again confronted the Demon.


“What is your name, monk, that I may strike you down with honour?”


“I am called Eight Bells Singing, and you will not strike me down.”


“I see only seven bells.”


She gestured to a golden ring and unadorned links of chain that dangled from the tip of a horn. “Did you lose one?”


“Would you offer to return it?”


She thought for a moment.


“Perhaps.”


“Then you do not understand the lesson.”


She drew her sword and charged, then, and this time the Demon parried her strike with a hand before casting her away.


Furious, she leapt to her feet and hurled beams of light towards the base of the pillar, unconcerned if she failed to hit. Perhaps she would collapse the whole temple.


When this was not answered with any sort of attack, she walked the road a third time and confronted Eight Bells Singing once more.


“I see the hole in your stance now,” she said. “I am not so impressed, but still I will learn your ways.”


“No,” said the monk. “Not yet.


And so she struck, using the technique which is named Laughing Devil Mockery to try and sever Bells’ hand, but instead the Demon took the blade through the palm, and though it must have hurt greatly twisted it to snap the sword in half.


Sori fell to her knees and cried out as if wounded, for that blade was her pride and joy especially since leaving her lover behind.


“Do you understand yet?” asked the monk.


“No!” Sori cried, in anger.


And Eight Bells Singing struck her a final time.


– Resh Silat, Fifty Tales of Wrath

 

[Alexandra]

::bump::
Moar about my war-form, pls ~