There's many a beast then in a populous city

[goodhonest9.livejournal.com]

~ Iago has not had very long to try to make sense of his surroundings. There was once a time when he had to know the lay of the land before moving, but sometimes you can't help but run blind.

This is Six. He's pretty sure. It’s a city, yes, but one that makes no sense. It’s as if someone has taken all the very worst parts of every thronging metropolis and hurriedly slapped them together; some of the edges don’t quite fit. And then there were the statues: the brass bulls with the fire under them. They were oddly placed - some times on street corners or else discreetly under an awning or away in an alley. It is by one such bull that Iago stands now. Out of the way, almost out of sight, because the city is populated with a number of things Iago knows with whom it would be very unwise to become acquainted.

But still, he dimly hopes that maybe, just maybe, he can snatch a little warmth from the flames that burn beneath it and have a second or two to catch his breath. He looks at himself in the shining side of the brass bull. Even though his reflection is distorted and bulbous with the curve of the bull’s belly, he can see how he’s changed. His face is thin and gaunt and he is very, very pale, although it might just because his skin and hair are touched with frost. He looks like a ghost. A pitiful moan issuing from the bull’s mouth makes Iago twitch. He examines the statue. It’s hot. Scalding. As if with a mind of its own, he reaches up a finger and lays it on the bull’s back only to draw it back with a wince. He notes with dismay that even as the skin on his hand turns shiny and white and blistered from the burn, he’s still bone-cold.

Oh well. It’s a little better, here. More bellowing from the brass monster makes him smile grimly. Here he is, warming himself with another man’s misery. He shrinks back against the wall, willing himself to go unnoticed while he rests. It’s not so bad. He’ll stay for just a moment, warmed by the fire and his only company the poor soul in the belly of the beast.

For what feels like the first time in a long while, he exhales slowly, breath steaming even in this damned heat he can barely feel. And even though it's unwise, he lay's his head against the bricks of the wall. Eyes closed. Almost. Just a moment here to rest. ~

Monthly Torment: Week Two

[bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com]

~ Though first assumed to be isolated events, time has passed since the first appearances of the marks and it is clear to everyone now that something is not right, and it's something big. They are not innocent rashes anymore, but lesions, gracing the skins of everyone from Levels One to Nine, turning the denizens of Hell into a patchwork quilt of thick, sensationless skin.

Under their clumsy skins joints flare with pain, as sensitive to movement as their skin fails to be to touch. Slowly, even moving becomes somewhat of a challenge as hands and feet seem more and more difficult to control. Once dexterous and nimble fingers start to fumble and the more brutish movements of some of the shades start seeming neigh impossible. Nerves commit their rapid suicides, every day bringing stiffer limbs to confused and horrified people all wondering what is happening to them. Fingers and toes begin to curl, twisting inward, untrustworthy to be any good at tasks they need to be to stay safe and unnoticed by the demons wandering every Level. All the doctors, nurses, and medical minds trapped down here know that soon infection will set in, and that this can only get worse. ~