tdr_backup | Recent Entries

deadwesley1.livejournal.com

~Things are definitely, hellishly out of hand. Wesley is shrieking at himself to stop, but his body is completely indifferent, paying attention only to whatever bloodthirsty, perverse demon is controlling him. Wesley is getting the shit kicked out of him, but Wesley definitely has the upper hand. He's strangling Snape and Snape is helping.

Wes feels himself losing control. It hasn't been easy staying sane. He wasn't exactly winning the battle when he was alive. It seemed as though he was making some progress when he was pitted against Vale; it gave him focus, something to cling to, a desperate goal to cling to. He HAD to remain sane if only to destroy Vale. Then, Vale destroyed him.

Staying sane doesn't seem so important in Hell- in fact, being insane might even help one cope. But once Wesley met Snape, a tormented soul in need of rescue, in need of leadership and guidance and help, Wesley had a new found grasp on sanity. Wasn't that his sole purpose in life, his driving need- to help, to save people. He may have failed miserably in life (at everything he attempted, actually) but maybe he could still make a difference for one person.

But in life Wesley hadn't failed to become a fighter. He learned to hone the training he'd received as a Watcher into deadly force. He mastered his own body, turned it into a weapon. His specialty was distance weapons, true- he had incredible aim- but he certainly wasn't helpless in hand to hand combat with most vamps, and that made him deadly to any mortal man if that man crossed him.

Wesley stares in horror as he struggles to take back control of his voluntary responses. He knows his hands are working hard to snap Snape's neck, and he also knows he has the strength to do it. Luckily, Snape has managed to dislocate one of Wesley's kneecaps, somewhat weakening Wesley's position. Though Wesley's body tries to avoid Snape's blows, Wes can't help but hope Snape manages to take his other leg out and entirely disable him. He doesn't want to be a murderer again. Ever.~

Current Mood: worried
Current Location: Level 4, Hell

bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com

~ It isn't long before all through Hell people are discovering what it must feel like to be a marionette. No longer is the biggest feat that your feet might turn right into a street full of demons when you meant to go left to safety, it's far beyond fingers unbuttoning clothes at random or ripping out your own hair, even beyond the terror of having your own hand brandish a knife at your face or being unable to stop fists from beating friends til they're bruised purple.
Things have become much more serious - entire bodies have gone rogue. Some even seem to have personalities completely unlike that of the people they have overtaken, but the one thing that unites them all is that all of them are dangerous. Hell may have been filled with swindlers, murderers, and other sinners before, but now everyone's bodies seem bent on destruction without any regard to the minds trapped inside them, fighting uselessly to take back control of their actions. ~

noshoesinhell8.livejournal.com

~Lilah Morgan freezes on the precipice. This is hardly the Yellow Brick Road, she realizes, and yet she can't quite curb the enthusiasm she feels looking down at the city of Dis. She's not quite sure how she made it; when she heard the demon cops on 8 she panicked and, throwing out all reason, she grabbed the nearest person and ran. When she dared open her eyes, she found she had grabbed not one of the boys who seemed so knowledgeable, so helpful, so USEFULL, but the puffed up Pretty Princess stuck in the 13th century who (rich duds aside) didn't look so very usefull or even all that sane. (The way she prattled on she sounded like one of those Renaissance Faire losers.)

Still, it was a fabled flight through 8, and somehow Lilah had chosen to run in the right direction. They enterred 7 and Lilah might have been convinced to stay there a little longer if she wasn't allergic to bees. All that crap, though; she couldn't help but think there might be something useful there. The anoerexic bitch told her 7 was where the angry people buzzed about and insisted they not stay, and anyway, Lilah thought it might be a little dangerous to be climbing mounds of sharp pointy things once it became clear neither one of them seemed to be in much control of their extremities. But when they neared the edge of the mountains of garbage which marred 7's otherwhise almost hellishly pleasant horizon, Miss Medieval Europe slowed and began bitching about not wanting to enter Hell's capital city.~

Current Mood: anxious
Current Location: looking in at Dis, Hell

severus-snape1.livejournal.com

~Snape regains consciousness very slowly; he's not sure if he'd died or just suffered enough head trauma to knock him out, but decides it doesn't matter. He hurts all over, and he's sure there are a lot of broken bones, but at least no one is trying to eat him. He knows there's something he needs to do, but he can't remember what it is. Very slowly and painfully, he drags himself over to the cliff's edge and huddles miserably against the rocks.

He remembers how his body practically threw itself off the cliff; even now, his limbs are twitching as if trying to jump again, but he's not sure if that's a matter of rebellion or of involuntary reactions to pain. And he still needs to do something, though he has no idea how he's to do it in his condition, should he remember what it is.

He tries to think harder and is rewarded with a foggy image. Yes, he remembers now. He ought to find Wesley. He tries to lift his head to look around but the pain and dizziness is terrible, and his neck doesn't seem to want to do its job. His jaw is broken and hangs limply; he can't form any words, even if he could get his lungs to force enough air from him to yell. He groans softly and collapses, hoping Wesley isn't too far away.~

Current Mood: distressed
Current Location: Edge of Level 4

bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com

~ Seemingly innocent mishaps begin to stack up. The sentience of rogue limbs everywhere becoming more and more pronounced and malevolent. Soon the sight of shades holding themselves at knife-point, strangling their companions and inadvertently disembowelling themselves become common-place. Legs take the unfortunate for inopportune and unwanted adventures, seemingly and willfully walking toward danger. Hiding becomes increasingly impossible, and even those who manage to conceal themselves from outside threats are at the mercy of their own mischievous limbs. ~

deadwesley1.livejournal.com

~When Wesley was at the Academy, he read every piece of writing he could get his hands on. It didn't matter if it was textbook, scrap of paper left on the floor, mass pulp- if it could be read, he read it. He was obsessed with reading. Still was, though here in Hell there's precious little material.

When Wesley was home on holiday, he read. He would sneak into his father's library and lose himself in whatever was to be found. He'd gotten into a spot of trouble that way more than once; several tomes in his father's collection are very dangerous and ill used by a well meaning child. Still, his father couldn't help but be a little pleased that his son was a voracious reader, and an excellent linguist. Wesley couldn't say how many languages, human and demon, he knows; he lost count years ago.

So it is that Wesley is more than accquainted with Dante's timeless work. He was, as a child, fascinated by his father's collection of classic literature, and the illustrations therein. Now, however, those same illustrations haunt him as he sees them come alive in the landscape around him, and the inhabitants try to trap him, shock him, eat him, and what else?

He and Snape cross through the fetid wastes of the carcass field, heading toward the far away cliffs. Wesley shows the other shades no mercy as he stabs skillfully with the demon weapon, injecting a deadly toxin into each shade he successfully stabs. He doesn't know what death will do the already dead, but he suspects it won't keep them down long, so he hurries Snape through until they at last are facing the sheer cliffs. But now that they're upon them, they realize the cliffs don't rise above the carcass plains as they appeared from a distance; they fall away from them in a sheer, dizzying drop.~ Of course, ~Wesley breathes, remembering the horrible scene in the masterwork. He turns to Snape, grim and determined.~

We have to go down.

Current Mood: determined
Current Location: the cliffs between level 3 & 4, Hell

wetandbothered5.livejournal.com

~ Bobbing on the surface of one of Five's larger bodies of water in Hell's least reliable-looking rowboat, Regulus touches his hair for what must be the millionth time. It is not out of any vanity, one certainly can't afford to care about one's appearance anymore, and when Barty had grumpily pointed out Reg's new tick to him earlier Regulus simply excused it as wonderment of not being bald any longer.

He has been sitting here in the boat for far too long waiting silently and with decreasing amounts of patience for Barty to get in the damn boat. It's hull may be covered in slime and yes so it is slightly rotted from sitting here in the swamps since the invention of the rowboat, but it's much safer than standing on a log with a sour expression, which is exactly what Barty insists upon doing. ~

I'll say it once more. Just because we were eaten last time, doesn't mean it's going to happen now. Get in the boat.

severus-snape1.livejournal.com

~Severus and Wesley don’t move until the convulsions and vomiting diminish and the sores begin to heal. While the sickness lasted, they had felt like they were being turned inside-out through vomiting, and with tender sores, the thought of crawling across the rocky landscape of Level 2 wasn’t appealing, if it had had any appeal to begin with. But now Wesley and Severus begin their journey once again. They stay on a low and straight course; in this way, they are relatively safe from the natives and their electrical touch, and most of the wind passes harmlessly over them. But they soon realize that they must have been in the eye of the storm, as the winds pick up and press closer upon them, regardless of how flat they attempt to be.

Snape’s cloak is both their undoing and their good fortune. A particularly strong gust catches the voluminous folds and draws them both back into the buffeting storm. Once more, they are swept helplessly along, clutching desperately to each other’s arms, and are carried higher than ever before. Snape is glad that his cloak doesn’t fasten at his throat, or he would be choked, but as it is, the cloak seems to be cutting into his armpits. From this height, Severus and Wesley can see that Level 2 is nearly completely surrounded by towering cliffs of jagged rocks that help to keep the winds swirling; there is a relatively small break in them that had allowed their direct passage from Level 1, which can be seen from their vantage point as the winds spiral them back towards their native level. They can see the inviting glow of the buildings below. Snape still doesn’t feel quite like himself, and as he looks down, and perhaps that is why he can’t help but yell out a quip.~

I CAN SEE OUR HOUSES FROM UP HERE!

~He’s not sure if Wesley has heard his comment over the deafening roar of the wind, but the next moment, it doesn’t matter. They are swept past, and Snape knows that they will continue to spiral unless luck or their own ingenuity comes to the rescue. Snape doesn’t really believe in luck. With much effort, he reaches up and gropes blinding for the edge of his cloak; perhaps if he can draw it back in, they might get some control over how quickly and how high the wind will carry them. He grabs an edge, and almost instantly, he feels a jerk as the cloak stops whipping randomly and billows like a sail, pushing them instead of dragging them. This would not be so bad, Snape thinks, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s facing away from their forward motion and can’t see to steer.

A particularly strong gust carries them over the jagged edge of a peak, just barely. But now they have a different, if not predictable, problem. They are no longer over Level 2, and with no wind to sustain them, they are falling at a speed that Snape would rather not contemplate. There isn’t anything to do but close his eyes and hope for the best which, as it turns out, wasn’t as bad as it could have been, at least for himself. He lands with a jarring crash onto something monstrously huge but squishy...and terribly foul-smelling. He has landed face-first into what apparently is the bloated, decaying carcass of some giant beast. For a moment he can only lie there, but the wiggling of maggots against his mouth and the stench soon make him stagger shakily to his feet. Ignoring the pain of his bruised and likely broken body, and wiping putrifaction and insect larvae from his face, he carefully sits up and looks around. Level 3—they made it past the second level and into the third. He looks around, concerned, for Wesley.~

Current Mood: determined

bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com

~ The symptoms of previous weeks begin to wear off, allowing hair to grow back and skin to heal. The viscera-laden vomiting ceases and torture returns to its usual thresholds. The relief is so great that bizarre new habits almost go unnoticed. Shades find their feet taking an extra step they never intended to, their hands reaching out of their own accord. It's easy enough to ignore, of course - to put it off as disorientation or exhaustion. Yet every so often that extra step leads the unfortunate careening off a cliff face, or fingering a burning hot coal... ~

eternalhost7.livejournal.com

~It's surprising how losing your hair suddenly makes you realise how vain you once were. As the final clump comes out in his hand (rather be bald than have a stupid-looking fringe) and his skin start splitting along its newly-healed seams he briefly considers lying back and letting whatever else is in this Level take him. But escape is necessary and he won't let a little thing like being too weak to breathe stop him. God he was glad he wasn't with anyone right now. If anybody saw what was happening... downstairs... they'd never take him seriously again.

Making it through Seven had been difficult and his feet were nearly bloody stumps from all the sharp garbage, but pain was something he had gotten used to. The dull heart-wrenching ache was worse than a stabbing- at least that would have been something he could appreciate- and he had wanted to tear off his own feet to stop it, but gritty resolve won out and he had made it to Six, wearing nothing but a threadbare smock and linen trousers, found among the sewage of the lower level.

The first thing he does upon arrival is sear his own feet on one of the more hidden bulls- anything to distract from their pain and the nausea and the general brain-freezing depression of suffering through a Hell worse than anything he did to his boys. It's pretty much all his body can stand and he crumples against a wall, allowing himself an unhappy groan. His insects crawl over his body as if he were already a corpse and he doesn't bother to slap them away; like a dying wildebeest.~

Current Mood: uncomfortable

wetandbothered5.livejournal.com

~ Time becomes indistinguishable when shredded bits and chewed up pieces of you are slowly meandering through the intestine of a gigantic tentacled bog monster. Or at least, it does to Regulus. When you come from Five, being eaten by things hiding under the water is just a situational hazard, but it doesn't mean Regulus finds the process any less horrific.
During his digestion he is reminded vaguely of goldfish and how they apparently have very poor memories. Because Hell has a funny way of never letting you die, instead of being able to quietly become mush with everything else the creature has eaten recently, Regulus' consciousness flares into alarm and his mashed up bits of body follow into a fit of excruciating pain before it's clear he cannot stay alive separated and masticated as he currently is and all the bites of Regulus collectively lose consciousness for a far too brief moment before the process repeats itself.

On one such flare of reanimation and pain after countless tries and failures, Regulus finds himself finally back in one piece, discarded and finally fully reassembled half buried in a pit of mud somewhere on Five. The first thing he does is vomit up what feels like his entire organ system all over himself and after looking down at his cracked and blistered form he resigns himself to glaring up at the canopy of acidic green and rotted foliage and doing what Fives do best: Lamenting. ~

bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com

~ Bloody phlegm and a bit of nausea begin to look quite insignificant as the days progress. With every strand of hair now long since shed, skin is the next to fall victim - reddening, it begins to flake, layer after layer until blood seeps from the cracks freely. Breathing becomes heavy and laboured and waves of exhaustion render the mounting effort required difficult to handle.

Convulsions too, seem to occasionally strike, raking the shade's blistered forms - leaving them weak, vulnerable and (quite literally) shaken. Too make matters indefinably worse and rather humiliating, every orifice seems to be leaking, expelling things it really has no business expelling and leaving the air of Hell universally heavy with the scent of illness, waste and bile. ~

wetandbothered5.livejournal.com

~ The stench of Eight got to Regulus before it got to Barty, his stomach has never been very strong. Back when they were still in school together he had always been the more easily disgusted of the two by miles and though Hell offers few places that can pass as sanitary, so by all accounts Regulus should be used to it, it still takes less than it should for him to demand a trip back to his native Five.

Though the swamps of Five are hardly a day at the beach, Regulus' reasoning is that at least there is water. It isn't clean, it isn't clear, and it is teeming with things Regulus always hoped didn't really exist. Parasites, bacteria, dead bodies - you name it and it's probably somewhere down there in the muck. Even with all it's filth there is still something that draws Regulus back to the level to which he was damned. He isn't consciously aware of it, but it's clear that even though the boggy water that is so eager to swallow him up just reminds him of why he is here, a painful memory, there is something about Regulus that seeks comfort in the familiar - even if what is familiar is just as terrible and torturous as the unfamiliar.

They make it back through the noxious odor of Eight, the mountains of insect-infested rubbish of Seven, and just barely escape Six without running into Medusa or any of her friends and together Barty and Regulus scramble up the slippery sides and into Five. As they reach the top and the land levels out, Regulus breaths an uneasy but oddly relieved sigh. ~

I hate it here. Let's go in.

deadwesley1.livejournal.com

~The winds in Level two sweep Severus and Wesley into the air until they are slammed momentarily against a cliff face, then whipped up again. Other shades abound here, and the first time they are struck, it surprises them to receive a jarring shock. The gale doesn't die, but it swells and heaves like waves, and once Wes has the opportunity to touch ground, he allows himself to go limp, slack on the ground, letting the gusts blow across his prone form. He screams through the din to Snape, hoping he can hear him.~

This is impossible! We're going to have to cling to one another if we hope to escape this level!

Current Mood: aggravated

bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com

~ The headaches and the occasional sick stomach get uglier as time passes, as things in Hell are want to do. When the first shades begin coughing up blood everyone's mind immediately jumps to a collective oh great.

But that part, the bloody part, it doesn't come on quickly enough to be foreseeable. What comes first is the painful tickle in everyone's throats, the coughing that only serves to aggravate it until throats are left feeling inflamed and anyone with a friend is asking if they might peek in and see if it looks as bad as it feels. Universal disease, it seems, makes everyone a doctor. Mouths and lips and gums become tender and sore and the headaches never quit. It's only later, after people are starting to complain about their sore throats that their bodies give them something real to complain about.

And that's when the blood starts. First it's only in the coughing, flecks of it appearing in cupped hands, but soon the unsettled stomachs join the game. When nausea takes over and people duck to empty their stomachs, that too is tinted red.
A sore throat is a symptom that is nearly universally experienced, by the old and the young and the rich and the poor. No matter what life was like before ending up down here, chances are every single person has spent a few days being in pain when they swallowed. But when hair starts to fall out, coming out in bigger and bigger clumps when they run their fingers through their hair and when blood turns up in vomit, everyone knows that this is much more than anything a cough drop and some tea can sooth. ~

noshoesinhell8.livejournal.com

~Lilah stumbles and nearly falls as she frets her way through the Dickensian city of Level 8. She's still a little sore from her (ahem) efforts to get away from the demon overseers, and the headache doesn't seem to be getting any better. She figures it must be the stench; it seems to follow her everywhere she goes. It's been a long time since she was this filthy, and it irks her that she can't seem to find anybody to accost and swap clothes. She longs for a good hot soak in a deep, foamy bathtub, a manicure, and... well...clothes from the 21st century.

Still, she thinks, things could be worse. She has gotten away from that sweatshop. She fully intends to take the matter of working conditions in that hellhole up with the Firm, as soon as she figures out where to file the paperwork.~

And you'd better believe I'm appealing this. What about that perpetuity clause? YOU CAN'T TREAT ME LIKE THIS! I'M LILAH MORGAN!

~She grimaces as her head pounds in tandem with her shouting. Hell, she remembers from her days in the office, is run by a city called Dis, somewhere in between levels 1 and 9. If she's going to find a municipal building, it will be in Dis. She sets her jaw and limps forward once more, muttering to herself~

What I wouldn't give for a shower. Or a hapless victim with great clothes. And shoes. I would KILL for some great shoes.

Current Mood: angry

severus-snape1.livejournal.com

~The man who has introduced himself to Snape as Wesley Wyndham-Pryce strides purposely before him through the curling, chilled mists of Level One. The two men are of similar height and build, and if any were watching, they may have thought Snape to be a mere shadow of the first, except that Snape walks with his head down. But no one watches them; the shades here are as oblivious to their wanderings as Snape once was. They are too caught up in their own pain, whatever it was that lay just out of their grasp, to care about the two men who pass by. Price had tried to get others to join, but has given up.

Snape can't help but wonder why Pryce had had success rousing him from his own personal torment, but seems to have no luck with anyone else. He had been as oblivious of the other shades until Pryce had interrupted the visions that haunted him, and had motivated Snape to leave his window and try to find answers to the questions he had. It had been difficult at first, but now Snape finds it easy enough to avoid looking at the soft inviting glow that beckons to him from each window.

Pryce has been marking their progress with small strips of his clothes, which he ties to the outside of the houses that have things like porch railings, nails that aren't quite driven completely in, and so on. Snape prefers not to get that close to the windows and so digs a heel through the dirt on occasion instead. They have traveled this way, resting here and there, for what seems like weeks.

Yet now it seems like their persistence is about to pay off; the wind is beginning to pick up and blow the mists in little eddies, thinning it and, unfortunately, making it even colder. Snape lifts his head and sniffs the air. It smells faintly of ozone, as if there is a storm approaching.~

Do you smell that?

madlymirthful9.livejournal.com

~ There's a point in Seven where the trash field stops - sewage, mouldering rubbish and unfortunate shades alike tumble across the brim and take a steep fall into the smoke obscured pit of Eight. The edge is fittingly subtle and nearly impossible to spot - a fact both Barty and Reg have plenty of time to ruminate on as their next step is suddenly unsupported. ~

bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com

~ The rot and the decay that everyone has waited through have finally been eradicated. Hell's twisted version of an immune system has clunked back into life and made limbs return, fingers regrow, and feet uncurl. People are able to walk again and all traces of illness seem to be nothing more than a memory. As far as anyone knows, it's back to the daily, brimstone grind.

Perhaps it's just the after-effects of having your entire body turn into a lesioned mess - like the first few days after getting over a cold when you aren't sick anymore but your body still feels off-kilter and drained - but although everyone has been spared the rot, they feel tired and something just isn't quite right.
For being healthy (as healthy as one can be in Hell) there sure are several annoying symptoms that seem to be lingering inside the bodies of the citizenry. Headaches set in behind the eyes, so slow it's hard to tell they're there until they eventually get to a throbbing point where they become unavoidable. Stomachs, too, seem to be revolting against something. They churn slowly inside and leave people feeling uncomfortable and sickly despite being outwardly as able-bodied as ever.
The more delicate surrender to vomiting first, and though the more hearty shades smirk... even they start to notice a shortness of breath begin to wash over them. Yes, Hell has recovered, but anyone with half a mind has wondered if these seemingly innocent symptoms aren't just the beginning of something else looming on the red horizon. ~

bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com

~ The night is indeed darkest before the dawn, and so it is with disease. As the war that has been waged on their bodies reaches a terrifying peak, the pained, decaying, and mostly immobilized citizens of Hell see no end in sight.
Until, that is, it ever so slowly begins to creep upon them.
There is no telling just how long they have limped through the cyclic punishments of their Levels, barely about to keep standing. There is no telling how many Level escapees have been tracked down and captured by the demons keeping watch for them, unable to run and hide like they used to with their deadened limbs weighing them down. There is no telling what had been the source of all this and why it struck when it did. But day by day, just as what little hope the rare optimist has managed to keep fades away, so does the infection.

It is impossible to die here, after all everyone IS by default in the afterlife, but injury is never an enjoyable experience even if it is always eventually fixable. Clearly this is not to say that suffering has been extinguished - far from it. The disease seemed to stop all recovery however now the threat of their disease begins to improve as nerves start to spark back to life, bringing with them terrible pins and needles like their entire bodies have fallen asleep. It would be horrible if it were not the first time their flesh has felt anything close to life since the epidemic started taking it's toll. As days pass, torn and rotted arms and legs, fingers and toes, start the excruciatingly slow process of regrowing.

It may bring their other aches into sharper relief, but as terror fades, frostbitten noses and bleeding palms are a welcome sight after the twisted bundles of infection they had become. ~

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The Divine RPG Backup

May 2010

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The Divine RPG - A Hellish Pandandom

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate

Recent Entries

It's bad enough throttling someone on purpose...

Monthly Torment: Week Three

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Feast or famine?

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Casualty of Migration

Bad Luck

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There's No Place Like Home

The wind is charged with the energy of the lustful...

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Don't demons ever bathe?

Into the maelstrom....

And the people that you meet want to open you up like Christmas

Monthly Torment: Week One

Monthly Torment: Week Four

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May 2010

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