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wetandbothered5.livejournal.com

~ In death, traveling around with Barty as your companion is quite similar to how it was in life: eventful. Before Regulus died at eighteen he had had his fair share of daring adventures and close calls and all of it was surprising considering his careful nature and all of it was Barty's doing. Even with their limbs rotting away Barty had gotten them up to no good in Dis, because what better time to break into a building owned by a demon than when you can hardly walk if you needed to escape in a hurry.

Once they had escaped into the trash pits of Seven they had wandered through the piles of junk for as long as they could walk, avoiding the buzzing of buried hives underfoot that lay waiting like living landmines for one false step. But their steps became shorter, their movements more laboured, and finally when together they had slipped down a hillside of garbage, Regulus had known there would be no getting up in the near future.

So there they lay, for goodness knows how many days now. Trapped in their own bodies and feeling practically paralyzed as they stare up at Hell's sky, it dawns on Regulus that something he had once said to Barty had turned out to be true. ~

You know what I've just realised? It really has taken becoming a cripple to make you stop running about.

bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com

~ By now, everyone's bodies have transformed at an alarmingly rapid rate into grotesque and pitiful vessels, infected and aching and wounded. Even Level One's, who were widely said to be mocking the others up in their relatively safe little ring of the world, have fallen victim to their own bodies. Perhaps more slowly than others, but that is only to do with the fact that you're safer from harm on One, and everyone knows it.

Every time fingers get caught in doorways, every time a bit of jagged metal in Seven snags on someone's trouserleg, slicing the skin underneath, every time anyone accidentally slams their arm down harder than they need to because the feeling in it has gone, and every time any one or any thing bites or scratches or attacks, the wounds struggle to heal themselves. At this peak of frightened deterioration of their bodies, one would be hard pressed to find a single finger or toe and few arms and legs that remain intact and haven't been mangled and infected. Most everyone's limbs are the most useless they've ever been if they haven't rotted away. Some shades have found ways to cover their faces and hide them from sight though most can't afford to care that much about what they look like. They have fair reason, too, as facial muscles stiffen and blinking gets more difficult some lose their sight entirely and hiding your face from the blind is much less important than trying to find somewhere to wait through the agony, though no one can ever truly die and end it.

They say everything must get worse before it gets better. This storm has gotten as bad as it can, the grand proverbial night has reached it's darkest... and everyone inside their shells of bodies wishes for reprieve. ~

madlymirthful9.livejournal.com

~ There are few people in the world who've never once wondered what their innards would look like if spilled out across the floor, fewer still who'll admit to that very curiosity and the fewest yet who can pick up a saw and gleefully wonder where to start. Barty has always been a citizen of the last category and Hell has proved extremely conductive to his inquiring mind. Which is just as well because torture becomes almost bearable when an objective by-product of the victim's brain can watch it with a school-boy giddiness and detached appreciation for the art.

Which is precisely why Barty presently finds himself, even running (or at least making his best attempt at a very slow parody of running) with a grievous stomach wound, he still can't help but admire it a little. Particularly the jagged, calculated messiness of it all which insures it'll take its sweet time to heal. ~

horrorshowveck7.livejournal.com

~ His hand, oddly numb to most sensation lately, slips for the fifth time and he goes careening headfirst down a rather large pile of garbage, the mountainous waves of trash making up the world that Alex DeLarge has known for the past...how long? He's not sure, himself; time doesn't seem quite right here, almost as if it's either warped out of shape or merely doesn't exist. Even as he shifts while sliding down the garbage pile, attempting to land on his feet, his reactions betray him again and he merely rolls pathetically down, until his body collides with something and he catches himself on it. ~

Urgh...I am betrayed, not only by Bog and All His Holy Angels, sodding lot of good they were, but by my own two rookers as well.

~ Alex sighs, already feeling insect legs scrambling over his skin; all the motion has stirred the bees more than usual, and they buzz angrily in their hive, the vibrations of the noise rumbling through his body. The flies, an ever-present haze around his head, creep along his throat and once again buzz past his slightly parted lips. Angrily, he coughs and once again irritates the bees, then irritating Alex even further. ~

Grazhny insects! If I had but a canister of insecticide; I would breathe it real horrorshow to get a malenky bit of peace.

~ Cursing the hive in his chest a moment longer, he then sighs in frustration and looks at what he's caught himself on. It looks like some gigantic section of piping, possibly plumbing, jutting randomly out of the trash heap he's situated on. His hands are not as nimble as they once were; this is troublesome to him, interesting yet alarming. Now looking up ahead of him, glad to be leaving the garbage mountains of his original prison's environs, he glares up at the city before him, curious despite himself. ~

Viddy that; a city in Hell.

~ With a cautionary pace, Alex abandons the stink and the heat of the baking garbage field behind him, now stepping into this curious new environs. He's fairly exhausted through all the exertion of crawling over the garbage mountains, and the sweat on his skin is still attracting insects that buzz around his head in a constant, irritating cloud. ~

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. ~

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. ~

wetandbothered5.livejournal.com

~ It has taken Regulus Black far longer than it has in the past to make his way through the city of Dis after getting separated from his constant companion in a riot near the entrance of Six what Regulus estimates was over a day ago. The heat here is incredible, a light steam seems to hover over his body as the endless supply of water he produces evaporates only to be continually replaced, it doesn't help to try to remain inconspicuous here as he searches the Level for Barty. That is their rule they have developed - in the event of separation, stay in the Level you last saw the other until you find them again. He will, eventually, find him again, he always does. But it is a frustrating wait.
Not to mention every corner he has turned lately has presented him with creatures and situations he desperately did not want to get mixed up with - including but not exclusively: a beheading, a brawl, and several seedy shop owners who seemed the type who only wanted you to come into their stores for nefarious reasons. So though the city is probably one of the safest places for travel because few demons are on their guard looking for people who have managed to sneak out of their Levels when they're in their own city, Regulus longs for a little relative quiet.

He is on his way down toward the centre of the city where he can be off into Seven, winding through the sloping streets and sticking close to the stained and cracked brick walls, their whitewash not anything close to white anymore, when he hears voices. They grow in volume behind him, their words becoming clearer as they approach, talking so loudly it's almost as though they don't care if anyone hears them. Before he's seen, Regulus ducks into a crouch and hides behind the remains of a wooden cart to wait until whoever it is passes. ~

bigredanhorny9.livejournal.com

~ Suffering is not hard to come by in the underworld. New arrivals are forced to learn quickly that vigilance and paranoia are necessities here, as even the oldest and most cunning souls are never safe for long. However, no matter how careful, some things sneak up unseen, and slowly, something appears to be creeping up on Hell.

What seem to be small outbreaks of rashes pepper the population, as though coming from nowhere, no one able to point a finger at a source. They don't itch, don't sting, in fact they don't feel like anything at all. As pale pink splotches appear on legs and arms and stomachs, individuals with the markings silently blame anyone they've recently come in contact with. The rare small groups of people banded together start to wonder who among them might be responsible. As time passes and the lesions spread up necks and down arms and legs, growing darker and wider, entire Levels will come to think that perhaps this may be some new punishment exclusively placed upon them.
In reality, these numbed spots are more widespread than any one person might originally suspect. At first some might see the decline of sensation as something of a blessing, however the novelty dies fast as muscles succumb to a mysterious weakness - not yet pronounced enough to impede escape, but sometimes the horror of anticipation is worse then the ailment itself, and the slow degeneration brings exactly that. ~