The Temptress Ch. 05

Greetings! I thank you all so very, very much for your patience in your wait for Chapter Five. Once again, I had to almost start from scratch but this time it was due to having to complete a M-A-J-O-R rewrite of this chapter because I wanted. . . Oooops! That would be telling, wouldn't it?And I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.

Without further ado, I present. . . .

Chapter Five

To L'tirashin, her descent into the Abyss felt much like an endless fall.

As ever, the visual effect of the vortex was confusing. No matter where she gazed, it seemed as if she was always looking down into the spiraling gray and black streaks of the sirocco. Her heat-sensitive sight was of no use either, unable to penetrate the chaos of the magic around her. L'tirashin was even deprived of the reassurance of being able to see any part of her body which appeared only as a vague silhouette against the vortex. This was a first taste of what the Everdark was like for all of the damned souls who had "earned" their place in it. Even powerful wizards and ruthless tyrants found themselves humbled by their entrance to the underworld, as the effect was intended to do. L'tirashin and others of her kind, who were given the great honor of returning to the mortal realms to subjugate entire worlds or tempt influential rulers or beings into joining them, loathed returning to the Abyss as they, themselves, were not immune to the effect of the vortex. L'tirashin closed her eyes to shut out the ocular assault but the wind's cacophony never ceased as it blasted at her from what felt like everywhere at once.

Then, as though a door had been shut, there was calm and silence.

When L'tirashin opened her eyes a moment later, what she saw could have been described as a living nightmare that would have driven mad beings hopelessly sane. Farther than any eye could see, the bleak gray and black landscape of Woeful Iscandar stretched into the distance and curving ever-so-slowly upward until being lost behind the unbroken cover of the roiling, ever-present thunderheads floating above the deeply scarred and broken ground. This portion of the Abyss was perpetually locked in a gloomy twilight.

Amid the impossibly deep chasms, the towering mountain crags, and jutting columns of basalt, life---or afterlife---was as abundant as insects on a fresh corpse. Scenes of torture were common and open for all to see, not confined by the walls of cells or dungeons, allowing the torturers to let their imaginations run wild as to what they could let their victims experience. Vast pits of wriggling worms were the fate of some damned souls. With their forms altered into a larval state, they would spend unknowable years trying to escape the pit---lest they become food for a powerful demon passing by. Lakes filled with putrid waters held some more of the Everdark's residents, each one of them being eternally eaten alive by all manner of life hidden beneath the water's murky brown surface.

Not too far away from her lofty vantage point, L'tirahsin could see one of the many fields where the souls of the especially cruel were impaled on lengthy poles and left to "enjoy" the kind of torment they had inflicted on others. To her right, the demoness watched as a pack of fifty or more gnashers as they chased four times their number of wretches toward a precipice and the twisting, turning, steam-filled canyons below it. Gnashers were mindless demons who were best described as being a fang-filled mouth on a round head, sitting atop two legs that never tired of chasing its victim---even after it was caught.

One of the torments L'tirashin had yet to understand was the one in which women and men, in well-tailored clothes and carrying thin leather bags, were being alternately chased or run over by enclosed wagons with flashing lights on top that screamed at their fleeing target with a noise so piercing and shrill that it even startled some demons. "'Tis a strange multiverse we live in," she once remarked to herself.

All were familiar sights, sounds, and smells that surrounded her. Woeful Iscandar was a region of the Abyss where the souls of those who caused great misery for others spent their eternal damnation.

She was home.

But this was only one layer, one plane, of the Abyss---and there were many. No one, not even the demonic rulers or residents, knew just how many planes existed and, given the chaotic nature of the Everdark, L'tirashin doubted anyone would ever know. Some layers were separated from each other by dimensional barriers similar to those that separated the whole of the Abyss from the material universe of the ephemerals. Other regions of the Everdark were not so neatly divided from each other. At times, the division would not even be noticeable, causing more than one jealous Abyssal master or mistress to make war on his or her neighbor over a trespass that had an equal chance of being real . . or imagined.

Far off in the distance, just as the plane started to curve upward, stood a stronghold many times the size the one L'tirashin had on Tiaceor. The dark, foreboding keep towered over the mountainous crags around it an equal measure as they stood above the dark, oppressive reality of Woeful Iscandar.

Just as L'tirashin spread her wings to take advantage of her extra means of locomotion, a polite cough and a tap on her shoulder delayed her take-off. As she turned, the demoness's highly sensitive olfactory senses caught the faintest hint of a very familiar odor---and one that L'tirashin considered even more heady and intoxicating than any ephemerally created aroma.

Blood mingled with violent death.

Silently, L'tirashin regarded the newest arrival to her reality. He was a man of middle years, dressed all in black but for the white shirt adorned with what appeared to be a choke collar beneath his two long coats and vest with a thin piece of silky white cloth tied in a bow around his neck. Dark, finely-tailored trousers dressed his legs and a pair of shiny black shoes bedecked his feet. The black hat atop his head completed his ensemble as well as giving him the illusion of being almost a foot taller than was actual. In his left hand he carried a small satchel with a handle while, in his right, he carried a cane topped with an ornate gold handle. L'tirashin had to admit he did seem out of place but her keen eyes spotted a tell-tale dot of crimson on the very tip of the downward pointing corner on his otherwise pristine collar, betraying him.

The demoness inhaled deeply. The aroma of fresh, innocent blood was all about him and very unmistakable as she felt it swirl around in her nose, titillating and arousing her. L'tirashin smiled with great satisfaction and malice at the man.

"I know what you've been doing," she said with a sing-song voice but the wicked glint remained in her eyes. "You've been very, very naughty, haven't you?"

"I have no idea what what you're talking about," the man stated haughtily, though stretching his neck a bit as if his collar was just a little tight. "Do you know who I am, my good . . eh . . woman?"

L'tirashin was amused. It had most always been her experience that mortals who had just passed from whatever world they came from and found themselves in the depths of the Abyss could, on rare occasion, remain standing when face-to-face with one of the Everdark's populace. But here was a man who was standing his ground against her as if he were her equal. Beings such as this were truly rare.

And, most often, became very amusing subjects for "extra attention".

As to his question, she knew precisely who . . well, at least what . . this man was: a killer. A vile butcher who slaughtered his victims for no other reason than to satisfy some dark need in his equally black soul, a need that would never be appeased no matter how many innocents were place on the alter of sacrifice.

Too bad, L'tirashin sighed inwardly. If I were still residing here, I'd enjoy having this one as a pet. But that doesn't mean someone else can't enjoy him.

"Yes," the naked demoness replied as she slowly walked toward the man, "I do know who you are, though your name is of no use or consequence here, in the Abyss. From your smell, I can tell that you lived in a major seaport, that the climate there is cool most of the year, and that you are no stranger to blood. You murdered four . . no, five women, hated them for how you perceived them to be but relished what you did to them! Death claimed you not long after you took your last victim. That is who you are!" The face of the clean-shaven man blanched and, for the first time, L'tirashin saw terror cloud his hazel colored eyes.

"B-but . . . how?" the man stammered in disbelief, his composure starting to crack.

"Because," L'tirashin whispered as she leaned in close to him until her nose almost touched his, "I am a demon, you silly ephemeral. That's how. And this," she continued, taking one step to the side and making a sweeping gesture indicating the nightmare that was Woeful Iscandar, "this will be your home . . . for the rest of eternity!"

As the black-clad gentleman looked at the horrible vista before him, a few forgotten memories became fresh and vibrant. The ride in a handsome cab from his night's work. The walk up the steps to his house near . . . Hyde Park . . . yes, that was it. He recalled turning and re locking his front door after going inside---

Suddenly, an intense pain gripped his chest. The man clutched at his heart, letting his cane and satchel fall from his grip. As the objects tumbled toward the ground, they vanished as if they had been naught but phantoms.

But the pain the man felt was not imaginary.

"My heart!" the man gasped as the agony bent him forward. "Please! Help me!"

The demoness laughed at him.

"So," L'tirashin managed in between her chuckles, "the butcherer of women was brought low by a weak heart. How tragic! How pathetic!" Grabbing him by his collar, she lifted him up and stared fiercely into his eyes. "Remember this pain well, worm, as you will soon long for its 'tender caress'! What awaits you here will be far more excruciating than anything you have ever witnessed, imagined, experienced, or committed, in your life!" In a heartbeat, L'tirashin snapped open her wings and launched herself and her unwilling companion into the chilly air. The ground swiftly fell away and soon the pair were soaring high above the barren landscape.

As they flew, L'tirashin wondered as to whom she should deliver this damned soul. She knew her own master would probably just throw him into the larval pit, where he would eventually either be eaten by other demons or spend the rest of eternity trying to escape from the pits---just as tens of thousands of millions of other larva struggled to do. No, this one deserved a more fitting punishment. Just about that time, the demoness spotted the form of a big, hulking brute of a demon who was walking behind several hundred bent and misshapen souls, herding them across the harsh, desolate landscape with frequent cracks and lashings of his long whip.

"Shan-Dho!" L'tirashin screamed down at the demon. "Here's another deserving soul for some of your 'special attentions'!" Giving her passenger a mighty heave, L'tirashin threw the man toward the massive task master.

The demon looked up just in time to see L'tirashin cast a man clad in odd black clothes right at him. Shan-Dho, who stood almost three times as high as even the tallest of his ruck---and was an equal measure of both muscle and horn---smiled and let loose a deep and terrible laugh as he stretched out a mighty arm to catch the flailing form headed his way. Unerringly, the monstrous demon's hand found the man's neck and encircled it tightly before bringing the terrified soul within a few scant inches of his dog-like face.

"And yet another victim for me to enjoy!" Shan-Dho's voice boomed as the hand holding the man glowed with a sickly green color. Almost immediately, the man's clothes fell away from him as if they had been turned to ash, leaving him clad only in ragged remnants. With similar swiftness, his form started to twist and bend, eliciting a fresh scream of torment from the hapless soul. In only a matter of moments, the formerly well-dressed man was a distorted version of his former human self and could not be distinguished from the other wretches under Shan-Dho's not-so-tender care. The powerfully muscled fiend hurled his latest "recruit" into the crowd.

"Now, get moving, you worthless piece of shit!" the demon bellowed as he gave his extremely long, barbed whip a sharp snap across the man's back. "Get moving! All of you! We've got a long way to go and I want to get started on training you for battle! The Blood War is eternal and more troops are always welcome!" Shan-Dho's malicious laugh and a second crack of his whip served to punctuate his statement as he forced his small battalion back into motion.

L'tirashin smiled as she flew on, the frigid air not feeling quite as cold as before.

* * * *

The passage of time in the Abyss was an almost impossible thing for the mind of a non-demon to comprehend. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow. Just a perpetual and ever-present moment of now. It was as if every day that had ever been or would ever be all touched the chaos that was the Everdark at the same time. Much like the surface of an unbreakable bubble, the Abyss was surrounded by the eternal whole of time. To the inexperienced soul, what felt like the passing of decades or centuries usually amounted to no more than a handful of days, as mortals would know them.

"Amensio ligna onten romra ym nommus!" L'tirashin spoke, intoning the spell as she neared the towering edifice. Upon the utterance of the final word, a deep crimson aura enveloped the demoness. In a few moments, the radiance faded, leaving L'tirashin clad in her full battle raiment. Her armor was a deep crimson but looked formidable as both protection and as a weapon. The breast plate was better described as being two upward curving horns that covered her full breasts; her shoulder guards were also horns whose points ended at least a full hand span away from her skin. From where it was attached to the back plate, more articulated armor was strapped along the upward sweep of her wings and ended in what appeared to be stingers at the central joint. Her gauntlets were similarly covered with smaller horns and special holes in the fingertips allowed her talons to protrude. The demoness's hairy mons was only just covered by a small triangular leather patch---complete with a matching tusk---and secured to her barb-covered tail armor. Her protective leggings went from mid-thigh, down her sensuous legs, and ended in cloven hooves. They also sported two mean looking horns, sticking out to the side of each knee. Completing her ensemble was a loose fitting belt and scabbard that hung from her left hip. On her head L'tirashin wore a half-masked great helm. Even though the armor seemed to offer little in the way of protection to the wearer, the powerful enchantments worked into it during its crafting made up for any perceived short-comings. Since she had not worn it in nearly a century, her protective attire always felt a bit uncomfortable. But her helm never did. She had earned it following one of the century-long battles of the Great War fought against the Ba'atar, who ruled the Ten Hells. There were many common dimensional borders of the two malignant planes and their similar designs to conquer the multiverse made conflict inevitable. From a time pre-dating the coming of the dark gods (perhaps even before the beginning of time), the two sides had been at war with each other. L'tirashin's strategy at the Battle of Kun'ati had brought victory to the side of the Everdark---though that same ephemeral world became an open battlefield between the two infernal sides only a century later.

L'tirashin's subsequent promotion to war mistress also put her in a position of great authority as the commander of Woeful Iscandar's entire demon army. Equally, it enabled her to further her plans to attain even greater power and status. At the same time she ached for the day she would be the one who ruled Woeful Iscandar, L'tirashin knew she had to be cautious as there would be eyes on her from many sides; some of which belonged to those she used, then discarded, to aid her climb to power.

But, as was more often true than not with beings of her rank and power, L'tirashin had a powerful weapon at her disposal:

Sa'shey.

L'tirashin's completed her warrior visage when she removed the tiny, but finely crafted sword-shaped earring from its spot on her right lobe and spoke a single word of magic at the adornment. In an instant, the minuscule piece of metal grew many times its former size and weight. L'tirashin held the one thing she prized beyond almost anything else tightly in her grasp. The fearsome looking sword's name meant Life's Scourge, in elvish. To its foes, Sa'shey meant death. All along the gleaming black blade's length danced hundreds of pin-picks of light, each one the spirit of a slain enemy---and all used to power the sword's devastatingly deadly powers. With practiced ease, the demoness slid her weapon into the formerly empty scabbard with a satisfying shrringg of metal against metal.

Directly ahead was her master's fortress. While L'tirahsin had let the design of her keep be influenced to a small degree by the inhabitants of Tiaceor, her master's bore no such trace of ephemeral conception. The statement it made to those who beheld it was as plain and abrupt as it was portentous and terrifying:

Fear----without a trace of mercy.

L'tirashin was soaring so high above the drawbridge that the guards stationed to either side of it looked the size of insects. But there was still a great deal of the keep towering above her, making her appear equally insignificant. Pulling her wings in about half way, she dove down at the span hundreds of feet below. L'tirashin landed on the center of the drawbridge and strode purposefully toward the main gate. As she got closer, two of the six jackal-headed guards rushed forward to intercept her.

"Halt!" growled one of the nollwars, leveling his long halberd at L'tirashin. "Our master has forbidden entry to all seeking an audience with him. Leave now or die!"

The nollwar never even saw L'tirashin move. In a flash of black, the luckless guard hit the ground in two pieces, bisected neatly up through the middle of his body. Sa'shey had gained another soul.

Just as the second guard was thinking about attacking her, L'tirashin fixed him with a deathly gaze and cursed at him. "Cur! I'll not waste any more of my time dealing with the likes of you! I am War Mistress L'tirashin Jaduor, commander of the Doom Legions of Woeful Iscandar! Our master is expecting me and you will let me pass---unless you wish to meet the same fate as your friend!" Without saying a word, the nollwar stood aside then waved for the huge portcullis to be raised.

L'tirashin knew her way around the tremendous fortification well. She should, since it had been both her home and prison for many, many years. Brought there initially as one of twelve additions to her master's own harem, the ambitious demoness had gradually worked herself into a position of favor where she continued to labor until she eventually earned her freedom.

Well, relative freedom. She was, after all, still her master's servant.

But her own rise in status had cost many to lose theirs. L'tirashin had no doubt that a fair number of her former rivals still roamed the numerous corridors of the keep, always scheming and seeking ways to regain their master's favor.