#{ I'm setting this after our current scene so I'm assuming they struck a deal but if you want me to change it I will! }

[hazbinned]

@visage-of-hell said:

If someone had told her a year ago that she was going to be playing a fancy game of dress-up at a big froo-froo masquerade ball, rubbing elbows with some of the most influential demons in Hell, Visage would have laughed right in that person's face. And yet ... here she was--dressed to the nines, surrounded by others in their finest attire, enjoying the music that filled the halls. Life was strange, like that. Making her way to the refreshment table, she did her best to avoid the more ... 'local' fare, nibbling a few hors d'oeuvres as she people-watched. This was the sort of night where just about anything could happen ... and the inexperienced Overlord was more than ready for it.

cont. from x.

Visage was blessed with a few precious moments of nibbling her snacks alone and in peace, and then raucous laughter erupted from the opposite side of the table, behind her!

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you! Looks like it's too LATE now, though... What a shame!"

Oh, that grating, 'I'm not taking this seriously, but you should' voice. Visage, if she was anywhere near as competent as she made herself out to be, would have recognized it in an instant— it belonged to none other than Valentino, her newish "business partner!"

The only reason the pimp had ever agreed to anything with her was to put even more money in his pockets. It was starting to get stale, though. He was beginning to hope that it would expire soon; he didn't exactly enjoy lending Angel to another Overlord, even if it was only every so often.

What better way to get payback than by ruining her night?

"Yeeeah," he said, "I put something in those. You should start feeling it in a few minutes. Sorry."

A lie, for what it was worth-- but nothing about his line delivery, or reputation, was pointing that way.

"Your mask looks cool, though! ¡Que estilo!"

[madphantom]

I'm back with a Susan's Hell Sprint snippet:D

Suddenly the Dog raised his head, squinted into the breeze. As if he'd heard someone call, he leaped up and ran into the darkness of the trees.

“Hey, don't run away!”, I yelled and ran after him, but after a few steps I realized he was a great deal faster than me. I turned around. “Any idea where he might have gone?”

Rory chewed his lip.

“Hmmmm,” he said. “A vague one.”

“The cemetery is larger than it looks at first glance,” Rory explained while we walked down an overgrown footpath leading into the direction the Dog had ran. “If you walk through the treeline, you'll find a second chapel and some graves. All abandoned of course.”

I skipped over to his side. “Why abandoned?”

He chuckled. “Fear.”

“Oh? Is this another ghost story?”

“In a way.” We crossed the treeline and instantly, a cold breeze blew my hair out of my face. I shivered. Something fluttered in the treetops.

“Once upon a time there were seven friends who wanted to build a house where they could all live together,” Rory began and his voice was light as the leaves crackling beneath our footsteps. “They looked for a good place for a long time, until finally, they set foot in a valley, and knew it was right. The long grass swaying in the soft breeze, the lake glittering in the pale spring sun, the green hills and fragrant woods…they all seemed to call for someone to find their peace here.”

“I'm gonna go ahead and assume it was this valley.”

His thin lips curled into a fine smile. “You're absolutely correct. As I said, the moment they arrived in this valley, they knew it was their destiny to stay forever. And so the friends began to build a house.

It was a long and tedious process, but they were friends, and they built it with mutual joy and happiness in their hearts. And after seven months, the house was completed, and the friends moved in and celebrated all night long.” He hesitated. “But when they were drunk with wine and unable to defend themselves, tragedy struck.”

A dry branch broke beneath my foot and I jumped. The sudden sound had set the scene.

Rory's voice cracked a little when he continued. “A...a group of intruders broke into their peaceful home, eager for blood and screams. For seven days, the men tortured the friends and murdered them one by one.”

“That took a dark turn,” I commented. For some reason, my heart was drumming.

Rory climbed over a dead, skeletal tree that had fallen over the path and I followed. The bleached wood was smooth and cool under my fingertips.

“Dark turns are frequent here.” He chuckled. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”

I shrugged. “Of course.” Then I squinted when I saw the outline of something large among the trees. “What's that?”

“That, my dear, is the abandoned chapel,” Rory explained and we stepped onto the clearing.

The chapel was not gigantic, but also not too small. The bells in the tower occasionally made soft, deep sounds in the wind. Weathered angel statues, their wings chipped and partially broken off, seamed the half open door, guarding the entrance. By the chapel stood seven overgrown gravestones.

Rory walked over to the left side of the row. “The first was drowned in the lake on a moonlit night, and sank like a stone to sleep with the fishes.” His voice was melancholic. “His bones rested among pebbles, algae grew in his ribs and great carps tugged and tore at his white skin and flesh, until the current carried him to the banks and he was found, tangled in the roots of a willow tree.”

He walked over to the second grave and a crow called somewhere in the woods.

“The second was strung up in a tree, and his lifeless body still swayed among the branches for months after, until the rope snapped and he landed in the thorny foliage, tangled up and slowly consumed by the brambles.”

Two steps, the next gravestone.

“The third was given a merciful death by one of the less inhuman crooks, choked by a pillow in the house he had built, the very house he had wanted to find peace in. His body was left in the bed, still sore from the beatings, and blood and skin soaked the once pristine sheets.”

I shivered as he walked over to the next grave.

“The fourth was beaten bloody and senseless, and pushed face down into a roadside pond. Silvery bubbles rose up from among his long hair, but he was unable to move. He died, gargling muddy water, floating just beneath the surface.”

Just like Aunt Dot, I thought and as if he'd read my thoughts he glanced up. “You alright?”

I nodded. “Yes, keep going.”

“The fifth was brought into the hills, his face skinned off with a rusty knife, and he rolled around the rocks and tall grass in anguish and blinding pain, until he succumbed to his wounds.

The sixth was tied to a tree out in the field and starved. For six days he fought the weakness in his bones, until his body gave in and he curled up like a leashed dog and died, his ribcage exposed as if he had already passed a long time ago.”

Something poked me in the side and I flinched. When I looked down the Dog looked back, wagging his tail. I got on my knees and ran my fingers over his soft fur. It was comforting.

“Good boy,” I whispered. When I glanced up, Rory was standing on the side of the seventh grave, his nose scrunched up, as it always was when he was skeptical about something.

“What happened to the seventh friend?”, I asked. “Did they kill him too?”

“Oh.” He smiled a little, but it was an oddly cynical smile. “No, they let him live. Someone has to tell the story, they told him. But they didn't want to make it too easy for him, so they led him to the edge of the woods, where he could just about see the lights of the nearest house, and then they cut his eyes out. And laughing, they left him there, and told him to find someone who'd want to listen to him now.”

“Oh my God.” I paused, breathless. “Did he find the village?”

Rory smiled. “Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact he did. He collapsed on the doorstep of the first house, pleading for help, and help came. A family lived in that house, and they took him in, and they treated his wounds and listened to his story. Meanwhile, a search party set out. They found the six other friends, but the murderers were long gone, and all that was left was the house, and the curtains blowing in the wind, and the moon reflecting in the lake, and the age old peaceful silence in the valley.

Well, what can I say? The six were buried while the seventh still fought for his life in the family's guest bedroom. Three days after the funeral, the fever finally won.

But when he died, he made a promise to that family. He promised that he would not let what had happened to him and his friends turn him into a vengeful revenant. He promised that he would believe in the goodness of humanity. And he would protect it…no matter the cost.”

He trailed off, staring into the shadows among the trees, and I realized his hands were shaking ever so slightly.

“That's a sad story,” I said.

Rory turned to me and smirked. “But it's true.”