Dante's Legacy (IC)

[Weiss]

[fieldbox="Lady Macbeth, darkred, solid, 10"]

The War Room was accessible only after dozens of flights of black, marble steps. Arthur's champion and the greatest bard in all of Greece paced on ahead of Lady Macbeth with caution. While Lancelot's hand grasped the cold, iron handrails being careful not to fall slip and enter the Damned's second slumber, Orpheus, like the musician he was, tapped his fingers upon the balustrades and created a metallic beat. Though armless, Gruoch paced along behind the two men with grace and poise. When the trio arrived below the castle, Gruoch was treated to the sight of a grandiose undercroft of carnal pillars that held Lancelot's fortress together. Embellished upon them were intricately sculpted faces featuring orgasmic expressions, and the very air was even more moist than Lust's naturally thick atmosphere. Chains dangled from the ceiling, and the sounds within were the echoing of both the clanging chains, squeaking demonic rats, and the pitter-patter of water. Strange enough, this castle was not unlike her and her husband's castle... or rather, the castle they stole from the kind King Duncan. Gruoch closed her eyes, listening to the distinct steps of both Lancelot and Orpheus, as she did not wish to be reminded of her past life.

At the end of this labyrinthian place, the trio entered an indistinct wooden door. The War Room was far below the castle proper, and if Gruoch was correct, they were directly underneath the open battlements or the stables. Opening the door, Lancelot allowed the lady, then the bard, to go inside before he himself enters and closes the door. This room's only source of light were candles that seemed to never melt, glowing mushrooms of hellish origins, and the crimson eyes of the demonic rats that scurried to and fro. Orpheus, Gruoch, and Lancelot sat before a Round Table (perhaps Lancelot's reminder of the "good old days") and unfurled a map of Lust.

[GLOW=blue]"There..."[/GLOW] He pointed to a blood 'X' in the heart of the dense forest. [GLOW=blue]"There lies the seductress... Circe!"[/GLOW] The very name sent chills down the Knight's spine... this made the Sanguimancer uneasy, because she remembered Lancelot to be imbued with matchless courage and near unbeatable in battle. "M-my Lord? Your face... 'tis the very painting of thy fear."

Just then, the bells rang. "What! Attacked, are we?" The trio ran upstairs. When they got to the gate, no demons were there. Instead, a lowly Damned squire sought Lancelot himself. The squire called his Lord and up they went to the stone watchtower, where a sentinel had directed the Arthurian hero eyes to a tower of smoke in the far distance. Whispers we exchanged above head, while down below, Gruoch and Orpheus exchanged worried and confused looks. Lancelot slid and ran to the stables.

[GLOW=blue]"There is a fire near Circe's castle… if the winds pick up, then all of Lust will burn."[/GLOW]

"Could it be? Once, I pretended to sleep and I saw that madman roast fish with his blade during our seven days at sea." She whispered, recalling a night when her vision was blurred by her squinting eyes, and only the flames of Mordred's blade illuminated in the darkness. Then, she readied a whip of thickened ichor should the Black Knight turn, but reabsorbed her lifeblood once he used it for more practical matters.

Orpheus nodded, and the duo followed suit.

[GLOW=blue]"Saddle yourselves, friends of the Polis. Choose a steed and ride with me. Lady, come with me, lest you fall!"[/GLOW] Lancelot uttered, helping Gruoch to his own saddle before riding his demonic horse himself. Even in Hell, this man was chivalric in every way!

The Hellsteeds

Lancelot and Grouch's steed appeared pale. Its ashen skin was, upon closer inspection, somewhat transparent, giving sight's way to bone and rot. Its mane was wispy, and like a specter, it flowed in the wind. Smoke and ash wouldst emanate from its pores, while its lower regions were adorned with cement-like armor. Purple muscle-tissue would peep through its cracks, and its hooves seemed to melt like tar, or blend with the shadows. Only if one's eyes draw closer would they realize that the hooves are perfectly intact. Its beady eyes gleamed with a pink energy, and it neighed like a ghost. Meanwhile, the steed Orpheus took appeared stereotypically of Hell itself–a two-headed steed with horned skulls instead of heads itself, with flames rupturing forth from empty sockets, and red muscle tissue as its body.

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[/fieldbox]

 

[Gooby]

[fieldbox="The Brothers, #E19044, solid"]

The dense forest filled with leafless and lifeless trees were no place for the Arabians. For all of their mortal lives, their home had always been the vast deserts of Persia, and they have not seen anything green and lush other than plants near various oases. Even in death, they were put in the mountainous regions of the Circle of Greed, punished to forever push boulders atop hills. Even if Algol wasn't there, the lack of humidity and heat made Qasim and Ali Baba feel at home. The heat of Mordred's fire reminded the Arabs of their home. They rarely spoke to one another, and the grimness of the Black Knight made the Brothers become silent also. Ali Baba was afraid of him, while Qasim saw him as a worthy challenger. If only this Qasim could go back to his time as a mortal man, who was a greedy coward... now, he's just greedy.

The Brothers walked behind the Knight. The pig Qasim was carrying began to slowly cook in the heat of the flames, and soon, the very air began to smell of roasted boar, peppered by the ash and soot of the gnarled bark. Qasim, an easily famished individual, felt the great temptation to sink his obsidian teeth into the suckling pig's crisping flesh. He nibbled lightly on the rib, stopping completely the moment they arrived in a dull and soulless grove. Just before them stood a mighty palace that was adorned with phallic and yonic images and obsidian statues portraying any and all forms of bodily vulgarities and absurdities. It was erotic to the highest degree, and the squeamish Ali Baba closed his eye. Then, from out of the blue, a silhouette of black shadows and lavender light appeared for a brief second. In that second, the Brothers heard her alluring voice inviting them into the tower.

Qasim was drawn to the voice. When he was alive, he indulged himself with as many women and wives he could afford with his vast inheritance and income. He did have a wife, yes, but his greed prevented him from being satisfied or content with her. Dazed, Qasim paced forward, only to snap back into reality as demonic shrieks filled the air. Ali Baba unsheathed his whip and with a stance, the Brothers readied for battle.

"Do you remember these beasts?" Qasim asked his other half, and with a sigh, Ali Baba nodded. They remembered how badly beaten they were when they got to the docks of the Polis. Gluttony was the most challenging Circle for them, and by the time they got to Lust, their only option was stealth. Unfortunately, some Olitiau uncovered them, and the Brothers were forced to fight. They almost died their last time here, but they weren't going to let that happen again. Glancing over to Mordred, Qasim encouraged the knight with a battlecry. "Allahu Akbar!" they screamed, invoking the strength of the Heavens to aid them in battle.

With superhuman strength, Qasim threw the roasted pig towards one of the beasts. The Olitiau, known for their near insatiable hunger, butchered the pig mid-air. While they were distracted with their appetizer, Ali Baba swung his whip, capturing one of the demons' crab-like legs. The Brothers hastened themselves and ran below the demon and opposite of where it flew. This caused the Olitiau's flight pattern to break and be dragged through the air like a child pulling a kite in the middle of the woods. Its body began snapping the treetops and crashing into trunks and branches, and the air was filled with its whimpering. Qasim held Ali Baba's weapon and slammed it to the ground, bringing the Olitiau down like a moon rock that fell from the cosmos. Its crustaceous body shattered like an egg, and by the time Mordred tore the wings off his quarry, Ali Baba and Qasim mounted atop theirs, punching its face on, and on, and on again.

Caught up in beating his prey to a blackened and bloodied pulp, the Brothers forgot the presence of the other. Like a hawk, and the Brothers the mice, the remaining bat-demon swooped down and sunk their jagged, needle-like teeth deep into Ali's ribs. The man screamed and in turn, the Brothers were captured. In the ensuing battle, Ali Baba dropped his whip into the burning forest. While Qasim attempted to pry open the monster's jaws, Ali Baba began punching the snout of the monster. Finally, the Olitiau released them and spat them out of its mouth... and into the balcony of the dark palace.

Their single body rolled down with Ali Baba's side bleeding on the ground. Qasim tried to cover his brother's wounds, but still, red blood dripped on the stone floor. Just then, right before their very eyes, the woman in purple light appeared.​

[/fieldbox]

 

[Juicebox Jane]

Tomoe Gozen

She was alone.​

A mild curiosity was scribbled across the woman's face as she rose from the contorted branches upon which she sat. What piqued her curiosity was that of a winged creature, howling in the dead of night. Her eyes followed the beast and not long after, so too, did her feet. What's this? thought Tomoe, who soon equipped her bow and placed two infested arrows firmly between her index, middle, and ring fingers. Her kimono, silky blue and sporting flowers, swam in the wind, which increased in power. Tomoe leapt more from one branch to the next. She was amazed with herself since she could not move this fast without snapping a few twigs or waking Lust's non-sentient creatures. The demon began to circle in the skies. Did it sense her? She was doubtful. Her eyes dared to peep below the treetops, and there she saw a knight amidst the fiery clearing. He was handsome. She felt attracted. It was him, the demon smelled. The demon flapped its wings and with a final shriek, dived to snatch Mordred away.

Zoom!​

Two arrows, buzzing with the sound of flies, soared through the winds. They engaged each other in an intricate aerial dance, spinning around each other and forming a double helix. The monster was dazed by the sudden movements, but faster than the monster can do anything, the two arrows danced in and through the Olitiau's wings. Once a monster with its own dark form of grace in the skies now plummeted to the earth with none at all. As it fell, the arrows punctured the beast's stomach, causing its blood and viscous fluids to shower the flames, extinguishing some of them. It fell and landed with a great crash, wheezing helplessly before the knight. A gift, from her to him. Tomoe's demonic, worm-like eye returned back into her socket and at once she covered this with her eye patch. She had forgotten what it was like to interact with other men and so, like the socially inept individual she was, threw herself from the woody heights and landed silently upon the clearing and walked warily to the knight. The arrows flew back and rested once more in her quiver.

Tomoe, with her smothered geisha makeup, concealed demonic eye, torn kimono, and heavily-adorned hair, brandished her yumi and arrows, taking aim at the rugged knight. Without a word, Tomoe gestured for the man to kill the beast before him.

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[Damien Kriez]

[fieldbox="Master Post, white, solid, 30"]

Mere moments after their Lord Commander issued the order, Lancelot's squires unshackled the drawbridge with grim visages, as if the threat they faced was more dangerous than even the demons of the Inferno. The urgency of the drawbridge's descent was as quick as Lancelot's hurried nature, and rightly so. The Hellsteeds, with the bard, the sanguimancer, and the knight atop them, galloped with haste in their blood and fire in their sockets. They darted forth from the fortress and into the wilderness, treading upon and making dust the fallen twigs of Lust's gnarled trees. Orpheus held the reins firmly between his palms, his face etched with an affrighted expression. Of course, being seated upon the saddle of a two-headed demon both literally aflame, and figuratively with passion, and with the internal heat emanating from its undead body making warm one's haunches, Orpheus' feelings of worry is in no way an overreaction. "I can't believe it." the bard's mind mulled over to Lancelot's words in the War Room. As he did so, a new expression, that of concern for the party, replaced his Hellhorse-related worries. He remembered vividly how wide his eyes grew at the sound of Circe's name. "Do we really stand a chance?" Orpheus thought, glancing over to Lancelot and Gruoch upon their steed, which raced and melded with the miasmatic wind, until ultimately gluing his eyes to the path beyond them. With his gaze unbroken from the path before him, Orpheus readied himself for the ensuing chaos, when a single drop of rain fell from the unlit sky, and a crack of thunder ruptured from the thickening clouds.

[glow=blue]"We draw near!"[/glow] Lancelot uttered, with Gruoch around his arms and his Hellhorse's reins gripped between his ferrous hands. His voice was stalwart, unscathed by and even tempered by the horrors of Hell. As they rode, the clouds had begun to weep, spraying the land with raindrops and bedimming Mordred's duvet of flames. The winds, once more, began to howl, causing the treetops to dance in the wake of it. Even then, a tower of smoke guided Oprheus, Gruoch, and Lancelot to the heart of the fire. "Look!" Gruoch exclaimed, her eyes glued to what seemed to be the chiropteran monster falling from the sky. "There's no time to waste!" Orpheus spurred his demonic steed, compelling the beast to sprint as fast as it could.
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Meanwhile, Mordred followed the other Olitiau with his eyes, hoping, praying it would descend. Two Olitiau were naught for the Black Knight, and even if a third would garner little difference, Mordred wished even now to prove his own mettle. This belligerent spirit within the traitor king seethed within him, singeing any and all forethought and concern, if there ever were any, for Ali Baba and Qasim. Mordred cracked his knuckles and kept his eyes, burning with the fervour and ecstasy of combat, locked unto the demon's. "Come forth, vile creature! Come and meet your maker!" Mordred's voice erupted from his cold, crisp lips, and his words had become a stylised battlecry on their own. With his oración answered, the demon plummeted towards the Knight, a bloodthirsty screech rupturing the monster's throat. Truly, the power of prayer is strong. However, even in the very depths of Hell, God's mysterious work is alive, and as the Olitiau was about to sink his claws into Mordred's armour, two arrows zoomed into the scene and through the demon's wings, making it fall without honour before the Knight's toes.

Mordred became cautious, but more than anything, he felt an ire brewing up within himself. "Who dares!" he muttered, his eyes shifting from one tree to another. Suddenly, a woman in oriental tatters leapt from the shadows of the forest, landing before the Black Knight with a curiosity in her raised brow. Mordred could faintly hear the sounds of wriggling pests within her, and though this bothered Mordred not, the totality of the woman before him compelled him to wonder. In his time in Lust, he has not seen this woman, nor anyone with her garb. She motioned her hand, telling Mordred without words to kill the beast. The nerve of her, to direct the one true heir to Arthur's throne, a king by birthright, to do such a menial task. Mordred, however, could not say no to ending another demon's life. Mordred placed his heel atop the Olitiau's head and with a stomp, crunched and crushed the chiropteran as if it were a fallen fruit. Thereafter, Mordred scraped the blood and brain matter upon the ground. "Now... Who are you, savage?" It was now, at this very moment, that the rain began to pour.
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"Ah, 'tis a visitor. My, aren't you the strong one?" A woman, bearing runic wounds that radiated lavender light which seemed to spark in instability, sauntered over alluringly to the bleeding Brothers before her. She bore skin of a peculiar mishmash of healthy flesh and dying grey, as if life and death themselves had warred within her. A pair of horns spiralled from the sides of her head. The woman was dressed in lush and lustful silk of a transparent black hue and low-cut, skin-tight leathers, as well as a corset that stifled her waist as if a vengeful hand around a man's neck. The Arabs bled profusely upon the black marble of Circe's chamber floor, prompting the witch to tut her fingers and invoke her mystic energies, all the while shaking her head left and right in disappointment. "Now that won't do, will it? I've just had this room cleaned." Her energies engulfed the Ali Baba and Qasim, causing them to float. "Elpenor, darling, clean this mess now, would you kindly?" She called, turning her back to the Brothers and walking to and sitting upon her soft mattress. As they waited for Elpenor, the Brothers spat questions and observed his surroundings. Unbeknownst to their captor, Circe knew not that they were two people in one.

The room wherein the Brothers were thrown was illustrious and magnificent, fit for a queen and more. Unlike Lancelot's keep, which, in all aspects of design, mirrored Medieval architecture and decor, Circe's palace exhibited a Hellenic motif with a demonic twist—in the stead of Greek pillars, obsidian pillars adorned with serpents and erotic effigies; doorless doorways leading to empty halls; a rug made from the hide of a giant boar; decapitated pig heads mounted on the walls; wooden tables with immortal candles and ale cups made from swine tusks; a bed of silk and Heavenly comfort that appeared large enough to fit five people beneath a beautiful painting of Circe herself. Even when the thunderous cracks of lightning frequented the skies and the winds began howling ever so stronger, an ethereal silence had befallen the environment in which the Brothers stayed, until the sounds of a large clapping filled and echoed within Circe's chambers.
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Circe greeted the transformed Elpenor with a smile before pointing to the plash of Arabic blood on the floor. With a single grunt, the still-Greek armoured, malformed swine extended a long, corpulent tongue and lapped the blood like a thirsty dog and water. The sorceress and her pet then exchanged nods, before Elpenor footslogged back to whence he came. She looked back at the hovering Brothers, their dripping blood now caught by Circe's telekinetic powers. With a tug of clenched fist, he came flying to her arms. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes." With her fingers, she clawed Ali Baba's temple and kissed the single-bodied brothers passionately. While Qasim closed his eye in genuine pleasure, Ali Baba's eye closed due to his life being siphoned. Before long, the Brothers were no more. Only Qasim was left. Wiping her lips, Circe snapped her fingers, and pig-like demons carried the unconscious Qasim, or to the unknowing Circe, dead Arabian, to the feeding grounds.
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With a victorious grin etched upon her face, Circe strolled out once more to the balcony. She surveyed the lands from palace Aeaea, frowning at the sight of the uniting party.​

[/fieldbox]

 

[Weiss]

[fieldbox="Lady Macbeth, darkred, solid, 10"]

Gruoch bestrode the illusory steed safely coddled between Lancelot's arms, with the reins clasped between tightly clenched fists. After forewarning them of the falling monster, Lady Macbeth glanced on over to the bard Orpheus and his burning mount as they raced on ahead. With the speed and power of the wind intensifying, the rain beginning to pour at an unprecedented rate, and thunder and lightning breaking forth from each and every fissure in the clouds, the route upon which they rode became more and more dangerous. The horses' clip clops dissolved into the cacophonous environs as their hooves treaded on softened, muddied earth. The winds, they carried with them the sound of moaning, howling phantoms, as they snapped branches and twigs from the treetops. Sooner than later, even the trees, in their entirety, fell upon one another. Fortunately for them, at long last, they entered the clearing which, while subject to the strength of the tempest winds and nigh ceaseless downpour, was safe for the most part.

There, in the clearing, laid three familiar carcasses. One still twitching near the tree, one wingless, and the other, headless under Mordred's boot. With Lancelot's aid, she dismounted from the saddle and ran towards Medraut and the woman whose arrows were aimed for her companion's head. The winds prevented her from forming a stable tendril of blood, and instead, the cloaked Lady stood between this assassin and the Black Knight. "Stop, this man is with us!" Gruoch exclaimed.

Lancelot, who held the steeds in place, narrowed his eyes over yonder, to where Medraut, Gruoch, and Tomoe now stood. His blood then boiled and released the reins of his spectral horse, caring not if it would flee at the sound of lightning. Without warning, he sprinted to the group and with a clenched fist, struck Mordred in the jaw, making him tumble. "Lord Commander! What i-" Before her words could be said, Lancelot summoned a blade from his wrists.

[GLOW=blue]"BASTARD!"[/glow][/fieldbox]​

 

[Gooby]

"Where are we?"​ Ali Baba whispered, wincing from his deep wounds. The Olitiau's teeth within his flesh were excruciating—a feeling he hadn't felt since he decided to leave the alpine lands of Greed. "Quiet, fool!"​ Qasim retaliated, seeing the woman emerge from the shadows. When Circe lifted them up with her magic, Ali Baba spoke to his elder twin in the corners of his mind, exchanging his thoughts. "She doesn't appear to know we exist in one body. I know not why, but let me and only me speak!" Ali Baba's elder brother never had good judgment. In fact, it was his lack of it that landed Qasim in Hell first, being so greedy as to forget two simple words. Qasim did not attest.

As they levitated from the ground, the younger twin opened his mouth. "What is it you want? Wealth? Freedom? Salvation? Help us reach Greed, and you will be given riches to live in the Polis, or better yet, come with us to the lands beyond Lucifer's tomb, where the gate to Mount Purgatory lies!" he said with a calm and collected voice. If it were Qasim calling the shots, he would have already damned them to death. Still, Circe only smiled and snickered at the younger brother's suggestions.

As the large pig demon entered the room, Ali Baba gulped. He hoped they would not have to fight, while Qasim hoped for the opposite. However, since the Brothers' golden whip fell from their belt, only Qasim, with his fists, could be of help. Just then, they were pulled closer to Circe and were abruptly kissed. Qasim loved the feeling of a woman's lips to his own, even if it was strewn with earth. In his pleasure, he did not hear Ali Baba's spirit scream for him until the very end.

"Wh-what's happening???" Ali Baba thought. Inside their head, his image began to fade. "Qasim! Help!" The younger brother reached his hand, which had since become transparent. Qasim looked worried and reached out to his brother in his mind, but Ali Baba's spirit shattered like glass, turned to dust, and simply faded away. "Ali Baba! Younger brother! Nooooooo!!!"

Qasim, now alone, blacked out. His body was brought to Circe's palace catacombs.

Thirty minutes later, he awoke. "Brother? I've had a terrible nightmare." He said, but no other words followed. "Brother? Ali Baba?" He clenched his fists and screamed in anger! It was true after all—Ali Baba was gone. Even his young brother's more lanky body and head with long hair was gone, and what was left was Qasim–a dark-skinned, muscular man with a shaven head, riddled with jagged rocks and crystals all around his body.

Now, Qasim was surrounded in darkness. It was a cavernous and dark place. Qasim could hear the pouring rains from just above him. But, that wasn't all he heard. From the shadows, he could hear demons. He adjusted himself, taking up a fist-fighting stance. ​

 

[Juicebox Jane]

Tomoe Gozen

"My name is Tomoe Gozen, protector of these lands."

To the ears, Tomoe's voice and slight Japanese accent was honeyed, perhaps even silverly. It was clear, pleasant, immaculate, and young. She, however, appeared feisty, deadly, even. Despite her petite size, she saw Mordred as no more than another quarry to fill arrowheads with. That is, after playing with him like the cat she was. That is, until two horses of Hell appeared from the shrubbery: one was semi-transparent with glowing eyes and the other, a burning monster with two skeletal heads. Riding them were a woman with red hair, freckles, and a large cloak that seemed to be drenched with... something viscous; a young man with platinum blonde hair and leafy antlers; and finally, Lancelot, whom she had hostilities with in the past.

The redhead dismounted, ran to Tomoe, and stopped her from keeping aim at Mordred's head. To this, she followed. Why, she would for other women. Why this lady allied herself with Lancelot and his Dark Age ne'er-do-wells, she may never know. The Amazon-like person stepped back a few, until she saw Lancelot sprint towards the little group with fire in his eyes. Tomoe's first reaction was to flee.

"He's coming for me!"

Tomoe stepped back once more, sheathed her bow to a strap behind her, and bent her knees to jump. What came next, she was surprised by: the image of Lancelot punching the dark knight, causing him to roll to the ground. The golden, skull-like knight mounted himself on top of Mordred and put a blade against the Dark Knight's throat.

"What's going on!?"

She unsheathed her bow again and aimed for the two men, confused by the chaos. ​

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[The Philosoraptor]

[fieldbox=Mordred, purple]

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Without pausing, Mordred snapped up his palms, catching Lancelot's sword between them. With a slight application of pressure, the metal snapped. In a second, he spun the larger shard around in his hand and plunged it towards Lancelot's heart. Unfortunately, Hell had been a bit too kind to the both of them. Lancelot launched out his hand and closed a fist on the blade a mere fingerspan from his heart, twisting it out of Mordred's grasp before raising his armored leg in between the two and kicking Mordred into a tree. Shaking away the fog settling over his mind, Mordred sprinted back towards his opponent. But as Lancelot summoned another sword and prepared to impale his enemy, Mordred leapt off the ground, careening over Lancelot whilst grabbing him by the shoulders. When Mordred hit the ground, he launched Lancelot a dozen meters back up the path he came down from, stunning a Hellsteed when the knight cannon-balled into it.

"You haven't lost your touch, Lancelot! It's as womanly as ever! Maybe that's why Father's whore loved it so much." Gritting his teeth and rising to his feet, Lancelot spat a globule of blood from his mouth before summoning two more swords, holding one in each hand.

"Do not speak of her, Kinslayer, nor of Arthur! You lost the right to call him your blood when you stole his kingdom and took his life!"

"And you think you have the right to defend his honor, Queenfucker? Whom among us truly betrayed our beloved King? The son he never loved? Or the best friend of his heart?" Mordred practically spat every word. With a smooth and patient motion, he drew Clarent and held it in a two-handed grip, hilt pointed to the ground, and tip to Lancelot's heart. The lengthy and ashen blade sparkled with motes of heat, a blaze that longed for release from its earthen prison. "Your sins are greatest, Sir Knight." When Mordred kicked off the ground, Lancelot sprinted after him. The two met in the middle: Kinslayer from above, Traitor-Knight from below. Mordred fell like the Morning Star, a living blaze of hellish fury, while Lancelot rose to meet him, his twin blades flickering with the same righteous anger of his eyes. They collided with the boom of a thunderhead, and seemed to hang in the air for a moment before Mordred cast his foe into the dirt of Lust. Before he could even get back to his feet, Lancelot was on the defensive, barely fending off the fiery chops of Clarent. He hadn't a second to think about going in for a jab. His only thoughts were to stand and fight. And he did.

The duel lasted for only a minute, but for the knights it felt like an eternity. When he was on his feet, Lancelot managed to match Mordred's wrathful strikes with his own, and before long the two locked swords. "Concede, Mordred! You cannot hope to win!"

"You were only the greatest knight in Camelot because I allowed you to be, du Lac." Summoning a surge of rage, Mordred pushed Lancelot back. Clarent's edge cut through Lancelot's nameless blades, leaving a smoking gash across his breastplate. In the same moment Mordred dashed forward, leapt up, and delivered a downward kick that dented Lancelot's armor and knocked the wind out of his lungs as he hit the ground. Holding him down with a heavy booted foot, Mordred held the burning tip of Clarent to Lancelot's throat. "Tell me, old friend, before you die. Did you ever even suffer for your crimes all these years? Did you ever burn in the fires the priests always screamed of?"

The fallen knight, defeated physically and emotionally, gave out a ragged cough, sending a spray of blood into the air. "You... Have to know the answer, Mordred. You, of all people... would." The anger drained from his eyes, though the strength remained. Memories of the cold and ice came back to Mordred. The screams that drove away dreams. A brief but visible shudder ran through him. For the first time since their fight began, Mordred looked at Lancelot, and saw what he hadn't before. While they'd played at the game of swords, he had only remembered the duels, and true battles, of ages past. The proud, handsome, and king-sworn knight dueling the rugged, psychotic, and inhuman usurper. And all that remained of those times were a corpse-like, tortured madman and a tired, broken ex-crusader. Where directionless rage had burned in Mordred's eyes, pity and, God forbid, empathy held frozen. Gone were the times that had been his reason for living. Gone the enemies that had made him feel alive. Gone were the times when he was alive.

"Yes, Lancelot. I think I do." The grounded knight gave one last look that spoke of peace finally found before he closed his eyes and dreamed of a better day, knowing what would come next. Mordred's eyes remained fixed, determined to remember this moment. Not as a victory. There would be no gratification from this death. Not from this one, he thought. And, perhaps, never again. The sword came down.[/fieldbox]

 

[Juicebox Jane]

Tomoe Gozen

Tomoe was at a loss for words.

Her outstretched arm gave in to its own fatigue, for the skirmish between knights, though in truth short, seemed to be as eternal as the Hell that housed these souls. Their clashing armors emulated the thrumming of cracking thunder, while their parrying and ceaseless swordplay mimicked the tintinnabulations of bells. With bowstring undrawn and question unanswered, Tomoe, along with the others, gazed upon the clash with widened eyes. Lancelot never fought Tomoe with as much intensity or hatred, and this sight worried her. Every violent encounter she had with the adulterer had been stamped by mercy's seal–the times Lancelot pinned her down, his blades teased the flesh of her neck with caresses. Her neck had only ever been embraced between his irons and as such, no blood was ever let. This godly knight showed her forbearance in the heat of battle, even when Tomoe herself branded him as one of her prime targets. If Tomoe, as a mortal, was shown mercy and given the grace to live again, she would thereafter commit seppuku without hesitation. That was her culture–die with honor intact than to live otherwise. Perhaps it was Lancelot's benign attitude, or the fact that Hell, in many ways, unites cultures and beliefs. Whatever the reason, the archer was compelled to ponder over the notion of second chances. This knight never wanted to kill Tomoe... but this was a different story, and Lancelot crossed swords with a different foe.​

"Just this once."

Zoom!

She loosed two more arrows in the air. Quickly, they were engulfed by the clouds. At this moment, Mordred brought the skeletal captain to his knees, a feat she once thought impossible. The two men saturated the very air with their spirited words. The intensity of their dialogue painted a tragic picture of brokenness and contempt, a picture Tomoe could only imagine. Suddenly, when all their words were spat, there came a silence that defeaned the onlookers. The weight of the dark knight's gauntlets then aided in Clarent's descent. That was it... Lancelot was done for. Her age-old foe, cut down and immolated by the blade of another.

This was not what she wanted.

The arrows returned, one piercing the pitch black chevalier in his dominant hand. The arrowhead dove deep within the gauntlet's backside, then flesh, then finally, Mordred's palm. Upon exiting, the sharpened tip of her savage arrow collided with Clarent's handle, dislodging it from the knight's grip. It fell not on the adulterer, but rather the putrid mud of the drizzled earth. The dancing flames of the Coward's Blade were reduced into a dainty fire no more intense than that of a torch. The other arrow pierced Mordred's left knee, unbalancing him.

"Just this once..."

​

​

 

[Weiss]

[fieldbox="Lady Macbeth, darkred, solid, 10"]

It happened all too fast: Lancelot and Mordred, at each other's throats, enmeshed in the chaotic exchange of intricate swordplay and barbarous fisticuffs. It was far from a sight to behold. In their eyes, the desire to rid the world of the other burned brightly so. The whys and wherefores of their animosity towards one another, the Lady knew not, but whatever the case, Orpheus, Gruoch, and Tomoe were in the crossfire. Rivulets of blood trickled down from her perpetual wounds, soaking her dusty, pine cloak and rags. Her flesh, once tinted with a healthy glow, ebbed into a sickly, nigh lifeless pale. Juxtaposed to her deathly hue, Lady Macbeth's visage was then riddled by the purples, reds, and blues of her facial veins as if her very face had been stroked by countless quills. Her pupils too, from the standard brown of the Scottish people, reddened with the mystic energies that permeated her spirit. The streams of blood levitated and coiled around one another, gifting the Lady with two sanguine prostheses. Aside from the sanguine hue and the ichorous texture, the detail of Gruoch's arms appeared no different from human arms and hands. The Lady balled her "fists" and stretched her "fingers", attuning herself to her own, rarely used appendages.

Gruoch turned her head towards her ally, gazing upon Orpheus as he watched the battle unfold, all with an anxious heart. She extended her right arm towards his direction, invoking a wriggling, serpentine tentacle of ichor that ruptured forth from her left shoulder. The tentacle distended towards the minstrel, coiling around his slender waist. Simultaneously, Gruoch leapt back, distancing herself from the Lord Commander and the Traitor King. Her abrupt movements pulled the bard closer to her and away from the knightly duel. As Tomoe loosed the arrows, she too was pulled to safety with another tentacle from Gruoch's righthand side.

Then, at that moment, after Orpheus and Tomoe were whisked away by her power, Gruoch bit her lip and closed her eyes. She was unprepared, or rather, unwilling to see what came next. Gruoch winced back, assuming the sound of embers engulfing the noble Lancelot would fill the very air, along with the accompaniment of his screams. In lieu of this, the sound of arrows piercing Mordred's kneecap and palm followed. Mordred's groans and grunts escaped his lips as he and his fiery blade fell. She opened her eyes once more and, seeing the opportunity, extended her tentacles and carried Lancelot to safety.

"Wh-what is the meaning of this?" She said, her blood returning to her body and painting her skin with the same healthy glow she once had. Her eyes shifted and locked unto the Dark Knight who knelt on the floor with his undamaged kneecap. Still, even when her eyes followed their mysterious companion, her words were addressed to Lancelot. "Who is he to you? No... who is he?"[/fieldbox]​

 

[Damien Kriez]

[fieldbox="Master Post, white, solid, 30"]

Mordred and Lancelot's blades danced in perpetuity—a forever that, in comparison to Hell's eternity, lasted far longer. The more the Lord Captain swung his moist, innominate blades, clashing, clanging against the the Traitor King's antithetical weapon, the more spirited and wary the English warriors grew. Even Mordred, the man who scoffed at feral chiropteran monsters and braved the levels of the Inferno from the bottom up with steadfast mettle, was unsure of this battle's outcome. Despite positioning himself near the fine line between confidence and complete and utter arrogance, the Dark Knight's senses were sharper than ever. A humbling experience yes, but one that worried them so. They filled the open air with the unholy Angelus of swordplay. It was as if the bells of a carillon had been rung ten thousand times, with each sound louder than the one prior. The sky roared with thunderclaps but compared to the clashing steels, each stroke of lightning sounded no louder than the popping of bubbles. The Inferno, in its entirety, would soon freeze by Lucifer's breath and beating wings faster than Lancelot and Mordred's battle would end. Luckily, their combat drew to a close, with silence befalling them as quickly as the rain. The incandescence of Mordred's iron fell upon his foe, but in lieu of the flesh of Arthur's champion, Clarent fell upon the soil as it cooled. In the same way, Lancelot closed his eyes, feeling not the burning touch of the Coward's Blade, but rather a serpentine rope of blood around his waist that whisked him away from the scenery.
​

​

Sounds of heavy breathing loosed by a grimaced face were Du Lac's immediate answers to the Lady's query. Orpheus, who was bloodstained, understood the stress that came upon the two knights. The callow musician stepped forth and knelt before the skeletal warrior, gazing upon the bruises Mordred had given him. The bard motioned his arm backward, reaching for and unstrapping the lyre that rested near his waist. "Rest easy… Let the music be your relief." Orpheus was no healer—Arthur's champion still bled, some of his bones were still shattered to a degree, and physically, Lancelot was damaged. But, as the young minstrel strummed, the sensation of pain ceased albeit temporarily. The knight's mind was cleansed of the idea of pain via the sedative of sound. A calmness etched itself upon Lancelot's disfigured countenance and, after a short while of easy breathing, turned towards Lady Macbeth.

[GLOW=blue]"He was… the son of my king. My student. My friend… Mordred Pendragon." [/GLOW]

[GLOW=blue]"Tell me, boy!"[/GLOW] Lancelot screamed at Mordred, his hand firmly grasping his bruised arms and flesh. Chaos directed his thoughts thereafter, and in sheer frustration and a surge of conflicting emotions, Lancelot dug deep into his psyche to recall one specific memory with Arthur's bastard son. [GLOW=blue]"Tell me, do you remember the day we met the hermit?"[/GLOW] The knight, of course, spoke of when he, in his prime, trained the young, fourteen year-old Mordred before he even knew Arthur was his father. Those were better days. They once met an old hermit who prophesied that both Mordred and Lancelot would contribute to King Arthur's downfall. The decrepit hermit gazed upon the young boy and foresaw the foundations of violence and destruction that the future Dark Knight will lay. But before the old man could turn to Arthur's champion, he was cut down by young student… It was then, at that moment, that a blackness had begun to fester within the young boy. Tears began to roll down Lancelot's leathery, skeletal cheeks. [GLOW=blue]"Where did I go wrong?"[/GLOW] Of course, before the tragedies of their lives, Lancelot saw a son, a passionate knight, and even a young version of himself within the child Mordred. As best as he could, Lancelot endeavoured to fill the emptiness within Arthur's son—the void of fatherlessness. Of course, with their current situation, it was obvious he had failed. At that moment, the Champion of Camelot struck the floor with a balled fist. In all the years in Hell, Lancelot has never felt a despondency this immense and heartrending.

[GLOW=blue]"Tell me!"[/GLOW]

​

​

Qasim could hear the pitter-patter of the rain above him. The Arabian, now alone, felt the isolation that Circe forced upon him. In his heart, the enchantress needed to pay in blood. The caverns were dimly lit to completely imperceivable, for the darkness beneath the ground was thick as Gluttony's marsh of blood and refuse. Amidst the patterned rhythms of nature, Qasim too, could hear the crawling, gnawing, and snarling monsters that had surrounded yet hid from him. Faintly, the Thief could heard another sound—that of scurrying. Every time the man would look around, the crawling resonance hushes itself, letting the raindrops echo all through the earthly maze. That is, until they struck. Emerging from all earthen and cavernous sides and angles emerged an army of about a hundred or so Fungal Arachnids. More pests than they were threats, albeit with still enough strength to kill a Damned soul in Hell with enough time and effort, Qasim found himself surrounded.
​

​

[/fieldbox]

 

[Gooby]

"Hello!?"

The lonely brother whispered loudly, his fists still in the air in a defensive, boxing stance. The sounds of nature, as well as the trauma of someone who was literally and figuratively a part of him, made it very difficult for Qasim to listen and focus. That is, until he decided to stop walking. The time he spent waiting lasted for about thirty minutes until a new sound emerged and echoed across the rock-strewn environment. Rocks and pebbles were unearthed, showcasing hundreds of bite-sized spider demons with mushrooms, moss, bioluminescent leaves, and other cavernous flora. True enough, he was slightly bothered, but these monsters were nothing the Arabian bandit couldn't handle. On the contrary, he had heard many stories regarding the fungal arachnids.
"Ah, I never thought I'd find you bunch here."

He exclaimed, remembering a story where the Damned grabbed handfuls of these tiny demons and dropped them in pots of boiling water–one of the easiest but also most flavorful stews in all of the Nine Hells. Qasim would surely grab some of these for next time.

Now, however, they crawled up his legs, piercing his tanned flesh with little teeth and legs aplenty. Will he ever be rid of pain? Qasim winced, dropping his boxing stance immediately and swatted these bugs off of his skin. Qasim would kick wildly, grab handfuls and crush them in his palms, and strike the rocks, stalagmites, and stalactites, and any other earthen nook and cranny he thought they might emerge from. Destruction followed every movement of his hands and feet, but before he knew it, the structural integrity of the caves were giving way. He stopped instead and began to flee. It was a cowardly act, but a necessary one.

Running to and fro, turning right and left into unknown pathways, he stumbled upon a pool of accumulated rainwater. It was a spacious area, and up above him, the faint glow of lightning twinkled through small cracks. "This must be an entryway." Qasim figured if he could pierce through the ceiling, he could create an exit, but it was far too high up for him to reach. Qasim took a seat upon a large rock, thinking.

 

[The Philosoraptor]

[fieldbox=Mordred, purple]

​

Mordred felt Clarent leave his hand before he felt the arrow that ran through it. He clutched at his sword briefly before realizing that the shaft of the arrow was interfering with the movements of his hand. And then, as he looked down to find his blade, he caught sight of the arrow in his knee. Mordred fell down on his good knee, a brief flood of pain rushing over him, clouding his senses. But he was used to far worse. With little patience for this interruption, Mordred ripped out the arrow in his hand, and then the one in his knee, ignoring the sickening ripping sounds they made as they popped free. He rose with some effort, casting the flechettes aside and retrieving his sword. Instead of his fallen opponent, however, he rushed the Archer in a single, awkward bound, gripping her by the throat and lifting her a foot into the air. Before he could plunge Clarent into her heart, however, he heard Lancelot's words from across the clearing. Turning to face him once more, Mordred found his enemy lying on the ground, desperately trying to prop himself up in the face of his agony.

"Do you remember the day we met the Hermit?"

Mordred's grip never slackened, but his focus drifted. He remembered...

******​

"You must remember to keep your sword up. Never let your guard down. Never give your opponent the edge," Lancelot said. Mordred's last training exercise with him had gone rather well, compared to their usual sparring; Mordred had actually managed to hit the Frenchman this time.

"But I did better than before, right Sir Lancelot?" The young squire asked, squirming in his saddle. The elder knight smiled, not with mirth or cruel joy, but with a paternity that Mordred had never earned from his father, King Lot. The old man had cast him into a foreign kingdom as a gift for the heroic King Arthur, presumably as an attempt at peacemaking. With reluctance, and against the advice of the senile old wizard in his court, Arthur had taken Mordred into his court, and requested that his best knight take him as a squire. Since then, Mordred's training hadn't ceased. Lancelot du Lac was far from a cruel teacher, and always cautioned his apprentice not to overexert himself. Yet somehow, despite all of the rigorous and dangerous exercises he put the young knight through, Mordred never seemed to tire of learning, or, more disturbingly, from his training.

Perhaps that is why old Merlin was so fearful of him. There's something... Off about the boy. But despite his own reservations, Lancelot found himself quite taken with his squire. Never before had he found himself such an eager and talented student. Clearly, young Mordred was a prodigy; Lancelot frequently reported to the King on the boy's progress, and often found himself losing himself in his tales about Mordred's inherent talents, and how one day the boy may surpass Arthur himself. Leaning over from his own mount, Lancelot placed a hand on Mordred's shoulder. "One day, lad, you'll be a fine knight. And yes. Today you did better. But better is not great. You have many more years ahead of you, and much more to learn before a knight you'll be." A broad, handsome grin split the boy's face, clearly missing the point of the statement. In his excitement, Mordred accidentally spurred his horse forward, nearly ripping Lancelot out of the saddle. Rapidly losing control, Mordred sped off into the distance, climbing a steep hill and losing Lancelot behind him. God damn that runt. "Mordred!" Lancelot shouted as he sped up, chasing the dust trail left by his student.

In the end, Lancelot found Mordred an hour later, lost among the trees of a nearby forest and leading his horse on foot. Dismounting, Lancelot clapped the boy on the back of the head. "Idiot! Don't you know how to ride a horse?" He put a hand up to stop the boy's response. "I don't want an excuse, you air-brained buffoon. Get up on the beast. We'll discuss this when we reach Camelot." This would set their journey back days. The admonished Mordred sat sullenly in his saddle, keeping pace behind Lancelot, who, in his chase after Mordred, was hopelessly lost.

The hours passed on, and little progress was made. In fact, Mordred thought he saw the same clutch of juniper bushes growing out of a rock that he'd seen an hour before. As he tried to fight his boredom, Mordred started following a small swarm of fireflies. Their flight patterns entertained him for a time, but quickly lost their flare. As soon as he was about to break his silence and complain, however, he caught sight of another light in the distance. "Sir Lancelot! Look! To the east!" The knight, who had been sulking over his horse, perked up, peering intently into the thicket. At first, he saw nothing. But, as his eyes adjusted to the growing darkness of twilight, he caught the flickering light of a fire in the distance.

"Perhaps some good may come of this after all. Come, Mordred!" The two set off at a gallop in the general direction of the light. Crashing through bushes and branches, the knights came before a small hut built into a clearing. A bonfire was lit in front of the hut, and grew brighter as they approached. A spitted boar roasted over the fire, dripping crackling fat onto the coals. Two posts, a line strung between them, held drying furs that seemed to be shaped as clothes. A small shadow crouched in front of the fire, its features indistinguishable save for a general feeling of fur. As the two warriors approached, however, it shifted, revealing a pair of glowing yellow eyes. What had been mistaken for fur were really coats, obviously of the same or similar make as those rags hanging up on the line.

"State your business, Sir. I've done no wrong, and I've paid your king's taxes." The Hermit's voice seemed to boom through the clearing, though he himself sounded quiet and collected. Lancelot was taken aback by the Hermit's appearance and voice, but refused to let it show.

"We seek shelter, and perhaps a hot meal, my good man. My squire and I became lost in the forest, and we-"

"-need directions out of it." The Hermit completed. "I know. I also know your name, Sir Lancelot. And yours, young Mordred." The two warriors unconsciously reached for their swords, their shock and terror showing on their face. The Hermit waved a hand, and the two felt an unwanted calm settle on them. He gestured at the ground beside them. "Please. Join me. I would appreciate the presence of dinner companions. And our meal is almost finished." The two slowly dismounted and sat on the opposite side of the fire, never taking their hands off their blades. The Hermit stood as they sat, pulling the spit off the fire setting it on a bed of moss beside him. He took portions of it for his own, and passed more over to his uneasy guests. They ate together in silence for a time, until they all finished and merely sat staring, at each other or into the fire.

Mordred was the first to break the silence. "Who-"

"-am I? Merely a Hermit. My name is not important. Not now. Not anymore." Mordred sat shocked and silenced. "The better question, my boy, is who are you? Or, not just you, but you and your knight-master. Perhaps, Lancelot du Lac..." he said, his attention turning to the knight. "You would hear my tale? A tale of two wanderers, a knight and his squire, who would betray their kingdom." Mordred leapt upright, drawing his sword. Lancelot rose as well, though with more hesitance.

"Who are you to accuse us of treason, sorcerer? You, of witchcraft and villainy!" The boy screamed. Lancelot stood horrified. How could he know? How could he possibly know...

The sorcery in the Hermit's voice grew more apparent, as each word seemed to reverberate through Mordred and Lancelot. His gaze fell on Mordred once more, seeming to stare both beyond him and within him. "You, boy, son of Lot, begot by Arthur, whose mother, as much a witch as Ambrosius himself, is the sister of his father. Yours is the darkness that will swallow this land of ours, and yours is the blade by which Camelot will burn. Kinslayer is your name, now and forever, for the gold crown that your father wears now will one day be crimson with his own blood, drawn by your hand," he said. Without pause, he turned to Lancelot. "And you, Knight of the Lake, your soul is as sullied as the boy's. For it is your betrayal that will... Ah. I see. If that is how it must be." Before either he or Lancelot could react, a sword swept through the flames of the bonfire, decapitating the Hermit. His head landed in the fire, erupting like dry wood. An astonished Lancelot leapt to his feet, drawing his own blade half out of his scabbard before he saw Mordred wiping his sword clean.

"What is the meaning of this, Mordred? Slaying an innocent in cold blood?" The squire did not respond. "Well? Have you no explanation?"

Mordred turned, and Lancelot shivered at the coldness of the boy's eyes. "The corpse was no innocent. He was a witch, and a liar at that. Their tongues are not to be trusted. I could not allow him to slander you, myself, or the court of our lord." His voice was calm and cool as he spoke. For the first time, but certainly not the last, Lancelot felt afraid of his student.

Gathering himself, Lancelot said "We'll speak of this to no one. Not even to your... Not even to Arthur." Lancelot stopped himself from saying "your father." He felt silly for giving credence to the words of a mad old man. But he saw something change in Mordred when he paused. Something click beneath the surface, making the air around the squire change. As though a horrible sense, in equal parts horror and a strange gratification, had been awakened inside the boy when Lancelot almost confirmed the Hermit's ramblings. They stood for a moment, knight and squire, contemplating what to do. In the end, they burned the Hermit's body, wrapped some meat for the journey, and left in the night. As they rode, Lancelot's mind wandered back to the clearing, contemplating what the Hermit would have said of him if he'd been given the chance. No one could know of his secret. None could know of Guinevere... All the while, Mordred rode beside him, rolling the title of King on his tongue.

******​

Mordred tossed Tomoe to the ground, stepping clear of the range of any knives or daggers. How could he have ever forgotten that day? His first kill. His first murder. "Aye. I recall that day. And it's clear you do as well. Perhaps you recall that he said we'd both betray Arthur? It seems that the Hermit really was truthful." Mordred sheathed Clarent and turned to the others who stood behind him. "The Knight speaks true. My name is Mordred Kinslayer, Killer of Kings, son of Morgan le Fay and King Arthur Pendragon. I am the child of my mother and my uncle, and I brought down the kingdom of my father almost single-handedly. I have personally murdered dozens, and have brought about the deaths of hundreds." He turned to Orpheus, speaking directly to the Bard. "And I am finished in the company of men who would kill me at the drop of a pin." Turning on his good leg, Mordred set out in the direction of the castle at an awkward limp. He felt the sharpness of cartilage and ligaments reconnecting in his knee, and flesh knitting in his hand. His healing was abnormal by any human standards. Not instantaneous, but by nightfall he'd be good as new.

Regardless, he quickly left the gathering behind. He might as well find whatever sorceress was in the palace. Either she would help Mordred get what he came on this journey for, or he'd kill her and find it himself.[/fieldbox]

 

[Juicebox Jane]

Tomoe Gozen

She was spared.

When the Kinslayer released Tomoe's neck from the firm embrace of his iron fingers, the infested ranger caressed herself, rubbing her neck and coughing abruptly. Her demonic eye had squirmed out like a worm bathing under a drizzle of salt. Tomoe herself was aghast, for she believed Lancelot's defeater would do what the knight-master of the Lustful Isles could or would not, or rather, have never done. Should the fallen king of Camelot consolidate his grip, Tomoe would have been blued by the air that begged to be loosed. Any longer, and she would have been red aflame by Clarent's touch. Thankfully, the Arthur's Usurper had recollected, and in the end, his memories saved her. Now, Tomoe was fortunate once more to have been spared again, this time by Lancelot's fallen squire, but the true meaning and notion of mercy still evaded her. Lancelot, the Knight of the Lake, remained steadfast in showing the ranger the grace to live again, but a verbatim explanation was what now she sought. With her throat still ticklish from Mordred's grip, Tomoe squirmed and rose from the rain-fallen mire, taking her bow by the right hand. She turned her head back, her elongated, serpentine eye receding back into her infested skull.

There they were.

The Bard, the Lady, and the Lord Commander. The first two tended to Tomoe's Grace Giver, giving foundation to his voice and easing the pain brought upon by the lone, black knight. She contemplated going to Lancelot and demanding an explanation, but while her face was turned towards the trio from the Polis, her vermiform eye emerged and looked at Mordred… Alone, silent, perhaps friendless, was he. Yes, the man strangled her and lifted her above the ground, but she was accustomed to being choked on a daily basis. What she did not know, however, was once more being pardoned to live her life anew. Her companions in the land of the living would know. The Japanese were always a disciplined, merciless lot. Despite Mordred's actions upon Tomoe, her eye wriggled back into her skull, and off she went, following the wake of Arthur's bastard son. To the three behind her, Mordred and Tomoe disappeared into the moist mists of Lust, coupled with the thickness of the woods. They were finally away from the clearing.

"Wait!"

She bellowed from the darkness. She caught up with the loner who was then fully healed.


"… Mordred! Forgive me for shooting you," Tomoe said, bowing in the same way as her previous, mortal culture, showing respect and honor to Lancelot's defeater.


"You know Lancelot very well. Please tell me, why has he never killed me, one of his many enemies? It has always been a mystery to me!" She sheathed her bow, and her buzzing arrows ceased their sounds.

​

​

​

​

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[Weiss]

[fieldbox="Lady Macbeth, darkred, solid, 10"]

"My name is Mordred Kinslayer, Killer of Kings."​

It wasn't possible. With widened eyes and slow steps forth, Gruoch called to mind the horrid days of her condemnation in the Malebolge. She peered unto the mists as the Archer and Knight ebbed within the thickness and there, as the storm winds gathered, she closed her eyes.

Crackling, burning flames, filled her mind. The image of warm hues and the ceaseless heat pranced upon her flesh, turning her into naught but literal bones. Her ungodly punishment was cyclical, for she endured countless eras shifting from an indignant soul with the aesthetic of a human, beauty and all; to a seared undead stripped of all flesh and physical allure; to mere bonechar and ash. Like a phoenix, she experienced rebirth upon rebirth as an infant and was weaned in the flames. Only, every passing moment was marked by the sounds of suffering. What remained ever unchanged were her screams... so full of fear and anguish were they.

Gruoch squirmed, releasing diabolical screams that barely contributed to the cacophony of pain that was, basically, the very music that kept Malacoda and his underlings satisfied. Her arms were chained and bolted through a gridded ironclad floor which, like a pan, erupted in flames every so often. Underneath the gaps she saw the slow flow and shine of magmatic liquid. From the edge of the crudely erected tower of ironworks and heat, she could see from afar the dead ocean that narrowed into a river. It twisted to and fro, following an unknown pattern that changed with the ever-shifting nature of the Inferno. The shallow river expanded once more into a lake, frozen, where a pillar of ethereal, unholy light had irradiated a dread sense. She could see only the hoarfrosts, spires of jagged, lifeless ice, and the clouds that poured forth hailstones. The whiteness marked the Cocytus in the far edge of the Underworld.

"Oh, to feel even the breeze of the precipice of the Ninth!" Gruoch's mind entertained, her thoughts unbroken by the chorus of chaos that were the screams. The waters there petrified into nigh unbreakable frost inasmuch as even Charon's best demons are forced to unload the Damned unto the Pen of Giants, where it would take them about a month on foot to reach their place in perdition. It was a routine sight for a Damned soul in Hell, to see demons and souls tread on and disappear into the cold. Not one thing ever caught the Lady's attention.

Save for one time, where Gruoch, in her punishment, saw the spring of her nightmares emerge from one of dinghies in the distance. Lo and behold, it was Macbeth, her husband himself. The sight of her husband silenced her in spite of the pain. Gruoch bit her lips until it bled, and then again until her lipblood boiled and mixed into the air as red mist. Fear had etched itself upon her eyes and lips. She was paranoid, she was afraid. The Thane of Glamis and Cawdor's voice was raucous, powerful, arrogant. She, in the eruption of screaming souls, heard his most clearly.

"Ah, finally... the Ninth." Said he, pulled by five brutish demons bearing his chains. Macbeth gritted his teeth.

"Yes... your prison, your icy cage... Minos has taken a whiff out your wicked sins, yes?" The demonic captain spoke, the eldritch power in his throat pulsating with each passing word. If those words landed upon Gruoch's ears, she would have been weakened and afeared, but Macbeth answered, accustomed to hearing accursed words even in life.

"Aye, of course Minos has. Regicide is mine trespass..."

"You then, will forever be branded as a Killer of Kings."

A smile stretched from Macbeth's crisped lips, raising the hairless brows of his hellish escorts.

"What's done is done."

Could the Three have foreseen even his fate in the Underworld? It was highly unlikely. But, the acceptance within Macbeth, the calmness that would be broken only eons later, discomforted the beasts that pulled him by the neck. When the mists devoured and blanketed her husband, Gruoch's screams ruptured from her scorching lips as tears rolled down her cheeks. She, filled with sorrow, succumbed to her anxiety and paranoia, squirming, shaking, shivering. That was the day her torment grew and her pain increased, for every rebirth, so too came a broken heart and mind.

Lady Macbeth cried out to the two men behind her.

"Orpheus, care for the Knight-Captain! There is something I must find out!"

Cloaked in her thick robes, Gruoch followed suit, the image of her husband and his fate echoing, shaking the foundations of her fragile mind once more.[/fieldbox]​

 

[Damien Kriez]

[fieldbox="Master Post, white, solid, 30, book antiqua"]

Peering into the pale, nebulous fog, as well as the breadth of gnarled, lifeless trees, Orpheus ceased the strumming of his lyre. The golden minstrel had plucked its strings without end hitherto, veiling the very notion of pain and weakness from Lancelot's mind and gifting him with physical strength in return. Despite the music of nature overtaking his own, Greece's Greatest Bard had played long enough for the Knight of the Lake to move and act anew. While reinvigorated by the Bard's instrumental, Lancelot's heart still bore the burden of his mortal life, amplified and distended by the Dark Knight's reappearance. Millenia have passed until the Lord of Joyous Gard learned to accept the fate that he and Guinevere chose for themselves, but it was Mordred's advent into his personal hereafter in Hell that shattered his heart once more. Truly, hymns and melodies could only heal so much, and the heart and mind feel what they feel—not even Orpheus' most beautiful ballads could compel them to feel otherwise. Rising from the sullied earth, Orpheus withdrew his lyre and helped Lancelot to his feet.

[glow=blue]"Leave him."[/glow] Lancelot's voice was as cold, perhaps colder, than the air that enveloped them. The Knight of the Lake rose, turning his back on the imperceivable direction of his corrupted squire, his shifty vier in these Lustful Isles, and Orpheus' friend. The Knight cracked his neck and dusted his armour with his palms. He paced forth, but the bard declined to follow. While the youth's body was turned to the Knight's, his head peered over to the dense fog. Orpheus clenched his fist, "You can't." His head turned to face the Lord-Commander, locking his gaze upon the Damned Knight of the Round Table. "You can't leave him. Not after this… not after everything. He is in need, whether he admits it or not."

Lancelot turned to face Orpheus, a brow raised in intrigue and confusion. [glow=blue]"Do not tell me what I can and cannot do! He was my pupil, and he chose this life for himself."[/glow] The lightning strikes were faint compared to the Knight's outcry. "Forgiveness, Lancelot. I've read your Chivalric Code—"Thou shalt believe all that the Church teaches and thou shalt observe all its directions"? Well, I died long before its creation, and even then, people forgave. I believe Medraut… Mordred needs it." The Knight of the Lake scoffed, his sadness apparent, albeit he tried to hide it with a bitter, masculine tone. [glow=blue]"When Arthur, my noble King and friend, waged war against the Roman Lucius, Mordred was chosen to be King Regent. What did he do with such power? He brought Arthur's kingdom to its knees. The rape of Guinevere, the death of thousands, the murder of his own father. Tell me, young bard, are such actions forgivable?"[/glow][glow=blue][/glow] Orpheus nodded, "Yes. Virgil would have done so… he forgave you, didn't he? Isn't it strange that he who set Camelot aflame and ushered in a reign of chaos shares the same sky and is watched over by the same Dark Lord as someone who fell in love with a married woman? That says a lot about the nature of the Inferno. But Paradise was opened and brought upon by an individual who forgave inclusively, one who even died to forgive everyone… He even sent a man to open the gate to Paradise for us here, at the very depths of Hell, so that we too can cross… that says a lot about the nature of forgiveness, don't you think?"

[glow=blue]"You… you are right."[/glow][glow=blue][/glow] Lancelot turned his head back, beginning his slow stride towards a woodlot of smaller, unusually twisted gnarled and leafless trees and thorny shrubberies. The deeper they delved unto this mysterious footpath, the larger the thorns and vines grew. The Bard appeared taken aback. While he was inquisitive of where this hidden path led, he looked back to the path they took. "Well, if I'm right, shouldn't we go after them?" the Knight shook his head, caressing the barbed undergrowth as it snapped at his gauntleted fists like a bothered snake. [glow=blue]"There will be plenty of talking later, young bard. If I know Mordred well, and I still do, even after all these years, he will not back down from a challenge. He is still a curious soul, that I know, and it will lead him to the Enchantress herself. We will aid him, Tomoe, and Lady Macbeth. As for us, I need your talents in music. These groves were energised by Circe herself. Behind it, Circe's only weakness."[/glow][glow=blue][/glow]

Horrified, Orpheus stepped back a tad bit. "They're bait?" Lancelot smiled, [glow=blue]"No, boy. Bait is bait when they have no chance of winning. Your friend, my enemy, and the bastard are more than a match for Circe's underlings!"[/glow][glow=blue][/glow] The Knight of the Lake sounded more hopeful and confident for the future, feeling optimistic of Circe's demise. [glow=blue]"Now, sway these vines with your tunes, make them open the path to Moly."[/glow][glow=blue][/glow] brandishing his lyre, Orpheus played once more. His magic interfered with Circe's, making the demonic vines uproot and coil around the trees in lieu of one another, clearing the pathway. The duo paced forth towards a large, cavernous entryway with a boulder blocking the path. The makeshift clearing appeared to have regrown with the vines, and the glades where Lancelot and Mordred did battle had completely disappeared. They paced, entering the darkness of the caves, until Orpheus and Lancelot reached a spacious area somewhat flooded by the rains. Light shone from it and, with a swift kick of his boot, Lancelot shattered the fragile earthen cavity. They fell unto a lake where Ali Baba and Qasim, looking vaguely different, rested upon a boulder.

"Brothers? You look different… How are the both of you?" Orpheus asked, still in the dark about how only one Brother existed. ​

[/fieldbox]

 

[Gooby]

When the ceiling cracked above head, Qasim evaded the falling debris. He leapt backwards, tumbling and flipping back with the agility of an ape. Although he possessed no poise, Qasim's earthen, jagged body did not interfere with his prowess to evade. Two individuals fell from the cavernous roof, causing the stalactites and onyx shards to fall upon the large, freshwater lake. Tiny, demonic bats, perhaps the Olitiau's cousins, fluttered from the ensuing chaos, as troglodytic mushrooms illuminated the darkness with their disturbance. The lone Brother prepared himself, readying his claw-tipped fingers. What he thought were more demon beasts, really was the Bard, his companion, who popped his head out of the water. With him was a bald man encased in the armor of the sun.

"Bard!" Qasim shouted, his face a mixture of shock due to the sheer luck of Orpheus and the Knight falling from the sky, as well as well as a victorious hope at the thought of more reinforcements. Above all, however, the feeling of vengeance hid within Qasim, and an anger brewed within. "My younger brother is gone... at the hands of the witch!" a clear disturbance crept down unto Orpheus' face, his mind deliberating whether it was possible or not. Obviously, because of Qasim's recent, unwilling solitude, it was. "We must avenge him." That was when he saw Lancelot swim to the rocks, getting out of the water. He turned to him and then to Orpheus once again. "Who is this, Bard?"

 

[The Philosoraptor]

​

The dirt became light and loose as he approached the palace grounds, kicking up dust clouds as Mordred walked, in stark contrast with the packed roads he and the others had traveled on. It seemed to Mordred that he had entered a different land than he had been in before; the tamed Lust that du Lac had propagated held no power here. This. This was the Hell that he knew. Trees that had once been rooted firmly in the ground lay on their sides, long ripped from their comfort and tossed about the plain. The winds of torment, whose cries could be heard from the Phlegethon, sang louder than ever here. Dust devils frequently formed and dispersed around Mordred, whipping his dirty and ragged mane to and fro. He breathed deeply, savoring the sulfurous scent of the wind. Mordred was only mildly annoyed when his boots began to sink deep into the growing dunes of gray-and-red dust that stretched on for miles. He took solace in knowing his destination was but a handful of miles away. The great black parapets grew with every step he took; others would have been disturbed by the images depicted on the walls, but Mordred's mind had long since grown numb to carnal desire, let alone the depravities of the damned. Great, void-filled clouds circled above him, darkening the ground beneath, and almost disguising the great cyclones that danced about and beyond the palace. That was the center of Lust, away from Lancelot's little fiefdom, where the truly damned of the Circle resided in perpetual torment. The Knight of the Lake had been successful in reducing the ferocity of the winds, and was certainly able to restrict them about his settlements, but nothing could ever tame the heart of the storm.

Mordred heard noises behind him, a figure collapsing over the dunes and yelling after him. He barely cared. Mordred was enjoying himself.

"Wait!"

Ugh. That damn Easterner again. Mordred's people had hardly known of them in his time, but Hell was a multicultural kind of place. What did she want, now? Mordred stopped walking, allowing the infested archer to catch up. "What do you desire, Knee-Raper?"

"..." The Archer paused a moment before continuing. "Mordred. Forgive me for shooting y-."

"No." It might not be permanent, but that arrow still hurt. Mordred would not forgive, and he would not forget. The Easterner would need to watch her back. "Oh, did I interrupt you? Please, continue." She was clearly getting annoyed. How adorable. Mordred kept walking in the direction of the palace, now being dogged by a brand new companion.

"You know Lancelot very well. Please tell me, why has he never killed me, one of his many enemies? It has always been a mystery to me!" Oh. Great. Another fan-girl. They always pop up out of the woodwork at some point. Mordred had had it happen to him so many times before, ex-girlfriends or dead wives of the great Knight of the Lake asking after his Shining Magnificence, and was one of the reasons he'd stopped telling others his real name. Of course, that had been back when he remembered it. Afterwards, Mordred had just forgotten he even had a name. Stalling in his tracks and letting out a huge sigh, Mordred turned to face the Archer. "Lady Gozen, is it? I've heard of you before." Huh. She had maggots dripping out of her face. The best women have maggots... Her face had a nice shape to it, like a half-melted albino almond. Kind of cute... So that's what Lancelot saw in her. Lovely. "A masterful warrior. A prodigy of the bow, as my knee and hand well know," he said, indicating her sheathed yumi. "Now, I could go through a massive speech about the honors of combat, and how one elite warrior owes a tribute of respect to their equals, and how the truest glory of combat is mortal combat fought between masters of the martial arts, and how the most selfish and unavoidable feeling a warrior can have is mercy towards such an equal for the sheer purpose of fighting them again." He let that lengthy sentence hang in the air, delighting in the reaction of admiration and understanding that spread across the Archer's infested and mysteriously sexy face. "But I'll be twice-damned if I let that bastard take the high ground on this one. Now, the better part of me wants to say he simply wants to mount you like a Hellhound's bitch and leave you for dead in the Acheron, and his way of telling you is by beating you to near-death, only to back out at the last minute due to his lack of a manhood." Taking in a deep intake of breath and a shiver of delight at the drop of Gozen's slight smile, Mordred continued. "But more realistically, he just doesn't think you're worth it. That first bit I talked about? Honor and valor, and whatnot? You don't meet his standards. If there were a Circle of Pride in the Inferno, Lancelot would be locked at the bottom. Instead, he got trapped here for fucking a queen in his spare time. But in life, Lancelot had the same problem. He couldn't find anyone that met the standards he set for himself. He believes, rather than showing mercy to his equals, he should show mercy to the weak, in that blood-fucking pseudo-Christian way. He thinks, in some backwards and prideful way, that only those who can equal him in battle deserve to die by his hand, for it is the only good death they can receive."

Slipping a small bird's bone from his belt, Mordred popped it into his mouth, crunching through it and slowly working the grit of bone and marrow through his teeth. "So, that's the best way I can put it. To Lancelot, you're not worthy of death by his blade because you're weaker than him. I mean, can you think of a time when you really challenged him? Or has your 'relationship' only been him making you eat the dirt every time you fight?" From the look on her face, Mordred knew the answer. "You already knew it to be true," he spat a wad of bone/marrow goo over the tip of a dune. "But it wasn't the answer you wanted. It never is. I wondered for years why Lancelot never took the chance to kill me when he saw my transformation. We dueled when I raped Guinevere, you know. And even then, when he had the tip of his sword to my throat..." He tapped his Adam's Apple. "He didn't kill me. He simply took Guinevere away and allowed a war to blaze through Britain." He patted himself down again, reaching around through his filthy rags and torn pouches. "And at the end of my first decade here, I found my answer: Lancelot is in Hell for more than one reason. His worst crime decided his prison, but his pride sealed his fate. On his head rest countless deaths for his failure to kill the worst of his foes when first given the chance."

As he continued deriding his former teacher (and searching for something else to chew on), Mordred's vanity began to deflate. He slowly began to realize how cruel he was being, and how it was affecting Gozen. What were you expecting, woman? Him to be a saint in a pit of sinners? For him to love you? Is that what you truly wanted of him? But he didn't delight in seeing her broken down. He didn't delight in seeing her pride destroyed. Mordred swallowed air, and stopped shifting his hands. He decided that he'd do something very un-Mordredlike. "What I'm trying to say is that Lancelot's standards were set by Lancelot himself, and were born of his pride. He has never tried to kill you because he doesn't believe you're worth it. You're a ranger. He's a knight. Your arrows bounce off his armor, and his swords can cut your bow. It is a fact of nature that he may more easily best you than you him. But that means nothing." He raised his finger to eye level, pointing at Gozen. "While his enemies crowd about him and break his armor, and smash his sword, and maul him with their claws and teeth and axes and swords, you will be safe in a tree or on a mountaintop, having killed your foes before they even came close to you. You are a warrior, but in every way that Lancelot despises and derides as cowardly." Lying down in a particularly comfy cradle of sand, Mordred's typical composure returned to him. "If you want a summary, stop caring about him. Stop caring why he does whatever he does. Stop wondering about what he thinks of you to make him not kill you. He's just another warrior, the same as you or me. Yet while you and I are honestly brutal in our bloodthirst, he hides behind a shield of morals and self-righteousness, halting him from seeing the true potential of so many." Remembering the true trouble of the conversation, he looked Tomoe in the eyes and said "Pardon me, but do you happen to have anything small and edible? I'm starving."

 

[Juicebox Jane]

Tomoe Gozen

Her eyes locked unto the dark knight's, fist with inquisition in her mind.

Tomoe's demure, feminine figure loosened as Mordred began his monologue, his words speaking a language she knew full well in life and the hereafter. With his tongue rolling on and on about honor, valor, and finally, the mystery of the Inferno, the existence of mercy in this perdition. She waited patiently for the crusader's dialogue to cease, anticipating so enthusiastically the exegesis to that "mercy" Hell's erstwhile imprisoned had so hastily adopted, defended, warred for, and lived by. Before the man spoke, however, the ranger noticed a peculiar glimmer in the man's eyes... was he... ogling? Tomoe veiled the feeling of confidence within her infested frame. Tomoe, a mistress and maven of all things body, having used it as a lure and trap and weapon against her foes, of all people knew, when the eyes of men and women met the archer's comely form. She patted herself, dusting the smut and ash of the lightning-kissed branches, that flew forth towards and called her silky short kimono home. Though she patted this dry, the archer began to display the paintings on her flesh, the ancient Asian murals of war, the ninja, koi, dragons, and whatnot–an exhibit into her culture, her time, all inscribed upon her flesh. The traitor son was a few feet away from the ranger herself, and so she neared him with light steps.

"Go on." she thought, her smile stretching from a small, bonny, all-lip grin, to a sultry lip-bite. Unbeknownst to her, much like how she would lift her own foes up with tributes and compliments before firing an arrow through their spines, so too was her ego brought to such a euphoric state before it was unjustly shattered by Mordred's words. The smile of confidence inverted into a grimace. His words stung, and the reality of Lancelot's heart was one she found difficult to accept. Never in her life and death has she been defeated by man and woman alike, and was left to live another day… no, the last time that happened, she gutted herself and sealed her own fate. Her lustful sins and the pretermitting of her body, a supposed "sacred" and "hallowed" temple of the Holy Ghost, as naught but a tool to be used, all returned in the Inferno as her prison. She could do it a second time, but whether Tomoe could admit it or not, she was deathly afraid of nonexistence. The very reason why she sought mercy's meaning was to find a new, fresh form of honor… one her companions in life would swat away and dismiss as beyond foolish. And love? Perhaps that was one reality she refused to believe herself. More than love and admiration for the man who played with her heart by beating her senseless and leaving her life intact, she was obsessed. She sought every inch of the fallen lake knight and every bit of his physicality. Truly, Tomoe found it difficult to forego her nature as a kunoichi. After the black knight cut motioned his fingers towards his neck and his last word left the man's mouth, the flustered Tomoe, with fist balled and shaking in frustration, stepped forth and filled the silence with her own words.

"I knew that already…" He would never love her. That was not what she sought in him. What she did seek were answers, and above all, forgiveness… She never knew how to take the first step. Japan shaped her to be hard, rigid, systematic, and cold. Much like how the Inferno was before the Harrowing, Tomoe knew that sinners were to be punished, and the righteous, blessed. But Lancelot showed her faithfulness to his God and King, and perhaps another thing she secretly craved, true love in the form of loyalty to his Guinevere. Suddenly, she felt guilty of trying to kill her some time in the past. "I felt weak in his eyes… I felt weak. I felt vulnerable. But hearing your tale gives me hope. He spared you once when he felt you weren't worth it… and now, the sword was above him, not you. People can grow… Thank you." She bowed, and to his request, she unsheathed an arrow from her quiver. With her suicide knife, she sliced the centre like a vanilla bean. Out oozed fat, nutritious, albeit still wriggling mealworms. "Here… I hope they're enough."​

​

 

[The Philosoraptor]

[fieldbox=Mordred, purple]
This one... This one Mordred liked. Not only can she fight, but she literally IS food! The advances they've made since my day, my oh my! Besides, the others didn't even offer me a meal. With a courteous nod, Mordred rose and accepted the mealworms, popping one into his mouth with delight. Of course, they tasted revolting. But it's not polite to say that out loud. Besides, they occupied his teeth. "Well, take it all with a grain of salt. I'm just an old madman with old connections to really old people." He contemplated a still-wriggling worm for a moment before downing it. "And I kill things really well. There's always been that." Without warning, Mordred fell backwards onto the dust dunes, sending up a light cloud of the stuff. Sitting upright, he started drawing shapes in the sands. They started out as little stick figures holding smaller sticks. Mordred assumed they were swords. Remembering he had company, he tapped the space next to him. "Please, don't mind me. Sit." Mordred continued drawing. Gradually, the shapes began to form a story: A big stick figure was carrying a slightly smaller figure with long hair, leaving behind another figure holding a stick that looked like a sword. The sword-stick chased the big stick, who had locked the woman-stick in a large rectangle in the sand that might have been a tower. The two promptly engaged in a fight, leaving the big stick spewing dribbles of black sand into the air and the sword-stick leaving with the woman-stick.

"He let me go. That was his mistake." Mordred rammed his thumb into the sword-stick, leaving a pit in its place. "And my weakness..." He lightly traced around the large, bleeding stick. "Is never being able to end him properly. There is always a Guinevere to distract us, always an Arthur to intervene, and always an archer to shoot me in my damn knee." He glanced at Tomoe with a smirk. "For your information, Easterner, I'm not letting that go any time soon. One day, I will pay you back in ki-"

Mordred's flirtations were cut short by yells in the distance. When he looked, Mordred spotted the blood-witch (MacbethMacbethMacbethMacbethMacbethMacbeth) trudging through the dust, her robes slowing her down dramatically. A small trail of disturbed sand would give away her position for miles. "Oh, look. Company's arrived." He rose and strode out to meet his comrade, looking irritated beyond belief. This wouldn't end well.[/fieldbox]