Bailey Cunningham | Centurion MD (![]() ![]() @ 2010-01-17 05:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | aim |
Smelly cat, smelly cat, what are they feeding you?
Who: Aim (torchit) [Narrative]
What: Disciplinary actions and... a semi-war?
Where: Hell
When: Saturday - Saturday
Saturday evening
Aim had returned his second-in-command's voice to the demon right before he handed him over to the torturers. 2IC hadn't stopped screaming since, which was tragic because screams were a sign for the torturers to continue with their work. Everyone knew the rule: endure the punishment silently and it will end quickly.
Twenty-six hours and counting and the duke became more irritated by the minute. He hadn't planned on staying down here for so long. The stench was still the same, the company still left a lot to be desired and watching a couple of demons turn his right-hand man into a bloodied mass of smashed bones, flesh and muscle wasn't exactly his idea of good entertainment.
When 2IC shredded his vocal chords, the screaming decreased in volume but it wasn't the same as silence so the mindless creatures kept going and going and going.
Sunday
The stench was less prominent and less irritating which meant he'd been spending too much time here. It did nothing to improve Aim's mood. Sprawled in one of those chairs Berith and Belphegor liked so much, head canted back, he waited for 2IC to pass out for longer than five minutes so they could pretend the demon minion had fulfilled the requirements to be let go.
No. Such. Luck.
"Your grace..."
Slurred, wet and sickly sounding words grated like sandpaper on the duke's nerves.
"What?"
"T-trouble."
Monday
Calling what was going on here 'trouble' was the understatement of the century. Foreign demons kept pouring across the borders of Aim's territory. To do what? He had no idea!
It wasn't the most prestigious piece of land in Hell and of no strategic value at all. There were no rivers of blood or fire, no extra special hidden treasures, no spectacular and smelly geysers - nothing! There were rocks. Plenty of rocks and not much else.
To Aim this place had sentimental value since this was where he'd landed when he fell from Heaven. To his legions it was home. Which explained why they so readily rushed to defend it and why the pyromaniac found himself pulled into a not so small war.
This had to be the worst joke ever.
Friday
2IC was still a boneless, crawling lump of meat - correction: a boneless, crawling, talking lump of meat - which stayed at the duke's heels wherever Aim went, slithering across the ground in a mildly disturbing manner. They had negotiated an alliance with a handful of other dukes and together they were defending their territories quite successfully.
Small victories, defeating faceless enemies, conquering their dominions, gaining control over this part of Hell - Aim wanted none of it.
All he wanted was to return to the mortal world.
Saturday
The armies marched forward. Aim and his legions remained behind to 'defend' what they had already conquered. Silence finally returned.
"Your grace... it hurts."
Lowering his gaze to the creature at his feet, the duke sighed. "Let's get you fixed, then, shall we? We're already five days late for your appointment with the charming lady doctor."