"I have," he answered. "I try to stay out of it as much as possible. Purgatory itself and the affairs of those who run it--or want to run it."
Crowley annoyed Saerian to no end. But because of who he was, where he was in the power structure, Saerian tolerated him. He would never get what he himself wanted otherwise.
"As advertised?" he asked, eyebrow arching. A slight smile went with the question. "I haven't been in... centuries, I think."
He'd told Phaedra that the place where he was from was 'larger than Hell, and worse.' And it was. The Christian concept of Hell did not cover everything. Some demons were older than Christianity. Wolfram and Hart called them The Old Ones. They kept them, when they could, dormant in the Deeper Well, guarded by a man who cannot tell a lie. Saerian reasoned that if they could, the law firm would shut him in that well with his brethren.
Or in Purgatory, with the ones they called Leviathan.
As it stood, when he fucked up, he went to Hamishagos. Chaos, when translated. If forced to describe it, Saerian would say it was all the less-fun parts of Hell combined with a deep sense of knowing what your mistake had been, how you could've avoided it, and that you would pay for it forever. It was all very, very personal. Very personalized. It was how Saerian knew there was a God, and that he did indeed play poker with the universe, smiling and changing the rules all the time.
"Just in town for the sights? Or for something specific?"