Who: Death What: Closed narrative When: Good Friday, the first day Where: Hell Warnings: Violence, Death loses it a leetle.
Death had not been made to endure Hell, but Hell had been made for Death. All of his senses seemed to scream foul obscenities into his entire being. Fire consumed him, abated, and then returned in full force, tearing at his existence, ripping at what he was. It would be easy to say that the initial descent had been the worst part, that the shock of being yanked suddenly out of mortal society and into the vast recesses of torturous Hell was the absolute worst part of it all - that he had gotten used to this pain by now. That was the charming thing about Hell, though, one never really got used to it. The world exploded behind his eyes, the fire pierced him thoroughly, wormed its way throughout his entire being, into every cell, splitting every atom, touching every nerve. Not his mortal form, no, he had abandoned that on Earth for some poor sap to discover - the meat sack was useless to him now, anyway - no, the fires of Hell touched him - touched him - touched Death - and it was excruciating. He felt disjointed and sick. Hell was, as it had always been, an unpleasant place.
The eldest of the princes of Hell knew not to disturb the ancient force, they had some twisted form of wisdom behind their wicked eyes, and so they stayed away. One young one, however, brash and with no ears for the words of his elders, approached, cackling and jovial - in that brutally hellish way - he did not leave Death alone. He prodded at death, cursed him, somehow knew Caridad and Gladys - cursed them, too. He raked his claws down Death's arms - drew blood - down his cheeks - drew blood, also - ripped, tore, cursed, heckled, berated and did not abate. Death would have suffered the bastard in silence, except that he foolishly began to roll into a long and very detailed explaination of what he would do to Caridad and Gladys should he ever get his disgusting, filthy hands on them. Death, his face an unrecognizable torrent of blood, snapped. He let out a roar and grasped the head of the prince hard enough to crack stull and smash brain, and then tackled the boy to the ground. Full of a sudden manic frenzy, he tore at the chest and face of the prince with all of the rage and fear and terror that this place provoked in him. He dug and ripped until he struck bone, and then bent over to tear at the still-twitching corpse with his teeth. When other princes approached him, he snarled at them with such an ancient and all-encompassing pain in his voice that they knew that their jobs had already been done for them. He spat blood and gore onto the embers that burned him even as he had assaulted the foolish demon. The acid taste of the blood burned him, but so did this place, so did this fate.
Bitterness rested on his tongue as he stood and then kicked the corpse he had just created into a pit of fire. He had not placed the chains of his existence on humanity, he had not eaten the forbidden fruit. He was, as he had always been, completely blameless in the matter of the Fall. Humanity needed him to be destroyed, and so he was destroyed, soul and mind. For these three days, he would be the horrendous monster that he truly was, and then he could return home. To Caridad, to Gladys, to peace! But peace did not enter his mind, and he did not allow the women he loved to intrude, either, ledst their memories be twisted by this place. Instead, his eyes wide, he threw his head wildly around - killing the prince had awakened something in him. He very rarely killed, very rarely hunted. He wanted to now. He needed it.
Death desired death. And who would deny him the kill? No one, not one, not in Heaven or Hell, Limbo or on Earth.