The next time someone got the idea of writing a book about them or Hell, he was going to set them on fire. Even now, he wanted to find Dante, and torture him until there was nothing left but a broken wreck of a man that wouldn't even be able to function.
Hissing, he scrambled away from Satan, trying to fight off the feeling of scales and wings and ice cold. He'd hated being stuck there. Hated being so tied to Satan that he'd forgotten he wasn't even capable of hate.
He scrambled up and away so he wouldn't be so close, so he could be away and nowhere near the thing that had imprisoned him. (Because he blamed Satan. It'll be fun, he remembered him saying)
With a flash of light he enveloped himself in fire and closed his eyes, feeling the cold slowly leak out of his system and out of his bones. He stayed there like that for a good while before he opened his yes. He expected to see mortals. He expected to see farms.
He got nothing, and a sense of desperation and dread. Death too, was heavy. "Where the fuck are we?"