Zerxus couldn't tell you, with certainty, exactly how long he's been in Hell. Once, he judged the passage of time by glimpses of his son's face, but that stopped being an option before the Calamity even ended. Then, once the Divine Gate rose, he couldn't cross it to see his world change in the wake of war. Remnants of mortal lives trickle in with reckless quests and ill-fated bargains, but it only gives him fragments.
Asmodeus's realm doesn't change, not really. Power shifts around from one devil to another but they're all the same in every way that matters, and what limited free will he wields has never been enough to make a difference. Not for the devil he chose over everything else, not for the goddess who made the same doomed and desperate overture, not for the souls damned to an eternity of helpless torment.
What he can say is that he's never felt the fabric of Hell shudder and rupture quite like this. He stares up at the dull gray sky of Dis and sees stars for the first time in, he assumes, centuries. Beneath layers of steel and leather and silk, he feels Evandrin's namestone pulse cool and gentle against his chest. It isn't the violent tremble of the steel beneath his feet that puts him on his knees.
It would be nice if he could stay there, suspended in that moment of anguished reprieve. Instead he pushes himself up and leaps into the air, wings of flame unfurling from his back. Whatever happened, it's best if he gets there first.
He'd thrown himself out of an elevator filled with (unconscious) agents, stopped halfway up a high rise. Somewhere in the midst of that fall, something (everything) changed. The color of the sky, the air, and sure as shit the ground beneath him.
He hit hard, but he hit shield first. For anyone else? They'd absolutely be dead. Him? Not so much. He grimaced and gritted his teeth though.
On one hand, nobody was chasing him.
On the other? He appeared to have fallen out of his own reality.
And there is a guy with flaming wings and horns.
Which seems urgent enough for him to make getting to his feet more a matter of springing up than climbing. Definitely holding the shield in front of him, prepared for an attack but confusion written clearly across his face.
There were a few possibilities whipping through his mind as he soared through Dis - an alarmingly powerful circle of mages, an invasion force from the Abyss, a god who woke up and chose violence - and he was looking forward to exactly none of them but he had plans for his approach.
Instead he finds a battered mortal with a shield who looks just as bewildered as he feels. There's a flicker of wistful yearning in his eyes as he lands; he hasn't used a shield in such a long time. His mace hangs from his hip, of course, but he doesn't draw it yet; he doesn't even bother with a defensive position. His wings do fade, for now, but that doesn't do much to ease the heat.
He isn't likely to stay battered for long, anyway.
The wings faded is noted. So is the mace. So are the horns. So is the fact that it's hot as fuck.
Also noted though? There's something wistful in this man's expression, he is armed but not presenting a threat, and there's something in the nature of his voice that is actually the opposite of alarming.
Steve's still wary, because there are limits to his stupidity - and a lot of things are stacked here that being suspicious makes at least as much sense as not. That's more true after having members of his team trying to kill about, oh, ninety seconds ago.
Also: This is hell and that is a demon, he's pretty sure, though 'aliens' is still a possibility.
But he's not attacking.
In fact he drops the shield, still attached to his arm, and looks around then back to This Guy, and kind of looks incredulous. "Does anyone intend to come here?"
Oh, that earns him a soft snort of laughter. "You'd be surprised."
He nods towards the vast reaches behind him where the Iron City looms in the distance, a jagged sprawl of smooth black stone and twisted steel. "There are always mortals here, looking for power or secrets or some other thing that isn't worth as much as they think it is."
There's a lot of disdain in his voice, but not contempt.
"But they do this the proper way: do a ritual, open a portal, close the door behind them. I don't know what the fuck you did."
On a scale of 1 to 10, how weird is it that Steve finds this guy saying fuck reassuring? Steve's thinking he'd give it about a 7, mostly just because it doesn't make any sense as a reassuring thing.
Except maybe the part where the tone and cursing expresses a sentiment that comes close to his own right about now.
He looks the direction he's directed with a nod, processes what he's heard but.
"Yeah... Me either. Jumped, and halfway down what I was falling toward... changed. This is going to be a problem." Visibly healing at a rate that makes it look like it's happening in time lapse though.
He's healing like a celestial, but he definitely isn't; when Zerxus cocks his head and fire dances in his eyes, he can't sense anything divine or magical in front of him.
Not divine, or magical, or frightened.
That isn't something he knows how to behold properly so he's just - he's just going to forge ahead, they don't have time.
Oh, you like this one.
Scrap that. They do not have time.
Zerxus steps forward and offers his hand, clawed gauntlet and all. "I assume you're a pawn in someone else's game. Let's discuss it elsewhere."
He isn't really inclined toward being fearful, even when things get weird as fuck. At least not when his own ass is the only one on the line, and/or there's a course of action (or several) available to him.
"So it's a Tuesday, then?" That's drawled.
That remark about pawns fits what he just walked out of, too. Beyond a headtilt and blatantly skeptical look though? No resistance or hesitation, he just takes the hand. Firmly.
No idea where they're going, but he doesn't know where they are now so. Pardon the pun, but what the hell.
"Ah. You're that sort of adventurer." His hand tightens and the world around them shifts. Most people, devils or not, can't simply phase between the layers of Hell; you go the long way or not at all.
The first Champion of Asmodeus has certain privileges. If you really want to call them that.
So, between one breath and the next, they're no longer in the choked and arid outskirts of Dis. The room is still uncomfortably warm and the air tastes of blood and ash, but hey - there are elegant armchairs and a table covered in plates and goblets.
"Welcome to Malsheem. Hopefully you won't be staying." Wry, weary, and not actually that hopeful.
He doesn't sound overly thrown, but he's not being insincere, either. That? Was neat. It's also not a major priority.
He is only just starting to have heat register in a meaningful way. He is going to have to lose a layer, and that starts with him getting his shield off his arm and onto his back and getting the gloves off.
The scent-slash-taste in the air will take longer, just because it's comparatively better here and he had his own blood in his mouth for a bit there, too. It won't take much longer, though.
"You want to start giving me some kind of explanation that I have a shot of understanding. Right now I've got portals, hell, and somebody somewhere probably did it." A pause. "Oh and that this is Malsheem." Which means exactly nothing. "Could maybe throw in why you're being helpful while you're at it."
Edited (JUST FIXING MY DUMB SHIT) 2024-10-13 02:05 (UTC)
Whether it's a conscious reflection or not, Zerxus starts carefully twisting his gauntlets off.
"You were in the second layer of Hell. This is the ninth, and the last; Malsheem is the fortress city that Asmodeus calls home. No one else can teleport into this place."
That cuts off a lot of avenues of potential trouble.
"I'm being helpful because I need to find out what happened and why before someone takes advantage."
Steve is in the actual ninth level of hell, and his response is... to toss his gloves lightly onto one of those arm chairs. It's a really casual move, but with an edge of exasperation underlying it.
From there it's getting the Shield and harness off, set on the same arm chair, in front of the gloves.
"I can't decide if I'm surprised the second levels hotter than the ninth, or if I think it would just make sense of heat to rise. No idea who Asmodeus is." Just pointing that out. Might be useful. At least in the sense that this is absolutely not his hell. Not even his personal idea of it; that one would be a lot colder.
"Lay out what kind of potential advantage could be taken. Might help me figure out who's decided I'm that big enough of a problem to send to hell, and whether I'm taking it personally or not." Meanwhile? Uniform jacket is being taken off to join the shield and gloves.
Not much visibly stuns him, at this point. He lived in an era of impossible arcane heights, fought in a war that tore reality apart, lived in the aftermath.
The utter lack of reaction to the Lord of Hell's name, and the confirmation that follows...that does it. His gauntlet falls to the carpet with a dull thump and he doesn't bother to pick it up.
It's all startlingly genuine, and he knows that if this man did lie so expertly Asmodeus would whisper a warning into his head; he plays his own games, but he wants this solved.
"Asmodeus is one of the gods who shaped the world, and then almost destroyed it. ...Twice." That right there is a tone of bleak exasperation.
Absently, he tugs off his second gauntlet and lets that fall, too. "You came further than I thought. That leaves me on far less steady ground."
Steve is wholly disapproving. Of the situation that he is in, yeah. That he can't stop tasting blood and ashes, that he's overheated - hell, he disapproves that he's in hell. And nearly destroying the world at all, much less twice.
The disapproving look is about those gauntlets being dropped on the ground.
Mostly because it's the easier thing, but also because he'd managed to work out that this was not his reality a little sooner than Zerxus -- and had a pretty good indication by falling into hell.
"Then we're at least on the same page. I have exactly three theories and they're all shaky. Meanwhile, if we're not going to have someone breaking the door down, could I get a name?" A pause, just in case he's found A Tony. "Your name."
He can look hatefully at Asmodeus, but this guy's been nothing but helpful so far. Including the most recent bit. That, by some miracle of sense, he opted to listen to instead of push back against.
So, no hate from him.
"You giving me yours says nothing great about your position here." Just pointing that out. "Is it actual name that's the problem, or do I need to get used to answering to 'hey you'?" There's some wry, tired humor in there.
"Maybe I'm just arrogant." Which, in fairness, isn't not true. It's just kind of besides the point.
"Aliases are safer." Not completely fine, because those can still be a piece of you, but frankly the man is in Hell. Any potential complications there don't even rate as a problem.
Instead of continuing with the armour, he unclips the mace and, in contrast to the treatment of his gauntlets, gently rests it on a side table.
"Maybe, but ego isn't motivation for leading with telling me not to give you my name." Alias might work. It might not. His default, easy to answer to stuff is currently pretty loaded, but-it also might work for him and might not.
As problems go, what he gets called is pretty low on the list.
He rolls his sleeves up to below the elbow and stops there.
The mace being set down? Better and gets a twitch of a smile. also, though: "Do your gauntlets bite? Magic abilities? Turn people who aren't of hell into ash?" Is he being serious? ...Uh, kind of, actually. Because if Zerxus doesn't pick those up, he's going to.
"After we get through that one, I've got a whole set of other questions to get answered, so I can have an idea of how to prioritize." Then he'll think about freaking out a little, maybe. Or enjoying the break. Kind of depends.
He's slit enough throats with those claws that they're probably as much copper as iron.
"I'll answer as much as I can." It's not always clear what he can and can't say; it depends on who he's talking to and what Asmodeus plans for them. He doesn't bother testing those boundaries much, any more.
"Great," he says, walks closer to Zerxus, leans down and carefully picks them up and deposits them on the table, near the mace. "So, you said mortals have wound up here before. Are you using mortal to mean 'can die', has physical form, or human?"
Zerxus is so nonplussed that he almost forgets who and what he is - he opens his mouth, stops, and then starts again.
"Question for a question." That's how it works, you don't give something for nothing, not down here. "Yes, it only means 'capable of dying'. Do you pick up after monsters often?"
"Only the ones that aren't housebroken." He'll do what he wants, thanks, at least until he's given a damn good reason otherwise - and damn good reason means he not only knows what the 'rules' are, but knows the way of them.
He'll keep answering anything asked of him, though. "Call my Cap or Captain." Not real relevant, but he'll answer to it and it's not a name. "What happens when those mortals who end up here do die?"
"If you've brought me to the actual devil's literal privacy house, I have even more questions than I thought." Most of them variations of why. "Meanwhile, those are sharp and don't belong on the floor." He might step on one.
Is it even consideration at that point? Probably. Not like they'd do much to him. Or that he'd admit it when he's got a practical, simple reason to explain his action away with.
"Why did you bring me here?" He points down. He is well aware the guy doesn't know why he's in hell.
"They're not exactly hard to miss." He's - having fun, in this conversation, and that's incredibly dangerous so he's just going to distract himself with his armour. There are a lot of straps to undo.
"And I wasn't exaggerating, this is - we're in a palace. This is a suite of rooms that belongs to me, but ultimately - " He pauses in his work long enough to shrug. "In a way, that makes it the safest place in Hell. What were you doing right before you fell?"
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For Steve
Zerxus couldn't tell you, with certainty, exactly how long he's been in Hell. Once, he judged the passage of time by glimpses of his son's face, but that stopped being an option before the Calamity even ended. Then, once the Divine Gate rose, he couldn't cross it to see his world change in the wake of war. Remnants of mortal lives trickle in with reckless quests and ill-fated bargains, but it only gives him fragments.
Asmodeus's realm doesn't change, not really. Power shifts around from one devil to another but they're all the same in every way that matters, and what limited free will he wields has never been enough to make a difference. Not for the devil he chose over everything else, not for the goddess who made the same doomed and desperate overture, not for the souls damned to an eternity of helpless torment.
What he can say is that he's never felt the fabric of Hell shudder and rupture quite like this. He stares up at the dull gray sky of Dis and sees stars for the first time in, he assumes, centuries. Beneath layers of steel and leather and silk, he feels Evandrin's namestone pulse cool and gentle against his chest. It isn't the violent tremble of the steel beneath his feet that puts him on his knees.
It would be nice if he could stay there, suspended in that moment of anguished reprieve. Instead he pushes himself up and leaps into the air, wings of flame unfurling from his back. Whatever happened, it's best if he gets there first.
Re: For Steve
He hit hard, but he hit shield first. For anyone else? They'd absolutely be dead. Him? Not so much. He grimaced and gritted his teeth though.
On one hand, nobody was chasing him.
On the other? He appeared to have fallen out of his own reality.
And there is a guy with flaming wings and horns.
Which seems urgent enough for him to make getting to his feet more a matter of springing up than climbing. Definitely holding the shield in front of him, prepared for an attack but confusion written clearly across his face.
Re: For Steve
Instead he finds a battered mortal with a shield who looks just as bewildered as he feels. There's a flicker of wistful yearning in his eyes as he lands; he hasn't used a shield in such a long time. His mace hangs from his hip, of course, but he doesn't draw it yet; he doesn't even bother with a defensive position. His wings do fade, for now, but that doesn't do much to ease the heat.
"I assume this isn't where you meant to end up."
Re: For Steve
The wings faded is noted. So is the mace. So are the horns. So is the fact that it's hot as fuck.
Also noted though? There's something wistful in this man's expression, he is armed but not presenting a threat, and there's something in the nature of his voice that is actually the opposite of alarming.
Steve's still wary, because there are limits to his stupidity - and a lot of things are stacked here that being suspicious makes at least as much sense as not. That's more true after having members of his team trying to kill about, oh, ninety seconds ago.
Also: This is hell and that is a demon, he's pretty sure, though 'aliens' is still a possibility.
But he's not attacking.
In fact he drops the shield, still attached to his arm, and looks around then back to This Guy, and kind of looks incredulous. "Does anyone intend to come here?"
Re: For Steve
He nods towards the vast reaches behind him where the Iron City looms in the distance, a jagged sprawl of smooth black stone and twisted steel. "There are always mortals here, looking for power or secrets or some other thing that isn't worth as much as they think it is."
There's a lot of disdain in his voice, but not contempt.
"But they do this the proper way: do a ritual, open a portal, close the door behind them. I don't know what the fuck you did."
Re: For Steve
Except maybe the part where the tone and cursing expresses a sentiment that comes close to his own right about now.
He looks the direction he's directed with a nod, processes what he's heard but.
"Yeah... Me either. Jumped, and halfway down what I was falling toward... changed. This is going to be a problem." Visibly healing at a rate that makes it look like it's happening in time lapse though.
Re: For Steve
Not divine, or magical, or frightened.
That isn't something he knows how to behold properly so he's just - he's just going to forge ahead, they don't have time.
Oh, you like this one.
Scrap that. They do not have time.
Zerxus steps forward and offers his hand, clawed gauntlet and all. "I assume you're a pawn in someone else's game. Let's discuss it elsewhere."
no subject
"So it's a Tuesday, then?" That's drawled.
That remark about pawns fits what he just walked out of, too. Beyond a headtilt and blatantly skeptical look though? No resistance or hesitation, he just takes the hand. Firmly.
No idea where they're going, but he doesn't know where they are now so. Pardon the pun, but what the hell.
no subject
The first Champion of Asmodeus has certain privileges. If you really want to call them that.
So, between one breath and the next, they're no longer in the choked and arid outskirts of Dis. The room is still uncomfortably warm and the air tastes of blood and ash, but hey - there are elegant armchairs and a table covered in plates and goblets.
"Welcome to Malsheem. Hopefully you won't be staying." Wry, weary, and not actually that hopeful.
no subject
He doesn't sound overly thrown, but he's not being insincere, either. That? Was neat. It's also not a major priority.
He is only just starting to have heat register in a meaningful way. He is going to have to lose a layer, and that starts with him getting his shield off his arm and onto his back and getting the gloves off.
The scent-slash-taste in the air will take longer, just because it's comparatively better here and he had his own blood in his mouth for a bit there, too. It won't take much longer, though.
"You want to start giving me some kind of explanation that I have a shot of understanding. Right now I've got portals, hell, and somebody somewhere probably did it." A pause. "Oh and that this is Malsheem." Which means exactly nothing. "Could maybe throw in why you're being helpful while you're at it."
no subject
Whether it's a conscious reflection or not, Zerxus starts carefully twisting his gauntlets off.
"You were in the second layer of Hell. This is the ninth, and the last; Malsheem is the fortress city that Asmodeus calls home. No one else can teleport into this place."
That cuts off a lot of avenues of potential trouble.
"I'm being helpful because I need to find out what happened and why before someone takes advantage."
no subject
From there it's getting the Shield and harness off, set on the same arm chair, in front of the gloves.
"I can't decide if I'm surprised the second levels hotter than the ninth, or if I think it would just make sense of heat to rise. No idea who Asmodeus is." Just pointing that out. Might be useful. At least in the sense that this is absolutely not his hell. Not even his personal idea of it; that one would be a lot colder.
"Lay out what kind of potential advantage could be taken. Might help me figure out who's decided I'm that big enough of a problem to send to hell, and whether I'm taking it personally or not." Meanwhile? Uniform jacket is being taken off to join the shield and gloves.
no subject
The utter lack of reaction to the Lord of Hell's name, and the confirmation that follows...that does it. His gauntlet falls to the carpet with a dull thump and he doesn't bother to pick it up.
It's all startlingly genuine, and he knows that if this man did lie so expertly Asmodeus would whisper a warning into his head; he plays his own games, but he wants this solved.
"Asmodeus is one of the gods who shaped the world, and then almost destroyed it. ...Twice." That right there is a tone of bleak exasperation.
Absently, he tugs off his second gauntlet and lets that fall, too. "You came further than I thought. That leaves me on far less steady ground."
no subject
The disapproving look is about those gauntlets being dropped on the ground.
Mostly because it's the easier thing, but also because he'd managed to work out that this was not his reality a little sooner than Zerxus -- and had a pretty good indication by falling into hell.
"Then we're at least on the same page. I have exactly three theories and they're all shaky. Meanwhile, if we're not going to have someone breaking the door down, could I get a name?" A pause, just in case he's found A Tony. "Your name."
no subject
Well, Asmodeus does, but there's nothing hateful in this man's gaze. This is more like -
Gods, he can barely remember his brother's eyes.
"...Names have a lot of power here. Don't tell me yours and definitely don't tell him. I'm Zerxus."
He hasn't tried to run interference like this in a long time. It always ends the same way.
no subject
So, no hate from him.
"You giving me yours says nothing great about your position here." Just pointing that out. "Is it actual name that's the problem, or do I need to get used to answering to 'hey you'?" There's some wry, tired humor in there.
no subject
"Aliases are safer." Not completely fine, because those can still be a piece of you, but frankly the man is in Hell. Any potential complications there don't even rate as a problem.
Instead of continuing with the armour, he unclips the mace and, in contrast to the treatment of his gauntlets, gently rests it on a side table.
no subject
As problems go, what he gets called is pretty low on the list.
He rolls his sleeves up to below the elbow and stops there.
The mace being set down? Better and gets a twitch of a smile. also, though: "Do your gauntlets bite? Magic abilities? Turn people who aren't of hell into ash?" Is he being serious? ...Uh, kind of, actually. Because if Zerxus doesn't pick those up, he's going to.
"After we get through that one, I've got a whole set of other questions to get answered, so I can have an idea of how to prioritize." Then he'll think about freaking out a little, maybe. Or enjoying the break. Kind of depends.
no subject
He's slit enough throats with those claws that they're probably as much copper as iron.
"I'll answer as much as I can." It's not always clear what he can and can't say; it depends on who he's talking to and what Asmodeus plans for them. He doesn't bother testing those boundaries much, any more.
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"Question for a question." That's how it works, you don't give something for nothing, not down here. "Yes, it only means 'capable of dying'. Do you pick up after monsters often?"
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He'll keep answering anything asked of him, though. "Call my Cap or Captain." Not real relevant, but he'll answer to it and it's not a name. "What happens when those mortals who end up here do die?"
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That said, when he pulls of a skull pauldron he sets it alongside the other pieces.
"If they were just visiting, their soul will ascend to whichever plane it would have been drawn to before - unless they sold their soul first."
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Is it even consideration at that point? Probably. Not like they'd do much to him. Or that he'd admit it when he's got a practical, simple reason to explain his action away with.
"Why did you bring me here?" He points down. He is well aware the guy doesn't know why he's in hell.
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"And I wasn't exaggerating, this is - we're in a palace. This is a suite of rooms that belongs to me, but ultimately - " He pauses in his work long enough to shrug. "In a way, that makes it the safest place in Hell. What were you doing right before you fell?"
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