The ash, the fire, and the foul-hearted.
Dark crimson skies spiral in constant rotation, circulating the hellish sun, which bores into the barren landscape like a wrathful all-seeing eye. Rivers of fire course throughout the scorched and malnourished earth, burning for eternity. Life and oxygen serve no purpose here.
The hells - the world of the inferno - is an unforgiving and cruel place. Not for the faint of heart. It is where ruthlessness and chaos are encouraged.
But for one red-headed elf, a queen who was once dethroned and banished centuries ago by King Solomon the First, her husband, was too stubborn to die. Too stubborn to quit. Sentenced to live out her immortal days in this god-forsaken realm, amongst the ash, the fire, and the foul-hearted.
Forced to participate in a hellish war that was never hers to begin with. Contracted to fight for a usuper, as his second in command - his general. Indulging in his political games and kniving schemes. His grandiose ambitions.
Slashing through countless foes with her flaming sword. The blasphemous armies were relentless. They came in waves, one after another. Paradonia spent most of her days and years purging wicked souls for another wicked soul. And those same souls were devoured by none other than her beloved, loyal sword, who became an extension of her - for the sake of her survival. It adapted. It became ruthless and vengeful, matching Paradonia’s own hatred.
The blade in itself was never forged in hell, but made in the forges in Nuria. It belonged to the world of the elves and the fae.
But over time, during its time here, it became hell-defined, just like its wielder.
And thus, while deep in the thick of battle, the elf thrusts her demonic, vermillion blade through the heart of a flesh-crazed hellion. The bloated, grotesque creature cried out pathetically in anguish just before the life in its coal-like eyes promptly retreated into the depths of oblivion.
She grits her sharp fangs and angles her sword diagonally at a downward tilt, lazily pointing at the scorched loam. She stomps her heel down on the fresh corpse, trying to rid herself of the burdensome load impaled by her steel. The demon’s motionless body relents and tears after a few attempts. Her burning crimson eyes watch in sheer contempt as the eyesore slumps unceremoniously onto the cracked, soot-covered earth.
And, in that same instance of pure distaste, in this fleeting moment after death, quietude finally descends upon the battlefield. It lingered.
A tainted, dark sphere emerges from the corpse’s reddened chest and slowly ascends into the air.
Leaving nothing to chance, Paradonia greedily snatches it.
Hesitation isn’t welcomed here. For her, it is a privilege for those who can afford it in places such as the surface, but not here, no. Hesitation is weakness.
An opportunity for your foe to strike.
If anyone catches so much as a flicker of fragility in one’s demeanor, you will be preyed upon. Dead.
Devoured.
Here, in the treacherous realm of the inferno, you are nothing more than sustenance, a resource used to replenish another self-serving hell-spawn - if you allow it, that is.
The elf stares down at the orb gripped between her fingers - at her mercy.
Dark swirls of murky grey and dim clouding hues of scarlet circulate within the soul sphere like an abominable cyclone trapped in a crystal ball - emitting a heavy, yet low vibrational energy.
She brings the freshly plucked soul to the brim of her blade, allowing the hell-reformed steel to bite into the demonic lifeforce and draw in its essence, wholly consuming it. Her beloved weapon trembles in ecstasy and glee. It’s steel, then glows with a molten red and sets itself aflame once more. Burning with a feverent bloodlust and unquenchable desire to unleash havoc upon the damned.
With the feel of her handle juddering in her grip, she takes a moment to pause and mentally absorb her surroundings. The only thing she could see around her was the mountainous heaps of ash and soulless husks submerged in sygian blood, rotting in the harsh, unrelenting heat of this forsaken wasteland.
She has lost count as to how many lives she has taken. Stolen. Claimed. The war-torn elf couldn’t even recall the last time she had slept or how much time had passed since she had been imprisoned here.
No thanks to that king who sold her out behind her back.
King Solomon the first.
Moving sequential images of the king’s demise constantly occupy her thoughts - playing out innumerable outcomes - each differentiating from the other and equally as bloody. For the Nurian-born elf, his death was warranted. Hers to claim. It was her right.
She had already envisioned a thousand times over, tearing his soul out from his carcass, but then again, would his death truly compensate for all these years of torment? For her betrayal? For the conflict she was forced to participate in?
The usuper’s uprising.
The historical moment in the hells, she had helped execute.
She spat on the earth - at the sickening memory. He sold her to a demon, all for the sake of power and immortality. It was as if all those years of being married and having a child together meant nothing.
He was truly mad.
However, during her time down here, her recollection of him had become blurred over the years. She doesn’t even know if he is still alive, but what she does know for certain is that her sense of conviction has never been so clear, and with that thought held firmly in her mind, she casts a leer at the smouldering horizon, where the obsidian fortress still stands. Where the ususper resides from within.
Waiting for her.
***
The elven general approaches the pair of heavy-set crystallised doors while clenching the handle of her sword tightly. The flames continue to dance upon the blade’s edge, flaring up brightly in response to her current seething and bitter sentiments. Intuned with her desire to wreak carnage and malice. The elf frowns at the door. She can sense him waiting for her on the other side, but he is choosing not to let her in. Sometimes he would do foolish things like this just to frustrate her on purpose. The elf raises her sword above her head and whams it down upon the doors, unleashing the might of thousands of fallen foes. Debris hurtles forward. Laid to waste.
She treads forward among the strewn evidence of obsidian ruin - and just as the dust begins to settle, she finds all hellish eyes on her.
Those infernal eyes.
Paradonia resumes in stride, making her presence all the more obvious to those who reside within these dark, grand walls. And inside this very room, an infamous devil sits upon a throne of obsidian, with unfathomable riches scattered around his skeletal feet. A dark robe hangs off the usuper’s slender and ridged frame. Tattered and singed at the ends. His hood enshrouds the majority of his bone-like facial features - often obscuring his expressions. Horns protrude from each side of his skull, both curved forward and inwards, almost greeting each other at the tips.
Brymthos. That was the usuper’s name.
He taps the arm of the throne with his index finger, signifying his impatience. Paradonia comes to a slow halt and stands only a metre or so away from the demon, facing the marble steps that lead up to the throne.
“You’re late,” he muttered, displaying an air of boredom.
“I did as you asked,” the elf countered, keeping her tone low but firm.
The usuper grumbles under his breath and waves a hand dismisively, then proceeds to rise. He glides towards the top of the steps and peers down at her from underneath his hood.
“You are indeed quite right, General. You have fulfilled your end of the agreement by eliminating those who dared to oppose me, whether they were mere subjects or my blue-blooded kin,” he says aloud, almost seeming to convey a hint of remorse in his speech.
The elf remains silent.
“Paradonia, my dear child. From the moment I first saw you, I knew you had the raw and unbridled potential to deliver the perfect amount of excruciation to my enemies. I will never forget that magnificent sight when I first beheld that seething newborn hatred in your eyes for the self-righteous king who banished you to my domain. I knew you wanted to leave this realm just as much as I yearned to rule it.”
The usuper raises his hand and clenches it into a fist, calling forth fire to dance upon his sharp protruding knuckles, reveling in the presence of triumph.
“Paradonia, you have given me more than I could have ever dreamed of.”
He opens and spreads his arms wide.
“Now come, and receive your just reward,” he declares aloud with a parted embrace. Then, behind him, a spiralling blood red vortex bursts into existence.
Paradonia makes her way up the marble steps. Then a faint crack of a smile spreads across the lich’s pale face - as though he was genuinely proud? As though the fallen queen was his true offspring, begotten from the unforgiving depths of the interno itself.
His.
As Paradonia takes the last step, her gaze briefly meets his depraved, soulless one. Taking in his moment of stillness, she lunges forward and drives her sword deep into his chest, earning a sickening crack. Piercing his dark, malformed, and corrupted heart, slick with grime. Then, a loud maniacal cackle erupts from his rotten maw. Rattling his ribcage.
“My dear girl, you’ve become far too predictable,” he says with a daring sneer.
The lich quickly seizes her wrist, and heat sears into her flesh. The elven general refuses to show any ounce of discomfort on her face and wedges the blade in deeper, causing him to grimace in response. Black blood begins to trickle down from the corners of his pained grin.
“No one can escape the hells.” He hisses, then lurches forward with a hoarse gasp, and blood gushes out of his mouth.
“Not even I.” He finally said with a strained voice before his heart combusts into flames, and his wretched screams echo throughout the grandiose hallways of the sombre fortress. The usurper’s skeletal frame is reduced to a pile of hot ash. A subtle smile creeps across the elf’s face as his tainted soul emerges from the heap of incinerated remains. She crouches down and plucks it from the bed of ash. The general found herself staring at it longer than necessary before feeding the lifeforce sphere to her beloved blade. It radiates a molten white again and trembles with chthonic joy.
The elf takes a stand once more and dusts the soot off her shoulders. She then turns around to behold a sea of gormless faces. Wide stares. Mouths hanging agape. Vapid expressions.
Paradonia directs the tip of her sword down at the floor and penetrates the marble tile. Infernal fissures creep forth and branch outward, like roots of fire. Fracturing the tiles. Fire rages from within the cracks, rising higher and higher with each passing second.
Entrapped inside the flames are the demonic souls that were conquered and devoured by her weapon. Now driven mad by fury and contempt, they lash out with their inflamed talons, itching to drag all that surrounds them into the eternal hellfire. Their laughter swiftly drowns out the terrified cries of the unclaimed demons doomed to serve her blade.
And like a great feast, the fire ravages everything in sight. Leaving nothing to waste.
Then, with her sword in hand, she turns her back on the blaze and approaches the portal.
