Re: Hell's Songbird - 2

This time, the changed scene is outwardly more congenial, yet it rings with a thousand malicious tones that scream through my bones and stick their tongues into my ears. As they slime over my eardrums, I clamp my palms to my temples, pressing to keep my brain contained. We’ve arrived on a balcony with thousands of erinyes in closer proximity than the canyon allowed. Some carry protoplasmic rage that drowns out the surrounding malice and crushes the breath in my throat, stopping me from screaming. Everyone possesses blood-red hair, far different from my guide’s ebony looks. A barren field before the archers contains beings tied to posts or glowing platforms that move them about erratically; each arrow striking them sends sour notes that thud helplessly against the din of the erinyes’ orchestras.

Menace drips off them while watching those firing arrows. My trembling turns into shaking; Ilya’s hand darts up and clamps onto the point of my chin.

“Don’t,” snaps Ilya. Beneath the grief and fury is a churn of desires that teases strange thoughts.

“Don’t, stop, don’t, stop,” I pant to the tempo of her misery chiming through my chin. 

A memory of a strangely soft room wiggles around behind my eyes, and a woman with shoulder-length brunette locks laughs hysterically. I squirm at the memory of pleasure pulsing through me, and a strange buzzing noise that accompanies every chirp from a black device next to me.

Ilya yanks me towards an orb that sends ice crackling through my mind. The thing has a blueish-white hue and is the size of my head. It appears to be hovering from a distance, but it’s the head of a pin buried in the wall at the back of the balcony.

Swallowing down my bile, I wince at the screams of desperation echoing across the plain behind me. “Why aren’t they dying?”

“You can’t easily destroy a dammed Soul,” grunts Ilya. “Once they transform into devils, it’s a different matter, but their state prevents destruction.”

“What do you mean?”

Ilya shrugs. “I don’t know how it works, but you can’t put something fragile through endless torment.”

My mouth dries at the memory of tumbling in a molten stone that ground flesh from my bones. I grab at the music within Ilya, her grief providing an anchor point among the screams and rage about me. I swallow my scream, but a whisper still spills loose. “Endless?”

Her gaze rakes over my face, and whatever Ilya sees causes her to stab a finger towards an orb on the back wall. “Put your hand on that and attune to it.”

Confused, I shrug helplessly, my wings wiggling with the motion. “Attune?”

“Push mana into it so I can see your imprint,” huffs Ilya.

What does any of that mean?

“Huh?”

“Do you have a spot in the middle of your chest that feels hotter or colder than the rest of you?”

I nod and massage the base of my palm against my breastbone, still too aware I’m in the buff. Sharp, high notes vibrate through my wrist and bound along towards my elbow.

“Picture tipping the hot or cold water from it in the orb,” instructed Ilya. 

It doesn’t work, and neither do her next suggestions. Finally, I imagine the music giggling in my chest, dancing towards the orb. As the notes bounce into it, another of those odd messages appears in my mind.

[Mana Manipulation [2] [B] (1->2)]

The orb begins to buzz away until Ilya presses a gemstone against it—the theme I’d sent into the orb skips and spins to light up the gems’ facets.

A huff of surprise slips from my lips. “Your gem drank it up.”

“Memory crystal,” grunts Ilya. Her gaze is briefly distant before she stares at the crystal with incredulity. “Beelzebub’s maggot chewed nuts. This will not be fun.”

“What’s wrong?”

The crystal enters the strange pouch on her belt before Ilya catches my face in her hands. “You’re almost a complete blank slate. This means one of two assignment options is available, and given the orders I’ve already received, that narrows it down to one.”

“Not the canyon,” I cough out.

“Mailroom. Time to get you some armour and weapons,” sighs Ilya, and reality burps around us again.

This time, we’re in a long hall with metal rafters thirty metres overhead, and the place is bustling with energy. Thousands of beings, some barely the length of my forearm while others big enough I could walk between their legs without bumping my wings. Though most are humanoid, spiked flesh or scales are far more common than skin in any hue. The few that look our way don’t even bother to ogle my naked form; one glance at Ilya’s armoured chest and the rage in her gaze causes their eyes to snap forward.

Don’t ogle the beauty, check.

“How are you getting us from place to place?”

Ilya’s wings rustle. “Greater Teleport. You’ll find you can do it once you’ve seen enough places to focus on. However, you’ll only have the version that lets you move yourself until you’ve used it enough. We need to join the line. Keep quiet for a bit.”

Her tension has increased enough to drown out her grief, making it harder to focus on its melody. Locking onto it, though, causes all the other songs to fade, and finally, there is relief from the horrible scratching crescendos about me. The pressures that had been thumping in my skull dialled back, and it was so tempting to kiss her out of sheer joy. The hard edge within her promised a beating at any moment, so I try to keep my happiness on the inside.

Her suspicious gaze makes me aware of my spreading grin. “We’re away from the pens—doesn’t that rate some celebration?”

“You’ve not reported for duty yet.”

The coldness steals my joy away. “What are you worried about? Isn’t it just me in trouble?”

Ilya stabs a hand at the back wall. “Look at yourself and then look at me.”

With my focus on Ilya, the polished steel wall hadn’t drawn my attention. The metal lets me see myself for the first time since before the river’s churning agony. That place had shown me a distorted version of every moment of my life, mocking my full-figured appearance compared to my two best friends’ athletic looks. Every regret I’d ever felt magnified, and the slightest pain I’d caused others poured molten steel through my veins while the river continually seared the skin from my body. A body that now looked nothing like what I dimly remember of my appearance before I died.

A mane of blood-red hair cascades down my now sun-kissed skin, dangling past confused eyes that hold my expression yet show as dark green instead of their former brown. Where I’d once had a lively, friendly face, my cheekbones are sharp and hard, possessing a predatory sternness that makes my gaze appear cold. So much of my appearance is nothing like my memories, especially the lush lips and the pointed chin from the reflection. Absently rubbing a thumb along the angularity of my chin, my gaze tracks down past my now-firm bust. At least two sizes too small, damn it. The washboard stomach was very new for me, and my gaze landed on wide hips and slid along long toned legs. Though the agony of the river felt like it had flayed me, there wasn’t so much as a scar or blemish anywhere on my perfect skin.

The flare of vanity stirs up memories of laughter and teasing comments exchanged with two shadowed figures who aren’t discernable. Yet the memory slithers back into the pain of the rolling fires, with me tumbling about within. 

“I’m still naked.”

“Yes, we’ll fix that,” states Ilya. “But do you see the differences?”

“I look wrong.”

“Not from whatever you remember,” Ilya grunts and yanks my attention back to her. “You look related to most of the erinyes. What do I look like?”

Completely unsure of what she means, my shoulders raise helplessly. “A beautiful, angry hawk, looking for prey. At least you don’t look like me. I like the colour of your lips, and I remember a friend with eyes like yours. Bedroom eyes.”

She pushes my hand away when my finger unexpectedly moves for her lips faster than in clumsy, fragmented memories.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” snaps Ilya.

They look distractingly lush, but the double standard makes me grumble. “You’ve grabbed me multiple times.”

Ilya grunts. “We’re on a time limit.”

Waving to the line ahead of us, my words come out edged with disbelief. “So you’ve hurried us up, and now we wait?”

“We’d be waiting longer if we got here later,” counters Ilya, and she pushes me towards the far end. “We need the last line. They’ll issue clothing.”

The thought of badly fitting underwear and leathers the wrong size chaffing rushes up among the thrumming music. The surrounding spite colours my imagination, and I get images of underwire bras made of barbed wire. “Will they fit?”

I was unsure where my priorities went; a giant, misshapen thing with hands the size of my body is not thirty metres away.

“They’re all enchanted to adjust,” replies Ilya matter-of-factly. “Break them, and you’ll have a load of paperwork I won’t fill out for you.”

Magic?! That’s how the back of her armour sealed when her wings disappeared. Strangely, magic feels so surprising, yet devils aren’t a surprise.

Teleporting isn’t just some sci-fi transmission thing. The third option is that I’m just in the loony bin.

“How do I know this is real?”

It feels like a reasonable question, but Ilya’s gaze is cold. “Do you want to go to the breeding masters to find out?”

“No.”

“Then don’t be stupid. I thought the same thing when I died, and you don’t even have a mortal’s excuse, angelia.”

“My wedding...” Ilya’s hand clamps over my mouth, and we’re no longer in the warehouse; instead, we’re on a rocky spire sticking out of a lake of bubbling lava. The molten fluids around us fill the air with fumes, and I see figures bobbing in the molten rock, shifting from phantasmal figures to flesh and blood with flesh burning off their bones. Somehow, I can see all the details of each figure despite the obstruction of the churning surface.

[True Sight [3] [B] (1 -> 2)

Note: Because devils have powers.]

“What did you say?” rasps Ilya; seizing my shoulders, she yanks me back to face her.

“You didn’t let me finish.”

Ilya’s jaw clenches briefly, her gaze flat. “Never talk about your past here. With your devastation bow, you were obviously an angelia. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

“What is an angelia?”

“A divine messenger of the higher planes,” Ilya huffs and balls her fists at her side. “Why am I surprised you don’t recognise that? You’ve got no knowledge showing on your imprint. Do you know anything?”

[Celestial Lore Unlocked!

Celestial Lore [3] [B] (1)]

Celestial? Where do I recognise that name from? Angels in games? What games? Wasn’t there a god named Angelia? Why is she referring to angels as angelia? Still, there is that word she’s mentioned before, and I still have no clue what she means.

“Imprint?”

Ilya’s mouth works, but she swallows back whatever she is about to say. The grief in her hasn’t diminished but boils away beneath the anger on display. “The stone I put your hand on took an imprint of your abilities. Here is the first rule for your survival. Until I say otherwise, keep your mouth closed around everyone else.”

Her spike of worry makes it clear what she means without spelling it out. Why is she worried about me? Or is she worried about something else? I want to hide under my bed.

Mounds of mud near the lake’s shoreline bulge and stretch upwards, only to collapse again. I’m not tempted to listen to their melodies. Though Ilya’s theme brings me close to tears, it’s comprehensible rather than malicious.

“Why do you care what happens to me? I can hear the grief and horror in your whenever you talk about those breeding masters or the pens.”

All expression vanishes from her face. “You can hear what?”

“Music from you. I’ve heard it since you were on the stairs approaching my cell.”

The words rush out with the last breath, and a cautious inhalation doesn’t scorch my mouth. 

Her eyes blaze with fear as they widen. “Before you saw me.”

Nervously swallowing, my head moves in a jerky nod.

“There is no power or skill on your imprint that I don’t know,” states Ilya. “None of them give that capability.”

“Maybe resonance...”

Her hands clamped over my mouth, and she hisses in my left ear. “Don’t tell me.”

“Why?” the mumbled word brushes my lips against the strangely soft skin of her palms.

“The imprint is not wrong. Are you clear on that?” hisses Ilya. With her hands still pressed across my mouth, my objections come out in a stifled protest, and she speaks over the top of me. “You make no sense.”

What is the chance she might get blamed for the imprint missing something? Is it better to never know?

She withdraws her hand and grunts in frustration when my words rush out again but doesn’t interrupt. “Neither do you. All the other eryines are malice, spite, and rage. You’ve also got anger but a well of grief and worry. Yet why should I trust that this isn’t a weird trap? Win the newbie to prison over.”

Her reply was a low hiss. “Why shouldn’t I believe you’re laying one?”

With my arms thrown out to either side, my nakedness is on full display. “Does it look like I’ve got any way to hide anything?”

“Keep whatever secrets you believe you have hidden from me. I don’t want to hear about any music or my grief. Or anything that might make them think you are completely crazy. Is that clear?”

“How am I supposed to know what they expect?”

“You only need to know that if they think you’re more useful providing fresh devils, you’ll be in the pens,” growls Ilya. “You can ask questions about what I teach you or things you see. Don’t volunteer your viewpoints on other matters and don’t speak about music. I’ll teach you what the powers shown on your imprint do and train you in more skills. You can ask about those. Nothing else because you shouldn’t have anything else. Pretend your past is a dream because here it might as well be. Is that clear?”

More gurgling from the mud piles had partially distracted me during her speech.

“What are they?”

Ilya’s gaze follows my outthrust hand to the mounds of mud. 

“Lemures are the malignant dead. Do you remember what a larvae is?”

An image of a dead rat’s skin bugling as it swells behind a clear pane. A man’s voice, his regular timbre, calmly describes what is occurring in the time-lapse, the maturation of the fly’s larvae.

“Flies lay them in a corpse.”

“Then consider this lake, the rivers that feed it, and the ocean it empties into one massive stinking corpse. Dammed souls are the eggs, and the heat cooks their humanity away, but those too pitiful and weak-willed can’t change into a full devil and washout onto the shores. They sit here forever in a larval state until something comes along to change that situation.”

The thought of being trapped as a blob on the shore of this place has me gagging, but Ilya continues on unheeding.

“Some powerful devils can force them to change into a minor devil of their choice.”

Ilya holds out her hands as if she’s going to scoop up a distant pile and squeeze them into a fist. 

[Infernal Lore Unlocked!

Infernal Lore [3] [B] (1)

Note: pay more attention to remembering things now. You let lots of memories slip away while rolling in the river.]

With a message like this appearing in my mind, how is this supposed to be real?

What memories slipped away? Flickers of a strange room and a face wreathed in flames smack against me, but they’re gone instantly.

“Wouldn’t stronger devils be more useful?”

“How dumb are you? Stronger means the earlier they’re competition.”

Ilya’s explanation stirs thoughts of toxic office politics, with people claiming credit for my work and ensuring every meeting got documented.

[Infernal Hierarchy Unlocked!

Infernal Hierarchy [3] [B] (1)]

With Ilya carrying on with her explanation, there isn’t an opportunity to even wonder about the messages that keep blinking before my eyes.

“Devils are the things of nightmares. They don’t have pretty names, just practical or ugly,” Ilya explains. “Here, everything has an agreed name, as Hell classifies everything. Everything needs to fit into its box, and unknowns aren’t welcome. The hierarchy likes to control everything, and unexplained powers would draw attention, so don’t talk about that ability. Clear?”

I point at the nearest melted creature. “As them.”

Her shoulders slump. “What are you going to do?”

“Talk about nothing you don’t bring up first?”

“You’re not safe to take near any group,” declared Ilya. “We’ll go via an alternative channel.”

She grabs me by the earlobe and we teleport again. There is just enough room for our wings in the narrow corridor of polished black stone. Though there isn’t a sign of any illumination, I can see the patterns of embossed silver displaying devils in a massive orgy scene. If that’s what’s happening about us, it’s just as well that focusing on Ilya reins in the music. A memory crackles around me, a man above me, his weight pressed down only my hips, and pulsing quivers while gripping his cock tight send warmth through my body. 

Other details start to rise when a sudden spike of pain comes from Ilya, yanking my ear and grounding me again. “Owie.”

“Stop. Use words that make sense instead of silly noises,” grunts Ilya.

“My ear! Aren’t we getting my clothing?”

A stern finger presses on my lips before I can ask more, and Ilya lightly thumps on a nearby stone panel that connects to a large and relatively empty chamber. A response from within has Ilya pushing the door open, the wide door allowing me to see beyond her wings. Around the walls are decorative panels and cupboards stuffed so full that I can’t make out the separate objects. There is a huge king-plus-sized bed in the middle, and shiny sheets cover a full-bodied female whose long hooked tail twitches idly.

She rises out of bed and morphs back and forth between female and male before settling on a female body that grows bat-like wings. Long black locks shift into a high ponytail that pulls back from a clean brow that sits above widely placed eyes and broad cheekbones. Her lush lips part thoughtfully, and a forked tongue brushes across her top lip while she saunters towards us, brushing hands down her sides in eager anticipation.

Succubus. The memory is nearly only that word and a picture on a shop wall of a woman in a red bra and knickers, and similar bat-like wings. A woman’s voice states the word for me, echoing up from fragmented memories. Something more than mere beauty presses on me when she draws near the door, heavy songs grind against my bones trying to pull my attention from Ilya.

Ilya’s chill voice steals the anticipation from her expression. “I need messenger uniforms.”

The succubus looks past Ilya and gives me a heated once-over before smiling at Ilya. “Did you get in trouble that you don’t want on record?”

“There is just an annoying queue at the quartermaster. I’m sure we can exchange something for some of your supplies, Ukufisa?”

Ukufisa smiles before patting Ilya’s cheek. “Why don’t you both come in here and fuck my brains out? Then I’ll see if I can find something.”

“We’ve places to be, Ukufisa, so we don’t have the weeks to dent your intelligence,” replies Ilya.

“I expect you to take a little something to Veseara for me then,” counters Ukufisa.

“What?”

“Just a tiny note to go along with a contract,” giggles Ukufisa. The flirtatious sounds carry no joy but a manipulative edge that slides the force of her personality off me. Mindful of Ilya’s words, I barely restrain a grunt of desire.

[Composure Unlocked!

Composure [1] [B] (1)]

Ilya sighs dramatically. “The Hierarchy’s rules say no personal correspondence.” 

Ukufisa moves to close the door.

“So I’ll need three uniforms and weapons,” finishes Ilya.

“Two uniforms and a single set of weapons,” counters Ukufisa, suddenly all smiles. 

Ilya shakes her head. “That note could be big trouble. Three and two.”

“Three and two if I fuck your arse before you make the delivery,” growls Ukufisa. 

The snort from Ilya is contemptuous.

“I’ll never understand why you don’t like dick in every orifice. Two uniforms and weapons.”

“Deal,” confirmed Ilya.

“Come on in, eryines,” huffs Ukufisa, and she turns away from the door. “Close the door behind you.”

She doesn’t go to a cupboard but to one of the few unobstructed wall panels and unlatches it. At first, there looks to be merely a blank stone wall behind it, then a translucent pane appears, and shelves stuffed full of goods appear.

“Hierarchy messenger or from a city?”

“You know I don’t have a patron,” replied Ilya. “Why would another messenger come to you to replace a uniform?”

“Are you paying for that information?” queries Ukufisa playfully.

Alternative channels? Is she a black-market vendor? Or something else?

Ukufisa tosses two bundles of clothing, long blades and six daggers onto the bed.

“Get dressed here,” orders Ukufisa. “I want to see the show.”

The glance Ilya shoots my way is distant, but I hear the spike of caution.

Since everything is already on show, protesting will delay getting clothing. A snap of my wrist unfolds the top and pants; the notes in them dance across my fingertips, nearly matching what Ilya is wearing. The armoured top looks like I need to stick my arms in the sleeves and lace up the back somehow. As I fumble with them, Ilya steps in between my wings, grabs the straps and pulls them tight together. I feel the leather seal as the sides touch, and a slither of notes itches across my spine.

Aware of how close she’s standing, I grab up the pants and consider the laces along the side. I pull on a leg at a time like I’d have done at home. When I go to tighten the laces, Ilya presses up against me and yanks the ties at the top upwards. With all the eyes they’re fed through, it should have done nothing; instead, it sets off a chain reaction, and I’m neatly secured in less than a breath.

The ties aren’t the only change. The leather had felt loose, but now the pants are a snug second skin. With me neatly tucked in, Ilya steps aside, leaving me to deal with the boots unassisted.

Ukufisa moves forward and reaches towards me, only for Ilya’s fingers to circle her wrist. “No.”

“I should check their fit,” pouts Ukufisa.

Ilya doesn’t let her go but holds out her other hand. “The contract and the message.”

Leaning in, Ukufisa flicks an elongated serpent tongue across Ilya’s lips. “You’re still holding me. Do you think I’ve got either stored between my legs?”

A smile twitches across Ilya’s lips, and her false notes don’t match its serenity. “I’m sure a spatial wizard like you can do many things. I’ve seen cocks go in there long enough to come out your mouth.”

Ukufisa wiggles her fingers theatrically and draws out a white scroll sealed with black wax, and the sigil on it matches the one Ilya had broken. “They fit because I want to savour every centimetre of them.”

A shiver runs up my back at the purr in her voice, but Ilya doesn’t blink

After a quick repeat of the magic, she hands the scroll and a white square with black squiggles over it to Ilya.  

Ilya looks at the marks and growls. “Really?”

“He thinks sticking it in an erinys is the closest he’ll get to savour an angelia’s cunt.”

“You didn’t say I’d be part of your gift,” grumbles Ilya.

“If that’s the approach you want to take, that’s up to you,” laughs Ukufisa. “He said he’ll sign when an erinys agrees to let him enjoy her delights. I’m sure you can be inventive about what delights you deliver him.”

The slightest narrowing of Ilya’s eyes accompanies the spike of rage and self-loathing that screams through her bones. Ilya taps the card thoughtfully before she puts both the scroll and the card away.

[Resonance [1] [B] (28 -> 29)

Sense Motive [1] [B] (17 -> 18)]

Her impatience prompts me to grab up boots that had been on the bed and end up stomping into a set of mid-calf boots like Ilya wears. They’re barely secured when Ilya snatches the spare armour and the weapons from the bed. With a hand between my wings, she shoves me out the door. The moment we’re both in the corridor again, she teleports us away.

“Why didn’t we just go back to the warehouse?”

Ilya glares at me. “To keep us safe from questioning if you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”

Waving at the surrounding barrenness, my gaze doesn’t leave hers as I take in her song again. “Is that why we came to another deserted spot?”

“Yes,” sighed Ilya. “Yes, close your mouth and keep it shut. We have to pass through checkpoints. I’m assigned to supervise you, so I’ll answer all the questions. Given your recklessness, I want you to stay silent inside Hell.”

“Would you have supervised me in the pens?”

Her sudden revulsion makes me swallow.

“You don’t get to ask questions about my duties, only how to perform your own. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll report we’re delivering a contract. That will buy you time to get stable,” snaps Ilya.

And more time for her away from the pens?

Quickly nodding at the pouch, holding the scroll and card, I get her attention. “The scroll didn’t come through your boss.”

“Our boss, but it’s an official contract, and I have the recipient’s name. She can confirm it, and since it’s part of the job, I’m just giving you early training in delivery,” Ilya says. 

“She set you up to have sex with him. They pimped you out.”

“If that’s what you think, you’re not paying attention,” corrects Ilya. “What did Ukufisa say?”

“He’ll sign when an erinys agrees to let him enjoy her delights.” 

Ilya's eyes grow cold, matching the grim notes within her. “What did you see at the target range?”

“The erinys torturing souls by shooting arrows into them.”

“Loosing arrows, not shooting. You shoot a crossbow or ballistae, not a bow,” corrects Ilya. “Were they enjoying themselves?”

Swallowing, I jerkily nod. “Won’t the note give that away?”

Ilya snorts. “It’s legal double talk.”

“All the promises are zero summed?” 

My guess gets a grim smile from Ilya. “He’s earned nothing.”

Loathsome sour notes rippled across her theme, each cutting accusingly. Despite the musical rush, nothing shows on her face, and my attention narrows her gaze.

“You will keep your mouth shut until I say it's safe for us to talk. Clear? You failed that test when I brought you here.”

“Crystal.”

A monumental note rumbles and shakes within my chest, and I see a flash of a crystal goblet clasped in delicate bronze-gold fingers.

Before I can say anything, Ilya grabs my hand, and she causes reality to jump. Again!