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Chapter 8 - Hot Stuff
Reality unfurled and hurled Goreblaster out of the other side of the portal, like a giraffe with a furball sticking its long neck through your kitchen window. His head spun, and it took his senses a moment to kick back in, the odd form of transportation numbing his existence briefly.
Warmth was the first thing he felt, which made a lot of sense in context. It was a key indicator that he was either in Hell as intended, or perhaps somewhere closer to the equator. As his eyes began processing the colours around him, it became increasingly likely that it was the former. Pits of fire raged up into the air, as a large vaulted ceiling of reddish rock took up the whole of the upwards view that he was currently privy to.
Rolling over to his feet, the ground beneath him was likewise reddish in colour - to the point that he wondered if he had knocked something loose in the ol’ skull and his filter had become off normal. He was in some manner of the spacious cavern, as were three very confused-looking bog trolls.
In drawing Pureheart once more, he was keenly aware of the lack of Percy and their noble steed. The portal had closed - were they too far from it, or had chosen to abandon him? He shuddered at the thought as he lopped off the head of the nearest troll and booted it into a fire pit, like hoofing your pap’s best cabbage into the well-stoked hearth. Unlike said metaphorical fire, the troll was not well-stoked and collapsed with a hiss as he remained destroyed.
Although it would have been a sick joke to leave Goreblaster for dead in literal hell, and would definitely explain the odd actions of Percy lately, he felt that in his heart both of them knew that this would not be his end. A Recorder Orb would not have gone amiss though, he sighed, tripping a troll and pinning it to a smouldering piece of brimstone. A misadventure in hell with not even the mule to bear witness. The last troll ran, and Goreblaster let it go.
Where could it even escape to? This was hell, the place of fire and… where were the demons exactly? Or devils. He could never remember which was which, but the first evil-looking thing with horns or fangs he would bop on the head, like the children's game ‘Duck, Duck, Goose’. Except with his sword - which was actually how he was taught to play that game, and a piece of trauma he would unpack at a later date.
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“Hey, this is a troll-free area, bub!” The scathing voice of a flying figure, no bigger than a toddler but their red skin was covered by a long beard and tattoos. More like a dwarven toddler, in fairness, if they could fly, and were red.
Pureheart split the foul creature in two, vertically. The blue glow left a slight trail through the air as it swung in an arc.
“Neat,” Goreblaster nodded to himself, observing the extra cool effects his magical sword had in this particular location.
“Oh my devil, Clive?” the screech of a second demon flew in, soon followed by the bellow of a horn. Goreblaster turned to see the culprit, a similarly put-together devil/demon with a slightly shorter beard but the noted horn in hand. “Demons will soon descend from all corners of hell to strip you of your mortal flesh and-”
The speech was all well and good, but had been difficult for the little fella to complete with Pureheart through the back of his throat. At least the first part of the threat looked to be coming true as the sound of many tiny flapping wings could be barely overheard over the roars of infrequent flame jets. With a squint, he could see some manner of building to the… East. He had no compass, but it felt pretty Easterly as the way he was originally facing must have been North, right?
Demons began assaulting him from all angles as he jogged to his destination. With the dried bog muck now flaking away like those pastries that taste so good but much such a mess, it was a slightly less miserable feeling than traversing the foul pools had been. It was pretty hot down here though, and he began to sweat profusely as he turned his journey into a macabre battle dance, which was his dance move of choice.
Pureheart cut wide arcs in the air, blue light sundering wings, arms, heads, shoulders, knees, and toes from the encroaching foes. Behind him, a trail of black demon blood and assorted body parts lay littered in his wake across this demented hellscape. A roll, a jump, and a twist to avoid the oncoming stabs of the small and comically ineffective spears and tridents the pint-sized hellspawn had chosen to wield against him.
In their eyes, he was the demon.
That was great; he thought - that could be the byline on whichever news sheet or epic tale was written about this particular job. Assuming that he could get out of here and that anyone would believe him. Rats to that damned Percy (even though he himself was currently damned, right?) for not being present. He wasn’t even able to bounce witty one-liners or have character development without his companion present; this really was hell.
He groaned as he skewered two impish creatures with one strike, and spun in a circle to catch a further two in mid-flight, cleaving them in twain.
“He is heading to the palace! Call the uber-demons!” Shrill voices chattered in a language he didn’t understand but was astute enough to suppose it was the DEMON language. A palace sounded neat though; perhaps they would have a way in there where he could find his way home?
That seemed like the most sensible thing to do, as he carved his way into the first streets of the demon city BRIMSTONIA.