Renon's realm was different... or highly boring depending on your perspective. It was not awe inspiring like Obsidianus, or even unique like the aerial domain of Florescent City, nor was it aquatic like the River of Styx, spansive like the realm of Dis, living like Malabolgia, or... however you would define what the Caves of Cocytus had become.. it was however (and most importantly), his city.
Satan's Fables of the Lower Plane is one that is most business-like in its manner of existence and its province reflects that. From the outside it is nothing more than large buildings, skyscrapers, condo complexes, large developments. But to walk within the streets it quickly becomes obvious something is off.
No pedestrian hurries to their day job, no half eaten hot dog litters the sidewalk, no buzz of electricity gives forever white noise to the life of a city, no growling of vehicles to bark at one another and soil the air. Though the city waited, poised, developed and ready it seemed no more in use for its purpose than a suit upon a mannequin. Coffee shops lined corners with doors open and tables set, but the banner above the door boasted no business name, or logo. It was set, it was prepared but held no whisper of any patronage. The whole city held this oddity.
The largest most central office building did contain illumination however. Like any office building the external structure was broken up into equally sized squares- offices. These squares however were not mostly cement with a single large window (as one may expect) but the entire squares themselves were made of one way glass. The entire building shimmered and reflected the world around it metallic gray. A large SF was the only object to break each face of the monochrome chess board pattern. The golden 'S' climbing the polished black 'F' like a cunning forbidden snake.
It is within this building that resides the true heart of the realm, and it is in this building that now resides Renon.
It's funny how anyone who looked upon the once bustling province now would think how the mighty has fallen- although in rank of the Lower Plane kingdoms it now stood third, higher than it ever has before. But this kingdom's visual lack of life was Renon's own doing, it was his own personal promotion. He was still adjusting to the idea that Satan's Fables was his and his alone, and how alone he had made it.
To stand upon the cement stairs of his crowning achievement and look upon the rising structure that loomed like a yawning beast, it would appear no more than any other money polished highrise. But it's when you climb the stairs and place your hands upon the glass front doors and pushed would its internal secret reveal itself. Once a foot stepped within the building its interior is transformed. You would not see marbled floors and a secretary's desk as you would expect. But stone architectures, archways and torches upon the walls. It is a business shell with a castle crunchy center. The smell of old fabric and yellowed paper danced beneath Renon's nose. Footsteps unmuffled by plush carpeting but instead amplified with stone floor echoed within the dancing light of the corridors, the sound both breaking and giving rhythm to his concentration.
The passing light cast from the unexpected torches clawed out to illuminate his features only to fall into the shadows as he passed once more. The garb of Renon was all too familiar to these halls, as it scarcely differed and the demon were these halls sole company.
Unsurprisingly the demon wore a suit, but much like its wearer the suit was not quite what you'd expect. Odd, hard to place differences nagged at you. Tugged at your subconscious begged to be focused on. One could search for quite a while within vain and never quite figure out what was so unusual about them. The suit at first glance would appear to be black. A simple black fabric that seemed unable to decide between silk and suede. But wherever the light brushed against it, it would highlight a brilliant forest green, like incandescent scales of some reptilian.
The pressed pants hung from his form slightly too large (as in suit with all his clothes) causing the hem to noticeably rest upon the obsessively polished surface of his black business shoes. A basic black leather belt is lost beneath a double breasted blazer made of the same unusual fabric. The jacket lovingly hugged the Businessmans lithe mid-drift and then abruptly cast itself from his form, causing the coattails of the blazer to bow away from his body gracefully.
Beneath this chaos was a plain button down white shirt, and a basic black tie that laid almost comically oversized in nature obscuring the white beneath nearly entirely. This all rested
upon broad shoulders and gave way to angular pale features. Though human by glance the Businesman's flesh held a deathly pale hue, its features sharp and angular, not betraying to his true origin but unsettling and not quite like any human perceived.
Upon this angular jaw rested expressive lithe lips, that betrayed the male's emotions as readily as his bright jade eyes. Brows furrowed in concentration as he walked the halls, troubled by what he had witnessed. The eyes never once moved to acknowledge the halls that he knew so well, he walked in familiarity, losing himself entirely to his mind. The light from the torches dimmed by a pair of glasses that rested between him and the world, the lenses tinted gray, dulled the light of the world around him. Short cropped black hair fell in reckless haphazard freedom about the male's face, curiously contradictory to the usual obsessively organized nature of the male. An oversized fedora attempted to cast shadows over the male's face, challenging the torches' efforts to reveal his stoney facial expression.
Renon mused, and puzzled, and writhed in self-torture over not recognizing the male that had so easily taken down Ba‘al Zebûb. The image of the pooling red upon unwavering black answered who was ultimately responsible for the former lord's death. It would have had to have been Lucifer and Lilith... but who was the grim reaper they sent to battle? Renon knew he had no need to be worried about who the man was, but he couldn't help but feel there was something both relevant and hidden within the event. He felt an exhaustion that was neither mental nor physical, but stemmed from daunting vertigo that clutched the deepest parts of your internal organs at the knowledge of some great daunting task that loomed before you. He tried to ignore this sensation.
His thoughts eased as the wooden frame of one of the few doors within the establishment came into view. Lithe lips pulled thinner and slid up along the side of the male's face in an appreciative smile. A softness, an unusual tenderness settled in the Businessmans eyes. The door contained the Library- his Library. A quiet room of knowledge and solitude. Unnaturally long pale fingers stretched out and fanned themselves against the carved mahogany, pausing for only a mere second appreciating the residual warmth of the mahogany in comparison to his domain of stone, before he pressed his weight into shoulder and cast the wooden barrier aside.
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It was like being drawn into the warm embrace of a long ago lost friend. Unnaturally bright jade hued eyes danced across every familiar surface of the ancient library. Tracing lovingly over the spines of books that lined the walls like huddling beasts, the titles not truly read but known from years of familiarity. A lithe chest pulled in a deep breath of air, filling itself to capacity with a pungent scent of old fabric and yellowing paper. This was, and had always been Renon's guilty pleasure. A secret drive, a secret need, and a very secret means for the demon to keep his sanity. Renon had always taken a hand in adding, correcting and expanding libraries. His own, and others. Known ones and obscure forgotten tombs. Part of it was sheer egotistical narcissism. Renon was a part of history, an invading spider skittering across the shewn wed of time. But past this shield of vanity there was a deeper reason, a hidden characteristic beyond the flashing white charismatic smiles, and the mocking laugh of egotistical condensation. Because he is so involved in the developing history of countless worlds, he felt some indescribable obligation to record events and occurrences that he alone had witnessed, unraveling tales that he had observed from afar. If he did not record them, they would not be missed. They would not even be known. In their irrelevance Renon found a need to rescue them.
The lungful of air was released into a dwindled sigh.
But that was not why he stepped within the walls of his old friend. He was not here to write, to create, and to immortalize both himself and the happenings of the world. Today... today was business. Renon Uth Zhakrin was here to learn, well in reality, he was here to extract knowledge.
Shrugging the long jacket off of his shoulders he draped it over the back of a chair that stood the only of its kind to be seen, near a long heavy and worn through looking wood table. He rolled his shoulders as though they were relieved of a great weight, and in suit without pause his fedora too moved from his body, catching a corner of the back of the chair, and draped sulkily there. Pale fingers smoothed through his dark hair enjoying the rare freedom it was allowed. He paced for a moment longer, with no other intention then prolonging the inevitable. His eyes ever turned back to the table, as though expecting some event to trigger. He touched the edges of spines to the walls of books. Each one a half forgotten, half remembered part of himself. Some brought smiles, others a distant haunted look. Each and everyone lightly touched him back. It was only when he reached the dark blue dyed spine labeled in scrolling silver Nall did his fingers recoil, denying contact. He then turned and found himself seated at the patiently waiting table.
An elbow touched the surface, the arm leading to a hand that cupped the male's jaw. His free hand rapped upon the wooden surface as he stared at the dark leather of a briefcase that laid anxiously before him. Yes, indeed, the table had been bare as the male paced the room, but at the vulnerable moment of an eyeblink did the case suddenly appear. Harmless, precocious, but prompting and expectant. Renon knew that the nature of his briefcase was one of serving him. Whenever he needed it, it appeared, with an eerie sort of life of its own. This has always been the case for as long as the businessman could remember. There were times- times like these, where Renon couldn't help but question who was forced to fulfill the wanting actions of who. If a servant -who you know you have power and influence over- begged you to give them some task so they feel valued, and you feel obligated to fulfill this action, did the master not lose power? He shifted his weight and the hand that propped up his jaw, and the one tapping in rhythm on the table switched occupations. He realized that his thoughts were dancing upon dangerously unpolitical boundaries. He spared himself the philosophy, it was after all, just a briefcase.
Clink, clink. He unlatched and opened the case and gathered the containing papers within. He shuffled through them quickly and easily, his eyes dancing over the heading descriptions; Baphomet the Beast, head of the seventh realm, the Caves of Cocytus. Azazel the King of Devils, head of the sixth realm, the Mighty Malabolgia, Belial the Lord without Master, head of the fifth realm, the City of Dis. Leviathan the Sea Serpant, head of the fourth realm, the River of Styx. Renon Uth Zhakrin the BussinessMan (Renon Smirked), head of the third realm (third realm), Satan's Fables. Mara the temptress (that smirk faded), head of the second realm, Fluorescent City. Lucifer the Morning Star, head of the first realm, Obsidianus. This is where Renon stopped and drew out more papers.
He drew his finger over the front page, a small photo paper clipped in the corner capturing the image of Lucifer himself. The page consisted of a maliciously laid out biography of the lord himself. Renon flipped these pages slowly reading forth, although he already knew all of the information quite extensively (another habit of his, researching), he gave the familiar information the attention one gives in hopes that they had missed something obvious. As he flipped, the small stack of remaining paper neither seemed to grow or shrink. He came across Lilith next, Lucifer's.. right hand woman.
This was the advantage of Satan's Fables. Each head of each kingdom held its own unique ability. Lilith and Lucifer were immortal, even by demon standards. It was one of the prime reasons they were the undisputed powerhouse of the Lower Plane. Maya had... reincarnation.. and Renon, - a smile slid across the male's face, the flash of white teeth growing like an unfillable crevice in the male's face. Insanity toyed with the pulled muscles as the grin sweetened his amusement with ominience- Renon held history in the palm of his hand. Quite literally.
He flipped another page that revealed more information about the Top Queens origins.
Satan's Fables had immediate and complete access to the history of any living being who had ever been in existence. Endlessly handy when researching one's competition.
He moved on from Lilith to others that the Top King and Queen held within their kingdom and within their power. His eyes danced gracefully from word to word, he knew that their former top assassin had recently... left their employment so to speak, he was looking for some sort of connection, some sort of explanation on who the new hitman that took down Ba‘al Zebûb was. Time oozed around him as his focus numbed any expansive thoughts. His breathing and flipping danced in an aggressive give and take, both leaping to breath the silence, but this too eventually yawned into a dull rhythm as the novelty of the hunt wore thin.
It was only when the Businessman's hands visibly began to tremble did the air seem to wake once more and prick with excitement. Jade eyes turned ever blacker as his pupils grew steadily, deep lines appeared in the pale skin of his face, that seemed (if it were even possible) to grow paler as time came back with impending force. He grew reluctant to turn pages, he grew reluctant to face an impossible reality. His hands stilled and he stared across his library, his sanctuary, his mind desperately numbing to fight back a traumatic realization.
“He isn't here...”
His voice sounded thick with disbelief. His eyes snapped down in defiance to the paper once more in defiant action to prove this can't be the case. But Renon caught himself, and didn't bother himself to loose the time to check the unmistakeable. He found himself at a genuine loss. He found himself sick. He stared, lacking what more to do from here. It had never occurred before, there was always information, they were always there. What did it mean? What could it mean? His thoughts clawed across possibilities that blurred into incomprehensible jumbles.
The papers lowered from his hands. Brows furrowed, and lips twisted. There was only one other option left open to him
“I guess it's time to make a housecall.”