Welcome Distractions (Daimon)

Participants: Satana Hellstrom /Daimon Hellstrom
Open/Closed: Closed
Location(s): Hell
Time of Day: Eternal night
Weather: Incredibly warm, but with a severe lack of sunlight.
Summary: While Satana sits and muses upon life, a welcome distraction arrives in the form of her brother.

She sat with her chin resting upon the back of her hand, sharp eyes surveying the little pocket of Hell she’d carved out and crafted for herself. Once, she’d felt nothing but joy when she looked out at her creation: it had all the hallmarks of punishment and suffering one might have expected in the underworld. Fellow succubus roamed freely, taunting and poking trapped subjects – tempting them with brief respite as they endured their own personal torture. Strange, eldritch smokes bellowed from fire pits that were never extinguished. Chains clanked and rattled, and the scent of burning was ever on the air. It was a scene her father might once have been proud of – if pride was an emotion the demon was capable of experiencing.

Satana, on the other hand, had grown rather disenchanted with it.

Be it boredom, disillusionment or something more, her personal Hell-plane no longer held the same appeal that it once did. Earth, for all its foibles – of which there were many – at least never ceased to be interesting. Its ever-changing nature left the world an unpredictable place. The everyday suffering individuals experienced could be far worse than all the torment dreamed up in the dark realms she called home. The hurt humanity could inflict upon each other – it put demons to shame.

She told herself she didn’t miss the surface. She told herself that Hell was her home, that it provided her all the sustenance she needed. She told herself that it was better for her survival, to stay away from the Sorcerer Supreme and his interfering allies: he held no sway over what she could do in her own realm, no say as to how she chose to exist. And yet, no matter how often she repeated those same considerations, a part of her felt empty, like it was missing something. Quite what that ‘something’ was, Satana wasn’t sure, but once she had noted it, she could not forget it.

It had been a wholly unpleasant realisation, and one she had done her utmost to distract herself from. Unfortunately, there were only so many ways to avoid it when Hell was a landscape designed for individuals to be tormented by their own thoughts…

Daimon Hellstrom

While the Lady of this particular Hell sat musing, a distant rumble trembled through the foundations of the plane. From a puff of sudden and errant smoke, a brazier formed in front of Satana, lighting and showing a wincing and unhappy male face in the sprouting flames. "F*@#," Daimon's distorted voice hissed. "Let me in," he demanded. He could practically feel the satisfaction rippling off his sister. He waited, glowering, for a moment, then rolled his eyes. "Please," he added, like the word was painful on his tongue.

The moment Daimon found clearance into Satana's hellscape, he completely ignored her presence. Instead, she would find him in the midst of whatever amounted to her trove of arcane artifacts, tomes and reliquaries. Feeling Satana at his back while he rooted unceremoniously through a chest of drawers whittled from bone, he pursed his lips.

"You changed the locks," Daimon stated tartly - tartly, but unsurprised. He was sure Satana knew, when she adjusted the parameters of her Hell, that the next time Daimon tried to enter he'd be dashed upon its edges instead. Painfully. His and Satana's relationship had been tumultuous their entire lives but in recent years they'd struck and kind of balance and rhythm. One that made Daimon sure he wasn't on Satana's sh*t list, at least.

No, he had far too few flesh wounds to have been on that list.

Satana Hellstrom

Satana was pulled from her minor torments by a rumble that shook Hell’s very foundations, and she found herself raising a brow when a puff of smoke and lash of flame formed a brazier before her. Within its fire, her brother’s wincing face glowered at her, and any expression of surprise she may have worn was quickly replaced by a satisfied smirk. If there was anything that could make Satana Hellstrom feel better, it was seeing her brother; be it in pain, anguish, distress or lament.
‘F*@#!’
“Is something the matter brother dearest?” Her voice was like poisoned honey, smooth and sickly sweet, dripping with sarcasm. She felt sure she could guess what ailed her sibling – he had tried to enter her realm, and had found himself rebuffed – the power of his conjured portal set against the dark wards guarding the entrance to her Hellscape. There was little else that could have caused such a reverberation throughout her plane, or indeed left her brother in such discomfort.

It was doubly pleasing to know her arcane defences had bested him.

‘Let me in. Please.’ Satana watched Daimon’s face in fire for a good few moments in total silence, simply enjoying listening to him beg – even though he tried his utmost to disguise it as a demand. For a few moments, she felt the urge to simply banish the brazier with a wave of her hand, ignoring the other Hellstrom’s request. However, mulling over her options, she finally raised her shoulders in the slightest of shrugs and sighed dramatically.
“I suppose, now you’ve used the magic word…”
Clicking her fingers, the wards were altered to allow Daimon passage, and she rose from her throne of skulls, stretching.

While denying her brother something would bring her instantaneous joy, she could draw out any suffering he was undergoing were he to stay, prolonging her pleasure. It was on that thought alone she’d based her final decision.

Though Daimon didn’t come to her, no doubt sulking following the dent he’d suffered to pride and chin, it was easy enough for Satana to find him. She could pinpoint the location of anyone or anything that set foot in her Hell, and thus he was not alone for long. Letting dark magic guide her path, Satana soon swayed into an area that acted as something of a library – a personal trove of artefacts, tomes and relics she had collected over the years.

He was in a distant corner, rooting through a chest of drawers, and he felt her presence before she’d uttered a word.
‘You changed the locks.’
“If you called ahead, I might have left the doors open…” They both knew she wouldn’t have. Heading toward him, she paused at his side, and resting a hand upon the open drawer, aggressively closed it, showing little care or heed to the fingers that still searched its contents. “To what do I owe the pleasure? A social call, or do you need something?” His actions thus far suggested the latter, and if he did, oh how dearly he would pay to have it.

Daimon Hellstrom

Every part of him knew that it was impossible, but still he hoped vaguely - futilely - that Satana would deem his company beneath her just then. Things would've been a lot smoother and more concise, arguably, if she just let him do what he would and leave when he was finished. So, of course, the exact opposite had to happen. Daimon had expected just as much - if the roles were reversed, he'd watch her closely in his own Hell. They knew one another too well to trust the other outright.

Just like Daimon couldn't build up enough hope to actually think Satana leaving him alone would happen, he couldn't scrounge up the energy to do so much as scoff when she mentioned calling ahead next time. Daimon knew that his passage through Satana's hellscape wouldn't go past her notice. Sneaking in had never been an option. All her adjustment of the borders had done was cause him a headache - which was almost definitely the entire point.

Satana drifted up beside him and slammed the drawer he was sifting through shut. His hand flickered into flame, phasing through the bone panels as he pulled it back with a scowl. "The depth of your wit grows leagues by the day," he drawled dryly back. Satana's question was probably rhetorical, but Daimon flirted with a line during this encounter. At a whim, his sister could cast him out of her domain. He could try to fight, and give her a headache in the tug-of-war to follow, but ultimately he was sure he'd fail.

Dodging the point of his visit was a waste of time. Maybe, if Satana was feeling in a particularly good mood (or felt the idea of him owing her a favor pleasing, just then), she'd even expedite the process. "The Shackles of Sealing," he sighed, leaning back against a bit of furniture in the trove, bracing his hands on the edge of it. "Do you have them?" Daimon stared at her evenly for a few heartbeats and, knowing at this point he had to give more to get anywhere, he rolled his eyes. "A Dreadknaught from Mephisto's realm fell through the seams and is, currently, fair game. I need the Shackles to bind him to my servitude before some other Hell Lord intervenes."

Satana Hellstrom

Satana raised a challenging eyebrow as her brother snapped his attention toward her, his face twisted in a scowl, torn from his search. His fingers were only momentarily trapped within the drawer she’d forcefully closed upon them, and he freed them with practiced ease. However, the interruption and frustration it had caused him was more than worth it – she’d have slammed a hundred drawers closed upon his hands if it constantly elicited the same reaction, no matter how mundane Daimon found his escape.
"The depth of your wit grows leagues by the day.”
She dipped her head in an off-handed thanks. “I’m so glad you’ve noticed.” Satana rested a hand atop her bone cabinet, and drummed her claw-like nails against it – a sign she was waiting, rather impatiently, for him to explain his presence.

A long, drawn out silence fell between the Hellstrom siblings, Satana’s gaze boring into her brother, while Daimon seemed to toy with how he’d respond to her query – she could practically see the pentagrams turning in his mind, like cogs powering a machine. “Well?” she prompted eventually, taking great pride in the uncertainty she’d instilled in him – he’d travelled to her Hellscape, clearly seeking something of great importance, and he was unable to bring himself to ask for it.

"The Shackles of Sealing…do you have them?"

“Ah, there it is.” She found herself smiling again, but said no more, waiting for her brother to elaborate. If he wanted them, he’d have to explain why, but she was certain he’d already figured that out.
"A Dreadknaught from Mephisto's realm fell through the seams and is, currently, fair game. I need the Shackles to bind him to my servitude before some other Hell Lord intervenes."
Satana nodded sagely, and then ‘hmmmmmed’, as if deep in contemplation. She wasn’t, of course. She had no intention of giving her brother something without claiming her own favour in return. That wasn't how the denizens of Hell worked. Everything was bartered for.

“Suppose I did have these Shackles of Sealing... why should I give them to you?” she wondered aloud, tapping an index finger against her chin, furthering the illusion of thought. “And why should the Dreadknaught be bound to your servitude? They’re my Shackles, and I wouldn’t mind possessing a new pet…” She looked her brother dead in the eye, unflinching. “You know you can't take them from me, not here, so what, in Hell, could you offer me? What token, trinket or favour could you give, in order to convince me to help you?”


Daimon Hellstrom

Time was pressing. If it hadn't, a lot would've been altered in this whole encounter. They both knew the cards the other were holding, but that didn't change the fact that they had to play the game. Daimon was driven, so sudden and earnestly, to Satana's Hellscape because of the sands of the hourglass draining away. He'd had to sidestep a lot of protocol because of it, and now he was paying the price.

He also hadn't had the luxury of shoring up patience against Satana's inevitable smugness and condescension. And she knew it. Daimon saw the cautious curiosity in her eyes kindle into wicked delight. That look, of Satana Hellstrom knowing she had the upper hand, was one that would send most souls screaming in the opposite direction. Daimon only challenged it with a half-lidded, dry stare of his own.

Satana was enjoying twisting the knife, painting and highlighting and underlining all the things that they were both well aware the other knew. Daimon gritted his teeth and bore it, until she languidly offered him the floor again. "Obviously I can't take them from you," Daimon drawled, arms crossed over his bare chest. "Or I already would've done."

Time - f*@#ing time - was still against him. Daimon didn't have the opportunity to confront what had become a contract negotiation with more finesse and subtlety. The last thing he wanted was for another Hell Lord to get their talons on the Dreaknaught before him. Moreover, losing out to another and finding himself in Satana's debt for Shackles he no longer needed was a likely possibility.

"I don't suppose we could add it to my tab?" he asked, in such a flat tone it was completely rhetorical. Daimon groaned, rolling his eyes toward the jagged ceiling far above Satana's treasure trove. Dismissively, Daimon snapped his fingers. The ground between the Hellstrom siblings shuddered and split in a miniature crevice. Heat wavered up and a gout of flame before, through it, an image of a man bound in a red-hot cage of iron suspended over a molten pool was visible.

"This soul found its way into my domain last week. I believe you're aware of his identity? Kole Sinclair?" The multibillionaire had brought about his own tragic end after a disgusting path of sins was unearthed behind him. Just the kind of person that Daimon knew Satana drooled at the prospect of tormenting for eternity.

Satana Hellstrom

"Obviously I can't take them from you, or I already would've done."

“You’re sounding more and more frustrated by the second, Daimon. It’s most unbecoming.” His annoyance did, however, cause Satana’s eyes to spark with delight. The more outwardly annoyed her sibling became, the more she knew her talons – metaphorical, of course, though she did enjoy physically assaulting him too – dug into him. “How about we try some deep, calming, mindful breaths?”

Pushed to the limits of his patience – a threshold Satana could cause any living being to hurtle toward at breakneck pace – Daimon rolled his eyes, clicked his fingers and the ground between the Hellstroms split. Hellfire fire belched from the miniature gorge that formed betwixt the pair, though the flames quickly took on human form – an image of a man suspended above a molten pool of lava, trapped in a red hot cage.

An offering.

"This soul found its way into my domain last week. I believe you're aware of his identity? Kole Sinclair?"
Satana tried very hard not to lick her lips. Kole Sinclair was exactly the kind of soul she took great pleasure in tormenting. He’d committed so many heinous sins in life, it encouraged her to get creative in death. Her eyes flicked between the brazen image and Daimon – to her sibling and back again. “How did you get to be in possession of such a juicy morsel?” Shaking her head, she quickly wafted her hand through the fire, banishing the conjured illusion.

“Not that it matters.” Now she knew what Daimon was willing to offer, she felt it only natural to push for more. “He alone is not enough. There are hundreds of Kole Sinclairs. Perhaps thousands. Earth is a dire place, and humanity is finding ever new ways to debase itself.” She took a moment, pausing for effect. “No, I want him, and the captive Dreadknaught. Pet and plaything.” She placed a hand on her hip and tilted her head, examining the nails on her free hand pointedly. Satana, after all, was in no rush, and she made certain to convey that.

“You can waste time bartering or you could just agree to give me what I want. Then you get your shackles and my help in utilising them.” She most certainly wasn’t going to let Daimon go alone. She had to ensure his side of the bargain was upheld.

Daimon Hellstrom

Daimon had known beyond a shadow of doubt that his offering would entice his sister. Otherwise he wouldn't have wasted the precious moments it took to present it. Still, he could sense the shift in her. To any other eye - mortal or immortal - Satana didn't change in the least bit. But to her brother, the succubus's air of finely tuned nonchalance became the slightest, most imperceptible bit more of an act.

Still, Daimon could practically hear the swinging of a pendulum counting down the beats until this was all for nothing. Satana did the thing - the thing. The pout of the lips, hand on hip, inspecting her cuticles thing. Daimon recognized it from a childhood and adulthood of time fighting each other. "I swear, it's like pulling f***ing teeth with you, Ana," he growled, teeth becoming more pointed in his frustration.

"Consider negotiations still underway. Just grab the damned shackles and come on!" Daimon had wanted to avoid this, and yet knew somewhere in the marrow of his demonic bones that there was no way he could've. He thrust his fist through the earth at his feet and rooted around in what should've been impregnable, solid obsidian. With a grunt, Daimon retrieved his arm.

The ground shuddered and opened, a maw with thousands of rows of yellowed, jagged teeth that gave way to a dark throat. Daimon scowled, grabbed Satana's forearm heedless (and satisfied) of the protests, and pulled her along with him into the chthonic mouth. The teeth snapped closed over them and the blackened ground of the treasure trove became as still and lifeless as before...

Satana Hellstrom

Daimon’s continued display of frustration – gritted teeth and angry growl – gave Satana no end of satisfaction, almost more than a corrupt soul and rogue Dreadknaught might. Almost. Though she toyed with her brother, displayed an air of abject disinterest at his attempted bargain, the concept of owning what he’d offered, or what she’d demanded, was more compelling that she let on. Her brother’s exasperation, for once, was not as desirable as it might have been. Not that she intended to stop vexing him; it was, after all, in her nature.

As her sibling crouched, thrusting his arm into the obsidian beneath their feet, she regarded him with a raised brow. “I hope that doesn’t leave a mark.” Daimon’s sudden haste suggested mounting desperation – for every second they spent in Satana’s hellscape, the more likely it was that other interested parties would find the Dreadknaught before the Hellstroms.

He had already lingered too long.

Hoping to capitalise upon his desire for swift action, Satana turned slowly back toward her skeletal cabinet, and bending at the waist and counted three drawers up. Pulling it open, she retrieved from within a set of heavy, beaten, metal shackles, the cuffs carved with ancient sigils of warding. Twirling them around her index finger, the manacles looking almost light, despite their immense weight, she finally glanced back toward Daimon.

“You aren’t getting these until I get what I-"

She was cut off when he reached toward her and took a firm hold of her forearm, nearly causing her to drop the enchanted restraints. Satana hissed menacingly. “Let g-" Again, silenced. A firm tug from her brother pulled her toward a great mouth that had opened, carved out of the rock beneath their feet – a maw of impossible depth and darkness. Dragged toward it, she did her utmost to resist, but her brother had always been the more physically powerful of the pair. Within moments, he had dived into the mouth of Cthon, pulling Satana with him.

Daimon Hellstrom