Mortality, what a cheap shot. Who was in control of Stygian now? What…what about Desdemona? He had promised to free her from her cell, to free her from her tortures. A thousand pieces of demonic scum came through his gates everyday and some how she ended up there. Desdemona wasn't a saint by any means, but she wasn't supposed to be in Hell's Prison. She had the strength others wanted though, powers, black magic, and demonic forces all at her control. Not when she was starved, suffering, and weakened from constant blood loss though. Her yellow skin that stretched over her bones like cheap film was marked with red lesions crusted brown and red with drying cuts. The fellow prisoners would slice her flesh with their nails and lick at her seeping wounds desiring to gain the powers she held. Desdemona chose whom she shared her powers with though, and she was selfish.
Still, she didn't deserve that what happened to her. Her cell was no more than a corner with sharpened bars in front of it, not even enough room to lie down. When she was fed, if she was ever fed was unknown. As she sat naked on the dirt floor her ribs pressed against her skin, hipbones protruding like sharp table edges, while her cheeks sunk in. Beneath her eyes lay the dark purple circles, bruises mixed with lack of sleep until her sockets appeared to be nothing but hallow.
Oh, Undertaker wouldn't lie, he had wanted her powers too, but he would gladly set her free…there was just a small return price. He had planned to until the very day his powers had been lost. He would surely have to send the Embalmer a 'thank you' card for that. Girl was probably dead by now though, nothing he could do for her no matter how hard he regretted it. For now 'Taker was staying in the smallest, shittiest apartment on the Southwest side of New York City. The three volumes of the books of the dead were somewhere, they had to be in America, and one of them had to be in this city, solely because he said it so. What was he without his powers and immortality besides some measly middle-aged man stuck in a piss poor city?
He wasn't staying there forever, not for long at all. Already he was walking down the dark and damp alleyways towards the only bar in town he could stand. He'd been there before, drug deals, money laundering, and everything else that ever went down went down there. The lowest scum of the Earth could be scraped off the floor at the 'Silver Bullet.' Druids, demons, witches, and worst of all hippies frequented the torn red bar stools and hard wooden booths.
The door was plane wooden, and swung open on screaming hinges unleashing a torrent of smoke and perfume filled air as he walked in, boots thunking over the old floorboards with every lumbering step. It was unpleasantly surprising that despite his mortality he could still see through every creatures flesh façade and see the scarred red flesh and beady eyes that lay beneath, tails curling around the bar stools' legs.
A woman in a painted on red cocktail dress brushed by him forcefully, the scent of burnt flesh filling his nose. He stepped back, cringing at the odorous scent that choked his throat and invaded his nostrils.
"What the hell are you looking at?!" She snarled, that forked snake tongue of hers accentuated by a silver barbell piercing. Fucking demon whore.