Disclaimer: DMC and its characters belong to Capcom. This version of Alastor's and Ifrit's persona, Bheruken, Spitferes, Frost Tempust, and Glarai are mine. Rated R.
Mip the Demon Fox: Ifrit has issues, alright.
Parker Allen: Ifrit can really turn up the heat. I figure if there's such things as underwater torches and flares, then why can't Ifrit burn with fifty times that intensity?
Everyone has their secrets.
I have mine, you have yours. The whole of the Three Worlds are laden with things they do not wish to come to light; is it, dare I say, an unwritten law? The Underworld, the Mortal Realm, Heaven, they are more alike than you can possibly imagine. Rarely, however, do the prevalent mysteries reveal themselves, much less without a price. Oh, you already knew that? Liar. Pandora unleashed chaos and suffering because she had to know the secrets of -
- Did I mention I'm an utter loon? I should know, I've been out of my mind for well over five thousand years. Don't look so surprised, it tries what little self-control I have.
I am Ifrit, mad am I, and we are inseparable. But enough about me, for now, I said I had secrets, didn't I? Well, I'll tell you one...would you like that? You bet your soul to the inferno, it will!
Why, you ask?
Why not? Can't a demon of venerable wisdom....yes, wisdom....impart his knowledge without suffering under suspicion of nursing an ulterior motive? I've indulged whims far more heinous than this, I'll have you know! Besides, I am in a good mood, and you do not look particularly flamma....
Where was I? Right.
The hunter would wish to know this secret I'm about to tell you, even though he hasn't said so, yet. My secret is -
- Wait.... Finally, we've surfaced!
The hunter tries to discern his new environment from the pool's deepest end. He does not struggle to stay afloat, despite the dragging weight of his arsenal and myself I'm not fat! Or a traitor! Never a traitor! How dare they accuse me! Are you one of them? Those hungry for power, those underhanded - !
- I despise the cold....
My aversion of temperatures below the boiling point of iron is legendary. So naturally, I was the only Ravage General who did not bolster his ranks with Frost Tempust, Frosts, Glarai, and Auromancers. Why should I, when I could rely on hordes of Homromsi, Pyromancers, Spitferes, and Bheruken?
The Spicere. I used them, too. Often.
How those floating orbs of self-destructing death always sent a flutter of joy in my heart when they exploded in the midst of the opposition. Random limbs would soar like nightmare confetti, the flames....oh, I could tell you stories!
Of course, the blasts would tear into my own troops with frightening regularity...which caused discontent...and eventual mutiny. It was during a fiasco in the Serrated Pit region when it happened, mutiny, I mean. I dealt with them - the defectors - alone, as was my responsibility to do as a General. It was tiring business, let me tell you! After the first few hundred thousand fell, it was easy to parley with the survivors to submit. They readily surrendered, and I enjoyed burning them alive. But I digress.
We surfaced from the bowels of the human vessel and onto a rocky shore. We are in a hole in the earth, shaped into an underground cavern of porous bedrock. The air is sour from the sea, disgustingly humid, and deathly still. The floor seemed to have frozen mid-boil. It waved and bulged, sank into knee-deep pits filled with water or simply air. Still, it was traversable.
The walls were carved by erosion, old and rough. Where large patches of scum crept from sneering fractures, the pocked stone varied in shades of ochre. How well would they burn, do you think? What, no comment? Good thing for you; I had the excruciating desire to destroy something in the time it would've taken you to answer, and I'm afraid your voice would've lent me a target. Worry no more, the whim has past.
Have you guessed my secret, yet? No? I should think it's obvious, by now. Still nothing? Why am I suddenly filled with the image of me dancing on your blackened bones? Oh! H-how awkward, I must apologize for that. I do not dance.
The ceiling is irregular. Spiked with stalactites steeped in darkness, they would appear as the fangs of a starless night to any mortal's sight. My sight, however, pierces the black easily, whilst the man-who-would-be-slayer-of-my-kin squints hard at the gloom. Understandable, he is only half devil.
His vision is superior to those of normal men, tis true. Why, the most recent proof of this was our jaunt through the ghost ship; the level of lighting inside had been virtually nonexistent.
Behind us, the aforementioned galleon lay battered against the enormous trunk of a dull-peaked stalagmite. One mainmast had buckled near its base, snapped so thoroughly it no longer stood proud on the main deck, but in the water overboard. The wood of its hull is badly scuffed, reaching into splintered planks until the ruptures become evident. Most of the damage lay hidden underwater. I know instantly it is truly a dead ship, now.
With the Underworld slowly seeping into the mortal realm, this reality ceases to make sense. Like the hunter, I do not recall the ship crashing to a halt. It's funny, and it makes you think. If neither of us could remember the galleon grinding ashore, then it never really happened, did it? And yet, the evidence it did happen is right here and plain to see. It boggles the mind, if you let it, but not I. Can't surprise the maddened dead, I say.
In silence, the half-spawn turns away from the wooden corpse, and leans into a slow walk.
One, two steps...five steps, six...stop.
I sense the taint, as well.
His gaze pins the site he dismissed earlier with a glance. Perhaps twenty odd feet ahead, is the mouth of a roughhewn corridor with an arched entry. A reoccurring theme, this medieval bit of architecture hides from view the owners of the conspicuous taint.
At this distance, the guttering of torches is almost supernaturally loud, their light like a wavering beacon. The licking of flames is a lovely sound. Better, if mingled with the scent of charred things, or the bleats of the dying, oh yes. The ghost dance of their flickering light is alluring, mmm seductive.... They cast fluttery, silken shadows against the ground and walls, enticing caresses, ohh so sinful. They -
- Ah yes! My secret! Almost slipped my mind.
Did I leave you in suspense for too long? Did you suffer? No? A pity. You still want to know, don't you? Yes, of course... Did you say something? I care not. My secret is this, I -
"Ifrit."
"Hunter," I mimicked his casual tone. It didn't appear the half-breed wanted to dispose of my unseen brethren just yet. No, he wanted something. An answer.
"What you did back there, on the ship, it was....unexpected," he began evenly, friendly like. "So I start thinking to myself, "Dante, Alastor can't cut prices without my say-so, and here's Ifrit, sadistic, pyro-maniacal wild card Ifrit, uses this brand spankin' new ability he's supposedly incapable of using....on me." Now, I'm sure if I wasn't so damn curious, you'd be spelunking the length and width of this cave underwater. So, take advantage of this rare moment, and shed some light on this little mystery, hmmm."
It was not a request, and spoken with barely hidden false geniality. Tch, well, there's only one way a self-respecting demon like myself could respond to that.
"I don't wanna."
"Don't get cute. Humor a half-devil, or else."
I wrestled with myself whether to grant his wish or not. It was an entertaining distraction for, oh, a glimmer of a second. Amazing what madness will do to a mind, yes? Besides, I had already made my decision.
"Very well," growled I with a sigh because I can. "Tis a simple trick, really. I merely seized the Blade's visor, then summoned up the arcane fires latent in my soul, and -"
"Not...what I wanted to hear, actually. But you knew that already. Tell me, is it absolutely necessary to try and tick me off every five minutes? Your kind have a quota to fill, or something?"
"Sarcasm. It suits you. Have I ever told you that? Is this all about the Staff of Hermes, then? All I did was reach out and fetch -"
"Whoa-whoa-whoa, I just had a thought," the hunter broke in, counting his fingers as he went. "You're born damned, you spew jargon that sounds as sincere as a greasy car salesman, and you deliberately dodge my questions. ...My God, you're no demon, you're a politician!"
"There it is again. Sarcasm! Hah! Should I take that as a compliment? I think I might."
I admit, I didn't quite understand the punch line, but I am again reminded of the slayer's saber-edged tongue. He can summon up acid to coat a remark as surely as an assassin dips his blade in poison. Poison reserved for me and mine. Rrrr-what impudence! Such scathing disrespect!
When I decide to grow a conscience, I must make a point to feel cross.
The hunter scratches his brow as a lopsided smile spreads across is face. He finds this situation humorous, strangely enough; hardly the image of intolerance that I was sure to become his angry mask. I possessed him, took away his freewill, if only for a moment...and his reaction is a smile?
Hm, just goes to show there are more layers to his character I've yet to unearth. Fascinating.... When next the son of Sparda spoke, his mien was pleasant, but marred with an ominous undertone.
"Y'know what?" he said, a shrewd light in his eyes. "I'm not going to play your game of verbal tag. This calls for a quick fix, like a compromise."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really. Deal: If you never use that possession trick on me again, for any reason, I won't resort to prying answers out of you with my almighty powers of persuasion."
"Pfeh! "Almighty" my ethereal a- "
"Ifrit...!"
"What? At any rate, you assume too much. My word is not necessarily my bond, hence, the promises I make are generally short lived."
"So's my goodwill."
"A threat? Can't punish the dead, hunter. Especially if I don't give a damn."
I saw the hunter's expression cool several degrees, and his smile froze as he said to me, "I think you've known me long enough to understand that won't keep you safe from me."
"Which part? That I'm dead, or don't give a damn?"
"Both. So, deal?"
I was laughing before I understood why. I felt no true humor, only irony. Irony, because I knew a secret he did not! My secret! Mine. It's a secret I've decided to tell you first. Feel special, curse you!
"Who am I to cross swords with the son of the legendary Sparda. Very well, I concede."
"Glad that's settled, then," came his gruff response, a slight accent on "settled". He never truly expected to get answers from me, you know, and he knew that arguing now would reap him nothing but more nonsense. He wasn't giving in to my chaotic tenacity, oh no, his thoughts are clear to me.
He sought answers from me with the straightforward approach, and failed. Next time, he will have to come at me from different angle, like a wolf analyzing a rival for weaknesses. Until that moment arrives, he'll just have to keep an eye on me, for all the good it'll do him.
Finished with me for the time being, the half-spawn rolls his shoulders and cracks the tension from his neck. His unnatural blue gaze fixes on the taint-ridden archway. Ebony and Ivory - twin reapers of mine ilk - materialize as twirling shapes in his hands.
"If there's one thing I hate about my job, it's hellspawn with nil manners. Can you believe they haven't invited me to the party yet?"
"What party?"
"The one I'm about to start."
We cover the distance quickly with long, determined strides, directly toward the archway.
He thinks his cunning can undo me. It might as well be a dare, a dare to goad me into possessing him again. Though I am sorely tempted, I will not. Do not confuse my decision as an act of submissive fear. Do so, and I shall take great pleasure in tearing your soul apart!
It's risky, angering the likes of Ifrit. Riskier than you or he really know. Now! Now, I will tell you! Things that will make you shudder, cringe, and pray I never lay angry eyes on you! My secret...is this.
Alastor, my brethren of Hell, my compatriot of hate, you are bound to your master because your soul was weak, your age and power, too insignificant. You, who have seen a mere century and a half of life, then "lived" for centuries more as a fiendish blade, you are now without freewill. A slave.
While I....I am not.
Does that upset you Alastor annoy you make you feel superbly hostile toward me? Ahahaha....Exquisite. You lash out at me, curse me for my good fortune that really isn't based on any luck at all. I -
- Rargh! Marionettes! Coming into full view as we pass beneath the archway!
Their kind are the most brainless creatures ever to clutter the pits of Hell, don't you agree? Well...with the possible exception of the Agonofinis.
And the Terreofinis.
And the Mortofinis. And the -
- But that's beside the point!
There! A jester in mottled indigo, garish ruffles and all. It is crumpled against the right hand wall, lifeless, but very much alive.
And there! Left! In a deep alcove with a wall torch, and a small horde of human wealth!
A bloody mari dangles from phantom strings, inert as driftwood. My "master" draws near. Closer, closer, yes! He raises Ebony and Ivory - black and white death - never slowing his step, never considering the freakish life he is about to take.
We are less than eight feet away when vague strings loosen. The bloody mari clatters to the ground on slack joints, only to lurch upright with menacing life. Ember red eyes glitter beneath its ridiculous wide-brimmed hat as foot-long, saw-toothed daggers simply appeared in each poorly carved hand. The indigo jester lurches up and forward a moment later, unsheathing dual scimitars from seemingly air. I snarl savagely with unbridled excitement because I know I know they're both too late!
Without pause, Ebony spits a string of lead fire into the mari's face, pointblank. I shudder in restrained ecstasy at the roar of gunfire and the mari's scream of pain!
"Don't you dare..." I barely hear the hunter's quiet, grim warning; he senses my animal hunger for carnage, and he prepares himself to fight me for control. He needn't worry, though, I'm not crazy....hehe...crazy enough to battle him now. Why? Because I do not wish to ruin this glorious moment of murder death kill!
The puppet is blown back, deep into the alcove it once hung suspended. It smashes into a chest of coins, bursting the rotted planks instantaneously. Before the mari's body even settled, Ivory is in the face of the of the other, the jester.
BANG! Bangbangbangbangbang! Gone is the puppet's face in a mist of red.
As it destroys itself flying into the wall - the wimp - the hunter senses more opposition the same time another pair of devil dolls make an appearance. There, not far, hobbling down stone steps leading up, another bloody mari and a lesser jester in green.
We move in for the kill. You -
- Alastor, are you not enjoying this? Do not snap at me, child prince! Yes, "child"! You may have matured in undeath, but that changes nothing! What? What did you say? Why not do away with the mongrel if I'm so powerful, you ask? As I've already said, fear does not bind me.
No, I do not shrink from this man of Hell and Earth, not in the slightest. What the ruins of my sanity do allow me to feel, is great respect. None - except for the backstabbers of my past - have ever bested my strength...and he did, fair and square. Perhaps my spirit has grown a might listless over millennia, and that is why I failed to conquer his will, but the jokes on him! Strong enough was he to defeat my strength, but not subdue it!
What's that? It doesn't make sense? Of course it does, young one. A beast of the wilds may be captured, but that does not make it tamed. Take that analogy to heart, for I am a beast unlike any other!
The hunter has about as much control over me as he does over the wind.
Then why act the petty servant, you ask quit asking! Who do you think I am? An oracle? Yeesh! Didn't your clan mother teach you how curiosity killed the Shadow? Or was that the Savage Golem?
Argh! Now look what you've made me do! I was so distracted I hadn't noticed the hunter finish the two marionettes on the stairs! Their bodies - or rather, their body parts - fade into nothingness, twitching in false life. How in Hell the half-breed dismembered the poor devils with only Ebony and Ivory is a sight I would've enjoyed watching, damn it - !
- Now where was I? Ah, yes.
This "mongrel" as you call him, is steadily plunging himself into the depths of the Underworld, preparing himself through trials of blood and battle, to face Mundus alone.... Now, I ask you, why would I want to stop this from happening, or leave before it does? If I did not find this eventuality intriguing enough, then the inevitable clash of powers will be more than a treat. And if I am to help the hunter plow his way to Mundus's doorstep, and he - by some miracle of a chance - defeats the Emperor, then I would know know that he is worthy of my strength. If Dante can somehow do all this and survive, then....I don't think I'll mind "serving" him indefinitely.
As long as there's killing to be done, things to burn, the hunting business should be fun.
. . .
Ifrit.
I had that demon pegged as a complete basket case from the start, but now.... I look at the company I'm forced to keep - a really good look - and I wonder to myself, "Alastor, what, in all the Circles of Hell, have you done to deserve this?"
In essence, I've a ravening fire starter to my left, and a cynical spawn hunter to my right. This must be what the damned feel like. I believe Ifrit, word for word. He is insane beyond understanding, but at the same time, he's retained a frightening intelligence that has remained invisible, until now.
I am afraid.
I never told him - or the mongrel - my true age. I never said anything remotely hinting about my status in life. A prince. Ifrit called me a prince. How could he have known? And he tells me he respects the mongrel? Impossible, when I know - I feel - for certain that the demon would feel no qualms about killing the half-breed. Whatever warped code of honor that demon abides by, I want no part of it. But I don't have a choice, do I?
The mongrel turns away from the death site of my kin, and ventures back to the alcove. I sense the taint of the mari lying in wait, a foolish, stupid move. Would've made more sense to just lay down and die. Aware of the devil as I am, my master silently trades Ebony and Ivory for my own lethal edge. He does not slow, acting the part of unsuspecting prey.
And, of course, the mari falls for the rues. That's one thing I'll agree with Ifrit: Marionettes are complete idiots.
The instant the mongrel comes into view, the devil puppet flings its daggers with supernatural speed. No sooner did it let fly its blades, I was there to deflect them - our proximity was that close.
Kling-kling! Overhead goes one dagger, passed the shoulder went the other.
Ugh! Ghastly! The mari's face...it...it is everywhere but where it should be! Ebony had chewed away the right half of its face - splattering it liberally across the walls behind it - and hadn't stopped until only one, red glowing eye remained. Bright crimson oozed from the massive wound, and somehow, even without a mouth or jaws, the mari screamed in rage. And then it did the unexpected.
It collapsed, and died.
The mongrel jumps back from the mess that was once a perfectly stupid devil, his aura of professionalism falling way with a surprised yelp. The doll's body faded in moments, taking with it its daggers, but leaving an extraordinarily bloody decor on walls and floor. Ifrit pushes me aside to gloat to my master about the benefits of bathing in the blood of his enemies. I stay out of the conversation, if one could call it that. I do not wish to attract the demon's attention, not now.
I need to think.
And I succeed. Unfortunately, nothing comes of it. I can't impose my will on either the half-breed or Ifrit. I can't escape in any way. I am bound to my master until his death or his volition, and I'm steadily sinking into a pit of despair. Yippee. Tch, careful Alastor, you might actually get somewhere if this keeps up.
My uplifting train of thought is interrupted with Ifrit's gurgling laughter. My master ignores him. Whatever words were traded between them just now, I've no interest in finding out, especially when Ifrit's involved. With my attention and thoughts thoroughly distracted, I content myself with observing my master's antics. I hear him whistle to himself as he leans over spilt coins of gold. I see many are practically swimming in splashes of red left by the dead mari, but many more are not. Prime pickings.
"Hot damn, somebody loves me...!" Master crouches near the cleanest pile of coins. I watch idly as he shovels a number of golden disks in one hand before pocketing them away inside his coat. He repeats the process several times, stopping when his actions bordered on greed. At least he has that much sense. I'd hate to see him die because his combat effectiveness was destroyed by surplus loot.
His death would leave me alone with Ifrit....brrr!
My master straightens, quite satisfied with his plunder by the look of him, and throws a triumphant grin at the ghost ship. It wasn't until much later that I discovered the meaning of his grin, which is odd, I think. It had something to do with....a dead captain, and his gold?
His stride is jaunty as he climbs the stairs, a path that will likely drop us into another encounter of the hellspawn kind.
Chasm: Time to give my muse a break, I think. Feel free to drop suggestions (your fav missions, maybe?).
If you haven't read my bio: I'm an extremely slow writer, or can be, but I do plan on finishing this fic.
In the words of a certain flame spirit, "Feel special, curse you!" ^_^