Stones of Avernus

[Mirbiggs]

The sound of a quill scratching the pages of a dark leather bound grimoire reverberates inside the walls and ceiling of an almost unfathomable cavernous interior of the library. At it’s heart is a pinprick of candle light flickering feebly on a desk, barely illuminating the mountain of books and scrolls littering it’s surface. Was the small flame causing the shadows to dance, or was it some unimaginable unnamed horror just outside mortal perception, lying in wait to feast on sanity and soul? Or was this menacing presence radiating from the man behind the desk? He wrote feverishly inside of the black tome, crouched over it, his eyes racing back and forth over the words. His greasy strands of white unwashed hair fell over his face obscuring his gaunt skeletal features, the man was lost in his work. Though to mistake the man as a mere human would be a terrible folly, he was a man, yet something much more. Something dark. The sound of footsteps approaching snaps the man’s eyes up from his work like a whip. A glimpse of a madness born by eons lived is clear for just a moment before being replaced by a cold indifference reserved for something regarded akin to raw human waste flowing through sewers. With three sharp arcane words the candle flares to a blinding brilliance causing those shadows to flee back to the abyss, and the man rises gracefully from the desk to his feet. As the librarian rounds his desk, he leaves a ghostly apparition seated, still writing furiously in the dark tome. He raises a hand to forestall the intruders speech, before they have an opportunity to make a sound and replies to the unanswered question. “I know what it is you seek, the question weighs on your soul like a cancer. Eating away your sanity as a parasite, and the only cure is within this library.” His voice is a harsh whisper, like a snake crawling over dead grass. “The real question you will have to ask yourself is are you willing to pay the price for your knowledge? Are you willing to lose more than your soul in the pursuit of this power? Will you abandon your humanity, your very essence?” The librarian’s dry laughter holds a tinge of sinister insanity at it’s very core. The intruder’s skin attempts to crawl away from their bones to escape. “Abandon all hope. If you stand in this hall you are already lost.”

 

 

1. The Stone Boxes

He gestures grandly with is arm, his robes make a sound like a flag snapping in the wind. As he turns the black and green of his garments gleam malevolently like an oil slick on a dark pool. “This way,” his voice rasps as he turns and glides away, it is unclear if the librarian is walking or using some other unnatural way to move. Row after row of shelves are passed by, all holding thousands of books, scrolls or other scriptures of unknown and forbidden knowledge. Forever locked away in a place between the mortal world, and the yawning abyss of the unknown. As the librarian moves silently within his domain, he seems to find the aisle he was searching for. He reaches for a book that is bound in the purest black leather, and inscribed in gold letters written in a language long lost to the winds of time, and history. The librarian opens the book, and thumbs through it’s contents almost lost in memory. “Ah yes,” he hisses. “The Boxes of Avernus, forged by the demon smith Aserog and quenched in the waters of that infernal lake. These will grant the collectors glorious fortune, and an abrupt, and gruesome end.” He closes the book with a hollow thump that is felt as much as it is heard. He glides the way he came and approaches his desk. This time it is empty as if someone had cleared away the librarians work in preparation for another project. “Have a seat, and let us begin.”

 

The high ringing of a hammer on chisel sounded from a small building built on the banks of a putrid smelling lake. A sweet sickening smell of corpses left in sweltering heat was the constant here, but to Aserog it was a pleasing fragrance. He was one of the fallen, cast out of the heavens to reside here on the boarder of the mortal plane, at the very gates of hell. Not quite terrible enough to make it to the pit, but forever an exile away from paradise. As such he looked very much like the creator’s prized pets, except he was twice as thick and half as tall. He was devoid of all hair, and resembled a humanoid slug. Perpetually covered in a viscous sticky slime. It was he who forged the weapons for the arch angels. And then after the rebellion, it was he who supplied the armaments for those who were cast away and served under the Morning Star. That war was over, but the struggle for the soul of the world was ever long.

He was tasked to create nine stone and metal boxes that would represent each layer of the abyss. Those who would command him, as well as the rest of his low kind gave Aserog the plans for each, and given instructions on how to create these trinkets. The purpose of these boxes was still unknown to him, but he was to carve each rune and inscription perfectly or he would be damned to Oblivion. The thought of that place was still a foreign concept to him. Oblivion. How can a demon already condemned to Hell find a worse place? It was like a prison for those who could not or would not follow orders.

Aserog kept tapping on his chisel, chipping away at the box’s face a little at a time, bringing out each detail as carefully as possible. He had studied the schematics for what seemed decades, and spent even longer in the crafting. He rather enjoyed forming the perfect cubes out of gold, silver, platinum, as well as other minerals and metals, and to watch his creation become a thing of majesty and beauty was a point of pride. He had a renewed sense of purpose, an obsession to create, to mold. It made him feel like the creator himself. Aserog shook his head at his own blaspheme. Just a few centuries ago he would not have dared to have such a thought. To spit in the Creator’s face, to have such obscene thoughts would have been unthinkable. Now though? He felt as tough his creation was as important as the Creator’s pet’s, those humans who were the cause of dissension among the heavens.

The box he was currently working was number nine, it was a black thing made of Obsidian and inside it was a smoky white substance that was a constant storm that howled without sound. On each face was carved in gold six infernal runes that would hurt the very essence of any who would try to invoke the powers within. Without the proper knowledge and training this box would devour the possessor of the box utterly, like a flash of sunlight in the dark, those not strong enough would cease to exist. The traps were laid cleverly on this box, but for what reason? A mystery that was far above Aserog’s own expertise. He was only the smith. With the final tap of his hammer, the Obsidian box took on a dark foreboding aura, it was almost finished. With his steel tongs Aserog placed this box inside the crucible that was meant to hold the nine sacred artifacts. With the final box inside the crucible there was a low rumble from within the bones of the world, as if the completion had caused great injury to a beast impossibly large under the world’s crust. A feeling of elation sprang forth, Aserog had done it. The lords of the abyss would be pleased. Great rewards would be heaped upon Aserog and he would finally be honored among the fallen.

Aserog took up the crucible and placed it all together in his forge powered by hellfire and brimstone, he was so overwhelmed with this feeling of joy that he all together missed the change in the atmosphere. The windows of his building overlooking Avernus slowly frosted over as the air inside became frigid. Aserog kept attending his billows, stoking the fires higher and higher. Great steam filled the cabin, but was not enough to stave off the arctic cold. Aserog waited until the boxes all glowed hues of nine different shades and colors, brilliant with every passing moment left in the flames. Each representing a different layer of the nine Hells reserved to punish and condemn the worst of the Creators pets. Each box a crown jewel given to the the nine lords. Aserog reached into the fires, and with a great effort against agonizing sweet pain, the demon lifted the crucible out of the blaze, and dumped the boxes into a barrel of water taken from the Lake Avernus. Instantly the water boiled and hissed, and inside the barrel the waters began to flow into the nine boxes, circling in a maelstrom towards the bottom of the container. At the end of it, the boxes had devoured the putrid waters, and glowed weakly, steaming a acrid vapor smelling of rot, and sulfur. The ritual had been complete.

“Well done, Whelp.” The voice was as smooth and icy as a winter lake. Even though it had declared the job well done, there was a sarcastic tone that was not missed by Aserog. He visibly flinched as he turned and saw one of the arch dukes of the abyss leaning casually against the open door frame of his cabin. It was Asmodeus, one of the nine who ordered these boxes to be created. Aserog prostrated himself, bowing as low as his body would allow.

This was an unexpected invasion. No demon would have traveled outside of their territory without great need, and this visit made very little sense to Aserog. He was to have created the boxes, and then he was to be summoned to the pit in order to present them to the nine all at once. The Morning Star had been clear that no one demon would be allowed to disturb Aserog in his forge, and the penalty for such a transgression was quite severe. “Lord Asmodeus is such an honor to receive you. Am I to be summoned to the pit? I will bring the boxes straight away.”

A low chuckle from the demon lord belied the look of contempt on his face. “Poor doomed little smith. You were once one of the greatest artisans in all of creation.” Asmodeus seemed to purr. “Now look at you. Wasting your existence here limbo. Pounding away at rocks, and toiling in the mud.” The Demon Lord lets out a sharp laughter that held as much warmth as an iceberg. “How can you live like this? You can have so much more, Aserog.”

This was almost a staggering occasion. Aserog could not remember the last time any Arch Demon addressed him by name. Aserog raised his eyes gave Asmodeus a hard searching look as if he could puzzle out what angle the Demon was trying to play. The sudden switch from mocking to an almost friendly tone was straining the realms of belief. What was Asmodeus up to? “What can I do for you, Lord Asmodeus? If I am not to be summoned to the pit this minute, what is this all about?” Aserog did not like games, and was generally direct when it came to his work. He very much disliked the way Asmodeus was toying with him, almost like a tiger stalking a gazelle. The sharp tone was not missed by the Demon Lord, and Aserog was sure he would pay for the insolence at some point, but it would not be here in limbo where Aserog called home. Here between the Hells, and the mortal world was Aserog’s domain, where the other demons had little influence.

Asmodeus chose to dismiss Aserog’s tone. “Yes yes,” he ran his index finger and thumb down his narrowing jaw line. “It occurred to me that you would be close to finishing our little art project. And I being of infinite wisdom contacted the Morning Star. I sugguested to him that poor Aserog was stuck here half between the realms. Not quite a demon, but living just outside of paradise, just outside the reach of the light that all of us yearn for.” Asmodeus raised his index finger suddenly. “And then I had an idea like a flash of inspiration. Why keep him banished here in limbo? Why not make him a proper demon lord for all of the work he has done for us? I  have attempted to convince the Morning Lord that you, my friend, may be ready to serve under the Morning Star as his Apprentice. You have created these Boxes to honor us, do you not deserve such an honor from us?” Asmodeus motioned Aserog to rise. “I believe you deserve this and more.”

Aserog’s breath caught in his chest. The approval of the nine? This was all he could have ever wanted. The empty void filled with a rising victory, if he had a soul it would be singing praise to the Creator. He would leave this bland place between worlds and serve as a true demon in the pit. Maybe even be allowed to walk the mortal world to corrupt souls. “This is a great Honor Lord Asmodeus, does the Morning Lord wish me at his side?”

Asmodeus grinned wickedly at Aserog, and answered “no,” flatly smiting Aserog’s victory. “But I have been allowed to bring you to my circle, and have you apprentice under my rule. You will reside in the Circle of Envy and learn my arts. You will administer to my needs, and serve my kingdom however I need until I grow tired of you. And then, if I do not banish you to Oblivion, I may pass you to another Lord to serve him. But until then,” Asmodeus leaned in close and his long forked serpent’s tongue snaked out, lashing the tip of Aserog’s nose. His breath smelled more rotten than the waters surrounding Aserog’s cabin. “You are mine.” Asmodeus motioned to the boxes and the nine stone cubes raised from the great black oak barrel, and circled in the air, each glowing a different hue. With his other hand he summoned the crucible and placed each box inside it’s mold in the crucible without touching anything. “Now, smith. It is time we go home. Together we will present the boxes to the Lords of the nine.”

Asmodeus placed the crucible in front of Aserog, hovering in the air. Before the Demon Lord the fabric of space and time seemed to rip slowly like a jagged knife wound and the faint sounds of miserable wailing and screams of horror from millions of tortured souls filled the air. The blast of cold frigid wind was a painful blow like a hammer striking every bone at once. Aserog took the Crucible in his hands and collapsed the entire thing into itself, folding the whole thing until it resembled a large multicolored cube about the size of a bovine skull. He then ripped a hole inside his own chest using his own hand, and tucked the Crucible inside the cavity before using hellfire to cauterize the wound, and followed Asmodeus into the howling void, to the Pit of Envy.

 

Aserog sat in a cell just big enough to stand in. Nowhere to sit. Nowhere to lay down. He had been tricked by Asmodeus, and as soon as he crossed into the pit, he walked nose first into this small box. He had turned to attempt to flee back through the demon’s gateway, but it was nowhere to be seen. Aserog ranted and raved against the confines of his prison but no soul heard him, just the sound of his own words echoing a twisted response back to him. Aserog stayed like this for hours, or maybe decades. Eons could have passed for all he could surmise, and no one responded to his angry desperate plea to be let out. Aserog could feel the Boxes of Avernus still inside him. At least this was some small blessing, Asmodeus had not yet attempted to take them for himself. What was the meaning of this? Surely Asmodeus knew that if the Morning Star discovered this betrayal it would mean the end of him. Asmodeus would be exiled to Oblivion. Utter Nothingness. Winked out of existence. Again Aserog slammed his massive fists into the smooth black walls of his prison for what seemed like the billionth time, and again the wall gave as much as a sandstone would weep. Or did it? Aserog struck the wall again. Was his mind playing tricks on him or was there a crack forming? A small rough spot on the wall was beginning to form on it’s otherwise mirror smooth surface. He hit the wall again and he heard a sound like a splintering winter lake’s surface being struck with a boulder. He could see a spider’s webbing of light begin to form as if just behind the wall was a brilliant sun. Aserog slammed both of his fists against the wall again and the whole thing shattered.

The demon fell to his knees as his legs gave out. He was too weak to stand as the wall gave way, and he fell before a set of stairs clothed in a fine black velvet rug. The room was made from a crimson gemstone, filled with a cloud of dark gray swirling mists as if the walls imprisoned the souls of the damned. Tormented humanoid faces would press against the walls, and scream as if they could break free of their horrible confinement if they could just howl loud enough. Hands seemed to claw at the blood red stone walls trying to find purchase, any crack to pry lose. At the top of the stairs was massive black twisted throne made from a dead twisted tree. It’s roots grew into the floor and blood seemed to form around it’s base as if the roots wounded the very building it grew into, and in it’s limbs high above the throne’s seat hung the ragged bodies of the poor bastard souls of those who lived their lives in envy. Forever doomed to swing above the lord of this pit, alive, but perpetually being choked by rough hemp rope. They kicked and gagged constantly soling themselves but never given the blessing of peaceful death. On the throne’s seat lounged Asmodeus, his bored face cupped in one hand as he looked at the prone figure of Aserog.

“Oh please rise, little demon lord of nothing.” Here in the Pit of Envy Asmodeus’ true form was a horror beyond reasoning. He had a wide gaping mouth full of jagged broken teeth, four eyes set across his brow, and narrow slit’s for nostrils. His black scaly skin was the texture of a decaying corpse, and at his back was a pair of black dragons wings that ended in a deep maroon. He was impossibly tall, and wide, towering over even his demonic servants who were to act as his honor guard. Here in the Pit of Envy, Asmodeus was god.

Aserog gasped exhausted, his great breaths pulling in gales of arctic air freezing the infernal flames inside of him. Soon after composing himself, he rose slowly to his feet. His legs quivered weakly under him, threatening to give away, Aserog raised his eyes defiantly to Asmodeus’ and growled. “You dare to defy the Morning Star? He will devour you for this Asmodeus. You will be sent to Oblivion until time ends, and only then will you know peace.” Aserog spat at Asmodeus’ feet, his hot saliva sizzled as it froze, and then flaked away as a powdered bit of frost being blown away in the wind.

“Are you quite finished, Little Aserog?” Asmodeus dropped his hand, and stood on great feathery legs ending in massive talons. His great clawed toes clicked against the gemstones below the majestic black rugs. Asmodeus descended the steps towards Aserog, and picked the demon up by his chin. His movements were graceful, swift, and Aserog was lifted as if he were as light as a piece of straw. Asmodeus examined Aserog as a child examined an insect, looking at him through four black empty eyes. “you should know, little one, that The Morning Star is dead. There is no hope for you if you resist my demands. I will have those boxes, whether you will it or not.” One corner of Asmodeus’ great maw raised in a twisted perverted semblance of a grin. “It would be fun to torture you until you give them to me. But I am running out of time. There is a void of power here in the Pits. With the Morning Star gone a great war has erupted. The remaining eight of us are vying for power through alliance, and back stabbing. I have the advantage though. I have you.”

Aserog’s mind raced. Lucifer is dead? The thought of the Creator’s only opposite lifeless somewhere was absolutely unthinkable. Aserog could not fathom how this had happened. How long was he imprisoned for? As if reading his mind Asmodeus smiled bringing Aserog closer. “You have been here in the Pit of Envy for less than a day. I killed The Morning Lord myself on this day’s eve.  I AM Lord of the Pits of Hell. With or without the Boxes, I will bow you all to my will.” Asmodeus’ tail snaked up from behind him, encrusted with bony razor sharp spines, it wrapped around Aserog’s throat like a python, piercing his thick rubbery flesh and drawing great black streams of blood. The pain was not sweet, or enjoyable. Even for Aserog. He screamed in hoarse insanity filled curses. He used words that would corrupt the soul of even the purest human if it even uttered it under his breath. The Demon Lord’s tail tightened, strangling Aserogs airway. “Give me the Stones of Avernus, Aserog, and this could all end. I would make you my right hand.” Asmodeus’ words were honey, pouring into Aserog’s mind, caressing it as a lover’s touch. “You could be so much more than a smith. You could be a god.” The words were pure seduction, almost beyond defying. Aserog’s core seemed to shudder as he reached for the boxes. Slowly his fingertips touched the flesh of his chest, trying to press into the place his heart would have been if he ever had one. His mind seemed to melt under the purring words that were more felt than heard. The pressure on his consciousness was like a gripping vice tightening, squeezing away his resistance. His fingers inched into his core reaching for the Crucible hidden inside of his chest cavity.

Something Jolted inside of him. Almost like a heartbeat. A great wave of warmth erupted inside of him. Then an explosion. The Crucible reacted to Aserog’s need, and came to the Smith’s defense. A wave of power rippled through his center, and incinerated Asmodeus’ tail to ash, it crumbled away in the perpetual winds of Envy leaving a charred stump. In shock Asmodeus staggered back away from Aserog. “What is this? He screamed as Aserog seemed to grow. Some brilliant inner light erupted from inside the minor demon, the radiance knocked Asmodeus off of his feet against his great throne. Aserog began to grow foot by foot, great feathered wings grew from his shoulders, and he became something great and terrible to behold. As a titan he grew until he dwarfed Asmodeus by head and shoulders. The foundations of the pit of Envy shuddered. Power beyond comprehension flowed through Aserog fed by the Boxes of Avernus, they seemed to be dancing in a figure eight inside of Aserog’s chest, and with a great howl, Aserog exploded in a devastating force of raw power. Reality warped as the Boxes of Avernus shot in all directions through time and space, ripping through the fabrics of creation. The shock wave leveled the Pit of Envy, destroying every single atom in it’s path leaving an empty void. Sweet Oblivion.

 

The Librarian Closes the book, and allows the information to take root. “The creation of the boxes allowed for the destruction of the pits of hell to some extent. Was every Arch Demon destroyed by Aserog’s Sacrifice?” The Librarian shakes his head. “Unfortunately even this is unknown to me. Aserog’s creation though has survived throughout the ages. This Tome is the recorded history of their influence on the mortal worlds. They have been found and used by Human’s from every dimension. But did they escape the curse of the Boxes of Avernus? Certainly not.” The Librarian opens the book again to the next chapter. “Now is the time to begin their stories. Perhaps you will discover how to Create your Paradise without destroying your soul. Learn where these other men and women went wrong. Find your power within these pages written so very long ago.”

[Mirbiggs]

Will be replying periodically with more short stories... the basic idea is to tell the stories from mortal perspective throughout human history of times these stones were found, discovered, or stolen in order to gain glory, riches, and power. but the cost of such things is usually a horrible gruesome end. they will all be short stories right around 15-30 pages each. any feed back would be welcome. Much Love -Mirbiggs

[Kethlia]

I am curious to know who I find an affinity with in your story of stories.  The presentation draws you in and keeps you hooked.  There were parts were i couldn't see, visually. I'll need to read through carefully to point them out, but it didn't stop me from wanting to know more, what happens next, nor stop me from yearning to be surrounded by all of those books. 

[Mirbiggs]

Of course some pointers are 100% welcome. I would love to know which spots need a bit more description and which spots could be cut. This is after all a very rough draft. I haven't written much in the last few months because of too many irons in the fire. I've began and have like 4 projects half completed. But hopefully I can get another one posted before too long.

 

Thank you for the feedback

 

 

[Kethlia]

"He gestures grandly with is arm..." Is this supposed to be his, or its?

"With his steel tongs Aserog placed this box inside the crucible that was meant to hold the nine sacred artifacts."  Crucible? The imagery I'm coming up with is a cement or high temp resistance cylinder that usually holds molten metal.  Or a metal box with a mouth that is rimmed like a thick lipped clay pot.

“Now look at you. Wasting your existence here limbo. 'in' is missing.

"With his other hand he summoned the crucible and placed each box inside it’s mold in the crucible without touching anything."  Now I see a cylinder of a pot made out of putty to fit the shape of each box like a silicon dice mold.

"His black scaly skin was the texture of a decaying corpse" I am having trouble here between the image and feel of a reptile and a corpse.  Are they the tough scales of a snake interspersed with rotting wounds, or as soft as a lizard's hide?

The Librarian opens the book again to the next chapter. “Now is the time to begin their stories. Perhaps you will discover how to Create your Paradise without destroying your soul. Learn where these other men and women went wrong. Find your power within these pages written so very long ago.” Now, this is a crux, will you be managing and replying to all who reply with their own sacrifice to your library or books or is there a single path taken at a time?  I figure it will either be a writing free for all or a turn based one to give amply time for replying.  Since, Life is busy, and Death can wait.