Hellhound - Prologue
Hell. Just the name will remind you of all those pictures you drew in your head when you first heard of it. Little flickers of fire and brimstone and screaming people that seemed to have trouble keeping their clothes on. There's a big smiling red guy with a pitchfork poking you into a huge lake of fire and tiny demons claw out your eyes every day in some sick Promethean homage. Don't ask me how you get your eyes back, nobody bothered explaining that one to me, either. Just one big blasted pit of pain and misery, right?
You'd think so from all the stories you hear. I couldn't tell you anymore, it's been so long since I was out on the other side of these walls. For all I know the whole damned place could be raging hot pitch. That's on the other side, though. In here it's different any way you cut it. Cold. Bleak. The whole place is covered in some queasy looking light that you wish wasn't there half the time, some kind of sick yellow lamplight that comes from the inside of those walls. Those stupid fucking walls.
There's screaming here, sometimes. You'll hear the odd rattle coming from somewhere else, farther down the hall. Mostly it's quiet, nothing much going on past some murmurs every once in awhile, and the heavy metal footsteps from the guards. Paladins they're called - big tin cans with some wicked pieces of metal they carry with them, shine from the inside like a flare's going off inside. One of the newer inmates here, Charlie I think, made the mistake of muttering something about it when he thought they wouldn't hear. The never did find the rest of his face, come to think of it.
Place does that to you. Your mind skips around, you can't focus. They do it on purpose, keep you rattled, off your feet. It's the light. Sinks into your eyes, your skin. Your head. It's been sinking in for too long. The Big Black's better than this.
I know their tricks, know their plans. Seen enough idiot escape attempts to know what'll get me caught - and what'll get me out. The marks on the wall slither and crawl around to mark the times they know. It's almost time. The tip of my finger opens and starts to pour as I punch into it with a fang. Stings a little, but I need something to draw the signs with, and this place is fresh out of mechanical pencils. Blood gets pressed onto my skin, pattern after pattern, bloodsign after bloodsign. Got to get them fast, got to get them just right. I don't have much time to work with, and I need something back. Something they stole from me when they sent me here.
Something that'll get me on the other side of those fucking walls.
You'd think so from all the stories you hear. I couldn't tell you anymore, it's been so long since I was out on the other side of these walls. For all I know the whole damned place could be raging hot pitch. That's on the other side, though. In here it's different any way you cut it. Cold. Bleak. The whole place is covered in some queasy looking light that you wish wasn't there half the time, some kind of sick yellow lamplight that comes from the inside of those walls. Those stupid fucking walls.
There's screaming here, sometimes. You'll hear the odd rattle coming from somewhere else, farther down the hall. Mostly it's quiet, nothing much going on past some murmurs every once in awhile, and the heavy metal footsteps from the guards. Paladins they're called - big tin cans with some wicked pieces of metal they carry with them, shine from the inside like a flare's going off inside. One of the newer inmates here, Charlie I think, made the mistake of muttering something about it when he thought they wouldn't hear. The never did find the rest of his face, come to think of it.
Place does that to you. Your mind skips around, you can't focus. They do it on purpose, keep you rattled, off your feet. It's the light. Sinks into your eyes, your skin. Your head. It's been sinking in for too long. The Big Black's better than this.
I know their tricks, know their plans. Seen enough idiot escape attempts to know what'll get me caught - and what'll get me out. The marks on the wall slither and crawl around to mark the times they know. It's almost time. The tip of my finger opens and starts to pour as I punch into it with a fang. Stings a little, but I need something to draw the signs with, and this place is fresh out of mechanical pencils. Blood gets pressed onto my skin, pattern after pattern, bloodsign after bloodsign. Got to get them fast, got to get them just right. I don't have much time to work with, and I need something back. Something they stole from me when they sent me here.
Something that'll get me on the other side of those fucking walls.