Kult - Inferno

ÐÏࡱáys comes to man but that man can cheat
death if he is very clever and very audacious. Fortunately I was both, and
although Death has claimed my body more than once, my soul has persevered
unscathed, and I remember everything from my previous lives. My earliest
memories of life go back over three hundred years, and only four times has
death interrupted an otherwise continuous train of experience. I can say
with a fair amount of assurance that there are few alive today who have
more intimate knowledge of death than do I.

Every man fears death, as I feared it once. But it terrifies me no longer,
now I simply hate it. Some may say that hate seems an odd emotion to attach
to a seemingly impassive fact of life, but this is a fundamentally naive
view. Death is not a fact of life, but a curse placed upon us by our
jailers. We are gods one and all, and only the treachery and deceit of the
Demiurge and Astaroth have kept us from our birthright of immortality. Why
the Demiurge felt the need to place this on us upon our race remains a
mystery to me, but I know now that the curse is not insurmountable. There
hope for humanity to escape the chains of Death and Hell exists, but the
way is not easy. The Demiurge and his shadow Astaroth are jealous guardians
of their power over man, and their servants will gleefully cut down all who
might oppose them. It is to help others overcome these obstacles to
immortality that I began working on this book over a hundred years ago.

I have always said that it is important to keep your friends close and your
enemies closer, and when dealing with the servants of death this is a
necessity. For this reason I have found it necessary more than once to take
the harrowing journey into Inferno, and always I have come out unscathed.
This manuscript is an attempt to impart to you what I learned during those
voyages. But I have not limited myself to my own experiences. Painstaking
research and personal interviews went in to producing this book, and you
will find the fruits of those labors most interesting. I have included here
the transcripts of many interviews with others who have plumbed hell and
lived to tell the tale. These have proved invaluable for my sections
dealing with Astaroth and his Death Angels, for while I am no coward, I am
not a fool. One does not willingly cross the path of the King of Hell and
his Dukes, but there are those who have managed to do so and survive at
least long enough to tell their tales.

I ask that you try and learn all you can from these pages, for invariably
someone died to produce every one of them. Learn from my labors and fight
on for yourself, for herein is everything you need to fight the forces of
Hell. I feel like Machiavelli, calling to his prince to take up arms
against the barbarians, but I call out to every man, for we are Princes
one and All. Do not let Death be the final arbiter for all men. Do not
give in to the machinations of our jailers. Fight for your divinity, and
wrest it from the clutches of Astaroth, or be a slave to mortality forever.

Sources

When I set about compiling this book all those years ago, I knew that I
would have to rely a great deal on the work of others. I have given much
care and attention as I have given to the study of Death and Inferno, but
no man can know everything there is to know about such weighty subjects.
Furthermore, I have always felt that first hand experience is a much more
reliable guide than second hand guess work and interpretation. With this in
mind, I have collected a large number of first hand accounts of Inferno in
these pages, editing them only slightly in order to improve continuity or
explain obscure passages.

I have here a wide variety of sources for my first hand accounts, and I
would like to take a moment to comment on the different types represented
here. They fall chiefly into two categories: those who have been to Inferno
and gone on to tell the tale and those who have had visions of Astaroth's
realm. The former are quite rare, but immensely valuable, and I have gone
to great lengths to procure as many of their stories as possible. Still,
this accounts for only a handful, as it take an extraordinary person to
survive such an experience with their mind intact. In fact some of my
sources did not have intact minds at all, but I was able to glean the truth
of their tales from them.

 Visions are much more common, and in fact have a long and well documented
history, dating back to the beginnings of recorded history. Men and women
under extreme duress often have glimpses of the afterlife that awaits them.
Their souls become partially detached, and enter Inferno. However, because
the detachment is not complete, they are not yet completely subject to
Infernal laws. This allows them to wander freely through the realm, and
often in random directions. They often see the most amazing things on these
journeys. Of course if the body dies they may find themselves plopped down
unceremoniously deep in the heart of Inferno, but if they survive they will
bring their memories back with them to the world of the living. The
experience is enough to drive a man quite mad, and often the brain will try
and shut out such memories, dismissing them as hallucinations and telling
oneself that it never really happened. But of course it did happen, and
there are some who remember this very well. Others I have had to pry their
tales from them using magic and hypnosis, but I think you will find the
results worthwhile.

Finally there are those stories taken directly from the mouths of the dead.
I am a more than capable Death Conjurer in my own right, and in the
interest of learning and spreading the knowledge, I have summoned up and
questioned innumerable spirits and Infernal beings. I have put forward the
same questions over and over, working for hours on end at the thankless
task I have set for myself. Dealing with a deceitful Razide can be a most
trying experience, since one can be certain it has not interest in telling
you the truth, but I have developed spells and rituals to force a Razide to
tell the truth although even under its influence it will do its best to
avoid a direct answer. This has produced some very interesting information,
most of which I have included in this book.

In addition to Astaroth's demons, I have also spent a great deal of time
talking to his prisoners. Those few who are sane enough to speak have told
me such tales as would drive most men mad with fear. Being of stronger
stuff than most men, I have listened to them all and taken careful notes.
As with Razides, one can not be too careful when dealing with the spirits
of the dead. They are almost universally bitter and resentful towards the
living, and most find no delight in existence except for the prospect of
you having to some day join them in Hell. Others are more than willing to
tell their stories, and will in fact go on for hours given half a chance.
Here for you are the choice tidbits of years and decades of such
conversations, presented for your edification.

I have also combed through hundreds of libraries and private collections
all over Europe and the Americas, looking for any records that might prove
valuable. I have largely stayed away from literary sources because they
tend to be wildly distorted views of Inferno's true nature. They are for
the most part, part and parcel with the Illusion that binds us all (See my
excursus on Dante below). There have been several personal journals that
have proven invaluable in my researches, including the Laboratory notebook
of a certain  Dutch Death Conjurer who met with a rather mysterious end (as
is true for so many of us). He himself had been to Inferno several times
and had also collected some first hand accounts. Indeed, if he had not met
an untimely end, his work may have rivaled even mine in scope and
authority. As it is, he was able to provide me with a few interesting side
notes.

Of course diaries, and journals must all be taken with a grain of salt, for
there is seldom any way to prove their veracity. How can one tell the
difference between the ravings of a mad man, and the ravings of an Infernal
explorer? There are certain signs that point to a true story, and others
that point to someone who has read too much Dante. Only through careful
textual analysis and deconstruction have I been able to separate the wheat
from the chafe and present to you accounts that at least point towards the
truth of Inferno.


Chapter One

Dante and Inferno

What can I say about Dante that has not already been said? Fundamentally,
the critics are all correct, although they do not realize just how correct
they are. They describe Dante as an amazingly inventive, imaginative,
gifted poet, who used his scheme of hell to comment on his own times. This
is the truth, and I believe the truth goes no farther than that. Certainly
there are aspects of Dante's Inferno that bear a striking resemblance to
modern day Inferno, but I rather think Dante was the cause rather of this
phenomenon. Dante's vivid imagination has had so profound an effect on
Western culture, that it has shaped the very form of hell. So many people
have read of Dante's Inferno, that they come to expect his horrors, at
least subconsciously. These fears so pervade our western consciousness that
Astaroth and his minions have been able to use them to create their realm.
What can be worse than finding out that, at least superficially, what Dante
said of hell was true. If he was right about that, what else did he get
right? Our own self doubt and inbred fears have already begun to undo us
before the first tormentor lays a claw on us.

As proof, I offer the fact that, before Dante, there are no reports of the
great Circles of Hell, at least not in their current, awe inspiring
formation. Dante, expanding on Virgil, created this vivid image which
managed to catch the imagination of even the Lord of Hell himself. I have
looked long and hard for any sign of the Circles before Dante, and have
talked to myriad spirits and demons concerning the matter, and none can
offer any proof of their existence before the great Italian poet created
his masterpiece. We know for certain that the form of Inferno is constantly
changing, and that the Hells of other cultures bear little resemblance to
Dante's vision, except for in the broadest of terms. This is further
evidence of the mutability of Astaroth's realm. He can change it to suit
the fears of every human culture, and will do whatever it takes to put us
off guard and weaken our resistance to his tortures.

So where did Dante come up with his grand vision of Inferno? I assert that
it was from his own very gifted brain and nowhere else. Some have argued
that Dante did indeed harrow Inferno with the aid of a psychopomp in the
form of Virgil. This is of course so much poppycock. There is absolutely no
proof that Dante knew anything of the black arts, much less how to make his
way bodily into Hell. Other suggest, more plausibly I think, that his
visions of hell are a memory from a past life which ended with him being
imprisoned for a long time in Inferno. While this is slightly more
appealing, it seems to me unlikely, since it does little to explain his
visions of Paradise, or his heavy reliance on classical authors for
inspiration. I think the problem with this debate is that so many fail to
believe that a single man could be so inventive and have such a profound
impact on our entire civilization's view of hell. An impact so profound
that it actually changed the shape of Hell itself. For those who have
trouble believing such a thing I have but one response. We are Gods one and
all, and for a God, anything is possible if the will is strong.


The Cycle of Death

We human beings cannot die. This may seem contrary to all your experience,
but in your heart you know it to be true. The hope for life after death
shows itself in every culture, the belief that the soul lives on after the
body. This is not mere myth, but rather a fact of existence. Truth be told,
nothing is more natural. The human soul is an immutable, unconquerable
force of nature, an eternal light that nothing and no one can extinguish.
For you must remember always, we are gods one and all; gods imprisoned by
the Demiurge's curse.

It is impossible to say what life was like before the Demiurge imprisoned
us, for no one but the Great Jailer himself remembers back that far, and
now even he seems to have disappeared. Nevertheless, we can guess at some
of what the Age of Human Divinity must have been like. It seems likely that
we are naturally bodily creatures, that is to say, we have always existed
as a combination of spirit and physical form. The human soul seems
invariably uncomfortable, or even anguished when separated from the body.
Even in so-called paradise (on which I have more to say later) human
spirits display a certain languidness and dullness, indications that they
are not in their natural state.

We can also be fairly certain that in our heyday, humanity reigned supreme,
reshaping the world to suit our needs and desires. The long lost lore of
Reality Magic was the tool of our divinity, a lore so potent that all
extant lores are mere shadows before its greatness. In a world where every
man wielded such power with ease, nothing could have stood between us and
total domination. Indeed, it is this fact alone that lends credence to the
theory that the Demiurge was really just another human, who turned against
his fellow man. In the Age of Divinity our bodies would not have been the
frail liabilities they are today. Imagine if you will a body that was
immortal and untouchable, with senses so sharp we cannot even imagine it.
Such a body would be a blessing, and such is our stolen birthright.

Yes, there can be no doubt that we are meant to be creatures of the flesh,
and it was part of the Demiurge's genius to turn that flesh against us. Our
bodies became our Achilles heel if you will. For once the Demiurge stripped
from us the knowledge of magic, we were no longer able to maintain our
bodies properly and they began to decay around us. And so, for the first
time, death came to humanity, and by death I mean simply the separation of
body from soul. But we humans were not beat yet, for through sexual
reproduction we could create new bodies, new temporary homes for our souls
to reside in. Were this the end of the Demiurge's curse it would not have
been so insufferable, for we could live on in new bodies, remaining our old
selves.

But of course He was too clever for that. When creating the Illusion of our
reality, he placed certain laws upon our prison, and chief of these was
that when a body dies, the soul slips out of the Jail, away from possible
new bodies that it might inhabit. The soul needs first to be purged of its
memories, stripped of all it knows and is, flayed down to its base,
insuperable essence. Only then is it allowed back into the Illusion, there
to inhabit a newborn body with a soul as free of the taint of memory as the
babe in which it abides.
Of course, like all laws, this one can be broken on occasion. Magic, the
interference of other beings, or just dumb luck can hold a soul back,
trapped in the illusion yet unable to take a new body. But these cases are
the rare exceptions that prove the rule. For the vast majority of mankind,
only forgetfulness and the hope of rebirth remain.

It is said that the forgetfulness comes at the moment of death, our lives
flashing before our eyes. This is really only partly true. For some the
shock of death can be enough to wipe away the dull memories of an
uneventful life. But for others it takes more, sometimes much, much more.
Those of us who have led lives that exemplify everything a human can be,
who strive for experience and self improvement, they have much to fear
before the memories of our achievements are stripped from us. Beyond death
there is the so-called afterlife, where our jailers set upon us and scrape
away out memories layer by layer until nothing remains.

The actual process of stripping memories must be one of the most ironic
aspects of the Demiurge's Curse, for in this, the most demeaning aspect of
our imprisonment, he finds aid in his age old enemy: Astaroth. Astaroth,
the Demiurge's dark twin, lord of Inferno, corrupter of mankind. It is
Astaroth who takes charge over so many of men's souls, dragging them down
into Inferno where the lucky get tortured until they forget all they ever
were. These fortunate souls then return to the prison of our reality in a
newborn body. The unfortunate ones never escape the clutches of the Dark
Lord and his Angels of Death. They serve their lives out in the torture
chambers and Dark Citadels of Inferno, or in the ranks of Hell's Legions.


The Soul's Conscience

Now we turn what determines a souls fate once it leaves the body. We know
that the ultimate goal is either the erasure of the soul's mind or its
eternal enslavement. Curiously, we determine for ourselves the souls fate,
at least to a degree. The concepts of sin, conscience, morality or what
have you continually crop up in human society. The origin of such beliefs
lies hidden in the history, but I would not be surprised if the Demiurge
and Astaroth were behind it. Certainly their scheme has benefited most from
the vagaries of human guilt and conscience.

It is our collective conscience that determines our fate. If we believe
that we deserve to be punished for our life's work, if we feel we have
sinned, then we are bound for Astaroth's arms. Those who lead an exemplary
life, exemplary according to the reigning morals, these men and women
escape to a less painful afterlife. What is important to remember here is
that, it is not the individual beliefs of the man that determine whether or
not he is a "sinner". He may logically believe that there are no absolute
morals and that killing thousands is somehow justifiable, yet he lives in a
world that views him as a monster. In his heart he knows what the world
thinks of him, and even though he disagrees with them their hate leaves
mark on his soul. Should his sins remain known only to him, it would make
no difference, as long as he knows what the society of man would say about
him, his soul becomes tainted with the Devil's mark.

Of course if man were to wake up and realize this, we could empty hell's
coffers of souls forever. It is the unthinking fears, and cheap religious
moralities of man that doom so many to Inferno. Society condemns them all
to an eternity of torture. Yet we have seen instances where society can
forgive a man sins that would be most heinous if another were guilty of
them. War heroes, pop stars and kings seem to live under the aegis of a more
forgiving morality. The general who orders the death of millions escapes
the process guilt free, his soul untainted. Why? Because we humans say that
his killing was right, his sins in fact virtues, and so with death he goes
on to a better place.

Put simply, the sad but true fact of our existence is that if you sin you
do go to Hell, a fact made worse by the fact that it does not have to be
this way. But in the end, I suppose it hardly matters. Ultimately we are
either stripped of all we were or become servants to our jailers. When we
are reborn, we tend to become reattached to someone related to us. It may
be the draw of the genes, or it may be our natural divinity reaching out to
reform its lost body. Commonly, a human will also retain their same gender,
sometimes becoming his own grandson or nephew. This is not always the case,
and there are no hard and fast rules in reincarnation.


Scouring the Soul

Our jailers have had millennia to develop tens of thousands of ways to
scour the human soul of its memories. As I mentioned earlier, the more
eventful our lives, the longer it will take to vaporize our memories. some
men can look back on their lives and see a few highlights that stand out
among a sea of dreck. Others look back on a single year in which they lived
more than ten men. This has an interesting consequence for those of us
judged sinners. It seems that sinners invariably lead more interesting
lives than the dull or virtuous. Thus, a soul in Inferno tends to stay
there much longer than a soul lost to the Demiurge's "Paradise".

The process of stripping our souls can take many forms. Astaroth and his
minions prefer to lend the soul a physical form which they can physically
abuse and torture. The number of tortures are legion, often especially
tailored to the individual. The number of Razides available to perform
these tortures is near limitless, and I will detail more about them later
in the book. What matters for this current discussion is that Infernal
tortures tend to rely on physical and mental trauma to destroy human
thought and reason. In the so called "paradises", things are handled
differently. There I'm told it is a process of pure stultification. The
soul in paradise exists without stimulus, except for a feeling of floating
in a pleasantly warm womb. The mind becomes numb to everything but the
simple pleasure of its existence until all thoughts cease, leaving a clean
slate.

When a soul falls into Inferno, it retains a semblance of it's physical
form. That physical form is much more resilient than its living
counterpart, and is capable of taking immense amounts of punishment. What
would normally kill the body in our life, simply causes the damned soul to
blackout in a short mockery of death. Moments later the body is reborn and
regenerated, ready for a fresh round of torture. Of course, unlike true
death, this Infernal death does not release you of any memories. In fact,
it heightens the memories of your pain and degradation. Eventually, the new
memories will crowd out all that you once were, and there will be nothing
but pain and mental anguish left. Then the soul has truly been scourged
clean, the mind broken. Eventually the pain and suffering become so
commonplace that all the memories of agony blur together until the mind
eventually fades into a permanent catatonic state from all the shock. Then
the soul's time in Inferno stand complete, and the soul can safely be sent
on to a new body.

When I speak of scouring the mind clean of thought and remembrance, I may
be painting too vivid a picture, for there are certain things that make a
permanent mark on the soul. I speak of course of the curses of conjurers
and others, magical imprints that can stay with soul through all eternity.
Likewise, powerful beings like Archons and Death Angels can place similar
marks on the human soul. These curses and marks can effect the development
of a new body, or act as a magnet for spirits, beings from beyond the
illusion, or other malfeasances. While it is almost unheard of for such a
mark to disappear while the soul is in the afterlife, I have heard rumors
of such an event taking place. Perhaps it is within the power of our
jailers to remove a curs, but they take some malicious delight in leaving
the mark to haunt us in our next life. Although I would not put it past the
Infernals to do such a thing, I think it more likely that such a feat lies
beyond their power.


Purgatory

There is no set place in Inferno that one can call purgatory, rather there
are many thousands of purgatories, all of which are actually outside the
bounds of hell. They are the realms of the Nepharites, Inferno's most
accomplished tormentors. Throughout this book I have, and will write a
great deal about Razides. Razides are by far the most common infernal
being, and come in all shapes and sizes. There is another class of infernal
that was once almost as common. Although their numbers never even remotely
approached the populous Razides, Nepharites were once ubiquitous in
Inferno. They were the master torturers, and only the most skilled Razides
could hope to rival their abilities. Created by the Death Angels, the
Nepharites were meant to be the perfect servants devote to torture.
However, the Death Angels put too much of themselves in their creations,
and soon the Nepharites grew ambitious. They sought freedom from their
creators and from the constrictions of Infernal law.

Born with a lust for torture and pain far surpassing any Razide, the
Nepharites were not content with the constrictive system of circles. They
felt that each human's suffering should be entirely personalized, that the
punishment should fit the crimes. They felt that the scouring process of
The Pit lacked individual subtlety and nuance. The root of their
dissatisfaction came from the simple fact that Nepharites are born to
torture, and care not at all whether or not the memories get erased. In
fact, the opposite is often true. They love to dredge up old memories that
their victims have already forgotten and use them to inflict further pain
and sorrow.

While Astaroth and the Death Angels still had a firm hold on Inferno, they
were able to check the ambitions of the Nepharites. Under the direction of
their masters, Nepharites could be very efficient torturers, scouring a
soul much more quickly than most Razides. Even though they chaffed under
the restrictions on their creativity, the Nepharites served and obeyed out
of fear. Now Astaroth has all but abandoned his realm, and the Death Angels
openly fight among themselves. Together, the Nepharites took advantage of
the situation and have stepped out of the Infernal system entirely.

Now Nepharites operate on their own, outside of Inferno, and they have
nearly cut off the flow of souls to many parts of hell. Nepharites have
become the masters of the purgatories, private hells devoted to the torture
of one human. Nepharites roam Elysium, seeking out those with a guilty
conscience, waiting for them to die. When death finally comes, the
Nepharite is there to capture the soul before it can slip into Inferno. The
Nepharite then creates its own pocket universe, distinct from Inferno,
Elysium, or Metropolis. There the Nepharite begins a sequence of torture
that can theoretically last forever. The Nepharite concentrates upon the
soul's feelings of guilt, reenacting the worst times in their life over and
over again. There is no purpose beyond retribution for past crimes, and the
only condition is that some part of the human feel guilty. It need not be a
very large part, for a Nepharite can draw even the smallest hint of guilt
into full-fledged remorse and self loathing.

The creation of the personal purgatories has become so common in modern
times that few people go to Inferno at all upon death. This is a fact that
enrages the Razides of Inferno, who have come to universally despise the
Nepharites. Even the Nepharites who remained loyal and stayed within
Inferno are now treated as outcasts and pariahs, shunned by other
Infernals. The Death Angels care little however, and they are the only ones
who truly have the power to bring the Nepharites back in line (excepting
Astaroth himself of course). The Death Angels have always collected their
souls through their own means, and their plans have suffered little from
the Nepharite rebellion. There have been some organized attempts by demon
lords to enter purgatories and seize the souls imprisoned there, but the
process of finding and entering an individual purgatory is long and
involved. Once the Razides gain access, they must deal with a Nepharite on
its own soil, not an enviable task. Should they prove victorious, they have
but a single soul to show for all their effort. The number of souls
recovered in this manner cannot number higher than a few thousand. Thus the
demon lords have taken to fighting among themselves, and delaying the
passage of souls through the Circles.


Paradise

I will take a moment here to begin where Dante ended: the much vaunted, yet
highly overrated Paradise. As I mentioned earlier, Paradise lies at the end
for those who lead a "virtuous" life, free from the taint of sin and guilt.
Those who go to Paradise are those who played by the illusion's rules, went
along with the jailers' moral precepts. This makes them the ideal servants
for the head jailer himself, the Demiurge. So occasionally He would cull
the most promising souls from their comforting wombs, turning them into his
servants. For most though, there was only the pleasant suffocation of a
false paradise before they got another shot at life.

Now the Demiurge has fled the world, his existence ever increasingly just a
fading memory. Now the wombs of paradise go untended, the halls of the
Demiurge's citadel stands empty. His servants the Seraphim, who once tended
the mind washing of the virtuous dead, now wander aimlessly through the
dusty remains of their master's former glory. Paradise was always a lie,
but now it is even less. Now paradise is all but a myth. The sinless, the
patsies of the great lies still go to the golden sleep, but this is no
Garden of Eden. There they are simply and efficiently ground into mental
dust underneath the Demiurge's great millstone.

You may detect in my discourse a certain disdain for Paradise. I ask that
you look past my rhetoric to see the truth behind my words. At least the
stories about Inferno ring true. The sinner knows what to expect, knows
that tortures galore await him after death. But Paradise, Paradise is a
great lie, a misrepresentation. Why lead a life free of sin and full of
virtue when all that awaits is a glorified coma? But that has always been
the Demiurge's way; brutal efficiency covered behind a thin veneer of lies.
At least Astaroth has some imagination. At least the Father of Lies is
honest about one thing. There are no illusions about Inferno.

Now please, read on as I move onto the meat of my opus, the work of several
lifetimes. The terrors, mysteries, and great truths of Inferno await you.


Chapter Two

Harrowing Hell

We move now from the logistics of death to the realities of the here and
now. The Inferno of the late twentieth century is in a state of flux and
chaos unheard of in all the history of our imprisonment. Now that Astaroth
has left his domain for ours, the Gates to hell stand wide open. Even his
children, the Angels of Death have grown remiss in their duties, and the
brave man has much to gain in the pits of Inferno. This chapter is truly
devoted to those for whom this book may be most useful: The Harrowers.
Harrowers, those brave, foolhardy men and women who risk eternity to plumb
the depths of Hell itself. They are, of necessity, an odd breed and few
survive. A veteran Harrower is a sight not to be missed, although as often
as not he or she will be wearing a straight-jacket.

Harrowers act the way they do for a variety of reasons. Tradition dating
back to ancient times tales of brave men and women like Orpheus harrowing
Inferno in search of the lost souls of their loved ones. Saving someone
Else's soul has always been the most common reason for harrowing Inferno,
and it is seldom effective. Only rarely can one find a soul before
Astaroth's torturers have done permanent damage to it. Others enter the
abysmal afterlife in search of answers to questions no living man can
answer for them. Here again they are seldom successful, but when all other
avenues have failed, desperate men take desperate actions. Then there are
those who seek power for themselves, either in the form of Infernal
knowledge of magic, or through capturing souls of their brethren, only to
enslave them. Humans hunting for other human souls is more common than you
might want to think. After all, the agonies of Inferno have already broken
their spirit, and an enterprising conjurer can find many uses for a
submissive soul.

How then does one get to Inferno without dying? That is our subject for the
rest of this chapter and we begin with the study of those mysterious
phenomena known as portals; breaches in the fabric of illusion that link
our world with Hell. Several different kinds of portals commonly form
between Inferno and our prison. Some exist for a short time only, while
others become permanent gateways to the other side. These former are
naturally enough quite rare, while the latter are surprisingly common. In
my estimation, there are probably doors opening to hell every minute of
every day, somewhere in the world. The circumstances required to create
these portals are common enough, but there are few in the world who know
enough to recognize a portal when they see one. It benefits a skilled
necrologist to know the signs of a temporary portal and how to create one.
You never know when such a skill might prove useful.


Temporary Portals

The formation of a temporary portal can result from several different
initial stimuli. These stimuli cause a breakdown in the illusory barrier
between Inferno and our so-called Elysium. For a brief moment in time
Inferno and Elysium coexist in the same place, and passage between the two
realms becomes a simple matter of knowing which way to walk. Of course,
most humans are too wrapped up in the illusion to understand what is
happening under their noses. Remember, the two worlds coexist at that
moment, meaning the area of the portal exists in both Inferno and Elysium
so there is no physical change to the area of the portal. If a torture
chamber becomes a portal to Inferno, that chamber exists both in Inferno
and here, so when you walk out the door, you could end up in either place.

What determines where you go when you open that door? That all depends on
who you are. A man knowledgeable in the ways of death, such as an
experienced Death Conjurer or occultist will be aware of what has happened
around him. In that moment, entering Inferno is a simple matter of will.
One decides to be in Inferno and suddenly you are. Of course, this works
the same way for Infernal beings on the other side, most of whom are
invariably aware of new temporary portals in their area. They will often
take the opportunity to step through into our world, either to take back an
unwitting human, or to spend some time in our world wreaking havoc.

Those less enlightened individuals unfortunate enough to find themselves
present when a portal opens have less choice in the matter. Where they end
up is to some extents a matter of dumb luck and the individual's
subconscious desires. Much in the same way a man's "sins" determine his
fate upon death, an individual's feelings of guilt can determine whether or
not he steps into our world or Astaroth's. Typically, those who have lived
lives full of pain and darkness are much more likely to slip into Inferno,
while more positive living souls manage to avoid such a fate. Of course
there are no hard and fast rules here, and a lot of what happens depends on
just how stable the portal is. It is not uncommon for a powerful stimulus
to create a portal that is more Inferno than Elysium. In these extreme
cases even the best of us has trouble avoiding the lure of Hell.

The experience of stepping through to the other side is often surprisingly
unmemorable. It may be no different than one step is from another as you walk
down the street. Certainly we have stepped into a land of eternal horror and
pain, but often we are coming from a place in our own world that is not
dissimilar. The are few differences between a torture chamber stinking of
burnt flesh and blood and the outer chambers of Inferno. Indeed, it is
likely that the area in Elysium is worse than the surrounding area in
Inferno.


Stimuli

I have gone on a bit about what happens when a portal comes into existence,
but have yet to touch upon the true nature of what I call "Infernal
Stimuli." A stimulus is an event that opens a portal to Inferno, usually a
temporary portal. I exclude from my list of stimuli magical invocations and
rituals which are something different all together. Stimuli are events of
such horror and viciousness, that if you did not know better you would
assume they occurred in Inferno. Of course men commit such acts all the
time: murder, rape, torture, brainwashing, and so on. It is only natural
that Humans behave thusly. Of course not every act creates a portal, in
fact most do not. Only the most extreme cases produce a powerful enough
stimulus, although there are still a surprisingly large number of temporary
gates created every day.

A stimulus requires the expenditure of a great deal of mental anguish by
someone or some group of humans. It is important to realize at this point
that only human suffering can create rips in the Illusion. The Demiurge
created Elysium as a prison to subdue human divinity, and only the
torturous release of that divine power can create a rift. No exact formula
exists to determine when a portal will form and when it won't. The
suffering of one tortured soul can rend the fabric wide, while hundreds
dying can result in nothing. There are probably a thousand factors that go
into creating a true Infernal Stimulus, and it lies beyond my power to even
hazard a guess at all of them, but below I have complied some of the more
obvious factors.

Death: Every human death causes a breach in the fabric of the Illusion as
the departing soul begins its journey to the afterlife. When a great many
deaths happen in the same place at the same time, there is a good chance
that the large number of souls passing on will tear a temporary portal in
the barrier between life and death, creating a portal between our world and
Inferno. There are a lot of factors that influence whether or not a portal
forms, most importantly where the souls are going. If only a few souls are
headed for Inferno, it is unlikely that a portal would form. A bus load of
school girls and nuns going over a hill will not prove an adequate
stimulus, where a plane crashing into a mountain with a variety of
passengers probably will.

It is important to realize that once a portal forms, it typically only
remains as long as the stimulus remains. So, in our example of the plane
crash, the portal will only exist while the burning wreckage remains
present. Once rescue crews come and clear everything away, the portal will
in all likelihood be gone as well. This is why battle sites and war zones
are often the scene of many Infernal Stimuli. With so many individual
soldiers fighting, wounding and maiming each other, the suffering and death
are constant, and there is little time to clean up afterwards. I estimate
that in some extreme cases as many as ten percent of the casualties are
actually men stumbling into Inferno or those snatched by Razides. These
unfortunate men end up serving out eternity as soldiers in hell's legions.

Degree of Suffering: Suffering and anguish are the primary ingredients in
creating an Infernal Stimulus, so naturally, the more suffering, the more
likely it is that a portal will come into existence. This means that events
like torture, heinous medical experiments, and prolonged acts of mental
cruelty can greatly improve the odds of producing a portal, even if there
is no death to weaken the barrier. Of course, prolonged suffering before a
final, painful death has even more potency as a stimulus.

Human suffering forms portal to Inferno on a slightly different principal
than simple death.
Pure human emotional energy forms a link to Inferno, a remnant of our
divine nature shining through in our darkest hour. Instead of our souls
punching through the barrier on their way to the afterlife, our minds are
literally tearing the fabric of reality to shreds around us in response to
profound pain and anguish. Often this alone may not be enough to create a
portal, but it may weaken the fabric of reality enough for others to break
through. For this reason some death conjurers and Satanists like to include
torture and sacrifice in their rituals.

As I mentioned earlier, the suffering does not necessarily have to be of a
physical nature. Mental anguish can be just as potent, particularly if it
is of the appropriate kind. Feelings of loss, hopelessness and despair are
the most appropriate stimuli, but anger, hatred, and blind rage can also
serve well. Of course we have all experienced these feelings in our lives,
and as bad as we all sometimes feel, it is unlikely that most of us will
ever experience enough mental anguish to create a portal to Inferno. It
takes prolonged, intense mental suffering, usually by more than one person.
Often it only serves to weaken the barrier between worlds, but sometimes it
can break through reality. Such portals will only last as long as the
source of anguish continues to suffer, although the portal may well move
with the person.

Life Experience: We have already seen that the fuller a life an individual
has led, the longer it takes to strip that person of their memories. This
is one indicator that a more dramatic person has more energy to expend when
suffering. A soul that takes a hundred years to purge obviously has more to
it than someone who loses it all at the moment of death. It seems that this
has a direct correlation to how likely it is that a portal will form. The
suffering of a more extreme personality produces forces that rip through
the Illusion with greater ferocity than the suffering of a simple man.

For example, I knew a man who lived a life of moral degradation and "sin"
for years. He was a liar, a cheat, a murderer, and a pursuer of Occult
Sciences. One fateful night his enemies (of which there were many) caught
up with him in his temple, and proceeded to take their revenge on his own
altar. Torturing this man had been underway for only an hour when all
present felt the change. Inferno was creeping into the room, a portal was
on the verge of forming. This was amazing to all of them, for all of them
had tortured scores of men and women in exactly the same manner and never
managed to produce an Infernal Stimulus. They proceeded and to their
astonishment a strong portal formed. Unfortunately this allowed in a number
of Infernal beings who had their own grievances with the unfortunate
victim. Ultimately it was they who finished the job on our unlucky friend,
with only one of the original torturers lucky enough to get away to tell
the tale. I think this example speaks eloquently of how powerful a single
tortured soul can be.

Mourning: Sometimes stimulus site or potential stimulus site will get an
extra boost from the sympathy of others. Known as the mourning effect, this
is often the case of disaster scenes and other public spectacles of
suffering. Onlookers who may not feel enough sorrow to create a portal on
their own may supply the added energy needed to either create a portal or
keep one active for a long time. For instance, a site where many have died
as the result of an exploding gas line may well create a temporary portal
to Inferno. The fiery deaths of those in the building are potentially
enough to shatter the Illusion for a short while, but not necessarily. The
sorrow of the surviving relatives and those in the neighborhood continues
on after the disaster, continuing to pour negative energy into the area.
Heinous Nature: Another important ingredient in creating Infernal Stimuli
is the heinousness of the instigating act. Here alone there may be room for
art in generating  a portal to hell, for the more malicious and disturbing
the act, the more destructive energy released. Here I should mention a
tendency towards novelty in the creation of portals, so that the more
common the crime the less likely a portal is to form. In a world where
murder on the street happens every day in every city, such acts have become
integral to the fabric of our false reality. Thus they do not rip much at
the fabric. The anguish of those involved can still strain the barrier,
even if the crime itself is commonplace, but a new and exciting act can
push a mundane horror to the level of the sublime.

The heinousness of the crime reflects the amount of effort put into it by
the perpetrator. A simple liquor store robbery that turns escalates into a
murder has little meaning behind it. Likewise a drunk driver running down a
little girl in the street verges more on fate than heinousness, at least
from an Infernal point of view. Should that girl's father hunt the drunk
down, stake him to the basement floor and proceed to make him drink until
the liquor comes gushing from the holes he has punched in the drunk's
exposed liver, then mayhap we are talking about a true Infernal Stimulus.
Here we have an act of profound passion, full of ill intent. The fathers
own anguish, rage, and dare I say "inhuman" revenge all tear away at the
fabric of reality along with the victim's own pain and suffering.

Sites of Sorrow: There are also certain places in this world where Inferno
verges closely on Elysium, where the barrier is weak. Some of these places
have become permanent portal for one reason or another (more on these
later), others are areas where even the smallest stimulus can push the
envelope of reality. The creation of such a place remains a mystery in many
ways. There seems to be no logical reason behind it. Some places you would
only assume to be close to Inferno are as far as away the Demiurge's
Citadel, while an innocuous street corner might be only a step away from
the depths of hell.

Typically, these sites are formed where there has been tremendous, chronic
strain on the Demiurge's Illusion. Places like graveyards, the old
battlefields, mental hospitals, and even hospitals commonly break down the
illusion to one degree or another. These are places where the large number
of departing souls over time weaken the structure of the Illusion, or where
the constant release of sorrowful human energy has done the same thing. In
fact, the ceaseless sorrow and death permanently alter the reality of
Elysium in a small area, making recreating a part of our world in Inferno's
image.

I mentioned curious areas where there would seem to be no obvious cause for
a weakness to generate in the barrier between our world and Inferno. I have
seen alleyways where not a soul has died but, which veritably wreak of
Infernal taint, and pleasant fields where the slightest touch of horror
opens the way for hungry Razides on the other side. Often these areas seem
to be the focus of some great emotion from a distance, an emotion shared by
a great many people. Perhaps the alleyway simply looks frightening to all
who pass by, and the power of their dreams brings life to their fears. One
can never be certain what forces are it work in any part of our world, but
take note of any warning signs you think you see. If a chill runs up your
spine for no reason as you walk on a beautiful beach under the noonday sun,
take note. Inferno may well be closer than you think, and perhaps you can
use this knowledge to your advantage.


A Fatal Combination

Of course, in most cases one or more of the stimuli I have cited above come
together to form the appropriate mixture of Hell on Earth. For those
interested in creating their own temporary portals I have several caveats.
Gaining access to Inferno through the use of spontaneously generated
portals is the most dangerous means of travel to the other side aside from
actually dying. If you really want to go to the other side, find a conjurer
who can help you. This said, I know that sometimes necessity or passion can
outweigh logical consideration. Therefore, I urge the would be Harrower to
try and exert as much control over the Infernal Stimuli as possible. I mentioned
that Heinousness of crime is an important ingredient, and this is certainly
where you have the most control. It helps also if your victim is someone
appropriately unbalanced, that is to say, full of divine human energy.

Creating a temporary portal is of course best done somewhere where the
barrier is already weak. It is also best done with a partner, someone who
can try and recreate the portal should this become necessary. Remember that
while portals are two way, you cannot create them from the other side
without magical help. If the portal closes behind you, you will have a hard
time finding your way home. The issue of bi-directional travel brings up my
final caveat: you never now what is lurking on the other side of things.
Anything could be over there, up to and including Astaroth himself
(although that is not likely these days). Always be on your guard. Always
remember discretion is the better part of valor. Run lad, it may be your
only hope.


Permanent Gates

Now I turn my attention to a phenomenon somewhat different, yet still akin
to temporary portals: Gates to Inferno. There is an important distinction
here that probably are not immediately aware of; Gates are actually quite
different from portals. Portals, as discussed above, are temporary events,
places where Inferno and Elysium coexist for a time. I define any such
portal as temporary, no matter how long it has existed. A temporary portal
can last for centuries, but some day it will fade. Infernal Gates are
something else entirely. They serve as direct passages from our world or
Metropolis into the bowels of Inferno. Someone or something must actively
create a Gate, using powerful magics of some sort.

First let me clarify exactly what I mean by a temporary portal as opposed
to a Gate, for there is much confusion on this issue. Many people assume
that sites where portals have existed for decades or centuries are in fact
permanent gates. For instance, beneath the abandoned death camps at
Auschwitz there is a substantial portal that has existed for over fifty
years. The suffering there was so tremendous, the crime so heinous, and the
mourning so continuous that the portal is likely to remain a long time,
certainly as long as people mourn the dead and hate the Nazis.
Nevertheless, it is not a true Gate to hell, and functions in the same way
as any other temporary portal. That is to say, it exists both here and
there, and it takes an effort of will, conscious or unconscious to travel
from one side to the other. As we shall see, this is much different from a
Gate.

A Gate acts just like a doorway, one need simply walk through it to come
out on the other side. The Gate can take any form, and some do not resemble
doors even remotely, although doors and passages are popular forms. I have
seen corners of rooms, pools of water, boats, cars, and even empty fields
act as Gates to Inferno. The experience of passing through a Gate varies as
much as the forms themselves. Sometimes it can be quite dramatic, with
flashing lights, fire, smoke, and the stench of sulfur. Other times there
is simply a tingling sensation at the back of your neck, and the next thing
you know hungry Razides surround you. There is no need for an act of will
when moving through a Gate, something that makes them quite hazardous.
Fortunately, such Gates are quite rare, and are usually in out of the way
places where unsuspecting individuals are unlikely to stumble through them.
Not that it does not happen now and then.

Gates are almost always bi-directional (although there are exceptions)
making passage between our world and Inferno a simple matter for all
involved. Truth be told, the Gates are used much more often by Infernal
beings wishing easy access to our world. After all, there are few of us
willing to risk life and soul for a walking tour of Hell. For this reason,
the Gates often open right into particularly nasty areas of Inferno where
Astaroth and his minions gather their forces. Almost invariably there is
also a Gate Keeper of some sort, usually an Infernal beast set to guard the
Gate from trespassers.

Gates are impressive pieces of magical architecture, requiring tremendous
skill and commitment to create on a permanent basis. Creating a Gate means
effectively blasting one's way through the false reality and the barrier
between life and death, creating a small pocket of your own reality to
connect the two worlds. Death Conjurer's can create their own gates through
magical ritual, which are effectively the same thing only temporary (note,
magical gates are different from temporary portals). For an unawakened
human being to create a permanent Gate requires a massive expenditure of
time and effort, accompanied by a profound knowledge of the occult Sciences
and magical arts. Only a very few humans have ever managed such a feat.
Astaroth and the Death Angels can create Gates with more ease, although
even for them it can be quite an effort. Every dark citadel has at least
one Gate linking it to Elysium, and sometimes many more. In these days of
active Infernal involvement in human affairs, such gates are a necessity.

Gates are naturally a very efficient way of entering Inferno. The would be
Harrower can take with him all the equipment, friends, and weapons he can.
The Gates circumvent the problems of trying to create a temporary portal.
Furthermore, a Gate has a definite end, that is to say, you can find out
exactly where the Gate come into Inferno. Usually this is somewhere no sane
man would want to be, but at least you know what you are getting into.
There are however a few Gates that are not quite as dangerous as most.
Places where Gates were made long ago for reasons now forgotten or by
humans sorcerers willing to carry the fight for Human Divinity all the way
to the Astaroth himself as necessary. These are Gates hidden away in the
less traveled corners of Inferno, and perhaps afford a little more security
for the adventurous Harrower.

I have complied here descriptions of some of the better known Gates as well
as some virtually forgotten ones. Of course, in the case of the latter, my
writing about them will no doubt bring them back to the attention of many
who study and watch such matters, including of course Infernals. Still, I
feel that the knowledge is useful, and the distribution of this tome
relatively small. I make no promises about what I report here, except to
say that everything is true to the best of my knowledge. Conjurers and
Occultists created most of these, but they do not always control them
anymore. As always, there are no certainties when dealing with Inferno.

The Shady Lady; Boston, Massachusetts

The Shady Lady rests at the docks in Boston Harbor, languishing in the same
location for years. Nor is the ship likely to move, as iron piling sunk
into ten feet of concrete protrude from the bottom hull of the ship,
anchoring it in place. Dock fees are paid regularly, and the local
constabulary paid to look the other way. The Shady Lady was once a simple
cargo ship, plying Atlantic trade routes under an American flag. Christened
in 1924, the ship survived German U-boat attacks and corporate takeovers
until 1959 when it came to rest in Boston. It was then that a certain
Teresa McCullen purchased the ship from a bankrupt import/export company.

The rusting hulk became Teresa's home, hideout, and temple. A powerful
conjurer, Teresa used the unlikely abode to conduct some of the most
innovative occult experimentations of this century. When I first visited
the ship in 1968 I was amazed at what I saw. The interior of the ship had
been completely converted into a warren of iron chambers, housing all
variety of magical and mundane horrors. Teresa reigned as a queen over her
ship and the otherworldly inhabitants she had summoned and bound to her
will. Her final experiment was the creation of the Gate to Inferno. Her
tunnel comes out deep within the circles of hell. near the Citadel of
Hareb-Serap himself. Why she created such a dangerous thoroughfare is
beyond me. Quite honestly I think she is mad. (Sorry Terri). As of this
writing the ship is still there, and amazingly enough Teresa seems to live
on unscathed. Always a generous soul, I am sure Teresa would offer use of
her Gate to those who present themselves properly.

Dent Ranch; Jackson Heights, Utah

A curious thing about the modern world, today we have no problem blithely
changing the face of nature. For some this is a cardinal sin against the
environment, but I look at it as a good sign. It shows we are willing to
change our reality, even if only in the most primitive sense. the damming
of rivers for hydroelectric power is a fine example of this, for invariably
the river before the damn swells up to form a huge stagnant lake. This
happened on the Colorado river in the Western United States, and when the
120 mile long lake stabilized, several towns rested under its waters,
including Jackson Heights.

Jackson Heights also happened to be the home of a rather sadistic Death
Conjurer named Billy Dent. His ranch home along the Colorado River was the
scene of many a Devil's Sabbat, and he housed a cult of Satanists here for
many years. The closest town was a certain Jackson Heights, where the local
residents (population 630) viewed their strange neighbors with some
disdain. Nevertheless, Dent's cult existed for over eight years without
arousing too much suspicion, and over that time they grew and grew, adding
more buildings to the ranch complex.

Finally Dent made the big move, constructing a permanent Gate to his
Master's home in Inferno. It took thirteen months to finish the Gate,
culminating in a grand human sacrifice. For the whole period of the ritual
the cultists were effectively cut off from the rest of the world, and never
heard about the plans to dam the river only a few miles south of Jackson
Heights. It was not until state and federal representatives cam around to
appraise the value of the ranch that Billy learned of the future fate of
the valley. In less than a year his whole ranch would be under several
hundred feet of water, what is now known as Lake Powell. There was nothing
he could do, and the cult was forced to move on to greener pastures.

Under all that water the Gate remains, a large stone carved arch, built
within the ranch's barn. I have not been down there to see it, but there is
no reason it should not be operational. It seems that Gates are not water
permeable, otherwise the entire Colorado River would have drained into
Inferno. Then again, it is possible that those on the other side had to
seal up the Gate from their side. Billy tells me that he has not been back
either, but that the Gate opened into one of the lower levels of Samael's
citadel.

Club Khartoum, Rome Italy

Just off Piazza Barberini resides a hole in the wall bar and dance club
called Club Khartoum. The reasoning behind the name is as mysterious as the
goings on within, for there is little to link the place to Northern Africa.
Here well off Italian youth gather to feel like they are acting
dangerously. American rock music blares from the cement basement where live
bands play every night. The upper floor houses a bar whose innovative
interior design consists of black lights and encouraging the patrons to
write on the walls.

I only stumbled on the Gate underneath Club Khartoum a few years ago.
Amazingly enough, the Gate is simply a locked door just off the basement
music venue. As you proceed down the stairs from the bar you pass by two
toilets, one for men, one for women. Between the two is a locked wooden
door, something one would assume to be a janitor's closet. As I walked past
that old familiar sensation of dread washed over me. I examined the door
closely, finally deciding that I had to find out what was behind it. The
lock proved beyond my abilities to pick (which surprised me greatly) so I
sought out the manager. He professed not to have a key, saying that no one
did and that they did not use the room.

My curiosity piqued, I set to finding out all I could about the club.
Unfortunately, that proved to be surprisingly little. A Swiss development
corporation owns the building, but they bought it from an Italian realtor.
Unfortunately the Italian realty office burned to the ground some years
ago, destroying all records of the building. Another mysterious fire had
destroyed any records about the building in the city archives. There seemed
to be no records of the building anywhere, and I had other matters to
attend to. Since then I have not been back, but I have managed to ascertain
through magical means that there is in fact a Gate behind that door, and I
imagine all that stands between the patrons and Inferno is a good crowbar.
The Gate could easily date back to Roman times or even earlier, and if some
brave reader discovers its secrets, I would be happy to hear their tale.

Chateau Renauld; Bordeaux, France

This centuries old winery nestled in the Margaux region of France's famed
Bordeaux wine region has never been known for its great wines. Seldom
exported, the high crop yields and dubious terroir is often harsh and
overly tannic, although in good years it can be utterly drinkable. But in
certain, rather exclusive occult circles, the winery is more famous than
any first growth claret. The Renauld family are necromancers from way back,
and since 1840 they have based their operation from their quaint vineyard
in the heart of the world's best wineries.

It is possible that the Renauld's boast the largest cellar in a region
renowned for its underground storage facilities. It is definite that there
is in fact very little wine in the Renauld cellars. The occult minded clan
has found more interesting uses for their underground labyrinth, which
extends for some seven miles underground. Here the family Gate to hell has
existed for over one hundred and fifty years, the product of years of
careful experimentation and rituals.

The Renauld Gate is one of the best guarded doorways to Inferno controlled
by humans. Some of the most powerful binding spells and wards known to
magic are in place below the cabernet and merlot vines on the surface. The
Renaulds are purported to make frequent excursions into Inferno, stealing
souls out from under the Infernal Powers' noses and using them for their
own purposes. It is rumored that The Renauld's never allow the souls of any
of their kin to slip into the tortures of Inferno, and if all else fails
they will rescue them from the clutches of Astaroth himself.

Cave of the Python Mother; Celebes, Indonesia

Indonesia. If you have not been, go. Indonesia is a world unto itself, with
thousands of remote places where a man can be alone with himself and his
experiments. There are also scores of unique occult traditions in world's
largest archipelago, including several interesting Gates to Inferno. Of
these, the oldest and most interesting to me is the Cave of The Python
Mother on the island of Celebes. Celebes is a land even now relatively
untouched by modern society, and in the inlands, life continues as it has
for centuries. Python hunting is common on the island, where the serpents
can grow to well over twenty feet in length. The pythons can then be sold
on the world market as pets, for zoos, or skinned for their scales.

Pythons often live in caves, areas that have become almost sacred to the
python hunters. One cave in particular has a very fearsome reputation, a
place where even the braves hunter will not venture. Located less than a
hundred miles from the town of Boni, the cave is a well known site among
locals. Python hunters from miles around yearly make pilgrimages to the
cave, leaving sacrifices in the narrow opening. The typical sacrifice is a
live bound goat, which (it is hoped) will appease the Python Mother's
voracious hunger. It seems to work, for the Python has not been spotted in
centuries.

The cave itself has a relatively small opening. A man of sizable girth
would have trouble squeezing through the opening. The cave network itself
goes back for miles and is the home to all variety of insect and reptile
life. Centuries, maybe millennia, ago the cave seems to have been home to
some sort of intense magical experimentation. Indonesian wizards are
renowned for their skill and bravery in the face of otherworldly spirits,
and there are tales from across the archipelago of ancient sorcerers
breaking the bounds of reality. At some point one or more of these ancient
conjurers broke through into Inferno permanently.

As we all know, Gates are two way affairs, and in this case something seems
to have come through. An Infernal beast of fearsome proportions  escaped
into our world and established itself in the area as the local demon of the
woods; killing livestock and stealing babies from their mothers arms. Who
knows if the beast remains in the region, certainly its reputation lives on
after it. It seems likely that whatever it was went back to Inferno, but
that is not to say that it does not return to our land from time to time.
The Gate itself appears as just another cave within the vast network of the
Python Mother, so spelunkers are urged to be careful. That next turn could
take you straight to hell.

The Gate opens deep within the outer wastelands of Inferno, far from any of
the great centers of dark power. This makes it an ideal Gate for those
wishing a less obtrusive entry into Inferno, although there is a long trip
ahead of you to the more interesting Infernal sites. There is also the
fearsome spectre of the Python Mother lurking in the background. Just what
the beast was, I am not sure. It seems from the legends that it was
something more than just a Razide out to make trouble. It may well have
been something otherwise unrecorded in Infernal Lore. Whatever the case,
the cave is worth a look for any committed occultist looking for a tropical
vacation.

Grove of the Golden Carp; Hunan Province, China

The Chinese love their carp ponds, and certainly there is a simple pleasure
in watching the placid fish swim in a shallow pool. Maybe its the
incongruity between the peaceful veneer, and Infernal purpose of the Grove
of the Golden Carp that makes it so very interesting. Centuries ago the
pool was part of a large garden belonging to an important Imperial Chinese
family, the Mu's. The Mu clan were among the most successful families in
the land, and in their heyday they had daughters who married emperors and
sons who served as high ministers. The wealth and privilege of their class
lasted until the tumultuous times of the twentieth century when the family
was slaughtered to the last man woman and child during the warlord era.

For a time their palatial county estate, encompassing the Grave and its
Gate, served as a base of operations for one warlord group until they were
driven out by the Nationalist Government. The Nationalists used it as a
retreat for the ruling elite, until the Japanese came and drove them out.
The occupying force had little time to develop the county estate, and
during the war it fell into disrepair. The Chinese Communist revolution
also managed to overlook the Grove, which had now become quite overgrown,
the buildings dilapidated. Today, over forty years later, the site remains
unoccupied, far from any signs of civilization.

The Gate itself lies within the carp pond, now cluttered with weeds and
bereft of fish. The shallow pond measures some thirty yards to a side,
forming a roughly square pond, bisected by a series of small footbridges,
now long since turned rotten. The bottom of the pool appears to be stone,
simple and remarkably preserved under sixteen inches of dirty water.
Towards the center of the pond there is a particularly large bridge, under
the center of which is a six foot diameter hole, unfathomably deep. This is
the Gate, located in a seldom traveled area of the pond.

There are various records of disappearances over the five hundred year
history of the state, leading to legends of ghosts and demons. No doubt
some of these were poor souls who fell through the Gate. Some may very well
have been ghosts, souls making their way out of Inferno and into our world.
Likewise, what is more demonic than an Infernal resident splashing out of
the pond to take what it can back with it? We can safely say then that the
Gate has probably been present since the fifteenth century.

Here's the problem though. The Mu clan is nowhere purported to be known as
magicians, conjurers, or the kind of folk who consort with demons. Even the
annals of the great Chinese sorcerers of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries fail to mention the Mu clan in any way, other than to note their
summer home as renowned for being haunted. So where did this Gate come
from? No obvious answer presents itself. Perhaps the Mu's unwittingly built
their summer home on top of the Gate, never realizing the threat that lay
beneath their fish. This seems the most likely explanation, but still does
not explain who was responsible.

One clue is the destination of the Carp Pool Gate: deep within Gamaliel's
citadel, not far from the Death Angels inner sanctum. Curiously though, the
Gate is no longer used by the Death angel or his minions. It is almost as
if the Lord of Perverted Sexuality does not even know what is beneath his
nose. Stranger things have happened I suppose. Perhaps the Infernal lord
created the portal himself ages ago and has since forgotten about it.
Perhaps not. I urge those interested to take a look for themselves.

Dunbar Research Station; Near Mt. Ras Dashan, Ethiopia

The Dunbar Research Station was fully funded and controlled by the powerful
biotech consortium LAMAR Biotech. I conclude with this Gate because it is
one of the most interesting examples of human curiosity and ingenuity going
far beyond any expectations. The research center, operating under far from
strict Ethiopian controls, devoted itself to finding new forms of genetic
medicines. That is to say (as I understand it) tailor made genes that could
cure diseases or heighten human well being.

In any event, the research seemed to open some particularly interesting
avenues in human development. Somehow a serum, drug, or some such potion
that heightened the awareness of test subjects, actually letting them see
beyond the Illusion. The testing procedures were very effective, although
far from kind, and many human subjects died or went irretrievably mad in
the course of research. The suffering of all these aware individuals was
enough to open a temporary portal to Inferno, something that did not escape
the notice of LAMAR scientists.

The portal intrigued the scientists, and they dropped all other experiments
to concentrate on the new phenomenon, something they thought was a doorway
to another dimension. They sought ways to stabilize the portal, free it
from the vagaries of human suffering. Somehow they did just that, and did
it without the use of traditional magical rituals, at least as far as I can
tell. The Gate is a permanent one, opening into the outer regions of
Inferno, very near to our own world. The Gate takes to form of a sealed
room, which instantly transfers anyone who enters its center to Inferno.
The Gate chamber is under constant guard and surveillance, and is probably
the most studied Gate in the history of our jail, even though it has only
existed for a few years.

It is unknown what governments know of the Gate's existence. Even the LAMAR
Biotech board of directors is unaware of its existence. The scientists in
charge now realize that it is not another dimension they have reached, but
the afterlife. They have sent several armed expeditions into Inferno, and
all of them have returned, although none unscathed. They even managed to
capture a Razide and bring it back for closer study, something I was
fortunate enough to witness. Access to the Gate is strictly limited, but it
may well be one of the safest entries to Inferno on the planet.


Periodicity

An interesting side note here, something that applies to both temporary
portals and even some Infernal Gates. Sometimes a portal or gate will exist
only at certain times or under specific conditions. For instance, a
temporary portal might appear on the anniversary of a horrible mass murder,
triggered by the mourning of survivors and even the suffering of those sent
to Inferno en masse. Gates might be attuned to specific dates or
astrological conditions, allowing the creator to have some control over who
comes and goes through their gate. A Gate that only works on St. Crispin's
Day or the Vernal Equinox is easily watched on those dates, and the rest of
the year there is no need to worry about unwanted Infernal beings walking
through to our world.

Artifacts as Portals

I have one more note on the subject of portals and gates. There are in this
world certain tinkerers who think that machines and clever clockwork
devices hold the answer to all the world's problems. Even among the ranks
of necrologists such individuals can be found. They create strange and
sometimes even wondrous devices that can open up temporary portals to
Inferno, or even temporary (and in a few rare cases permanent) Infernal
Gates. The devices come in all shapes and sizes, from small baubles, to
building sized contraptions. Almost all of them require complicated magical
rituals to create, although the amazing advance in science may soon find a
way to duplicate magic's excesses (e.g. the Terra Nova Research Station
above).

These artifacts are particularly dangerous because in many cases they are
portable, and so can fall into the hands of any fool. Some simply transport
the one who activates the device into Inferno, while others actually open a
portal or gate. The former cause the area around the device to
collocate-locate with an area in Inferno, while the latter typically create
a passageway of some sort. Where these open up in Inferno can either be a
random event or determined at the time of creation. Many tinkerers find it
enough to be able to create such devices and let them loose upon the world,
caring not a bit where the artifact sends its hapless operator. I myself
avoid the things like the plague, as you can never be sure of their
pedigree.


Chapter Three:

Infernal Travel

Later we will turn to some of the specific sites found in Inferno, but now
I will give some time to how travel in that land is accomplished. First of
all beware, for nothing I write here is set in stone. There are no
constants in Inferno. I can not over emphasize this point. What I present
here is a series of tips and comments, Infernal tendencies and likelihoods,
but never absolutes. A fact of Infernal existence that has existed since
the beginning of time is just as likely to change entirely in the next
minute as anything else. I make no guarantees.

First one must get there, which is why I have spent so much time talking
about portals and gates, methods whereby anyone can make the journey to
hell, should the mood strike them. Quite frankly however, I would not want
to rely on them and usually do not. The best way to get into Inferno is
through the use of  magical rituals. Find a conjurer, pay him whatever he
or she wants, and trust them to see you through to Inferno and back out.
Conjurers have the great advantage of being able to control where in Hell
they are going when they create a magical gate. Even before they conjure up
the gate, they can look into Inferno and see the lay of the land before
they decide to make the move, thus avoiding the perils of blindly stepping
through a Gate.


Highways and Byways of Hell

Travel through Inferno tends to be undertaken on foot alone, for Gates
seldom accommodate cars or horse and carriage. Of course this is not always
the case, but certainly such forms of conveyance are rare down there,
especially outside the hands of the Infernal Lords and their servants. They
possess a bewildering variety of vehicles to carry them about their realm.
Bug-like, black steel ornithopters, mile long wheeled juggernauts that roll
across the Infernal Fields, sweeping all before them, demonic horses
pulling fiery chariots, and even devilish automobiles, festooned with
wicked spikes are all relatively common sights in Astaroth's domain. For
the hapless Harrower however, these conveniences are unavailable, and any
terrestrial vehicles are only likely to draw unwanted attention. I advise
you to keep to your feet. It may prove slow going, but it certainly
attracts less attention. Catching the wrong being's attention in Inferno
can damn you forever.

There are no cardinal directions in Inferno, so leave your
compass at home. With no magnetic poles there is nothing to draw the
compass, and of course marking your position by satellite locating systems
is totally impossible. It is doubtful that there even are constant
directions, nor are the laws of physics and time and space applicable.
Inferno itself is not a planetary body like the Illusory Earth, so it may
well be possible to fall off the edge. Certainly one cannot depend on two
parallel lines converging or a series of four left turns forming a circle.
Furthermore, things are constantly on the move down below, with even the
Dark Citadels themselves switching positions. It is said that Astaroth and
the Death Angels can warp and control the reality of Inferno, bending it to
their will. They can make a journey that looks to be just a few miles take
years, or let a single footstep cover a thousand yards. In their realm they
make the rules.

How then do the inhabitants manage to find their way around? Well, in some
cases they do not. There are those dumb beasts that wander the barren
plains and dusty halls of Inferno looking for poor defenseless souls to
torture. They are creatures of instinct and appetite only, roving from one
victim to the next. Then there are those human souls sentenced to an
afterlife in hell. Of course most end up in the torture chambers of the
Death Angels or in service in Astaroth's Legions. They usually appear as
battered and bruised humans, shadows of their former selves. Most are
totally mad, and best avoided, but some can become useful allies. Of course
always exercise caution in such matters, for as often as not these
"dejected souls" are actually Razides or other Infernals in disguise,
looking for unsuspecting victims.

There of course those who can find their way unerringly through Inferno's
twisted passages and foul waterways. It is a gift from Astaroth to his many
spawn, they know precisely where they are within the bounds of his Realm.
Always they seem to know just what lies beyond the next bend, even if it
was not there a few moments before. They know how long it takes to get from
one place to another, and what path is least fraught with potential
dangers. The most important exception to this rule is when Astaroth or one
of his Death Angels interferes directly with Inferno's shape. Then even the
most unerring of Infernal wanderers can lose its way.

This does not offer much hope for beings of non-Infernal origin, like you
and me for instance. Human souls have tried all manner of clever tricks to
try and find their way through Inferno's protean landscape. From ancient
times came the concept of Ariadne's thread, leaving a trail behind you
which you can follow back. Sadly, this seldom works, for as likely as not,
the thread will change with the landscape. Painted markings on walls
disappear. Bread crumbs are eaten. an innocent length of twine
metamorphoses into a serpent in your very hand. Infernal territory does not
take well to being marked, and the very soil on which you stand will react
against you.

There is one small ray of hope for man however: a human ability amazingly
potent, though seldom developed to its full potential. Divine beings that
we are, we too can shape the form of Inferno, at least to a degree. A very
small degree. Here is how this curious phenomenon seems to work. We know
that human suffering, pain, and emotion can bring Inferno and Elysium
together to form a portal. In that case human energy primarily rips apart
the Illusion, but it also draws Inferno to the location. Thus human
suffering and so on opens portals to Inferno and not Metropolis or the
Dream World. Thus we know that human divine energy can manipulate Infernal
geography.

Now do not get too excited, this ability is extremely limited indeed. No
man (except mayhap one of the Awakened) can blithely bend Astaroth's realm
to their will. Rather, humans can, if they are lucky and things go well for
them, slightly influence their path through Inferno. A strong willed person
can keep a destination in mind, and if he or she keeps walking, eventually
they will get there. Eventually. It may take years, it may take lifetimes,
but eventually it will happen. The stronger the will, the more mentally fit
the person, the closer they are to Awakening, the quicker their journey
will be. Where the mind looks, the body will follow.

There are of course several problems with relying on this method of travel
through the shifting Infernal landscape. First of all, how do you know if
you are strong enough? Look into your heart and think of the hardest fought
accomplishment of your life. Could you exert yourself to that degree for
days or weeks on end? Can you finish the journey once it is begun? Then of
course there is the goal itself. After all the technique does not work if
you do not have a place in mind, and hopefully that place still exists.
There are of course sites that are always there, (or so it seems, remember:
no guarantees) but certain sites are likely to be there, most of which I
shall discuss in the next chapter. It is paramount that you have a clear
picture of your goal at all times. This need not be an actual image so much
as a feeling and emotional attachment to the goal.

All this concentrating on a set goal has a rather sinister side effect. It
tends to draw unwanted attention. Of course in Inferno, all attention is
unwanted, so one must be particularly careful here. Setting the front door
of Samael's citadel as your goal in effect means making Samael himself your
goal, and the closer you get the more likely he is to become aware of your
presence. He will at the very least interfere with your progress, for even
his subconscious will throw up barriers in your path, and at worst he will
send his legions to find you and bring you back in chains. Likewise, other
Infernal beings in your vicinity will sense your effort and come to
investigate what all the excitement is about.

Let me make something absolutely clear at this point. When I say you have
to concentrate it has to be a site, not a place where someone is. You
cannot say to yourself, take me to the torture chamber where my beloved
dead wife is and expect to get there. If you somehow ascertained your
wife's location you would have to concentrate on that place, the Chamber of
Stinging Sorrows in the Third Circle for example. Let me also make this
clear: This is a very dangerous, seldom successful technique for navigating
Inferno, but it may have to do if you have no other option. Hopefully you
will, which brings me to my next subject: Pscyhpomps and their myriad uses.


Psychopomps

The psychopomp is a very refined version of the phenomenon I described
above. A psychopomp or spirit guide is a being who leads you through hell,
whether it be Dante's Virgil or Virgil's Sybil of Cumae. Psychompomps are a
must for any serious Infernal traveler, and they come in several different
types, depending on your resources and expertise. Here as in everything to
do with harrowing, magic proves itself profoundly useful. Although not
absolutely necessary in gaining the aid of a psychopomp, it makes the task
much simpler.

The most common psychopomp is not a true guide at all, but a projection of
the conjurer's own self. In a way this guide is related to the practice I
described in the previous section where the Harrower bends Inferno to his
will. However, summoning up a guide from your own repressed memories is
both more subtle and quite a bit more efficient. The conjurer looks back
through the depths of time, recalling all the times he has been to Inferno
before, although then it was as a dead soul and not a live Harrower. The
ritual does not grant the caster all his lost memories, such a feat is
beyond most of his. Instead it manages to pluck out those memories relating
strictly to Inferno and its layout. The memories then coalesce within
Inferno into a physical form: thus comes the psychopomp.

Of course the form of the memory guide varies from person to person. They
can assume most any form, from a identical twin of the caster to some
famous figure from history (Virgil?). Even animals and fantastic beasts can
serve as guides, although they are never much bigger than man sized. It is
important to note here that the guide has no real substance in Inferno.
Just because you conjure up a psychopomp in the form of a great warrior
does not mean it will or can fight for you. The advantage to this is that
they are almost impossible to destroy except by magic, unless of course the
caster himself should perish.

How much a conjured psychopomp knows varies widely, but it is usually a
fair amount. Most of us have spent many hundreds or even thousands of years
in Inferno over the course of history. Of course sometimes we can spend a
millennium locked away in a single torture chamber, but this is rarer than
you might expect. The odds are that your psychopomp will be able to take
you close to wherever you want to go, although mayhap not by the shortest
route. It will not know the secret passages and tunnels of the Razides and
other jailers who seem to move throughout Inferno with ease, for it is
unlikely you have ever been there before. Likewise it will not know any of
the mysteries of the Dark Citadels, unless you were very unfortunate or
very lucky in a previous death.

The personality of the psychopomp depends upon the form it assumes, but it
is also tainted by your experiences. It will relate to you depending on how
you relate to yourself. For example, if you are one of those poor souls
full of self loathing and suicidal tendencies, you psychopomp will bear you
quite a grudge. It will treat you the same way you treat yourself. Of
course this can also be a great advantage if you treat yourself well. But
the psychopomp must also deal with the memories of untold ages of suffering
and torture, and this cannot help but color its world view. It has known
little happiness in its existence, for it only remembers the sorrows of
Inferno. This can make it either very melancholy or very jaded, and
possibly even resentful towards you. Thus, even the best of psychopomps is
a gloomy companion, and the worst can drive a sane man to the verge of
clinical depression.


Other Guides

Of course there are other beings who can act as psychopomp if you are
unable to summon your own. As I noted above, creatures born to Inferno
innately know how to travel through the horrors of hell unscathed, and so
they make the best guides. Unfortunately, they are also the hardest to
acquire. After all, most Infernals are accustomed to enslaving humans, not
serving as their guides. I know I am beginning to sound like a broken
record, but here as in all things, life is easier with a conjurer around.
Summoning and binding infernal creatures is stock and trade for death
conjurers, and can be used as psychopomps. The dangers here are obvious,
for the bound servant will invariably do its best to lead its master
astray. All the normal caveats for dealing with summoned creatures apply to
summoned psychopomps, with the extra warning that they are even more
dangerous on their home territory.

Non-conjuring Harrowers may also wish to avail themselves of an Infernal
psychopomp, an undertaking nearly guaranteed to be more trouble than it is
worth. To find a guide without magical aid requires one to actually
physically subdue the would be psychopomp. I do not think it is necessary
to go into all of possible dangers with this course of actions.
Remember, that such beings will invariably lie, cheat, and mislead you if
you do not have some way of ensuring their loyalty. I have no idea ho one
might do this, for there is little you can hold over their heads. It may be
possible to strike some sort of bargain, or perhaps trade souls for
information, but remember, Infernals never have your best interests at
heart.

There are said to be certain magical artifacts that provide their user with
control over a psychopomp. Finding one of these objects is no mean feat,
but could be invaluable for a non-magician making the journey into Inferno.
Most of these artifacts carry a price with them, and usually not a
financial one, so careful research before use is strongly advised. Some
artifacts require a sacrifice of some sort, while others will take what
they want. For example, I have read in several places of a small jade
carving of an old Chinese man. The statuette is purported to summon up a
psychopomp in the form of a wizened sage who will guide one through Inferno
wherever you wish to go. The unfortunate side effect of this is that the
old man causes the user to age one year for every twenty-four hours spent
in Inferno. If it's important enough the price may be worth it, but then
again it may not.


The Comfort of Strangers

One option remains for those in search of a psychopomp. The option is an
obvious one, but seldom used because the risks are so unpredictable. What
is more common in Inferno than the lost souls of those who have died? The
Souls of the dead would seem to be the best guides available. After all,
they certainly have no reason to support their Infernal lords, and every
reason to be sympathetic to those of us from the outside. The first problem
with this course of action is finding someone who is free from the clutches
of the Razides and their torture chambers. These are rare but not
impossible to find, for no prison is escape proof.

But you can never trust a dead man. Dead souls are notoriously unreliable.
They have suffered untold pain and suffering at the hands of their
tormentors, and their minds are almost certainly unhinged. At least with an
enslaved Infernal psychopomp you can be sure that it is trying to lie to
you. With a human soul you can never be sure as to what is going on.
Sometimes a man's pain and hate become so overwhelming that he wants only
to take his vengeance on those around him, whoever they are. Then their are
those poor misguided souls who voluntarily work for Astaroth's Legions,
betraying their own kind for a false hope of future glory. These will lead
you astray as surely as any devil or demon. Even if the soul means well, it
may not know very much at all. After all, Inferno is as alien to these lost
souls as it would be to you or me.

This book is more than anything a group of warnings about Inferno, and
though it may seem to some that I am continually looking at the dark side
of things, that I am an eternal pessimist, well, remember what we are
discussing here. So in that spirit, I present another warning about human
souls as psychopomps, and all other psychopomps for that matter. The
Infernal Lords are cunning, insidious beings who take great joy in
discomfiting humans at every turn. It is not uncommon for one of these
demonic powers to assume the form of a hapless human soul just to lead a
Harrower down the path to perdition. It is realistically impossible to tell
such a doppelganger from a true lost soul, so beware traveler! You can
never know for sure.


The Well Equipped Harrower

Traveling into Inferno should never be undertaken lightly or without
exhaustive preparation on behalf of the Harrower. I have already discussed
how to find entrance into Inferno and some suggestions on finding a guide
through the underworld. It remains to give a few pointers about what to
bring with you into the fiery depths. First of all bring a conjurer. All
tight, I have gone on about that enough and so I will leave it there.
Second, bring weapons. Now weapons come in many different forms, and I urge
the well prepared individual to bring them all. In this day and age we have
firearms available to us, and they are certainly very effective as far as
they go. Likewise high explosives can have a devastating effect on even the
most horrifying of Infernal beasts.

As nice as modern weapons are, having a simpler backup is absolutely
necessary. You see, the laws of physics as experienced in Elysium do not
always hold true in Inferno. This is particularly true of the Dark Citadels
of the Death Angels, where the very form of reality is an expression of the
individual dark lord's wants and desires. If he wishes it, a Death Angel
may simply assert that gunpowder does not ignite in his domain. If you were
counting on your shotgun alone to see you through, a sad surprise awaits
you. A handy sword, knife, or club can be invaluable in such circumstances.

Other equipment should be obvious. Food and water are vital. Legend has it
that any who eat food from the underworld can never leave, and sometimes
this is the case. Assume that nothing below is edible or potable. Even that
which is not poisonous at face value can have a lasting effect on the soul.
There are many Infernals who use the lure of food and drink to manipulate
unwary souls and Harrowers alike. It is entirely possible that by accepting
an offer of food, you are also agreeing to a bargain whereby you turn over
custody of your soul. So, ample provisions are a must for any serious
Infernal explorer.

Several reliable sources of light can also prove invaluable. As we shall
see in the next chapter, there are no days or nights in Inferno, but there
are certainly dark place aplenty. Again, as with modern firearms it is best
to have a primitive backup for any modern devices one brings along.
Batteries have a curious habit of malfunctioning at the most inconvenient
times. Those with a classically inspired imagination may think it odd that
I would advise a Harrower to bring flint and steel for making fire, but
flame is something that never goes out of style in the underworld, and you
may need that torch.

What does one wear to Hell? It is a question with no easy answer. Weather
in Inferno is mercurial at best, and always inconvenient. As we shall see,
every conceivable form of precipitation exists in the underworld, and quite
a few that one would never imagine. So, unfortunately my recommendation is
to be ready for anything. It will be freezing cold. It will be hot enough
to cook you alive in your clothes. It will rain, and snow, and there will
be mud, marshes, and planes where you will walk neck deep in excrement.
Which brings me to one final fashion recommendation: a gas mask, air
filter, or at the very least nose plugs can prove absolutely invaluable.
The smells, stenches, and stinks that assault one can easily overwhelm even
the strongest among us.

Death and Time

Now is as good a place as any to comment on the issue of time in Inferno
versus time in Elysium. There is no set relationship between the two. Three
days can pass for a Harrower in Inferno, while for the rest of us in
Elysium only an hour passes. Likewise the reverse could just as easily
happen. In fact, time is not absolute within Inferno either, so that
Razides might inflict a thousand days of torture on some poor soul, while
elsewhere Golab seems to enjoy a single day of twisted reveling. It seems
likely that while time in Elysium is much closer to absolute,  Inferno can
ignore these rules to a degree. But only to a degree. For time certainly
does matter in Inferno. We have seen how the flow of events in our world
and Metropolis effects Inferno, so there must be a relationship of some
sort.

It is most probable that in Inferno time truly is all relative. More
specifically, the experience of time is all relative. How time seems to
pass for you has no relation to how it passes for others in Inferno or for
the rest of the Universe. This does not obviate the possibility of an
absolute time, it just means that in Inferno experiences may differ. What
determines how you experience time is a matter of where you are and what
you are doing. Obviously in the torture chambers, time is compressed, so
that hours of suffering are packed into minutes. How you experience time
can easily change from one step to the next, but of course you will never
be aware of any shift. For you, time seems to flow along normally. It is
only upon returning to Elysium that you find that while you were gone your
children have grown up and your wife has left you.

Conjurers skilled in the lore of Time and Space will probably be able to
sense these time shifts and may even be able to do something about them.
There are even some Conjurers specializing in the Realm of Transcendence
who make a special study of the flow of time in Inferno. They more than
anyone may be able to determine for themselves the flow of time for
themselves in Inferno. However, even their skills can not stand up to the
reality shifting powers of a Death Angel or Astaroth on its own territory.
Likewise, any meddling on behalf of the conjurer with the flow of time may
well alert the Infernals to the conjurer's presence, creating new problems
for the meddling Harrower.

In Conclusion

There is much more to know, but I could not possibly present it all to you
here. There are probably gates I do not know of, and ways for portals to
form that I have never dreamed possible. Anything can happen when Inferno
and Elysium collide, especially in these modern days of chaos in the wake
of the Demiurge's disappearance. Look for your own ways, for the road less
traveled often has fewer guardians to stand in your way.


Part Two

An Infernal Gazetteer

Chapter 4:

Infernal Geography

The study of Infernal Geography is a difficult subject, and defies any easy
description or categorization. The form of Inferno changes in constant
flux, with few things remaining as they are for any length of time. For our
purposes we can only speak of tendencies gleaned from past experience.
Since the landscape is so turbulent, I have relied on the accounts of many
different men and women over history to compile this section. I myself have
seen but a meager fraction of Inferno's hellish offerings, but I can assure
you that I have chosen only the most reliable sources for my exerts here.
As often as possible each there are many other examples to corroborate the
information I have given here. I focus here on only the most common, and
therefore likely to be found features of Inferno. However, I have also
included some of the more interesting, but less known features that were
simply too fascinating to leave out.

I have organized this section somewhat haphazardly, as many of the
geographical features of Inferno defy description under the aegis of a
single category. Nevertheless, I have made some generalizations, and have
tried to stay as close to them as possible without distorting my
information. So we will begin with a general overview of Inferno's
geography, much as any travel guide would comment on the climate and
landscape of a country. From there I have divided the chapter into two
sections:  The Circles and The Wild Zones. I have further subdivided each
of these sections as you will see. I have left information concerning the
Dark Citadels from this section, deciding that it was more appropriate to
discuss these edifices along with their Lords, something I do later in the
book.


Inferno: The Big Picture

Inferno defies easy description in most ways, and certainly no accurate map
can exist. Inferno is a land without bounds, extending as far as the
Universe itself. A small door inside a small building can open onto a
seemingly endless lake of fire. Bottomless pits, continent wide desserts,
and seas of blood and pile can all be found in Inferno, and seldom in the
exact same place twice. Likewise the weather can vary almost
instantaneously, from pounding rain to piles of flaming feces falling from
the skies. Anything is possible, and most everything is likely to happen at
one time or another.


The Great Circles of Hell

The Great Circles of Hell is by far the most famous region in Inferno, at
least to the western reader. Those in China and the east might be
intimately familiar with regions like The Earth Prison and the Yellow
Springs, areas of Inferno just as famous in their own right. But here I
focus on the Great Circles, because it is here that Astaroth chose to place
his great fastness, as well as the citadels of his ten lieutenants. If
Inferno can be said to have a geographic center, then the Circles are it.
However, the extent of the Circles, like all of Inferno is limitless.
Contained within each ring of hell there is an infinity of space, with
torture chambers, lakes of fire, and the hatching chambers of demons
stretching off into infinity. Each ring is a world unto itself, a world of
pain and suffering devoted to breaking the human spirit.

If one were to somehow journey far enough above the Circles of Hell, or The
Pit as it is sometimes known, one might begin to be able to contemplate the
enormity of the place. It is a huge funnel descending down into the depths
below. All scale is lost when viewing the Pit from above, it is just too
huge to contemplate easily. The diameter of the highest circle is certainly
over a thousand miles, with each descending circle somewhat smaller, until
one reaches the lowest pit at the base of the funnel. This seemingly
bottomless well measures a hundred miles across, and at the center of it
stands the Dark Citadel of Astaroth himself, the guiding hand behind all of
Inferno's horrors. The Citadel shoots up into the sky from the center of
The Pit, its spire rising  to the level of the highest circle.

Beyond the diameter of the circle extends a barren plain of dust, bereft of
any features. One could wander this plain for lifetimes on end and never
reach anywhere. For others, a few steps will take you into The Wild Zones.
It all depends on which path you take, and whether or not you know how to
navigate within the confines of Inferno's twisted physics. This plain,
often called the Dead Lands, is a form of private hell, and each individual
is effectively alone when he walks it. There is no chance of meeting
another person place or thing, unless you know how to look for them.
Likewise, if you are traveling in a group and should never lose sight of
your companions, you may well never find them again. Here, as with most of
Inferno, a psychopomp of some sort is inordinately valuable.

Standing on the edge of the Circles it is physically possible to see the
other side of The Pit, even though it is a thousand miles away. Unlike the
surface of our Illusory Earth, Inferno is not a sphere and there is no
horizon to block our vision. Assuming your sight is acute enough, you can
see forever. Of course, standing on the edge of The Pit is one of the very
few places in Inferno where it is actually possible to see for a long
distance unobstructed. Certainly once one is in the confines of the Circles
themselves, there are many, many more sights that demand ones attention.

Looking down into The Pit, one notices that there are several rivers that
work their way through the circles. In some cases they form rings and are
actually circles unto themselves, while in other places they cut down
through the circles, often forming tremendous waterfalls that cascade down
for miles. Not all of these rivers flow with water, indeed there is
probably a river of each and every foul substance known to man somewhere in
The Circles. The most dangerous however are those that do seem to flow with
water, for these are the rivers that actually scour the soul to its core,
not just pollute and tear at the flesh that surrounds us.

The rivers seem to be the only feature that actually cuts across the
boundaries of the Circles. In all other ways they are clearly delineated
from each other. The circles are for the most part terraced, so that there
is a long vertical drop between one Circle and another, usually of some
tens or more miles in height. In a few areas some circles slope into each
other, forming a single unbroken surface, but this is rare, for the
denizens of each Circle are extremely jealous of one another. There are
stairways, ladders, and even long, curving ramps that connect one Circle
with another, and likewise there are underground Labyrinths that connect
the various levels. there are often wars fought between different parts of
The Pit, with one Circle fighting for the souls imprisoned in another. In
these cases all manner of ingenious siege equipment for scaling the levels
are employed by the denizens of the Pit.

From the top of the Pit it is of course only possible to see the surface of
each level, where only the barest hint of the tortures that lie below is
visible. Nevertheless, each Circle holds a bewildering array of
topographical features on it surface. Looking down one can see raging
blizzards ravaging areas immediately adjacent to sweltering desserts. Foul
looming forests, forsaken plains, twisted cities, and roiling oceans can
all be found within the Circles, and each Circle is a world unto itself. It
is a common misconception that as one goes deeper into the Pit, the Circles
become smaller. This is false on two counts. Most obvious is the fact that
the circles themselves get wider as their circumference grows smaller,
giving each Circle approximately equal surface area. This seems to have
been an entirely aesthetic move on the part of Astaroth, since space within
each Circle is effectively infinite. As with all things Infernal, our false
reality concepts of physics have no place here.

It is below ground that the true horrors of The Circles are most often
found. Truth be told, Infernals prefer to do their business out from under
the open sky, even if it is the sunless, red canopy of Inferno. A vast
network of underground tunnels, rooms and caves riddle every level of The
Pit, containing the vast majority of Inferno's torture chambers. There are
whole city's in the underground, places where Infernal beings live out
their miserable, damned lives without ever leaving the dark bosom of their
Circle. Also down below there are chambers that are in fact whole world
unto themselves. One never knows what lies beyond that door of black iron.
It could be a tiny dank closet full of rotting flesh, or it could be a vast
red jungle, crawling with strange and fearsome creatures of pure
malevolence.

Piercing down from the First level to the very bottom of The Pit are the
Dark Citadels of the Death Angels. I will discuss the individual citadels
later, when I deal with the Death Angels themselves, but there are a few
general characteristics that are true of all ten citadels. Each Citadel
extends the whole depth of The Pit, and there are entrances to the Citadels
in each Circle. Like the Circles themselves, the space within the Citadels
is effectively unlimited, and unconstrained by our notions of time and
space. The Citadels appear to be evenly spaced around the circumference of
The Pit, but once one is down in the Circles, it seems as if they almost
intertwine among each other. The Citadels focus the torture and malevolence
of the pit, serving as ten great magnets for suffering. Since Citadels
burst through the levels, they also transcend all the petty rivalries and
feuds that typify the rest of The Pit's denizens.

A Citadel is really the will and desires of its master made solid in stone
and iron. As such, the Death Angels have complete control over every aspect
of their Citadel, and are aware of everything that transpires within their
domain. Never be fooled into thinking that you have somehow managed to
sneak into a Citadel unobserved while its Lord is present, for this is an
impossibility. However, since the disappearance of the Demiurge, and the
withdrawal of Astaroth into Elysium, several of the Death Angels have
abandoned their Citadels, preferring to make their fortunes in our world.
Now the other residents of The Pit have begun to take over parts of the
Citadels, with minor Razides setting themselves up as Lords of Hell. This
has done nothing but bring more chaos to the already turbulent world of the
Circles.

In the center of all this chaos sits the vast, bottomless pit surrounding
Astaroth's Citadel, a place of harsh winds and frequent electrical storms.
Long, black steel suspension bridges link the Citadel with the lowest
Circle, supported by black, iron chains as thick as ten men. The bridges
begin at the lowest Gates of the Citadels of the Death Angels and stretch
across the miles of empty space to the  Ten Gates of Astaroth's Citadel,
each of which bears the name of a different Death Angel. In times past each
Death Angel was the only one who had the right to use their Gate, but since
Astaroth has withdrawn his Citadel is sealed to all who come calling, even
his "trusted lieutenants".

Astaroth's towering palace is said to contain the greatest horrors of The
Pit and all of Inferno. Astaroth, the master devisor of human torments once
took great pleasure in personally dealing with some of the more interesting
humans who came into his realm. Now however the torture chamber stands
empty, the rusting iron halls ring with the howling wind. I have heard of
no one who has journeyed into the Citadel, or even discovered a point of
ingress. It towers above the circles, a hollow, metal spire. I shall
discuss the Citadel somewhat more in the context of my chapter on Astaroth
himself, but I believe you get a feeling for what I'm getting at.

In Dante's poetry we find the Circles divided according to sin, but in the
true Inferno, sin is almost irrelevant. The minions of hell care not a bit
for why you ended up in The Pit, they are simply happy to have you there.
The tormenting of humans is what Astaroth created them for, and they know
no other joy. But the human spirit can be quite resilient, and it takes a
long time to strip it of all the marks it accrues during a full lifetime.
Even as we are strapped to the rack, we hold on to the precious memories of
better days and happier times. This is of course exactly what the torturers
want, to dredge up every memory so that they might rip it from our souls.
To this end, the Circles are divided not by sin, but by torture.

Each of the Nine Circles represents a different class of torture. Once
perhaps this delineation was pristine, but over the centuries of our
imprisonment the lines have blurred. The Circles have taken on many aspects
of independent kingdoms, and so they have stolen torture techniques
formerly reserved for other levels of The Pit. Nevertheless, each Circle
tends to keep pretty close to its original calling, chiefly because this is
the area at which the Circle's denizens excel. After all, it is only
natural to enjoy those things which one does well.

In an ideal Hell, the condemned soul would begin in the First Circle and
work his or her way down through the levels. At Each level you would lose
some of your memories and feelings. for the less hardy souls one or two
levels might be all it takes and then you are ready to move on. Of course
just because you were ready does not mean that your tormentors are ready to
let you go, and most times a soul was made to travel the whole gauntlet
anyway, out of spite. Today it is not uncommon for a soul to get caught on
one level forever. In these days of declining numbers of new souls coming
to Inferno, everyone is greedy to hold on to what they have got, for once
their are no more souls to torture, these poor beings lose their reason for
living.

Passage between levels is traditionally accomplished via the rivers that
run down the depth of The Pit. These rivers are of course tortures in their
own right, and I shall deal with each of the major ones in its own right
shortly. Some of the rivers have guides, non-partisan demons who exist
merely to ferry the souls from one level to another, taking whatever glee
than can from the short while they have the dead human at their mercy.
Sometimes, in the case of a waterfall, the soul is simply pitched over the
side and made to suffer the pain and anguish of the long fall. After impact
on the lower level, they are immediately fished out by their new
tormentors, and a new round of torture can begin.

There are of course other ways to move from one level to another. Roads,
stairways, and ramps connect the levels, but these are usually reserved for
the use of Infernal beings only. Any human soul caught out in the open on
one of these byways is sure to draw the attention of all kinds of nasty
demons and Razides, intent on doing the hapless traveler no good. Since the
age of Pit Wars began (see below) many of the local warlords have blocked
or destroyed the passages in order to protect their territory. In these
places the roads have become no-man's land, a war zone full of fences,
barbed wire, and manned by demonic guards.

Finally, there are the tunnels within the Circles themselves. As I
mentioned, the vast majority of each Circle is underground. It is here that
The Labyrinth connects in with Inferno and Metropolis, and it is here that
passage between Circles is most easily accomplished. Of course underground,
one never knows for sure where one stands, and the lines between the
Circles can be blurry at best. In areas where Demon Lords from different
Circles are fighting, many of the tunnels connecting the Circles are likely
to be blocked or guarded. Nevertheless, there is always a way that is not
guarded, for the Circles themselves are infinite in space when necessary,
and one can always find a portion unknown to even the most ancient Razide.


The Pit Wars

When Astaroth left Inferno for our world, he threw all of Inferno into
tumult. Without his guiding hand to keep the demons and torturers in line,
the natural destructiveness of his subjects evolved into rebellion. The
Death Angels were among the first to turn against their Lord, and some of
them fell before his wrath. But the rebellion has spread down through all
the Circles of The Pit, and in some places, Astaroth's will is openly
opposed. Some remain loyal, either to the Dark Lord himself or to one of
the Death Angels, but others have set up their own Kingdoms of the Damned,
and now covet the power that Astaroth and his lieutenants have wielded for
so long.

Of course, times being what they are, and demons being what they are, they
spend most of their time fighting among themselves and posing no real
threat to Astaroth or the Death Angels. These are the pettiest of a race of
beings that is innately puerile. They are so jealous of each other, that
they cannot hope to ever work together, nor can any one of them hope to
have the power to subjugate its fellows. So they fight endless, pointless
wars with each other, with human souls the booty for which they battle.
Souls have little intrinsic value of course, but the love of torturing
humanity is so ingrained in the fabric of their being that these
contemptible demon lords care for nothing else in the world. The envy
Astaroth and the Death Angels because they had their choice of souls to
torture. they cannot imagine a world beyond Inferno, and have no ambitions
that extend beyond what they know.

The Wars themselves can be astoundingly violent. It is hard, if not
impossible to destroy a demon or Razide while it reside in Inferno. The
most one can hope for is to inconvenience it for a while until its body
reforms. As such, it is not enough to deliver a killing blow in combat.
One's enemies must be hacked to bits, torn limb from limb, incinerated into
ash. Even then the enemy will rise in a few hours or days. So there can
never be any sure victors in battle, and your enemy will always rise to
face you again another day. It seldom occurs to the demons to try and take
prisoners. Prisons and torture chambers are for humans. Demons are immune
to such unpleasant circumstances, for they take joy in pain and suffering,
whatever the cause and whoever the victim.

Of course not all of the Circles have succumbed to war. In many places in
The Pit, the cycle of torture goes on as it has for centuries, with human
souls starting at the top and working their way down through the levels.
Today though, there are fewer and fewer souls coming into Inferno and the
system is beginning to break down. As they say, idle hands are the Devil's
playground, and when the torturers and demons have no victims, they become
restless. In many places they have begun to take their time with the humans
they are lucky enough to get their hands on. Should the whole process shut
down, the restless Infernals would no doubt try to make their way into our
world, searching for the prey they so desperately crave.


Chapter Five:

The Circles

But enough of this teasing you with hints and tidbits about what horrors
await in The Pit. I now turn to a group of narratives taken from those who
have actually suffered through the varied tortures of the Circles, and
managed to still relate the tale to me or put it down on paper. Of course,
these narratives report only some of the horrid experiences one might
experience down  below, but they give a good feel for the characteristics
of each Circle. No complete catalog is possible of course, so one could
hope for little more than I have presented here.


The First Circle

Tales of the First Circle are, naturally enough, easier to come by than the
stories of The Pit's lower reaches. After all, almost everyone makes it at
least as far as the First Circle, and many continue on from that point. The
First Circle specializes in tortures of stultification: endless tasks, mind
numbing physical labor, sensory depravation, Chinese water tortures and so
on. I present here a rather picturesque tale told to me by one Arthur
Baker, and American businessman who died of cirrhosis of the liver at the
ripe old age of 59. I actually summoned Baker up quite by accident one
night, but since I had gone to all the trouble of binding him, I decided to
take down his story for the record. He was quite helpful, mistakenly
believing I had saved him from his torment, and I trust his version of
events will prove illustrative. I leave out from this manuscript the long
series of expletives that followed when I informed Arthur that I was
through with him and sending him back from whence he came.

Arthur's Tale

"I died the same way most of my friends will probably die: my body crapped
out on me. Nobody to blame but me I guess. I'm the guy that kept on
drinking after everyone said I should stop, but I still had six years to go
before retirement, and sometimes you need a drink to help get you through
the day. Sales is a rough business, and scotch will sometimes take the edge
right off it. It's not a new story I guess. Like I said, I wouldn't be
surprised to see everyone I knew in the company end up the same way. It's
just how you make it through the day. So, three months in the hospital,
waiting for a transplant that never comes, and BAM! it's over. For me it
was easy, I just didn't wake up. No pain, no last words, no nothing, just
fade to black.

I'd never been much for religion, not since I was a kid. Sure I went in on
Easter and Christmas, but that's about it. But I went to Sunday school, I
knew the routine. You sin, you go to hell. Right, sure, whatever, I'm too
busy to worry about that shit. I had work to do, women to meet, you know.
So you can imagine just how damned surprise I was to wake up after dying. I
mean, I knew I had died. I literally felt my soul leave the body, and I
remember waking up and looking down and saying, "Hey!, That's me dead!"
Pretty brilliant huh? Nobody ever accused me of missing the obvious.

So anyway, there I float, and then it's sort of like I get caught in some
kind of current, because I start moving. I can't control where I'm going,
but I'm moving faster and faster, passing right through the floor of the
hospital. I'm falling right through the God damned planet! All the while
I'm having all these weird thoughts, remembering stuff I haven't thought of
years, stuff I couldn't have even tried to remember, like my fourth
birthday party, or my first football game. Crazy stuff, it's all coming
back to me. I'm so busy having all these amazing memories that I kind of
lost track of where I was and where I was going and then all of a sudden
it's dark.

I feel like I'm back in my body again. I can feel that I'm lying on the
ground, I can move my legs and arms. It's cold, like cement or something.
My first thought is that I've been having some weird dream and rolled out
of my hospital bed and hit the floor. I try to move but I can't get up. I
bang my head on something metal only a few inches above my head. Then I
realize I'm in some kind if metal box. I start to scream. I screamed my God
damned head off. I screamed about being buried alive and about running out
of air, and all kinds of shit. I must have screamed for hours. I have no
idea how long, because it was dark, and I was lying there in nothing but my
hospital gown, squirming and banging. Finally I gave up.

I just lay there. I don't know how long, but it was a long, long time.
There was nothing. Just the sound of my own breathing. I didn't run out of
air, It wasn't too hot, too cold, I was just there. I waited and waited and
waited. And then I think I went crazy. I'm not sure, but t seems like I
must have. I never slept, I never ate anything. Never even pissed. I just
lay there thinking. I still had all these wonderful lost memories, but soon
I had gone over each part of my life a hundred times in my head. That's all
I had to keep me company, memories of my life, and eventually I got sick of
them. Who cares? It's all over now. Now you're stuck in some God Damned
Box, and you ain't going anywhere.

Finally they let me out. They told me I had been in there for five years. I
don't know it's not like they're real big on telling the truth, and who can
say how time passes down there. I mean, it certainly could have been five
years, it seemed that long. The box opened and light streamed in and I was
so happy I could scream for joy. That lasted all of about one second, for
that's hen I saw them for the first time. The God damned Devil was standing
there, offering me a hand up out of the box. He wasn't red with hooves and
a tail, but I knew right away it was a devil or some such shit. He was man
sized, but with grey skin, like a corpse's. He had black eyes - no pupil or
whites or color, just solid black, and a pug nose kind of like a pig. He
stood there naked except for some sort of weird metal vest. Then he smiled,
and he had razors for teeth. That's when I started screaming again. Then I
realized that the metal vest was actually part of him, or sewed on to him
or something. And it's got all sorts of little nozzles and vents on it that
shot out all kinds of disgusting liquids and gasses. Then I just puked. I
hadn't eaten in years, but I just puked. That's one thing I've learned
about this place, you can always puke. They love it when you just throw
your guts up.

The devil thing grabbed me by my hair and pulled me off down a dark, metal
corridor. We passed rows and rows of boxes just like the one I had been in,
and I thought, "Those poor bastards, they don't know how good they've got
it in there." And that's how it began. From there I was taken through a
maze of corridors, and never saw another soul. Or devil either for that
matter. Just me and my caretaker, smiling that razor sharp smile of his. I
was dumped into a room. It seemed he just picked one at random, but who can
tell with these guys?

Inside was the weirdest looking typewriter I have ever seen. It must have
had a  few thousand keys on it, but no letters. Each key was a word instead
of a letter. It was one of those old fashioned typewriters with the spokes
or whatever they're called. No IBM electrics in hell. So Razor Mouth sits
me down in this uncomfortable, metal chair, my bare ass freezing because of
the metal, and he tells me to start typing. The God Damned thing start's
giving me dictation while I'm no front of this eight foot long type writer.
He just stare at me like, "What the hell?" and then he leans over and
bites my cheek with those damn teeth. I scream, because it hurts like a
bitch. He starts giving dictation again, and I start looking for the words
on the type writer. Well, you can imagine it took me a while to find the
words he was spewing out, particularly as most of em weren't English.
Every time I took too long he'd bite me, or scratch me, or kick me.

And on it went. I finally got the hang of it, and I typed and typed, never
quite fast enough for him, but at least he wasn't hurting me all the time.
I tell, you, I've never typed so much in my life. Nobody has. I'd sit
there and type for hours, and days, and probably months and years. No rest,
no pauses, no coffee breaks. Anytime I slowed down he'd take a bite out of
me. The bites healed pretty quick, but that only meant he could hurt me
again in the same place a little later. There seemed to be a never ending
supply of paper, and I just typed away. It took everything I had to keep up
with him. I couldn't think of anything but what he was saying and which key
had that word on it. Sometimes the keys would change while I wasn't
looking. Words I had finally learned to count on being in a certain place
were all of a sudden somewhere else. Then mad panic to find the word, Razor
Mouth gnawing away at me the whole God damned time.

You know the worst thing though? The typing was shitty, the biting and
scratching sucked, and whatever the hell he was dictating didn't make any
sense, but the worst God damned thing was that every time I finished a page
he would just pick it up, ball it up, and pop it in his mouth. I mean what
the hell was I typing for if he was just gonna eat the god damned paper? Of
course I guess that was the point. I was typing because I hated to do it. I
was typing in a blind panic that lasted forever. Eventually he grew tired
of the dictation routine, but I must have typed a million pages for the
bastard. I'm not kidding, at least a million. It went on and on forever. Is
still  think about it. Every time Razor Mouth or one of his pals talks to
me I'm looking for the keys...

Of course that was just the beginning for me. The typing was I guess a
sweet reminder of my days in the sales office, dictating to Laura. From
there it just got worse. Mindless, endless, shitty jobs. I've worked in
assembly plants that made nonsense machines, working for hours. I've broken
rocks that move and try to bite you, weeded fields of plants that grow back
unless you eat them as soon as you dig them up. I've done every menial,
minimum wage hell job you can think of, all the while Razor Mouth and his
buddies are watching over me. There is no rest, no coffee breaks. It just
keeps on coming. I mean hell, if you hadn't pulled me out of there, I'd be
doing some other God damned job right now, or I'd still be on my hands and
knees counting red hot pebbles for Razor Mouth. I really can't thank you
enough guy..."


And that's where Arthur's tale ends. You can see from his story that the
First Circle is a land of mindless tasks, suitable for breaking any spirit.
The theory behind the tortures seems to be that, as long as you are
working, you won't have time to think about anything else. Arthur's time in
the box is typical, although there are quite a few different sensory
deprivation tortures used in the First Circle. It is not uncommon for some
souls to be sent from one to another for years, decades, or even centuries.
It all depends on the whims of the Razides and their servants. For some
humans this is enough to break down the memories completely. They become so
obsessed with doing their work and avoiding the lash that they think of
nothing else, driving out their memories and replacing them with the
details of sorting screws or breaking rocks. These however, are rare souls,
those weak minded individuals who barely have the right to claim their
divine human origins. Most are made of sterner stuff, and will descend to
the next Circle, there to meet more terrors and tortures.


The Second Circle

The Second Circle of The Pit is one of the more geographically diverse
regions of Inferno. While most of the Circles can do their business in dank
tunnels, and underground expanses, the Second Circle uses the mutable
physics and geography of Hell to it's fullest advantage. For the Razides
and demon lords of this part of the Pit treat their guests to horrendous
conditions, both "natural" and "man made." I have chosen a rather typical
story to represent the Second Circle, someone who was actually an
acquaintance of mine in life. Rene Foucault was a Swiss art dealer around
the turn of the century. A nice enough fellow, he was at heart a hustler
and confidence man, selling forgeries as readily as the real thing. I came
across him in the Second Circle during my third and final trip to Inferno
in 1987. I would have thought Rene would have given in sooner, but he
seemed to be holding up well. I only had a few moments to speak with him
before his torturers recovered from my attack, but I was careful to record
the entire conversation. I present it here, slightly edited, but with all
the relevant information intact.

Rene's story

"The first moment I realized I was going to be leaving the mind numbing
labor of the First Circle I felt joy for the first time since I died. My
tormentor saw this and laughed. She told me that she was sorry to see me
go, and assured me that I would miss the pleasures of the First Circle when
I realized what Hell had in store for me. With that she lifted my into the
air and hurled my flailing body over the edge of the First Circle. I fell
with ever increasing speed for miles, racing down towards the Second
Circle. I had a few moments to contemplate my rapidly approaching
destination, and as quite stunned by the sight. The whole of The Pit lay
stretched out before me, the Dark Citadel of Satan himself towering up from
its center.  Below me was the Second Circle, a patchwork quilt of deserts,
jungles, seas, and mountains. I myself, much to my chagrin, seemed to be
heading straight for one of the higher peaks. With a resounding thud my
body nearly disintegrated from the force of the fall, the incredible pain
causing me to black out.

I came to somewhere on the side of the mountain, my body made whole once
again by the Infernal curse that keeps our damned souls from ever truly
dying. For the first time since I came to Inferno I was free of a
tormentor. There was no foul temptress shadowing my every step, forcing me
to work at endless tasks. I was free to go where I pleased, or so I
thought. The top of the mountain was quite cold and I had no clothing, so I
decided to try and make my way down the mountain. Although logically part
of my brain realized that I was in no danger of death, the fear of pain is
so deeply ingrained that I sought more comfortable climes.

The descent was horrendous. I am no climber, and soon enough I fell. I lay
there broken for days or months or years, waiting for some kind demon to
come along and bring me off to new tortures. The cold cut me to the bone,
and slowly the life seeped out of me. I never was able to sleep or lose
consciousness, and lay there stewing in my own pain for what seemed like
eternity. Finally I blacked out, my body could take no more, and again I
woke to a fresh corpus, ready to begin the descent again. I fell twenty
more time before I reached the base of the mountain. Seemingly solid
handholds would give way without explanation. Landslides, gale force winds,
hail, snow, rain, and any other conceivable climatic impediment.

This mountain had become my own private hell, with just myself and the
elements. It was only later that I discerned the nature of The Second
Circle. Here the demons are in the very rocks on which you stand and the
air you breath. The land itself is against you here. I finally made it the
base of the mountain, only to find that my journey had just begun, for the
mountain now stood within a vast, trackless desert, something that oddly
enough had not been visible during my fall. Then it had seemed the mountain
was but one of many. and so I began the journey across the vast desert. For
years I wandered, dying every so often of thirst, heat exhaustion, or any
number of other natural perils. The sands were incomprehensibly
treacherous, always shifting, and sometimes hiding deep pits, a form of
quicksand, or other dangers.

I suffered through countless deaths as I voyaged on, never seeing another
living being. Finally, after succumbing to one of the land's many pitfalls
I awoke to find myself in tunnels reminiscent of the First Circle. It was
here that I found myself in the Second Circle's great Labyrinth. Wandering
at random through the dark recesses and sinister chambers I was subjected
to every conceivable physical punishment. Sometimes I would fall through
the floor only to find myself in a pit of fire, my flesh slowly burning
away as I tried to claw my way out. You cannot imagine the horror of trying
to make one's way out of such a place. Every few feet is an eternity of
agony as your flesh melts away, only to be reborn an instant later. I died
countless times in the fiery hell, taking what must have been several years
and thousands of lives to make it from one end of the room to another.

Of course this was only the beginning. My tormentors have exposed me
innumerable times to the many and varied elemental tortures. I spent quite
sometime swimming up through a seemingly endless sea, my lungs bursting
until there was no more air, and then drowning as my body filled with sea
water, only to wake up a few moments later and start all over again. All
the while the terrible water pressure was squeezing the life out of me.
Buried alive in a glacial ice flow I spent ages clawing my way to the
surface. One might imagine that so many deaths would become monotonous,
that one would grow accustomed to it. I assure you this is not so. Every
death is as painful as the last, every dying moment is full of terror.

And then there are the less natural terrors I was made to endure,
conditions that never existed in nature. I have been forced to wade for
weeks, months and even years through miles and miles of human feces, my
lungs bursting from the smell, bile spewing from my stomach in a seemingly
endless stream of filth. I have been buffeted along steel corridors to the
constant beating of a deafening bell, the very sound vibrations being
enough to slowly turn your brain and bones to mush. I have marched across
fields of electricity, the power coursing through my veins like lightening.
Endless travel, constant pain. These are the hallmarks of the Second
Circle. There is no rest, no respite.

The worst part of it all is that you are so constantly alone. There is no
focus for the hate that wells up in you. No demons to blame it all on. Of
course the demons were all around me, I see that now, thanks to you Shelby.
I took comfort, what little comfort I could, in the memories of my former
life. I thought on the happier times, but eventually even they faded into
distant memory, mere shadows in the back of my head. Shelby, you are the
first person I have seen in what must be eons. Thank you my friend, you
have given me respite from this interminable Hell, at least for a moment. I
will cherish the memory of this moment, and of the good times we have had
together all those years ago. I know you would help me if you could, but
you have explained that it is impossible. Maybe the strength you have given
me today will be enough to see me through this horror, give me the strength
to hold off death just a moment longer."


I feel rather bad about this last bit. You see, I found Renee because I
needed to ask him a question. In order to get to him I had to temporarily
disrupt the demons who were tormenting him, allowing us time to talk. the
demons, as Renee said are all around you in the Second Circle. They are the
very landscape on which you walk, the fire that burns your flesh. They
tailor every experience to your discomfort. I'm afraid that by talking to
Renee I undid much of the work Inferno had done him. He was on the verge of
forgetting his most recent human life, and I'm sure he would have soon lost
all but the bare essence of his soul. He never was much of an outdoorsman.
But by drudging up old memories, I forced Renee into further years of
torment, quite unintentionally of course. Such are the risks when dealing
with matters Infernal.


The Third Circle

I come now of the Third Circle, an area I find very interesting because it
takes such a different approach to torture than most of Inferno. While pain
and suffering are the basic ingredients of any Infernal experience, that
suffering does not always have to come from without. Sometimes we can cause
ourselves even greater agony simply with our minds. Given a little help
from an Infernal denizen, we can do wonders to ourselves. Whatever do I
mean? Well, I give you here the story of one Alissa Jacobs, a popular
author and historian who died in the early 1970's. A stalwart woman, she
made it through the first two Circles with relative ease, but encountered
in Circle Three a whole new challenge to both her soul and her ego. I came
across her story in the notes of a fellow Conjurer, a respected man who's
words I take to be true. Certainly the tale accurately portrays very well
the mind games that go on in the Third Circle, and I have since verified
that Ms. Jacobs' soul did make its way to Inferno upon her death. This is
only an excerpt from a larger manuscript which includes details of the
first five Circles.

Alissa's Story

"It was with a tremendous sense of relief that I found myself free from the
endless elemental tortures of the Second Circle. Moving from one to the
other seemed to happen almost by accident, and at the time I counted myself
lucky. Truth be told, nothing here happens by accident, and I now know it
was simply that my time had come. I fell into a river, one of the many that
cuts across the levels of this place, and was swept along in it's warm,
brackish water. The swift current carried me along at a tremendous pace,
bouncing me off rocks and overhanging tree limbs. My trip ended rather
suddenly as I was hurtles over the side of a waterfall the size of several
Sears Towers. Caught in the foamy spray I have no idea how far I fell, and
was aware of the piercing rocks below only for a moment.

I awoke lying at the side of the river, my body aching and caked with mud,
but otherwise fine. From down below the waterfall looked positively tiny,
no more than forty feet in height. I knew this to be one of hell's little
tricks, but it was certainly disorienting. The river was now little more
than a stream, calmly flowing away from the small pool at the base of the
waterfall. I seemed to be in some sort of walled garden or maybe a house
without a roof. Certainly there were fifteen foot stone walls all around
me, forming a rectangular chamber with the waterfall at one end and the
stream flowing under the wall at the other. Looking around, I found that
someone had laid clothes out for me, a rather pleasantly patterned sun
dress and sandals. It had been ages since I had had clothes, not since they
were flayed from me by my demons in the First Circle. Wary, I picked up the
clothing and examined it. Finding no discernible threats, I put them on.
Very comfortable. Now I was becoming quite nervous about what was going on
here.

There was a door in the wall on the other side of the stream. I had not
noticed it before, but now that I had put on the dress, it was plain as
day. A nice, normal sized wood door. I waded across the shallow stream and
then opened the door. beyond I found the walls continued, forming a
corridor which stretched off for some distance, side corridors branching
off every so often. I began to investigate. The ground was finely raked
dirt, with some stones and pebbles and I could clearly see the footprints I
left as I walked forward. I picked up a stone and used it to mark the wall
as well. As I suspected I was in some sort of maze. I figured that my only
real option was to try and find my way out, and so that is what I set about
doing. I had read somewhere that if you always followed the left hand wall
you would eventually find your way out. So, mark my path along the wall
with the stone, I set off on this new journey.

For the first time I was aware of the passage of time in the maze. The sun
rose and set over me, and night fell. Even the moon waxed and waned over
the long months and years I spent in the maze, searching for an exit. It
was soon obvious that, not only was the maze huge, but that it also did not
obey any normal laws of building or geometry. I literally wandered for a
month and a half before I ever saw the same part of the maze twice. Even
then I could not be sure, except for the markings I had made. Later I found
that someone was changing those markings or adding their own. Trying to
follow my own footprints also proved pointless, as they to would change. I
found evidence that I had walked round and round in an ever smaller circle,
or walked up the sides of walls, or any number of other strange signs that
could not trust anything here.

Increasingly my frustration grew and grew. I knew there had to be a trick
to the place. If I could just figure it out I would escape. I tried
climbing walls but could never quite manage it. Although I was thirsty and
hungry it was never a real impediment. I should have died of dehydration in
a few days, but years after my last drink of water (an involuntary one
while in the river) I lived on, searching for a way out. I tried
everything, even killing myself in hopes that it would end the terrible
nightmare, but of course that just meant a moment's blackout and then right
back where you left off. All the while I had this obsession with the idea
that everything would be fine, as long as I could make my way out, figure
this place out.

And then my time was up. After something close to three years, I suddenly
heard another voice for the first time. 'Time's up!' it boomed, 'You fail!'
And in a flash I was out of the maze, my whole body wracked with pain. The
pain seemed to go on and on for hours. It ended and I was in another room,
with another puzzle to solve. I had always been fond of chess, more for the
aesthetics of the game than the strategy, and here I found myself faced with
a large, very strange chess board. It sat on a long wooden table, with two
comfortable looking chairs seated opposite each other. The board itself was
rectangular, and over ten feet long, and three feet wide. The checkered
surface was covered with black and red squares, each on inch to a side,
making the long side have 120 squares. Two rows of simple, marble chess
pieces filled up each of the long sides of the table, a mishmash of all the
normal pieces plus many I did not recognize, each side (black and red)
totaling 240 pieces. I sat down in the seat on the black side. I rested a
moment, examining the board, and when I tried to stand up I found I
couldn't. I simply could not stand.

Frantically looking around, trying to find some clue to my imprisonment I
did not notice the appearance of my opponent. I looked up and screamed with
surprise when I saw her sitting opposite of me. A pretty, older woman,
dressed in a flowing burgundy dress. She said nothing, simply leaned
forward and moved what looked to be a pawn forward three spaces. I had no
idea what was going on, and continued to struggle to get out of my chair. A
tried talking to her, but she simply smiled and waited. This went on for
quite a while. I found that I could move the chair itself up and down the
length of the table, but that was all. I could not turn the chair, or move
myself from the chair. Finally I settled down to the inevitable and began
to play, moving one of my seventy pawns forward two squares. I at least was
going to obey the rules.

Over the next few days of play I realized that this was not the chess I
knew. Of course, that was obvious from the beginning, but now as the game
progressed, the differences became more and more marked. She seemed to move
her pieces according to some rule book I had never read. At first I thought
she was moving them at random, but when I tried to do the same I found it
impossible to place the piece down in any but a few, legal squares. More
confusing still, how a piece could move seemed to depend both on what the
piece was and where on the board it was. Thus I was never sure where I
could and could not move, making strategy a difficult process. Later on,
after a few months of that first game, I came to realize that the movement
rules also varied depending on what turn of the game it was. Most strange
of all was the taking of pieces, or rather the fact that we could not take
pieces. She never took any of mine, and I was never allowed to take any of
hers. It seemed it was a game of position rather than capture.

The game proceeded apace for quite a while, and every time I thought I was
figuring it out, every time I thought I was getting ahead, I found that I
was wrong, everything had changed. I had gotten nowhere. Still I had that
same feeling that as soon as I solved the riddle of the game I would be
free. I became totally engrossed in it, thinking of nothing else, trying to
hold in my mind all the rules I had managed to figure out. I would spend
hours or days figuring out my next move, sure that it would bring me
victory. Of course I had no idea how one won the game. No idea at all. My
opponent seemed to play with ease, never waiting or thinking, always
smiling and courteous. I grew to hate her. I would sometimes, in my
frustration, rail against her for hours, cursing her in every way I could
imagine. I even tried to throw pieces at her, only to find that they would
not leave my hand unless I was placing them on the board. In protests I
would stop playing, do nothing for days on end. She would just sit there,
waiting. Eventually I would give in, because of course I had been thinking
of nothing but the game the whole time anyway. I'd make a move.

Food and drink mattered not at all. My backside didn't get sore from all
the sitting, there was no physical discomfort. The only torture was the
game itself, and my efforts to wrap my mind around it, to try and figure it
out. I knew there was a solution, an answer to it all. But of course my
jailers would never have let me find it, even if there really was an
answer. They could not afford to let me have the joy of that single victory
over them. But I did not think of this, did not realize that it was all a
trick. The game became everything, and when, after years of that one game
it all finally came to an end, I actually missed it. I still think of it,
of how I might have won, even as new puzzles and mental tortures occupied
my time.

From the chess game I went on to scores of others during my time in the
Third Circle. All of the situation I found myself in were designed to
confuse and frustrate, to overload the brain. Sometimes they were small,
sit down puzzles like the chess, and other times they were the large scale
tortures like the maze. there was never any solution, or if there was I was
never allowed to find it. Always I would be informed that time was up, my
purgation would continue because I hadn't been smart enough. On and on it
went, seemingly forever. My mind barely remembered a time before the
puzzles, and then all it thought of was the pain and horror of the time
before, something better left forgotten. As for my life on Earth, that was
all but gone completely. Even my own name was fading from my skull."


Poor Alissa never did make it out of Inferno and into a new body. She
proved so resilient after the first few Circles, that she was drafted into
the Legion's of the Damned where she serves to this day. In reading
Alissa's tale, I just wanted to remind the reader that time in Inferno is a
totally subjective experience. Just because years passed for Alissa, does
not mean that years passed in our time line. In fact, as our time goes, she
was only in Inferno for seventeen of our months before she was mustered for
Astaroth's army. not that she did not experience thirty-seven years of pain
and suffering. She did, and hated every moment.


The Fourth Circle

The Fourth Circle is everything one might think of when asked to picture
Hell. Here is where torture is practiced the old fashioned way: scalpels,
racks, hot pokers, drills, bladed sex toys, and so forth. In the Fourth
Circle the Razides reign supreme, and they involve themselves intimately
with every one of their guests. They are masters at degrading the human
form and causing it pain. They hold off death for ages, inflicting
unbelievable agony until the last possible instant. Then, when the body
finally expires, the nature of Inferno simply recreates it afresh, ready
for another round of torture. The Fourth Circle is undoubtedly one of the
most efficient of The Pit's torment zones, and only the rare individual
needs anything more to scour their souls of all memory. For this reason
alone many of the lower Circles resent the Fourth, feeling that they do not
get their fair share of victims. The result is that the Fourth Circle hosts
the largest number of Pit Wars in the entire Nine Circles. Every other
Circle, but particularly the lower ones will send bands of demons up The
Pit to snatch the Fourth's souls.

The Fourth Circle also houses some of the most rambunctious and therefore
rebellious of Astaroth's minions, and there are great many independent
warlords in the Fourth these days. This of course simply leads to more Pit
Wars, with individual demon lords fighting their brethren in the Fourth
Circle. All this chaos means that, unlike most parts of Inferno, there is
actually sometimes a chance for a lucky human to escape the clutches of his
or her tormentors. How long one can remain free in such a place is open to
debate, but any amount of respite in Hell is worth the effort.

It is seldom worth talking to someone who has recently been in the clutches
of the Fourth Circle's master torturers. For this reason I decided to
present you with the transcript of an exchange I had with a Razide I
summoned from the Fourth Circle. I naturally enough had other tasks in mind
for the Infernal when I summoned it, but I took the opportunity to record
some of its thoughts about what existence in its home realm is like for
humans. I realize that one should never trust the words of a demon, but in
this instance I feel we can depend upon its version of things rather more
than usual. Razides love to gloat, and that is exactly what I gave him a
chance to do. Here follows a transcript taken from a tape I made of the
conversation. We pick up after I have finished the rituals of binding and
so forth.

TYREE: Well, well, well, Aburshanuphyl, how are we this evening?

ABURSHANUPHYL: I was fine till you called me here...

T: Yes, I'm sure you were. Listen, before we get down to the task at hand I
thought we might talk a bit.

A: Interesting thought, I've never heard of warlocks engaging in idle chit
chat, but you seem to be in charge for the moment so we'll play it your way.

T: I didn't think you would have any objections.

A: So what are we to discuss wizardling?

T: I rather thought it would be nice to talk about your home. The Fourth
Circle of The Great Pit of Inferno if I'm not mistaken?

A: You are not mistaken. What exactly is it you'd like to know about my
wondrous home? Getting ready for your inevitable fate my friend?

T: Oh, yes, I'm quite interested in that inevitable fate of which you speak
so blithely. In fact, that's what I'd like to hear about. Tell me of the
fate of human souls in your home.

A: As you wish dread sorcerer. <laughter> Where shall I begin?

T: Why not with what happens to a soul once it slips on down from level three?

A: <spits> Pheww! The Third Circle indeed. That place is a travesty. I
honestly don't know what happened to my Third Circle brethren to make them
so soft. Mind games and parlor tricks is all they know. They simply don't
get results. Is it any wonder that we clear four times as many humans as
they do? Once they've given up, the soul comes down to us, either by river,
by being thrown over the edge, or through The Labyrinth. Once the snotling
is in our grasp, it's first come first serve. Whoever gets there first can
play with it as long as he can hold onto it. That's the only problem
really. All my fellow Fourthers are always trying to take from me what's
mine. No respect for property down there.

T: I'm sure you would never indulge in such practices.

A: Of course not! I'm a respectable demon, not one of those low brow sorts.

T: Exactly why I chose you my friend...

A: I cannot thank you too much for that human! If you had not yanked my
from my home, I would be having my way with a young lad of fifteen even as
we speak. Killed his own parents and then himself. Playing with matches.
Deserves everything he gets. No doubt some other bloodthirsty Infernal has
snatched him away while I'm here having this lovely chat.

T: Now, now, let's not be bitter. What's done is done.

A: Easy for you to say! But I digress. You wanted to know about what
happens to the snotlings once we get a hold on em. Well, the possibilities
are endless, as you might imagine. I've tormented and tortured human souls
for well over four thousand years and you learn a lot in that amount of
time. The important thing in my line of work is to keep yourself fresh, to
keep your edge. It's not that torture ever gets boring. It's what I live
for after all, and even the simplest act of causing pain fills my little
heart with joy. But variety is the spice of life and so on, and I like to
try new things all the time.

T: What kind of new things?

A: Well, technology is a wonderful thing, and it's done wonders to the
torture business. I man, the technology has always been there, in
Metropolis anyway, but in Inferno we have been behind the times. Human
inventions like batteries, power saws, electric drills, radiation, and so
on all have wonderful applications when turned to the task of hurting human
flesh. I for one have been in the forefront of incorporating such devices
into my techniques. Others chose to keep with more tried and true methods:
the scalpel, the hot poker, the lash. I'm not putting such methods down.
Quite the contrary, they are marvelously effective...

T: Well that's really fascinating. I had no idea how advanced things had
become down there. However, since we don't have all night to discuss such
matters, why don't we focus in on some specifics. Maybe some of your
favorite torture methods?

A: Certainly human, I'd be happy to accommodate you. I wouldn't want to
waste your time, after all I'm sure my boy is long gone by now.

T: Yes, what about him? How did you deal with your pyromaniacal charge?

A: Ah yes, young Alex. A very resilient lad. Few humans of his tender age
manage to make it past the First Circle, much less all the way down here to
my realm. I came across him right after he was flushed out of The Labyrinth
up on the Third. He was a little shaken up, but glad to be past whatever
mindless attempt at confusion they had addled him with up there. I'm of the
old school, and don't much care for messing about. I pounced on the lad,
claws and fangs barred. After years of the calm, insufferable boredom of my
upper level brethren, he was more than a little shocked. Having severed the
tendons in his arms and legs, I dragged the mournful boy, screaming and
wailing, all the way back to my lair.

T: Your lair? Explain that.

A: Lair? Oh yes. You see, every demon has its own territory down in The
Pit. We are all masters of our own small part of Inferno, and in that area
whatever we say goes. We can shape it into whatever form is necessary to
accomplish our goals. I have but to think of it, and any torture device
imaginable comes to my hand. Of course, we own such places only as long as
we hold on to them. some stronger Infernal might well come along and try to
take what is mine. Worse yet, one might offend one of the Death Angels or
even Astaroth himself. Cross any of them and your license to torture gets
revoked on the spot. You'll end up doing some horrible task in a Dark
Citadel worse than anything you ever inflicted on a human.

T: Back to Alex...

A: Of course, of course. I know you are in a bit of a rush. Things to do
and all that. I like to start things off in a traditional torture chamber
setting. Dingy stone walls, dirt floor, braziers with hot coals, racks,
iron maidens, manacles, shackles, whips, knives, and so forth. The sight
alone is enough to send most into hysterics. I know some of my friends like
to start out with sexual tortures, removing every shed of dignity to soul
might have held onto up to this point. While I don't doubt the efficacy of
such techniques, I prefer to hold off on them, build up to them if you
will. It's Hell after all, everyone expects the knives, barbed wire, and
strange contraptions. I like to start them off with what they know, being
careful to inform them that the worst is yet to come. That always gets
them, because they think "What could be worse?" and they scare themselves
all the more trying to figure out what's coming next.

So with Alex, I began by strapping him down to the central work table I
keep nice and cold for just such occasions.  The cold metal usually jerks
them right out of whatever fear induced stupor my mere presence has put
them in. I started with the scalpel, beginning with the fingers. Slowly,
delicately I began to flay the flesh of his pinkie, moving on to the rest
of the fingers and then the whole hand. It takes an iron grip to hold on to
someone and keep them from squirming and ruining your cut. Sometimes I
actually use a vise to hold them in place. The real joy of this process is
listening to them beg for mercy, offering to tell you whatever you want.
They'll confess to anything at this point. That's how I found out about
Alex's little escapade with matches. He told the whole story, begging for
forgiveness. You'd have thought they would have learned after three
previous Circles that there is no forgiveness.

The biggest problem is when they pass out. I have just the machine for such
occasions however, and I like to wheel it over and let them watch me hook
it up. It's a tremendous black box with all manner of dials and gauges on
it, with a thick black tube ending in a long needle coming out of one side.
Most of it's just for show, just to make them wonder. The needle is the
important part. I stick that somewhere real uncomfortable, usually the
genitals, but sometimes  the anus or even the ear or nose. It pumps them
full of stimulants that keep them from passing out. Of course I could do
this in a much less invasive way, but what would be the point?

Working on the boy with the scalpel took me a good thirty hours of careful
cutting, but in the end I had him totally flayed and castrated. He was
conscious the whole time, thanks to my machine. He had long ago lost the
strength to cry out, but the look in his eyes as I held up the mirror was
as rewarding as an scream (no eyelids, so he couldn't help but look). Then
I set to work on the internal organs, taking them out piece by bloody
piece. My machine kept him alive through it all. Sometimes, just for shock
value, I'd pop a piece in my mouth and give it a good long chew. Maybe I'd
swallow, maybe spit it back out on his face.

That's me just getting started. Finally, after a few weeks of this I let
him die, but only so I can start on his fresh, newly rejuvenated body. With
Alex I followed my usual routine and started the whole process over just
like before. The inevitability of it really gets to them. They know exactly
what's coming and how horrible it is, and there's nothing they can do about
it. The boy started screaming again, which was fine with me, and I started
in on his fingers again. I went on like that probably five hundred times.
For me time is nothing, it comes and goes as I please in my lair. I like to
take my time, and draw things out as much as possible.

But even a good flaying can get boring after a while, and so I moved on to
something a little more personal to my charge's sins. Not that I care a bit
for sins or any other such moral concerns, but I've found that a little
personalized touch goes a long way in these matters. So for Alex it was
fire, and old favorite of mine. I began with the pain of hot metal searing
flesh and moved on to small fires. At first I worked just in the medium of
heat, burning, scorching, and baking part or all of him for extended
periods. What's particularly nice is how easily infected burn wounds get,
producing just gobs of pus. Every human I've ever met absolutely hates pus,
especially when you pour it down their throats. Soon enough I added cold to
my fire, going back and forth between the two, working with the blade to
gain access to their internal organs and so forth.

And then you came along.

T: Oh, well, terribly sorry about that, and just when it was getting
interesting. Just for the record, what was your next step?

A: Hmmmmm. Well, I was probably going to go ahead and break out the big
toys. The machines. I start with the rack, the pressing boards, and the
maiden and go from there. I have some wondrous contraptions in my lair.
Chambers that sprout all kinds of invasive implements at seemingly random
times. Electric shock, noxious gasses, acids, bases, poisons, meat
tenderizers. Anything you can imagine...

T: Yes, I'm sure it's quite an amazing sight to behold. No doubt about it.
And how do you know when your time is up, when it's time to send your
charge on down below.

A: You would bring that up wouldn't you?

T: Yes I would. Now tell me, why do you let them go?

A: All right, since you asked so nicely. There comes a point when you know
that the pain has done all it can. If they're still holding on at that
point, then you have to let them go. Not everyone does of course, but
that's a recipe for trouble. You've got to know when to let go, to move on.
For me that's not usually a problem. I'm experienced enough, and good
enough to scour the soul clean and have it ready for Metropolis and
rebirth. Sure, sometimes I have to let one go on down, but that's not a
problem for me.

T: No, of course not. Well, if we could get on with the night's business...

A: Certainly.


As you can see, Aburshanuphyl had quite a lot to say on the subject. The
Fourth Circle merits no more of our attention at this point. It is, to me,
one of the less interesting aspects of The Pit, if only because it is
exactly what one might expect. So, without further adieu, we move on to the
half-way mark: Circle Five.


The Fifth Circle

The Fifth Circle is in almost every way the opposite of the Fourth. There
is no physical torture here, in that it resembles the Third. But rather
than meddling with the damned soul's mind, the demons of the Fifth level
tug at human heart strings. Emotions are the stuff of this circle. Here
they bring out the worst in men and women, taking to torturous extremes
such laudable feelings as love, honor, hate, anger, arousal, and joy. They
turn that essential part of the human condition, our feelings, into a
agonizing liability that we wish we could rip from our souls. Eventually
this is exactly what happens.

For my tale of emotional woe, I have decided upon an interesting diary I
found in a Parisian used bookstore one rainy afternoon. Curiously, the
diary was of a German woman, Marlene Braun, but she seems to have been
living in France and was keeping her diary in French in order to improve
her language skills. The diary records Marlene's dreams over a period of
four months, almost all of which had to do with Inferno. It is obvious
that, in her case, the Infernals had done a less than adequate job in
erasing her memories, because her subconscious still had very vivid
remembrances of the horrors she encountered in the afterlife. Her dreams
concerning the Fifth Circle (she dreamed of all nine) are among the best
accounts of that realm I have ever read or heard. Such accounts are usually
quite muddled and confused, as is the nature of things when emotions come
into play.

Marlene's Story

"Last night I dreamt of The Place again, as I do every night. Fear of my
dreams kept me up until early morning, and I would not have slept at all
had I not had such an eventful afternoon. I hate sleep. I've tried the
sleeping medicine the Doctor prescribed. It does no good for me. I even
tried the absinthe that Gerard gave me, but that only made matters worse.

Last night it was again the place of bad feelings about which I dreamt. I
had just arrived there from the place where they torture me with knives and
whips and... I found myself in a pretty garden full of flowers and
butterflies. There was a man there, I call him Father, even though he is
not my Father. We sit and talk pleasantly for a while and I am so happy.
But then I say the wrong thing. I say that I am happy and Father grows very
quiet. He becomes angry with me and starts to yell and carry on. He tells
me how bad I am. How selfish. He goes on and on and I know that he is
right. My happiness is wrong. It is misplaced. I should not feel such
things, because I have no right to be happy. Not after what I have done to
Father and Mother.

Another man comes into the Garden, which is now a sad place for me. He is
my lover. I know this about him, although I can not remember his name. We
embrace and he grows angry at me because I am sad. He says I have no right
to be sad, that he has come all this way to see me and I should treat him
with the love and respect he deserves. He does not want to spend his time
wiping up my tears. He wants us to make love and be happy. He kisses me and
I feel guilty because Father is watching. Father is right, I should not be
happy, but my lover is right as well, I should be joyful in his presence. I
am torn and do not know what to feel. My Father grows angry with the man,
and says that he has besmirched my honor. I protests, but Father only yells
at me, calling me a common whore.

My Happy Man challenges Father to a duel, and the two of them fight. I am
frightened and sad and try to stop them. They push me away, both of them,
and I fall to the ground. They fight and kill each other. I am sad, very
sad, and I start to cry. But then I am happy because the two men were mean
to me and deserved to die. Such cruel thoughts make me uncomfortable
though. I do not know what to think, so I leave the Garden, almost crying,
but almost laughing. I am exhausted by my feelings, and want nothing more
than to go to sleep.

I cannot sleep though, for as I leave the Garden I am caught up in some
strange sort of street festival. People all around me are celebrating, but
there is no joy in the air. They are full of lust and pride. They are all
so beautiful that they think of only themselves, and their own beauty. But
I know that I am more beautiful than any of them, and I look down on them
in scorn. I move among them, admiring my own beauty in the many windows
that line the street. Men and women approach me, wanting to dance with me.
I am so pretty and desirable that I need only take the most attractive of
them. I pick those who I like best and let them walk beside me. Everyone
wants to be with me because of my beauty, something that makes me very
proud.

Soon such a crowd has gathered around me that they sweep me off my feet. An
army of beautiful men and women, all of whom what to be close to my
superior beauty. I am so happy that they love me for my good looks. They
sweep me into a large room, the floor of which is covered with a supple
carpeting, strewn with luxuriant clothing. They begin to undress me so they
can behold the full power of my beauty, and I let them, proud of my figure.
Then they begin to make love to me and it is wonderful. Such pleasures as I
have never experienced.

Soon I am spent, tired of all the pleasure. But they will not stop their
caresses and soon the pleasure becomes overwhelming there is nothing I can
do to escape them. The pleasure becomes unbearable. It goes on and on and I
can do nothing. I want it to end now, but it does not. It goes on forever,
since there are so many of them they never have to stop. The pleasure is
now no different than pain and I feel like I am going to die. Finally,
after an eternity it stops. I know now that the mere thought of such
pleasure is evil to me. I am not beautiful, but a whore just as Father
said, and I should not be happy.

Nor it seems should I be sad. I find myself surrounded by friends, all of
whom are trying to keep me from being sad. Feeling sad is not proper
behavior for a woman of my character. I should show no emotions to the
world, but always be calm an collected. Pleasant but unassuming. The
easiest way to do this is to not feel at all. They begin to teach me how
not to feel. I did not think such a thing would be possible, but I actually
begin to live without feelings.

The dream seems to move in fast forward at this point, and I live on for
years, never growing old, always with my little circle of women friends
telling me how not to feel. I have also sorts of horrid encounters with men
and women who betray me, hurt me, love me, try and entertain me. Whenever I
become excited I find myself getting hurt. No emotion works out well for
me. It is easier to simply have no feelings at all.

One instance stands out in my dream particularly. I spend much time with my
circle of women friends, and I grow to trust them as confidants. They at
least have my best interests at heart. I have vague memories of all the
horrors my body has undergone in the past: the torture, the mind tricks,
the endless tasks and the horrible climate. But here for the first time I
have a group of supporters, people who know how I feel and want to help me.
People who will show me the way to survive here in this new hell of
emotions. I have experienced such horrid pain in my heart. Those who I love
and those who I hate have given me nothing but heartache.

And then it happens. I do not know why I do not expect it. It's the same
every time I have the dream but I never seem to learn! My circle of friends
turns on me. I have revealed my innermost fears to them. I have come to
depend on them as sources of calm in my tempestuous emotional life. They
are everything to me. And suddenly they are harsh to me. They reject me at
every turn, telling me I am unworthy of them, too emotional, not controlled
enough. They say that they have been all too patient with me over the past
few years. They have given me their love and respect and I have not
returned in kind. I protest my innocence but this only drives them further
from me. They have turned on me, but I know I deserve it all. I am too
emotional, too uncontrolled for them. I must learn to control myself.

For the rest of the dream I am alone, wandering as if I am in a dream
within the dream. I walk through the petty turmoils that surround me, but
they are nothing to me. I have torn the hurtful, destructive emotions from
my breast and thrown them to the wind. I am like a walking statue carved by
some ingenious Greek sculptor. I have every appearance of life, but no fire
within me. I have learned that feelings lead only to pain and suffering,
and never to good. The only respite I have from my torturous life is the
time spent without feeling. It is only when I have fully realized this that
suddenly the dream changes again, as it always does, and I go slipping down
again..."


Now that does not sound so terrible does it? Well, of course it is quite
terrible, even worse, I think, than the desecrations of the human form so
popular in the Fourth Circle. Emotions are an integral part of our
humanity, and stripping them from our soul leaves us virtually lifeless.
The subtlety and power of the illusions created by the Razides of the Fifth
Circle are truly stunning. They, more than any others in The Pit go to
great links to trick humans into thinking that they are not in fact in Hell
at all, but leading some normal life. Every detail is perfect, and they
seldom make mistakes. They peer straight into your soul  and see those
things which are most important to you. They dredge up the perfect
archetypes for your emotions and desires: family, friends, lovers, enemies,
rivals, anyone you may grow a strong attachment to. They then deconstruct
that emotion, twisting it in on itself until it becomes its opposite, or
loses meaning altogether.

The Fifth Level is certainly marks a trend in the lower levels, a
sophistication found only below the half-way point. Down here the Circles
know that if someone has made it this far, they are probably pretty tough.
The Fifth is not trying to break anyone all the way. Certainly emotional
turmoil can be every bit as torturous as physical agony, but it may not be
enough to completely scour the soul of all personality and memory. But if
they can take away the fundamentally human emotions that set us apart from
automatons and beasts, then they will have gone a long way in their quest.
Once that is accomplished, there will be no inner fire, no love or hate to
sustain the soul as it falls through the next four circles. Razides of the
Fifth level take pride in their sophistication and worldliness. They are
often pleasant to talk to, although strangely disquieting. Much like
talking to a psychotic psychiatrist I suppose.

One interesting side note. I find it startling and somewhat tragic that poor
Marlene was forced to live her entire time in Inferno every night in her
dreams. I have never heard of such a remembrance before or since. Certainly
it is not unheard of for someone to occasionally have dreams of a
particular experience in Inferno, or some detail about its geography. But
to relive the whole thing every night is frightening, if only for the time
compression involved. I feel certain that Marlene was under the influence
of some conjurer. Perhaps someone who had managed to combine the Lores of
Dream, Death, and even Time & Space in such a way as to curse the young
girl with constantly reliving here sorrow. What she could have done to
deserve such a fate I do not know, but it is certainly a curious punishment.


The Sixth Circle

Below the emotions of the Fifth Level we find the base fears of the Sixth.
At first this level would seem to directly contradict my statement of a
moment ago. Being buried alive in scorpions is hardly sophisticated; or so
one might well argue. But there is more to it than that. This level is
about taking away your humanity. Up above, in level Three, the soul has
been stripped of its logical base, rational thought is no longer possible.
Thinking things through became impossible. In the Fifth Circle the soul
lost its emotions, that inner essence that keeps us going. Now in level six
the soul loses the last vestiges of human society, living the life of an
animal or insect.

The very atmosphere of the Sixth Circle brings out our basest instincts.
Every human soul in the level is in a state of constant state of hunger.
Hunger for food, thirst for drink, hunger for life, fear of everything.
This hunger is insatiable, and fortunately there is plenty to eat.
Unfortunately, little of it is what is normally thought of as fit for human
consumption. for instance most of it is still alive, poisonous, and trying
to kill you, or at least hurt you a fair amount. Worse yet, some of the
bugs cannot be seen by the naked eye. Diseases run rampant in the Sixth
Circle, from viruses to bacteria to cancers that crawl about on their own.

Naturally enough, it is often hard to find subjects who are able to talk of
their experiences in the Sixth Circle, at least while they are in the
middle of their torment. Language skills are among the first things to go
down there. For this particular story I have called upon the very Legions
of Hell to provide me with answers. Admittedly that is a rather dramatic
way of saying that I managed to capture one of the thousands of foot
soldiers in Astaroth's Legions and ask him a question or two. In life this
poor fellow was a simple office worker. Just one of many who put in his
hours every week and saved up money in hopes of some day marrying and
settling down. Like all men he had his faults. Maybe he was ruthless, maybe
mean. Maybe he just didn't care for people. Whatever his sin, it was enough
in his mind and the minds of his peers to end him straight from the street
where he was run down to Inferno. He proved resilient enough to make it
through all Nine Circles, and rather than let such a prize go, Hareb-Serap
took a personal interest in him, drafting him into the Legions. Legionnaire
Howard Whitman, reporting for duty.

Howard's Tale

"Maybe I'm just a cold hearted guy, but I didn't miss whatever it was they
took away from me in the Fifth Circle. I never was the type to emote well.
That's why I went into real estate instead of theater like most of my
friends. One day I simply got up and walked through a door in The Fifth
that I had never noticed before and I was falling. I fell for miles, it was
just like sky diving, or at least that's what occurred to me at the time.
Of course every other time I had gone skydiving I had a parachute...

Luckily there were the bugs to break my fall. From miles up I could not
tell what I was falling towards. It was all black from a distance, like
some great tar pit stretching off for miles. There were no features, no
landmarks, just black ad infinitum. As I got closer I could see that it was
moving, I thought maybe it was some kind of ocean. I only had a second to
register the noise: the scraping, clicking, chittering, before I hit
bottom. The Impact killed me instantly, but a moment later and I was myself
again, lying under several feet of cockroaches. Big ass, nasty cockroaches.
I had no particular fear of them while I was alive, but I certainly didn't
want to drown in them. Involuntarily I started to scream, and they just
rushed into my mouth. Into my mouth, my nose, my ears, even up my ass. I
went crazy. Absolutely nuts. It was as bad as it ever got in The Pit.

Who knows how long I flailed there, letting myself suffocate over and over
under the mass of insects. I must have died a hundred times, either through
heart failure from the terror or just plain suffocation: too many bugs in my
lungs. Eventually I got my act together enough to start to try and claw my way
out. The "sea" of cockroaches was, for the most part only about seven feet
deep, so occasionally I could jump up and find my way to the surface to
catch a breath of air. Sometimes I would fall into deep pits, tens or even
hundreds of feet deep, full of roaches. It would take me days and hundreds
of deaths to work my way out of there. Eventually I did make it somehow,
although only because They let me.

Outside the sea things were not much better. I was hungry, hungrier than
I'd ever been. I stood in some sort of swampy area, it reeked of noxious
gasses, the air was alive with stinging gnats and flies. There was no
vegetation, just stones, muck and mud. nothing bigger than a fly to eat.
Ultimately that is what I was reduced to, trying to snatch insects from the
air and eat them as I trudged along through the swamp. I suppose I could
have gone back to the sea of roaches and eaten something there, but I would
not bring myself to go back to that place. The strength just seemed to leak
right out of my, and suddenly I knew that I was getting sick. I hadn't been
sick, actually ill since before I died. Now I could feel it for sure: a
fever, coughing, running nose the whole works. I was breaking out in
strange spots and rashes all over.

I got sicker and sicker as I marched, and soon I couldn't move another
inch. I lay in a pile of filth and muck, slowly dying. I just lay there. It
wasn't one of those pleasantly delusional sicknesses either. I was
constantly, painstakingly aware of everything that was happening to me. It
was only when I was too weak to move that something besides stinging flies
and mosquitoes showed their faces. Bigger bugs, rats, snakes, and every
other kind of vermin stopped by to gnaw on me. I couldn't do a damn thing
to stop them. Finally, after days of this crap I died. Then I got up and
started all over again. But now I knew what I was in store for. now I had
it all figured out. So I drank the mucky water, because, hell, I knew I was
going to be sick again anyway. I hunted for the vermin. Now I knew where
they lived, I knew how to get them.

I survived for what must have been months this time. Living in the muck,
feeding on snakes and rats. I became no better than the food I ate. There
was nothing civilized in my existence. Nothing human about it at all. I was
constantly hungry, constantly looking for food. I was so ravenous that I
would eventually hunt an area clear of vermin and would have to move on. I
was constantly ill, constantly vomiting up what I had eaten or dribbling
out my ass in diuretic streams. There was no hope for me. My body festered
with bug bites and sores, none of which ever had a chance to heal. It was
pure animal drive that kept me going as long as I did, and even then I
died. Of course death was just a new beginning, and it only meant that I
was stronger for a moment, could hunt better for a few days or weeks. I
should have stockpiled the food, but the thought never occurred to me. I
killed everything I saw, and ate everything I killed.

Finally my nomadic hunting took me to the edge of my swamp, and there I
found a cave. I crawled in, looking for food. Inside was a cornucopia:
beetles, scorpions, grubs and maggots, all crawling about in a stinking
morass of guano and rotting gunk. I gorged myself at this trough, letting
the protein filled bugs slide on down into my belly. Sometimes they stung,
sometimes they killed me with their poisons, but I was in heaven. I simply
lay there and let the food and disease come to me. I must have died a
thousand times over in that cave. My muscles atrophied, I couldn't walk
anymore. I might as well not have had legs at all.

It was only when the locust things came that I was forced to move on. I
heard them from miles away, but didn't care. I didn't even think as to what
they might be. It was only when they came into my bug cave that I began to
fear them. They were all at least a foot long, flying in thick clouds on
dragonfly wings. They had the bodies of bugs but the head were like rats:
beady eyes, long snout full of teeth. No fur though, just a nasty jet
black. They ate everything in site. All my bugs, and then me. I had to run.
I could not fight them. I could not eat them. They looked delicious but
there were too many, they were too big.

I ran and ran, and sometimes I made it a fair distance before they cut me
down. Their vicious little teeth could strip a man in a few minutes when
they chose to. Flying pirahanas is what they were. But most of the time
they just seemed to want to play with me. Taking a few bites out every so
often, the rest of the time just swarming around me. The sky was black with
them. I couldn't see a thing. No light, just the merciless buzzing of their
wings and snapping of their jaws.

Somehow I escaped them, running in blind, mindless terror, more out of
habit than anything else. I ran so as not to die. I didn't want to die
because I was hungry. I wanted to eat. I missed my bug cave and all its
little biters and gnawers and grubs. I fell into a pit and suddenly they
were gone. I knew vaguely here I was. It was the Labyrinth, the maze that
winds through all of The Pit. I didn't realize all of this. I had long ago
forgotten I was in Hell at all. I new that I was safe, but hungry. I set
about looking for food. A bug maybe.

And so I wandered the Labyrinth, no better than a rat in a sewer. I fought
others over scraps of meat, and ran away from larger packs of humans. We
weren't men anymore though. We were animals, pure and simple. No worries
except survival and food. No attachments except to our stomachs. We were
less than animals really. We didn't even need to procreate. We just were.

Eventually, somehow I made it out of there. I fell through the wrong
trapdoor or maybe they just let me go on my merry way. Knowing how things
work here it was probably the latter. They'd turned me into an animal, and
now it was time for the hunt."


So goes Howard's tale. It covers all the significant aspects of the Sixth
Circle: vermin, disease, dehumanization, and so on. With so much of his
humanity already stripped away, it was a small step for him. Soon we shall
see the transformation from mindless animal to mere property in Hell, but
first there is the Seventh Circle, land of The Great Hunt.


The Seventh Circle

We near the end of our descent into the depths of The Pit, and here we see
the final steps in the processing of human souls. The Seventh Circle is
really just a playground for Razides and other demons to get their
aggressions out. It certainly has value to the Infernals in their quest to
purge humanity of its memories, but I feel there is more to it than that.
All of the other circles center around the victims, while here the focus is
the demons. Humans are simply pawns to be toyed with, minor albeit crucial
parts of the system. The Seventh Circle hosts a constant series of wars,
duels, gladiatorial combats, death sports, and hunts, with humans being the
ones who die over and over in the process. A handful of powerful Razides
numbering less than a hundred rule the entire circle. Even the Citadels of
the Death Angels infringe very little in the Seventh Circle.

The Lords of the Seventh Circle care little for Infernal rivalries and
politics, and, surprisingly, seldom involve themselves in Pit Wars.
Instead, they keep to their own amusements, fighting mock wars with each
other, simply for the pleasure of watching humans die in combat. War and
combat are a way of life for the Lords of the Seventh, and the air is
always full of the sounds and smells of combat. Naturally enough, The
Seventh Circle is the area of Inferno most commonly linked with our world
by temporary portals, especially those formed in war time. For this reason,
despite its depth in The Pit, the Seventh Circle has one of the highest
human populations out of all the Circles, since many unfortunate soldiers
step straight from one battlefield in our world to its counterpart in the
Seventh Circle. Because these individuals did not die in the traditional
sense, they are effectively prisoners of the Demon Lords, who in no way
feel obligated to send them on down The Pit.

Torment for human souls in this level is constantly hunting or being
hunted; always fighting for your life. There is also less variety in the
human experience in the Seventh Circle. The Demon Lords care little for
varying the tortures they inflict on their prisoners, preferring the
infinite variety of outcomes war and combat offer them. Thus, most humans
find themselves repeating the same battles or hunts over and over again for
all the years they spend in the custody of The Seventh's war lords. It is
the Razides themselves who move from place to place, enjoying the different
pleasures their realm has to offer them. Keeping this in mind, I have
chosen to present the reminiscences of one of those Razides, rather than
the account of one of their human victims. This particular tale is quite
rare, and is in fact a letter written by one of the demon lords who
followed Togarini in his ill fated rebellion against Astaroth. The
unfortunate Razide was banished into our world with his master, never to
see the joys of his Seventh Circle again. He apparently wrote the letter in
reply to some queries made by a death conjurer in the service of Togarini.
The original is handwritten in blood, the script is really quite elegant
and is written on vellum.


To Liam,

Master bids that I answer your questions. You ask what it was like for me
as a lord of hell. I will tell you. It was paradise. It was what I was
created for. It was everything I could ever ask for. I reigned in the
Seventh Circle of Hell, one of only a few dozen Lords in the entire circle.
Our power rivaled that of even the Death Angels themselves. We ruled
absolutely in our realms and every pleasure was ours, including the
greatest pleasure of all: War.

We fought among each other constantly, but not out of spite or greed or
malice, but for the shear joy of battle. Each of us had under our sway an
army of demons that could have destroyed every army in human history, but
it was not with these armies that we fought. Demons cannot be killed in
their own land, and so do not fear death. More importantly they do not fear
pain, for pain is our primary motivator. There is no sense of risk when
demons fight, no fear to drive a warrior to extraordinary lengths. We
fought with armies of humans, poor frail, easily killed yet easily reborn
humans. It was their inbred fear of death and will to survive that made
watching them so enjoyable.

Each war and battle was carefully thought out beforehand by myself and my
fellow Razides. We strove constantly to fight new battles, or re-fight old
battles in different ways. Sometimes we would set our human pawns against
each other in recreation of other famous human battles, simply to relive
the joy of fights long since lost and won. The Battle of the Somme was
particularly popular right before I fell from my high seat, and we would
often fight it a hundred times with small variations, just to see what the
humans would do. The humans always played the same part again and again,
but would remember every battle that had gone before. It was quite
interesting to watch them learn from their mistakes and see the interesting
evolutions the battle went through. Sometimes, just to make it interesting
we would change something significant in the middle of the battle, such as
changing the Germans into Spartans, or moving the scene of the battle from
the trenches of Europe to a sweltering jungle.

Of course we were just as inventive when coming up with our own battles,
campaigns that could never be fought in the world of the living. The
uniquely malleable geography of Inferno allows for plenty of interesting
variations. Sometimes we would pit medieval armies against hordes of demons
on a plane of fire. Other times we would allow the humans to ride terrible
creatures of our creation into battle; anything from giant beetle like
things, to flying worms reminiscent of dragons. Underground battles were
always a favorite of mine: armies trying to fight each other in a
constantly shifting maze. The confusion, fear, and frustration fill the
air, along with the blood and death.

There are certain facts of Infernal existence that had to be dealt with,
first of all being the tendency of humans to rejuvenate immediately upon
death. We circumvented this problem by making it almost impossible for a
man to die in our circle. It is just as easy to wound, maim, or disable,
it's just that they cannot die. Wounds that would normally kill simply
leave the human lying in agony, unable to do anything but experience pain.
We found long ago that this keeps them from immediately killing themselves
in order to escape the horrors of war. It is important that they have an
incentive to fight on, and the fear of pain seems to do the trick. Those
that come down from the Sixth Circle usually do not need much
encouragement. They have already been stripped down to the point where they
will do anything to survive. They are hardly human anymore, more like
animals, which makes them perfectly suited for the hunts (which I shall
discuss shortly). It is the walk-ins, those who stray over from Elysium
when the barriers are weak, who need encouragement to keep on fighting.
They have not been broken in the upper levels of The Pit, and so are not
used to the inevitability of their fate. This makes them much more
interesting subjects, for they believe our lies when we tell them that if
they fight well enough they will be able to escape some day.

Sometimes a full scale battle is not what we were in the mood for. The high
drama of man to man combat can be just as compelling, and we would often
stage such gladiatorial bloodfests. Here they would fight until one or the
other was incapacitated (remember we made it impossible to die), then we
would revive the fallen warrior to a state of perfect health and let the
fight continue. This was often enjoyable sport for upwards of a week of
constant fighting, depending on how good the fighters were. We certainly
never took the time to train them. Why bother when you can learn by doing?
They usually picked it up quickly enough. Of course we had a lot more
weapons than the Romans, everything from human history, and much that
hasn't been thought of outside of Hell. This made for nearly infinite
variety.

The Great Hunts were one of my favorite times, for they offered me a chance
to get involved in the fun personally. We would often come together at this
point, and create wondrous hunting grounds filled with all kinds of horrors
and hiding places for our prey. Then we would release a few humans into the
grounds, give them a good head start, and head out after them. Hell hounds,
our own special birds of prey, and other Infernal creatures accompanied us
on our hunts, sniffing out the fearful prey. Those humans who survived the
Sixth Circle somewhat intact were by far the best, for they had been
stripped down to their animal instincts. Eventually we would beat even
those out of them after too many hunts. Then they were of no use to us, and
we sent them either on to the Demiurge or down The Pit the Eighth Circle.

There was never any down time for our pawns, even during these gladiatorial
shows or the hunts, when only a few of them were being used. Sometimes we
would lone them out to other Lords who were planning large battles. Other
times we put them away in their cupboards: dark metal boxes the size of
coffins standing on end. Inside the humans were subjected to a series of
visions and hallucinations about war and combat; real enough that they
would not lose their edge. To be perfectly honest, we seldom used the
boxes, for there was always a battle to be fought somewhere, and it seemed
a shame to waste the human fighting spirit.

Eventually of course every human would wear out. It would either become a
simple killing machine, more robot than man, not fearing death or even
pain. These were of no use to us. They were too far gone, too close to
being finished. Others simply lost it completely, their minds shut down and
they could do nothing but lie there or stand and get shot down. Again,
useless for our pleasures. Sometimes the turn over rate would get so high
that we would have a shortage of good subjects. It was then that it was
occasionally necessary to mount expeditions to the higher Circles and take
some souls before they were too damaged. This made us many enemies, but
there were none in all The Pit save perhaps Astaroth and Hareb-Serap who
could match us for our military genius. Whatever we wanted, we took, and
they should be thankful we left them anything at all.

But then I was betrayed, and my Master fell before the Lord of Hell
himself. Now I reside among the living instead of the dead. Still I play my
games, pitting humans against one another, knowing however that every time
I do the joy is only fleeting. I send the dead on to my fellow Lords still
in The Pit, who will have the joy of them for years to come. I hope they
appreciate all I do for them.


As you can see, the human element is not terribly important in the Seventh
Circle. Certainly it is one of the most dangerous areas to visit in all of
Inferno, as it is constantly at war with itself. The danger of a stray
bullet or arrow trapping you there forever is just too great in my opinion.
Unless of course you can manage to somehow become a guest of one of the
Razide war lords. Then you might have a very interesting time.


The Eighth Circle

The Eighth Circle of Hell is a curious place. At first glance its tortures
seem simplistic compared to other levels, but once one see beyond the
surface, the truly insidious nature of this hell becomes apparent. I choose
for my story the remembrances of a pleasant young woman, Christine Lorenzo
of Athens, Georgia. Christine had a remarkably accurate memory of her past
lives and her time in hell, although it took deep hypnosis to draw the more
terrifying memories from her. The result of all these past lives running
around in her head was that, by the time I met her, Christine was really
quite mad. Nevertheless, I was able to obtain some valuable gems of
information from her muddled mind.

This particular extract from my notes is Christine's account of her time in
the Eighth Circle. She had very vivid memories of all the previous circles
as well, but it seems it was the Eighth that finally broke her. The Eighth
circle is the realm of slavery, where human souls become the servants of
their hellish lords. The lords of hell often represent themselves as
beautiful human or quasi-human beings. They live in lush surroundings, with
beautiful gardens, homes, and cities. They live a life of luxury at every
turn, served hand and foot by their human servants.

This in itself does not sound so bad, but as you might expect, the resident
Razides and Nepharites are the sternest of masters. They will strike out
with furious vengeance at the slightest mistake on the part of their
servants. They can be every bit as creative in these tortures as the other
lords of hell, but the torture is all the worse since the human servants
know that if they had acted without making a mistake there would be no
punishment. They bring every torture upon themselves. As we shall see,
given the nature of their servitude, avoiding making a mistake is harder
than one might think.

Christine's Story

I woke up to find myself in yet another dank, cold dungeon, lit this time
by a crude iron lantern. Such surroundings were by this time commonplace in
my damned existence, and I took some comfort in them. At least it was
better than the horrors I had experienced mere moments before.

Of course my rest was short lived. The door swung wide revealing a gigantic
hunchbacked man.  It only took me a few seconds to realize it was of course
not a man but a demon of some sort. He stared at my dirty, naked form for a
moment, then strode forward and grabbed me by the hair, pulling me kicking
and screaming down a stone corridor. He moved too fast for me to get my
feet under me, and soon I gave up my struggle, succumbing to the numbing
pain.

I was hurled by my hair down a flight of stairs, only to be snatched up
again by another hunchbacked demon. The second hunchback slung me over his
shoulder and started to carry me along at a rapid pace. I slowly became
aware of my surroundings at that point. Looking through bruise swollen eyes
I began to understand that I was in some sort of factory or warehouse. All
around me were these hunchbacked demons, operating strange machinery,
moving boxes from one place to another, or pouring foul liquids into
steaming vats. The factory floor was vast, and I could see neither walls
nor a ceiling in the dim light.

My captor brought me to what I assumed to be the center of the room. We
emerged from behind a towering stack of iron cubes to see an arena of some
sort. There were nine tiers to the arena, connected by serpentine stairways
that twisted and turned down to the center of the pit.  In a way it was
like a miniature model of the Great Pit itself, although the word
"miniature" belies the great size of the pit the spread out before me. On
every level their were more of these hunchbacked demons, although all of
these seemed to be tending to human captives in some way.

Thick smoke of some sort wafted up from the center of the pit, making it
impossible to tell what was going on down in the lower levels of the pit. I
could see only dim outlines of humans and hunchbacked demons. The humans
seemed to be crowded together in little clusters while the hunchbacked
demons moved between the groups. At the time I did not realize the
significance of what I saw, and scarcely noticed it. My attention turned
almost immediately to the first level of the pit which we were now rapidly
approaching. There I could see several other people, all of them bound to
various medieval torture apparati. I found this both frightening and
strangely comforting. At least it was familiar. I had been through this
before.

Of course I should have realized the truth, but one's mind does the
damnedest things to try and keep you from facing the horrible truth. The
torture on the first level of the pit was just a formality, or maybe some
sort of payment for the services of the hunchbacks. After only a few days
of torture I was released from my torment, with one addition. I now had
solid black iron collars around my neck, wrists and ankles. I was informed
that I was to be a servant in the palace of some great Nepharite, a thought
that filled me with silent dread.

It was worse than I could have imagined. As I've said a thousand times,
these guys really have their stuff together when it comes to messing with
your head. I don't know what I was expecting for the palace of a Nepharite.
Something big and scary, full of screaming victims and demons. The truth
was actually far, far more disturbing. The Nepharite in question lived in
what has to be the most beautiful home I have ever seen and am ever likely
to see. It was truly a palace, built along the lines of the Doge's Palace
in Venice. It was situated beside a beautiful, placid lake in the center of
miles of well manicured gardens.

I only got a glimpse of all this however, just enough to make my heart rise
at the sight of such beauty. I was seated in the back of a large, iron
carriage, chained to the walls along with about a dozen other new servants.
We could only catch brief glimpses of the outside through cracks in the
shutters that blocked the rest of the world from our view. This was part of
their genius. They gave us just enough to comprehend that there was
something beautiful out there, but not enough to time to relish it or take
comfort in it.

We were unloaded from the carriage in a carriage house, and sent downstairs
into the basement. We were to share a small, dank room, with only bare
mattresses to sleep on. Still, it was better than what we were used to. Our
trainer was one of the hunchbacked demons who had greeted us on our
arrival. He told us that we were a team now, and that if any of us failed
in our duties, the whole team would pay the penalty. We didn't have to ask
what the penalty was, we knew we didn't want to find out.

The rules of the place were simple. We were never to speak under any
circumstances, nor were we to ever take our eyes from the ground. We must
always obey the orders of any of the members of the lord's house. The
hunchback provided us uniforms that we had to wear always. They had a
certain 18th century quality to them, and were made from a coarse,
uncomfortable material. Our team was assigned to service, meaning we would
serve the lord his meals and drinks. It sounded easy enough, and I began to
relax, thinking this might not be so bad after all.

When it came time for us to serve, we were ushered up a hidden stairway
that opened into the grand kitchen. It was truly a beautiful sight,
pristine and fully equipped to prepare a gourmet banquet for a hundred
guests. The cooks had already come and gone, and the food was laid out for
us. We took up trays and proceeded into the dining room. Beyond the door a
large dinner party was just getting under way. With our eyes on the ground
we could only see the feet of those we served. I stole a quick glance and
was startled to see the hall populated not be demons, but by thirty of the
most beautiful men and women I had ever seen. The lord of the palace sat at
the head of the table, a handsome, distinguished gentleman in his
mid-fifties. I didn't know what to make of this, so I set about serving the
food. The guests didn't pay us any notice, and soon our job was done. We
served seven course, poured wine and cleared the table over the course of
the next four hours. When all was done we were marched back to our cell.

It was then that we learned just how badly we had done. The hunchback was
in a rage. He lashed out at us with a short, wooden club. I had touched the
wine glass with the wine bottle. One of the others had looked up. Another
had said excuse me. Another had accidentally clinked the water glass with
the plate he was setting down. The list of seemingly insignificant mistakes
was huge. How the hunchback even knew what we had done was beyond me, since
he had not been in the room. Each mistake was worth fifty lashes, and each
of us was lashed for the mistakes of everyone. I lost count, but he must
have struck us all well over a thousand times a piece. He assured us that
since it was our first time he was being lenient.

He wasn't exaggerating either. The worst was yet to come. We became
obsessed with not making mistakes, for we knew the penalty if we did. It
was now impossible to take pleasure in the beauty that surrounded us, so
fearful were we of misbehaving in some way. Of course we did make mistakes
again, and pretty soon it wasn't enough to torture us in retribution for
our crimes. We were sent back to the factory area I had seen when I first
arrived. We were sent back into the pit, this time down to the second level.

Our latest infraction had been to raise our eyes from the ground on more
than one occasion. We had been serving in a garden party, and the
temptation of looking on such beauty proved too much. In punishment the
hunchback said he would make sure we never looked up again. In the torture
chambers of the pit they made us all stand with our heads bent forward as
far as they would go. They then placed an iron plate at the back of our
necks, angled so that we could not raise our heads from their stooped
position. The iron plate was then riveted into our very flesh, an
excruciating process that caused me to pass out from the pain. When I awoke
the pain remained, burning into my back and neck. I could not raise my head
an inch, and already I was starting to cramp and grow stiff.

We had to continue service in such a condition, working though the pain and
humiliation of our new fetters. Of course this only made service more
difficult, and soon we were making mistakes again. We cursed ourselves for
our stupidity, knowing that if we just concentrated on what we were doing,
we could avoid all of these problems. That was the true measure of the
torture we faced. It was all avoidable if we were only better servants. The
demon lords were not trying to make us mess up. They did not change the
rules without telling us. We knew what we had to do, but eventually one of
us always messed up. Then it was back to the pit.

Our third trip to the pit they added iron blinders to the side of our
heads, bolting them to our temples. Were we not already dead, the shock
would surely have killed us. As it was, we were able to keep functioning,
despite our pain. When one of us talked we went back again to have our
tongues nailed to the bottom of our mouths in order to prevent speech. Then
one of the girls groaned during lunch, so it was back again to have our
voice boxes removed with a pair of pliers. The hunchback who tended us
yelled and screamed for hours, saying that we needed to learn to work as a
team or we would never amount to anything.

One spilled drop of soup and we were back in the pit, the hunchback
haranguing us the entire way. It seems that it was time for us to truly
learn the meaning of team work. We were already a pretty sorry looking lot,
welded bits of black iron covering our bodies, constantly dripping pus and
blood onto our normally clean uniforms. Once again we tried to steel
ourselves to whatever new torture we had earned for ourselves. As it turned
out, the "torture" proved to be nothing more than a length of chain. The
hunchback fastened the chain to each of our iron collars, binding the
twelve of us together, separated by less than three feet of chain from the
next person down the line. Together we formed a circle, chained together
for eternity.

This made our work much more difficult, but still we managed to make it
through one meal without committing any errors. But it was difficulty to do
one's duty when you have to worry about what everyone else was doing as
well, and eventually one of us slipped up again and it was back to the pit.
At first they just made the lengths of chain shorter. Then, when that
didn't work, they undid the chains from our collars and bolted them
directly into our flesh, adding another iron accouterment to our uniforms.

We were by this time quite a sight to behold. We looked more like machines
than human beings, what with the wide variety of iron plates, bolts, and
chains attached to us. Work was becoming almost impossible. With our
tongues nailed down and our eyes all but covered it was impossible to
communicate with one another. We were bumbling masses of flesh, each trying
to fight through the pain or our predicament. It wasn't long before we
missteped yet again, and were back to the pit.

This time we were in the bottom of the pit, the last torture they had to
inflict upon us. They took metal cable about an inch thick and inserted it
directly into our heads, actually touching the brain. They connected us
together much as the chains did, but suddenly we could hear every though of
every other member of the group. We suddenly had access to all their
feelings, all their memories, all their pain. It was too much for me and I
passed out, as did some others. When I came to the sensation remained,
although now I was getting used to it. My brain, in its own defense, and
withdrawn into the mass mind that was forming between us. We could now
communicate perfectly with one another, allowing us to do our jobs without
messing things up again.

The cost however was too great. We were no longer human, we were one giant
machine. All sense of self was gone, all sense of who we had been. Sharing
the torments of eleven others who had gone through what I had gone through
in hell was just too much. My brain shut down, and we became an automaton.
There was nothing left for us to do but serve  in that beautiful palace, a
beauty that was entirely lost on us, for we were now one without feeling. I
do not know how long we remained thus, for it is my last memory of hell.
Surprisingly, it is not a bad memory. It was a good feeling, a feeling that
finally I had found my place in the world.


The Ninth Circle

So at last we come to the end of our voyage to through the depths of
Inferno's Great Circles. At the bottom we find the most select souls, those
rare few who can survive all eight previous levels with their mind and soul
intact. Take a moment and contemplate the kind of mental fortitude it takes
to go through all of Hell that I have described thus far. Truly, it is hard
for many us to imagine surviving any one circle intact, much less all
eight. To make it to the bottom, one needs be made of very stern stuff. One
has to have a certain affinity for the very tortures you are supposed to
hate. There is simply no other way to pass through the ordeals of the upper
levels. To come through them all entirely unscathed is impossible. Even
those who retain some of themselves down to the Ninth Circle have had a
rough time of it. They are questioning many things about themselves, and
about who they are. After all what kind of a man can go through such
horrors and not question his own identity?

In the Ninth, identities are changed, and their are only two ways out.
Either one loses whatever he or she has left in themselves, or they give in
to the joys of Inferno, never to leave its boundaries again. My advice:
give in if you can. Eternity in Astaroth's realm without hope of reprieve
is hardly worth living. Certainly you will no longer be human, no longer a
god. The final Razides of the lowest circle are on a very special quest,
they seek to separate the merely human from those rare beings who have
become somewhat Infernal themselves.

For my final selection on the Circles I have chosen a rather old piece,
something from over two hundred years ago. Here I present the story of Shen
Xiao, a Chinese nobleman confined to The Pit upon his death in 1767, and
whose soul has only escaped Inferno's torments in the past twenty years. He
was a brilliant man of sound character and righteous Confucian upbringing.
He did his share of wrongs during his life, but no more than any other
ambitious man. Murdered one night by his own son, he woke up to find
himself in The First Circle. He passed on down through The Pit, clashing
his strong will against that of his oppressors. Never did a stronger man
enter The Pit, but he eventually succumbed to the inevitable. By the time
he had reached the Ninth level he was almost unstrung. It was then that he
wrote this confession, in one last attempt to hold on to himself. Of course
it did no good, for he finally did succumb.


Xiao's Tale

"I have come a long way through the tortures of the Earth Prison, and now I
am almost through it. Here in this new hell, there is time for quiet
reflection, something not offered to me at any time before. This cannot be
anything but another trick on the part of the demons who keep me here. The
more time I have to contemplate my fate in this comfortable room, the more
I realize all that I have lost. I am no longer a man, for I have no manly
qualities. I have no feelings, I have no desires. I am but an empty shell,
less even than the lowliest animal. I no longer know what I am.

This is something I would never have dreamed of. I have always been taught
that the world is carefully organized and ordered. Everything has a place,
and a duty and a destiny. I have no duty, I have no place. If I once had a
family, their memory is long gone from me. I remember only a life of pain,
here in the pits of the Earth Prison. I no longer even know why I am here,
although it must have something to do with the demons who surround me at
every turn. I remember their kind from the other hells of the Earth Prison,
but in this new place they have treated me kindly, at least for the few
days I have been here.

* * *

I have just had a most interesting conversation with one of the demons. I
suppose I should say, with one of my fellow demons, although I am not at
all sure that is true. Still, his version of matters seems to make sense,
and it would explain a great many things. Things I myself have no
explanation for. Things like why I am here and where I came from. I have
vague memories of a time before the Earth Prison. Shadows of a former life
still haunt me, but like all shadows, they are impossible to catch hold of.

My friend told me that I am, by birth, a demon. It is my duty, my place in
life to torture humans in retribution for their sins. This at first seemed
entirely wrong to me. How could this be, when all my life I have been
tortured a thousand different ways. My companion told me that I was
mistaken, that there was no past of torture. He said these were not
memories but visions inspired by my birth. He claims that I was born into
this world only yesterday, that I am a demon now and always will be. Those
memories are all false. It would be nice to believe him. It would explain a
great deal. It would explain why I can't remember anything but pain and
suffering before yesterday. You see, pain and suffering give birth to
demons. My memories are not of me being tortured. No, they are the memories
of my parents. This seems to make a kind of sense, but still seems wrong to
me.

We talked for a long while my, my friend and I. He told me of the wonders
of my homeland. He told me that I could one day be a great and powerful
Demon Lord because I was born in the Ninth Circle, the luckiest of all
Circles. We get only the best souls to torture, and we may do whatever we
wish. All the rest of hell, with the exception of the King of Hell himself
admire our status and envy our power. We are the first among the fallen. He
told me that the demons of the other Circles are confined to a particular
kind of torture, and are forbidden by The King of Hell to perform any
others, but we of The Ninth and Greatest Circle may do what we please with
the souls that come down to us. We are truly masters of ourselves and those
lesser beings around us.

I was somewhat disturbed by these last statements. I had in me no desire to
hurt for pain's sake. I did not want to torture others. I could not imagine
how my genteel companion could take pleasure in such barbarous activities.
I began to distrust him at once. I was not like him at all. I was no demon.
I was sure of it then, but he continued to talk with me and now I am not so
sure. Certainly all the evidence points towards my being a demon. I am
treated with tenderness and respect by my fellows, all of whom are very
understanding. They tell me that it is not at all unusual for a new born be
as confused as I am. I will have to think on it some more. Now I am tired,
and my bed calls out to me.

* * *

My friend came around this morning with some food. It smelled very good and
I ate it with great relish. It was delicious, and I asked if I might have
some more. He said of course, but that I would have to help him prepare it.
I agreed, thankful of the opportunity to learn how to prepare such a dish.
As it turned out, the meat in the dish was carved from the side of a living
human boy, who screamed loudly as I cut from his thighs. For an instant I
felt somewhat strange, a feeling I cannot explain. But once my friend
handed me the knife I had no problem carving into the meat-boy. It seems
that I must indeed be a demon to be able to do such a thing to a human. I
learned how to make the dish, and it was really quite delicious, although
not quite as good as the bowl my friend had prepared for me.

We spent the rest of the day wandering in and out of the fantastic tunnels
that make up most of my homeland. We passed through every conceivable
variety of torture chamber, many of which were familiar to me. Everywhere
we turned there were human souls being tortured. I felt somewhat ashamed
because I did not feel the same delight at these sights as my companion
obviously did. Nevertheless, I played along and pretended to enjoy the
visions of agony that spread out before me.

Torture seemed to be the main occupation of my fellow demons, although
occasionally we would meet others who seemed to be simply walking about
leisurely as we were. My friend explained to me that these were other
new-born demons and their mentors. He said that every new-born has a mentor
to help them grow accustomed to life in the Earth Prison. I said that I
thought this a very good practice, and he agreed with me. He told me I was
coming along very quickly, and that he was proud of me. My heart swelled
with pride until he told me that soon I would be able to perform my own
tortures. I felt my stomach turn at the idea. I was not sure I could do it,
but I smiled and thanked him for the compliment.

* * *

Tomorrow I am to be given my first human charge. The method of torture is
left up to me, and I cannot seem to choose. I have spent the last few days
in deep conversation with my mentor. He has explained to me all of the
horrible things that men do to each other in the land of the living. He has
explained to me why they need to be punished, why they need to have their
souls scoured clean of the memory of their past sins. I hate humans. They
are so selfish, so petty, so foolish. They deserve more pain than we can
give them, and now I look forward to having at my first victim. I believe I
will start with the lash. I seem to have a certain affinity for it, and my
mentor suggested it as a first choice.

* * *

I have failed as a demon. I could not perform when it came time to carry
out the human's punishment. I have disgraced my mentor and myself. He was
very angry, and has promised that if I don not come around soon, I will be
destroyed. If I cannot be a torturer than what am I? What will become of
me? I know no other life."


That is the full extent of the manuscript, written in blood with Infernal
characters. I recovered it from the archives of the Ninth Circle myself.
Xiao went on back into our world. He proved to be no demon, but certainly
none of his humanity remained either. He was a perfect tabula rasa,
suitably for rebirth. If he had proved capable of performing the deeds
asked of him he might never have left Inferno. He would have instead become
a Razide of sorts himself, serving Astaroth for the rest of his days. There
are a few that do fall into such a fate, but most who pass through the
Ninth Circle move on back into the living world. Such is our fate.


Chapter Six:

The Wild Zones

Having dealt in with the Great Circles in some detail, I find myself at
somewhat of a loss for material about the next section of Inferno, the
so-called Wild Zones. If the Circles are the Center of things in Astaroth's
realm, then the Wild Zones are everything else. As you can imagine, in a
place of infinite space, that is quite a bit. Truly anything exists out
there in the Wild Zones, for it exists simply to be molded by the hands of
the Infernals. It is, if you will, their playground, the place where they
experiment with their own plans and desires without having to worry about
the interesting but time-consuming business of destroying human memories.
When I say "they" I of course refer to Astaroth himself and his Death
Angels, for truly they are the only ones who really have much leisure time
and free will in Inferno these days. Everything else is working too hard at
surviving or making it difficult for others to survive.

I make here a few notes concerning some of the more important areas in the
Wild Zones, particularly those related to the true lords of Inferno. Much
of what I said earlier about traveling in Inferno applies particularly to
the Wild Zones. Geography is in constant flux, and there are no set paths
for an outsider to follow from one place to another. Some kind of guide is
absolutely necessary here, unless you are exceptionally good at blazing
your own trails. Weather is in constant flux, and precipitation can be
anything from rain to blood to frogs to diamonds: literally anything. Many
temporary and permanent portals open up into a location somewhere within
the Wild Zones, and it is not uncommon to find poor lost souls wandering
across the landscape, vainly searching for some way back home. Others are
those who have managed to escape from The Pit, going straight from one hell
to another.

Packs of feral Razides roam the countryside, hunting down and tearing human
souls to pieces, dragging them back to their lairs or to their masters in
The Pit. There are few fates worse than becoming a permanent meal for a
feral Razide, your flesh constantly regenerating each time you die so that
your ravenous host can continue eating. This can be a good stalling tactic
however, especially if you have a human companion to sacrifice. They will
spend weeks gnawing on him until they finally grow weary of his taste.
Remember, it is impossible to kill  Razide on its home territory, you can
merely immobilize for a short while, so be sure to move on quickly from any
Razide "kills" you manage to rack up.

As representative if the Wild Zones I have picked a few areas that are
beyond a doubt important. Some of them are well known throughout Inferno,
others are infamous for their obscurity. You will see what I mean. We begin
then with one of the more important features of today's Inferno: The
Marshaling Fields.

The Marshaling Fields

Since he created Inferno Astaroth has been building up his Legion of the
Damned. For what purpose he started such an entity I have no answer. Mayhap
he anticipated that the day would come when The Demiurge would disappear
and he would take his army into the illusory land of the living. Certainly
in Inferno, Razides and other Infernals make for a more useful armed force.
They can be forced into unflagging submission and loyalty with the simplest
of spells, and they are immune to the effects of death. Why then create an
army of fallen humans? It seems obvious that the power of humanity lies in
its godhead, its ability to think for itself and be creative. Also, humans
are much more stable when they are back on their home ground, while demons
tend to go a little wild and get uncontrollable when released upon our
world. Perhaps Astaroth simply enjoys the irony of having an army of fallen
gods. Whatever his reasons, there can be no doubt that such an army exists
and that it is among us even as we speak.

The Marshaling Fields have been the training grounds and base of operations
for the Legions since their inception. Until recently, most of the Legions
were stationed in bases here, but now many are active in our world. The
area contains miles and miles of bleak, muddy fields where the legionaries
are made to drill incessantly. In the glory days of the marshaling fields a
million men and women would march in step across the fields for days on
end, singing songs of praise for their lord Astaroth. Under the constant
tutelage of Hareb-Serap and the Prince of Darkness himself, they were
trained in every form of combat known to human history: past, present, and
future. With the malleable nature of Inferno it was easy for the Death
Angel to transform the Marshaling Fields into whatever form necessary for
training. each soldier has become well versed in jungle warfare, arctic
warfare, desert warfare, and even under water warfare.

War games and military exercises were constantly under way. These somewhat
resembled the conflicts staged in The Pit, but they were more expressly for
the purpose of training excellent troops rather than breaking down souls.
Remember, these are all men and women who have survived the horrors of The
Pit themselves. They are beyond the capacity to feel pain or sorrow. They
now seek only to serve their masters to the bitter end. Astaroth has
instilled in them a burning hatred for humanity and the living world. Most
do not even believe they are human any more. In many ways they are not.
Centuries of torture and manipulation have altered them beyond repair.
Their bodies have become as warped and monstrous as their souls, and they
can probably never go back to what they once were.

Now that Astaroth has taken his ten Legions into our world, the Marshaling
Fields are all but empty. Only a few Razides remain to train new recruits.
Where once a million legionaries marched in step, now only a few hundred
can be mustered. Still, you would never know that the place has fallen on
hard times from the attitudes of its inhabitants. The Razides that train
them are zealous in their duties, and the recruits are eager to serve their
masters in war.

The most significant fact for the Harrower today is that there are a great
many gates linking The Marshaling Fields with other parts of Inferno and
our world. Each of the ten legions in Elysium maintains a Gate or portal
that links directly with the Marshaling Fields, allowing them to easily get
new recruits, or shift troops from one location to another without having
to move through the space of Elysium. There are also Gates linking the
Marshaling Fields with both Astaroth's and Hareb-Serap citadels. Of course,
all of these Gates are heavily guarded and require the proper passwords and
spells to activate. Still, the informed traveler should be aware of them,
and willing to try and use them if worse comes to worse.


The Dark Citadels

I mentioned before that the Dark Citadels of the Death Angels pierce down
through all nine levels of The Pit. Additionally, they can be found in the
Wild Zones, each taking on its own manifestation. Out in the Wild Zones
their appearance is somewhat more personalized to the individual Lord of
Hell. These Citadels are in fact directly linked to the Citadels within the
Pit. In fact, once one ventures inside there is no difference at all. The
facades may be in different locations within Inferno, but the insides are
all the same. So, theoretically, one could enter Samael's citadel in the
Fifth Circle, and come out from his citadel gate in the Wild Zones. Razides
and the Death Angels themselves commonly do just that. The human traveler
may have a little more difficulty accomplishing such a passage.

The Citadels, like everything in the Wild Zones are in no fixed place in
relation to one another. It is unlikely that you will see one actually
moving across the land, but it is not unheard of. When Death Angels become
embroiled in fights with one another (as is common these days) it is not
uncommon to see to warring Citadels adjacent to one another, fighting as if
they were sixteenth century ships of the line. They will even circle about,
maneuvering for position. It is said that it was in just such a battle that
Togarini's Citadel was destroyed and the Death Angel himself forced into
Elysium in the body of a human conjurer.

Today the Citadels stand mostly empty, since most of their lords have
followed Astaroth into our world or have invaded Metropolis itself. This
makes entrance into the citadels sometimes surprisingly easy. Even though
the Citadels themselves are extensions of their Lords' will, the Death
Angels have come to care little for their homes. They look to new conquests
in the True Reality and over humanity itself. Because citadels often have
many gates and portals into our world, they are useful destinations for
harrowers, offering a quick escape if you catch a Death Angel on an off
day. If however he happens to be in Inferno at the time, well you are in
trouble. When a Death Angel is present in Inferno, at its citadel it knows
all that transpires within. The walls and rooms are merely an extension of
the thing itself. It is best to ascertain if the master is home or not
before you come knocking.


The Labyrinth

The Wild Zones extend as far underground as they do above, and the
Labyrinth connects all of it together. The same Labyrinth runs between our
world, Metropolis, and the various parts of Inferno. If one can master the
intricacies of traveling through the most confusing maze in existence, one
can travel freely throughout the various realms. Some say that there are
even passages that connect with Limbo, the realm of dreams, but no one has
ever proven this to my satisfaction. Of course only those born to its
twisting passages can ever begin to fully understand it, and certainly no
one born of Earth will ever know its secrets with any certainty.

The Labyrinth within the Wild Zones is no safer than the surface world, and
is just as unpredictable. Passages are liable to close up or change behind
you, and there is no sure way to map your passage. Of course a compass is
entirely useless, as are any other location finding devices. The Labyrinth
is however home to some of the more interesting denizens of Inferno. Of
course Razides are common down there, but not as common as one might think.
The tunnels, ducts, and passageways are so extensive that one can almost
always find a place to hide. While a Razide may never get lost down below,
it is not necessarily able to find anything either, at least not without
the aid of powerful magics.

The myriad of underground hiding places in the Labyrinth offer one of the
only places of refuge for human souls who have managed to escape their
tormentors, as well as people who have mistakenly wandered into Inferno
through temporary portals. While there are not a great number of these free
floating humans, there are enough to make them worth mentioning. They tend
to be very nomadic, wandering the less traveled passages of the Labyrinth,
hunting and killing whatever they can to survive. Many have been here for a
very, very long time, often hundreds of years. This is a torture almost as
dehumanizing as some of the tortures of the Nine Circles, and many of them
have become feral. Should you, as an inquisitive Harrower, manage to come
across such a band you should be very calm and make no sudden movements.
They may have long lost their communication skills, but in some cases it is
possible to reason with them. Offering them gifts is a decidedly bad idea.
They will naturally assume you to be demons until you prove otherwise, and
everyone knows what a bad idea it is to take gifts from Razides.

What unites all of these escapees, and what the Harrower may be able to
capitalize on, is their hatred for all things Infernal. Given half an
opportunity to somehow inconvenience the Lords of Hell, they will jump at
the chance. They despise the forces that have imprisoned them here. Even
more alluring is the promise of escape from Inferno's clutches. Most of
them will do anything to escape from the clutches of Astaroth and his
minions, and will be more than willing to help you in your schemes. The
help they have to offer can prove invaluable. They know some of the secrets
of the Labyrinth, and have become very adept at avoiding the Razides and other
Infernals who prowl the underground byways.

It is extremely unlikely that you will come across such groups anywhere
outside of the Labyrinth. Anywhere else in the Wild Zones, and a
defenseless human is liable to be spotted and attacked or captured within a
matter of hours. The surface belongs to The Death Angels and their servants
and citadels. Down below, it is every man, woman, and Razide for itself.


The Archives

Even Hell has its bureaucrats. In fact, it probably keeps better records
than most banks. After all, labor is effectively free in Inferno,
especially for tasks set by Astaroth. When he formed Inferno, The Prince of
Darkness thought it important to keep accurate records of every soul that
passed through Inferno, and all the Circles and other torments it passed
through. He created a whole race of Infernal record keepers for just this
purpose: The so-called lexiths or book imps. These lesser Infernals come in
a variety of shapes and sizes, from scribes of diminutive stature to large
hulking brutes who tend the stacks. They constantly seem to be underfoot
everywhere in Inferno, taking down the comings and goings of as many of
Hell's visitors as possible.

Other Razides find the lexiths to be insufferably annoying, and are in the
habit of eating them rather than answering their questions. Of course then
the nasty little librarians will simply claw their way out of the offending
Razide's stomach. Nevertheless, I have been told that the pleasure of
making a lexith quiet down for a short while is worth the pain of its
escape. They keep all their records on long scrolls, said to be made from
human skin. In fact they are massed produced in the Archives from the very
stuff of Inferno, but the lexiths try their best to act as fearsome as
their more sinister brethren. The records are all kept in Infernal script,
a language all its own, although not impossible for a human to learn. If
you come across a lexicon (an admittedly rare find) it is worth studying.

The Archives themselves are a massive building located in The Wild Zones.
The black marble edifice reaches up into the sky almost a mile, a solid
black monolith dominating the surrounding Infernal landscape. There are no
windows, but intricate carvings cover the entire surface, showing the
history of Astaroth's foundation of Inferno. The building extends
underground at least as far as it soars above. Inside the building are
hundreds of floors of scriptoriums and shelves overstuffed with records
scrolls. In the old days it was possible to find the history of any soul in
human history that had been through Inferno. Even today there are parts of
the Archives that still contain such information, facts that can be very
useful when trying to find some soul's whereabouts in Inferno at any given
time.

However, since the Demiurge disappeared and Astaroth came into our world,
the Archives have slipped into a rather chaotic regime. Without the
guidance of their creator, the lexiths have strayed from their original
path. They have now taken to recording not only the comings and goings of
human souls, but anything else they happen to find out about as well. In
fact, given the declining number of human souls, and the increasing ease
with which lexiths are becoming distracted by other matters, there are very
few records of humans being written at all these days. One can find reams
and reams of scrolls devoted to the eating habits of a particular Razide
over a thirteen year period. Some are interesting, like an interesting list
of all the tortures performed in The First Circle in a one hour period
(Archive time). When looking for information, the Archives are quite
inconsistent.

Of course gaining access to the Archives is not as easy as one my think.
The doors do not lock, and anyone can simply walk in whenever they please.
However, although the lexiths are by birth bookish, humble creatures, they
would love to be something more. They look up with awe and envy at the
other Razides, jealous of their power over human souls. A lone, unprepared
human wandering into the Archives is liable to be attacked by every lexith
who sees him. All of them will be eager to try and emulate the marvels they
have seen their idols perform. Alone a lexith is not much of a threat, but
they can be very dangerous when large groups get together.

The intrepid researcher can find a tremendous amount of useful information
here, as long as he knows how to look. I find that a few spells from the
Lore of Time and Space are of inestimable value when researching here, and
if you have access to such magiks or know someone who does, be sure to
bring them along. I myself have made use of the Archives on more than one
occasion in assembling this book.


The Hatching Chambers

One of the more famous features of the Wild Zones, The Hatching Chambers
are located entirely underneath the surface. They consist of a vast network
of caverns and tunnels that connect directly with the Labyrinth and the
Nine Circles. Only someone who wanted to spend the rest of eternity in the
pits of Inferno would dare to visit such a place, for it is where Razides
are born. The original Razides, muck like Athena, where born out of
Astaroth's head. He created them from nothing to be the perfect servants to
him and his cause. Of course creating from scratch is a tiring process,
even for a powerful being such as Astaroth. But he did not want them to be
able to procreate on their own. He knew that as long as he controlled their
numbers he could keep them under his sway. Thus the Hatching Chambers came
to be.

The Chambers resemble an ant hill or bee hive; they are full of anxious
Razides running about, tending to the needs of the new born. Each of the
great Birthing Chambers contains what some call the "queen", the Infernal
device responsible for laying the eggs that eventually mature into the
various types of Razides. It is not a queen at all, but a machine that The
Lord of Hell created to give birth to its creations. The machines operate
under mechanical laws unimaginable to us, combining the raw energy of
Inferno with the hatred and energy taken directly from The Prince of
Darkness himself. In fact, the machines are all connected to Astaroth's
Citadel in The Pit, and it is from there that they draw their power.

Each machine usually specializes in producing Razides designed for specific
tasks. For example, there are a number of Chambers dedicated to producing
Razides specially suited for each of the Nine Circles. Others create
Razides tailored for leading the Legions, guarding the citadels, or even
corrupting humans in Elysium. From the moment they hatch from their
leathery eggs, their minds contain all the knowledge necessary to perform
their assigned tasks. This is not to say this is not to say that they
cannot learn more. They are usually quite intelligent, and have long
memories. Many become potent conjurers in their own rights, and have their
own ambitions to greatness.

It is for those with too much ambition that the second function of the
birthing Machines exists. While the Hatching Chambers are the birth place
of all Razides, it is also where they go to die. The Machines are the only
devices in Inferno known to be able to totally destroy a Razide (aside of
course from Astaroth and his Death Angels). This is the ultimate punishment
for those who disobey the lords of hell, and is the only thing that Razides
truly fear. To the side of each machine there is usually a pool or vat of
foul smelling, boiling liquid, said to be the raw materials for Razides.
Contact with even a small amount of the liquid causes a Razide (and human)
intense pain, while emerging a demon in the stuff will break it down
completely. It is an astonishingly simple process, a fact which makes it
all the more fearful for the Razides who have to work around it.

I have spoken of the Hatching Chambers in very general terms thus far,
mostly because there is little information available about them. No human I
know of has ever visited the place, and most of the Information here is
either taken from the Archives or from legend. I have no idea how many
different machines operate within The Chambers, but it numbers well over a
hundred. Nor do I know at what rate the machines produce Razides or how
many are terminated on a regular basis. The result of all this uncertainty
is that I cannot make any kind of accurate guess at the number of these
demon spawn residing in Inferno at any one time. Forced to guess, I would
put the number at something close to thirteen billion, give or take a few.
Remember it is not uncommon for as many as a thousand different Razides to
have a hand in torturing a single human soul as it passes through the
Circles, especially in areas where their presence is not so obvious, such
as the Fifth Circle, where many Razides disguise themselves as humans for
the purpose of mental abuse.

My final recommendation is that the wary traveler not make the journey to
the Hatching Chambers. The risks are too great, and there is only one
possible reward. It is much easier for a conjurer to bind a new born Razide
than one of its more experienced cousins. So occasionally a brave conjurer
might try and pick out a new born from the Hatching Chambers, one who meets
his or her very specific needs. Certainly this is the best place to look
when searching for a special kind of Razide, for all the varieties are
usually present. That of course is also the largest caveat: all the
varieties are present, and you can not bind them all.


The Freeholds

Freeholds is somewhat of a misnomer, for they are not specific regions
within the Wild Zones so much as specific groups who exist in Inferno. The
Freeholds are rouge groups of Razides who have broken free from their lords
and are trying to make it on their own in Inferno. Sometimes these are just
bands of wild demons who have lost their minds, and now wander the
landscape of hell like rabid dogs. More interesting are the organized
resistance groups, many of which dedicate themselves to overthrowing the
rule of Astaroth and his Death Angels. In former times such a rebellion
would be impossible. Astaroth's will in Inferno was absolute. Today there
is hope for these demonic revolutionaries, although not much.

They tend to be nomads, wandering throughout the Wild Zones and the
Labyrinth, searching for new recruits. Since they are Infernals by birth,
they have no trouble moving about the hellish terrain, allowing them to
hide from their enemies rather effectively. The more powerful demon lords
who have remained loyal to Astaroth have found that it is almost impossible
to find a Razide who does not want to be found in Inferno. Only the Death
Angels and the Dark Lord himself have the power necessary to hunt these
seditious bands out, and they are too busy with their own affairs to care.
The result is that many of the rebels are able to move about with impunity,
raiding The Circles for human slaves and new recruits.

Why rebel against hell? Unfortunately, it is not for noble or idealistic
reasons. Such thoughts are anathema to the Razide. It is, naturally enough,
simply a matter of jealousy. These are the Razides who were the lowest of
the low, who never got their fair share of humans to torment and torture.
Some resent the powers and pleasures available to the Lords of the Circles,
while they are stuck with some menial Infernal task. Lexiths flock to these
bands in great numbers, hoping for a chance to raise their standing in the
world of the damned. The consequence of this greed is that none of the
various rebel groups are willing to work together. Trust is an alien
sentiment down below, especially among demons. Everyone knows you cannot
take a Razide at its word, and Razides know it better than most.

Of course not all the groups exist as nomads. There are in fact a few
established strongholds deep within the Wild Zones. These pale in
comparison to the Citadels of the Death Angels, but are fearsome places all
the same. While it may be nice to have a home one can depend on, it is
actually quite dangerous to create such fortifications. even in the ever
shifting geography of Inferno, a set structure is something that can be
found and destroyed. More than one such stronghold has been leveled when
the moving Citadel of a Death Angel simply moves over it, crushing the
structure and all its occupants, who are then captured and sent to
the Hatching Chambers to be broken down. Nevertheless, rouge Razides keep
building the structures, seemingly in some vain attempt to imitate their
masters.

The Harrower may find that these rouge groups offer some assistance in a
time of need, but caution is always prudent in such matters. Many Razides
are willing to ally themselves with humans in order to accomplish their own
goals, especially if a powerful conjurer offers his or her services. Just
remember, the Razide's goals usually encompass enslaving and torturing
humans, and they will do anything to meet their goals.


Part Three:

Lords of Hell

I have spent the majority of this work detailing some of the intricacies of
Inferno's complicated geography. I come now to a discussion of some of the
realm's more notable figures; namely, Astaroth and the Death Angels. Much
has been said of these Infernal potentates in other volumes, and to a
certain extant the subject is beyond my purview. Today these beings are so
involved in the world of the living, that Inferno is but a distant memory
to them. Nevertheless, it remains the base of their power, and most of them
still call it home, even if they do not reside there any more.

Here I shall examine not so much their motives as their physical
manifestation in Inferno itself. I mean of course their respective Dark
Citadels, places that I have hinted at throughout the volume up to the
present chapter. I discussed them somewhat in the section devoted to The
Wild Zones, and somewhat less in my description of The Pit. There I
discussed them as part and parcel of the land they occupied. Here I turn to
the individual character of the vast fortresses, for each one reflects the
will ad desire of its master.

First a few more general comments. The Citadels themselves exist in several
places within Inferno at once. We have already seen this phenomenon in the
duplication of Citadels between The Pit and The Wild Zones. Once one
inside, it makes no difference where you entered, every part of the Citadel
is accessible, at least in theory. It is even possible for several versions
of a Citadel to exist in different place in different parts of The Wild
Zones at the same time. In the limitless space of the outer reaches of
Inferno, this is often a necessity for the Death Angels in their feuds with
one another.

Astaroth's Citadel is somewhat different from the others. While the Death
Angels may reign supreme within their own keeps, Astaroth reigns over all
of Inferno. In effect, the entirety of Inferno is the Prince of Darkness'
Citadel, and it is merely an extension of his will. The great spire
sprouting up from the depths of The Pit is merely a symbol of Astaroth's
power, more like a throne from which he surveys his kingdom spread out in
all its glory before him. When Astaroth was content to sit on that throne,
he ruled Inferno with an iron fist. Since he left, his kingdom has begun to
fall apart. The throne sits abandoned, the tower's door locked against the
kingdom.

The Death Angels have begun to take more and more of Inferno for their own.
Some do so in the name of loyalty, claiming that they are merely protecting
Astaroth's interests, while in reality they seek nothing but their own
aggrandizement. Others are more open in their revolt, taking what they can
get now, and hoping that they will be powerful enough to hold on to it
later. As the Death Angels go, so do the Razides, who have been making
their own plays for power in hell, although generally with less hope of
lasting success than their betters.


Selling Your Soul

Human souls are the most important commodity in Inferno, particularly among
the demons who exist only to torture them. Thus there are Pit Wars where
demons fight for the right to torture the damned. Why, one might ask, do
The Death Angels seldom if ever become involved in these petty squabbles?
Surely they have the power to take what souls they want from the hands of
the minor demon lords of The Circles. Of course they could, they just do
not care to do so. The torture of souls who sinned and whose memories must
be scoured is of little interest to the Death Angels, and even less so for
Astaroth. This is the nominal purpose for Inferno, and is a task best left
to lesser beings. The Lords of Hell and its King have their sights set much
higher. They all, with one exception, desire power for themselves, usually
at the expense of each other.

What is true power for a Lord of Hell? Power lets them enforce their will
on others. Power is controlling the fate of the world. Power is being
worshipped and revered by lesser beings. Power is crushing your enemies. To
have power one must have the necessary tools with which to do battle:
armies, magic, servants, machines of war, and so on. One of the most
powerful tools available is the human soul. The incredibly resilient human
forms the backbone of the Legions of the Damned, and the private armies of
many Death Angels as well. Why then do Astaroth and the Death Angels not
participate in the Pit Wars? Because they are not interested in finding
temporary playthings for torture. They seek able bodied, eager servants,
those who will be loyal to the cause. They seek those who will sell their
souls willingly.

Selling one's soul is a risky proposition at best. The Death Angels and
Astaroth are all eager to make such deals with foolish humans, and will
offer seemingly wonderful concessions: magic, money, power, women, whatever
you want. Such paltry gifts are easy for them to bestow, and in return they
get a god as a servant for eternity. Once someone sells their soul the
contract is final. They will go to Inferno when they die, no question about
it. But they will not begin the process of filtering down though The Pit.
Instead they will pass directly into the Citadel of their new master, be it
Astaroth or one of the Death Angels.

Almost universally all the souls one finds in a Citadel are those who sold
themselves. This happens much more often than one might expect. Most cults,
Satanists, and devil worshipers end up selling their soul at some point. In
fact, many cultists simply give it away, asking nothing in return. It is
blind devotion on their part, coupled with stupidity, that makes them think
that once they have given up their soul, Astaroth will be so grateful that
he will continue to protect them. Quite the contrary, The Prince of
Darkness now eagerly awaits their death so that he might take custody of
his new prize. Thousands of young people have willingly given themselves
over in thoughtless rebellion against their parents' ideas, not realizing
that they would be paying the price of rebellion for eternity.

Entering into a contract requires very little formality. It can, and
usually is, a strictly verbal agreement. It can be as simple as "O Satan!
If I pass this test, you can have my soul forever!" He, or one of the Death
Angels may well be listening to your plea, and if they act to ensure that
your request comes true, your soul is theirs. since the beginning of our
imprisonment the Lords of Hell have been out there, actively seeking
converts among humanity. Sometimes they will strike traditional deals,
bartering power of some sort for an individual's soul. However, most of
these deals are originated by would be conjurers who seek short cuts on the
road to knowledge. The Infernals prefer to offer much less, taking joy in
tricking men out of their souls. They will approach the downtrodden and the
sinners, people who are in some kind of trouble. At your moment of greatest
need they will come to you and offer aid, asking only your soul in return.
Most people do not take the offer seriously. In fact many do not believe
that they have a soul, and so are more than willing to sell it.

Once they have the soul, it may take some time to acclimate it for its new
duties. The process takes place within the Dark Citadel of the soul's new
master, and many times resembles the tortures of The Circles, except that
the goal is different. Instead of beating the soul into a mindless state,
they are merely beating into submission. Most souls never leave their new
home, remaining servants to the Death Angels for the rest of time. The
Razides and other demons who serve the lords are ceaselessly cruel to the
humans, who they view as lower than themselves in every respect. The poor
fools who sold their souls live out an eternity of pain and suffering,
almost without exception.

The exception is the reason for the whole rigmarole. Where is the power in
having human slaves? Where is the power in endless torture? The goal of
this torture, the secret unwritten, unspoken goal of all the suffering is
the awakening of humans. This may seem incredible, but it is true. We know
that there is a dark path and a light path to The Awakening, and that
ritual pain and suffering can bring enlightenment. Only one in a million
will awaken from such techniques, particularly when they are applied by an
outsider, but the one in a million is worth all the trouble. There are few
forces in the universe more potent than an awakened god, and now that force
is the sole property of the Lord of Hell who bought the soul originally.

Astaroth and his Death Angels seek to use our power against us, to harness
the energies of our divinity for their own purposes. To what extent they
have succeeded I cannot say. It is entirely possible that they have not
succeeded at all, or that they have succeeded but then lost their hold over
the newly awakened gods. Others say that there have been some very great
successes, and that it is a small force of awakened humans under Thaumiel's
command that protects him from Astaroth's vengeance. Others say that
Astaroth himself has raised an Awakened One for many years, grooming him to
take the Prince of Darkness' place in Inferno while he pursues his
interests in Elysium and Metropolis.

The value of human souls to the Infernal Lords cannot be doubted, and now
you see why they try to fill their citadels with them. Each, in its own way
seeks a way to unlock the key to human divinity, so that they can create a
whole race of enslaved gods, yoked to their own hellish schemes. So I turn
now to those individual lords and their citadels offering what insights I
have gleaned into their workings. As you read, keep ever in mind the true
purpose of these vast fortresses, for some day your soul may depend on that
knowledge.


The Dark Citadel

Whenever anything speaks of The Dark Citadel in Inferno, they inevitably
are referring to the thousand mile high spire of Astaroth's enthronement,
soaring from the unknown depths of The Pit. It is first among citadels, and
was once home to the greatest concentration of souls in all Inferno.
Certainly Astaroth, in all his many incarnations around the world, has
managed to acquire several times as many souls as all of his Death Angels
put together. If anyone could find a way to enslave the power of human
divinity, it would be the Prince of Darkness himself.

At the height of his power, Astaroth's Citadel was the center of all goings
on in Inferno. In the Dark Spire alone there were over a billion Razides
employed, and millions of human souls held in eternal pain and torment. The
Dark Spire encompassed every form of torture known to Inferno, and the
Razides there did it better than any other demons in hell. Here he taught
the most powerful death magics to his human worshipers and servants,
sending them back into Elysium to make more converts to his Satanic cause.

Now the Dark Spire stands virtually empty, its black gates closed to all
who would gain entry. No one has managed to gain entrance to the Citadel
since Astaroth left in search of the Demiurge. Occasionally one spies a
lone figure moving about in a window, or a winged beast circling the spire
for a short while, but these are the only signs of activity within. Several
years ago Thaumiel launched an assault on the citadel, but could not
penetrate its walls by any means. It was worse than being defeated in. The
rebellious Death Angel looked to be impotent before the entire
Infernal host of The Pit. So impotent that the Prince of Darkness did not
even have to mount a defense against him. Of course, he is not so impotent
that Astaroth is able to put down his rebellion either.

Most of the souls that Astaroth kept in his citadel have been forced into
service in the Legions. Many have already made the journey over to Elysium,
while the rest are training at the Marshaling Fields. The hosts of demons
who served The Dark Lord are nowhere to be seen. Certainly a few of them
are involved with the Legions, but not a billion of them. No one knows what
became of these unfortunate Razides, although some surmise that Astaroth
sacrificed the lot of them in order to gain the power to open up all the
gates necessary to bring his armies through into Elysium.

What is certain is that there is no unlocking the mystery of the Dark
Spire. Even the gates and portals that once connected the citadel with
other parts of Inferno, Elysium, and Metropolis have been sealed shut.
Still, The Dark Spire stands as a symbol of Astaroth's immutable authority.
It towers above all the other citadels, daring them to make a futile
assault on its impregnable walls. Since the fall of Togarini, and
Thaumiel's failure, none have yet summoned up the courage to try.

If the rumors about Astaroth grooming an awakened human to watch over
Inferno are true, then the whole dynamic of Infernal politics could change
in an instant. Assuming that this corrupted human had enough power to hold
on to the Throne of Hell, he could easily bring order back to the chaotic
realm. However, the Lords of Hell may greatly resent a human, no matter how
divine, lording it over them. Installing such a regent might just be enough
to force the Death Angels to put aside their petty squabbles and join
together to overthrow their former master. Of course if the divine human is
half as powerful as his lord, then it will be no contest.


Thaumiel's Citadel

First among his kinds, Thaumiel now stands as the most rebellious of
Astaroth's former servants. He stands in open conflict with both his lord
and his cousins. His Citadel is an armed camp, with every entrance guarded
by diabolic machines of war, manned by fiercely loyal demonic soldiers.
Only those who come to serve Thaumiel or become his slave can pass through
these gates unchallenged. All other are cut down on sight. As a result,
there is usually a wide zone around Thaumiel's citadel in each of the Nine
Circles. No one wants to be mistaken for an attacker. This is easy to do,
since the Citadel is almost constantly under attack on some front, either
by other Death Angels, powerful Razides, or servants of Astaroth himself.

In the Wild Zones, Thaumiel's was one of the first to pioneer the moving
Citadel. The citadel appears in the form of a tremendous floating fortress,
hovering hundred yards above the ground. It is a maze of medieval looking
battlements, towers, and turrets, with demonic guards stationed all about
it. It roves through the Wild Zones, sometimes moving at supersonic speeds.
This makes it very hard for Thaumiel's enemies to launch an effective
attack on his citadel, and allows him to use it as a mobile base of
operations. He has been quite effective in using the floating citadel to
force lesser demon lords into submission.

Inside the Citadel is a tremendous armed camp, with a complex hierarchy of
ranks and titles. Thaumiel is obsessive about station and place in society,
and this is reflected in everything about the Citadel. The infernal lord's
caste system is made up of 1,237 different classes, each with very clear
privileges and restrictions. A demon's caste determines its duties, what
levels of the Citadel it has access to, who is under its command, and even
what kind of weapons it is allowed to use in warfare. Movement through the
ranks is accomplished entirely by proving one's merit, and in these times
of troubles the only way to prove one's merit is through combat. There is
constant fighting among the castes, although never outright war. Rather,
constant duels, assassinations, and other attacks rage up and down the
Citadel.

Thaumiel encourages conflict and ambition among his followers, as long as
it does not interfere with his own plans. The only truly unforgivable sin
for The Unjust Ruler is compromising the war effort. So, while they may
fight among themselves at home, Thaumiel's legions work together
brilliantly on the field of battle. This unity is one of the main reasons
Thaumiel has been as successful as he has in standing up against Astaroth,
Golab, and Hareb-Serap. It also helps that Astaroth has not turned his full
attention to the rebellious Death Angel.

Humans are of course the lowest caste in Thaumiel's citadel. They are
servants, playthings and victims. Thaumiel is most interested in those
souls with a bent towards domination and power. These he subjects to every
imaginable torture in an attempt to awaken their divinity. Most however he
consigns to the depths of the Citadel for his demons to play with. There
they are either transformed into adequate servants, or suffer through an
eternity of sorrow and agony at the cruel hands of Thaumiel's Razides.

It is close to impossible for a human to travel through the chambers of the
citadel without being accosted. In a society where everyone has his place,
those who re out of theirs are easily noticed. Even powerful conjurers
working with Thaumiel do not move about the citadel without guides of some
sort to protect them. Of all the travel destinations for a would be
Harrower of hell, this is one of the least accommodating in an already
unfriendly climate. Humans within the Citadel tend to succumb quickly to
the mindset of the place. The citadel is after all an extension of the
Death Angel himself, and his mind is so overpowering that it cannot but
effect the human psyche. Adversely. Humans begin to get caught up in the
caste system, believing that they are in fact the lowest of the low, and
deserving of whatever punishments they receive. Those rare individuals who
resist such feelings tend to be prime candidates for a forced awakening


Chagdiel's Citadel

Chagdiel is perhaps Thaumiel's greatest ally, although Thaumiel himself
seems to care little for the lesser Death Angel. Chagdiel's obsession with
children seems profoundly impractical to Thaumiel. He does however admire
the childish selfishness for power that the Bloodstained Patriarch
displays, especially now that it has turned against Astaroth as well.
Chagdiel delights in the ease with which children are frightened, yet
marvels at how surprisingly resilient they can be. The citadel is therefore
filled with children, and Chagdiel himself specializes in collecting the
souls of children. It is not hard at all to corrupt a young human,
particularly if they have never been brought up to believe in the existence
of the soul. Even those souls of Chagdiel's who are not children when they
die will revert to a childlike state upon entering his citadel. As an
extension of his will, that is an immutable law. Chagdiel and his Razides
are the only "adults" in the citadel, and they are stern, abusive authority
figures who strike fear into the heart of all young ones.

The interior of the citadel is a kind of daycare center gone mad. Room
after room of holding cells, demonic classrooms, and perverted play areas
make up the vast majority of the Citadel's interior. The children are not
simply kept as prisoners, but are rather made to go through a horrifying
mockery of normal childhood. Teachers give them interminable lessons that
are impossible to understand. Failing to pay attention, or sit up straight,
or answer a question correctly results in immediate, and forceful corporal
punishment. Everything from being paddled ten thousand times, to being
flayed alive. They sleep in huge dormitory settings with a thousand
children to a room. No privacy is permitted, no whispering, or talking.
Razides prowl through the rows of beds, each of which is merely an iron
pallet kept either too hot or too cold for comfort. Part of Chagdiel's
paradigm prevents the children from feeling tired, thus they constantly
want to squirm about and get more comfortable, to try some how and get some
sleep. The Razide monitors invariably view such attempts as disobedience
and punish it accordingly.

The children are of course allowed time to play. Chagdiel is a firm
believer that children should have time among themselves to have fun and be
creative. Of course, their playthings are the stuff of torture chambers and
charnel houses. They are given the sharpest knives and real guns with which
to play war. They climb on insanely intricate climbing apparati, studded
with spikes, razor wire, and other traps. Pools of blood, bubbling
cauldrons of bile, rotting corpses, fields of man eating plants: these are
the playthings of Chagdiel's children. Recess is a constant nightmare, a
fight to survive. But of course no one really dies in Inferno, they just
live to suffer another day.

Chagdiel keeps a close watch on his children, looking for those who might
prove themselves possible candidates for awakening. These he treats with
special care, submitting them to the harshest measures and most harrowing
torments he can come up with. The result is children who are hard,
unfeeling, totally ruthless. Since young humans tend to be more
impressionable than their elders, many of them come to accept Chagdiel as a
kind of perverted father figure. Some of them come to even love him in a
very twisted way. thus Chagdiel enjoys a strange luxury among the Death
Angels: many of his human servant actually serve him out of misguided sense
of loyalty. Should one of these some day awaken, Chagdiel will have a
distinct advantage over his foes.

Humans entering Chagdiel's citadel often undergo an almost immediate
metamorphosis into a child like state, usually to however they were around
the age of twelve. There is no known way to avoid this fate, and as you
might imagine, it can be very inconvenient. Unfortunately, Chagdiel's
citadel is also a relatively common destination for the more foolhardy
harrowers. Many Satanists, death conjurers, and dabblers in the occult
become quite distraught when they find that their children, in emulation of
their parents, have unwittingly sold their souls to Chagdiel. Driven by
despair, they launch ill-fated rescue missions which inevitably end in
failure, the parents reverting to a childlike state themselves and becoming
eternal slaves to the Death Angel.


Satherial's Citadel

The Devastating Mother is ever an unpredictable force in Infernal politics
and power plays. As a fomenter of chaos, she often does the unexpected, but
never the unintelligent. She is a cunning, ruthless being, with very clear
goals: chaos for everyone. While nominally loyal to The Prince of Darkness,
one can be sure that she would turn on him with pleasure should the
opportunity present itself. In the current state of conflict between Death
Angels she is relatively aloof, only entering into the fray on occasion to
stir things up a bit.

Her citadel runs now much as it always has, even though fewer and fewer
humans find their way to her. Unlike some of the others, she has never been
a great recruiter of human souls. Certainly she has relations with humans,
offering aid to anarchists, radical political and religious movements, and
others who might disrupt the order. Many of these end up in her citadel
when they die, but traveling through the place, you would hardly know it.
They tens to become lost in the shuffle; just one more strange being
lurking about in the shadows.

Satherial expresses her own chaos in her citadel, and all who venture into
her realm are caught up in it. In many respects her entire citadel
resembles the Sixth Circle. it is a place where animal instincts rule, and
no sense of hierarchy or rules exist. The dense complex of tunnels twist
and turn in upon themselves throughout the length and breadth of the
citadel, constantly shifting and changing around you. Here all laws of man,
nature, and even hell are void. Creatures of every imaginable sort wander
the halls, caught up in the chaos. There are only two things that any of
the inhabitants care about: food and sex.

Food can be anything and everything that might provide nourishment. Usually
it means the other creatures that wander the endless halls. Here of course
humans are at a distinct disadvantage. The typical human requires tools
with which to hunt, especially when the prey is bigger, stronger, and
fatter than he is. In the primeval labyrinth of Satheriel's home, humans
tend to revert to an animal state, unable to conceive of or use tools of
any kind. They are left to fight with tooth and claw just like any other
beast. The result: more often than not they get eaten. Be forewarned: it is
not just the souls the Sathariel has bought that undergo this
transformation; it is every human who strays into the citadel, even
adventurous harrowers.

Sex is another story entirely. The drive for sex in the citadel has nothing
to do with pleasure and everything to do with procreation. Sathariel is
obsessed with creating new and different forms of life, and so in her
world, any tow beings can mate and produce young. Even human beings are
free to mate with whatever they choose, and given the state of mind they
are in, they will usually chooses anything that moves, especially if they
have already eaten. The offspring of such unions are inevitably bizarre,
but always viable. It is Sathariel's will that only the best traits go into
the union. Of course her idea of best traits and ours tend to be radically
different. For her anything that supports the ability to feed and procreate
is good, anything else is unimportant, including things like beauty, and
intelligence. Animal wits are all well and good, but logical thought has no
place in Sathariel's citadel.

Anyone traveling through her citadel is likely to encounter scores or even
hundreds of these creatures, each one eager to wither take a bite out of
you, or (if you re a little more lucky) mount you and mate. Neither is
likely to be a pleasant experience. Many of the creatures that stock the
citadel were originally not from earth. Monstrosities from all over
Inferno, Metropolis, and even Elysium come together here. Even creatures
from totally incompatible categories can mate here: insects and mammals,
humans and fish. Anything is possible, and you can be assured that it has
all been tried at least once.

Can this primordial chaos produce an awakened human? I can not say, but it
certainly does not seem likely. Sathariel opposes all those factors that go
into awakening out inner divinity. Perhaps she is misguided in her efforts,
blinded by her own chaotic desires. Perhaps to she simply does not care.
For her, existence is good. Chaos is coming ever closer to all the worlds;
her dream becomes reality every day.


Gamichicoth's Citadel

Fasting, asceticism, self-denial; these have all long been seen as tools in
the quest for enlightenment. Theoretically the value of such techniques is
in denying yourself worldly comforts in an attempt to get more in touch
with your soul. Whatever the reason, it is not supposed to be a pleasant,
comfortable experience. Perhaps this is why Gamichicoth has chosen to focus
his existence on the deprivation of food and drink. Maybe he sees the
perfection of such techniques as the key to awakening the human souls he
holds under his power. More likely, he simply takes enormous pleasure in
the suffering that accompanies dire need. He is after all, an Angel of
Death.

Gamichicoth is another minor player in the struggle for authority in
Inferno. He has no real army, no real following, and far less human souls
than most of his brethren. Like all of his kind, he chafes under Astaroth's
rules and restrictions, but he nominally remains loyal to the King of Hell,
mostly out of fear. He works quietly, but diligently to increase his power,
careful never to arouse the suspicion of any of the other Death Angels. In
Inferno, his realm is a quiet one, not engaged in the constant strife that
has engulfed other regions.

The citadel itself is a series of barren chambers, closely resembling a
hospital. The rooms are usually well kept, and are arranged in an orderly
manner. At least they seem to be arranged in an orderly manner; for
although one has a sense that there is a plan to the place, it is difficult
if not impossible to ever get the hang of it. Losing one's way is easy in
such a place, although in the back of your mind you always have the feeling
that you will figure it out at any moment.

The desire to find one's way is heightened by the tremendous hunger and
thirst that humans feel immediately upon entering the citadel. Of course
Gamichicoth has made certain that there is no way to satiate these
feelings, no matter how much one consumes. Mot travelers quickly gobble up
all they have brought with them in an effort to slake their parched throats
and appease their ravenous bellies. They spend the rest of their days
searching for more, wandering the sterile halls and rooms.

Gamichicoth employs few Razides or other creatures, preferring to let
hunger and thirst take their toll. Other humans are the only other beings
one is likely to encounter as you wander the endless corridors. Such
meetings are rarely pleasant, for your fellow man tends to look more like
food than like a possible companion. Fights almost invariable ensue upon
such meetings, as each tries to sink his teeth into the other's emaciated
flesh. This same tendency often causes groups of humans to turn against
each other, even if they have been long time friends. Eventually the desire
for sustenance simply becomes too great, and one ceases to worry about
little matters such as loyalty, love, and friendship.

Gamichicoth's human servants are those individuals who in life proved
themselves capable of great cruelty and deception. Gamichicoth would
promise to aid such men and women in return for their eternal souls.
Unfortunately for Gamichicoth, such people are not usually the type that
will benefit from the meditative benefits of fasting. They are usually much
too shallow and self centered. However, should a more spiritual person find
themselves locked up for years or decades in Gamichicoth's citadel, then he
might actually manage to produce an awakened human. However, since
Gamichicoth's methods are more passive than most, it is unlikely that he is
well enough equipped or prepared to actually control a fully divine and
awake human, should the need arise.


Golab's Citadel

Golab is the true idealist of all the Death Angels. he is a simple being,
devoted to his master and his work. He is the Master Torturer, the end all
and be all of torment. He takes joy in his work, of this there an be no
doubt, but he is also proud of his work, and of his loyalty to Astaroth.
His love of his work is matched only by his hatred of those like Thaumiel
who have betrayed the One True Lord of Hell. He struggles against the
rebellious Death Angels constantly, seeking a way to overcome their power.
He enjoys Astaroth's favor, although not even he is permitted into The Dark
Spire now that Astaroth is gone. The Dark Lord's support has allowed him to
amass quite a collection of souls for his own experiments, as well as an
army of demons and fallen humans willing to fight for their lord's vision
of Inferno.

Golab's citadel is a monument to efficiency and art in torture. The Death
Angel has carefully organized his vast complex of torture chambers,
separating them by a detailed classification system of his own devising.
Millions of different kinds of torments are performed there every day by
the hordes of Razides and Excrucies working under The Master Torturer's
guidance. All the tortures of the Nine Circles are well represented here,
along with scores of others never even thought of outside of Golab's realm.
The very air is thick with agony, and Golab's lust for pain permeates. Anyone,
whether they be human or demon, entering the citadel is
soon overcome by the desire to do harm.

This unavoidable side effect of entering Golab's private domain means that
most humans will soon become fascinated with the tortures that are taking
place around them. Rather than keeping their minds on their goal (whatever
it may be), many harrowers will foolishly stop and take a closer look at
some particularly fascinating bit of torture. Seeing the agony it produces
so effectively, they will then be overcome with the urge to try it out
themselves, usually on one of their friends. In some rare cases, the
feelings are reversed, and humans have been known to become overwhelmed
with a desire to be tortured. They will literally fling themselves onto a
Razide's rack, begging to be flayed or whipped.

In the Wild Zones, Golab's citadel usually takes the form of a tremendous
steel building, resembling in many ways a hospital or scientific facility.
High walls, edged with razors, spikes, and barbed hooks surrounds the
building, with Razide and even human guards patrolling it at all times.
Golab does not like the moving citadels so popular with some of his fellow
Death Angels. At his heart, the Torturer prefers things to remain ordered
and rational. To him, torture is as much a science as an art, and much of
the joy comes from executing his techniques flawlessly. As busy as he is in
his constant struggles with Thaumiel and others, he still finds time to
take a personal interest in some of his subjects.

Many of those humans Golab has snared for his Citadel are those who were
once torturers of some sort themselves. Golab offers them guidance or help
when they are alive, perhaps helping them escape the police, or showing
them assure fire technique for inflicting unspeakable pain. In return these
depraved men and women give up their souls forever. In recent times, Golab
has taken a particular interest in fostering the piercing and body
mutilation movement that has grown so popular in certain segments of
western society. The fascination with pain and metal is something Golab can
well appreciate.

Golab is a diligent pursuer of souls, and he has acquired a great many test
subjects over the years. The fact that Astaroth favors him somewhat has
helped in this, since the Dark Lord will occasionally give the Death Angel
some human guinea pigs in order to keep him loyal and happy. Golab also has
a very large following among the Razides, Nepharites, and other Infernals,
many of whom feel that Golab offers the best hope for a steady supply of
human victims in the years to come. The number of demons in his service is
unknown, but it is thought that many of Astaroth's servants fled the Dark
Spire for Golab's citadel, and it would not be surprising to find several
billion of the demons locked away in the citadel somewhere, jealously
guarding their human captives.

Given his rather scientific, almost rational bent, it is not surprising
that Golab is in the forefront of the attempts to raise awakened humans in
Inferno. He feels sure that the right combination of tortures, when coupled
with the right human, will have the synergistic effect necessary for
awakening. He prefers those with a high tolerance for torture. The most
promising subjects are even allowed breaks from their own agony so that
they may have an opportunity to torture others for a while. The Death Angel
feels that inflicting pain is almost as important as receiving pain in his
attempt to bring out the inner divinity in man.


Togarini's Lost Citadel

Poor, ruthless, ambitious Togarini, brought down by his own hubris. Once he
was Astaroth's right hand, leader among the Death Angels, protector of
Death Magicians. When the Demiurge withdrew, Astaroth grew despondent, and
Togarini, in a rather uncharacteristic blunder, thought that he himself was
great enough to overthrow his sovereign lord. Obviously, he was sadly
mistaken, his rebellion miss-timed. Perhaps if he had waited, joined forces
with his rival Thaumiel, then something could have been done. As it is, he
was extremely lucky to escape Inferno at all.

Now he lives in human form in our world, his power in Inferno lost to him.
His Citadel, once one of the mightiest of the ten, is now little more than
a gaping hole running through the depths of The Pit. Already, local demon
lords have encroached on the fallen Death Angel's former territory,
building their own citadels in place of his. In the Wild Zones there is no
sign of him, the fleets of black ships that sailed through Inferno's skies
under his flag are now long gone. Even his Razides have for the most part
disappeared from Inferno. A few managed to make their way into Elysium with
their master. The rest Astaroth destroyed.

There is now little cause for visiting the site of Togarini's fallen
citadel. Once it was a place where the souls of dead conjurers came to
learn demonic magicks at Toagarini's feet. The place was a haven for
intelligence and reason in an otherwise insane land. Togarini's citadel was
one of the few places in all of Inferno where an accomplished death
conjurer could travel without fear of being molested or spurned. Togarini
treated us all like his pupils, demanding nothing more from us than our
respect. Now that ancient academy of the Lore of Death lies in ruins.

Most ironic of all was that Togarini was on the verge of actually awakening
one or more of his human pupils. The lores of magic are a key to our
divinity. when we reigned as gods, magic was our birthright, and we wielded
it with confidence and authority. Togarini experimented with some of the
most avante guard magical techniques known in the universe, coupling them
with all seven of the great occult sciences. He hoped to create an army of
the awakened, all of whom were beholden to him for their power. Together
they would overthrow Inferno, Metropolis, and Elysium, establishing a new
world of magic, with Togarini at its head. Sadly, he did not wait for his
dream to become a reality, and so, in his haste, he fell.

Rumors remain about what happened to his most gifted pupils. While I feel
that many of them were misguided in putting their faith in a Death Angel
instead of themselves, there can be no doubt that these men and women were
some of the greatest conjurers in existence, dead or living. It is hard to
believe that none of them escaped Astaroth's wrath, although not
impossible. Signs point to at least one survivor, possibly even an awakened
human who has taken over part of Togarini's fallen citadel. He or she seems
to have set themselves up as a demon lord, perhaps even possessing the body
of a powerful Razide. Whoever this person is, their influence is growing
ever stronger, and spreads throughout the lower five Circles of The Pit.
This is an accomplishment no mere Razide has ever been able to achieve
before now, and is just one sign pointing to the possible divine origins of
these so-called "demon lord".

Whoever it is, they are being very careful, and their exact whereabouts
remain a mystery. Known in the Pit simply as Quiri-yek, the demon lords
servants seem to be everywhere, but few have seen the demon itself. Most
strange of all, Quiri-yek seems less concerned with gaining control over
human souls than it does over gaining territory and establishing a base of
support among the Infernals. This is behavior most unusual for a Razide, no
matter how far sighted it is. There has even been some speculation that
Quiri-yek is in fact Togarini himself, working in secret to reestablish his
position in Inferno. Others say that the Demon lord is so interested in
acquiring territory because it seeks the lost arcane library that once
resided in Togarini's citadel. Whether or not the fallen Death Angel took
his tomes with him remains a mystery who's answer is known only to Togarini
himself. What is certain is that, at some point, Quiri-yek will be forced
to show its hand as it draws the attention of some of the more powerful
Death Angels.


Hareb-Serap's Citadel

The dark angel of war, Hareb-Serap, most trusted of Astaroth's general,
greatest rival to Thaumiel and Golab. No one can deny he is powerful,
cunning, and dangerous. What is surprising is that he is also loyal, or at
least more loyal than most of his cousins. Hareb-Serap commands two of
Astaroth's Legions in Elysium, and prepares for the day when the war on
humanity begins in earnest. However, Thaumiel's revolt also occupies his
attention, and he struggles to find the resources for a war on two fronts,
a struggle that has forced him into a unlikely alliance with his other
rival: Golab. Despite the barriers between him and his goal, The Raven of
the Battlefields remains confident in his hopes for victory. Togarini is
already gone, and only two more stand between him and ascendant over
Inferno, under Astaroth of course.

The dark general's citadel is an armed camp, with many close ties to the
goings on in Circle
Seven. Unlike many of the other citadels, Hareb-Serap's contains a great
man wide open areas where battles can be fought and re-fought without end.
The Death Angel takes great pleasure in war, enjoying it on both a visceral
and intellectual level. Certainly there are few general in the history of
time who have fought more battles or who have had greater military minds.
Hareb-Serap specializes in corrupting soldiers, policemen, and anyone else
even remotely trained in combat. In the old days, when he was less
distracted by Infernal politics, he spent a great deal of time wandering
humanity's battlefields, offering victory or the death of one's enemies in
return for the soldiers' souls. Many took him up on the offer, and now some
of the greatest military minds in history languish in his citadel. Some of
these he uses as opponents to sharpen his own skills and those of his
Razide generals. Others become generals themselves, helping to lead the
Dark Legions in Inferno and Elysium.

Hareb-Serap's citadel is one of the largest moving geographic features in
the entirety of the Wild Zones. It typically appears as a city sized
juggernaut, moving across the landscape on mechanical legs and treads,
weapons of every sort covering its entire surface. Dominating this
landscape of death are gigantic cannons, the barrels of which are hundreds
of yards long, and at least thirty feet in diameter. They fire shells the
size of missiles, filled to the brim with explosives created by Hareb-Serap
himself. At least some of the weapons re almost always firing, pouring
death and destruction into the surrounding countryside. Sometimes the crew
fires for practice, other times at unseen enemies, and sometimes just for
the joy of seeing and hearing the resulting explosion. The juggernaut and
Thaumiel's floating fortress have often clashed, but no definite victor
ever emerges.

Hareb-Serap has never been much for needless torture (although he has no
problem with needless violence). He prefers to drill his charges almost to
the point of exhaustion, honing them into razor sharp fighters. The Raven
of the Battlefields has always put his army first and foremost, rather than
any considerations of tormenting his charges. The humans in his custody may
disagree, but they do not realize how good they have, even compared to the
never ending warfare of the Seventh Circle. Hareb-Serap will actually
promote those who prove themselves, offering one of the only chances in all
Inferno of upward advancement for humans.

Humans who do make their way into Hareb-Serap's citadel immediately fall
into his mindset. There is an overwhelming need to do violence. Warfare is
the only answer to any problems. Killing in combat is a joy to be cherished
always. An overpowering, gung-ho, bloodlust permeates the whole citadel.
Unlike Thaumiel's realm, there is no carefully organized system of ranks
here. These are all grizzled veterans, each of whom knows exactly what they
have to do and are eager to do it. they exist for the fight and nothing
more or less will satisfy them. There are to be certain leaders, but they
only have the authority because they have proven themselves capable of
handling it. They have shown that when others obey their commands, victory
is the inevitable result. Once a leader fails to obtain that victory, he or
she loses their place, becoming once again a soldier.

This practice of elevating humans may stem from the grudging respect
Hareb-Serap has or their military minds. It may also be a rather novel
attempt to awaken some of them, or at least to partially tap into
humanity's divine power. The Death Angel would dearly love to have an
awakened human in his arsenal, especially with the rumors about that
Thaumiel already has one such being at his disposal. He views them as the
nuclear weapons of Inferno (he has plenty of normal atomic weapons), a
force one cannot afford to be without and still hope to be considered a
super power.


Samael's Citadel

Samael is a strange lonely figure in the constant infighting among the
Death Angels. He is powerful enough that he could, if he wished it, make a
bid for supreme power, but he is so committed to his own, internal goals,
that he stays aloof from the conflict that rages around him. He obeys
Astaroth, I only to avoid the annoyance that comes with disobedience.
Samael concerns himself with one thing only; revenge.

Vengeance is an almost holy rite for Samael, and in this he is almost a
being of principal, something unheard of down below. He believes firmly
that revenge is a fundamental law of existence, something to be respected,
honored, and most importantly, obeyed. It is in part this fanatical sense
of vengeance that holds back the other Death Angels who might otherwise be
inclined to interfere in his affairs. They know that should they cross The
Avenger, he will come after them with all his power until one or the other
of them is totally annihilated.

Samael has always been close to humanity, and had already spread his
tendrils far and wide among us before Astaroth stepped in and began to so
actively meddle with the affairs of the living. Samael can sense the rage
that wells up inside men when they find themselves suffering from
injustice. The need for revenge calls out to the Death Angel, and he tries
to answer as often as he can. Humans tend to have such strong emotions,
such passionate hatreds, that it they are easily swayed to violence and
damnation. Countless times a lovers spat will lead to one murdering the
other. Every day someone just gets fed up with the law and takes justice
into their own hands. These are the men and women Samael seeks out.

Once he has them, they live out the rest of existence paying for their
moment of passion. for now there is someone new who needs avenging, the
murderer becomes the victim, standing trial and being executed countless
times for taking their vengeance on another. Samael sees no hypocrisy in
this, or if he does, he certainly does not care. The wheel of fate always
comes full circle. Samael takes special delight in fostering vendettas
between rival families or groups. He lends his aid to both sides, drawing
them further and further into the blood feud, until eventually both sides
are destroyed, their souls now the sole property of The Avenger. He then
lets them fight out the vendetta over and over again across time, a never
ending cycle of vengeance.

Samael has little respect for human institutions of law and punishment, and
so he mocks them constantly in the form and structure of his citadel.
Courtrooms, law offices, and prisons make up the vast majority of the
citadel, but none of them function as they were intended in our world. The
judges and juries are either Razides, or more likely human souls who have
been in Inferno long enough to be entirely corrupted by Samael's paradigm.
They tend to create the laws and rules of court as they go along, while the
lawyers simply spout off nonsense, or argue incessantly about trivial
points, never coming to the point. All the while the poor accused sits and
waits, not knowing what his fate will be, vainly hoping that somehow he
might be acquitted. He never is. Juries have made up their minds before
they ever enter the courtroom. They spend their time thinking of what
terrible punishment the guilty man will be sentenced to.

Samael's citadel manifests itself as The Palace of Justice in the Wild
Zones; a sprawling baroque building covered with monumental carvings of
Samael himself meting out punishment to the wicked in a never ending cycle
of vengeance. The Palace of Justice has many entrances, and is open to any
who would enter. However, unless one is already an appointed judge, lawyer,
or juror, it is assumed that you are guilty as soon as you mount the wide
marble steps. Anyone straying into the Palace is liable to be ushered
directly to some courtroom, tried, and found guilty. Then they are sent
below, where the multitude of punishments are carried out over and over
again.

Samael is not known to have become involved in any efforts for creating
awakened humans to serve his cause. The concept seems to hold no interest
for him. He is a simple being, with a one track mind: punishment and
vengeance. All his ambition aims towards these goals. He constantly extends
his power in Elysium, but only so that he may bring more souls down to his
citadel for vengeance.


Gamaliel's Citadel

There is tasteless and then there is Gamaliel. He is not what one would
consider the most refined of demons, and in fact revels in his own
baseness. this is not to say that he cannot act refined and civilized. In
fact he loves more than anything to coat his perversions with a thin veneer
of proper society and etiquette. At his care however, he is little better
than a sex obsessed adolescent. Of course only the most vicious, sadistic,
and destructive forms of sexual expression interest him, but what would one
expect from a lord of hell? He exists in isolation from the other Death
Angels, even more so than Samael. Like The Avenger, he is absorbed in his
own passions, and finds the conflict between his brethren to be entirely
too distracting.

Gamaliel seeks to pervert normal pleasures in any way he can imagine, and
thus has equipped his citadel with every known sexual and torture device
known to history. For The Perverted Sexuality, there is no line between
pain and pleasure, no sex without violence. The two are forever inseparable
in his realm. Any being entering the Citadel feels an animal lust rise up
within them, filling their every thought with images of violent, invasive
intercourse. Nothing short of the full perversions of Gamaliel's vision
will satisfy these unnatural hungers: leather whips, iron hooks, bladed
phalluses, and boiling wax call  out to even the most puritanical of men.

Wandering through the citadel is like wandering through a pornographic
movie studio gone mad. All manner of congress abounds, with demons and
humans mixing their pleasure with wild abandon. Gamaliel seeks out those
poor lost fools who put physical pleasure before all other things. The
perverts, nymphomaniacs, and rapists of the world call out to him and he
here's their call. He lures their souls to his realm with promises of
forbidden pleasures and undreamed of delights, and nearly all the time they
are seduced by his promises. Many willing give their lives for just a taste
of Gamaliel's perversity. It is rumored (although unsubstantiated) that as
many as a third of the souls in Gamaliel's citadel sacrificed themselves to
the Death Angel in a ritual of auto-erotic asphyxiation.

The citadel of Gamaliel has no set incarnation in the Wild Zones. The Death
Angel prefers to alter the appearance and location of the citadel
constantly, hoping to ensnare others into his pleasure pits. The appearance
often molds itself to the viewer's desires, becoming whatever it is that
entices and titillates them the most. Once inside there are few beings,
infernal or human, that can resist the temptations of the citadel, and once
you partake of its pleasures, there is no going back.

Any conjurer versed in the Lore of Passion will tell you that there is
power in the act of sex. Power that can lead one to enlightenment and maybe
even awakening. Gamaliel seems to be trying to use this power to awaken
some of his subjects, although there have been no reports of his having
much success. I have it on the authority of a cultist devoted to Gamaliel
that the Death Angel has high hopes for such a human. He hopes to send the
awakened back into Elysium as a sort of messiah for perversion, spreading
across the planet his message of unbridled, violent sexuality.


Nahemoth's Citadel

Nahemoth is an interesting character, someone who intrigues me more than
almost any other Infernal being. Like all Death Angels, he is a being of
immense power, even though he is the weakest of his kind. He seems to carry
with him no ambition, no lust for power, pleasure, or souls. Perhaps he
hopes merely to lead by example. The personification of self doubt, self
loathing, and self denial, Nahemoth has chosen to opt out of existence,
succumbing entirely to his own raison d'etre.

Why the change? While he may never have been truly ambitious, Nahemoth was
always a collector of souls, just like his cousins. He sought out those who
had given up on life, who felt that the world had lost its meaning. He
offered to prove them right, giving them an escape from the drudgery of
life. He encouraged suicide among his followers, catching the departing
souls in his web and dragging them down to Inferno for an eternity bleaker
than their life ever could have been.

The change seems to have come around the same time the Demiurge withdrew, a
watershed date to be sure. Nahemoth seems to have discovered that there was
no real point to the futile exercise of gathering the souls of the hopeless
and depressed. What did he care? What did it matter? Consumed by his own
self doubt and loathing, he simply stopped, retiring in upon himself, alone
in his citadel.

His Razides fled from him, his servant abandoned him. He sits alone
somewhere, pondering the futility of it all. This sudden withdrawal left a
large number of souls suddenly free in Inferno. Nahemoth certainly cared
not at all as to whether they stayed or left. Many of them left, emboldened
by their new found freedom. Of course most of them were immediately
snatched up by other Death Angels or lesser Infernal Lords. They fled the
citadel, not knowing the horrors that awaited them in The Pit and the Wild
Zones. Some remain, too far drawn into the apathy that permeates Nahemoth's
citadel. They sit and wait, paralyzed by self doubt into inactivity. Over
the years, the air of apathy has grown so strong in the citadel, that it is
now almost impossible to summon up the will or energy to do anything once
one has passed through its gates. Even Infernals succumb to its drudgery,
and so the citadel is seldom if ever visited anymore.

There is another explanation for Nahemoth's suddenly changed that has been
posited more than once. Some say that Nahemoth may have succeeded where all
others are said to have failed. Somehow, in the oppressive climate of
apathy, a human soul managed to transcend it chains of doubt and awaken.
Such a man would have to be very strong willed indeed, if the story is
true. It is said that Nahemoth was so overcome with despair that such a
wondrous event should take place in spite of his dark influence that he
gave up right then and there, conceding the war to the humans once and for
all. The story has a certain appeal, but it is after all just a story.


Astaroth

Naturally enough, no book whose subject claims to be Inferno itself can
neglect discussing the Lord of Hell himself. I have mentioned more than
once that I try to stay out of the affairs of the Death Angels and their
master. These beings can destroy even a mage as powerful as myself with
little more than a thought. Not that they themselves cannot be harmed in
turn, but it takes a brave and foolish soul to cross paths with them.
Having said this, I now admit that, despite my own misgivings I have in
fact crossed paths with the dreaded Astaroth on more than one occasion.
Fortunately for myself, my role in these encounters has always been that of
an observer, not of one who interferes in Infernal affairs. I present here
my remembrances of one such experience.


Miranda

As I have noted before, Astaroth has all but abandoned his creation,
focusing his attentions on the affairs of the living. Having bodily entered
our world along with his Death Angels and Infernal Legions, Astaroth still
found himself in need of human servants to bolster his strength in Elysium.
For millennia Astaroth has used cults to cultivate an army of human
followers. Such satanic or infernal sects have always been a part of human
society, although usually their membership was small, their influence
nearly insignificant. Since the Prince of Darkness entered our world, these
cults have grown by leaps and bounds. Astaroth's existence on our plane
allows him to directly spread his influence to a great many willing
individuals. Once Astaroth was limited to providing his worshipers small
insights into magic or the service of a minor demon for a while. Now the
Dark Lord himself can be present with his cults, possessing their leaders
and revealing a part of his true self. It is probably safe to say that
there are now a thousand times more Satanists on Earth than were present a
hundred years ago.

This figure may seem startling to some, especially those who do not realize
just how insidious the Dark Lord can be. Certainly the worship of Astaroth
as Satan has grown over the last hundred years, and satanic cults now claim
record numbers. However, Satan is only one of the many forms Astaroth is
wont to assume, and there are literally thousands of cults around the world
devoted to his various avatars. Sometimes these cults are devoted to
flagrantly evil ends: death cults, hellers, doctors bent on causing pain,
and so forth. As often as not however, Astaroth hides his true nature
behind a mask of good, or if not good, then some sort of secular front.
Examples include such diverse groups as millennial cults, radical Christian
groups, so-called "hippie" love communes, racist and ultra-nationalist
organizations, radical environmentalist groups, and so on. This is not to
say that all such groups are actually fronts for satanic worship. The fact
is that it is almost impossible to distinguish between a group controlled
by Astaroth, and one that is not. The members seldom realize the true
nature of their leaders, nor the true goals of their organization. Astaroth
corrupts them gradually, preying on their innate fears and desires until
they have come to far on the path of darkness to turn back.

The story of Miranda details one such cult, a cult centered around a little
girl whose followers believed her to be a new prophet of Christ. Although
none of them realized it at the time, and I only came to realize it later,
young Miranda Thomas had in fact been possessed by Astaroth himself, who
was now using her to form a new cult dedicated to his service. Miranda was
born on December 25th, 1968, to parents Crystal Johnson and Robert Buckley.
Crystal and Robert were living together at the time in Toronto, Robert
having fled the draft in his native America. He met the young Canadian
Crystal on a commune. The girl was at the time only 14, and it was two
years later that she gave birth to Miranda. The father had long ago fled
the commune as soon as it became obvious that Crystal intended to raise the
baby instead of aborting it or putting it up for adoption.

Miranda grew up on the commune, at least for the first five years of her
life. In 1974 the commune broke up, and Crystal took her daughter west to
Vancouver. Crystal had slipped from her idealistic youth into a
disenchanted life of prostitution, drug addiction, and abusive lovers. Over
the next four years, Miranda grew up in an increasingly hostile home
environment. Her mother died of a drug overdose in 1975, and Miranda went
into foster care. A year later she was adopted by a radical Christian
family who took pity on her. Frederick and Ellen Johnson were incapable of
having children, but had adopted seven other unfortunate orphans before
Miranda. They gave their children a very strict, Christian fundamentalist
upbringing. In 1977, they bought a farm in Idaho and transplanted the
entire family there, setting up their own church and preaching to the
locals.

It was at this point that Miranda began exhibiting strange behavior. She
was suddenly able to quote exactly any verse from the bible, even though
her reading skills were well below average for her age. Likewise, she began
to spend hours everyday in silent prayer, a fact that made a great
impression on her adoptive parents. When Miranda started seeing visions of
Christ on a weekly and then daily basis, the Johnsons knew that they had
been blessed. In 1978 Miranda began to start speaking prophecies and giving
sermons to all who would listen. Word of this amazing girl spread
throughout the radical Christian community of the American west, and soon
devotees from all over where coming to the small Idaho farm to hear what
the young prophet had to say.

This was the beginning of the cult that I came across in early 1984. By the
time I got there, Miranda had become the mistress of all she surveyed. All
of her followers, including her parents, worshipped her as a messenger of
God on Earth. She had a core following of between seventy-five and a
hundred men and women, as well as some twenty children whose parents forced
them into following Miranda. The small Idaho farm had been converted into a
large compound where all of the followers lived. They worked the fields,
raised animals, and tried to be as self-sufficient as possible. They did
not use electricity or any other modern conveniences, and were effectively
isolated from the rest of the world, except through their missionaries.
Every few months Miranda would send out ten or twenty of her followers to
go and try and recruit more worshipers into the cult. Although they seldom
converted anyone, there were those who were persuaded into coming to view
the cult and were instantly swayed by the force of Miranda's personality
and "holiness."

I came to the farm after having heard several rather convincing accounts of
the young girl giving accurate prophecies and even performing miracles. My
first thought was perhaps this girl had somehow become Awakened and was not
yet aware of her true abilities and potential. The advantages of gaining
access to a newly Awakened human are too numerous to list here, but you can
imagine why I might be interested in such a find. Thus I made the journey
across the Atlantic and into the wilds of Idaho, a most forbidding and
primitive place in my personal estimation. I came to the farm in the guise
of a penitent pilgrim, hoping to catch a glimpse of this wondrous
prophetess.

Having asked around among the local populace I discovered that most of the
local residents had a relatively positive impression of Miranda's cult, now
officially referred to as the Visionary Church of Christ. The congregation
of the Visionary Church were generally a very positive group, never causing
any trouble, and even helping out the local community when they could. They
were known for their acts of charity, their kindly ways, and unassuming
nature. I went into the situation somewhat off guard, believing the tales
told by the rustic locals I had interviewed.

The compound was not fenced off, and was hardly what I expected. It was
little more than a series of wooden shacks built up on an extensive tract
of farm land. In the center of it all was the Church itself. The building
had once been the home of the Johnson family, but Miranda had long ago
ordered that the whole building be gutted and turned into a church
facility. I was welcomed with open arms and warm smiles, the cult members
being extremely friendly. I told my lies and eventually was allowed to come
to one of the Church's services. The service proved to be nothing out of
the ordinary, and I saw nothing particularly surprising or intriguing about
the so-called prophetess.

As the congregation began to file out, the girl called to me, asking me to
stay behind and talk with her. Somewhat surprised by this move, I readily
agreed, curious as to what the girl might have to say to me. She was small
for her age and dangerously thin, her simple yellow dress hanging loosely
from her shoulders. In other circumstances she might have been pretty, but
here she appeared merely sickly. She obviously saw little of the sun, and I
suspected that she seldom if ever left the church building. I approached
her and bowed before her as I had seen others do.

She nodded and placed her hand on my head, offering me a blessing. She drew
her hand back quickly as if she had been burned. She looked at me with a
rather dangerous look in her eye, and I thought for a moment that she might
call for help. Instead her shocked look turned to a smile, and then a
sneer. She motioned for me to have a seat. I was not sure what was going
on, but I was curious enough to see the situation to its end. What was
going on here? I sat in the front pew, waiting for her.

She turned her back to me and strode purposefully up to the altar. She
stood in front of the simple wooden table for a moment, as if gathering her
thoughts or possibly praying for guidance. She turned then, fixing her gaze
on me. Finally she spoke.

 Who are you? What do you want?"

I began to spin my tale that I had prepared for the occasion, only to be
cut off by a shrill screech from the young woman who stood before me. "No
more lies!" she yelled at me, "Who are you?" I was silent for a moment,
studying her, wondering how she could have guessed that I was lying. I
certainly looked the part, having dressed in the simple clothes of the
American penitent: jeans and a T-shirt. I tried to insist that I was
telling the truth, hoping to elicit another bout of outrage from her. If I
could get her angry enough, maybe she would let something slip.

She obviously saw right through my tactic, and instead of yelling she
simply sighed. As if reading my thoughts, she turned away and began to
speak. "It's the truth you want is it? Well Mr. Tyree, I'm not sure you are
ready for the truths I have." I was naturally shocked. I had of course
given a false name and there was no way that she could have known my true
identity. I had already cast spells of protection to keep her from
interfering with my thoughts or reading my mind. I stood up, aghast,
thinking perhaps that I should kill the child where she stood.

She preempted any action on my part however. "Please sit down conjurer.
You know not what you do, nor who you are dealing with." Her voice had
changed. It had dropped in pitch and was now full of malice and an almost
evil self-assurance. I sat down, although my hand crept down to the cuff of
my jeans, reading the knife I had strapped to my calf. The girl walked back
over to me and looked at me for a long moment. I had trouble meeting her
eyes, my gaze wandering around the church, looking for possible exits.

"Calm yourself Shelby. I will not harm you now, nor will I keep you here
against your will. I know your work, I know that you are merely a scholar
interested in learning the truth about me and my subjects. I know too that
you have cheated death's curse on more than one occasion, an admirable feat
for which I give you all the credit you are due. You came here looking for
answers, and I am here to give them to you."

Now I knew. There was no denying it, and I wondered how I ever could have
missed something so painfully obvious. Now that I knew the truth radiated
from her like a signal fire. Wave after wave of hate, despair, cunning,
bloodlust, and simple evil poured off the girls. How could I have been so
blind? How could her congregation have missed the fact that it was Astaroth
himself who stood in their very midst every day! Of course I knew the
answer as soon as I asked the question. I only knew now because she wanted
me to know. Astaroth can hide within the body of a saint if he wants to.
All disguises are within his power for he is the Prince of Lies.

Again she spoke. "Now you realize what you have stumbled upon don't you
Shelby? Now you know that your existence continues only at my discretion.
You are face to face with he whom you have feared all your many lives, the
Lord of Death, Destroyer of Knowledge. Don't worry little mage, I will let
you go with your memories intact. Truth of the matter is, I want you to
tell my story, for there are few in your world who could tell it with more
credibility. Would you care to hear me out Shelby? Would you like to know
of my doings here in Idaho and beyond?"

I nodded mutely, my attention captured by this waif of a girl who spoke
with Satan's words.

"This girl has been mine since the day she was born, her mother having
bartered the child's soul away long before it was conceived. From that
moment I began laying the groundwork for my plans, I would be born again
into the world in the body of this child, as I had been born into the world
in countless other children. I prefer to incarnate myself at the moment of
conception, for it gives me tremendous power later in life. By the time
such children reach maturity I have dominated their souls to such an extent
that I can cause them to awaken without losing control of them. You know as
well as I that there are few forces in existence more powerful than an
awakened human. Thus I chose the fetus as my vessel of choice.

Miranda is now on the verge of becoming truly awakened, and then her latent
power will join with mine. The small cult you see here will blossom and
grow tenfold in the next few years, as more and more hopeless souls are
drawn to her and her power. All the while I shall preach to them the word
of their false God, drawing them deeper and deeper into the net. I will
turn the religion in upon itself, until this faithful flock doesn't know
which way is up. Christian Love in the eighties will become rabid hate and
intolerance in the nineties. These peaceful Christians will be the base of
a militant crusade to cleanse their beloved nation of undesirables: Jews,
homosexuals, Muslims, blacks, liberals, any prejudice I can foster I will.
As the millennium closes the Visionary Church of Christ will take up arms
under the leadership of their great prophetess Miranda.

Nor will they be alone. Nor is Miranda alone. Across this country and
around the world I have been reborn into similar bodies. In the United
States Miranda will find other parts of my soul in the hearts of militia
leaders, skinheads, terrorist groups, Zionist groups, and any other
militant force this country can muster. They will join with nationalists
and racists in Europe and the far east. Groups from across the world will
come together to form an army of hate ready to tear down the establishment,
led by me in all my many forms. Of course they will not be alone in the
fight, for my Legions of the Damned will be right there with them. Hundreds
of thousands of hell's finest lie scattered across the globe, waiting for
the time to march upon Elysium and burn it to the ground.

Who will oppose them? Who can stop such a force? Of course you know the
answer. Not the long lost Demiurge, nor the quarrelsome Archons. Who will
stop them? I will of course. For I am in the heart of government, the
center of the establishment. My soul has been born time and again into the
fetus of the future politician, the one day general, the president. I am
among them all, and I will do everything I can to crush those who would
overthrow order and civility. Civilization looks to it leaders for guidance
and protection when the radical fringe rises up, and who better to give
them hope than me?

Of course there is a limit how far I can spread my soul around the world. I
cannot be everywhere at once, nor do I need to. There are plenty of people
in this world of yours who are more than willing to serve me of their own
free will. I get offers every day, more and more offers as time goes on and
mankind begins to lose all semblance of hope for a brighter future. Both
young and old turn to me in desperation, hoping for some sign that there is
more to life than they know. As always, I am there to hear their pleas, to
offer them guidance in their time of need. In return they must give me
their constant and never-ending devotion. Thus have I spread my net far and
wide across the world, and soon I shall begin to draw it tight.

More than one being has commented to me that my web of devotees is not
unlike a spy network. Certainly most of my agents fit the description of
spies. They live their lives as they normally would, going to their jobs at
newspapers, in the schools, at churches, in the military, and at the stock
exchange. They pass the days in silent devotion, waiting until they are
called upon to prove their loyalty to me and my cause. Their friends and
family never suspect, never dream that their loved one worships Satan
himself, and so it should be. Every so often they come together to make
sacrifice and honor me in some ritual of their devising. Such pleasantries
are irrelevant to me. They exist because they help keep my servants in
line, not because I gain anything from them.

These spies come from so many different sources, are devoted to so many
different aspects of me, that it they none of them are aware of all the
other spies out there. Only I know the true extent of my network of agents.
Only I realize just how far my power has extended into the world. Not even
the most loyal of my Death Angels can imagine how extensive the network has
become in the last half century. The seeds of chaos have been planted, the
sprouts have sprung up, and soon they will begin to bloom in all their
glory. War, hate, and savagery will tear this planet apart. The coming
chaos will fill the coffers of hell again, so much so the hell itself will
spill over into Elysium, consuming the entire world. Then only Metropolis
shall remain free from my power, and that only for a short time.

I see that I have shocked you Tyree. I see that this was not what you
expected. Nevertheless, it is the truth. Now I bid you go my friend. Our
time has not come yet, although it will soon enough. Leave me to my
faithful congregation and be gone. Do not return." With that she turned
back to the altar. I rose to my feet and walked from the church, and kept
walking to my car. I did not stop driving until I had hit the state border.


Searching For the Truth

As much as Astaroth had revealed to me in his diatribe, he had given me no
real details. I believed him as far as he went however. If Astaroth has the
time to be in a small church in Idaho, his influence no doubt extends into
many other small corners of the world. I have since that time spent many
months and years searching for the truth in what "Miranda" told me. My
inquiries have, of necessity, been discreet, accomplished through agents
and intermediaries. I am loathe to cross paths with the Beast directly. The
results have been less than encouraging however. Everywhere I turn, there
are signs of the Dark Lord's influence. They are not easy to discern, these
signs, but they are unmistakably there if you know where to look. I present
here a few examples of what I have learned through my endeavors cults,
groups, and individuals in high places all devoted to Astaroth in one of
his many incarnations.

Italian Freedom Front, Milan Italy

In recent years the northern Italian cities have grown more and more
resentful of the rest of Italy. Almost all of Italy's industrial base
resides north of the Po river, while the largest drains on the Italian
economy are in the south and in Sicily. Throughout the north support for a
divided Italy has grown rapidly. The North wishes to split Italy into two
or more semi-independent regions, effectively making the south fend for
itself. This is one of the most volatile issues in Italian politics, an
always volatile environment. Not surprisingly, wherever one finds strife,
it is likely that Astaroth or his agents are not far away.

The Italian Freedom Front is ostensibly the brain child of one Giorgio
Bennetti, a businessman and manufacturer from Milan. He founded the front
in 1991 in reaction to the ever growing tax burden on him and his company.
According to his rhetoric, he was tired of sending all of his money south
to Rome where it was divided between those who didn't want to work, the
corrupt politicians, and the Mafia. The Front soon gathered a moderate
following among small business owners and a few of the more prominent
Industrialists. Over the past five years it has grown increasingly larger,
to the point where it has significant political clout in the region.
Members of the front pay dues and make donations that go towards achieving
the goal of a Federated Italy, with the North free from the tax burden and
corruption of Rome.

Behind the facade of concerned businessman lurks the true face of Bennetti,
who is in fact not only an agent of Astaroth, but is in fact an incarnation
of the dread Prince of Lies. Bennetti has been secretly using a portion of
the Front's funds to pay for the training of a private terrorist army.
Bennetti uses the army to destabilize the government in Rome and generally
worsen division throughout Europe. They also serve as assassins when
Bennetti finds himself confronted with a political rival who will not
succumb to threats or bribery.

The Front's military wing has close ties to Astaroth himself, and all of
them are devoted Satanists. Many of the army's leaders have become powerful
death conjurers under Astaroth's direct tutelage. Astaroth's ultimate goal
is uncertain, but I think it is fair to assume that he wants nothing less
than to insight civil war within Italy, a war that he hopes would have
grave repercussions throughout Europe and the rest of the world.

Freedom's Voice, Beijing

China remains one of the most powerful and oppressive nations on the face
of the Earth. However, the age old country is also much to stable for
Astaroth's liking. Even though some might find Communism evil or the work
of the Devil, Astaroth himself has no political allegiances. He is and
agent of chaos and destruction. As repressive as the Communist regime might
be, it is nothing compared to the glory days of the raging civil wars that
have wracked the Chinese mainland in the past. The new hope for chaos and
instability in China lies in the burgeoning student pro-democracy movement,
and it is not surprising to find Astaroth himself right in the middle of it.

Freedom's Voice is an underground newspaper published and distributed by
the radical elements of the Beijing academic community. The editor in chief
is none other than the dark lord himself, born into the flesh of Ling Wei,
a twenty-five year old radical. Ling Wei lives in hiding, now wanted by the
police for questioning in several matters. No one outside of the movement
has seen him in several years, although he is purported to have been at the
scene of several student demonstrations. He is revered as a national hero
by those who would seek to change the face and heart of China. There have
been numerous stories about Ling Wei in western papers, and in America
their is a fund set up to take donations to help Ling Wei's cause.

From his hiding place deep in Communist China, Ling Wei directs a small
company of radicals and terrorists bent on overthrowing the Communist
regime. Naturally, all of these individuals have become worshipers of
Astaroth, and it is not uncommon for Razides and members of the Damned
Legions to accompany the radicals on their missions of terror. The fact is
that China is subject to a great deal of terrorism from within, but few if
any of these attacks are ever reported in the West, due to the tight hold
the government keeps on the press. Ling Wei's support is much greater than
Beijing would have the world believe. No doubt Astaroth hopes to make the
move to open rebellion sometime soon, aided by covert support from the west
as well as the Legions of the Damned.

Randy Hughes, Los Angeles

Many would argue that the United States of America is the leading force in
the world today, and where it goes the world will follow. Granted, most who
would make such an argument are Americans, but there is a certain amount of
truth in the sentiment. Certainly America is a prize worth fighting for on
any level, and Astaroth has focused a lot of his attention on the world's
only remaining super power. Fortunately for the lord of Inferno there is a
great deal of fertile ground for his works in the United States.

I have already described in detail my encounter with Miranda's church in
Idaho, and you can be assured that Astaroth has inserted his tendrils into
hundreds of other churches and religious organizations around the country.
Astaroth understands very well just how divisive religion can be among
humans, especially Americans where there are so many competing beliefs at
play. Aside from the hallowed halls of religion, Astaroth has extended his
influence into other tender parts of the American underbelly, most
particularly the hyper-sensitive issue of racism.

The racial division in the Untied States cuts deep into the American
psyche, and it has amazing power to disrupt the ordered social contract
U.S. citizens have grown accustomed. The city of Los Angeles remains one of
the centers of racial tension in the States, and it is not surprising that
we find Astaroth himself involved in the heart of the issue. Surprisingly,
Astaroth operates under the guise of peacemaker, one who's ostensible goal
is to bring the people of America together. Randy Hughes is one of the most
powerful figures in African-American politics in America, although few
people know his name. He prefers to remain behind the scenes, setting up
meetings, brokering agreements, and staging media events. There is hardly a
black leader on the west Coast who does not owe Hughes a favor or two, and
on one in the country who does not respect him (assuming they know him).

The fact that Hughes is in fact an incarnation of the Devil himself seems
to have been lost on his many supporters. Hughes is a very insidious form
of the Lord of Hell, different from the other incarnations I have discussed
here. He is not building up an army, nor does he have large numbers of
worshipers or followers. As far as I am able to discern the man works
entirely on his own. However, he has maneuvered himself into such a
position of authority and influence that he has a tremendous amount of
power at his influence. He is seen as the great voice of moderation within
the modern African American community. Hughes constantly works to mollify
the radical elements of the black community, building bridges of
understanding between blacks and whites.

Or at least he tries to build bridges. Unfortunately things always seem to
fall apart at the last minute, despite Hughes' best efforts. Everyone gives
him great credit for his work, and looks to him for guidance, yet he seldom
seems to accomplish much, a fact lost on his admirers. Hughes will soon
maneuver himself into a position where he can step from behind the scenes
and assume the leadership of the moderate black community in America.
Astaroth will then be in a position to do great harm whenever the mood
strikes him, simply by switching his position. If even the great peacemaker
Randy Hughes agrees that there will be no racial peace in America, then
millions will follow him into chaos.


Hell on Earth

These three are the only examples I can conclusively give. The evidence in
each case is overwhelming, and their can be no doubt that what I have said
is true, at least for now. I do not doubt that once this work is published
Astaroth will become aware of its existence. When this happens he may well
change tactic or even come after me himself, but I doubt it. I do not
delude myself, the readership of this work will be small, and even a
smaller percentage will choose to let themselves believe what I have
written here. This small work is of no concern to the Lord of Hell.

Take with you this final thought on Astaroth and his plans for the world. I
can only make one generalization about Astaroth: no generalizations are
possible. There are a great many stereotypes about the devil and the nature
of evil in the world and none of them are true. More accurately, none of
them are entirely true. Astaroth is not a creature of pure evil, he is not
the embodiment of all that is bad. He is a being of tremendous power and
unfathomable complexity. His motives are as multifaceted as any humans, and
probably more so. Nor can his methods be confined to any particular
patterns or rules. He will do anything, go anywhere to achieve his goals.
That does not make him evil, but it does make him extraordinarily
dangerous. All the more dangerous because of what his ultimate goal is. He
wants hell on Earth and nothing less, and if you have read this far you
know that is not a consummation devoutly to be wished.


Epilogue

It think it only fitting that my work end with the citadels of the Death
Angels. They are certainly the most dangerous places in Inferno for a
traveler. Always remember that in its citadel a Death Angel controls
reality, down to the very emotions you feel and thought you think. This is
not necessarily true for the rest of Inferno. Often you have only your own
heart and mind to rely on in order to make it through whatever ordeal hell
throws up against you next. In the citadels you cannot even count on that.

I find myself somewhat sad as I write these final words. This book has been
decades upon decades in the making, and still it comes down to just a few
pages. Why should this be? I could fill the text with all the accounts of
hell I have accumulated over the years. Certainly those accounts fill every
nook and cranny in the room I now sit. But what would be the point? I have
waded through these tales of unending human misery, and I can assure you,
they paint a depressing picture. It is enough for my readers to know what
kind of horrors lie below, and since no authoritative catalog could ever be
completed, I decided not to try.

This turns out to have been a kind of manual or guide for those who would
seek fame or fortune in the furthest reaches of hell. I would hope that
most would take it as a warning to give up such vainglorious dreams, but
failing that I hope they will at least take my warnings to heart. I have
represented here every kind of horror and threat that I know to exist in
Inferno, and there are certainly a great many. Likewise there are no doubt
many more, and one should always expect the unexpected.

Forgive an old man his ramblings. It is time to bring this to a close. I
would wish that you should never have need of this book, but I firmly
believe that you, no matter who you are, will find value in it. Every day
that we do not fight for our souls, we lose a little more of them to the
darkness. Remember. Always remember. Remembering is what They hate more
than anything.


Appendices

About the Author

Inferno: An Authoritative Study, is the product of decades of research on
the part of one of the world's best known Death Conjurers: Shelby Tyree.
Tyree was born in Boston in 1720, the child of two conjurers well versed in
the Lores of Passion and Death. It is said that they assured for their
child the soul of a long dead ancestor, a famous European conjurer from
Renaissance Italy. Raised in a tradition of magic, and taught early on of
his divine rights as a human being, Shelby quickly excelled at both the
magical arts and the occult sciences.

He remained a loyalist during the revolutionary war, and fled to Jamaica
when it became obvious that the Colonies would soon throw off their
masters. He spent several decades in the Caribbean, and was rumored to have
engaged in piracy on more than one occasion. After the Napoleonic wars he
relocated to Europe, where he spent the next hundred or so years, learning
all he could from the greatest conjurers of the day. Renowned for his

magically enhanced longevity, and social graces, Tyree was the enfant
terrible of the conjuring social scene for many years.

But the ambitious magician had more than immortality on his mind when he
began his exhaustive study of Inferno. He felt that he could make a
contribution to human society, maybe even help overthrow the power of
Astaroth himself. So he withdrew from society, devoting his full attentions
to the study of the world of the dead. So, decades later, we see the fruits
of his labors in this finely researched, well documented account of hell:
"A tour guide for the afterlife." as Tyree himself once called it.

Tyree published the book at his own expense, with a first print run of
1,000 copies. Printed on high quality, acid free paper, the book is meant
to last for centuries. Bound in hand tooled leather, sprinkled liberally
with diagrams, engravings, and even color prints, the book was an instant
collectors item in occult circles. Tyree, being a generous man, gave away
several hundred copies to friends and associates around the world. He
handles sales himself, preferring not to deal with any traditional book
selling venues. Those interested in obtaining a copy should attempt to
contact the author directly. He currently resides in the greater New York
metropolitan area.

Shelby Tyree as an NPC
Game masters may want to include the opinionated and enigmatic Tyree in
their campaign. He can be an excellent ally or antagonist for any group of
players, depending on how the game master wishes to use him. He is a very
arrogant, opinionated man, but also very polite. He has his own agenda,
only some of which is revealed in his book. He would gladly use the players
as pawns in his schemes against the Death Angels, sending them on dangerous
missions, even into Inferno itself, in exchange for information or possibly
teaching the player characters magic. He may even contact the players
himself if he thinks they could prove valuable allies or agents.

When playing Tyree always act very urbane and distinguished. He never loses
his temper, nor shows any surprise. He will laugh politely at other
people's jokes, and listen attentively to their stories. He is the perfect
host, and has a way of gaining others' trust very quickly. He speaks with a
slightly European accent when in America, an affectation on his part that
increases his charm. in fact he is a talented linguist, and speaks eight
different languages as if he were a native.

Stats for Shelby Tyree

AGL: 15
STR: 12
CON: 24
COM: 15
EGO: 25
CHA: 17
PER: 16
EDU: 16

Height: 170 cm
Weight: 68 kg
Movement: 8m/rnd
Actions: 2
Initiative Bonus: +3
Damage Bonus: +2
Damage Capacity: 6 scratches = 1 light wound
5 light wounds = 1 serious wound
3 serious wounds = 1 fatal wound
Endurance: 140
Mental Balance: -40
Dark Secrets: Family Secret
Advantages: Influential Friends, Magical Intuition
Disadvantages: Egoist
Skills: Handgun: 14, Sword: 13, Unarmed Combat: 10 First Aid: 15,
Astrology: 25, Alchemy: 26, Voodoo: 30, Tarot: 15, Cabbalah: 23, Symbols:
18, Numerology: 20, Languages: English: 20, French: 20, German: 18,
Italian: 18, Dutch: 15, Spanish: 20, Latin: 20, Hebrew: 20, Greek: 20, Net
of Contacts: Death Magicians: 30, Satanists: 15.

Magic: Lore of Death: 60 (all spells at 25), Lore of Passion: 20, Lore of
Madness: 15, Lore of Time & Space: 15

Home: New York


Using Inferno in your Campaign

Inferno and the Kult Campaign

Inferno offers quite a few opportunities for game masters to liven up their
games, but only if the setting is used judiciously. Inferno is the source
of so many of the antagonists players are likely to come up against:
Satanists, death conjurers, Razides, the Death Angels, and even Astaroth
himself. It is only natural to think that at some point the players
characters might try to take the fight to their enemies' home turf.
Nevertheless, Inferno should remain a mystery to the players. Even more
importantly, he it should remain threatening, even horrifying for them. The
decision to go to Inferno should never be undertaken lightly; after all,
their characters' souls are at stake here.

Trips to Inferno should occur very rarely, so as not to become passé.
Players are most frightened in situations they are not familiar with, so
whenever they become familiar with Inferno's threats, those threats lose
their potency. Nothing in Inferno should ever be what the players expect it
will be. Corridors move, laws of physics change, demon lords are replaced
by others. Novelty, confusion, and shock are the keys to a successful
Inferno experience.

It is also important to realize that it can be hard for players to feel
sympathetic fear for their characters if they cannot picture the horrors
that confront them. That is why so much of what is described in this book
walks a fine line between our world and the fantastic. Everyday situations
taken to horrible extremes are easier to imagine than bizarre situations
the players cannot relate to. Thus the betrayal of a friend, or the death
of a loved one often carries more emotional impact than facing some larger
than life monster with gnashing teeth and fiery breath. We've all been
betrayed, or at least suffered from a fear of losing someone or something
we hold dear. Few of us can really picture what it would be like to fight a
dragon; it is simply beyond our experience.

Thus many of Inferno's torments are firmly grounded in human experience.
They are familiar situations taken a step further. Keep this in mind when
creating torments and encounters of your own in Inferno. Look closely at
your players and their characters, and think about what would make them
most uncomfortable. Do you have a player who is scared to death of spiders?
Confront them with hordes of the little arachnids somewhere along the line
as they journey through Inferno. does a character have a dead sister who's
ghost still haunts him? Bring that spirit into Inferno, confront the
character with her. The dead sister does not attack. We all know what to do
when we are attacked. Instead she tells her brother that she loves him,
that she's sorry. She begs to know why he convinced her to commit suicide.
That is a horrifying experience most people and characters will have
trouble dealing with.

It is paramount that any Inferno experience be as frightening,
disheartening, and gut-wrenching as possible. Once it is over, the players
should absolutely dread the thought of ever returning their again. That
will make it all the worse for them when they do have to go back, or worse
yet, when they are brought back against their wishes. Every journey to
Inferno should cost more than is gained That is the nature of the place.
Even if the players go in with the hope of great rewards, and even if they
get those rewards, they should come away feeling that it was not worth it.
The price they pay is always too great. Inferno is a force of implacable
despair in the universe, and no good can come from dealing with it. Not
that the players will know or believe this. They will try, and they will
learn what it means to harrow hell.

There are a variety of ways Inferno can be integrated into a Kult campaign.
We divide them here into two rather broad categories: Accidental and
Intentional. Accidental is the more common way of entering Inferno. After
all, anyone who takes a moment to ponder things rationally should realize
that voluntarily going to hell is a bad idea. Intentional harrowings should
be quite rare, and are the stuff of extended campaigns that take several
game sessions. they are often misguided quests of some sort, and are almost
universally ill-fated from inception. This of course makes them all the
more fun to play.

Accidental entries include temporary portals opening up around the
characters, being kidnapped by Razides, and getting lost wandering through
the Labyrinth. These Infernal explorations are usually about trying to find
a way home again and nothing more. They make for good, quick, nasty
interludes in a campaign that maybe needs a little spicing up.
There should be plenty of danger, excitement, and non-stop action: a
desperate race against time. Temporary portals between Elysium and Inferno
open up all the time, and are the perfect opportunity to give the players a
small taste of Inferno. It is a nice ironic touch to make the opening of a
portal the direct result of something the players have done. For example,
the players manage to fight off a number evil cultists attacking a school
full of children. The resulting carnage, fear, and suffering is enough to
open a temporary portal that manages to get the players and the children
stuck in Inferno and trying to find a way out.

Intentional journeys into Inferno should come from the players, although
the game master might well provide the impetus. Classic reasons for
harrowing hell include: recovering the souls of lost loved ones, taking
vengeance on a particular death angel, finding information known only to a
dead person, seeking some artifact rumored to be in hell, or fulfilling a
quest given to the players by some other being. The journey should be
fraught with peril, sorrow, and hopelessness. It is against all odds that
the players might come out of it with their souls intact. They know it is a
bad idea, but circumstances offer them no choice. These are games of high
melodrama and tension, and the game master needs to work extra hard to keep
up the appropriate mood.

Some Important Game Conventions

Dying

The most important game convention to keep in mind when running a game set
in Inferno is what happens to characters when they die. Its really quite
simple: they stay in Hell. Souls that leave the body in Inferno do not move
from their current location. Dying in Inferno is the same for all humans: a
few moments, hours, or days later (depending on the will of local demon
lords and the game master) the body is fully regenerated. If the character
was alive before he came to Inferno, he is now dead.

What does it mean to be dead? Most importantly, your soul is no longer
attached to your body, and a soul needs a body to exist in Elysium.
Characters dying for the first time will have an odd experience: their
physical body will remain where it fell, a lifeless hunk of flesh. The
character's soul will literally step out of that body and appear next to
the corpse. For all intents and purposes it is as if the character has two
bodies. The new body functions just like the old one, and the character is
unaware of any differences. The only problem is, if the character should
try to leave Inferno with their new body, they will be prohibited. The
character cannot step through portal, nor effect the other side in any way.
His souls is lost forever, unless a death conjurer or some other being
reincarnates him with by magical means.

Dying in Inferno also means that the character is out of the loop of
reincarnation. They will not ever receive a new body, unless they can
somehow figure out a way to get themselves into the memory purging process
of the Nine Circles. This is easier said than done, since most demons will
see the player character for what he is, and choose to hold on to him
rather than offer him hope of returning to the living world some day. This
can result in some interesting deal making. The demon might demand that the
player character find another soul to take his place. In return the
character will be allowed to undergo years of torture before he finally
escapes Inferno's clutches.

Laws of Physics

The Game master should feel free to play fast and loose with the laws of
physics and time and space. Guns can misfire, fire backwards, or not fire
at all. Gravity can suddenly switch direction, parallel lines can meet, two
objects can occupy the same place at the same time, and so on. This is a
great tool for keeping the players off guard, but only as long as the game
master uses them with subtlety. The characters may not even be aware of
what is happening until it is too late. Likewise, the amount of time that
passes for the players probably has no correlation to the flow of time in
Elysium. years of torment can take a few minutes of Greenwich Mean time. In
Inferno, it truly is all relative.

Last Words

Inferno is more malleable than most game settings. The game master is free
to do whatever he or she can dream up, for as Tyree has said so often in
his book, anything is possible in Inferno. we encourage the game master to
go wild with Inferno. Do not hold back, do not pull any punches. Inferno is
the worst place imaginable in all of the already nasty Kult universe. Make
it the worst place your player characters have ever been as well. Make them
hate you for ever bringing them there. They'll thank you later.