Post by Baalbatos on Feb 16, 2016 8:46:13 GMT -5
Baalbatos sat in the dark of his quarters, the only source of light the pale, artificial glow of his data pad. His eyes hurt. Head been reading in the dark for hours now. Through the light that pained him so, he squinted, seeking the time. And he found it. It was well past this planet’s midnight. He groaned. Damn these reports, he told himself. Damn them straight to Hell. He just wanted to sleep, to rejuvenate, to wander the dreamscape of his subconscious mind. Baalbatos wanted to mount a great escape through the veil between the world of waking and the world of dreams. Dreams had always been the demons escape from the stressors and perils of the physical world. Nothing could kill him in his dreams, or at least nothing that he knew of.
The world made of thoughts was one far kinder than the one physical. Or at least it was kinder to Baalbatos. He knew little of the lives of those that populated his dreams, and he cared even less. His chief concern was his own comfort, both in this world and the one in his head. And that was why he had aligned himself with Lord Qrowen. Good service to the Kold Demon Lord might let Baalbatos make the world made up in his dreams a reality. The lap of luxury and with plenty of power to go with it. Those two things made up the bulk of his dreams. Though, there was the occasional outlier in his dreams, the odd man out that he hardly remembered, fleeting away as soon as he awakened. And Baalbatos hardly forgot anything at all.
However, there was that run-in he had had with Gouta, or rather the Brenchian woman’s fist. The demon could scarcely remember the circumstances of that embarrassing encounter. He remembered their spar, her blinding speed, and his head on the ground… But hardly anything else. Except for the force of the blow. She had hit him hard, and even now pain shot down his neck, as if the phantom of the blow had just struck him again. His cheeks burned to remember. That had been less than ideal. And all he could do was remember how she had sent him toppling to the ground. He needed to be stronger. He was stronger. Those weights had seen to that. Perhaps the next time they trained, he would be the one knocking the other to the ground. Yes, he could do that…
A yawn escaped from the lips of Baalbatos. He was tired, incredibly so. A certain anger, an impatience, it was creeping into his mind, like ice settling into the cracks between earth. It was taking hold of him and who was he to try and fight it? Sourly, he set his datapad aside and rose from his chair, the joints of his body cracking as he moved. He was like a great, rusted machine, finally trying to move again. And he did not have to go far. His bed was just beyond his desk, and he threw himself on to it. Baalbatos sank into the soft material of the bed, groaning as he did so. He needed this, more than anything in the world. Even now, he could feel his consciousness fading away, giving itself over to the much needed sleep. He laid there for minutes, unmoving, waiting for sleep to take him. And finally it did.
Baalbatos was back in the demon realm, the place of his origin. He looked about himself. Something was wrong, even now. He was surrounded by the old band of demons he had led when he was still a part of this realm, but there was something wrong about them as well. And Baalbatos could just not place it. It was as if he was looking at his old stomping grounds through frosted glass, everything so indistinct. No matter, he told himself, it was just good to be back. And he was stronger than ever. Perhaps he could finally carve out a little piece of the demon realm for himself…
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Baalbatos turned to look: a blue-skinned demon was standing beside him. What was his name? Baalbatos knew the names of all his men, but for some reason this one’s escaped him. Another thing wrong with this scene.
The demon tried to speak to Baalbatos, but Baalbatos only looked at him in confusion as no words came from the demon’s flapping mouth. Spittle flew from the demon’s mouth, speckling onto Baalbatos’s own face as the demon drew closer and closer, as if trying to communicate with Baalbatos but still no sound came. It was as if the demon were broken or there was cotton in Baalbatos’s ears, as if to match with the frost on his eyes. Baalbatos frowned, stepping back from the demon, and looked back to the rest of his old crew. But they were gone. The only one left was the mute blue-skinned demon. Baalbatos looked on in confusion as the demon’s skin began to shift, from blue to purple, to red, to orange, and so on, like it was some kind of Hellish chameleon.
And it was growing, like a demonic beanstalk, rising tall and above Baalbatos. Another step back as the silver-haired demon craned his neck to look up at the ever-growing demon, its skin still shifting color.
“What the Hell…” he whispered to himself. He cocked his head to the side. He had heard that. How strange. Nothing in this world made sense anymore. Even before, the demon realm had had some semblance of sense, at least most of the time. Now it was just some absurd landscape. The sky shifted to night above him and the winds around him picked up. And yet, the demon in front of him was still growing, it’s skin now a light side of lilac, and it was staying there.
A pale light of shifting color sprouted in the corner of his eye. Baalbatos tore his eyes from the behemoth in front of him to look. And finally, he saw the most familiar thing yet: the same portal in space that had ripped him from this world once before. He drew closer. Perhaps it was time to leave the demon realm. Was it really his home anymore? It was not the Hellscape that he remembered. Nothing looked right, nothing was familiar. Slowly, his hand trembling, he reached for the portal…
Baalbatos’s eyes fluttered up, a small sigh escaping his lips. He smacked his lips, and squinted. His mouth was dry now, dry to the bone.
“Water,” he croaked as he sat up in his bed. His eyes slowly moved over his surroundings, looking at them in the pale morning light. He was back in his quarters. Not the demon realm. And soon, it struck him. He had been in a dream. Already, the dream was becoming a memory, something immaterial in the face of his real life, and a frown crossed his lips. That had been odd.
“Now,” he groaned to himself, “Back to those reports…”
(I'll take zeni please!)
The world made of thoughts was one far kinder than the one physical. Or at least it was kinder to Baalbatos. He knew little of the lives of those that populated his dreams, and he cared even less. His chief concern was his own comfort, both in this world and the one in his head. And that was why he had aligned himself with Lord Qrowen. Good service to the Kold Demon Lord might let Baalbatos make the world made up in his dreams a reality. The lap of luxury and with plenty of power to go with it. Those two things made up the bulk of his dreams. Though, there was the occasional outlier in his dreams, the odd man out that he hardly remembered, fleeting away as soon as he awakened. And Baalbatos hardly forgot anything at all.
However, there was that run-in he had had with Gouta, or rather the Brenchian woman’s fist. The demon could scarcely remember the circumstances of that embarrassing encounter. He remembered their spar, her blinding speed, and his head on the ground… But hardly anything else. Except for the force of the blow. She had hit him hard, and even now pain shot down his neck, as if the phantom of the blow had just struck him again. His cheeks burned to remember. That had been less than ideal. And all he could do was remember how she had sent him toppling to the ground. He needed to be stronger. He was stronger. Those weights had seen to that. Perhaps the next time they trained, he would be the one knocking the other to the ground. Yes, he could do that…
A yawn escaped from the lips of Baalbatos. He was tired, incredibly so. A certain anger, an impatience, it was creeping into his mind, like ice settling into the cracks between earth. It was taking hold of him and who was he to try and fight it? Sourly, he set his datapad aside and rose from his chair, the joints of his body cracking as he moved. He was like a great, rusted machine, finally trying to move again. And he did not have to go far. His bed was just beyond his desk, and he threw himself on to it. Baalbatos sank into the soft material of the bed, groaning as he did so. He needed this, more than anything in the world. Even now, he could feel his consciousness fading away, giving itself over to the much needed sleep. He laid there for minutes, unmoving, waiting for sleep to take him. And finally it did.
Baalbatos was back in the demon realm, the place of his origin. He looked about himself. Something was wrong, even now. He was surrounded by the old band of demons he had led when he was still a part of this realm, but there was something wrong about them as well. And Baalbatos could just not place it. It was as if he was looking at his old stomping grounds through frosted glass, everything so indistinct. No matter, he told himself, it was just good to be back. And he was stronger than ever. Perhaps he could finally carve out a little piece of the demon realm for himself…
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Baalbatos turned to look: a blue-skinned demon was standing beside him. What was his name? Baalbatos knew the names of all his men, but for some reason this one’s escaped him. Another thing wrong with this scene.
The demon tried to speak to Baalbatos, but Baalbatos only looked at him in confusion as no words came from the demon’s flapping mouth. Spittle flew from the demon’s mouth, speckling onto Baalbatos’s own face as the demon drew closer and closer, as if trying to communicate with Baalbatos but still no sound came. It was as if the demon were broken or there was cotton in Baalbatos’s ears, as if to match with the frost on his eyes. Baalbatos frowned, stepping back from the demon, and looked back to the rest of his old crew. But they were gone. The only one left was the mute blue-skinned demon. Baalbatos looked on in confusion as the demon’s skin began to shift, from blue to purple, to red, to orange, and so on, like it was some kind of Hellish chameleon.
And it was growing, like a demonic beanstalk, rising tall and above Baalbatos. Another step back as the silver-haired demon craned his neck to look up at the ever-growing demon, its skin still shifting color.
“What the Hell…” he whispered to himself. He cocked his head to the side. He had heard that. How strange. Nothing in this world made sense anymore. Even before, the demon realm had had some semblance of sense, at least most of the time. Now it was just some absurd landscape. The sky shifted to night above him and the winds around him picked up. And yet, the demon in front of him was still growing, it’s skin now a light side of lilac, and it was staying there.
A pale light of shifting color sprouted in the corner of his eye. Baalbatos tore his eyes from the behemoth in front of him to look. And finally, he saw the most familiar thing yet: the same portal in space that had ripped him from this world once before. He drew closer. Perhaps it was time to leave the demon realm. Was it really his home anymore? It was not the Hellscape that he remembered. Nothing looked right, nothing was familiar. Slowly, his hand trembling, he reached for the portal…
Baalbatos’s eyes fluttered up, a small sigh escaping his lips. He smacked his lips, and squinted. His mouth was dry now, dry to the bone.
“Water,” he croaked as he sat up in his bed. His eyes slowly moved over his surroundings, looking at them in the pale morning light. He was back in his quarters. Not the demon realm. And soon, it struck him. He had been in a dream. Already, the dream was becoming a memory, something immaterial in the face of his real life, and a frown crossed his lips. That had been odd.
“Now,” he groaned to himself, “Back to those reports…”
(I'll take zeni please!)