Words: 334k+
Links: -https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/the-gift-of-rage-hazbin-hotel-helluva-boss.931213/#post-75446885
-https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13873016/1/
( Every time a soul falls, Hell rejoices. Some find new victims. Others find new tools to their designs. But sometimes, just sometimes, what lands in Hell... causes waves.
Book 1 of The Silent God Duology. )
Now this is a part from a much later chapter in the story I am showing it as a exanple of how high quality of this story is hope you like it fellows
( "Blinkered thinking, Samuel," Alastor said. "You're not seeing hopes. You're seeing something far more fundamental to a person. You're seeing the fire that drives them. For many enough, that is hope, or fear, but that's not the only thing which can make a soldier march. Duty is another, far colder flame. Hate is colder still, but burns long."
"I'm... pretty sure I can't see those," Sam said.
"Can you not, or have you not tried, being satisfied with the low-hanging fruit?" Alastor teased with the cockiest grin.
Sam stared at him, seeing the glee of the man having a sounding board worthy of the name, and the twisted desire to see just how far Sam was going to go. There was more there. Sam focused, shutting out the glee, and looking... deeper. Past the obvious.
He might be blind, for all the outside world imparted itself on him, so focused was Sam on that which lay within. Not a flame of hope or fear, but flame itself. Will. Drive. Desire at its most basic, closest-to-the-metal, somewhere between axiomatic mathematics and the wiring of a lizard-brain. He looked and Saw inside of Alastor, saw the drive of him.
Curiosity.
That was the beginning and end of him. That was the flame that burned Alastor from his childhood and into his damnation. He wanted to know. He wanted to know everything. Everything in all the World, everything in Hell, everything in Heaven. Everything in all of the places beyond the two. He wanted to dredge the cosmos for its deepest held secrets, its most closely guarded enigmas. He wanted to drag them screaming and naked into the daylight, so he could know them so completely that they would never be secret again.
Everything that Alastor had ever done in his life was subservient to that goal. In the instant that ignited his fiendish curiosity, he realized that he would not be allowed to learn all that he wanted to. But he also learned that Power Is Permission. To be powerful was to be able to dare the world to stop you from doing whatever you wanted, even if what you wanted to do was to unearth blasphemy. Every whit that Alastor's living curiosity had given him also gave him power, power he used as permission to learn more. In his perfect, ideal world, he would not live in Hell for all eternity, but neither would he live in Heaven. He would sit no thrones, command no legions. Instead, he would Discover. He would scour the world of all knowledge, and know all.
Sam leaned back, the world returning to him showing the conservatory around them, now replete with recovering plants of myriad description. Alastor had a contemplative smile on his face. "And in this moment, Samuel, you know me better than anyone ever has."
"You are a monster," Sam said.
"Gladly and eagerly," Alastor agreed. "Let's see what kind of monster you can become." )
Also here is a dm I had with the author the revelation I presumed was hilarious and awesome as I wished ;)
( I was reading the fic and I have a question did did..... Blitz kill hitler?
Look: I'm not saaaaaying that Blitz killed Hitler buuuuuuut...
Blitz totally killed Hitler. )
Chapter 1 Part 1
If you sow cruelty, you shall reap Ruin
- Attributed to Yaldabaoth
The scream had a particular quality to it, one that stood out from the almost constant background wailing of the damned that only occasionally had the basic decency to shut the fuck up. Of the screams that always sounded here in Pride, most were pain, as Sinners were brought low again and again, their never-dying flesh brought to ruin only to recover, and be brought to ruin again by those who had the sadism for such patient cruelty. Others were despair, the low but unending wail of those whom there was no active torment left, but they'd had enough that they didn't need it anymore. There were a few of anger as well, those who refused to passively accept being victimized by the worst that all of Humanity and the Will of God could muster. Those ones didn't tend to last.
This scream, though, was one of shock. Surprise. And it ended abruptly, with a faintly wet thump.
That wettish thump was the landing of a new soul in Hell, fresh from the living world, laying in a pool of fetid blood and slowly retreating entrails. The new Sinner stared up, at the moon which bore a symbol of Hell's dominion etched into its surface. Large, round ears picked up the many, many other screams which were not his, the garish, foul-intentioned music, the laughter of thirsting demons. He raised his arms, one of which was painfully broken and at unnatural angles, and could not hold in the loud yelp of pain as he felt and watched it pull itself back into a more usable angle, the burn of muscles reaffirming themselves. There was something intruding on the corners of his vision, and when he reached up, he felt something hard, smooth there.
Horns.
"I swear I 'eard it, roit 'round 'ere!" a voice came, somewhere between gurgling snot and rattling a mug full of gravel. He tried to fight the pain, to focus, but all of this seemed like a dream. A nightmare.
"If you're bullshitting me again, Rog, I swear to God..." another, higher and fluteier and likewise male.
"The fuck are you swearing to God for? D'you forget where we are, hombre?" a third cut in, deep and smooth.
"Eh, old habits die hard," the second said with a laugh that called to mind throwing plates at a wall.
Where... Pain was obvious. He'd been shot. At least twice. The blood was coming out slow, and his hands had burning pain in them. He'd crawled through the streets, through the slums, trying to reach ... who was he trying to reach? What city was it? Somebody shot him. Why did they shoot him? And where was he now?
"Well ho-lee-fuck you were right, Rog," the third said from somewhere behind the broken Sinner.
"A' would y'look a' tha'?" Rog, as he had been named, asked. "'E's even a feckin' Sloth, s'like."
"No better eating than a Slothful soul, you're right on that," the third noted.
He rolled, feeling the pain of now on a ruptured chest, and saw... demons. A part of his mind tried to deny the existence of such fiends, that this was another nightmare that fit into a lifetime of nightmares, but he had an unshakable feeling that there was no such mercy. This was not a dream. That didn't mean that there was no room for nightmares.
The three were lizards in the broad strokes, scales on their flesh and eyes that were narrow slits, many needle-like teeth behind thin, almost vestigial lips. The largest of them, red of scale, began to walk toward him, a knife appearing in his hand. His eyes widened as he beheld the broken form there, and an unfriendly grin. The squattest, green with a wattle that hung almost to his navel was practically glued to his hip. "So you figure we're going to have some loin or chuck?"
"Maybe 'e's got 'imself a big fuckin' brisket?" the green lizard, Rog, offered.
"Welcome to hell, kid. You're going to be delicious," the last one, orange and wiry, said as he pulled a cleaver from a pocket of his coat.
The Gift of Rage
Alright, I'm going to try something that I haven't done before. I'm going to write a story by the seat of my pants, without going through the process of outlining it first.
I know, I've just only barely managed to finish my last project, and here I am jumping into another one, but believe me, this one is a much smaller mouthful to bite off. While I don't have all of its story beats planned out, I know that it's a smaller, simpler story, and I know how it'll end.
So let's get this trainwreck rolling.