To Hell and Back!

(✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): yeah, yeah, yeah. guess i should’ve lead with that or whatever. […] (✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): right, i’m hoping not to lose my goddamn mind before all this is over (✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): uh huh. i don’t know spells, and i don’t have artifacts or potions. was hoping for more of a ‘listen to music loud as hell’ kind of answer here. […] (✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): holy water. (✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): are you fucking with me?

[ ✉ ⟹ Reyes, Cursed ] : It would’ve helped, but I understand the need for quick information

[ . . . ]

[ ✉ ⟹ Reyes, Cursed ] : It’s not an easy task. I needn’t bore you with the details, but I’ve had my fair share of mindlessness. [ ✉ ⟹ Reyes, Cursed ] : If you ever need contacts, I know plenty. I also know plenty you should stay away from.

[ . . . ]

✨  for  a  random  text  from  my  muse // @risethedemxn

(✉️ ➡️ memaw unknown): lyla is pissed off at me again (✉️ ➡️ memaw unknown): she keeps sending my texts to the wrong numbers (✉️ ➡️ memaw unknown): can you please help me? will you talk to her? she likes you. (✉️ ➡️ memaw unknown): or magic her. i don’t care. just make it stop.

@risethedemxn

(✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): how do you get it to shut the fuck up? […] (✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): this is robbie. (✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): reyes. (✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): with the flame problem. (✉️ ➡️ another fucking demon): how do you get yours to fuck off?

[ ✉ ⟹ Dinah Lance ] : This new technology st ill eludes me to tjis day. [ ✉ ⟹ Dinah Lance ] : i findd letters are fear more effectiveconversationallhy [ ✉ ⟹ Dinah Lance ] : damn ths demon for hiding this dammned thing

[ . . . ]

Zatanna’s life never slowed down. She could blame it on being a Zatara or the magical needs of this world that required her to be at the forefront of everything — but for Zatanna? She enjoyed being busy. There was something satisfying of knowing that she was needed and that she had solutions in the palm of her hand or written backwards on the tip of her tongue. But a single letter had pulled her out of that. A different kind of excitement touching her because it had been too long since she had last seen him. Blood was a man who vanished all the time, but like Fate, in a way, he always showed up when he was needed. Always had a vast amount of information to share, and more than that, he came as a friend.

Her father had trusted him first, long before she was born. But Zatanna had come to trust him just as her father had. Looking forward to his letters that he was in town like an old friend that was visiting for a weekend and surprising her. She always came to him hoping that he was planning on staying longer than it took to unpack his bags. (But there was a worry too, that when he appeared, it was because there was trouble brewing and he was about to reveal some horrific magical complication that threatened their very existence. Zatanna decided to hope that this was just a friendly visit.)

“I’d say we could travel back and see them ourselves, but I think I’ve done too much meddling with time already.” It had started with her jumping through trying to solve a demonic issue that was causing instability between the dimensions… but she was horrific at leaving things alone for too long. Zatanna stopped at his side, looking up at the statue for a moment before focusing her gaze on him. He looked the same as he always did. (Which was always alarming. The world kept flying past him and Zatanna looked at him and wondered if time moved at all.) “What about today?” She asked.

          The knight finally turned with his same smile, barely recognizing the magician since the last time he saw her. Had it really been that long since he’d been around? Time blurred far too many lines to the immortal, recalling a time before electricity almost as easily as he did the day before. It was a sentiment he shared with a select few, and even fewer understood the gravity of watching time pass by; everything aging and yourself staying the exact same. But, even so, amazing things were built the same times things were demolished, and watching them age had always been a fascinating study. Oh, to follow the path of a human again, he wondered often what would have happened if things went differently on that fated day of battle...

          Thoughtful trance aside, he sighed, letting crossed arms pull a bit tighter across his chest. “Already? Don’t tell me you’re being so reckless.” He bit his tongue before he could finish with the ever-fated question: What would your father think? Might be the reason he felt compelled to reach out to her again, though... He himself wasn’t so sure. Etrigan only offered so much knowledge about the state of the world, of the state that Hell was in, in actual riddles the man could decipher. He may not have the same magical affinity the magicians and sorcerers had... But when the demon willed him to investigate, to draw on more of his hellish influence, there was little he could do to stop it. 

//

Jason Blood was one of the more intriguing characters Erik had added to his extensive list of acquaintances over the decades. Officially, the man was part of the Justice League, now, a fact which had made Erik a bit more leery in recent years of dropping by. He did not get on terribly well with hero teams, historically speaking, and the prospect of coming face to face with Superman or one of the others was not one he was particularly interested in–especially given his more recent history with the man’s cousin and son. No, thank you, Blood had been a particularly useful acquaintance back in his days with Mossad–the further up the Nazi chain one got, the more the occult bled their way into their beliefs. That was not Erik’s area of expertise, nor one he particularly wanted to dabble in. Jason Blood was an expert, if not the expert. 

He was also quite fun to be around, which had kept Erik coming to his doorstep even when his need for that particular sort of information began to wane. 

Showing up after over a year with no warning and after having paid a visit to the other side was probably not the best way to make his reappearance to the man, but then, he also wasn’t entirely certain Blood knew how a phone worked anyway. 

( It didn’t matter, regardless–Erik’s latest phone had been fried yesterday in an argument with a cabbie, and he hadn’t made time to go by the shop yet for a new one. ) He sat by the fireplace while the man got the tea ready and flipped idly through the closest book. Latin, of course. Something about portals, which Erik read with vague interest until his host returned with the tea tray and settled into the opposite chair.  “No apology necessary, please,” Erik brushed off as he reached for the offered teacup, a slightly chipped little thing that looked like it’d come from at least two centuries prior. “Perhaps it’s selfish to say, but I’m glad to hear it–I had the misfortune of setting off one of Zatanna’s wards a week or two ago. Not an experience I’m eager to repeat.” 

/

          Another heavy breath sank his shoulders further into the chair, blinking away his moment of confusion and curiosity. “Ah. I’m sure.” He nodded, almost forgetting his own cup in his frantic moment of hospitality, staring at the amber-tinted liquid just a second too long. “... Hers certainly are more potent than anything I could carve. She wields actual magic, I only hope to emulate it through what little of the craft I can work with.” A light chuckle seemed to signify calmed nerves, one sip of tea later brought him back to his right wits. 

          Jason’s eyes studied... But not for too long. He knew better than that, to stare and dig too deeply without cause. They’d barely spoken, he didn’t need to draw any suspicions of... Suspicion. “Still,” he sighed, looking back up towards the bookshelves. “Hers are not misplaced. I hope I don’t have to scold you for some misdeed.” Half of a joke, the only indication was the sly smile curling onto his lips. In truth, Jason had no room to judge. Hell, he would be damned if it wasn’t for the quite immortal curse. Whatever business anyone had, whatever scale of morality, couldn’t compare to what Etrigan had influenced in him... Or, perhaps, his self-made exile had gone on a thousand years too long. 

//

Loki being Loki, he was naturally prone to critique the other magical users and beings he came across, believing his own skills to be far superior. Even if he acknowledged that another magic wielder had suitable skills, he would instead point out what they were doing wrong. But at the same time, he did not stop seeking them out, to either explore possible alliances or simply to get to know the competition. He was not entirely sure what to make of this man, being as Loki seemed to feel more than one presence emanating from him, which was more than enough to pique his curiosity. 

As did the array of magical concoctions about the place. Loki kept his steps quiet until he had entered, not wishing to alert the occupant of the room too soon. When he was noticed at last, he smiled nonchalantly. “Forgive me, I was merely admiring the collection you have amassed here. Quite impressive.” He was not really impressed, but he was certainly curious. “Is this a hobby of yours? Or do you truly consider yourself a practitioner of magic?” If he did, he was certainly nowhere in Loki’s league.

/

          Jason let out a scoff of a laugh, shaking his head as he followed the other’s eyes. He really should get a proper organizing system to his collected trinkets- “As old as I am, sarcasm is not lost on me,” he pointed out, wandering just a bit closer to the stranger in his library. “No, just... Attempting to help out some old friends through the years.” And himself, but only as silent admittance for the moment. Even more so through the years, he learned not to let the secret of Etrigan slip off his tongue, lest the malicious wizard come looking for a pet or a servant of destruction. Merlin could truly be anywhere at any time, and he wasn’t about to face that life-or-death situation anytime again. 

/

The Rider’s memories in his head were getting less and less overwhelming now than they’d been in the days immediately following the blackout. It felt like something was settling, like there was less of a jolt each time something new slotted into place because the heavy parts were already where they belonged and all that was left were the smaller pieces, like grains of sand following the dropping of a pile of bricks onto the ground. The foundation was already in place, and nothing else was quite as heavy.

That didn’t mean it didn’t still carry weight, though.

Robbie often found himself waking up in the middle of the night with words he didn’t know stuck to the tip of his tongue, unfamiliar names already fading from the forefront of his mind and back behind whatever wall existed during his waking hours. It had never felt like this before, with the Rider. He’d always been able to feel the Devil in the back of his mind, heard whatever thoughts the demon wanted him to hear, but he’d never experienced anything like this before. It was disorienting, to say the least. And goddamn exhausting. He was getting even less sleep than he was used to, which was certainly saying something. It sent him to a small café for a cup of anything caffeinated, desperate to keep his eyes open long enough to make it through his afternoon shift at Canelo’s. 

He was tired and a little irritated, to the point that he ignored the Rider’s shifting as he approached the only open seat in the café. If there was someone in here the Rider figured deserved his brand of vengeance, they’d have to wait until after Robbie was finished with work tonight. Right now, all he wanted was to focus on his coffee and enjoy it in silence. 

Unfortunately, the other occupant of the booth seemed to have another idea in mind.

“What?” Robbie blinked at the man for a moment, feeling the Rider shift again. The movement was more insistent this time. It took him a beat to remember that he probably ought to play dumb here. “Do I look like a guy who’s into the occult? What’s that even mean, man?”

/

          The man let out an incredulous chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course. Peculiar question, I know.” A hand pushing through the thick white shock of hair occupied his hands for the moment, the nervous tic of gesturing wildly when he was excited, entertained, quelled for just a moment, while he gathered a momentary thought about how to continue this conversation. Leaning in closer, lowering his voice, he tried in earnest to get his point across early. “I... Know what you are. What you have. Or, perhaps, I have a strong inkling I know.” The same inkling was daring to throw his consciousness to the wayside, to claw through his chest at the unseen entity he was somehow drawn to doing battle with in the middle of a public space... Then again, Etrigan was never one for civility.

          Had the Demon been given free reign, he would’ve been a much more known entity. The Rhyming Hellion had only been at bay because of his host’s willpower, the years of experience keeping him quiet, or at the very least sated. To release him would mean devastation, destructions, the likes of which Jason couldn’t control or hope to be steered in the correct direction. Months had gone by without so much as an incident, which made this somewhat-chance encounter all the more... Awkward. He had to carefully balance his own desire for information, comradery, with the dark influence of the creature he’d shared a physical form with since King Arthur’s age. 

Send a 🎧 and I will put my music on shuffle, then write a starter based on a lyric from the first song that plays // “I Will Buy You a New Life” by Everclear.

Lyric: Can you believe he actually thinks I’m really alive?

closed starter for @risethedemxn​

Many things were different now that Bruce was back in New York. Well, not many. Really, it was only one thing that had changed between Bruce’s initial leave during the blackout and now, late-summer-turned-early-fall: his perspective. Being a man of science had its ups and downs, in the grand scheme of things, Bruce thought he was almost at a disadvantage, knowing what he knew.

There would rarely be surprises (only breakthroughs), there would be very little amazement that did not stem from finding the right algorithms or sequences, and it also meant that imagination was pulled pretty thin from misuse in most cases. In this particular instance, Bruce thought as he stepped through the doorway of the library with an overcome sigh, he would never quite understand magic. Or, the concept of magic.

Because really, Bruce persisted mentally, arguing with himself despite being the one with the opinion he vehemently defended, magic was a concept. A ritualistic suspension of disbelief brought on by flashy show and misdirection, one that Bruce would find entertaining (or, maybe he would if he wasn’t so busy picking it apart for flaws as he watched someone perform it) but ultimately be completely incomprehensible to him on a deeper level.

Bruce wanted to say that Tony, a fellow science-man (the nerdy successor of a lady killer), would agree wholeheartedly with his mental essay on the whole thing and tell Bruce to just stop thinking so hard about everything and have a glass of scotch, but since things with Zatana had…escalated to its current degree, Bruce wanted to - well, he wanted to be supportive, even if he didn’t believe or understand beyond the scientific calculations of it all.

Seeing a figure that roughly looked to be someone of intelligence, and probably bathed regularly, Bruce put on his metaphorical big boy pants (with the elastic Hulk-resistant lining) to approach the man, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“This may sound incredibly redundant, considering where we are,” Large, blunt fingers pointed toward a small sign near the front door of the library, “But I… may need help finding some books on magic? I mean,” Shaking his head, Bruce took another stab at it, thankful the guy looked normal enough, and not like Bruce was the biggest pest he’d ever met, “Specifically books about the more science-y side of magic? Calculations? Numbers? A graph, if we’re feeling frisky.” A pause, and an under the breath, “Sorry.”

          The library was forever a place of sanctuary, for believers and otherwise. His own curated concoction of all his centuries of learning, of trying to piece together himself what kind of damned magic was keeping him alive, open and available to the public. It wasn’t unusual for people to be skeptical; after all, they hadn’t experienced true magic in their lives, how could something so fantastical exist? There were heroes who were from other worlds, forged from chemicals and creatures, but nothing seemed mystical about them. Jason could only offer a knowing grin and a hint of a chuckle on his breath. Little did they know about the creature thrumming in his chest that dared to prove them all wrong.

          So he wasn’t shocked when the new face approached him and asked about books, books on magic and the sciences. A cool, observing stare looked up from the book he was skimming through himself, closing it with a soft thud that sent the old smell of world-worn pages pounding against his senses. His already straight back stiffened more towards the ceiling as he let out a contemplative hum, scanning the candle-lit shelves. And he really couldn’t help the staccato chuckle at frisky. Interesting choice of words.

           “Science and Magic... Of course,” he began, placing the leather-bound tome in his hands back among it’s family, gesturing for the other to follow him around back towards one of the tables piled high with scrolls, papers with half-scribbled sigils, runes, and other scratch that even the Arthurian couldn’t quite decipher. Reaching out, brushing worn fingertips over the colorful spines, he gently explained (as he had many times before). “The Sciences have been intertwined with magic as long as humanity could put it to script. Alchemy is the master of all these forms. What you might call a ‘chemical reaction’, many used as a form of mystic art. Further still, you can find theologies based entirely on natural phenomena, but deciding if they’re truly Gods or of magical origin, well...” Another grin, pushing his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, lifting his chin a bit higher.

          In a world marred with troubles, mystical or otherwise, the Library offered solace and sanctuary. For years, Jason had kept himself locked away in here, gathering curios and books and any manner of education... Just until he was called out for the Demon to do someone’s dirty work. Etrigan had always been overjoyed at the chance to flex his clawed fingers, and was always grasping at the next opportunity that his host would slip, let the incantation flow, that he could somehow continue to push his demonic influence to make him utter the fated words. 

          Long gone were the days where he could drown the gravel and brimstone-laced voice with any manner of alcohols, but somehow the bastard even pushed through that. He’d called upon magicians and sorcerers of all kinds of disciplines to help quell the beast, but many could only offer similar, temporary solutions. There was only one who seemed to at least make acquaintance with Etrigan, one who showed him a way to live on the Earth’s surface and get whatever he wanted out of the living beings before retreating safely back into his human shell. Giovani had been a close friend and confidant, and almost by proxy so had his daughter.  The mysterious man who turned into a Hellspawn would come an go, but still remain the same. nearly 30 years was almost a blink in his eye, and the little girl he’d seen practicing parlor tricks was as successful as any performer could wish.

          And with the rest of what had happened surrounding his sanctuary, the news of her life.. He was surprised she responded to his letter asking to meet.

          Wary steps had brought him out of the library to Central Park, wandering like a ghost among the living. Jason stopped at one of the many statues, the tall pillar of William Shakespeare, until something clawed at his back, the beast grumbling as a magical being approached. “I never got to see his plays,” he expressed seemingly to no one but the being at his back. “Not as they were. There wasn’t too much of myself left in those years.”

          It was rarer and rarer these days to find anyone who shared the same sentiments of eras going by in the blink of an eye. He was yet to meet an acquaintance that shared the entire length of time, but the few that he’d come across were welcomed into the curated library with open arms. Erik had been one of those few individuals, and one of the fewer that showed up frequently enough for Jason to care when he didn’t. 

          So his surprise when the old acquaintance walked through his door was not lost on him. Sure, he still hadn’t managed to fully understand the new methods of communication in the world (ink and paper was much more elegant, he would say), but a call would’ve been nice. He’d barely had time to put the kettle on before he was gesturing for him to sit by the fireplace, grab a book to keep him occupied for the few minutes the water would take to boil, do... Something while he came up with the right questions to ask. To pry would be... Out of uniform, out of character even... But the demon clawing at his chest seemed to disagree, to say there was more than could ever be asked, but Jason had grown far too used to ignoring the rhyming heathen’s calls.

          Besides, it would be rude to show up uninvited while a guest was there.

          Magic wasn’t Jason’s strong suit. He wasn’t born with the innate abilities to wield it like it was a second breath. He could study it all he liked, perform rituals and delve into all sorts of witchcraft and still the magic wasn’t truly a part of him. Though, with the demon at his back, it could be argued that it already was. Through the years, he’d learned to sense it, to notice the hairline changes in the air when a being of mystical origin walked past him, a sort of deeper sense that would give him a bit of a chill or a short burning heat depending on the nature of the magics itself. The latter meant the demon was satisfied or ready to make his mark again, and Jason couldn’t have that.

          So he turned to rituals, runes, jars and potions and any array of crystals that he could find the right energies for. Any manner of craft he could dig his fingers into. His slightly successful and utter failed experiments littering the library shelves. Their presence was a calm before any storm, a ward to warn the demon inside that if he dared force himself into the Library there would be mildly annoying consequences. Jason had been rearranging the artifacts of his own creation when a second mystical wave chilled his back. He’d barely heard the door open, but blamed it on his concentration (not his old age, never his old age).

          There was a name that echoed in every magical hall with more distaste than Merlin himself. Madame Xanadu at one point had banned just this individual from her hall, hand-hammered sign and all. It was tasteful, where the Englishman in the smoke-soot-stained coat... Was not.

           And yet here he was. In his library. On his rugs. Most likely trying to snoop for his liquors.

          Fire-lit eyes squinted at the other, wondering what on Gods green Earth he could want with him this time. As far as he knew, there weren’t any Hell-dimensional threats, and there wasn’t a need for Etrigan to come out and “play”, as it were. Sitting with his slight scowl, Jason folded his hands together, propped his elbows on the arm rests, and sunk into the heavy plush of his favorite fireside chair. It was a harsh debate on if he wanted to hear Constantine’s reasoning for making a surprise appearance, but he knew once he asked the question than the other wasn’t going to stop talking.

          Well... Where would he be if he didn’t take heavy risks? … Probably Heaven.

         There had been tales told through whispers in the ranks of Arthur’s mystified Round Table for everyone to know of the Demon Knight. It had been an old wives’ tale for many children, and Jason had been a bit alarmed to hear the stories still passed around in the halls of grown men. A fearsome being that came in the nights, his head crowned with Hell’s flames. They said that if you see this knight, there is no return, that your soul is forever damned... And every man feared this beast almost as much as God.

         He’d nearly forgotten the stories as the years went by, almost believing it as a sort of omen of his own eternal and Earth-bound damnation. His bond to Etrigan almost mirrored that of the Knight’s tale, but with much more gruesome effects. He’d spent the first few centuries searching for the mysterious other demonic presence roaming the world (he’d found most fairytales were based on some sort of truth) to see if he could find some sort of peculiar companionship with the entity, maybe find someone to keep the rhyming demon occupied, but his search was all but futile. Jason paid no mind to his momentary search for years on years until the newspapers at his feet started reporting on a Ghost Rider. And it all came flooding back to him. 

          Etrigan had been no help, and wouldn’t give any vague notion why he was so apprehensive, but something told him they were closer than they appeared given how withdrawn the usually uproarious creature liked to be. His only guess was the dead silence from the demon when the seat next to him in the small cafe was suddenly occupied. The tome in his hand felt heavier and heavier as he asked one of the most awkward things he could: “Pardon the odd question but... Have you ever taken an interest in the occult?” 

          It wasn’t uncommon for the usual lost soul to wander through his doors. They weren’t very well protected in the first place, they didn’t ward off creatures of any kind like the Tower of Fate or whatever hidden cesspit Merlin liked to take residence in. He was more than happy to offer sanctuary among the walls of ancient tomes and mystical artifacts, just as long as no one attempted to destroy them. Gotham yielded interesting customers as well as deep rooted magics hidden in the old soil... And some he had to drive out with the one that could spit Hellfire as well as his Rhymes.

          The same fire crackled in the fireplace, a velvet armchair occupied by the Librarian and Demonologist, reading as he typically did when the door’s creaky hinges swung open, and curious eyes looked up from the tattered, yellow pages. “Evening,” he drawled, the book closing with a heavy, echoing thud in his hands. “Are you looking for something in particular, or did you just fancy a visit?”