The group, finally rested from their ordeal, begins to move the grinder slowly over the Road of Bones. The vehicle move glacially as it crunch over yellowed femurs and ribcages that litter the infernal highway. As they come closer to the vast iron City of Dis, the heat from below grows more intense. The acrid smell of sulfur mingles with the metallic tang of rust, and soon the underside of their vehicle becomes dangerously overheated. Steam hisses from beneath the grinder before it shudders to a complete stop, leaving them stranded on the bone-strewn road.
While Mr. C crawls though the inner workings of the vehicle to attempt repairs, Five gathers many of the long bones from the roadside. The femurs and tibias are surprisingly clean, bleached white by the hellish atmosphere. He tosses some of these into a metal basin salvaged from the grinder and fills it with water from his skin. The fiery surface of the road provides perfect heat, and soon he has the water bubbling. Seasoning the improvised broth with various herbs and spices he finds in his pack and elsewhere in the grinder’s supplies, Five creates an aromatic bone soup that somehow smells appetizing despite its grim ingredients.
Meanwhile, Recklaw quietly loosens Lula’s bonds, ensuring they appear secure to casual observation while allowing the prisoner enough freedom to help them in any fight that might—or might not—happen. The manacles remain on Lula’s wrists, but the chains now have enough slack to be useful.
The gates of the vast city rise before them like iron mountains reaching into the threatening orange clouds above. The stench of rust and tar overwhelms their senses, making their eyes water and throats burn. Rising in the distance, a massive tower dominates the skyline—the palace of Dispater, the Iron Duke and ruler of this second, fiery level of Hell. A thick fog of industrial smog wreathes the tower’s spires, obscuring its upper reaches in a haze of pollution and malice.
An officious spined devil materializes at the gate, his barbed hide gleaming in the hellish light. “State your business in the great City of Dis!” he demands, his voice like grinding metal. His eyes scan the group suspiciously, lingering on their travel-worn appearance.
Armen, the changeling, smoothly takes on the form of a contract devil, his flesh rippling and reforming into the characteristic features of Hell’s bureaucrats. He gestures casually to the wan Lula, whose manacles are carefully draped to maintain the illusion of captivity. “Ah, honored contract devil,” the infernal guard purrs at Armen, “I see you transport a very high-value prisoner through Dis.”
“Yes, we are bound for the lower levels. We seek audience with Lord Dispater, to gain passage to the next level so that we might bring him to Lord Asmodeus.”
The spined devil’s expression has shifted to something resembling respect. After a moment’s scrutiny, he waves them through the massive iron gates after supplying them with a pass stamped multiple times.
The grinder rolls endlessly through the twisted streets of Dis, many of which seem to change and shift as they trundle through the infernal metropolis. The architecture itself appears to writhe and reorganize, buildings folding in on themselves before reforming in new configurations. The oppressive atmosphere echoes constantly with the cries and sighs of eternal suffering. This place of despair and torment reveals itself as a vast labyrinth, with streets lined by iron-clad buildings that stretch endlessly in every direction. Gargoyles perched on corners watch their passage with glowing eyes, while the air itself seems thick with the weight of countless broken promises and shattered dreams.
Finally, after what feels like hours of Reklaw’s navigation through the maze-like city, the grinder pulls up before the foot of Dispater’s tower palace. Massive gates of black iron swing open with a sound like thunder, and the group finds themselves ushered into the presence of the Iron Duke himself.
Lord Dispater stalks back and forth before his throne of blackened steel on cloven hooves, his elegant cloak billowing behind him. The tall figure’s presence fills the chamber with an aura of barely contained power and infinite patience. His crown of iron sits upon a noble brow, while his eyes burn with the cold fire of absolute authority. “I had hoped you were my servants arriving with sustenance,” he announces, his voice echoing through the metallic halls like the grinding of massive gears. “I am ravenous. What do you wish of me?”
Recklaw steps forward, his voice steady despite the intimidating presence. He explains that they need passage through to Minauros, the next level of Hell, on their way to deliver the prisoner to Asmodeus himself.
“Impossible!” declares Lord Dispater, his voice booming through the chamber. “No mortal passes through my domain without proper tribute or service!”
Five, thinking quickly, steps forward with his steaming bowl of bone broth. The Iron Duke’s eyes glitter with interest as the aromatic steam reaches his nostrils. He accepts the soup with surprising grace, snapping his fingers to conjure an ornate silver spoon from thin air.
The first taste brings an expression of genuine surprise to Dispater’s noble features. “Delicate! Delicious!” he raves, his previous hostility melting away like ice in a forge. “This is exceptional work! I must have the name of this chef! Gift it to me in exchange for your passage to Minauros.”
Five lies smoothly, giving the Iron Duke a false name with practiced ease. All of the companions tense, muscles coiled and ready for violence, waiting for the wily Dispater to detect the deception. But the Lord of Dis appears distracted by the amazing soup, savoring each spoonful with the appreciation of a true connoisseur.
“Very well,” Dispater declares, setting down the empty bowl with satisfaction. “You have pleased me greatly. The passage is yours.”
Before long, the grinder descends through a tunnel that grows progressively darker and more fetid. The air becomes thick and humid, carrying the stench of decay and stagnant water. At the tunnel’s end, a cloaked figure emerges from the shadows—the storied Guardian of the threshold. The skeletal finger points dramatically at ancient words carved deep into the stone wall of the cave, each letter glowing with a faint, sickly light:
“Mortals who dare descend to depths below,
Answer this truth before you’re free to go:
I am the fruit of order turned to rust,
Where golden promises crumble into dust.
I flourish in the cracks of broken law,
Where righteous men develop fatal flaw.
The more you fight me, stronger I become,
Yet I’m the reason kingdoms come undone.
I wear the face of those you thought you knew,
And make their blackest whispers ring as true.
What am I, who thrives in Hell’s domain,
And turns all virtue into bitter pain?”
The Guardian’s hollow voice echoes through the tunnel: “Answer, or remain forever trapped between the realms.”
A fierce discussion erupts among the group. Mr. C suggests “despair,” while Armen argues for “temptation.” Five proposes “deceit,” but Recklaw shakes his head firmly.
“No,” Recklaw says with growing certainty, “it’s corruption. That’s what turns order to rust, what makes the righteous fall, what grows stronger when fought. It’s corruption.”
The Guardian’s hood nods slowly. “Indeed. That is the answer.” The skeletal figure steps aside with a rustling of ancient robes.
The grinder rolls forward into the oppressive, muddy humidity of Minauros, the Stinking Mire—the third ring of Hell, domain of greed and avarice. The very air seems to cling to their skin like a diseased embrace, and somewhere in the distance, they can hear the sound of something vast and hungry stirring in the swampy depths ahead.
