[Devil @ nm]: Strolls into the place using his trident like a walking stick. The set of his face is bored as he strikes an arrogant, unaffected pose a respectful distance away. "I love what you've done with the place. Not many demons can say they've replicated Hell on the mortal plane. Bravo."
There was this old book his researchers found. One of many with water damaged pages and frosted-over ink. It described a place of worship, a place of fear, and a place where mortals would be sent if they were evil, deserving of punishment, or wrong in the eyes of the author.
Nightmare did not believe it was real, because he knew the gods of the afterlife, the afterlife itself, and it was nothing like that. Not that he remembered any part of being dead, but he just knew it was wrong because he had his own opinions.
He thought this place could become real, though. Maybe if it was, the souls of humans would congregate there, being tricked into thinking they were supposed to come there instead of... Wherever they were sent instead.
It was a work in progress, and what CS would call a 'waste of time, money, resources, and patience.' The project was discontinued shortly after its creation and left that way for multiple years, in a private sect of the fortress.
In the time Nightmare had to himself recently, though, he wanted to reconnect with something. Something, anything, perhaps just to keep his mind busy while he felt his existence rotted. He'd brought his own decorative flair to the torture cells and pits of despair he'd dimly recalled.
If a human were there, they'd be confused by the departure from the text, but still convinced they'd landed exactly where their sins bring people.
It's an empty, large room. Ticking clocks, bubbling lava, cracking obsidian. It has no other purpose, because Nightmare has no use for it outside as decoration. Its heat proposed a sauna-like experience, but there was that hint of grief in the entire process creating the damn thing that soured the experience.
So color him surprised when his original plan worked, and something, someone, was brought here, invited by the scent of hellfire and sulfur.
Nightmare looms over the small thing, taking in exactly what he was seeing. Horns, claws, dark colors... Perhaps, was this one of Earth's old animals? Perhaps. Its arms and legs look so flimsy. It looks flimsy. Not just physically, but attitude-wise as well. There would be no pain from this.
"This area is restricted," his voice is hollow, "state your business and how you know of this place's name."
