Beneath a maw so dreadful even fiends tremble before it; ingurgitated by a menacing darkness; at the very heart of... something... so abhorrent, twisted and derogatory to existence itself that mere thought of so much as speaking a name for it sickens the tongue; negotiations are not going as planned.
Armies that stood in the way of the glorious Baatezu Legion oft found themselves at peril despite a significant number advantage, partly due to natural rapid regeneration of the infernal troops. So difficult was dealing with endless returns of the slain soldiers, the Tanar'ri in the Blood War had to resort to a wicked practice of eating the remains of the slain devils before they managed enough time to recover into sufficient battles prowess.
So it happens that some strengths are also weaknesses, and such is the case with the infernal regeneration. For the resilience of the army comes at the cost of their forms' capacity to endure a virtually unending torment, a fate many would consider far worse than mere death.
"Hapless wretches! You will all pay for that!" - an eerie voice that sounds like many combined in unison echoes in the twisted corridors. It is spewed barely between agonised yelling. Defiance of her uncounted, abominable enemies that ravage her form senselessly is all she has right now. She will not scowl like a cowering whelp. Though that form is humiliated in ways unspeakable she endures it with pride, refusing to have her spirit broken for as long as she can muster a coherent thought.
The golden, winged woman is a picture of heavenly beauty, one maybe only nymphs are of compare to - but not wild like theirs. Statesque, sculpted to perfection unattainable, and by all standards one can fathom, divine. In normal circumstances a sight of awe, as enchanting as it is horrifying. Yet right now the picture is twisted to gut-wrentching grotesque. Her once magnificent, celestial body disfigured soaks of blood and nauseating slime, as it grows into the foul wall of the abysmal realm that drains her desecrated essence.
How long has it been? Months, turns, decades? It doesn't matter. Time, matter, form - these are illusions, artifacts of the physical world. Even if she got used to them treading between mortals, the ancient spirit's consciousness was no stranger to Time beyond time. And now, with time and form shredded away and cast into meaninglessness, with pain so overwhelming it defies senses, she finds herself closest to her true, spiritual self.
"Will they never stop"
"Resist!"
"Could this be avoided"
"Those were the orders"
"Weak!"
"This is my fault"
"Snap out of it!"
"Foolish!"
"Those WERE the orders!"
"It was a mistake"
"It had to be done"
"Unworthy"
"RESIST"
"Was it a mistake?"
"Fight it"
"What of my companions?"
Maraphiel sees the two devils next to her. And so is there another herself... that's she from a few .. minutes? hours? days before? And also another herself, only she doesn't remember herself like that. Is that what will happen? Wait, what are they ... ?!
A myriad of doubts cast shade on the spirit's conviction. Guilt, shame, pain.
Pain. Pain is good. Even eons before when her heart was not blackened by the corruption of Baator, her very existence revolved around pain. Pain one takes willingly for others. Pain one throws oneself into for those they love. Pain that is endured because it has to be.
Since, the meaning's been perverted. Yet the very concept is still at the core of the belief she is an incarnation of.
Yes. Guilt. Punishment. Tryumph of the stronger. Pain. Perversion. Desecration of that once holy. Though suffering unbearably, te spirit also revels in its symbolic meaning.
"Are you getting started yet?!"
She goads the repugnant demons of this place, and the barbed spiked of the realm itself into morel To lift off some of the suffering from her companions, and other souls here - even if for a moment. She feels responsible. She deserves it. In the conviction that it is all with a purpose she finds the faintest remains of what strength she still has. Once or twice maybe managing to convey a fading, echoing thought to her companions.
"::: Fight it ! :::"
"::: Fight it :::"
"::: ..ight't ... :::"
Yet still it is but pitiful, temporary shimmer in the overwhelming dark of this place. If only its elusive mistress would be distracted from control over this dominion, maybe, maybe the deviless could call onto other still lawful souls trapped like the devils in this hideous domain. Inspire strong enough belief in them. Though weak on their own, maybe, just maybe, the combined wills of Order would be enough to break the restraints. If only they believed...
But that is wishful thinking, far off from the deep trance of torment the spirit finds herself in - both in terms of physical possibility just as her own belief. There isn't hope. Only calculation. An opportunity will present itself, so she keeps telling herself.