Cerulean Hell: Manifold Palace

A miraculous place, this. Wondrous, truly.

Or, places.

Some describe the Cerulean Hell as an endless rolling hillscape of spiraling terraces and copper-winged gazebos beneath a burning blue-flame expanse.

Others tell tales of billowing gold-painted draperies of inhuman complexity concealing magnificent miniature gardens, the skies unseen, all a endless sprawling palace of dizzying mosaic and sculpted pillars and flower-fire breezes.

Yet petitioners murmur of rivers of cool, soothing fires choked with lilies the colours of the sky, or soaring black marble spires carved in intricate relief-work of war and reward, rest and paradise, while overhead roils a tempest of seafoam and glittering diamond.

All these and more, a hundred hundred retellings.

Perhaps the Hell is, in fact, Hells.

The softly smiling, sharp and shapely devils do not say, no more than they name their homeland. The only constant is the deepest, most beautiful of blues — of sky, of water, of the heavens so many small mortal lives strive for — in flame and thunderbolt and softest whisper, the delicate finery and brazen horns, like sweeping lyres, strung with jewels, the cerulean scrolls offered by jeweled talons, and the soft susurrus of a cry that carries through silences.

The Cerulean Hell is pleased to enter any contract, supply any desire, destroy any obstruction, purge any sin. The price may be high, the exchange dear, but what is desired shall always be made so, without fail. All contracts must be honoured so; the devils pride themselves on the pleasure of their clients.

Faith and hope and good-will and more may falter, but the Cerulean Hell upholds its work.

* legalism * temptation * promises * decadence * want * need * inexorability *

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