The man in the brown cloak idly walked along the stone shelf, watching the sun slowly rise. He arrived shortly at the fallen earth and stone depression, where the Lodestar had slumbered for decades.

He kicked over a few rocks, and even found a few bits of wood and metal left behind by the airship. A circular ring the size of a coin caught his eye, and he flipped it between his fingers for a moment before tossing it over the ledge.

---

Fairchild

The devil’s bone-thin hand stroked the matted green tentacles of his paramour, as she worked busily between his legs.

He sat in a beautiful white throne, ornate and delicate. His poppy-red skin stretched taught over a skeletal frame, one arm crooked around the arm of the throne dandled a fresh, green apple. The devil chuckled.

Diaspora looked up, precious human face quizzical – her tentacle-hair continuing her work in a most pleasant fashion.

“Lord? What amuses you?” she said.

Fairchild glanced down at her, and took a fleshy bite from the apple.

“Just thinking about the future, my pet. Just thinking about the future.”

His white throne sat suspended on a small section of floor, that floated freely. Surrounding him was the throng of Abaddon. Sharpening blades, hammering forges – lesser devils fought greater, vying for new strength and status.

Hell was preparing for war.

The devil chuckled again.