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.
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.