"Where-are-we-going-Skarg?" Zac managed to get out, the words punched from his lungs as his body swung back and forth like a pendulum with every stride.
Skarg didn't answer. He was too busy sprinting down the hallway, bellowing in primal triumph. His hooves struck sparks on the stone, a rhythmic thunder that echoed through the keep. Zac, flagging behind him like a leopard-print cape, watched the castle stream by in a blur.
Suits of armor became streaks of silver. Doors blurred into dark rectangles. Torches were mere smudges of orange light. Staircases spiraled past dizzyingly fast.
And then, suddenly, the air changed. The scent of old books and stone was replaced by the ozone-rich, metallic tang of the Pit.
They burst through the main doors.
"Oh, hey, spiky flower bush," Zac thought idly as they rushed past the spot where Bune had knocked him over upon his arrival. The thorny plant was still there, looking a bit worse for wear but blooming with vibrant, arterial-red roses. Does March like flowers? Zac wondered, a soft smile touching his lips despite the G-forces. He seems so sophisticated. I bet he prunes them himself.
Zac was getting a bit dizzy, the world spinning around him, but he was thoroughly enjoying being kidnapped. It felt... proactive. It felt like progress.
His mind, naturally, wandered into the gutter. Oh, he's bringing me back to his crypt. Maybe the incubi just weren't enough to keep him satisfied after our little dream-romp. Incubi probably have to do kegels just to keep things interesting... those sluts. I hope March doesn't kill him too much after he's had his way with me... but that is a price I'm willing to let him pay.
"Thanks for taking one for the team, stud," Zac managed to get out as Skarg finally began to slow.
They were approaching the massive iron gate at the edge of the keep's grounds, the same spot where Andras had fought off both Nock and Skarg days ago. The gate was closed, its heavy bars looming against the red sky.
Skarg skidded to a halt, his chest heaving. He looked down at the gate, then back at the keep, his blue eyes wild and victorious.
"I told you," he panted, grinning down at the dangling human. "I told you, you're mine."
Zac smiled up at Skarg, his eyes half-lidded. "Fuck me."
Skarg's fur seemed to darken around his muzzle, and he looked away, clearing his throat with a rumble that shook Zac's bones. "In due time, you whore," he growled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He gave Zac a gentle shake. "But you're too thin. You feel like a bag of twigs."
"I'm a twink," Zac explained patiently, swinging slightly. "I'm supposed to be toss-aroundable. And being little makes your dick look bigger when you're filming. I know I'm a bit tall to be a classic boy toy, but you're so big... I think this is what short princes feel like when they get hit on by basketball players."
Skarg looked down at Zac, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. The cultural references were flying completely over his antler-nubs.
"Not just any basketball players, either," Zac continued, undeterred. "The beefy ones. That are proportional and not all elbows and knees. You know, centers."
"What the fuck is basketball?" Skarg finally asked.
"Oh, I can teach you," Zac said dreamily, reaching up to pat the wendigo's chest. "Get your balls out."
Skarg barked a laugh, a harsh, joyful sound. "In due time."
He turned his attention to the massive iron gate. He didn't bother with the mechanism. He simply grabbed the bars with his free hand. Frost spread instantly from his grip, coating the black metal in a thick layer of rime. The iron groaned, then shrieked as the thermal shock shattered its structural integrity. With a grunt of effort, Skarg wrenched the gate. The metal twisted, shrank, and finally crumpled like tin foil. With a deafening crash, the massive barrier fell forward, reduced to a twisted, frozen pile of scrap.
"Ouch," Zac said, eyeing the wreckage. "I guess the cold makes everything shrink. Not just me."
Skarg dropped to all fours, the movement fluid and terrifyingly fast. With a quick toss, he flung Zac onto his back. "Hold on if you don't want to die."
Zac scrambled for purchase on the thick fur, his legs gripping the wendigo's powerful flanks. He looked at the back of Skarg's head. "Can... can I hold your antlers? They seem like good handlebars."
Skarg didn't answer. He launched himself forward.
Zac nearly tumbled backward off the demon's rear as Skarg accelerated, his hooves finding impossible purchase on the sheer stone walls of the chasm. They were galloping upward, retracing the path Zac had ridden down with Nock, but this time, the speed was raw, unbridled, and terrifying. The wind screamed in Zac's ears as the Pit city blurred past below them.
The ascent was a blur of sensory overload. The Pit wasn't just a city; it was a living, breathing organism of vice and industry. They passed forges carved into the cliff face spewing rivers of liquid red hellfire, the heat scorching Zac's cheeks. They leaped over tattered tents made of flayed skin where green, chemical bonfires roared, casting long, sickly shadows.
Everywhere Zac looked, there was chaos. Imps, hellspawn, ghouls, and infernui scurried like rats. He saw souls being tortured in oddly specific, if somewhat cliché ways. One guy was being forced to listen to a demon read his diary out loud through a megaphone, while another was pushing a boulder up a hill made of Legos, barefoot.
But mostly, Zac noticed the fucking.
It was everywhere. Public displays of affection in Hell apparently had zero boundaries. On balconies, in alleyways, pressed against the hot stone of the forges… demons were rutting with a casual, energetic intensity that made Zac's head spin.
"Was that a minotaur?!" Zac shouted, craning his neck so hard it cracked. He'd caught a glimpse of a massive, bull-headed figure railing a smaller demon against a crate of weapons. "Holy shit, Skarg! Turn around! We need to go back! I need to ask for directions! Or a phone number!"
"Skarrrggggggg!"
Skarg ignored him completely. The wendigo was a locomotive of muscle and frost, his focus absolute. He bounded up a sheer vertical rise, his hooves striking sparks, and scrambled onto a wide, black-stone plateau.
Directly ahead, a dark, squat building loomed. It looked like a bunker built from obsidian and bad vibes, solid enough to survive a nuclear blast. And Skarg was running headlong at the front door.