Plummeting
The famed crimson clouds rings of the Infernal Nexus unfolded before Junior Wizard Smoot. As each ring grew close, its vapors twisted into a myriad tendrils, those tendrils refracted the gemlike light of Halcyon's sunlets, and the cloud ring expanded beyond the limits of Smoot's sight. It was truly a singular experience. Under any other circumstances, Smoot would have felt a sense of wonder. He would have thought deeply about his place in the universe. He would have weighed the relative value of his paltry accomplishments. He would have resolved himself to go back to school and take it seriously this time. However, Smoot was distracted by the fact that he and his companion were plummeting past the rings, into Pandemonium.
Any young wizard can tell you that Pandemonium is populated by all types of demons. There are demons that grow fat upon the screams of tortured innocents. There are demons who feed on the tears of star-crossed lovers. There are even demons whose ethereal organs are perfectly suited to digesting existential despair. Demons subsist entirely on one type of human suffering particular to their species. This allows them all to live together in relative harmony. It is common wisdom that one should avoid demons, and above all else, to avoid plummeting through the famed crimson cloud rings into Pandemonium.
Smoot strained his neck against the rushing wind to look over at his companion, a shriveled, green-grey peeve named Poot. He immediately wished he hadn't. Poot was now turning somersaults. This caused the peeve's tattered sackcloth garment to ride up its spade-tipped tail on each successive flip. This briefly exposed its pale, bare bottom, before the next flip exposed it yet again.
Smoot frowned with distaste.
Peeves are imps that have been bred as magical servants by successive generations of bored warlocks. Wizards of great renown show off their status with pedigreed peeves: pug-nose peeves, weiner-peeves, teacup peeves, mobius peeves, and even hyper-peeves.
By contrast, Poot was a mutt. It lacked an interesting shape, but it retained the characteristic immortality of a demon, and it subsisted on an unquenchable desire to irritate the hell out of Smoot.
To Smoot's despair, the somersaults continued. Smoot grasped tenaciously at his pointy hat. He didn't especially like this hat, but it marked him as a wizard and damned if he wouldn't die with it.
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