The skies of Limbo churned, blood-red and relentless, above a wasteland of shattered bone and obsidian spires, writhing with memories of pain. For ages, the abyss echoed the screams of those cast into the cracks between worlds, each soul another jagged note in Limbo's unending cacophony.
Tonight, among the rebel camps of demon kin, the riot was both frantic and doomed. Illyana Rasputin, Witch-Queen of Limbo, thundered through them—her blade glimmering with a blinding purity that incinerated corruption and lies. B'dash, eldest of the old guard, once a warlord in the throne's darkest corners, watched his kin fall like puppets strung by fate.
His breath was ragged, hands dripping with spilled ichor. He cursed her name with every battered heartbeat. Onyx talons scraped broken flagstones, each scratch a desperate plea to the old gods for deliverance. She came for him—a shadow wrapped in silver flame, the ground splitting beneath her anger, air shimmering with every swing of the Soul Sword. "You will not rise again," she hissed, and Limbo trembled at the fire of her rage.B'dash fought.
He called upon the bindings of lost ages, whispered every ruinous spell Limbo still granted its faithful. But each curse was burned away by her voice, every spell melted in the fire of her gaze. As her blade sang, he staggered backward, torn between rage and terror.He knew hope was a lie—his only chance was animal panic. With a final, desperate shriek B'dash tore at reality, clawing open a bleeding portal.
Limbo's shriek faded, replaced by the choking humidity of New Orleans as the demon crashed into midnight.He landed hard in a puddle of alleyway runoff. The concrete stung, even through the armor of his hide. The world sang with different sorrows here—rotting river scent, distant perfume mingled with smoldering cigars.
B'dash bared his fangs and tasted mortal pain. Limbo was gone. Magik would follow, but somewhere in this city, lore whispered of a weapon—a relic as old as suffering, powerful enough to end her. From a pouch stitched with teeth, B'dash withdrew a brittle parchment. Ancient glyphs burned his eyes, but he read:
La Relique du noyé—the Drowned Relic—sleeps where the city sings to the dead.
With it, the power to sunder the Witch-Queen's soul shall wake.The legend was fresh, thrumming in the ruined corridors of hell. Someone had planted the rumor. It had wound itself around demonic hearts hungry for rebellion. In Limbo, the cost of vengeance was a shattered future for a moment's satisfaction. In New Orleans, vengeance was a hope yet possible.
B'dash slid beneath the wan streetlamps, limbs twisting beneath glamour magic that dulled his monstrous features for inhabited mortals. The city breathed around him, old and alive. Jazz curled from open windows, voices sang with longing and aching joy. B'dash shuddered, acutely aware of the ancient protections that ran in the city's veins.
He scoured the streets, seeking anything old and whispering: crypts beneath St. Louis Cemetery, voodoo shops thick with candlelight and protection spells, bars filled with music so steeped in memory that their ghosts rose nightly to dance. He heard only fragments, but each warning sounded distinctly in French, English, and the language of the dead.
"Something stirs, cher," a hunched priestess warned a street musician, "old ghosts wake, and something dark walks with them."
"Le démon," muttered a man, voice rough as gravel, "is hunting music tonight…"B'dash listened, grew hungrier. Spirits prowled every night but now, even the shadows seemed restless.
The city thrummed with a new magic—one born of fear and anticipation.He slipped into a bar thick with incense and candlelight. Four musicians played behind velvet curtains, their jazz winding into air like an ancient ward.
B'dash's shadow flickered long and thin; the flame bent, wavered, almost screamed.A hooded man at the counter watched him closely, eyes dark as peat. "You walk with Limbo's scent, stranger," he said in a low Creole accent, "what drives you from the abyss?"B'dash sneered. "You know the relic."The man lifted his chin, hiding fear with arrogance. "The Drowned Relic is not for demons, nor for those who would tear the city's soul apart.
"I am trouble," B'dash replied. He let darkness flicker in his hand—a show of power more than an outright threat. "Show me where the river sings, or Limbo will swallow your music whole."Unease flickered among the patrons. The man nodded grimly. "The river's song is old. You must listen where no music plays, beneath the bridges, among the bones. But beware, demon, for New Orleans is fiercely protected."The demon left, the directions haunting him.
He crossed into the city's haunted skeleton, its abandoned levees, mausoleums, and half-sunken bridges. Each step twisted the air. Music followed—from distant trumpets, mournful songs heard only by the damned.
He sensed others were drawn to this power: spirits, magicians, and mutants alike.B'dash wandered beneath bridges, into old crypts overrun with moss and low mist. The Mississippi river loomed nearby, dark as memory. There he felt the pulse—the heartbeat of magic.
Under every stone was music, sorcery, and pain.He was hunted still—not just by Magik, but by powers that cared for the city's balance. Each moment was a race against time.His thoughts fixated on Magik—the woman who had stolen Limbo's throne. He imagined her final howl, the city trembling as he claimed the Drowned Relic.
He would break her soul, rule Limbo anew. A mausoleum beckoned, its walls slick with secrets and old grief. Within, he found music notes carved into marble, water-stained markings swirling in glyphs of elemental force. As he pressed his claws to the stone, vibrations pulsed—midnight energy primed to awaken.
The whispers intensified, switching between angry and mournful:
Beneath the city's sleeping song, all debts come due. Rivers remember, and music alone can wake the relic's wrath.B'dash snarled. Each revelation was a hook, digging deeper. He followed watery veins beneath the city, glimpsing shadowy figures trailing him at every turn.
Some were merely curious, some were defenders, and others perhaps drawn by the same promise of ancient power.He returned to the surface, skirting chapel gardens and crowded jazz clubs. He felt the earth's music grow stronger. The artifact's melody throbbed through the buried roots of New Orleans itself.
B'dash took shelter near the river as the night deepened, watching mortals slip past on their way to heedless joy, never knowing the cost of old magic.There, beneath the howl of distant horns, B'dash began a wicked ritual. He scraped a circle in river mud, bleeding his essence over the lines, chanting the song of Limbo in twisted French and hellfire dialects.
"Relique du noyé… éveille-toi…" he begged, his voice trembling with rage and hope. "Wake for me, ancient power. The crown of Limbo must change hands again."The winds shivered. The river's surface glimmered, and spectral shapes rose briefly, eyes full of sorrow and warning.
But, as the ritual drew to its crescendo, the demon felt a force resisting—a presence melding music and old magic, refusing to let the relic answer easily. Étienne Boudreaux stood at the alley's end, trumpet shining in his grip, eyes aflame with purpose. A breathless note soared through the night, weaving elemental shield and invitation.
B'dash froze, realization burning. This was the guardian the city's whispers spoke of: a mutant whose music could soothe and command the dead, a power not to be trifled with.Étienne lifted his trumpet. "You hunt relics, demon. But here, music is the breath of the living—and the song of those who do not sleep.
"All will sleep when vengeance claims Magik," B'dash spat, voice brimming with fury. Darkness curled at his limbs. "Her soul will break, and I will rule again."Étienne played a warning—a flood of sound and light pouring down the river's length. Old spirits stirred, elemental magic glowing at his fingers.
Flames and rain danced, united, encircling B'dash. The demon recoiled but was not yet defeated. He retreated to the shadows, gathering cunning and new malice.The city paused, holding its breath in the waning hours before dawn. Ancient spirits hummed beneath stone and water.
Étienne kept watch, his melody a ward for every soul. B'dash would not rest. He had tasted the city's flavor, its magic's resistance, and the pulse of a defending force. Soon, sooner than anyone wished, New Orleans would be at the heart of a battle between worlds: mortal, mutant, demon, and relic.
As the first light choked through the river mist, the demon's plot wound tighter, music and vengeance braiding the city's fate. And, far away, the Witch-Queen herself felt a shift in Limbo's shadow.Tomorrow, the song might break.