The Rider's hands press to the plastic. He wills the flames of hell hotter and hotter, until it feels like they will sear even the bones of his hands. The pentagrams carved on Nicholas' palms, and somehow carry even into the bones of the rider's skeletal hands glow brighter and brighter.
A man who admonishes others for their sins and is blind to his own. It cuts Hell's Hunter to the core. One look, one moment of gazing into his eyes, and the man would see the wages of sin.
And the flames die down. The walls are unscathed. Whoever built this place knew what they were doing. Four walls to hold the devil's own, and freeze him to the quick.
The chill sets in a little deeper as he drags himself, bony fingertips screeching along the plastic, back to his feet. He can't even stagger now. The hunger, the damned hunger is too bad.
Using the wall for support, he crashes before the third scene, bones rattling in an unearthly tremble, unable to close lidless eyes to the horror that lies beyond.
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