THE BAD NEWS IS:

[colovian fur 8360]

 

[!] Distributed across the Human lands of Arcas...

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The bad news is: there is a Nether. An actual Nether! Literally underground, there exists a border-less dimension of never-ending punishment reserved for those deceased failures who bit off more than they could chew... who thought they were going to be some kind of NOBLE.

 

But you -- you consider the Nether a metaphor, a jest. "Oh, I want to go to the Nether! All my companions are down there!" It's a POPULAR jest. A jest that won't be quite so funny, come one of these eternities.

 

You'll find out! There's a special section of Nether for each Arcasly profession in which one might fail... including yours. For instance: if, on this plane, you always wanted to be a "star," in the Afterlife you'll once again find yourself up on stages, talking and yelling, playing music, wearing nutty armor and trying to make an impression on the audience. The only difference is that this time, it isn't some kind of 'art statement' that will be over when the curtain comes down, but eternal torment. And the audience isn't paying customers, but paid daemons.

 

In some ways it's hardly any different from life here on Arcas.* Even in the Nether, you STILL have to work a horrible day job. Only after laboring on something un-creative for a week that lasts 1,000 Saint weeks do you 'earn' the 'right' to 'perform.'

 

And then, of course, the real Eternity starts. For your act is ALWAYS THE SAME, and ALWAYS BAD -- ever reminding you that you are a rank amateur. Only the circumstances change. You spend eternity going from predicament to predicament, each time thinking things might improve, yet each time having your hopes dashed more heartlessly. The audience-daemons and the promoter-daemons are infinitely inventive when it comes to inducing prolonged, inescapable, snowballing panic.

 

The most insidiously clever aspect of this Nether, you see, is that before each performance, you FORGET you are IN the NETHER. Only at the peak moment of psychic pain do you suddenly remember where you really are, and that it's FOREVER. It is from the ultimate horror induced by this CLIMACTIC REALIZATION that the Nether is fueled. The fear of fear itself, self-amplifying, is recycled through your head over and over, feeding on itself like a breeder piston.

 

Theory torn from Reverend Ivan Stang’s own journal. Praise “BOB”

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EBAY USPICIOUSSAY OFWAY EVERYTHINGWAY

Thomas Talbot, Overseer of Talbot Co.

[argonian 14254]

 

I fear no Nether.

[Knox 1029]

Joey stares at Tommy from afar... 

 

“DuCkY” he exclaims as the wind blew from behind him, the faint words of ducky hopefully reaching Tommy.