Judge staggered out of the studio like a man sent to fetch milk and instead found himself in the middle of an active war zone, or rather, above it. He was free-falling from the air, flailing like a startled pigeon, before righting himself mid-air using Lucifer's techs. With a few mid-air hops, he finally skipped down to solid ground, landing with the kind of flair only adrenaline and panic could provide.
The surroundings were not friendly. Not even slightly. The trees loomed tall and ancient, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers, casting twisted shadows across a forest floor that squelched underfoot with the exact consistency of regret and old stew. The air was thick with the smell of damp moss, moldy bark, and the faint tang of something rotting just out of sight.
Cursing under his breath like a drunk sailor trying to find his keys, Judge began trudging through the underbrush.
