"Yep. Both dead, huh?" Reaching into the coin pouch he passes over two gold coins,

At the confused look on his friend's face he clarified. "Just in case, give that to the boatman. Old story, you know?" This made him realize he wasn't quite sure where he'd even heard that story, of Charon accepting coin for passage. Perhaps he'd heard it in the church one day, or when he'd badgered the Cleric about his likely final destination. And had been told he'd prefer Abaddon if he could not bear being weak under the power of another for long.

(Sometimes his mind objected to the Evil label, insisting that while he knew he wasn't a nice society positive guy, he was more Neutral. Especially with all the Demon killing he had to do. Apparently wasn't enough, not that he could quite remember the trial beyond a flash of arguing and then a final choice. That they considered Revyn 'Evil' just made the likelihood of him being pronounced non-Evil seem like it had never been an option.)

"Alright." Revyn was the embodiment of calm. Peace. Serenity.
Or he tried, and mostly failed, but telling himself that this was merely another mission worked. In and out, with a terrible fate if you got caught. Not that there was an 'out'. Maintain awareness, watch for potential targets — no, wait, he can't pickpocket a daemon can he?

Maintain awareness, watch for potential threats, evaluate them based on how many horns dripping with ichor they had and the color — he had never actually seen an illustration of a daemon.

Damn it. He'd know it when he saw one.

There were what felt as countless shades about them, petitioners who they could only slight see through the fog. As if they did not care for these lonely souls and thus they failed to matter.

He bit his cheek at the sight. Was this merely how one saw the unknown fellows in the afterlife or were they echoes of long consumed souls? "Untel has decent chances of not being here, maybe he chose Hell the big idiot."
Or maybe they were Chaotic. Or chose the Abyss. Or maybe Untel managed Neutral, that man did far more slaying the creatures that lurked in the night than Jalar ever had.

"There's no way that Zyth would be caught dead choosing the Lawful option." He said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

It was the jokes that really drove home where they were.

Abaddon; where their souls would be torn apart in the hungering maw of some monster.

But the terribly out of sorts atrocious attempts at humor also drove home that there was only forward. Fear was weakness, and despite himself he must be stronger than others.
Even if he didn't feel like it. Like he wanted to just beg the Gods to give him another chance. Wanted to wish he had at least been a proper Norgorberite and perhaps gotten passage to Axis. Wished maybe that he'd reconsidered the Abyss or Hell as options, at least they'd not have this terrible uncertainty. Desired to slap his younger self upside the head until he got work that did not include 'grand larceny' anywhere near it so perhaps he'd get Nirvana if not Heaven.

(The dismal wasteland made it hard to keep any sort of mural of that shining city in his mind, much less the empyrean golden peaks)

"Calm down. Let's find our way to the river, if you're sure of it. Some survive, yes?"

Jalar blinked at Revyn before shaking himself physically. This place gave him the creeps.

'In stories' he did not say.
"Of course." He turned to look about. Off in the sky was a great sparkling sight, shining with some power he knew not. But far out of reach. Was it Heaven?

Looking down on them in disdain.

Letting his eyes wander was a challenge. Such a sight even from so far that it was a mere smear of color appealed to his senses more than taking another step on this ground.
There on the horizon was a darker light. Like the arrival of the sun in the morning, but a deadened greyish red that he innately knew would never rise.

He started towards it.

Heaven cannot by glimpsed from Abaddon, as planes do not quite work like that.

Stories told in ages past may give a different impression, where the difference between Demon and Daemon was less clear, they spilled against Hell's gates in numbers beyond any that had been within Creation up till then. This was accomplished through entirely standard methods of Planar Travel, if not ones trivially accessible to even Archmagi.

The River of Souls is the primary piece of the mechanism which underlies transport between planes for souls, sliding between these distant nonspatial realms almost as its own plane.
Unlike other realms, where vast welcoming entrances await where souls may be deposited, or are equivalently mass teleported into the true center of that plane's power, Abaddon's welcoming party is desolate just the same. A vast Shore of undeveloped land, for Abaddon is too full of squabbling bottom feeders and the uninterested for there to be a proper entrance to the petitioner's doom.

In principle, the unfortunate souls could build an ever-rising tower to escape back out through the River. This has never been done, for a lacking of personal power, and those Astradaemons lurking. The River is not quite one way, but finding the right tool to push against the flow is not one that very many mortals or immortals succeed at.

The Shore itself is larger than the vast majority of Golarion's many cities, but that means it is quite small for the output of so many world's dead. It is the only form of general entrypoint that souls have into Abaddon, barring the usual accidents.

It is safe from being a slide into a gullet purely by virtue of Charon's decree.

Charon is the Horsemen of Death. Old Age. Decay. The tearing down. Tripping down the stairs.

What is Charon? He has existed for centuries. Thousands of years. Longer. A God but unlike the others.

He is not consumption as are the standards of Abaddon in these ages. He is an alternate path that never took for he cared not. It died with him watching.

Charon is old. Bound by rules. In some manners not quite an agent in the same way as the other powers of Abaddon. Not entirely dissimilar to how a mortal may not quite be an agent by a God's indiscriminate light. Limited in goals. Limited in directedness towards even the goals this being professed to have. Far more static in its fundamental nature than humans, but far more powerful at the same time. He has no specific mortal form that he takes, merely having acquired one by virtue of mortal expectations.

The water was deep.
Not dark. It got brighter as one saw further. A terrible white far below, his eyes seeing further in this non-physical form.
He dared not look again. It was the same white as was seared into his mind by the River of Souls.

As the completely typical pair of a halfling-fighter and a human-rogue arrive at the edges of the water, a boat pushed out from the fog. Ripples of sluggish water echoing outwards. Slowly rowing the boat came, but ever so smoothly, towards them.

This was no small craft, perhaps capable of holding upward of a dozen people, but there was only one there now.
A skeleton of a man, or man-like thing. But the bones were the wrong shape in parts. Sharper. Distorted. A cloak was cast haphazardly about its shoulders, less being worn and more being attached.

"Uh, -"

Before Revyn could say a word, Jalar gave a deep bow.
Not out of politeness exactly.
Rather out of the deep unbiding fear. Which served quite well for making one polite, really.

He hates it for making him afraid.

He hated it just as he was sure he would hate a devil, but perhaps worse. The power a being like this must have, which it held over him like a guillotine in every moment of its presence.

Revyn followed suit awkwardly.

Empty eye sockets observed the duo. No words came forth. He laid down the wooden oar.

The arm stretched out, bony fingers lacking sense or flesh. Not quite like a restrained by muscle human digit might, for they bent inwards sharply where the joint might have been like a claw. False muscle, almost like bone, stretched up its arm.

Revyn was quicker to unstartle than Jalar, and he put his own coin into the creature's most respectable Horseman's hand. "Buying passage safely across." He said. Not. Hopefully. Merely stating facts, of course.

He followed, depositing directly into the waiting 'palm'.

The bone fingered hand retracted, and then gestured towards the boat. It would be a long voyage, for safe locations are never near to the originating Shore.