(What an absolutely blessed write-in, holy shit. Thank you so so much you guys for all of the participation today, absolutely blew my mind! I don't think I'll be able to update again tonight as it's my birthday tomorrow (turning 30 holy fuck), and a ton of stuff is coming in so I'm rather busy. If I can make the time to update again in the next day I absolutely will, but until then the vote will remain open!

Hope you all have a fantastic weekend, and thanks so much again! See ya soon!)
 
Gone With The Tide - By Florin

Gone With The Tide.



Minuscule waves roll forward over themselves, spilling onto the yellow-grey sand with a final and foamy display. Gripping softly at the grains they pull back into the shallows and get lost in the cacophony of water. Seconds pass. The waves come again, for a new bounty.

Overhead, beyond the rocky outcroppings, loom endless heavens, their infinity is hidden behind a low ceiling of angry clouds. Mercilessly, light fails to penetrate this indomitable foe, a great shadow spreading over the land of Rimlide. The air is cold. And wet. And salty. The mild stink of fish comes only as an afterthought. Far off, deep inside the blackness of the sky something cracks. Its fury echoes over the sea and sands and stone. Landing upon the ears of Abrecan.

A Storm is brewing.

Brother Seaward is a spot of color in a place that desperately needs it, the deep amber of his robes is wrapped around him, protecting from the desolate horizon.

He sighs.

Softly, rain begins to pitter patter down onto him, painting ever darkening spots on the ground. Abrecan doesn't mind, it is always raining in his soul, always has been and probably always will. He takes solace in the miserable weather for misery loves company, the downpour being the one he has been getting for all of his life. Breathing hurt him sometimes, every soft beat of his heart demoralized him— but the thunder was soothing and the rain hid his tears —or maybe became part of them. He loved Storm, in spite of everything. In spite of the false and phony, the gossips and liars… the demons they all eventually became.

In a sick way, the priest envied them. They got to die. He didn't.

He had to suffer life, for the lost and the lonely, the weak and weary. For everyone that had less than him, for the ones who didn't have the blessing of a god. Duty bound him to life, and love anchored him to duty.

A salty breeze passes, carrying the smell of rot. There is blood on the wind.

Brother Seaward whistles, he matches the feverish tone of the gale around him and listens to the harmony. Nothing could match this moment of serenity, of calm.

Blazing light flashes across the horizon, showering the bubbling surf, a shadow still looms, of something more sinister. The reason for Abrecan's presence here. Writhing, gurgling, crawling from unseen depths. Rotting. An amalgamation of sea life breaks the surface of the water, exposing itself to the cold air.

"A pile of sin." Seaward whispers to the wind.

"How awful." He seethes.

Fretting over its own multitude of limbs the demon keeps climbing out of the water, it doesn't stop until it has reached the height of the tall cliff Abrecan is sitting on. It stares with uncountable eyes.

"Why… why must we suffer your existence."

The priest of Storm stands up, his clothes convulsing from the strength of the tempest forming around him. His quarry is silent, the dozens of mouths it opens are incapable of vocalizing anything besides a low guttural growl.

"Do not fear death, fear life and all its pain! The pain We will free you from."

Tons of impossible anatomy descend down onto the priest, maws filled with every shape of tooth gnash with abandon at the rock holding up Abrecan.

"GOD OF THE TEMPEST!"

Heaven breaks apart, its guts full of water and lighting spill outwards onto the Earth, the wind is howling for blood.

"YOUR POWER IS ABSOLUTE. YOUR MIGHT IS UNFATHOMABLE. I BEG FOR YOUR BLAZE."

A surge of flame scorches the beast, it creeps up towards the rest of its body, the rain does not dare extinguish it. The weight of sin is purified by holy fire, it falls down on Abrecan, on his face and robes, on his eyes, on his tongue. He revels in it, taken by the love and wrath of his patron.

"THE ENDLESS OCEAN, THE INDOMITABLE WAVES. THE WEIGHT OF YOUR INFINITE DOMAIN."

The sea is raging, frothing with divine anger as it slams into the demon. The singed parts of its body slack uselessly and are thrashed by the waves against the rocks, its mouths learn how to scream. Grey is replaced by red. In the sand, in the water, in the soul of Brother Seaward. The force of nature itself swirls around him.

"YOUR HOWLING WINDS, YOUR SLASHING GALES. YOUR LIGHT. YOUR BLESSED LIGHT. BLESS THIS VESSEL."

He lifts off the ground, rising above the rabid tides and rancid smoke, above the pile of sin, ever closer to God. Lightning arcs from the inky sky into him like claws, they surge out, electrifying the air and whipping at the tormented form of the demon below. Abrecan keeps rising, beyond everything, into the embrace of his god.

Light, flame, wind. STORM.

Fearing for its life, terrified of the divine raging around him the demon wraps hundreds of tentacles around the stone pillars of the coast and launches itself back into the dark embrace of the sea, away from the wrath of nature. It sinks down to a lair of crushed ships and detritus, nursing the wounds it has sustained by merely facing a holy man.
Faster than an instant, Brother Seaward slams into the bottom of the ocean. A pillar of light surrounded by rings of flame trails behind him as the sea itself moves, afraid of the wrath of Storm. Perfectly circular, the water opens up above the demon, its many eyes blinded by the brilliance of one final display. Lightning strikes the beast, pulverizing the center of its body and sending black branches of electricity over the rest of it. The priest is kneeling in the middle of the demon, pulsating with power. Flames lick at the foul guts of the fiend, turning them to ash as they threaten to fall onto Abrecan.

There is no air for it to scream.

Slowly consumed by fire, convulsing, it tries to put itself out. To crawl back to the comfort of the water, where it can get away from this nightmare. High above, the displaced sea forms a peak and collapses onto itself, crashing down with the entirety of its weight onto the demon.

The Gods are merciful.

Gently shivering in the cold, Brother Seaward is searching for the spare set of clothes he brought with him, they are sprawled over the branches of a nearby tree.

Wet, sandy and tired, Abrecan returns to the warmth of society.

He hates being wet, sandy and tired.
 

Gone With The Tide.



Minuscule waves roll forward over themselves, spilling onto the yellow-grey sand with a final and foamy display. Gripping softly at the grains they pull back into the shallows and get lost in the cacophony of water. Seconds pass. The waves come again, for a new bounty.

Overhead, beyond the rocky outcroppings, loom endless heavens, their infinity is hidden behind a low ceiling of angry clouds. Mercilessly, light fails to penetrate this indomitable foe, a great shadow spreading over the land of Rimlide. The air is cold. And wet. And salty. The mild stink of fish comes only as an afterthought. Far off, deep inside the blackness of the sky something cracks. Its fury echoes over the sea and sands and stone. Landing upon the ears of Abrecan.

A Storm is brewing.

Brother Seaward is a spot of color in a place that desperately needs it, the deep amber of his robes is wrapped around him, protecting from the desolate horizon.

He sighs.

Softly, rain begins to pitter patter down onto him, painting ever darkening spots on the ground. Abrecan doesn't mind, it is always raining in his soul, always has been and probably always will. He takes solace in the miserable weather for misery loves company, the downpour being the one he has been getting for all of his life. Breathing hurt him sometimes, every soft beat of his heart demoralized him— but the thunder was soothing and the rain hid his tears —or maybe became part of them. He loved Storm, in spite of everything. In spite of the false and phony, the gossips and liars… the demons they all eventually became.

In a sick way, the priest envied them. They got to die. He didn't.

He had to suffer life, for the lost and the lonely, the weak and weary. For everyone that had less than him, for the ones who didn't have the blessing of a god. Duty bound him to life, and love anchored him to duty.

A salty breeze passes, carrying the smell of rot. There is blood on the wind.

Brother Seaward whistles, he matches the feverish tone of the gale around him and listens to the harmony. Nothing could match this moment of serenity, of calm.

Blazing light flashes across the horizon, showering the bubbling surf, a shadow still looms, of something more sinister. The reason for Abrecan's presence here. Writhing, gurgling, crawling from unseen depths. Rotting. An amalgamation of sea life breaks the surface of the water, exposing itself to the cold air.

"A pile of sin." Seaward whispers to the wind.

"How awful." He seethes.

Fretting over its own multitude of limbs the demon keeps climbing out of the water, it doesn't stop until it has reached the height of the tall cliff Abrecan is sitting on. It stares with uncountable eyes.

"Why… why must we suffer your existence."

The priest of Storm stands up, his clothes convulsing from the strength of the tempest forming around him. His quarry is silent, the dozens of mouths it opens are incapable of vocalizing anything besides a low guttural growl.

"Do not fear death, fear life and all its pain! The pain We will free you from."

Tons of impossible anatomy descend down onto the priest, maws filled with every shape of tooth gnash with abandon at the rock holding up Abrecan.

"GOD OF THE TEMPEST!"

Heaven breaks apart, its guts full of water and lighting spill outwards onto the Earth, the wind is howling for blood.

"YOUR POWER IS ABSOLUTE. YOUR MIGHT IS UNFATHOMABLE. I BEG FOR YOUR BLAZE."

A surge of flame scorches the beast, it creeps up towards the rest of its body, the rain does not dare extinguish it. The weight of sin is purified by holy fire, it falls down on Abrecan, on his face and robes, on his eyes, on his tongue. He revels in it, taken by the love and wrath of his patron.

"THE ENDLESS OCEAN, THE INDOMITABLE WAVES. THE WEIGHT OF YOUR INFINITE DOMAIN."

The sea is raging, frothing with divine anger as it slams into the demon. The singed parts of its body slack uselessly and are thrashed by the waves against the rocks, its mouths learn how to scream. Grey is replaced by red. In the sand, in the water, in the soul of Brother Seaward. The force of nature itself swirls around him.

"YOUR HOWLING WINDS, YOUR SLASHING GALES. YOUR LIGHT. YOUR BLESSED LIGHT. BLESS THIS VESSEL."

He lifts off the ground, rising above the rabid tides and rancid smoke, above the pile of sin, ever closer to God. Lightning arcs from the inky sky into him like claws, they surge out, electrifying the air and whipping at the tormented form of the demon below. Abrecan keeps rising, beyond everything, into the embrace of his god.

Light, flame, wind. STORM.

Fearing for its life, terrified of the divine raging around him the demon wraps hundreds of tentacles around the stone pillars of the coast and launches itself back into the dark embrace of the sea, away from the wrath of nature. It sinks down to a lair of crushed ships and detritus, nursing the wounds it has sustained by merely facing a holy man.
Faster than an instant, Brother Seaward slams into the bottom of the ocean. A pillar of light surrounded by rings of flame trails behind him as the sea itself moves, afraid of the wrath of Storm. Perfectly circular, the water opens up above the demon, its many eyes blinded by the brilliance of one final display. Lightning strikes the beast, pulverizing the center of its body and sending black branches of electricity over the rest of it. The priest is kneeling in the middle of the demon, pulsating with power. Flames lick at the foul guts of the fiend, turning them to ash as they threaten to fall onto Abrecan.

There is no air for it to scream.

Slowly consumed by fire, convulsing, it tries to put itself out. To crawl back to the comfort of the water, where it can get away from this nightmare. High above, the displaced sea forms a peak and collapses onto itself, crashing down with the entirety of its weight onto the demon.

The Gods are merciful.

Gently shivering in the cold, Brother Seaward is searching for the spare set of clothes he brought with him, they are sprawled over the branches of a nearby tree.

Wet, sandy and tired, Abrecan returns to the warmth of society.

He hates being wet, sandy and tired.
(Holy shit this is so wicked, thank you so much @Florin! I've added this to our Apocrypha threadmarks and put a link in the Fan Projects, Official Omakes and Music threadmark, too. Amazing stuff!!)
 
Reprieve - By Florin
Reprieve.

Lazy embers fluttered aimlessly in the moon bathed room, dying silently while afloat. Beneath a simple oaken bed— rotten sheets stretched over moldy planks— sat Henry, meager and sleepy eyed. His small hands clutched at a leather book, adorned with handwriting of his own, letters painted diligently just like the clergy had taught him.

"Dreams" The spine read.

Within it sat pages upon pages of a land that never was, stories that never happened and some that did. Wistful recollections of the boy's dreams, as old as he could rake his mind for, spilled onto aged parchment.

His small fingers stroked the rough edges of the journal his friend had gifted him. As the room shook and dust settled softly on the floor next to him the boy tried to remember—as he often did— the first time he saw it, revealed from under a piece of white cloth in the town market.

"I heard of your stories Henry." The lady cooed. "The ones of scary demons and holy men, yes? Well, I would be delighted to hear more but I simply do not have the hours to stay and listen— say— could you write them here for me? No matter you don't know how, I would love nothing more than to teach you. "

He smiled gently as he recalled the Mother's kindness, her patience while tutoring him, her pale blue eyes as she listened to him speak about the stories… his dreams. He never learned of her name, but he did not care much for it, after all he knew the name of a God, the one that meant most to him, and he felt he meant most to.

Lazy and incompetent. That's what his family called him when Henry spent his days and nights napping, unknowing of the things he saw… and their importance. Even now within their moans and tortured screams the boy only remembered their scorn.

"If it wasn't for the priests I would make sure he'd never wake up, the lazy cunt. Feeding 'im for nothin.'"

"Worthless runt."

Henry didn't grimace, he knew that Dream has blessed him, the fact he couldn't stay awake for more than a few hours wasn't his fault, it wasn't even a bad thing. Why would the Gods punish him? The Mother had told him as much too, besides the prayers and litanies.

The smoke from the street started creeping slowly through the shards of his broken window, the moonlight and embers danced tiredly with it. Litanies and chants of the clergy could be heard booming over the blazing village, pleas and requests to Mercy for Her kindness, to Vengeance for His justice, to Flesh for His strength. Henry knew of them all, but he had only ever uttered those in the name of Dream.

Softly exhaling he flipped to the last page he had written on, the last one he had shared with the Mother.

"At the hour of the bat during the harvest moon, in the market too close to home, at the tower over the rolling hills…evil. Beneath the stars…holy retribution, swift justice…and peace."

His mind felt much more, enough to shake his soul into wakefulness but words couldn't contain that, as much as he tried to contort them.

Wet slaps and heavy thumps disturbed the child's reading, the noises dragging themselves ever closer to his door.

"The gods will strike you down! Anytime now…" Henry mused to no one in particular, his voice only a bleary murmur.

With the dream journal tight to his chest, the boy closed his eyes and innocently prayed.

"Dream… I wish to never see this gross world again. Your blessing is all I want to feel, and I want to feel it forever."

Slowly creaking, the door opened, pained moans drowned out the fighting in the streets.

"Though my eyes may now look upon the world of Their making, I pray to you, Dream. I beseech thee…"

The floorboards quietly traced blood as Henry's voice begged.

"Welcome me into your darkness…"

The boy couldn't see the creature's abhorrent form, he couldn't feel its fetid breath and he couldn't hear its moaned whispers as it dragged itself over to him.

"Offer me reprieve from the mundane…"

He couldn't hear its demented chuckle as the aberration laid prone.

"Eternally."
 
Last edited:
Reprieve.

Lazy embers fluttered aimlessly in the moon bathed room, dying silently while afloat. Beneath a simple oaken bed— rotten sheets stretched over moldy planks— sat Henry, meager and sleepy eyed. His small hands clutched at a leather book, adorned with handwriting of his own, letters painted diligently just like the clergy had taught him.

"Dreams" The spine read.

Within it sat pages upon pages of a land that never was, stories that never happened and some that did. Wistful recollections of the boy's dreams, as old as he could rake his mind for, spilled onto aged parchment.

His small fingers stroked the rough edges of the journal his friend had gifted him. As the room shook and dust settled softly on the floor next to him the boy tried to remember—as he often did— the first time he saw it, revealed from under a piece of white cloth in the town market.

"I heard of your stories Henry." The lady cooed. "The ones of scary demons and holy men, yes? Well, I would be delighted to hear more but I simply do not have the hours to stay and listen— say— could you write them here for me? No matter you don't know how, I would love nothing more than to teach you. "

He smiled gently as he recalled the Mother's kindness, her patience while tutoring him, her pale blue eyes as she listened to him speak about the stories… his dreams. He never learned of her name, but he did not care much for it, after all he knew the name of a God, the one that meant most to him, and he felt he meant most to.

Lazy and incompetent. That's what his family called him when Henry spent his days and nights napping, unknowing of the things he saw… and their importance. Even now within their moans and tortured screams the boy only remembered their scorn.

"If it wasn't for the priests I would make sure he'd never wake up, the lazy cunt. Feeding 'im for nothin.'"

"Worthless runt."

Henry didn't grimace, he knew that Dream has blessed him, the fact he couldn't stay awake for more than a few hours wasn't his fault, it wasn't even a bad thing. Why would the Gods punish him? The Mother had told him as much too, besides the prayers and litanies.

The smoke from the street started creeping slowly through the shards of his broken window, the moonlight and embers danced tiredly with it. Litanies and chants of the clergy could be heard booming over the blazing village, pleas and requests to Mercy for Her kindness, to Vengeance for His justice, to Flesh for His strength. Henry knew of them all, but he had only ever uttered those in the name of Dream.

Softly exhaling he flipped to the last page he had written on, the last one he had shared with the Mother.

"At the hour of the bat during the harvest moon, in the market too close to home, at the tower over the rolling hills…evil. Beneath the stars…holy retribution, swift justice…and peace."

His mind felt much more, enough to shake his soul into wakefulness but words couldn't contain that, as much as he tried to contort them.

Wet slaps and heavy thumps disturbed the child's reading, the noises dragging themselves ever closer to his door.

"The gods will strike you down! Anytime now…" Henry mused to no one in particular, his voice only a bleary murmur.

With the dream journal tight to his chest, the boy closed his eyes and innocently prayed.

"Dream… I wish to never see this gross world again. Your blessing is all I want to feel, and I want to feel it forever."

Slowly creaking, the door opened, pained moans drowned out the fighting in the streets.

"Though my eyes may now look upon the world of Their making, I pray to you, Dream. I beseech thee…"

The floorboards quietly traced blood as Henry's voice begged.

"Welcome me into your darkness…"

The boy couldn't see the creature's abhorrent form, he couldn't feel its fetid breath and he couldn't hear its moaned whispers as it dragged itself over to him.

"Offer me reprieve from the mundane…"

He couldn't hear its demented chuckle as the aberration laid prone.

"Eternally."



(Oh my God you guys spoil me. Thank you so much @Florin. Adding this to our threadmarks as well.)
 
(Got some quiet time tonight! Going to lock the vote here, that write-in is insane and you guys are awesome for backing it. Let's do this thing. Writing now.)
 
Chapter 13: Anticipation
Chapter 13: Anticipation

The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.
Implicit sexual content (masochism), paranoid schizophrenia, suicide (implicit), torture (implicit), and homicide (implicit).
Reader discretion is advised.






The walls are literally closing in.

The only way ahead has ALWAYS been forward.

You can't think of anything you'd rather do than to take this monstrosity by the hand. Shoving aside Father Pevrel faster than the stunned priest can react, you enforce a barrier just in front of your chest.

The demon attempts to skewer your heart with a barb of shadow a second later. In that same second, you peel one of its hands away from the sides of its body. He was holding onto himself for comfort, and violently tries to pull away from your grasp.

As you rip your Relic off from your neck and take it between your hand and the demon's, it's like holding onto tanned leather that's been soaking in a vat of acid. Your skin starts to boil and peel back from the contact. The Goddess working through you wraps Herself into the damage, winding into every blister and burn, healing you as quickly as the demon can try to cause you any harm.

The emaciated husk of a human's eyeless features goes wide in absolute horror. Through the overwhelming sensation, it occurs to you that as a demon of Vengeance, this monster must perceive the touch of your skin to be abject agony.

The light of the sun Herself is in your eyes and speech. "I'm not going to hurt you. I don't fear you."

The creature is writhing, using its free hand to try and tear you off.

Your Relic only can be used with willing recipients. This is a problem.

You take the demon by its opposite hand, with the strength of three Gods keeping its fingers between your own. "This nightmare is one that we can tackle together."

"You don't know what you're TALKING ABOUT—" The demon has created barbs out of its feet and legs, desperately trying to kick you away.

Father Pevrel insists on keeping everyone else out from the room, with absolute faith in your ability.

You simply take every hit that the beast dishes out, with your vitals healing faster than it can cause any lethal damage. Spikes tear and rip at the horrific injury on your arm, digging deep into raw and exposed flesh. Attempts are made to gouge out your eyes, or to cleave away bits of your skull.

Mercy is on you so hot and fast that there's no need to try and see or breathe. You aren't trying to kill it— and this demon of Vengeance seems to be unable to try and kill you. Any additional attack made towards your body is blocked by a swell of molten gold, which incinerates anything the demon tries to make contact with.

The pain it's inflicting on you is cause for concern. You drop to a knee, eyes swimming with reddened gold. Paint drips from the hold you're keeping on the monstrosity's hands. Metal drips from the rest of you. The network of scars over your palms from old burns have been worked over anew, but you smile at the sight of newly mottled skin, and to the terror in hand.

"I don't have to know, when I can feel. You're in pain. Would you let me try and help you? All of us?"

"Just die." The voice echoing from the hunched over, wretched creature screeches throughout the entirety of its lair, as the walls keep closing in. A terrified glance goes to everyone at the entrance to the small room, as they're pushed closer in.

The walls suddenly expand back to a normal shape and size. You're given enough room to breathe— but the monster you're holding onto is hyperventilating.

You've never seen someone look so terrified.

"Get out. Get out. Why did you let the LIGHT IN?! They're going to see. Get OUT!"

You're suddenly thrust back, out, and away from the demon's hands. There's no use trying to stagger— the force of the blow knocks you off your feet for a fell instant, before you crash hard into the nearest wall.

The world spins for a few moments. Wood splintered off. A few pieces reflected off of a shield of light that manifested at your back, but you can't breathe, and still try your damnedest to get up.

Father Wilhelm calls out from the door, "who would see?"

You're left to help yourself to your feet, resisting the urge to vomit with everything you have. Wiping some of the blood off from the side of your brow, you keep your distance for only a moment— and realize that the demon is still holding onto your Relic.

You're not going to panic.

You're not going to panic.

You're not going to panic.

An intricate web of shadow spins together from the floor in front of you. You realize that this demon must want your help to be able to hold your Relic, but you don't dare to approach the form it's creating out of thin air.

"Him. The cunt. The BASTARD who made me do it! He made me kill myself! None of this would have happened if it wasn't for HIM!"

Your Relic is flung across the room, tossed away from the demon, and you dive to catch it.
The small locket and chain hits your extended hand, flaring with enough heat and light to rival the sun.
You land hard, with no regard for anything but keeping your most prized possession safe.
A sharp pain runs through the entire right side of your body from the weight of the landing, but you're already being healed twice over, and have to

linger

a moment

with

the

pain.

It's perfect, and poorly timed, and you really can't help but love it. Your breath is heavy, your gaze is clouded, and it's all you can do to try and listen.

Mercy's blessing is not making it any easier to focus. Blood sticks to the ground from the raw flesh on your arm, and bits of splinters are getting inside—

"...would be grounds for retribution," Father Pevrel replies. "How was he responsible?"

A long, sharp, and intense silence follows. The air crackles, and the human figure that was forming inside of the demon's lair doubles in size.

He was inside of my mind.

You look wildly around, and confirm that the demon did not speak. It certainly wasn't you that was thinking it, but there the thought is.

Rolfe has found his wife and daughter's bodies in the hallway, and is holding onto both of them, crying hysterically. "You son of a bitch."

He was inside of my mind, and there was only one way to get him out.

Father Wilhelm keeps his distance, but whispers to the demon, "do you know what helps me tell the difference between what is real, and what is not?"

The form in the center of the room turns to look at the priest, rather than its puppeteer. It speaks directly into the heart of you. The pain is unlike anything you've ever felt before.

What?

The lord of fantasy takes a step into the room, and passes a hand straight through the giant, humanoid shadow that's appeared.

"I test it."

His limb returns on the other side, intact, and unaffected. A howl leaves the demon of dread, as if its own sense of self has been desecrated.

"STOP. You don't know what you're TALKING ABOUT!"

"I do. I know better than anyone how it feels to be unable to distinguish what's real from what isn't. But anyone can learn how to think and then react... what is your name?"

A terrified, small, and borderline human voice leaves the creature. "Zephadar."

"Zephadar, no matter what we see, we can always consider how we react to that situation. I'm sorry that you've been so hurt. We have to remember that other people have their own thoughts and feelings about these situations, too." The fact that your ally is so quick to try and help a demon is cause for concern. He's taken one more step forward. "We can always try and consider alternative outcomes, before reacting right away. Sometimes, imagining these other possibilities can even create new outcomes..."

Father Wilhelm smiles at you. "It is through this increased awareness— from keeping an open mind— that we can understand our true thoughts and experiences."

The entirety of the shadow expands around Father Wilhelm's form, and encompasses him completely.

He vanishes from sight.

"No." You completely snap out of the haze of ecstasy you've been in, and try to slide yourself up from the floor.

Father Pevrel finally parts from Rolfe's side, and takes a step into the room. The fury in his tone could kill a man. "What good do you think it will do to harm anyone that's trying to help you?!"

"You tell me," the demon seethes, sounding equally disturbed. The monster either has guessed Father Pevrel's penchant for harming you, or has some further insight into his behavior.

"There's a difference," the hypocrite barks.

"Like what?"

Father Pevrel takes his hand off from his sword, and continues to keep his distance. "I'm only hurting myself, at the end of the day." Vengeance is not necessarily the God of honesty, so you keep your thoughts to yourself. "You're too much of a coward to own up to how many lives you've damaged for the sake of your own. This isn't retribution. You're distorting everything that it means to be just."

"You don't mean that." Zephadar begins to move from his spot on the floor. There are stains of rot beneath the living corpse's location, as if he hasn't budged in the last thirty years.

The creature is the height of an ordinary man, as he stands up completely. A few reflections flicker off of its skeletal form, as it walks towards Father Pevrel. With each step comes a flash of some long-forgotten self-image. The impression is of a living man, with an unbearably beautiful face and figure.

It's as if the demon's shadow is more alive than its very own body.

The lord of honor doesn't back down for an instant. "I think you're hiding the murder of all these men and women behind your own self-pity. If you actually wanted justice, you'd have thought for even one second about how you were meting out these punishments."

Pausing just an arm's reach away from your ally, Zephadar tilts his disgusting bald head. A dead worm rolls out, and falls to the floor with a hollow sound. At the same time, that impression of a handsome young man smiles from ear-to-ear.

The young man's skull unravels, and all of his skin drops to the floor.

"What do you propose I do to punish you, then?"

"See, I've thought about this before we ever entered your home. Before we entered this village. Before I left my own church. I've studied Vengeance all of my LIFE, you piece of shit. I know that if a monster ever asked me to decide my own fate, I'd tell them this..."

Father Pevrel lifts his gaze, and flits his eyes towards the demon's back. He's urging you to do what you do best.

"We should never administer a punishment that we are unwilling to take upon ourselves."

You launch yourself at Zephadar, and take the demon into a bear hug.

He immediately tries to throw you off from him, but the movements are insincere. "Get OFF of me!"

"I told you, we don't want to hurt you—!" You have far too much experience 'sparring' with Father Pevrel in this manner, and effortlessly keep the demon pinned.

"I said get OFF!" He's weakly fighting back. The fury that was present even a matter of seconds ago is nowhere near as intense.

Father Pevrel remains standing a few inches away, and scowls. "If you wanted to kill us, you would have ten times over already. You demons all want the same thing."

"LIAR!" The monster is kicking you in the shins repeatedly. It's downright childish.

You don't even wince. It's quite nice, really. A warm and downright pleasant distraction from the agony in your arm and soul. Instead of screaming like a sane man would, you gently say, "he's wrong. About demons, I mean."

Zephadar's thrashing comes to a complete stop. He silently turns his head as much as he's able, with those eyeless strips of skin piercing into you.

"I've met demons who could love, and grieve, and interpret what it even is to be. Many of them had no means of communicating their needs. But you do. And whether or not you have the capacity to understand me in full, you do not have to be a slave to your Catalyst, Zephadar. We are masters of our own destinies."

Some internal battle has the demon shake his head, and ease deeper against your arms for anything resembling comfort. His impossible gaze drops to the blood slaking the floor, and Rolfe's shaking, grieving form just down the way.

A shadow reappears at Zephadar's back, which spits out Father Wilhelm onto the floor. He's slaked head-to-toe in blood, and coughs up a colossal volume of paint.

Father Pevrel rushes to the man's side, and drops all pretense of anger. "Are you alright—?"

Several nods from the priest, who's obviously too shaken to speak. The two of them set about looking after the man's health. It seems like he'll live.

You try breathing again. "Don't tell me about anyone else but you. What do you need?"

"I need him to—"

As gently as you can, you interject. "No. Try again."

The demon writhes a little in your filthy arms before muttering, "I need anticipation. But not any sort of anticipation. I need fear. I am what it is to be horrified. To know foreboding."

You're suddenly shoved away by a freakish amount of strength. "I need PANIC—"

"Zephadar," you say. The demon's form is wavering. It looks as exhausted as you feel, and breathes hard, looking frantically between you all. "If you're going to take this out on anyone, take it out on me. I know how it feels. I really do. But you can be more than that need."

A few spikes carefully, slowly, desperately raise from the floor, and point straight at your heart. "But I can't find a way to hurt you."

Your smile aches almost as much as your soul does.

"You're hurting me right now."

The spikes lower.

Zephadar crumples to the floor, sobbing hysterically.

You walk over to the demon, kneel down by its side, and whisper, "we can make this right. Is there anyone else alive in this building that I should know about?"

A desperate shake from its head. "I don't know. I can't tell anymore."

Father Pevrel has dragged Father Wilhelm against a wall to continue hacking up paint, before sprinting down the hallway, and checking with Rolfe on the bodies. The resident of Yellow Hallows is still crying, and you see him shake his head in agony.

You try offering the most apologetic look to Rolfe that you can, while keeping a hand to the demon's back. "Is there anywhere else you were keeping them, Zephadar?"

"The basement."

Father Wilhelm's coughing suddenly redoubles, in a fit of borderline panic. It's a healthy, wet cough. You're more worried about what he says.

"There might be a few survivors."

You're having trouble even focusing on the present. Mercy is working through you so intensely, even keeping your decency is a losing battle. There's enough heat in you to outlast the sun—

"We're going together," Father Wilhelm demands.

"You're not going anywhere." From around the corner, Father Pevrel has his sword out once more. "Not until I know what we're getting into."

"It's the embodiment of panic." A nod is given from the paint-slick brunette, over to the demon. Despite his pupils being constricted, the intensity of his breath, and the way it looks like he's about to die from terror, Father Wilhelm grins. "It's what I felt. I'm sure we'll be fine if we stick together." A quick glance to Rolfe. "Excluding dear Rolfe. He'll die! The three of us should be fine, though."

Father Pevrel gives a warning stare towards Zephadar. "We need you to release them."

The response is immediate, and terrified. "I can't."

"Don't tell him to go against his Catalyst," you mutter. To the demon, you speak far more clearly. "This is your choice to make. If you're certain you can't release anyone, then will you permit the three of us to exit from this 'basement'?"

"I can try that." Misery curls back in on itself.

"Us, and anyone that we bring back?"

"Yes." Muttering that outclasses your own takes over the creature. "They all came into my home. They all were looking at me. They didn't bring the sun. They didn't bring justice. They didn't bring interpretation. Only more dread."

You take a deep breath, as a monster of a shadow rears its ugly head from the walls, the ceiling, and the floor.

Father Pevrel yanks the lord of nightmares off from the floor. The three of you shove yourselves shoulder to bloody shoulder, and stare into the abyss.

"Mercy."





>Bear in mind that demons of Vengeance are not exactly the lord of honesty.
>You are.

>What are you most afraid of?


>A] Being unable to save anyone in this demon's lair.

>B] Never being able to return.

>C] Dying.

>D] Becoming a demon.

>E] Reaching Serpent and Chesty, only to find that they died from you taking too long.

>F] Father Wilhelm getting hurt.

>G] Not being able to save Father Pevrel from himself.

>H] Being unable to save Zephadar.

>I] Write-in.
 
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>D] Becoming a demon.

Let's be honest, if this happens it is game over for all of humanity. At the end of the day no matter what we always had our own strength to rely on, if we lost that too...
 
Chapter 14: The Demon of Faith
Chapter 14: The Demon of Faith


The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.
Suicide (implicit), body horror, torture, implicit sexual content (sadism and masochism).
Reader discretion is advised.






"Mercy."

Shadow creeps behind your eyes. Behind the sun. Behind your innermost thoughts, and deep into the heart of you.

"Mercy—!"

Somewhere deeper still, there's your deepest fears. The skip in your heart. The lump in your throat.

"Agriculture...!"

The absence of everything you love and hold dear. A void that can never be filled. Something that you have denied from the very beginning, that's staring you in your face, that you cannot turn away from.


The Catalyst.





There's no pain.
Not like anything you've felt before.


It's as if your soul is draining.


Like every last bit of love you've ever held for the Gods has slipped through the cracks in you.​


Thousands of scars litter your body, and they're all opening. Streaks of blue paint swim through the fissures, while your skin blackens, chars, and drips with liquid gold.

"Please wake up." The outline of Father Wilhelm's body can be seen kneeling on the ground besides a small, young man's figure. He's wearing robes of blue, and has a crack of paint swimming down the front of his cheek.

There's darkness all around, and a veritable ocean of dead bodies.

They're all dead.
Every last one of them.

Zephadar is a liar.


A sudden and violent tear rips across your chest, and leaves a vacant hole in its wake.

You have no heart. Your Relic hangs over the opening, catching on a few drops of blood that fall from the interior of your body.

You should be dead, but the absence of empathy causes you no pain.

Looking frantically around in the absolute night, your vision is illuminated. Light in every shade dances in a prism of impossibility from your gaze. The kaleidoscope glows, passing over the mutilated faces of countless men and women who died in the throes of abject horror.

Father Wilhelm is crying hysterically, and clutching onto the body of his boy. "Teddy. Teddy."

You clutch onto your own body, as the girth of your gut and the breadth of all the rest of your body practically doubles in size.
The rest of the basement seems to shrink.
You're at least three feet taller, but there's no newfound strength.
You feel so sluggish, you can hardly recognize what's happening to you or your surroundings.

There's a figure drenched in black that's slowly walking towards you, with his sword drawn, already slick with blood.

"Wait—! AaH—!"

A scream rips itself from your lips, as they crack and peel themselves wide open across your face. Teeth elongate into fangs, and a cracking sound snaps so loudly from your back that it nearly drowns out your prolonged cry.

The light that's cast from above and behind your head appears to be a halo of light, of blood, of bile, and of lightning. Liquid crackles and sparks, splattering molten metal over your bloodied shoulders, and you watch— paralyzed by the hot feeling of it— as wings made of broken limbs unfold from your spine.

Bone shatters from your spine, bursts out from your back, and begins to unfold. Wet tissue and muscle drips from the protrusion.

You're breathing so hard, you can't think or feel anything.

Your shadow continues to grow. The wings at your back spread, and must be twenty feet at their broadest.

You vomit.

Twenty one hands crawl out from your lips, and plop onto the floor.

You're screaming, and can barely piece together the words through the haze of emptiness that's swimming over whatever is left of your mind.

"I'm not a demon. I'm not a demon! STOP! I'm NOT a DEMON!"

Your retching continues. An outpouring of stars and space spills from your lips onto the bloody wooden floor.

A hole persists in the floor, removed from reality.

There's at least four corpses of normal, equally terrified citizens that get splashed by the expulsion of space nearby.
Their bodies sink into the pit, and vanish from reality.
Most of them look like they killed each other, or themselves, anyways.
None of them are demons.

The figure that's been stalking towards you continues his slow approach, slitting the throats of every body he passes.

"Stop—!"

Your plea falls on deaf ears. You keep insisting, as your voice takes on a deeper, darker, and harsher tone.

"I'm NOT a DEMON—!"

A sadist, a killer, and a man who has struggled all of his life to keep his impulses in check has walked up to you with his sword drawn, and a miserable smile smeared across his bloodied face.

Father Pevrel looks you up and down, and assumes a fighting stance. He looks like he's having the time of his life.

"Anscham was no liar, demon."

It's been no less than fifteen seconds since you all entered this area, and you still cannot see a door. You cannot see a ceiling. You cannot see the light.

You can't feel Mercy.

You can't feel Agriculture.


You can't feel any one of the Gods, and drop to your knees, clutching onto yourself with twenty-one hands, trying to cry. You try to stop screaming— realizing that you've been moaning through most of the pain— and find that your Relic still grants you relief. It gives you a split second of sanity, to try and take stock of the abomination that your body has twisted into.

Your stomach hangs to the ends of your knees, which are slaked with bile and starlight. Liquid gold pools under your bloated and twisted form, though no light radiates from the metal. The only light that can be seen in this Gods forsaken place is coming from just slightly behind your head, which you blessedly cannot see, but assume (judging by the intensity of every color you're seeing in) that your eyes are rapidly shifting through the entire spectrum of the rainbow.

Hunger is on you. Deep, dark, and terrible.

Pleasure is all through it.

Anticipation.

"On your feet, demon." Father Pevrel has the tip of his sword to your swollen throat.

You're compulsively looking for something to eat. Anything. It can't be human. You and Sister Cardew removed the capacity for that from your soul itself. It has to be something else, so you dig your over-sized fingers into the wood you're kneeling on, and start to grow something healthy. Something sane. Something whole.

Father Pevrel doesn't wait. He can't wait. The man's finally, completely snapped, and lost the ability to stay his hand.

He moves to slit your head straight off from your neck.

Before you can think, before you can feel, before you can pray, a pin-prick of gilded blood leaves your neck.

A drop of blood also leaves Father Pevrel's neck, though it's a human red.

He takes a step back, looking even more excited than before. "A demon of Vengeance and Mercy."

A long look passes over you, as you frantically tear into a false harvest you've produced from thin air. The bounty of fruits and vegetables turns to ash on your tongue. It leaves you feeling hungrier than before, but you can't stop trying. The binge feels like an endless cycle you could keep up forever, if you were left undisturbed.

"A demon of Agriculture."

It's like all of the strength you've ever had has left your body. This isn't the emptiness that Tsilorm inflicted on you, the first time that a demon activated your Catalyst.

It's nothing.

It feels like you're nothing.

"No." Your ally takes a step back, assessing the situation with a manic grin. You've heard lovers speak to one another with less desire. "This is better."

The absence of everything you've ever loved.

"You're a demon of all the Gods."

You need it back.

"Isn't that what they called you, Anscham? They had it right. By all the Gods, did they have it right— stay back—!"

You get to your feet, swaying and staggering from the sheer weight of your body. A trepidant sweep is made with the wings on your back, which should be incapable of supporting you. Each small motion creates a nauseating series of pops and cracks from cartilage and bone, which ultimately eases you into a fully upright position.

You must be over fifteen feet tall, and stare down at Father Pevrel's wavering, drunken body with all the pity you possess.

"You still think you can try to talk to me? Don't be ridiculous."

He licks his lips, and speaks with all the conviction that's left your vacant soul.

"You're a demon of faith."

You hazard trying to speak. It sounds like eight different abominations trying to talk over one another simultaneously. A pervert, a killer, a masochist, a madman, a glutton, a freak of nature, a waking nightmare, and something removed from... something far, something distant, something that used to be near and dear to you and you're crying trying to remember what it was.

"I'm not a demon. Please, M—"

You can't say Her name. The light of your life.

"M——!"

Her name catches in your throat in a way that's worse than swallowing glass.

"Please!"

It occurs to you that swallowing glass might be a preferable sensation, so you start looking around for a way to manifest some while Father Pevrel spits at your feet.

"This will be a Mercy killing." His sword is raised, as he circles around you, trying to decide how best to strike.

There's a sudden flash of black in the corner of your eye.

>A] Revert to your position you were in moments ago, to dodge the attack faster than the blink of an eye. It's a mockery of an old patron, but if other archdemons can do it, you can too.

>B] Force Father Pevrel to calm down. Doing so would be sacrilege normally, but your partner has left you.

>C] Take the hit, and lean into it. Love it. Abusing your body isn't right by certain standards, but it's never stopped you before.

>D] Use your many hands and eyes to control the immaterial. You can't be hit if you can perceive everything.

>E] Mastery over the natural world came to you readily before. Show your love. Give into ultimate temptation, and see how far your ability with growth, life, death, and everything in-between can go.

>F] There's little you could do to abuse your body further. Manipulating the elements should do the trick! Obliterate Father Pevrel's attack with...
>1] Lightning. A seizure would feel like someone tickling you, compared to what you're going through now.​
>2] Fire. Burns are a trifle.​
>3] Water. Who needs to breathe?​
>4] Wind. You might not even have natural skin left to lose.​

>G] Reality IS a nightmare, and yours for the taking. Harness some of the fantasy running through your veins, and interpret this fight however you please. (Write-in ANYTHING you'd like to do to Father Pevrel.)

>H] You're NOT a demon. (Write-in.)
 
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>C] Take the hit, and lean into it. Love it. Abusing your body isn't right by certain standards, but it's never stopped you before.

Edit: Oh, and add in an >H] "I'm not. I'm really not a demon!"
 
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>H] You're NOT a demon. (Write-in.)

The gods may have left us, but we are not empty, we are NOT a demon. We carry the Relic, it showed us the truth before and it will do so again. For once, in the absence of all the gods we have to have faith in OUR SELF. Grab the attention of Father Willhelm too and show them ALL the truth. Just like in the lair of a demon of interpretation, this is nothing but a false perspective.

>C] Take the hit, and lean into it. Love it. Abusing your body isn't right by certain standards, but it's never stopped you before.

Edit: Oh, and add in an >H] "I'm not. I'm really not a demon!"

I will strongly oppose this (no offense) and any of the other prompts that require us to blaspheme in ANY way, our relationship to the Gods isn't transactional, we don't stop loving them when they stop serving us. Also I suspect this is just a ploy of the demon of dread to further push us from the gods by making us think we have nothing left to lose. Also Pevrel can't hurt us without hurting himself, he won't be able to deliver a killing blow. We just need another moment to use the Relic.
 
Finally back!

In addition to Florin:

>H] No matter how empty your heart feels, even as you've fallen far from the very Gods, that their very names are ash upon your lips and blessing like glass. Honour them still by committing through your acts. Stay your hand, still your thoughts from even the slightest temptation of either heresy or sin. You are a demon of faith are you not? So why are you so tempted to distort the Faith that is fundamental to your very being? Your heart even knows this travesty through your thoughts in reaching out to you fellow man! For no demon in the throes of transformation has the rationality necessary in restraining himself from lashing his fellow man. And you are more than an empty shell of a demon. This you realize as you reach for the relic.
 
@Alaric What's the current diplomatic situation between humans and the other races? I know orcs are generally not tolerated given their aggressive natures and frequent skirmishes. But what would happen if an elf or a halfling adventurer will suddenly show up in one of the border villages for example?
 
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@Alaric What's the current diplomatic situation between humans and the other races? I know orcs are generally not tolerated given their aggressive natures and frequent skirmishes. But what would happen if an elf or a halfling adventurer will suddenly show up in one of the border villages for example?
(Due to their inherent physical weaknesses (such as their inherited dependency on poison to live and diminutive size), lack of instigated conflict, and rarity, halflings are politically and culturally regarded as a neutral party to humans. The few who find their way into Corcaea's borders are offered safe refuge in the capital (Calunoth) on behalf of King Magnus, as a gesture of good will towards their race.

Historically, elves were bitter enemies of mankind. They shun the Gods (as they are shunned by them in turn). Only in the last century has your King been able to initiate a successful diplomatic effort to the east. His Mercifulness has kept the entirety of the eastern elven realms from raining down on Corcaea's borders. It's been his life's work to establish a positive relationship with elvenkind. They are far from friends. So far, they only keep a begrudging distance from Corcaea's walls. Any demon or person who ventures from outside of your country, of course, is no longer protected by these conditions. The fact that Celegwen ventured into Corcaea alone is a feat of such absurd strangeness that it was worth mention to both the King and the leader of the Church of Flesh (who both panicked when told as much). The fact that her whereabouts remain unknown is equally alarming.

This is all the information I can provide based on Richard's very limited understanding of the world outside, and of the races that inhabit it. You guys do have many influential allies, however, so feel free to ask for more information through the quest! I'm certain that more information will turn up over time as well. ;^)
 
(These amazing write-ins and votes! Wonderful stuff. Due to the vocal opposition to >C], we will not be incorporating that action, and will use all of these other fabulous votes and write-ins instead. Thanks guys once more for being so awesome. The vote is locked. Writing now!)
 
Chapter 15: A False Perspective
Chapter 15: A False Perspective





No comprehension of moments or seconds or hours are left to you.

You might as well be in a free-fall, as you continue to taste ash upon your lips, and feel Their names as if it were a blessing of broken glass.

There's only one thing you can think of, no matter how empty your heart feels:

No amount of pain or pleasure can outweigh your love for Them.

You stay your hand.

You refuse to cave in.

You still your thoughts.

You are a demon of faith, are you not?

How could you distort the most fundamental, beloved aspect of your innermost being?

No monster could resist lashing out in the throes of their transformation.
You may be a travesty, but not like this.
You are no empty shell of a man.

You're more than a demon.

You are Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy, and you STILL carry with you ultimate proof of that fact.

You seize your Relic between one, single, human hand. It's scarred and battered, blackened and worked over with cracks of fantastical paint, dripping with molten gold and resonating with the stars themselves— but it is your hand. You have faith in it.

You have faith in yourself for possibly the first time in your life, and open YOUR Relic before your friends and allies.

The alliance that your Relic was sustaining shatters in a singular instant, severing the remnants of your individual invocations. It cuts the fabric of an unseen bond— but the social ties, the memories you've shared, the risks that these men have taken to help save your life— everything that you've been through together remains.

Father Pevrel's attack stops just short of the empty expanse where your heart should be. The weapon is a solid spike of darkness that couldn't kill a mortal man. He might have invented an attack that could only kill a demon— but the lord of wrath looks to you and the item you keep in hand with empty eyes, and a heart full of hatred.

In your hands, between a locket's two small pieces of yellow-gold, lies a mirror. It's smaller than a thimble between your colossal fingers, but this object is not about its appearance, or size, or power.

Between both faces of your Relic lies a reminder of reflection.

A reflection of meaning. Of faith in oneself.

You just needed another moment. A moment to remember that your love is not about give and take.

You hold onto yourself in the absence of all of the Gods, and still love Them with all of your heart.

Even the slightest thought of temptation, heresy, or sin is unthinkable.

Even if it feels like you have nothing left to lose, you know that couldn't be further from the truth.






Not when you've spent all your life paying respect to Time. You've counted every waking moment, and thanked Her no matter what Her work has brought. The aura of space and stars you've been vomiting is no unhappy reminder of Her harsh reality, or power untold. It's an echo of endless devotion.

The first cracks in your humanity showed themselves through the God of Nightmares. But He has struck you before with waking terrors, and you have never feared Dream. No matter how deeply you both have come to blows, your love has carried you through it all. There's room to improve. Room to learn. Room to get to know Him in ways you could not learn of any other.

You'd really like to not lose the leader of the Church of Dream to despair.

You stagger over to Father Wilhelm, paying your other church leader less mind as he is stock-still. Father Pevrel is likely just as paralyzed by introspection as you were a second ago, but you won't stand idly by while one of your dearest friends loses his heart.

Father Wilhelm is bent in two, hands clasped together with white knuckles and bloodied paint. He's been trying to bring his son back to life, and his lap is filled with expulsions of more oils and tempera. It looks like he's been killing himself through terror and grief, so it comes as little surprise that he hardly responds as you put a monstrous hand to his shoulder.

"Leave us." It's not a warning. He's begging.

The strength of the tempest is in your tone. The might of faith in a greater power. Not in a God. Not in another man. You get on your knees, and take Father Wilhelm into a hug as best as you can because you have faith in yourself. The motion is agony, but you speak like a demon through it, knowing that you've suffered worse and come out of it all the stronger.

"I wouldn't Dream of it."

Elated laughter escapes from your lips. You could say His name.

"Look."

A small motion is made with your Relic— just with the mirror— still a colossal arm's length away. The body that Father Wilhelm is holding was so desiccated, it couldn't possibly have been his own son.

He's still sobbing. "I've lost him." He clutches onto the corpse, crying harder than you've ever seen him. "My boy. I've seen it in every way conceivable, Richard. Don't you understand?"

The Seer of Somerilde turns to you with those divinely blue eyes. "I've looked ahead. It might not be today. It might not be for fifty more years. But I've seen him die. It's always through something self-sacrificing. He's going to work himself to death one of these days, or go killing himself to protect someone he loves. He might do it to save his own children, or even to not watch me suffer through some catastrophe. He never turns. But—"

Sniffing, Father Wilhelm drops his arms from the body on the floor.

He hugs you, instead.

"Thank you for being here. I won't get to ever see him again if I fall prey to my own fears."

You can breathe a lot easier, and return the motion in full. It doesn't matter that you can't reach to the end of your stomach, or that you have more hands than what can fit around Father Wilhelm's frail body.

It's never been about your body. Not when it comes to your love of Agriculture. Both of you have come to love and adore each other's peculiarities. It feels like every time that you see Her, your entire world opens up anew. She's more than a partner, or a lover. She's life, and death, and everything in-between. You want to come to understand all that She is, because She wants you to be all that you can be.

The ash on your tongue and the sensation of glass in your throat are phantoms. Phantoms of old memories. You endured a famine for all your childhood, and still fought every single day to make something grow. You starved in the bottom of a cell for eight years, and not a day went by that you didn't want to lift Her name higher. Your enemies could try and cull your taste for food and water, but not even a curse could make you truly resent Her.

Not when all you've ever wanted to do is love, and be loved in return.

You wouldn't even let two other Gods distort your devotion to Agriculture, and get to your feet feeling significantly lighter.

The love you hold for your Goddess, your devotion, all of it has always simply been about being together.

Father Pevrel has dropped to the bloody floor, sword thrust into the ground. He's clutching onto the hilt to keep himself upright, looking around the field of the dead in horror. You can see clearly that he's shaking.

"Stay back!" He pulls a dagger out from his boot, and can't even bear to look at you. Father Wilhelm sighs at him. "DEMON! STAY BACK!"

"I'm not!"

"He's really not, Father Pevrel!"

"Shut up, both of you!"

"I'm I'm really not a demon!" There's no fear of losing your mind or body. You stride right up to the lord of punishment, and offer him a hand to get up. There's only ten fingers you can make out, through the haze over your vision, and the sluggishness that feels as if it's lifting by the second.

Soft steps from muddy slippers run up behind you.

The dagger weakly falls to the floor.

Father Pevrel's voice trails out from him, cold and thin. He sounds like he's in enough pain to die, but it's not from his body or mind.

"Why can't I just let go?!" A sudden, hate-filled sneer snaps to you and your Relic. "I hate you. I hate you for stopping me! I was happy. I didn't have to hate myself for what I NEED! I need it, Anscham! You KNOW how badly I need it, and you still are trying to HELP ME—!"

A waver seizes his voice.

"I stopped myself from killing you, you know. Even through the feeling."

Father Pevrel gently lays his sword to the ground, like he'd lay a lover down to die.

His God leaves him just for staying his hand.

"I've been holding myself back all of my life. It wasn't any different."

A terrified look goes out to the ocean of dead bodies around you all, in that terrible darkness.

"Some of those people's throats I slit? They were alive. I knew they were alive, and I did it anyways."

You try not to get sick on the spot, and frantically look out. You can still see in the darkness with perfect clarity, though the unnatural halo at your back has faded, and the wings protruding from your back are crumbling into dust. You're no abomination of Flesh and Spirit. You've tried your damnedest all of your life to fight, to achieve, to learn, and to be better.

"I knew they still had their own reasons for being down here, but I didn't care if it was right or not. I just want to kill people. I just want to kill people, Richard, you fucking MONSTER!"

Father Pevrel suddenly gets to his feet, sheathes his sword, and runs to shove you.

You're pushed so hard against your broad chest, you're pushed back and into Father Wilhelm. Granted, you're back to around your normal height to make the motion possible— but you're still incredibly bulky, and send Father Pevrel staggering backwards.

"DEMON!"

"I'm not a demon!" Your voice almost sounds normal. You're so happy, you could cry. There is some justice in this world. You know it as dearly as you know yourself.

The Catalyst that you felt was real, but not in the way that the God of Retribution has brought to you. Not in the way you know Him. It's not often that you long for honor or blood, but your respect for the Church of Vengeance is unwavering, and you are not about to let its leader down.

The grief across your ally's face redoubles the need for tears, and you're choking up as you say it again with absolute conviction. "I'm not a demon. Father Pevrel, please—"

He strides up to you, fists clenched, and moves to swing at your face.

You actually move to dodge. There's no need to revel in agony and ecstasy. It's not that you have some sick obsession with Mercy that demands you bend to Her every whim.

For once in your life, you're not a slave to your impulses. You can love yourself, and care enough about your own well-being for once to actually shift, and turn away.

Father Wilhelm must have not trusted you, and before it can land, he catches the blow in one hand with way more strength than he should possess. The man's still invoking Dream, and seems to have slowed the hit mid-air. His eyes are red and inflamed around the blue swimming through them, but he manages a horrible smile to you both.

"No one needs to get hurt."

Both men realize you tried to move out of the way of the hit, and part from their tense hold on one another.

A long moment passes as everyone registers that you cared enough about yourself to not get hurt on someone's behalf for once.

The three of you drop to the floor, facing one another in a little triangle of camaraderie. Father Pevrel places his hands to his head, hangs his greasy hair, and starts sobbing.

"You don't know what it's like. I was free. Every waking hour is the real nightmare. It's like torture." He's crying so hard, his voice is breaking up. "But I was so scared. I'm always so scared that it's going to happen. That I'll snap. That I'll hurt someone who doesn't deserve it."

He lifts his head, and stares out at the line of bodies he carved his way through. "I don't want to lose myself like that ever again."

Another horrified moment passes you all by, before the lord of blood speaks softly.

"How many people did I just kill?"

You reach over, and put a (mostly) normal hand to his shoulder, from a (mostly) normal height, and speak in a (mostly) normal voice. You have to keep telling it to yourself. The urge to revert to something unkind to yourself is all but gone, while there's some other force at work.

It's alright that you're unhinged. It's okay that you've been mistaken for a demon since you were a little boy. You've suffered worse injustices, and have always fought to do the right thing.

"We'll figure it out, but torturing— but torturing yourself over it is not going to bring them back."

He breaks down completely, and leans hard against the hold on your hand.

You get it, and take him into a hug.

"Get off of me, Anscham."

"No. Father Wilhelm, get over here." He immediately obliges. You're about the same size as you were when you entered the demon's domain! It's almost possible for him to get his arms around you.

You start crying. Everyone is crying, but it's okay.

"We need to find a way to get any survivors out of here," Father Pevrel mumbles, keeping his arms at his sides, leaning harder against the softness of your chest and shoulder.

"You aren't going to try and kill me?"

The hole in your chest is gone. It's aching like your heart has been overworked all your life, just how you like it.

You manage to not break down on the spot, while Father Pevrel pokes you in the usual spot— right over your heart— and gives you his best scowl. "We've been over this, Anscham." Deep breath. He's so worked up, he can hardly breathe— but he manages to still mutter, "not when you're your own worst punishment."

You take him back into a firm hug, and let him cry it out.

Father Wilhelm has been unbelievably quiet.

You all remain incredibly quiet, save for the sound of the leader of the Church of Vengeance bawling his eyes out for many long minutes. You're acutely aware of Time once more, and though your perception is as unreliable as ever, you couldn't be happier to see impossible color fade from your sight.

Your frantic breathing slows, as you murmur to both of your friends. "There is more to all of us than our fears. I strongly suspect that this demon attempted to pit us against one another— against ourselves— when we felt as if we had nothing left."

You slowly peel Father Pevrel off of your bloody, metal-covered, bile-splattered, paint-flecked shoulder. His face is filthy, which he tries wiping away with a bloody sleeve. It just gets more blood on his face. It's the unhappiest you've ever seen the man, which is really saying something.

You pull him back into a hug, unable to stop yourself. "A day may come when we can answer for our sins in full. As for right now? This is one of the few luxuries we all are not afforded." You give a sad look to Father Wilhelm. "There are too many people counting on us. Until that day, we must know when to show Mercy to ourselves."

Several unhappy nods from Father Wilhelm, who drags himself to his feet, and motions to help you get Father Pevrel up. "You're right. Come on, Nicholas."

More muttering. "Nick is fine, Atticus."

"Father Pevrel—!" The older priest hoists him onto his feet with your assistance, and starts trying to brush some of the residual flecks of metal off from Father Pevrel's robes. "Would you believe me if I told you that I find your restraint commendable?"

"I just killed—"

"Under any other circumstances, you want me to say? Eh? No. Particularly now. Neither of us had to say a thing for you to come to your senses. Richard here had to pry me away from my own fears, in fact! And the very lord of restraint required a divine object to come back to humanity."

The three of you look to your Relic, which is now closed, and has been for some time.

You mumble it again. It feels so good to say it. "I know I'm not a demon."

The starry-eyed priest by your side has yet to release his invocation of Dream, and might be holding onto his patron out of fear of collapse by this point. He pats your back weakly, but speaks to your fellow church leader. "This is something that brings you little happiness, isn't it? Killing. Torture. Blood. All of it, at the end of the day."

"I don't know." The dark-eyed man shakes his head, and looks to the blood on his hands in turmoil. "Nothing feels more right. It's the only thing that makes me feel alive. A few minutes ago, I— I don't think I've ever been happier. But the way that I'm feeling now...?"

Another desperate look goes out to countless corpses.

Father Pevrel stashes the last of his weapons, ties back his cloak, and stares dead-ahead. The gravel of his voice almost sounds like his usual self. "We can talk while we search through the bodies."

You stay right on his heels. "We're not splitting up."

"Do you both remember what I said to Zephadar?" Father Wilhelm has run only slightly ahead, and waves a hand over a body that looks far fresher than the rest around it. A span of darkness shrouds the corpse's features for a few moments, as if all the night's sky was dragged over their features.

They suddenly kick up, twitching like someone in the throes of an intense nightmare.

"Did you just—?" Father Pevrel runs over to the body's side.

You drop to you knees beside the young blonde woman, and find a pulse. She's not asleep, but in some other state of consciousness.

You give a few simple tests, and discern that she's alert— but completely unable to move her body.

Father Pevrel has backed up in horror, and looks to the hundreds of bodies all around.

He looks to his hands, to his sword, and to no less than thirty people that he must have actually killed in the last few minutes.

He's not going to fall to despair, or turn to his Catalyst, but you've never seen someone look like they hate themselves more in all their life.

Getting back to his feet, Father Wilhelm runs right past the lord of shadows, and barks at him. "You want to set things right? Start helping!" He's a little further down the basement's floor, spurring you both to limp after him in exhaustion. "Come here, and show me what you can do!"

Both men hop to checking several livelier corpses. In addition to Father Wilhelm's mastery over states of awareness and Father Pevrel's intimate understanding of the human body, your expertise with medicine is a boon. You're all able to find even the slightest traces of motion or physical activity.

It rapidly becomes apparent that there are survivors in all directions, in some sort of stasis. There are three huge problems with this:

#1: You've seen the same few individuals dozens of times. The bodies are repeating, though you don't know how. Each duplicate is seemingly indiscernible from the others, which makes figuring out who any real people are nearly impossible.

#2: It may be that this demon has an aspect of Dream. It's a terrifying and very plausible thought. It explains the monster's ability to manipulate reality, and to make nightmares manifest. No one is waking from the condition that they're in, even with Father Wilhelm's mastery of Dream. Father Pevrel has had the greatest luck with making small injuries (like pricking a finger) on the bodies to get a response, but it's hardly rousing anyone. No matter which way that you look at it, though, you're struggling to get the scope of how many people there are to move.

#3: You have no idea still how to get anyone out of here. Even if you find an exit, there are hundreds of bodies. The process is simply too much for three exhausted men to manage (without further miracles).

In a fit of desperation, you shove your Relic into one person's hand. An almost imperceptible amount of stress relaxes on their pale and sickly features.

"Mercy." It feels so good to say Her name, you mutter it a few more times to yourself. "Mercy, Mercy..."

You and your allies look on the body in a similar state of horror.

"Are they all in pain, too...?" You back up, and try your Relic's pain-relieving properties on another body. Same response.

"Are we like this, too, I wonder?" Father Wilhelm scratches at his short beard, seemingly unbothered by the prospect.

Father Pevrel scratches at the side of his neck, hands tense, teeth clenched, trying his damnedest still to keep it together.

"Any other ideas?" You ask.

"You could illuminate the entire area," Father Wilhelm suggests. "Mercy is sorely lacking here, in all respects. The night here seems endless, and Zephadar seemed incredibly bothered by the light of day."

"That may be insufficient, but I— it has been a very long time since I used Her light for illumination alone."

Father Pevrel squints, looking to the furthest reaches of the area. "I can't see hide nor hair of an end to this place, but that doesn't count for much if this is all an illusion." A bold look goes from you, to Father Wilhelm, to his own steady hands. "I'm willing to bet that we could create our own nightmare for this demon, if we put our minds to it."

"Please," you reply. "Go on."

"This is a demon of Vengeance, first and foremost. I say that we give it a nightmare so obscene, it wakes up. Subjecting this creature to horrors beyond belief could end this illusion, would bring us back to reality, and would give this bastard a small taste of his own medicine."

"You are assuming that this is an illusion." Your voice is distant and understandably terrified, as you are downright traumatized from the last demon of Dream you encountered. You shattered definitions of reality to escape, and won't even talk about the event with your counselor. "Escaping from the deepest lair of a demon is no small feat. Doing so against their will is not for the faint of heart."

You can't help but think back to Yech, and to escaping from his own lair at the bottom of the world. He HAD to release you. It was completely impossible otherwise.

"Wait a minute."

"What?" Father Wilhelm has a hopeful glint in his eye once again.

It's enough to get a legitimate smile out of you. Your teeth are back to normal. Your mouth feels back to (almost) normal. Your lips are still scarred and cut, chewed on, and a little goofy when you grin, but it couldn't feel sweeter.

You smile harder, loving yourself for a few sweet seconds. "Instead of forcing our way out, or assuming how this demon operates, why don't we try changing its perspective?"

"That's—" Father Pevrel's scowl is extreme. "Wait just a fucking second here. Before you go off trying to be a hero. What happened to you? To me? To all of us?"

The three of you look to each other for a long moment.

"I thought this place was panic incarnate," Father Wilhelm replies. He's been invoking for so long, he hacks up a wad of paint mid-sentence, and casually wipes it from his lips like he isn't in extreme physical distress. "I was certain that I would die if I were to be left here alone. The first time that Zephadar pulled me in to this portion of his lair of dread... well, I believe that I was subjected to the same vision just now."

A long, hard, bitter stare goes towards the direction where he thinks Teddy's corpse is. "While I'm in here, I'm certain that I see my boy dead in all realities. Truth be told, the very first thing I was going to do once we left here was to check and see if Teddy was alright. When I was released, everything I had experienced seemed as real as when I was inside."

It looks like he's going to be sick, but he forces a sincere smile. "It's just as I suspected. With the three of us together, we were able to pull through it all."

Father Pevrel's voice does death itself proud. "You're telling me that you have no idea what we're dealing with."

"No idea!"

Dragging a hand over his filthy face, Father Pevrel looks to you. "Any ideas, demon?"

"I'm not a demon," you say for the umpteenth time.

The gravity of the looks you're being given gives you pause. Enough to take one more second to remind yourself that you're human.

You're taller than average, but nowhere near a giant. Fat enough to almost satisfy the Goddess of excess, but not some grotesque distortion of Her gifts. Your skin is paler than a country boy's should be, tanner than a prisoner's of eight years used to be, and has no trace of volcanic glass or cracks of paint (save for the old scar across your chest). The wings that were protruding from your back are gone, your enchanted robes are mended, the hole in your chest has vanished, and your eyes are back to an uncannily bright shade of forest green.

Running normal fingers through your mop of short, brown, scruffy, human hair, you breathe a sigh of relief. You still feel mentally unsound, have a deep urge to go binge until you stop feeling anything, and are pretty certain you'll snap under another experience like this, but that is EXACTLY why it's worth saying again.

"I'm not a demon, no matter how much I may fear becoming one. I'm only human."

Gods, does it feel good to say it.

"I'm only human." The relief on Father Wilhelm's features is palpable. You grin at him. "We can save these people— and I haven't lost sight of who I love. I know that Mercy's and Agriculture's love for me is unconditional, and that all of the Gods would want to be here for us now."

"Alright." Crossing his arms, scanning the ocean of potential survivors around you all, Father Pevrel asks, "what was this about trying to change perspectives, then?"

>Most of the following prompts are NOT mutually exclusive.
>If you sincerely wish to oppose a vote that's cast, please provide thorough justification for doing so.
>QM discretion will ultimately decide in the case of ties.

>A] Invoke Mercy, and unite your invocation with Father Wilhelm and Dream via your Relic. You'll share some light, and a vision with Zephadar of the fairest possible outcome that this ordeal could present.
>1] That the demon is put to rest, and any remaining survivors come away from the experience intact. Reality is far from perfect, and a LOT of people are going to be VERY traumatized, but this is something you think you all can live with.​
>2] Get Father Pevrel to agree to let the demon live, in exchange for it mending the harm it has caused. This could devastate reality as you know it, but you're both so desperate to save as many lives as possible, you're willing to try.​
>3] Write-in.​

>B] Zephadar said that he could release you and your allies. Maybe he just needs to be made aware that he CAN let his enemies go. Shout out to the demon's lair that you're ready to leave, and try to take hold of as many people as you can.
>1] Invoke Flesh, and simply grab as many people that you can as fast as you can.​
>2] Invoke Agriculture and Flesh together for the first time. You get the feeling that the power you'd wield from the Goddess of Life and the God of Action would be obscene, and MORE than capable of getting the job done. Of course, your prior dual invocations left a lasting mark on you. You're aware that there are risks with this amount of power— but you're willing to go that extra mile to turn this situation completely around.​

>C] You're certain that you can destroy this demon's lair and get out alive, with survivors in tow. The question is, how many people can you save before you go kick Zephadar's lying ass?
>1] Invoke Mercy and Agriculture. There's no question that after what you were just put through, they're going to want to help you get out of here safely. It's not as if they haven't helped you bust out from a demon's lair before! (A VERY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. If selected, a separate set of prompts will be presented on how to handle the extent of this invocation.)​
>2] Show Zephadar the truth about his lair through your Relic. This is probably a VERY BAD IDEA, but you're prepared for anything at this point. (AN OBSCENELY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Additional prompts/plans in combination with this action are STRONGLY recommended, which will not lower the difficulty of this action, but may reduce casualties.)​

>D] Write-in.
 
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>2] Get Father Pevrel to agree to let the demon live, in exchange for it mending the harm it has caused. This could devastate reality as you know it, but you're both so desperate to save as many lives as possible, you're willing to try.
In what form does this devestation take though? Local inversion of reality to conform their state we're willing to paint Zaphadar in?

Preliminary vote:
>A] Invoke Mercy, and unite your invocation with Father Wilhelm and Dream via your Relic. You'll share some light, and a vision with Zephadar of the fairest possible outcome that this ordeal could present.
 
In what form does this devestation take though? Local inversion of reality to conform their state we're willing to paint Zaphadar in?

Preliminary vote:
>A] Invoke Mercy, and unite your invocation with Father Wilhelm and Dream via your Relic. You'll share some light, and a vision with Zephadar of the fairest possible outcome that this ordeal could present.
(The last time you guys escaped from a demon's lair by force... well. Rather than provide a sub-par summary, I'm just going to post a link to the chapters.

The event started in Arc 6: Atonement, Chapter 23: The Bearer of Truth. It continued until the end of Chapter 24: Limitless.

Feel free to pick it apart! Make of it what you will! The most I can really say at this time is that you guys have absolutely no idea what actually happened, and everyone involved (James and Harvey) summarily agreed to never even talk about it again... let alone wanted to make it happen again. Desperate times can call for desperate measures, though!)
 
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