Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #21: The Blackthorn Demon]

Log Date: 9/7/12764

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Main Foyer

4:03pm SGT

“I’m hoooooooooome!”

I make the crowing declaration as I throw open the doors of the House, holding aloft a trash bag with squishy contents. The few harpies hanging out in the adjacent rooms perk up, scrambling off their chairs and couches to chatter and shriek at me as I saunter inside. The other harpies can be heard tearing through the halls as the racket gets louder and spreads throughout the House. “Sisters, sisters, Jayta is home! Come and see!”

Taiga is one of the first ones to me, bouncing on her talon’d toes. “Tell us! Tell us! How did it go?” she demands as the other harpies hop around me, cawing and shrieking.

I grin at her. “You want to know how it went?”

“Yes! Yes! Tell us, tell us!”

I hold a hand up to my ear, leaning forward as more harpies spill into the foyer. “I can’t heaaaaaar youuuu!”

The harpies screech and howl, jumping up and down as the foyer fills with a feathered frenzy of talons on wood floors. “Tell us, tell us!”

“That’s a little better!” I crow, straightening up and throwing my arms out as I spin around, the tails of my leather duster flaring around me. “You want to hear about how I hunted the traitors across the stars?”

Some of the harpies gasp. “Across the stars? Did you leave Sjelefengsel?”

“I left Sjelefengsel.” I purr to them. “I chased them from world to world, and you know what I did when I caught them?”

The gathering crowd of harpies stare at me raptly, mouths hanging open. “What did you do? Did you stab them? Burn them? Rip their nails out?”

“No, little ones.” I say, leaning forward and lowering my voice as I hold the bag behind my back, and proceed in a hushed tone. “For these were the unfaithful ones. They betrayed our Lord — our Lord, our sweet, merciful, generous Lord! — and sought profit by selling secrets about her, so that the enemies of Regret could use it as leverage, to weaponize it against her. Traitors! All of them!”

The harpies wail and gnash their piranha-like teeth, stomping their feet. “Traitors! Traitors! They must be punished! They must be killed!”

“Yes, punished, but not killed.” I say, holding up a finger as I straighten up once more. “Killing them is too easy. It’s over too quickly. So, how do we punish turncoats that sell secrets, girls?”

There’s a great murmuring of discussion among the harpies as they debate this. Many of them have differing opinions; one of them holds up a portable toaster. “Stick their dicks in toasters!”

“But what if it’s a woman?” another one asks.

The group falls silent as they consider the logistics of that. Eventually the toaster harpy gasps, then holds up a portable waffle iron. “Stick their tits in a waffle iron!”

The other harpies consider that, then start nodding among themselves. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“Pretty painful.”

“Can call them waffle tits.”

For a moment, all I can do is stare, derailed by that answer and the mental imagery. Shaking my head, I hold my hands up. “No, no no no. That’s not what we do with turncoats that sell secrets of the House. What is with you guys and using kitchen appliances as torture implements… pay attention! What do we do with traitors that sell our secrets, girls?”

“We don’t know!”

“Tell us, tell us!”

“What did you do to them?!”

“What’s in the bag?!”

I grin, holding the bag aloft. “You want to know what we do with traitors, girls? I’ll tell you what we do with traitors who sell our secrets! Whose eyes have witnessed the ways of our House, whose very same eyes strayed for greed, to make profit from selling what those eyes have seen?” I hiss. “We hunt those eyes down, and we rip them out! So they can never sell what they’ve seen again!”

With that, I loosen the neck of the bag and swing it outward, a spray of eyeballs flying over the harpies’ heads. They shriek and cackle, jumping up to catch them, clambering over each other to grab as many as they can and stuff them in their mouths. I’d learned that the harpies loved eyeballs, since they were a ‘soft’ treat, so whenever I had to go on a task for Raikaron that involved violence, I did my best to bring back eyeballs for the girls if it was feasible.

“Jayta!” The sharp shout is accompanied by the harsh clack of Danya’s heels coming down the stairs. “Are you out of our everloving mind? What are you doing, flinging a bag of bloody eyes across the foyer like a crack-addled hell-farmer feeding a bunch of murder chickens? Look at these splatters on the walls and handrails, it’s going to take the staff hours to scrub those out!”

“Oh. Sorry.” I say, hiding the bag behind my back. “I got a little carried away.”

“If you were a decade younger, I’d be carrying a spatula to your rump right now, young lady!” Danya scolds, kicking harpies out of the way as she comes down the stairs. The ones that don’t have eyeballs in their mouths shriek and hop away, clearing a path to me. “Move! Get! Out of the way, you little terrors!”

“Are you threatening to spank me?” I scoff, tossing the bag into a nearby trashcan and folding my arms. “That’s a bit of a light touch considering we’re literally in hell, don’t you think?”

“Oh, trust me. You’ll change your tune when you’re into your sixth hour of paddling.” Danya warns ominously. As always, she’s dressed in her black and red pinstripe suit, hair bundled back in the usual severe bun. “Now, not to detract from your generous treat for the girls, but did you bring back what you were actually asked to bring back?”

I smile, reaching into my duster and pulling out a pocketwatch hanging on a chain. “Of course I did. You think I would come back empty-handed?” I ask, holding it out to her.

“Excellent.” Danya says, but her hands distinctly move backwards, away from the pocketwatch, as I hold it out to her. She instead motions back up the stairs behind her with a shooing wave. “Go on then, report back to our Lord. She is the one that asked you to retrieve it.”

“Oh. Okay then.” I say, tucking the pocketwatch back into my duster. “In the study?”

“Yes. That is where she presently is.” she says, stepping out of the way so I can head up the stairs, then turns to the harpies, swatting at them. “Get! Scat! Move! Take that stuff to the kitchen, you’re making a mess on the floor! Little savages…”

I head up the stairs as Danya sets about shooing off the harpies and calling the House staff to clean up the mess in the foyer. It isn’t long before their voices have become muted murmurs separated by distance and floors; I ascend the staircase with the ease of someone that’s walked it many times before, letting my fingers glide on the lacquered banister. Idly wondering why Danya was recalcitrant to take the pocketwatch, but not thinking much of it.

Once I reach the third floor, I wind my way through the familiar halls that will take me to Raikaron’s study. It’s a walk that I’ve done many times before, sometimes in dread and sometimes in apprehension; but over the past few months, the vast majority of my visits to the study had been relaxed. I knew where I stood with my Lord, and I knew that she would be pleased with my return.

It isn’t long before I’m standing at the door to the study, about to knock — only to find it yanked open before I can bring my hand down. Standing in front of me is Harro, who looks like he was just about to storm out, only to draw up short when he sees me standing in the doorway. For a moment I consider staying there, forcing him to step out of the way for me — after all, I am a higher-ranked demon than him, and he would owe it to me — but my manners get the better of me, and I step back and to the side, glaring at him.

He snorts and steps out of the study, turning and stalking down the hall with his footfalls heavy against the floor. After watching his broad shoulders and battered duster get smaller with distance, I turn my attention to the study within, where Raikaron is dropping a file on her desk. As always, she’s dressed sharply, in black slacks, a red button-down, a black waistcoat, and a sin-black tie knotted all the way up to her collar. Her vibrant, strawberry-red hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, though it’s nowhere near as tight as Danya’s bun.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” I ask, stepping into the study.

“Hardly. Simply have a discussion with Harro about some of his… extracurricular activities.” Raikaron says, before turning to me. Those toxic green eyes are bright as ever behind her rimless glasses, but the way her mouth curls at the corners makes it clear that she’s pleased to see me. “It is good to see you’re back. How did the task go?”

I cross the study to her, pulling out the pocketwatch as I go and holding it out to her. “That succubus gave me a bit of a run for my money. I kept losing her. The only reason I was able to catch her was because I hid and waited for her to try and fence it.”

“Yes, succubi are rather good at that.” Raikaron says, reaching out to take the pocketwatch and study it. “Thieves and spies that can change their appearance can be quite a nuisance. Most of them require patience and clever handling in order to get them to break their cover.” She pops the lid on the pocketwatch, and I can see from here that it has way more than three hands — and not all of them are running in the same direction; some are running backwards. “Did you happen to catch who she was trying to fence it to? What Lord they answer to?”

“Not for sure, but if I had to guess, it was one of Greed’s demons. He split as soon as I jumped the succubus.”

“Unfortunate, but not surprising.” Raikaron says, snapping the lid shut. “If they were answering to Greed, they were likely just doing their jobs. Working for any other Lord, there may have been an agenda.” She tucks the pocketwatch back into the pocket of her waistcoat, then leans back against her desk, half-sitting on it. “Did you have anything planned for tonight?”

The question takes me a bit off guard. “Ah, no. Why?” I ask without thinking about it. My mind is in panic mode; ‘are you free tonight’ is usually the leadup to asking someone out on a date. Which was silly, of course; Raikaron had refrained from making any advances towards me ever since I told her I wasn’t interested in demon Lords (not that she’d made any advances prior to that). The idea that Raikaron was going to suddenly ask me out on a date was ridiculous, yet my mind still jumped to it, regardless of how improbable it was.

“I would like for you to accompany me on a task that I will be handling for the Lord of Lies.” Raikaron says, reaching up with one hand to adjust her glasses. “He is one of the Greater Lords, and a busy one at that, and there is a matter assigned to him which requires attention, but for which he does not currently have the time. As such, he has asked me to take care of it for him, and I have agreed.”

“Oh.” I say, feeling myself relax when it becomes clear that it’s a work matter. “Okay, but… why do you want me to come? Your power is way beyond anything I have. If it’s a simple task, you could handle it easily, and if it’s a hard task, I probably wouldn’t be much help to you.”

“It’s not a matter of power. I would like you to come with me so you can learn more about the nature of sin.” she explains, tucking her hands into her pockets. “You know that we punish the unrepentant and depraved here in Sjelefengsel; you know also that Kolob sends us the dark prayers they cannot answer. In short, we typically act on either damnation or supplication. But there are times when an imbalance presents itself outside of these cases, and we must act without either damnation or supplication moving us to do so. The task that Lies has delegated to me is one such instance.”

“What is it you have to act on?” I ask, hooking my fingers together, fidgeting with them. “Is it a person, or a demon, or…?”

“It is a man.” Raikaron answers. “Whose deception, and greed, and lust for power have led him down a dark road that is littered with people that he has hurt and taken advantage of. He has done this for years, operating on a scale far beyond your common criminal — he has clout, influence, and loyal sycophants that safeguard his power and carry out his bidding. The harm he can do extends far beyond a single world or system, and Sjelefengsel has been asked to do something about it.”

“So like… a syndicate boss, or a pirate lord, or something?” I ask, trying to imagine what mortal problem could be so severe that hell needs to get involved.

Raikaron’s mouth quirks at the corner, but it’s joyless, cynical smirk. “…in a manner of speaking, yes. It is best if you see it for yourself, though.” Pulling her pocketwatch out of her waistcoat, she checks it, then tucks it away. “We needn’t leave right away. Take some time to clean up, get dinner, and meet me in the lesser common room at seven sharp. By that time, it should be well after sundown on the world we will be going to.”

“Alright. I’ll meet you there at that time.” I say, bouncing on my toes at the thought of accompanying Raikaron on one of her tasks. I wasn’t even aware that Lords could be given tasks, though it makes sense. If something was important enough, you’d want that handled by a demon Lord, not one of her underlings or lieutenants. “Is there anything I should bring or prepare for?”

“Just bring yourself. That is all you will need.” Raikaron says, pushing off her desk. “You are dismissed. I will see you three hours hence.”

I nod, giving a little curtsey before I start to back away. “Understood. I will see you then, my Lord.” With that, I start back across the study, and it’s not til I’m back out in the hall that I jump a little, bouncing out my excitement. I’ll get to visit the mortal plane, and I’ll get to see Raikaron actually doing some fieldwork.

This is gonna be good.

Jayta’s Journal

They say you never find evil in the places that you expect it to be.

We have certain ideas about where we expect evil to crop up. In black markets, under the banner of a pirate fleet, through the auspices of tyrannical governments and authoritarian regimes. We have certain ideas about where bad things happen, and the people that live in those places. And too often, evil is a thing that happens somewhere faraway, somewhere that’s just distant enough that we have nothing to do with it. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.

But evil does not just live in faraway places on the holoscreen, or in the distant reports of news stations. Evil breeds closer to home, holding aloft virtues with one hand while hiding vices in the hand it has behind its back. It cloaks itself in a veneer of idealistic sentiment while offering people an identity, preying on their need to belong, to be part of something. After that, it offers people something to believe in, harnessing the mortal craving for purpose and meaning. Once it has given them these two things — identity, and purpose — it tells them what to do, and what to fight for. It takes ordinary people — people who often don’t know any better, or people who refuse to acknowledge their complicity, or people who sincerely believe they are doing the right thing — and uses them as tools to accomplish its ends.

We like to think of evil as something that resides within a select few individuals, and there is some truth in that. But evil flourishes only when those select few individuals are enabled and given power. Evil is a distributed system, the culmination of the choices of an entire group to give power to an individual who should not have it — and then to stand by that individual, even after the truth has come to light. All too often they do this because the alternative is too painful — that the purpose and identity they were given were lies, and without them, they are nothing once more. And this is why you will never find evil in the places you expect it to be.

Because in reality, it is all around you, and there’s a good chance that you’re part of it.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Lesser Common Room

7:00pm SGT

“How pleasantly punctual.” Raikaron remarks as I step through one of the doors leading into the lesser common room. She is waiting by the fireplace, her greatcoat on over her usual attire, and as I cross the room to her, I notice that there is a glass card between her gloved fingers, emitting a calming blue ambience.

“Wait, is that…” I say, staring at the card.

Raikaron raises an eyebrow. “Is what?”

I point at the card in her hands. “That’s a… that’s one of the keycards that Kolob uses to power their portals to the mortal realm, right?”

That seems to surprise her. “You have seen one of these before?”

My mind squirms away from answering, and I can’t help but answer vaguely. “Yeah, I…’ve seen one somewhere along the way.” I don’t want to mention that it’s because the last one I saw was in Harro’s hands, just prior to the ill-considered miracle heist that almost got me in big trouble with Kolob.

“Well, you are correct.” Raikaron says, moving to the door that’s in the wall. “This is one of Kolob’s keycards.”

“But weren’t you doing this task for the Lord of Lies?” I ask, moving over to stand beside her.

“We are. But the task was given to the Eighth Circle by Kolob, who are fulfilling a request from one of the Primordials.” Raikaron answers, inserting the card into the slot by the door. Blue light races through the grooves in the wall, terminating in a flare of brilliance that leaks through the gap between the door and doorway as the portal forms. “The task is, as you can probably deduce, something that has been handed off and delegated several times. Such is the bureaucracy of immortals.”

I know what the Eighth Circle is, and I know what Kolob is, but she lost me when she brought up Primordials. “Okay, so… you were given this task by a Greater Lord, who got it from generic heaven, who got it from… a Primordial? A Primordial what?”

Raikaron glances askance at me as she tucks the card back into her greatcoat. “Did Mek not educate you on the different types of hypernaturals?” she asks, perplexed.

“The different types of what?”

Raikaron takes in a deep breath as she turns the doorknob and opens it. “Oh, my. Seems we have a lot of work to do.”

With that, she steps through the door, and I follow her, closing the door behind me, finding that we’re standing on the sidewalk outside of a coffeeshop on what appears to be the outskirts of a city. Off to the right, skyscrapers and other inner-city buildings glow in the night, with a slowly-declining city skyline that slopes down to where we are. It’s warm out here, but not unpleasantly so; as if the world we were on was in the tail end of summer. Not many people are out on the streets, being as this is the type of area where the edge of the city starts blurring into the surrounding suburbs.

“So, what do you mean when you say we have a lot of work to do?” I ask, looking around.

“What I mean is that your knowledge of the cosmos is incomplete.” she says, turning and starting along the sidewalk, moving with purpose. “You have been told before that Sjelefengsel is but one of many hells, which in turn are usually paired with specific heavens; Kolob being Sjelefengsel’s other half, in our case. These divine and demonic pairings exist as systems of post-mortem justice; to bring balance and equity to an unfair universe, each in their own way and through their own methods. And they are often a product of religion, which in turn often springs from worship of beings known as hypernaturals — or as most mortals refer to them, gods and deities.”

I have to skip a bit to keep up with Raikaron’s longer stride. “So hypernaturals are basically higher powers?” I ask, not liking the way the words feel on my tongue. It’s all a bit too… unscientific for me.

“Yes. But not all hypernaturals are created equal.” Raikaron explains. “Hypernaturals are diverse, just as mortals are; but generally speaking, they can be divided into three categories. The most common hypernaturals are the Zealous — these are beings that have achieved exalted status by being the focus of worship, or beings that have come into existence as a manifestation of a system of belief. Their power, and their life, waxes and wanes by those which believe in them and worship them.”

“So like your basic Christling and Anayan stuff.” I infer.

“Those are the textbook examples, yes. Centralized deific figures that serve as the focal point for everything within the religion that worships them.” Raikaron confirms, reaching up to tuck her hair back into place after it’s shaken loose by the breeze from a passing car. “There are further subcategories within the Zealous distinction, but we will set those aside for now, as that discussion could go for hours. The second category of hypernaturals are the Others — these are beings that have achieved their ascension through means other than the worship of mortals. Hypernaturals which are Others exist independent of the worship of mortals; their exaltation is predicated on other factors. There are many paths to ascension, and the Others is a catch-all category for any path which does not involve mortal worship.”

“So basically just a ‘miscellaneous’ category.” I conclude.

“In the simplest terms, yes. Again, discussion of the subcategories would take hours, so we’ll just leave it at that.” Raikaron says as we pass over a crosswalk, and take a turn on the street corner on the other side. “The final category of hypernaturals, and the one that is the smallest by far, are the Primordials. These are beings that came into existence during the birth of the universe, and represent fundamental forces and ideas. Unlike the Zealous and the Others, Primordials cannot be created — all the Primordials that will ever exist were created at the beginning of the universe. Many of the surviving Primordials have witnessed the growth and maturation of all of existence, and they are extremely old, fourteen or fifteen billion years old, to be precise.”

“The suspected age of the universe, basically.” I say, raising an eyebrow. Even if I’m walking and talking with a demon Lord right now, I’m still taking some of this with a grain of salt.

“Exactly.” Raikaron explains as we begin walking alongside a vast lawn edging what appears to be a sprawling, modern cathedral. “Primordials are some of the oldest entities in the universe, if not the oldest entities altogether. Many of them have dispersed over the aeons, having either dissolved into the very fabric of the universe, or becoming the seeds of new generations of hypernaturals. Though many of the Primordials have ceased existing as individuals, the concepts and forces that they represent still define the universe today. And one such Primordial made a request to Kolob, which Kolob passed on to Sjelefengsel, which was then passed to me, and is the reason that we are here tonight.”

At this point, Raikaron comes to a stop at the head of a path leading through the lawn to one of the cathedral’s main entrances. I stop along with her, staring at the cathedral’s elegant curves and the wide, sweeping arches. “Wait, this is it? This is where the evil guy is?”

“Verily.” Raikaron answers, starting down the path. “You seem surprised.”

“Well… yeah, it’s a church!” I point out as I follow behind her. “It’s not exactly a bastion of evil.”

“Quite contrary, little demon. Churches and temples are all too often dens of sin and moral rot.” Raikaron replies, tucking her hands in the pockets of her greatcoat. “Especially big, lavish ones like this. Make no mistake — this is a spectacular edifice, from an architectural standpoint. And its purpose, at least to hear its prophet tell it, is the glorification of the hypernatural they claim to worship. But this building is not a monument to that hypernatural, or what she values or stands for. It is a testament to the fiscal health of this church, which comes at the expense of its moral health, and at the expense of the congregation which it preys upon — both on this world, and on every world and system that its sermons are broadcast to.”

I purse my lips, not sure how to feel about this. “…I feel like I’ve been suckered into a stereotypical tale about how the church was really the bad guy all along.”

That draws some amusement from Raikaron. “Yes, I suppose that is a rather weary parable, isn’t it? People tell it as if it’s new, but it’s a tale that’s been told for ages upon ages. The Bible of the Christlings tells stories about the hypocrisy of the synagogues and the elders of that era, and that book is older than dirt. In the history of your own people, the witch covens were persecuted by the Aurescuran Church, were they not? The priests burned down entire forests to drive out the covens, and cast it as virtue to their congregations. Sold them on the idea of genocide as purification. This tale of the church’s corruption is not new or unique, Jayta. You are right to observe that it has been told many times.”

I huff a breath through my nose, studying the lights installed into the grounds at strategic points so they could illuminate the cathedral at night. “I suppose I’m just disappointed that it keeps getting told. You think we’d’ve learned something by now.”

“History moves in wandering cycles. The wisdom of previous generations never survives to the next generation fully intact; it is why some mistakes are repeated over and over again.” Raikaron explains as the cathedral starts rise up before us. It isn’t an especially tall structure, but the sweeping curves and arches certainly make it look majestic without violating whatever building ordinances are in place here. “Societies learn over the course of these repeating cycles, usually doing a little better with every cycle. But even if a problem is eliminated, it has the potential to return after enough cycles have passed that generations have forgotten about it. It is a continual struggle — and the reason why utopia does not exist, and is not possible.”

Something about hearing that is frustrating, and it’s hard for me to put my finger on it. It’s not that Raikaron is being patronizing or condescending — she’s actually discussing this with a certain sort of detached bemusement. I think it may be the fact that everything she’s saying feels true — and I don’t want it to be true, because it paints a frustrating picture of mortal societies. But deep down, I know it is true. I have seen these same patterns she is describing to me, these wandering cycles that see mistakes repeated again and again until they are remedied — only to return a few cycles later when they have been forgotten. I want to believe we are better than this, even when the evidence suggests otherwise.

“Have I upset you?” Raikaron asks, looking askance to me as she starts to slow to a stop on the path, still several dozen yards from the main entrance.

“Not… exactly.” I say, struggling to articulate exactly what I’m feeling. “It’s just… depressing to think that no matter what we do, we are stuck in this repeating cycle. That no matter how hard you try, no matter how many generations strive towards it with the best intents, it’ll never truly be perfect. It makes me wonder what the point is.”

“Ah yes. Nothing like a little bit of existential despair to make one question why we even bother at all.” she says, tugging on the fingers of her gloves in a precursor to pulling them off. “When you frame it as an eternal struggle with an unobtainable endpoint, it does seem rather pointless, doesn’t it? Always striving, never achieving… and yet we keep striving anyway. Why do we do it?”

“Well, that’s the thing.” I say, shrugging aggressively. “I don’t know why we do it. If we can’t reach perfection, why do we keep trying? What’s the point in trying?”

“The point is in doing it for the sake of doing it, of course.” Raikaron answers readily, pulling her gloves off. “The act of choosing has value. It’s like life. All mortal creatures must eventually die, and they might reasonably ask: what is the point in trying? No matter what you do to stay alive, you will eventually die. Yet you don’t see people giving up and dying in vast numbers, and that’s because it’s not the endpoint that matters. What matters is the struggle as you get there, the choices that you get to make between the beginning and the end, and the experiences you get to have along the way. The journey is more important than the destination, and this applies to society just as much as it applies to individuals.”

I wrinkle my nose at that. “I… am not sure I like that answer. You’re saying we exist simply for the sake of existing? That existing itself is the point?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I find existence rather delightful.” she replies blithely, folding up her gloves to tuck them into her greatcoat. “There’s so much to learn, so much to see, so much to experience, and many things to be amused by. And food — food is just incredible. It’s a very compelling reason to exist.”

I give her a look. “…food is one of your primary reasons for existing.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a primary reason.” she quibbles. “But it certainly is a compelling one.”

I’m not sure what I would’ve said to that, but whatever it would’ve been, I don’t get the chance to say it. The doors of the cathedral open so that a small group can exit, no more than ten, a few of them dressed in the vestiture of higher clergy, and the others in the more practical attire of personal bodyguards. A couple of the clergy peel off to one of the side paths leading around to the parking lots, while the rest of the group remains on the path which we currently stand in the middle of.

“So which one is it?” I murmur to her in the seconds before they notice us standing in their way.

“All of them, really; they’re all complicit to some degree.” Raikaron murmurs back, clasping her hands behind her back. “But the one we are here for is in his silver years.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, because that narrows it down so much.” Still, as they get closer, I do see that the clergy in the group range in age, from a relatively freshfaced minister to a photogenic older fellow who seems to have evaded the worst effects of old age, aside from the silver hair. A fellow that’s now breaking off his conversation with the other ministers as one of his bodyguards nudges him, apprising him of the obstacle on the path.

“The church is closed for tonight.” the young minister apologizes as the group slows a few feet from us. “We will be having worship again on Sunday; you are welcome to visit then.”

“We are not here for worship.” Raikaron answers politely, before fixing her attention on the older man. “Andrew Janson Lorca, son of Milgrihet. I am Raikaron Syntaritov, here on behalf of the Lord of Lies, to condemn you for your sins and to extend you a chance to atone for them. Send away your guards and your ministers, so that we may speak.”

At first the group doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. Eventually, one of the middle-aged ministers chuckles, looking at Lorca. “You’re being called to repentance. You must’ve hit it big-time if the streetcorner prophets are coming after you now.”

Lorca chuckles a bit at that, then looks to Raikaron. “Sorry, Ms. Syntaritov, but—”

“Lord Syntaritov.” I interrupt. “You speak to the Lord of Regret. She is not some miss.”

I can see the flash of irritation that crosses Lorca’s face at being interrupted, even if it disappears nearly instantly after. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of the Lord of Regret, or the Lord of Lies, or of a woman being called a lord instead of a lady, for that matter. If you have an issue with me or my church, feel free to send an email; we have a website with all our contact information listed there.” he says, remaining polite as he nods to his guards and starts to move around us.

“That was not a request, Lorca.” Raikaron says calmly. On either side of us, the shrubs lining the path crackle and groan as they are spurred to growth, expanding to cut off the walkway and meet behind Raikaron. Lorca and his guards back up quickly as they find their path blocked by dense foliage. “I exhort you, once more, to send away your guards and your ministers, so that we may speak of your sins.”

“Shit, she’s a mage.” one of the ministers hisses, reaching into his jacket and pulling out what looks to be a wand. Raikaron notices and idly raises a hand towards him; the minister shouts and flails as the wand turns into a snake, winding around his arm and sinking its fangs into him. The other ministers scramble away, while the guards reach for their weapons; Raikaron raises her other hand, and the guards shout in alarm as their guns develop legs, transmogrifying into hand-sized spiders that cling to their arms.

“Do not make this harder than it must be, Lorca.” Raikaron speaks again, still unsettlingly calm despite the shouts of the guards. “Your road to redemption can start with bearing the consequences of your sins, instead of letting others bear them for you. I ask you, one more time, to send away your guards and ministers. They need not suffer in defense of a man who does not deserv—”

The harsh crackle of a coilgun shot cuts Raikaron off, and an arc of blood whips high into the air as her head jerks back. My mind blanks out as she’s thrown backward on the ground, blood starting to pool beneath her; for a long moment, I’m frozen to the spot. I can’t fully process what I’m staring at.

“Thank you, Kensey.” Lorca murmurs. The minister that had tried to pull out a wand lowers the gun he pulled out with his other hand, still holding his bitten arm to his side with a grimace. The snake’s on the ground now, stomped to death. “Someone call triple zero, tell them that we were attacked outside the cathedral and we had to defend ourselves. Kensey, if you could make it so there’s no one to contradict our account…”

That’s what jerks me out of my stupor and shock, and I realize the minister is turning the gun on me. A paralyzing fear grips me as I realize I’m outnumbered, and I don’t know what to do without Raikaron here. This isn’t going the way it was supposed to—

Now you’ve vexed me.

The guttural tremor ripples through the air, a voice with no apparent source and something that could barely be considered a voice so much as it’s a deep, grinding rumble traveling through the fabric of reality itself. I’m not the only one that hears it; Lorca and his group all tense up. Around us, the ambient light from the rest of the city has started to dim, fading away as the shadows around us coagulate, flowing towards where Raikaron is lying on the ground. The black stuff, which I’d feel comfortable calling ‘ooze’ at this point, starts to arch up, forming the outline of some hunched form that continues to get bigger, and bigger, and bigger…

“What the hell is that?” one of the guards demands.

“You! Stop what you’re doing!” the minister with the gun shouts at me.

I stare at him, dumbfounded. “I… what?” Does he honestly think I’m responsible for this? “I’m not doing anything!”

“Someone is doing something; whatever this is doesn’t happen on its own!” Lorca snaps at me. “Make it stop, now!”

She has no more power to stop this than any of you could stop the coming of night.

I stagger backwards, tripping over my feet and falling on my bum as the black thing moves, a dripping limb parting from the central mass to plant itself on the ground. The same thing happens on the other side, and what appear to be ribs take shape. Tendrils of liquid darkness drip down from them, looping around Raikaron’s body and pulling it up like a puppet on strings, her eyes still empty and staring off into nowhere as it’s reeled up into the ribcage. Lorca and his group have started to back away as shoulders and a triangular head start to take shape; whatever this thing is, it isn’t human. More and more by the second, it’s starting to resemble some massive, malformed wolf that stands close to fifteen feet tall. Its hind legs are short and stunted, but even so, it is absolutely colossal. The minister with the gun raises it and fires off shots at it, and they punch holes through the ooze that are quickly filled in.

It has been long since I manifested to mortals as I truly am. As the voice rumbles through the air, the creature’s body starts to solidify into that of a beast covered in black fur. Skeletal, dead tree trunks rise from its back, while its head is covered in what appears to be some sort of white mask contoured around its wolven head, almost like a skull. Though the head has a muzzle, there is no mouth, and twisted, schizophrenic antlers rise from its head where the ears on a wolf would otherwise be. Its long forearms each have hinged digits with wicked, curved claws, and down the center of its massive chest is the most unsettling feature: a vertical maw, as if someone had taken the creature’s mouth off its head, turned it sideways, and pasted it onto the torso. And that’s not even the worst of it — that maw is lined with black arms, leathery human arms, at least four or five on each side, all folded up like a praying mantis, ready to reach out and grab and pull the damned into its chest mouth.

I don’t know what I’m staring at, but everything inside me is screaming that something like this should not exist, and does not belong in the mortal plane. And as I watch, that maw splits open, lined with hooked canid teeth, and a guttural, rasping voice comes out that sounds like Raikaron, but if you had taken her voice down six octaves, ran it between two chunks of granite being grinded together, and gave it a terrifying bass reverb.

“I gave you the opportunity to handle this quietly, Andrew Janson Lorca.” One of those long forelimbs lifts up, and forward, as the beast starts to lean into an unsettling, weaving stride on account of its stunted back legs. “But you would’ve ordered one of your men to murder, and then lied about it to the law. The Blackthorn Demon will not countenance such depravity.”

“Shit, shit, oh god, oh shit, that is an actual, real, holy shit demon!” one of the ministers gasps as the entire group backs away, two of the guards losing their nerve and running outright.

“Get back, get back to the cathedral!” Lorca shouts, his eyes bugging out as he turns and runs from the beast’s weaving advance.

“He’s right! Get back to the cathedral, we’ll be safe on holy ground!” another minister shouts as the rest of the group breaks and runs for the cathedral they just left. In under ten seconds they’ve all reached the doors, unlocking them, yanking them open, and piling in, swiftly pulling it shut and locking it behind themselves.

But I just can’t bring myself to move, paralyzed by the sight of the eldritch colossus before me. I remain on the ground, heart pounding, covered in a cold sweat, the ends of my fingers buzzing and numb. And when it stops and turns back to me, I about damn near have a heart attack. When it starts moving towards me, I feel like I’m about to faint.

“Be not afraid, little demon.” it says, reaching down to me with one of its long, rangy forelimbs. I curl up on instinct, squeezing my eyes shut, but the hinged digits curling around me are surprisingly gentle, even though I can feel the wicked curve of the claws on their ends. The hand carefully sets me back on my feet, and I open my eyes cautiously, seeing the head capped by that smooth white mask turned in my direction. As I watch, the mask swirls, holes widening in its surface enough so that I can see the great big green eyes beneath. “I warned you once before that you did not wish to see me as I truly am.”

“Raikaron?” I whisper, tentatively setting my feet down on the ground.

“The very same.”

I swallow hard, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. I could almost, almost get my head around this. Even if it’s three times my height and absolutely towers over me; even with the glade of dead flora on its back; even with the malformed hindlegs, or the emaciated frame. Those things were all strange, and unpleasant to look at, but they didn’t offend the senses too much, and I could get used to them. But whenever it spoke, and that maw on its chest split open to reveal jaws glistening with apocryphal dampness, or the rows of arms that lined the mouth like some horrifying cross between a spider’s mandibles and a centipede’s legs… I just felt sick to my stomach. I can’t help but look away, trying to purge the image from my mind.

“I understand you find this manifestation distressing,” Raikaron says, the hand slowly letting go of me once it seems like I can stand on my own. “and so will everyone else. That is why it is important that you stay near to me — no one wants to be that close, and that is where you will be safest.”

With that, Raikaron turns and starts moving again, lumbering back towards the cathedral. Taking a deep breath, I follow along beside them, trying to avoid looking directly at the unnerving chimaera of parts that belonged to half a dozen different creatures, and yet sewn together so seamlessly that it could pass as a natural evolution. Lacking a better way to distract myself, I reflect on how I should refer to Raikaron now — prior to this, Raikaron’s vessels had always had a distinctly male or female presentation; but now, deprived of a vessel and with Raikaron’s true form having no apparent expression in either direction, I really had nothing to go on aside from it or them.

And I can’t help but shake my head at that. Trying to figure out how to gender an eldritch demon Lord. Gods, if that isn’t the height of parody.

My frivolous internal debate is interrupted by the unsettlingly deep grind of Raikaron’s voice as we near the cathedral doors. “Andrew Janson Lorca, you who would claim to speak on behalf of Nocturne. You do not know the goddess whose name you take upon yourself, for unto you she is but a name, carelessly thrown about to engender piety in your congregants and tithes in your dish. I am sent this night so that you may know that she is more than just a name, and her wrath is kindled against those that would claim to speak on her behalf for their own profit. Open the doors of this den of sin, and no more delay this judgement.”

“Don’t open it!” The voices are muffled through the front doors, shouting to each other and not us; from the sound of the clunking within, it seems like they’re trying to blockade the doors, even though I remember that they opened outwards when the group first stepped out. Perhaps they’ve forgotten that in their panic. “It can’t come in here! This is holy ground! Cover the windows, turn on the lights!”

“You think this monument to pride is holy ground?” With how deep Raikaron’s voice is, the way it reverberates, I know they can hear it through the walls. Raising a hand, Raikaron places it on one of the doors, the claws curving into the seams in the doorframe. Wood crunches and splinters as those claws hook behind the door, where Raikaron can get leverage to start pulling it open. “This is but a hollow box, built with stolen tithes. It is empty as the dogma which you spew to your adherents, week upon week upon week. I have seen rural churches, conducted in fly-infested garages, that are holier ground than this.”

There’s a snap and a crunch as Raikaron pulls, tearing the door clean off its hinges and taking chunks of the doorframe with it. Within, the ministers and guards scramble back, fleeing the foyer and running deeper into the cathedral. Dropping the door, Raikaron reaches down and rips the other one off its hinges, then brushes away the couches, chairs, and other furniture that had been piled in the way. The entrance doesn’t look large enough, but Raikaron’s body bends and twists, contorting in unnatural directions to compress on its way through the entrance, and then expanding back to its proper dimensions once it’s through. I gingerly follow behind, navigating the debris of the failed barricade.

“For years, you have preached lies and fed on the fervor you have engendered in your congregants by your performances.” Raikaron rumbles as while lumbering through the foyer and towards the main chapel, busting lights and knocking holopaintings off the wall whenever the massive body brushes past them. “You have consumed the living of widows and eaten up the tithes of the poor, whom you exhorted to give, give, give, and be paid back a hundredfold by heaven. The sins of your ministers you gladly overlooked as they preyed upon congregations on other worlds, both body and soul. And when evidence of their depraved crimes was brought to you in confidence, you and your council promised to act on it — and did nothing, for you desired to retain your power, influence, and reputation.” There is a crunch as Raikaron muscles through the doors to the main chapel, the doorframe cracking and splintering even though the doors remain intact. “All this in the name of Nocturne, Andrew Janson Lorca. Deception, and depravity, and greed, and negligence, in the name of a goddess you do not even believe in. But her wrath is kindled, and you will believe in her after tonight; yes, you will fear her.”

“Holy water, now!” Off to the side, one of the ministers had been waiting by the door with a bowl of water — something that looked like it might be used to sprinkle for baptisms. The whole thing is lobbed at Raikaron, and I jerk back and out of the way on instinct — I’ve never been hit by holy water before, but I don’t want to find out what it feels like now that I’m a demon. The bowl and its contents hit Raikaron’s shoulder, splashing across them, but nothing happens. That great head turns toward the minister, the eyeholes in the mask closed up once more, and I can’t imagine how terrifying it must be to have that blind gaze turned your way.

“That is not holy water, you fool.” One of the long, rangy arms reaches out, grabbing one of the ministers while the other scrambles away. “That’s Aquafina, which is almost as bad.”

And honestly, I might’ve laughed at Raikaron’s sense of humor if it wasn’t being drowned out by the screaming of the minister as the dozen arms on Raikaron’s chest grab and pull her in, wrestling her into the gaping maw.

I have to turn away after seeing that, covering my mouth and bracing myself against the wall as I feel my stomach start to rebel and heave. I’ve been a demon for almost a year now and I’ve done my fair share of violence and murder, but seeing someone fed into a gaping, multi-armed chest maw was on an entirely different level than what I’ve become accustomed to.

“Alright! I admit it, I have made mistakes!” Lorca shouts as he backs away down the aisle, some of the group fleeing into the pews as Raikaron slowly follows. “But I give people something to believe in, help them find purpose and meaning—”

“You feed them lies about the nature of Nocturne, and what she promises and owes to those that believe on her name and wish to serve her.” Raikaron rumbles, each padding step at once soft and ominous against the carpeted floor. “You profit off their gullibility, never considering that these people unto whom you preach truly believe in her, and her heart breaks for the lies you are telling them and what you are stealing from them in her name. What purpose you give them is irrelevant, for it is fabricated to serve your own ends, and that is not the purpose she would have for them. You would hitch these souls to her, never having considered whether she wishes to answer to believers or worshippers, and saddle her with an obligation to them which she never asked for nor desired. Thus is her wrath kindled, and you must answer not just for your crimes against her, but for all those whose hearts now bend towards her.”

Lorca half turns, staggering away towards the stage at the end of the chapel, while watching Raikaron over his shoulder. “But— but this cathedral, I built it in her honor, surely she must see—”

“This hollow box? It reeks of sin and greed.” Raikaron’s prowl has not stopped, surely and steadily corralling Lorca towards the pulpit up on the rostrum. I’ve got my nausea under control, so I push off the wall, staggering after my Lord. “It is a vomitous stain upon an otherwise clean patch of ground, a gaudy eyesore you commissioned so you could earn the praise of mortals. And even if you had built it to glorify Nocturne, which you assuredly did not, what use would she have for this feeble collection of matchsticks? She is Primordial, and heir to the universe itself. The very throne of creation is her birthright; what need has she of a paltry building like this? Do you truly believe that crystal chandeliers and gilt filigree will impress a goddess that ignites stars to light her home, and feeds them to black holes when she wishes to lay down to rest?”

Lorca’s foot catches on the stairs leading to the stand, and he falls on his back, scrambling along the floor as Raikaron closes in on him. “Please— please, I never meant any harm—”

“Whether or not you intended harm is irrelevant. You were aware of the harm your actions brought to pass, often indirectly, and declined to change your ways.” The half-wall that divides the rostrum from the rest of the chapel crunches as Raikaron climbs over it, flattening it in the process. The pulpit is batted out of the way, the lacquered oak sent flying as if it was a toy and not a couple hundred pounds of varnished wood. “Your love of profit and luxury and status far outpaced your care for your fellow mortals. And all of it was founded on hypocrisy, on preaching belief in a goddess that you yourself did not think existed. You built a lie, Andrew Janson Lorca, and now your soul is forfeit to the Lord of Lies. Were he here now, you would’ve already been dragged down to hell. But he has delegated the task to me, and I am not so swift in my condemnations.”

Lorca rolls over on his side and tries to crawl away, but one of Raikaron’s forelimbs slams down in his way, blocking his escape. With the other hand, Raikaron flips him over on his back, the preacher throwing up his arms to shield his eyes from the horror looming over him. “Please— no— I pray you, don’t kill me!”

“All men must one day die. You are no exception.” Raikaron rumbles as I mount the stairs, carefully walking around to where I can watch Lorca’s condemnation. “And you have already been judged to hell. The damage you have done is beyond your ability to repair even if you were allowed the remainder of your life to do so. But I will grant you a mercy that the Lord of Lies would not have afforded you.”

One of the hinged digits comes up, and Raikaron plants one of those wickedly curved claws on Lorca’s chest. It seems to puncture into him, causing the man to groan as a flicker of darkness seeps into the breach, and seals up as Raikaron withdraws the claw. “I will allow you three years to get your affairs in order. To set right what you have made wrong, and to recompense some of the damage you have done. Dissolve this church, which you have built on a lie. Deliver up the corrupt ministers which you shielded from the consequences of their actions. Return your ill-gotten gains, stolen from those who placed their trust in you. You will not be redeemed, but you might reduce the severity of the sentence that awaits you.”

With that, Raikaron turns away, slowly lumbering back the way we came. I do the same, trying my best to keep up with Raikaron’s unnatural, titanic stride. As we go, I look around the chapel, seeing that the remaining ministers and guards have fled to its far edges, doing their level best to keep as much distance between themselves and Raikaron as possible, after seeing one of the ministers eaten alive.

“Oh, and before I go.” Raikaron stops and turns halfway, shoulders hunching somewhat as the chest maw opens wide, the arms splaying outwards. There’s the stomach-turning gurgle, followed by a cascade of black ooze as the minister that was eaten is regurgitated. She gasps and flails, clawing her way from the pool of ebony coagulant she’s now coated in, while the dozen arms lining the chest maw start to wipe the ooze from its edges, like some horrendous, many-armed insect cleaning its mandibles. “This one is full of sin, and not the delightful kind. You can have her back. Keeping her would’ve given me indigestion.”

I have to look away, bracing myself on one of the pews and covering my mouth again as my stomach gives a mighty heave at the sight. I’m starting to regret having dinner before accompanying Raikaron on this task, and if I’d known the kind of messed-up shit I’d be witnessing tonight, I would’ve gone hungry just for the sake on not having anything to throw up. After taking a moment to get my stomach and my gag reflex under control, I push off the pew and hurry after Raikaron, pointedly avoiding looking at the minister still clawing her way out of the pool of ooze.

By the time I’ve caught up, Raikaron has reached the double doors of the chapel, and closed them. It’s not clear why, until I see the seal of Sjelefengsel glowing on their surfaces. The doorhandles are taken between two of the hinged digits with a delicateness that is almost comical, given how the digits alone dwarf the handles. Raikaron turns them, carefully, until they click, and when the doors are pushed open, we are greeted not with the hall leading to the rest of the cathedral, but the main foyer of the House of Regret. Raikaron proceeds to squeeze through, and I follow behind, giving one last look over my shoulder at the chapel. The guards and ministers are still scattered and hiding, and Lorca is still lying on the floor of the rostrum, paralyzed with shock and dread.

“Close the doors behind you, Jayta. You’re letting in cold air.”

I startle at the deep, grinding exhortation behind me, and hurry to grab the doors and push them shut. It was disconcerting to hear such a mundane, domestic request in such a jarring voice; it was like having an ancient, eldritch horror tell you to clean your room and do the dishes. It lent the task a panicky, almost moribund urgency, as if a thousand years of darkness and torment awaited if you didn’t put away your laundry right the hell now.

As I push the front doors shut, I hear a gasped shriek, and turn around to see Danya frozen on the stairs, a hand cupped to her mouth as she sees the state that Raikaron is in — though the height of the beast alone means that she’s staring right at it, instead of down at it. Raikaron’s massive head swivels at the sound. “We are back, Danya. The false prophet’s cronies were better armed than I had expected for men of the cloth. Tell me, is it standard for priests and priestesses to carry firearms on the mortal plane?”

“N-no.” Danya stutters from behind her hand. “Except perhaps in rural areas, or in the case of more belligerent religions, or depending on the culture… but generally speaking, most religions profess to peaceful ideals. Firearms are not standard for clergy. Were you… shot?”

“Yes, a rather well-placed shot, at that. I was not expecting it. I disarmed the bodyguards, but I had not anticipated one of the ministers to be carrying a gun.” The chest maw opens, and the dozen black arms reach inside, carefully pulling out Raikaron’s female body, holding it gingerly and carefully, like a limp, dead doll. Blood drips down the face from the hole in the forehead, while the dull green eyes stare emptily off into nowhere — a jarring reminder that Raikaron’s humanoid forms are merely marionettes inhabited by… whatever is sitting in the foyer now. “I am rather disappointed. I had Taylor compose an entire wardrobe for this vessel not four months ago, and now it must go back into the chrysalis.” One of the leathery black hands grips and turns the vessel’s head, as if inspecting the damage done by the headshot. “The cranial damage is extensive. Brains take ages to reconstitute; they are so much more delicate and complex than most other organs. It will be a while before this vessel will be in a usable state once more.” There is a gust of air pushed out of the chest maw, like an eldritch sigh. “Nothing to be done about it, I suppose. At least my default vessel has long since recovered from Gratitude’s contribution. I will see about transitioning back into that one tonight.”

“Yes… yes, of course.” Danya says, still looking shocked by seeing Raikaron’s true self. “Understood. Is there anything I can help with, or…?”

“If you could organize the reports I would’ve worked on tonight, that would be much appreciated.” Raikaron rumbles as the House itself starts to shift, walls and hallways rearranging like a puzzle cube to create a path that is presumably large enough for Raikaron to traverse through. “I will be retiring for the night. Jayta, apologies that this task was a bit more… complicated than I anticipated it would be.”

“Oh, it’s… okay.” I mumble faintly, watching as Raikaron’s massive form lumbers away into the rearranged halls, which shift and rearrange themselves back into place afterwards. Danya’s heels clack down the stairs as soon as Raikaron is gone, and she’s soon standing beside me, one hand on my back as she gazes down at me in concern.

“You aren’t going to faint on me, are you?” she asks.

I put a hand out, leaning on the arm that Danya offers to steady me. “I… she’s…”

“A lot to take in, yes. Even when you are not the object of her wrath, seeing our Lord’s manifest is terrifying still.” Danya says, turning and starting to guide me to the stairs. “Consider yourself lucky. For the few that get to see that side of her, it is often the last thing they see before they receive an express ticket to the afterlife.”

“I… I think I want to sleep with the lights on tonight.”

“Whatever works for you, dear. Now up the stairs you go. Let’s get you back to your room, and I can bring you some hot cocoa to help you settle in for the evening.”