Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #8: The Exchange]

Log Date: 11/18/12763

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka, Raikaron Syntaritov

Jayta’s Journal

In the mortal plane, justice is often elusive.

In Sjelefengsel, it is inescapable.

In life, there are all too many that evade the law, that evade paying for their crimes. There are countless injustices that are never avenged or punished. Crimes that take place in the shadows, out of sight and out of mind, or crimes that take place in broad daylight, sanctioned by flawed cultures or laws. The perpetrators of these injustices often never answer within their mortal lifespans. Some of them may not know that what they have done is wrong, but more often than not, they are perfectly aware.

All too often, judgement never catches up to these people during their lifetimes. Justice in the mortal plane is frequently a patchwork affair, undermined by a profusion of conflicting forces and influences. But death is the great equalizer; those that make it to the finish line without ever having suffered for their sins may think they’ve made their great escape. They don’t realize that something’s waiting for them on the other side, ready to welcome them with open arms.

And hell, unlike the mortal plane, is quite thorough about the dispensation of justice.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Piano Room

7:32am SGT

“Clean the piano room, she says.” I mutter to myself as I push open the door to the room that Danya had sent me to tidy up. “Your Lord commands it, she says. Stop slouching, she says. Why aren’t you more ladylike, she says?”

Ever since the visit from the Lord of Lust, Danya had been on my case about shaping up and developing my manners. Lessons on how to stand, how to sit at a dinner table, how to curtsey in a dress and how to bow in a suit, among countless other things. Apparently my posture was particularly criminal; I was constantly being told to stand up straight and stop hunching. And when I wasn’t being asked to behave like some lordling or noble, I was being buried under menial housekeeping tasks. Dusting shelves, mopping floors, vacuuming carpets, washing dishes, doing laundry — it’s like they couldn’t figure out whether they wanted me to be a servant or be a business-level snob.

It’s why I now found myself in one of the smaller side rooms, at Danya’s request. She had asked me to go dust and tidy it up, so now here I was, feather duster in hand. I’d expected another parlor room with ugly wallpaper and excessively ornate chairs and tables and gaudy chandeliers.

But this room was surprisingly simple and bare. There were bookshelves against one wall, and a single wide, floor-to-ceiling window gave a view out over the front of the estate, and Hautaholvi’s skyline in the distance. Sitting in front of it was a glossy grand piano in mint condition, albeit quilted by a thin layer of dust. The lid was down over the keys, and the piano bench tucked in below the keys.

“Huh.” I say, wandering further in and circling around the piano. It made sense that there’d be a piano here, since this was called the piano room, but the House of Regret hadn’t struck me a terribly musical place, and I’d never heard anyone singing or playing music in here. The layer of dust on the piano seems to speak to that fact; reaching out, I drag a finger across the lid, unveiling the rich black hue underneath the dust.

“You play?”

I jump on the spot, nearly dropping the feather duster as I whip around. Leaning against the doorframe is Harro, his arms folded as he watches me. “Maugrimm have mercy!” I splutter, gripping the feather duster like it’s a club. “Would it kill you to make some noise before you turn up somewhere?”

He gives an idle shrug. “Force of habit. You run field errands for a demon lord long enough, you make a habit of stepping quiet wherever you go.” He eyes up the feather duster. “Got a skimpy maid uniform to go with that?”

“You’re such a pervert!” I hiss at him. “I ought to beat you to death with it, is what I should do!”

His only response is to grin. “Can’t kill someone that’s already dead.”

“Watch me!” I grumble at him. “If you come back, it just means I get to kill you again.”

“Is that any way to treat someone that saved your hide?” he asks, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room. “Raikaron ought to thank me to keeping an eye on his favorite new pet, really. Who knows what that creepy old guy with the cane would’ve done if he’d managed to make off with you.”

“Right… sorry.” I say, lowering the feather duster. “I never did get to thank you for that. I did appreciate you helping me out there, though. I’m not sure I could’ve taken them alone.”

“No offense, but I’m pretty sure you would’ve gotten rolled like bowling ball.” he says, his gaze wandering around the pleasantly simple room and its bookshelves. “He had you up against that van in a snap. Good on you for managing to get him across the face with that nasty bat of yours, though.”

“You saw that?” I ask, watching as he idles along the bookshelves, grazing the spines of his books with his gaze.

“Bits and pieces. Not gonna lie, I was pretty tied up with those pointy-eared bastards that wouldn’t stop jumping around.” he says, reaching up and hooking a finger over one of the books, tilting it forward. “Mortal wannabe edgelord shadow magic or something. It was probably a mistake, fighting them at night; they’ve got a lot of darkness to work with. Pain in the ass.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t know, I was busy… dealing with the old dude.” I say, passing the feather duster from hand to hand, not knowing what to do with it. “You did pretty well from what I saw, though. Held your own even though you were outnumbered.”

“Oh, a compliment?” he says, pulling the book off the shelf as he looks over his shoulder at me. “You gotta be careful with those around here, especially coming from a pretty face like yours.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Oh, I’m just a ‘pretty face’, am I now? I take it back.”

“That’s more like it.” he says, smirking over his shoulder. “So that guy that you were out there protecting on that night — that was your brother?”

“Yeah, that was my… my brother.” I say, turning my attention back to the piano and halfheartedly swiping the feather duster over the lid. “Haven’t seen him in a while and we don’t really get along, but I couldn’t let him get snatched like that. Mum would have my head; she raised us to take care of each other, even though we didn’t get along often.”

“I’ll be honest, I’m not seeing the resemblance.” he says, turning away from the bookshelf to face me properly. “You get your hair from your mom or your dad?”

I shrug. “Both Jazel and I are adopted. It’s why we don’t look anything like each other. Jazel looks a little bit like Mom, though.”

“And you take after your dad?” he guesses, leafing through the pages of the book he’s pulled down.

“We didn’t have a dad. Mom was a single parent.” I say, starting to focus more on dusting the piano. “She did a pretty good job. Tried to give us everything that a two-parent home would’ve had. She wasn’t able to provide everything, but she made sure that we had most of it.”

“Sounds like a good woman.” he says, his attention on me rather than on the book in his hands. “You miss her?”

“Yeah.” I say quietly, my dusting slowing. “Miss my brother too, surprisingly enough.”

“Dunno what you’ve got until it’s gone and all that.” he says, snapping the book shut and setting it back on the shelf. “I remember giving my parents more trouble than they deserved when I was a teenager. Wish I could go back and tell ‘em I was sorry for the hell I put them through, but…” He spreads his hands out, then lets them drop back to his sides with a faint slap. “I’m dead and in hell and all that good jazz.”

I take my eyes off the piano, looking at him. “Funny. You didn’t strike me as the sort to be penitent.”

He starts walking along the side of the room, taking a finger and waving it in circles up at the ceiling. “Normally I’m not. Made a habit of moving forward and not looking back, but this place, this stupid House, it gets to you. It makes you think of things you’ve done, things you wish you did, things you did but wish you did differently. But,” He gives a shrug and a half-smile as he reaches the end of the bookshelf. “I suppose that’s why they call it the House of Regret.”

I think back to the intermittent nightmares I’ve had about my family, about what I did that got me here in the first place. “Does the House really… do that to you? Make you think of things you regret?”

“I dunno.” he says, giving the walls a speculative look. “That’s the rumor that goes around the House staff, though. They say it’s the same way at the Houses of other Lords in Sjelefengsel. You feel spiteful in the House of Spite, irritated in the House of Wrath, horny in the House of Lust… you get the idea.”

“Doesn’t sound like it’d be helpful for getting stuff done.” I say, reaching out and dusting the piano bench a little. “Being constantly distracted by the vices of hell.”

“It’s just a rumor.” Harro says, crossing the room to stare out the wide window, down on the front yard of the House. “It’s probably not, like, real obvious emotional manipulation. But little things, I figure. Dreams about the vices of the Lord you belong to. Stray thoughts. Subtle things.” And then he shrugs, as if to discount everything he just said. “Probably just superstition anyhow. Even if it was true, it’s not like any of the Lords would ever admit to it. They like to keep their secrets, use them to control the rest of us plain jane demons.” Turning about, he runs a finger across the top of the piano, revealing another streak of glossy black underneath the dust. “Anyway, you never answered my question. You play?”

“What, piano?” I ask, looking down at the instrument. “No. I like listening to music, but I can’t make it to save my life.”

“Pity. The only person here that knows how to carry a tune is the skinny strawberry.” Harro says, wiping his finger off on his black jeans. “And it’s not interesting stuff either. Jazz, piano, maybe a little electroswing, but that’s as modern as he gets. It’s boring.”

“Can you play?” I ask, using the feather duster to brush some more of the dust off the top of the piano.

“What, me?” he scoffs, holding up his hands as he walks around the piano. “You think these steakfingers are good for anything outside of putting a fist to someone? Nah, sweetheart. You want music, I ain’t your guy.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he makes his way back over to the door. “Anyhow, I oughta get outta here before Danya comes sniffing around. If she catches me talking to you, she’s going to blow her lid. Try not to get in trouble with any more old guys with soul-stealing cane swords, okay? I probably won’t be around next time to bail you out.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” I say, shooing him with the feather duster. “See you around, Harro.”

The moment it’s out of my mouth, I realize I probably shouldn’t have said it, because he grins, and I realize that I’m sending a signal that I’m expecting to see him in the future. But it’s too late to say anything about it, because he’s given me a little salute and stepped out of the room. As the sound of his bootsteps fade down the hall, I turn back to the dusty piano, then reach out and start swiffing away the dust on top of it, exposing more of the beautiful black gloss beneath.

He may look a little rough around the edges, but Harro doesn’t seem like such a bad person.

Jayta’s Journal

How do you define justice within the context of punishing transgressors?

Since hell is merely unproven theory to those that have embarked on their mortal tenure, mortal knowledge of hell's punishments is merely conjecture or speculation in many places. There are aspects of it that are revealed to mortals through their interactions with demons or angels, or relayed to them by revelation divine or demonic, but these are typically only glimpses through a window, forming a patchwork image. The gaps, naturally, are filled in by the interpretation or imaginations of those on the receiving end of this knowledge. As a result, mortal conceptions of hell never quite capture the full complexity and nuance of hell, or the punishments it has reserved for the unjust. Lakes of fire and brimstone, and demons with spaded tails and cloven hooves, doesn’t really do justice to the full catalogue of torments that hell has to offer.

And besides, true justice requires more than just physical pain.

It requires suffering.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Hautaholvi: The Exchange

11:20am SGT

“Come along, Jayta. There will time for sightseeing later.”

Raikaron says the words as I stagger out of the limousine, pulling a locked briefcase with me. We’re in the heart of Hautaholvi's business district, close to the middle of the day; the hell-city is pulsing with life, loud and unapologetic. Honking echos down the streets from impatient drivers, while demons of all shapes and sizes traverse the sidewalks and crosswalks, many of them ignoring the stoplights. Skyscrapers tower all around, flashing logos over their sides; one that’s particularly caught my attention has giant stone totems orbiting around it, carved like the faces of demons. Beneath each one, a name flashes, one for each of the Greater Lords of Sjelefengsel. I can recognize Maryah’s visage on one of them.

Letting the limo’s driver close the door behind me, I hurry to keep up with Raikaron as he strides across the sidewalk and into what looks like an open square, kind of like a fancy strip mall, with a bunch of high-class businesses. Jewelers, a spa, a winery, hex and curse vendors, a booking agency that arranges visits to the mortal plane for demons that can afford it — it’s just like a mortal city, except that it’s got more demon-related stuff.

“Why are we here?” I ask, catching up to Raikaron, and doing my best to keep the briefcase from banging against my knees. It’s kinda heavy. “I know you said you had some business to tend to, but you didn’t say anything else after that.”

“I have some items of value to exchange for other items of value.” he answers, fiddling with his cuffs to ensure they’re buttoned shut. Today he’s wearing a black button-down and slacks, with a dark red vest and a robust red tie, cutting a classy, sophisticated figure as always. “Said items are in the briefcase you’re presently carrying, so do treat them gently.”

“Oh, that’s real specific.” I grumble, following as he crosses the square. “I ask you what’s in the box and you basically answer that something is, in fact, in the box.”

It brings a faint smile to Raikaron’s face as he reaches up to adjust his glasses. “That is the art of politics and deflection. Speaking with grace and conviction while saying nothing of consequence.”

“I hate you.”

“So you’ve told me before.” We cross into the shadow of an overhang that’s shading the entrance to the place we’re headed for; beneath the overhang is a pair of thick wooden doors, with the words THE EXCHANGE above it in black granite letters. Grabbing one of the rungs that serve as handles, Raikaron tugs one of the doors open, stepping aside with it and politely gesturing for me to enter first.

Walking inside, I let the briefcase hang by my side as I take in my surroundings. The floor is cobbled stone, and most of the light in the room comes from a fire burning in a fireplace over on the side of the room, and torches mounted on the wall. Rustic shelves line the walls, carved out of rough-hewn wood and stacked with archaic bottles and glass boxes containing relics, with little price tags hanging from them. Skulls hang from the chandelier overhead, green flames glowing from within their upside-down eye sockets.

It’s all jarringly… medieval. Archaic. Nothing like the metropolis outside.

“Well well well, what have we here?” comes the rumble from a burly, eight-foot demon behind the counter. This guy is huge, even bigger than Maryah’s bodyguards. He has a pair of massive goat horns spiraling away from his temples, and a single one of his arms is probably bigger than I am. The meaty thud as he slaps a hand down on the granite countertop sounds like it could’ve flattened the skull of a small mammal. “Not just one toothpick in a suit, but two toothpicks in a suit today! The little one is just adorable!”

I’m not sure whether I’m blushing out of fear or because of the compliment. Raikaron had ordered me to make myself presentable for a business visit, so I’d gotten into the black slacks, buttondown, and suit jacket that was part of the wardrobe that Danya had provided for me. I’d topped it off with a crimson tie, though Danya had to help me tie the Windsor knot — I’d never tied a tie before, and I’m pretty sure she was going to add it to the list of things I needed to learn to do.

“H-hello.” I stammer as the massive demon leans over the counter, sizing me up with black eyes that don’t appear to have any irises. His skin looks like hardened scales or leather, and it ripples with muscle — the parts of it I can see beneath his buttoned shirt and rolled-up sleeves, at least.

“Hello to you too, little demon.” he says, straightening up and throwing a hand out. “And hail to the Lord of Regret, the Blackthorn Demon, son of the Syntaritov House! What have you for me today?”

“That depends on what you have in stock, but introductions first.” Raikaron says, coming to a stop beside me. “Jayta, introduce yourself.”

“I-I’m Jayta Jaskolka, an avenger for Lord S-Syntaritov.” I stutter. I don’t know if it’s the sheer size of this demon, or his deep, powerful voice, but being confronted by a personality like this is making me feel unusually meek. Maybe it’s the fact that I feel like he could pick me up and snap me like a twig if he wanted to.

“Oh, an avenger for the Lord of Regret, are you now?” he says in a low, menacing voice, leaning back over the counter, hands planted on it as he sizes me up with one eye. “And you know they call me, Jayta Jaskolka?”

“N-no…?” I stammer, pulling the briefcase up a little as if it could shield me.

A nictating membrane flashes over the single black orb sizing me up. “They call me the Gentleman of Greed, the Black Bastard, the Viceroy of Vices, the Collector of Debts and the Destroyer of Wallets. But here, I am best known as…” he rumbles, pausing for a moment to let the tension hang in the air. “…Brian.”

I stare blankly at him, unsure of whether he’s serious or joking. Looking to Raikaron, I can see that he’s biting his lip, as if he was trying to hold in a snicker. It slowly starts to dawn on me that they’re pulling my leg; Brian is probably none of the things that he said he was.

“Ha… ha.” I say slowly, my confusion morphing into a glare. “Very funny.”

Brian slaps his hand on the counter with a terrifying thud, cackling as he pushes back upright again. “Graves of the gods, did you see her face, Rai? She actually believed it for a moment!”

“She’s new; I’ve only had her but a few months.” Raikaron replies with a more muted amusement. “There’s still much she has to learn about Sjelefengsel.”

“Cute little thing like her, I’m sure she’ll learn quick. Or get eaten alive.” Brian says, turning around and opening one of the glass cases behind the counter. “So what’ll it be this week? I got in some new relics this month, there’s some interesting ones in the latest batch. Some purported Shyl-tari relics, I figure you might have an interest in those…”

“You know the drill, Brian. Books, secrets, favors. Nothing else.” Raikaron says, reaching into one of the pockets of his vest and pulling out his pocketwatch, clicking the lid open as if to check the time. “I don’t dabble in artifacts or relics. On balance, they create more problems than they solve.”

“But creating problems is part of the family business for you, is it not?” Brian asks, starting to pull things out of the glass case. “Syntaritovs are known for being the ultimate troublemakers, across the mortal and immortal planes alike…”

“The family reputation can be a little hard to live up to with the precedent that has been set by my ancestors.” Raikaron says, the pocketwatch giving a crisp click as he shuts the lid and tucks it back in his pocket. “I choose to live up to it, just in my own way. But we digress — what do you have for me, Brian?”

Brian turns back around, giving Raikaron a bit of a disgruntled look. “Well, like I said, we got in some new relics and artifacts this month; it’s why I tried to push you towards those. It’s been slim pickins elsewhere. It’s been that way for a while, you know that.” He starts lining up books on the counter, talking as he goes. “The rare books are hard to come by. Certain other Lords like to collect knowledge of the antediluvian arts as well, and it doesn’t help that the Ninth Circle’s cracked down on forbidden knowledge.”

Raikaron moves towards the counter, and I tiptoe up beside him, curious. The four books on the counter are old and worn; a couple have embossed covers and an ancient language titling them, but the other two are simply unmarked. “Hmm.” Raikaron says, running a finger over the two marked books. “Seen it. Have a copy in my library. These two…” He hooks a finger under the cover of each unmarked book, leafing through and scanning the pages, most of which look to be handwritten. “Hexwork. Interesting, but not exactly what I’m looking for. This one is… a history of forbannelsemesters, now that is interesting. No actual curses in here, so of limited use… but it may serve for research purposes.” He takes the last book, setting it to the side. “I’ll take that one. The rest you can keep. Now, secrets and favors?”

“Funny. Out of those four, that was the one I didn’t think you’d be interested in.” Brian says, stacking the books and sliding them to the other side. Reaching back, he grabs a wooden tray and sets it on the counter; it has shallow indents carved into it, and within each one is a marble the size of my thumbnail, with what looks like a nebulous fog swirling around within it. “It’s been tight as far as secrets go. Same as last month, nothing new. The power players in Sjelefengsel have been pretty tight-lipped recently, I’m not sure why. Might have something to do with all the unrest up in the mortal plane, with the return of the Challengers.”

“Everyone’s holding their breath, waiting to see if they’ll flare up or flame out.” Raikaron says, his fingers hovering over the foggy marbles. “Secrets of the Lesser Lords, correct? Nothing pertaining to the Greater Lords?”

Brian raises an eyebrow. “It’s one thing to barter for leverage over your peers. It’s quite another to try and get leverage over your betters. Are you sure you want to venture down that road, Rai?”

“I wouldn’t need insurance if I didn’t think I’d use it.” he says, touching two fingers to the end of the tray and pushing it to the side. “If you have secrets pertaining to the Greater Lords, I would like to see them.”

Brian’s only response to that is a heavy sigh. Bending down, there’s a jangle of keys and the clicking of a lock as he pulls a drawer out behind the counter, and soon, a similar tray is set atop it, this one with only two marbles in it. “Pride, and Lust.”

“And no hints as to their contents?” Raikaron says, cocking his head to one side as he sizes up the foggy spheres.

“You know the deal. I don’t know what’s in them. If I did, they wouldn’t be secrets at that point.” Brian says. “The one on the left is Lust. The one on the right is Pride.”

“I’ll take Lust.” he says, leaning back from the counter a bit. “I imagine it’ll run me a pretty penny, so I’ll skip on the favors today. Jayta?”

I look to see he’s holding a hand out, so I lift the briefcase and hand it to him. Setting it on the counter, he places his fingers on the clasps, the seal of the House of Regret briefly glowing on the lid before they click over. Opening the lid to reveal a series of vials pressed into the velvet within, he turns it around so that Brian can see the contents. “On the left, you have a vial of a mother’s grief over her recently deceased child. This breed of grief is deep and abiding; very potent, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Brian reaches up to his breast pocket on his shirt, pulling out a pair of spectacles and slipping them on as he reaches in, plucking the vial out and examining the dark violet liquid within. “Age of the child?” he rumbles.

“Four years old.”

“Oooh. Very raw.” Brian remarks, giving the vial a little shake. “I don’t envy the visit you probably had to make to collect it. I’ll take it, but you know it won’t cover the tab.”

I reach up, setting a hand against the counter to steady myself. I’d never been privy to this kind of exchange of goods before, but the idea that such things can be harvested and traded away… it sends a shiver down my back at the same time that it makes me feel nauseous.

“Naturally. So, on your right here, I’ve brewed a bit of artist’s despair.” Raikaron goes on, motioning to the vial on the right side. “It’s a medley, as you’re aware; insecurity is the primary element, but there are soft notes of self-doubt and loathing, with just a hint of fear on the tail. The entire cocktail has a strong undertone of depression that helps blunt the sharpness of the other emotions, but I added just a drop of imposter syndrome to give it a little kick that keeps it from getting too boring.”

“Ah, so this was a personal concoction?” Brian says, pulling out a vial that has a bright yellow-green fluid inside. “I didn’t know you were starting to mix your own ingredients. It’s quite advanced for a novice.”

“My background allows me a certain… proclivity for emotional complexities.” Raikaron demurs. “If it sells well, I’ll see about making more for you in my spare time.”

“Well, it’s certainly a novelty, but it won’t cover the tab, even with your other offering. Getting dirt on the Greater Lords isn’t cheap, Rai.” Brian says, setting the vial down and pulling out the middle vial, which has a bright, luminous blue liquid. “I hope whatever’s in this last vial can make up the gap. It’s certainly a curious color; you don’t see a lot of blues down here in Sjelefengsel.”

Raikaron’s mouth curls at the corner. “I saved the best for last. That, my good friend, is a broken dream.”

Brian’s black eyes widen. “You jest.” he says, looking back to the vial. “Really? It’s so bright. It must’ve been broken recently.”

“About a week or so ago, yes.” Raikaron says as Brian adjusts his spectacles to get a better look at the vial. “Very potent. Now, I’m sure you know the deal with broken dreams; they can be mended. It usually takes time and a change of life circumstance, but it is possible. So, the sooner you sell that to a client, and the sooner they use it, the lower the chance it’ll just…” He raises a hand, making fluttery fingers. “…poof on them.”

“Yes, of course.” he says, turning the vial this way and that. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen a broken dream. At least a few years, and the last example was a little anemic. At any rate, this should more than cover the tab, along with your other offerings.”

“You can put any overage credit on my account; I’ll likely collect on my next visit.” Raikaron says, folding the briefcase shut and handing it back to me. “Are we all settled up, then?”

“We are settled.” Brian says, sliding the book across the counter to Raikaron, and putting the foggy marble in a small silk bag, setting it atop the book. “However, if you’re wanting to spend the rest of that credit now, we just got in a new batch of…” Reaching over, he yanks a statue on the counter, which actually turns out to be a hidden lever, which triggers the wall behind the counter to flip around, revealing a series of tanks filled with green liquid that have… people in them. One per tank, to be specific. Brian gestures to the tanks lining the wall with a bright salesman smile. “…sex slaves!”

I stare for a long moment, then look at Raikaron. I must have some sort of expression on my face, because he reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Brian, when have I ever been interested in that kind of merchandise—”

“It’s a really good deal we’re running right now, two for the price of one!” Brian cajoles, still wearing that salesman smile. “Which, with as much credit as you’ve got, could get you a whole harem! Could get an even bigger discount if you’re buying them by the harem!”

Raikaron folds his arms, still pinching the bridge of his nose. “Brian—”

“Not a fan of the humans? Well no worries, my friend, we have got you covered.” Brian barrels on, flicking a switch on the control panel to the side of the row of tanks, which shift upwards and back as another row of tanks are lifted up out of some storage area either behind the wall, or under the floor. “You name it, we’ve got it! We’ve got Halfies! We’ve got wereckanan! We’ve got orcs! We’ve got elves! We’ve got it all! Any carnal kink your blackened heart desires! Male? Female? Tentacles? Something in between? We’ve got it!”

“What’s going on?” I murmur aside to Raikaron, unable to take my eyes off the tanks against the back wall that contain some admittedly rather attractive specimens.

“I don’t know.” Raikaron mumbles back, eyes closed as he massages his brow. “He must be desperate to move stock. He knows I don’t buy this sort of trash.”

“What’s that? Did I hear that the young lady was interested in something?” Brian says, giving me a wink. “How ‘bout a strapping young lad? We’ve got plenty of those!” With that, he reaches back, flicking another switch, and another row of tanks is cycled around to the front, this one nearly entirely populated with some… very well-endowed males.

“Whoa, okay!” I say, putting my hand up and blocking the view. “I did not need to see all that.”

“Ah, so your flag blows the other direction.” Brian says, tapping one of his horns knowingly. “Well, not to worry, we can accommodate that as well. I’ve got a fine selection of ladies on the next row up—”

“Wait, what? No!” I protest. “My flag doesn’t blow that way! I don’t— I, I don’t need anything like this!”

Brian gives me a dubious look. “I have my doubts. But if you’re not interested, maybe you could help me convince your Lord to pick up something to keep him warm at night—”

“Brian.” Raikaron interrupts, and this time it’s sharp and commanding. “Enough. You know quite well that I have no interest in this kind of merchandise, and neither does my avenger. Why are you pushing this so hard?”

Brian stops mid-gesture, and seems to deflate on the spot as he reaches up with a single meaty hand and rubs the back of his neck. “…look, end of the year’s coming up. We’ve got a massive backlog in this department. If I don’t get some of this stock moved in time for the new year audit, the Lord of Greed’s going to have my ass on a skillet.” he says, the car salesman charm gone.

“These are people! Why are you treating them like toys you can buy at the store?” I demand, motioning to the tanks along the wall. “You are literally selling people as if they were sex toys!”

“Oh, now that’s an easy one to answer.” Brian says, perking up a bit. “Your sympathy is misplaced. You see, these are all damned souls — in their mortal lives, they were sexual predators or sex slave traffickers. Here in Sjelefengsel, they are given attractive bodies, and as part of their sentence, they become the prey instead. To be used and discarded, often killed afterwards.”

The flippant brutality of that leaves me speechless. All I can do is look to Raikaron, who merely shrugs and answers, “What goes around comes around. One ill turn deserves another, and it is not uncommon for damned souls to be sentenced to experience the same horrors they inflicted upon others during their mortal tenure.” He looks back to Brian. “I am curious, though: why is there a backlog? It can’t have been a sudden uptick in the number of sexual predators in the mortal plane. Was there a change in the sentencing guidelines at the court level?”

“No, people just aren’t buying sex slaves any more!” Brian says, leaning one arm on the counter. “If you ask me, it’s because of those goddamn succubi and incubi. The city is crawling with them; it’s like an infestation! And they just hump their way across Sjelefengsel like they’ve got nothing better to do but shift shapes and get laid. The sex market is absolutely saturated with these horny cockmunchers working for a pittance. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

“Wow.” I really don’t know what to say to all this. “You know, I expected a lot of stuff when I came to Sjelefengsel, but listening to two demons debate the economic politics of sex work in hell was definitely not on that list.”

“In my defense, he’s the one pushing the topic.” Raikaron says drily. “This does, however, return me to my original point: I have no interest in that sort of merchandise, Brian. It’s unfortunate that you have a backlog of damned souls to offload, but I cannot help you with the sort of punishments they require.”

“Okay, well — look, you don’t necessarily need to use them as sex slaves.” Brian says hastily. “I mean, yes, that’s what they were sentenced to, but maybe you could have them do gardening or groundskeeping, maybe use them around the House as support staff.”

“I am not going to take a sexual predator into my home to do groundskeeping and expose the rest of my staff to the possibility of harassment.” Raikaron replies sharply. “Save for the damned demons which are assigned to me by the Eighth Circle, my House is staffed entirely by contract demons. They are there first to serve, second for punishment.”

“Okay, but… c’mon Rai, help me out here, man.” Brian begs. “I gotta get some of these damned souls out of here by the end of the year. There’s gotta be someone in your House that’s looking for a little play time, right? Maybe you could get a sex slave for them?”

Raikaron sighs, his hand going up to pinch the bridge of his nose once again. “I don’t reward my demons like that, Brian. Unlike a great many other Lords, I like to demonstrate a modicum of class. Have you reached out to the Lord of Lust? I’m sure she would be more than happy to take some of these souls off your hands.”

“Are you kidding? She’s one of my biggest customers in this department.” Brian says, taking off his spectacles and tucking them back in his breast pocket. “But she can only afford to buy so many at a time. She can’t clear out the stock all on her own. We need other Lords to participate in this economy, or it doesn’t work. And it’s not like your run-of-the-mill demon can afford to come in here and buy them; this is an upper-middle-class luxury.”

“Well then, unless you lower the prices, there’s really nothing to be done about it.” Raikaron points out. “You have to make it economically feasible for the lower class, or the succubi and incubi that work the sex market will continue to dominate it.”

“I get that, but I don’t set the prices; you know that!” Brian protests. “C’mon, Rai, just one. Every little bit helps. If you could take just one, you’d be doing me a favor.”

Raikaron squeezes his eyes shut, blowing out another long sigh, and I can tell by the way he exhales that he’s about to fold. “…alright. Fine. The girls are coming home for Krysmis, and I’m going to need to get them a toy to keep them busy while they’re here. I will take one.”

Brian clasps his hands together, shaking them. “Thank you thank you thank you, Rai. You have no idea how grateful I am.” Turning back to the wall, he starts flipping switches on the control panel. “Alright, so what do the girls want? Is there anything they’re particular towards?”

“The girls are like cats. They like playing with their food before killing it. So, one of your more serious offenders, I would assume.” Raikaron says with the resignation of someone that’s accepted what he’s about to do. “Most of them are preferential towards women. They have something of a vague animus towards men after their experiences with Mr. Garkia.”

Brian looks around. “Oh, Harro? I’m surprised you’ve still got that hound hanging around your House. I still see him in here from time to time.”

“Oh, do you now?” Raikaron says, arching an eyebrow. “Selling secrets about me, I presume?”

Brian’s mouth hangs open for a bit as he fumbles for an answer, and he quickly turns back to the control panel, busying himself there. “Oh, well, you know, I’m not at liberty to say; client confidentiality and all that… oh, you know what! I think I know the perfect candidate for the girls. Hang on just a sec.”

He flips another few switches, and the rows of tanks start rotating again until they come to a halt somewhere within the elven section. Brian walks to the middle of the row, rapping on a tank with a short-haired young woman inside. “This one made a habit of molesting the kids she was babysitting. I figured if the girls like to torment their prey, this would be a good fit.”

“It’ll do.” Raikaron says. “Apply it to my credit and have it delivered to the House. I’m not going to drag that thing back through the square and load it into my car.”

“You got it.” Brian says, grabbing a piece of chalk from the counter and marking the tank. “Anything else I could interest you in while you’re here?”

“There is nothing else I want for at the moment.” Raikaron says, taking the book and the silk pouch on the counter before glancing to me. “Jayta, is there anything you see in here that you would like?”

The offer startles me. “Oh, um… no, no I’m good, thank you.” I quickly decline, unsure of how I would’ve answered that. I’m not even sure what most of the stuff in here is.

“Very well, then.” Raikaron says, tucking the book under one arm while tucking the pouch into one of his pockets. “As usual, it was a pleasure doing business with you, Brian. Next time, I expect to see all the secrets you’ve collected on me, and I will likely be buying them all back.”

“Well, it’s a free market. So long as you’re willing to pay, I’d be happy to sell them back to you.” Brian says, starting to gather up the wares that he’d laid out on the counter for Raikaron to peruse. “And it was nice meeting you too, little miss. I look forward to seeing you around if you end up running errands for your Lord!”

I give a shy little wave to Brian as I turn to follow Raikaron, who’s already heading for the doors, and giving his farewell as he goes. “Take care, Brian. If I don’t see you again before Krysmis, have a merry holiday.”

“And the same to you, Blackthorn!” Brian calls as we push through doors once more, and depart the Exchange.

Jayta’s Journal

There is a difference between pain, and suffering.

It is a distinction that is often overlooked in debates over punitive measures. In the mortal plane, punishments for crimes committed within mortal societies often take the form of imprisonment or economic penalties. Sometimes there is the death penalty, for those that are wanton in killing or murder. If a society permits it, there is also the option for hard labor during one’s prison tenure.

But that is roughly the limit of punishment variety in the mortal plane, and it is usually the most that mortals can stomach while still considering themselves ethical. Punishments of these types usually inflict pain — either economic, or in the form of lost time and opportunities through imprisonment — but one cannot really say that they inflict suffering. Suffering is something different, something more intimate. It goes deeper than just pain.

Take, for example, a man that abuses and beats his children. It is a thing worthy of punishment, but if he is caught during his mortal tenure, at the worst he will be sentenced and jailed. His punishment will be to spend time in imprisonment, cut off from society, deprived of opportunities that he would otherwise have. In the mortal plane, we are often conditioned to think that this is a fair and just punishment. It is the cultural expectation, the societal norm.

Yet that doesn’t truly reflect the suffering that is owed for such a transgression, and many other such transgressions.

To suffer is more than merely pain. Pain, alone and on its own, is merely a feeling experienced as a reaction to something that is done to you, whether it is related to your transgressions or not. Pain is used as a punishment, but often carries little to no inherent meaning beyond its punitive use. Pain, on its own, does not educate; it merely reprimands.

Suffering, on the other hand, is pain that has context and purpose.

Returning to the example of the man beating his children: suffering would mean turning this treatment on him. It would be to experience what his children experienced at his hand; to come to an understanding of their pain through experiencing it himself. To feel the helplessness of being subject to the abuse of someone stronger than you; to feel the betrayal of the sacred trust that family members owe each other. Suffering is not merely pain; it is to come to understanding through pain. To gain empathy through pain. And all too often, suffering is best generated through experiencing the horrors we have inflicted on others.

Pain is merely meant to be endured.

But suffering is meant to truly change us.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

Hautaholvi Badlands: Route 31

1:32pm SGT

I can tell that the visit to the Exchange has left Jayta with a lot to think about.

She is an interesting creature. Much quieter nowadays than when she first arrived in Sjelefengsel. There is less wailing and gnashing of teeth; fewer protests about the inhumanity and the brutality of hell; few temper tantrums and crying fits. There are still the glares, cold and resentful, often filled with venom and disdain, but even those have tapered off to some extent. On balance, much of her initial resistance to Sjelefengsel has vanished — replaced with a recalcitrant curiosity about how it all works.

In her, I see some hints of the aspiring scientist she once wanted to be. The way she sits quietly and observes; how she soaks up information, and every now and then asking quiet, calculated questions about something she doesn’t understand. And all the times she sits quiescent, her stone-grey eyes fixed on some distant point on the horizon as she processes what she’s learned, making sense of it. It’s clear that on principle, she does not want to be a part of the culture of necessary cruelty that defines Sjelefengsel.

But her principles cannot hide her instinctive curiosity about it.

Today is one of those days, as we sit in the cab of the limo on our way back to the House. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, staring out at the barren Hautaholvi badlands as we cruise along the long highway leading back to the hills. She’s said very little since we left the Exchange and got back in the limo; all through the city, her eyes remained fixed on buildings of Hautaholvi. Once we departed the city, her attention remained fixed on the desolate scrublands outside the city, and eventually the harsh igneous ridges that make up part of the badlands.

I have a feeling she is not actually focused on the scenery so much as she is lost in her thoughts about the visit to the Exchange.

“You do know that if you have questions, you are allowed to ask them, correct?” I say, breaking the silence. “I may choose not to answer, but I have no sanction on your curiosity.”

That snaps her out of her reverie. “Really.” she says, turning a little to face me. “Danya seems to go out of her way to make sure I don’t bother you.”

I smile a little at that. “Danya means well. She is right; I prefer not to be bothered by others, but I make exception for certain of my demons. You are one of those exceptions.”

“I’m flattered.” she answers drily, looking back out the window. “Why did you bring me on this trip? All I did was carry a briefcase around. You could’ve easily done that, though I suppose that would require you to actually do something.”

“You’re right, I could’ve easily carried the briefcase myself.” I say, reaching into my vest pocket and pulling out my pocketwatch to check it. “I didn’t bring you along just to carry the briefcase, but I gave it to you so you’d feel useful. The purpose of bringing you on this trip was to introduce you to the Exchange, so that you can eventually go in my place to conduct business on my behalf.”

“Is Brian going to try and sell me a sex slave every time I go?” Jayta snarks without looking away from the window. “Because I’m going to have to turn down the offer if so.”

“He shouldn’t, no. If he does, you merely need to firmly inform him that you have no interest in the offer. He may cajole and wheedle, but he cannot force anyone to make an exchange they have not already agreed to.” I answer, clicking my pocketwatch shut.

“Is that really how you all punish sexual predators down here?” Jayta asks, abruptly shifting topics as she looks back to me. “How can you live with yourselves, knowing what you’re subjecting those people to? I mean, I know they deserved it, after what they did in their mortal lives, but… there has to be a different way to punish them. Something that’s not so cruel.”

“Is that not the point?” I ask softly, not putting away my pocketwatch quite yet. “Cruelty, that is. Were they not cruel to others? Do they not deserve cruelty in turn?”

“I… well…” She doesn’t seem to have a good answer for that. “Yes, they deserve punishment of some kind. But the way you all do it down here is so savage, it’s just…” There’s another pause as she searches for the way to phrase what’s on her mind. “The way you punish people down here makes everyone else monsters.”

I smile at that, not because it amuses me, but because she has stumbled on one of the great truths of Sjelefengsel, and it gives me satisfaction to see that she’s reached that milestone.

“Yes.” I agree softly. “It does.”

“And you’re okay with that?” she demands.

“Does it bother you?” I ask archly.

“Of course it bothers me!” she explodes. “Out in normal society, we punish people, but not in a way that turns the prison guards into criminals! We don’t make other people commit atrocities against the people that have committed crimes, because that would turn them into criminals themselves! What you all do down here is create criminals in order to punish other criminals!”

“So you mean to tell me that out on the mortal plane, the presumed punishment for a sexual predator — imprisonment and incarceration — is a punishment that will bring them to a full understanding of the horrors they have inflicted upon others?” I ask patiently. “Do they really understand what they’ve put another through, or do they merely languish in their cell, regretting that they were caught and convicted?”

“What does it achieve to do to them what they did to others?” Jayta demands. “It’s inhumane. Perhaps they deserve it, but somebody has to carry out that punishment, and you’re asking them to participate in the crime that got the damned soul down here in the first place. You’re turning someone else—”

“Into a depraved, damned soul?” I guess, interrupting her. “What do you think the vast majority of Sjelefengsel’s population is made of, Jayta?”

That renders her speechless; she fumbles for something to say, and while she’s struggling to get her thoughts in order, I go on.

“This is part of the grand design of hell. This vast plane is populated largely by damned souls. Demons like you and I — demons created by contract and not by damnation — are far outnumbered by those that are sent here as punishment. We contract demons could not possibly hope to administer all the punishments that need to be administered, and nor would we want to in some cases.” I explain. “So those that framed and designed Sjelefengsel created a system where the damned punish the damned in a carousel of depravity and cruelty, one that would allow contract demons to participate if they so wished, but also to be exempt if they desired. More to the point of punishment, what is rendered here is better justice by far than anything that the mortal plane can offer. We do not merely throw people in cells and leave them to reflect on their sins. We make them experience their transgressions from the victim’s end, so they can come to truly understand the suffering they inflicted on others. Is that not the greatest justice of all? Forcing someone to truly understand the pain they have caused others? Or would you still rather throw them in a cell for an arbitrary amount of time and call it justice?”

Her fingers curl against the edges of her seat as she stares at me, her tense shoulders full of conflict. I can see in her eyes that deep down, she agrees with me, but she hates that she agrees with me. “I mean… no… prison time isn’t really an exact or equal punishment, but the answer isn’t to do to that person exactly what they did to other people!”

“Then how would you solve it, Jayta?” I ask her, folding one leg over the other. “Tell me how you would run hell if you were part of the Ninth Circle.”

She stares at me, mouth hanging open a little. Then she looks away, as if trying to gather her thoughts, and she does not answer right away. As the seconds tick by and the silence grows longer, she shifts in her seat, fidgeting restively, and I can sense she does not have an answer.

“You don’t like the way things are, but you can’t deny that you do not have a good solution for the question of true justice.” I say as the silence stretches into minutes. “You want a nice, neat answer that does not ruffle feathers, and allows you to sleep at night, but an answer like that does not exist. It could exist, if you were willing to turn a blind eye to certain facets of the conundrum and simply ignore them, but you question whether you would be able to do that. And the answer is you cannot — no one charged with designing a system can turn a blind eye to its obvious flaws, because the functionality of the system depends on acknowledging those ugly truths. It requires dealing with the hard questions, not ignoring them.”

“Well then, I guess you’ve answered your own question.” she says coldly. “I wouldn’t want to run hell. But you already knew that, so why did you ask me in the first place?”

I give a lazy shrug. “Yes, I knew it. But did you know it?”

That doesn’t seem to amuse her, and she returns to looking out the window. I do the same on my side of the limo, studying the jagged outlines of the badlands and marveling at their beautiful inhospitality, their unwelcoming grandeur. Contrasted with the more habitable zones in Sjelefengsel, it only gave you a greater appreciation for the harsh, unforgiving beauty of it all.

In some ways, it reminded me of the little demon sitting across from me, harsh and unforgiving and beautiful in her own way.

“Jayta?” I say after some minutes have passed in silence, with only the hum of the limousine’s engines to fill the void.

She doesn’t answer right away. “Yes, my Lord?” she answers — not impolite, but as cool and standoffish as she can be while still managing to be respectful.

“You look fantastic in a suit.” I say without looking away from the window. “The elegance and sophistication it conveys — you wear it well.”

Though I’m not looking at her, I can see her reflection in the window as she turns to look at me. It’s very hard to pick out through the faded, washed-out colors of a window reflection, but I can see a hint of pink touch her cheeks before she looks away again. When she speaks again, the frosty edge that was on her tone has melted somewhat.

“Thank you, my Lord.”