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Fantasy Devil Stone Chronicles

Obsidianserpent

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"Hey, Captain. Arsene's cheating again."

Oriane blinked hard, reluctantly freeing herself from the embrace of stolen sleep. She sat at the back of their procession's lead carriage, one leg stretched out in front of her and the other bent to her chest, arms crossed. She swung her gaze sideways to squint at the speaker.

Felix grinned from behind a dark beard, a fan of playing cards in hand. The other mercenaries looked up from their game, too. Coins glinted on the floor of the cozy space.

Arsene shot Felix a dirty look. "First of all, what do you mean 'again'? And second of all, what do you mean I'm cheating? Last time it was you who-"

"That's enough." Oriane was too exhausted to be sharp. She scratched at the back of her head, fingers brushing through mussed dark blonde locks. "Do you boys still drink from your mothers' teats? Crying to me about who was cheating at cards..."

"Peace, Captain. We're just having fun." Marcel's smile was full of patience. "Are you sure you don't want us to deal you in? These idiots may be terrible bluffers," he ignored Felix's indignant eyebrows, "but the game would keep you awake, at least."

"I still don't see why we can't stop for the night," Arsene said. He leaned back, thumping his head on the wall of the carriage. "I'm so fucking tired."

Oriane frowned. "You know why. Our client explained."

She and the other mercenaries looked to the bandage wrapped neatly around Marcel's arm. It would be a while before the teeth marks faded away, and longer still before any of them forgot the sight of Jasque stuffing bits of orphan into his mouth, or the howl he'd made when Marcel tried to pull him away.

Marcel's smile fell, and he shrugged his shoulders. "The sooner we drop off our cargo, the sooner we can be sure we don't lose any more men or kids to whatever's going on with that hell rock."

"We're not far now," Oriane said. "Should be there before dawn."

She switched legs and re-crossed her arms. Her chin drooped, and dreamless oblivion closed in on her thoughts.

Then the carriage jerked to a stop, nearly pitching Oriane off the back of the wagon. Sudden vigilance sharpened all her senses; she swung her legs beneath her in a practiced motion, reaching for the shield beside her. Felix and Arsene gripped their weapons in their sheaths, playing cards forgotten on the floor, and Marcel squeezed to the front to speak to the driver.

"What is it?"

"The horses are scared," the man replied, and he sounded scared himself. "I'm not sure what-"

Chaos sang a steel note through the air then, and the night suddenly grew thick with shouts and fighting. They rolled out of the carriage to do their jobs.

Oriane was glad for the moon's plentiful light; there were few torches to see by and too many shadows hiding their enemies. From the bushes nearest to her sprouted a hulking robed figure, a long dagger gripped in his fist. He lunged for her. Oriane pulled the axe from her belt and let it fly with an underhanded throw. It buried itself into his thigh, pitching him forward with a scream. Oriane stepped over him, and a downstroke of her sword across the back of his neck ended his wiggling.

She started onward, but then a flicker of torchlight passed over the fallen man's face -- over his mask. Oriane froze.

Shackles heavy on her wrists. Stone walls stretching endlessly into darkness. The stink of copper in her nose.

Jourdain laid out on a slab, still and cold and bloody.

It can't be them. The bastards came back for us. Why did they come back?

Felix shouted her name, and Oriane flung herself sideways just in time to avoid the arrow that passed through where her head had been. Marcel answered the attack with an arrow of his own, and Arsene chased after its path to ensure that it finished the job. She could tell by her men's ashen faces that they'd recognized their assailants, too.

Marcel peered down the line of carriages as he grabbed another arrow. "Where's our witch?"

Lucien. Oriane turned her head but couldn't see him. She couldn't hear him, either. Sudden concern for their client's safety pushed the white masks out of mind. That was good. She didn't want to think about them right now. She would happily think instead about why the Company of the Hound had been hired in the first place -- to protect the caravan, deal with anyone who gave it trouble, and generally ensure the continued survival of the man who was paying them.

"Protect the driver," she called, then pressed towards the caravan's rear.

A cluster of dark, furred shapes by the last carriage made Oriane pause. She didn't recall the masks using wolves the last time. Then again, the fact that one of them was being eaten by said wolves suggested that maybe the two weren't affiliated.

She spied a boot beneath the carriage. Oriane circled over from the other side, trying to avoid the attention of foes both furry and not. She crouched down and confirmed the foot's owner.

"What are you doing?" she whisper-hissed. "Come to the front, I have more men up there."

The thump of footfalls behind her had Oriane spin around, already bringing her shield arm up to guard before she saw her attacker. A sword crashed against it, and Oriane grunted as the momentum carried her shoulder first into the upturned carriage.
 
The taste of iron and salt swept across Lucien's pallet as the wolf gorged on the pale woman's flesh. The alpha's hunger had been subdued, but not without personal cost to the psychic. He'd never grown accustomed to the taste of human meat, and each time he fed upon it through the eyes of a beast, he felt as though slivers of his humanity were being chipped away. He raised the creature’s bloodied snout from the carcass to behold the carnage which littered the narrow trail. The Company of the Hound had slaughtered several of the masked assassins, sticking their guts with blades and arrows, but had not emerged from the skirmish unscathed.

“What are you doing...come to the front, I have more men up there.” Oriane’s voice echoed throughout the distant peripheries of his mind. He returned to his mortal body as his eyes regained their teal hue.

“Lead the w-”

A blade from the darkness clashed against Oriane’s shield. Lucien lashed out instinctively, abandoning his mortal vessel once more before clawing at the assailant’s mind and body directly. The cultist gripped his abdomen and curled over, blood spilling from the crevices of his mask as the psychic twisted his organs from within.

Sudden pain in Lucien’s shoulder ripped him from his psychic assault. He beheld an arrow shaft protruding from his injury, and for a moment he found it difficult to breathe.

Rage, hatred, and fear washed over him like a tidal wave of malevolence. Something terrifying yet familiar approached.

The Lapis Diaboli…

“Succurrere animis hominum, mea regna flecto, Et regnorum fines intorqueo. Reddantur ante me inimico meo antiquo…”


The chanting sounded from all directions in a deafening, hellish cacophony, throwing everyone in the area off guard. The Devil Stone's once faint glow erupted into a brilliant display of crimson light that engulfed everything in sight. Each of the enemy cultists collapsed suddenly to the ground as if in coordinated unison. Tendrils of smoke rushed from their limp bodies and coalesced within the stone's center. Lucien looked to Oriane as consciousness slipped away and wondered if they too would perish within the thicket of the Fontainebleau.

 
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Pinned as she was against the carriage, Oriane lacked the leverage to push away her attacker looming above. Then all the weight against her shield unexpectedly vanished. Now free, Oriane lurched upright with grim determination. The man reeled, starting to fold, but she didn't wait to see if his convulsions killed him. His neck was generously presented; she obliged him, flipping her sword around in her hand and jamming it in. There would be no chances taken with the likes of the white masks.

One boot planted in the man's shoulder, Oriane was unsheathing her sword from the corpse when a noise came from behind. She whirled around yet again. Her horror at Lucien's injury was brief, consumed in the next moment by professional purpose. She lunged in front of him, shield raised, scanning the foliage for the next attack.

The sudden words that boomed through the night pushed ice into her veins, seemingly dragging up some ancient, primal fear from deep within her. Up the caravan line, her men panicked, their voices sounding small and weak beneath the thunderous foreign chants.

It had been like this the last time, too. One moment, they were winning; the next, people were falling over for no reason and failing to get up. There had been so much red; so much blood.

Oriane wouldn't let them take her again. Wouldn't let them take her men. She refused to let that happen.

But for all her stubbornness, she had no strength left to fight her fate. It took all her willpower just to hold onto her weapons even as her knees hit the ground. Just before she toppled, Oriane caught Lucien's gaze, her eyes wide with terror. Then her view of the world tilted skyward, and she watched the ruby silhouettes of the canopy bleed into the night. One final thought echoed as she faded.

When Lucien had asked for her help, maybe she should've said 'no' after all.
 
ACT II

A woman of incredible years laid entangled within a giant mass of vines. Veins pulsed behind semi-translucent flesh so old that it hardly seemed alive. Rose and ivy roots had embedded themselves deep within her face and limbs. Spiders, ravens, and serpents moved across her still body as though it were the cold earth. Her eyes opened suddenly as visible desperation spread across her face. The surrounding foliage twisted and turned, elevating her limp form upright. She unfurled her talon-like fingernails and clutched Lucien's neck within her grasp.

Find me, godling! Release me, and that path to freedom shall become clear...

The woman's words penetrated Lucien's mind, her lips utterly still. Oscillating waves of dread and euphoria washed over him in rapid succession. The bizarre scene collapsed into smoke before enveloping the psychic in suffocating darkness.

Consciousness returned to Lucien in the form of a tart but sweet flavor upon his tongue, vaguely reminiscent of honey. He opened his eyes with some effort to behold a strange man treating the wound upon his shoulder. He was immediately struck by the man's beauty: by his caramel skin, blue eyes, and thick eyelashes. It had been months since he'd felt a man's touch and he struggled not to blush. His thoughts turned to the Lapis Diaboli: to that wretched hell stone that had driven him from the safety of his hearth in the first place. Mysteriously enough, it was nowhere to be seen.

"The stone...where is it? Where is the Lapis Diabloi?!" Lucien shouted.

"Calm yourself, I have no knowledge of this stone you speak of...here, drink this." The man picked up a small bowl of pale green liquid and brought it to Lucien's lips. The taste of honey returned once more.

"Thank you...what is this?" Lucien replied.

"It's sap from that glowing tree just outside. Don't get me wrong: I'm grateful not to starve, but this slime is all we've been eating for three days, and frankly, I'm getting pretty sick of it." The hint of a smile tugged at the man's lips. "The name is Yusuf Nava'i: I'm a scholar from the Citadel in Istanbul. We have much to discuss, my friend. What is your name, and how did you come to be in this accursed place?" the man said as he wrapped a fresh bandage around Lucien's shoulder.

"We...were transporting an object of great importance when our caravan was attacked by a mob of cultists. Somehow, the stone intervened, and the next thing I knew you were treating my wound," Lucien explained. He paused to ponder this peculiarity. Why had the stone intervened on their behalf? What was the demon it contained hoping to gain? He would need to proceed carefully.

Lucien examined the surrounding room. It resembled a small but luxurious chapel. Though dilapidated, the architecture was breathtaking. Murals of stained glass lined its sides. An exquisitely detailed statue in the likeness of the Virgin Mary stood at the back of the room, hands outstretched, with a large, ornate cross hanging overhead. Orianne, Felix, Marcel, and Arsene appeared to have survived the conflict as well and could be seen slumbering upon a nearby bed of furs.

Yew Sanctuary.jpeg
Yew Sanctuary

Lucien rose to his feet and stumbled to the wide-open door of the chapel. There stood the majestic, glowing yew tree just as Yusuf had described. For reasons he could not explain the tree seemed familiar to him. A cloaked woman knelt at its base, apparently analyzing its bark with a number of instruments. Beyond the cliffside upon which they were perched, nothing could be seen but blackness in all directions. Faint but ever-present, ephemeral voices echoed on the air: a serenade that Lucien found soothing as he did haunting.

"My name is Lucien Fay...where are we?"

"God if I know... My colleague Sabine and I stumbled upon this place by accident. We'd been excavating a forgotten tomb within the Dashte-Kavir for several weeks, but when we attempted to leave, we found ourselves where we now stand," Yusuf said. He turned to a dark tunnel in the corner of the room. "The way back doesn't lead back to any tomb, though it might as well. Beyond is a vast castle inhabited by zealots of some demoness they call the 'Succubus Mother'. They are violent, deranged cannibals that will flay you at the first opportunity. Fortunately, they avoid this place. They seem to fear the light of the glowing yew," Yusuf explained.

Lucien gazed once more into the dark horizon. "And what lies beyond?"

"Nothing," Yusuf responded, "at least as far as I can tell. I don't intend to find out for sure. The sun never rises in this hell." He paused momentarily. "The light of the yew is waning and its nourishing sap is drying up. We cannot hide here forever..."

The woman at the base of the tree collected her supplies and approached them.

"I trust you've explained our current predicament, Yusuf," the woman said. She smiled. Her braided, burgundy hair hung just over her shoulders. "My name is Sabine Blanco and I welcome you to our meager encampment." She pulled a sample of the yew's bark from her sleeve then gazed back at Lucien. "There is magic about this one. You're Wyrd Born: I can smell it on you. Perhaps you may be able to help us. Something corrupts this tree from within, feeding upon its strength. I believe that through your connection to the shattered Wyrd Weave, you may be able to cast out whatever afflicts it."

Lucien stopped, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He knew Sabine was correct, though he shuttered to imagine what manner of creature he might face.

"I'll need protection. Once I challenge the spirit within, it will likely summon its servants to stop me," Lucien explained.

"And protection you shall have. I'm no stranger to the sword and Sabine is a skilled archer. Not to mention, the renowned Harrier, Oriane Verret, and her company of Hounds are in your service. Legends of her expertise have reached us as far as Istanbul; I look forward to seeing the Company of the Hound in combat," Yusuf said.

Lucien turned to his mercenary companions.

"Your companions are resting, and so too should you," Sabine said, placing the small fragment of glowing bark within her rucksack. "I fear that forces beyond our comprehension conspire against us: we must be prepared."

Lucien returned to his gray, fur blanket and sipped once more at the nearby cup of tree sap. This place, these people: the whole situation seemed completely surreal. He reached for the wicker basket that, thankfully, remained tightly secured to his belt. He removed the lid and brought the cup to the basilisk's pitch-black mouth. The parched serpent eagerly lapped up the fluid. Drink, Apophis: we have a most trying journey ahead of us.


 
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Oriane woke up to an unfamiliar ceiling. The taste in her mouth was both sour and sweet; she smacked her lips in disgust as she waited for comprehension to sink in.

The last thing she remembered was the ominous chanting, the ruddy light, the cries of her men. Had they been captured again? It seemed unlikely. Whatever she was lying on was too comfortable, and there was an encouraging lack of chains. Her reasoning was further confirmed when she looked to the side and spotted the backs of Felix and Arsene's heads as they exchanged quiet words with Marcel. Their body language was tense but unafraid, and their weapons were lined up neatly by the wall.

Oriane tried to sit up and was pleasantly surprised when her body let her. Marcel noticed, and all three of them relocated to her bed of furs.

"What happened," she said.

They passed on their hosts' words, and Oriane put her face in her hands.

Despair shuddered through her. Four Hounds left to guard their master in an unknown hellscape. Whether the rest of the company was dead or had simply been left back with the caravan was a big question mark.

Oriane desperately hoped they were alive. That fateful job near Lyon had nearly decimated them the first time, a wave of white-masked enemies cutting through their ranks like a farmer's scythe through his harvest. If it had happened again -- if the company was now reduced to this -- there would be no coming back this time. Jourdain's pride and joy would finally be as dead as he was.

She could still see him on the slab, his skin chalky, ribs sprouting out of a nest of viscera.

"What are we going to do, Captain?"

Oriane dropped her hands and looked to the three of them, these men who had built their careers out of making corpses. They looked as tired as she felt.

"What else can we do? We're sellswords. We have a job to finish. As long as there's someone we can fight, we can move forward." She sighed and stood up. They made room for her. "Where's my gear?"

Felix jabbed a thumb. Oriane took stock: sword, shield, crossbow, armor. Her throwing axe was missing; she supposed it was still stuck in that cultist bastard back in the forest and would be for a long time.

After reequipping herself, Oriane went to find Lucien. Her men trailed behind.

"Your hell rock made a real mess of things. Did you know this was going to happen?"

She tried not to sound angry, but the faces of her company flashed behind her eyes.
 
Lucien glanced at Oriane, bemused. "My rock? Believe me: no one wishes to be rid of the Lapis Diaboli more than I." Lucien paused to carefully consider his next words. "I'm sorry...for what you and your company have endured while in my service. If your missing men are being held captive by this Succubus Mother and her ilk, we'll find them: you have my word. Whatever evil that cursed stone houses, it's proven far more powerful and unpredictable than I ever imagined..." He lowered Apophis into his basket. "Tell your men to get some rest, Captain; we have a difficult journey ahead of us." The psychic rested his head upon the bed of furs and stared blankly into the chapel ceiling. Guilt over the missing hounds, terror at the magnitude of the forces that opposed him: such burdens weighed heavily upon him, though he struggled not to show it. He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. As racing thoughts eventually subsided, he fell into a deep sleep: a moment of calm before the approaching tempest.

********************
Just as Yusuf had promised, the sun was completely absent when Lucien and his comrades awoke. That same, unending darkness was as penetrating as before, though the light of the sacred yew had dimmed substantially. Time was of the essence. He collected his things and paced toward the yew tree just outside the chapel doors. Despite his apprehension, the light was somehow soothing, however faint. He knelt at the tree's base. Blades of grass sprouted suddenly into being around his knees and feet. The bark before him seemed to bristle with energy and whisper at his approach, beckoning him to both draw closer and run the other way. He wondered how much time he had before the light dimmed completely and their little encampment was razed by the forces of hell.

Lucien turned toward his companions who'd spent the last several hours fortifying the camp's limited defenses as best they could. "The moment I touch this sacred tree, I shall join with it, my body losing nearly all consciousness. Whatever spirit lies within, it will not cede its new home willingly. If my suspicions are correct, it will divide itself, bringing into being phantoms that will take the form of whoever you love the most. They will not hesitate to strike me down; you mustn't hesitate as well. My life is in your hands, Oriane."

The psychic took a deep breath and pressed his trembling fingertips against the scintillating bark. Some irresistible force ripped him from his body. The sensation of falling ceased with an abrupt stilling of his consciousness. A vast meadow expanded into view. He looked upon his hands and arms. Forest green scales covered every visible inch of his body. His nails had been replaced with claws, black and razor-sharp, and upon his head, he could feel the wait of coiled horns. The spiritual space appeared to reveal his form within the Wyrd Weave: the unveiled manifestation of the ancient god, Cernunnos.

An aged woman could be seen at the end of the meadow. He paced toward her, and after several moments, realized she was none other than the crone who'd spoken to him in his dreams. A bone-thin, scarlet humanoid with large spikes upon its shoulders and an exposed skull sunk its bloodied fangs into the crone's neck. A red mist emanated from the creature's skin as it drained her. It turned toward Lucien, then smiled.

"Foolish godling: you serve as a pawn in an ancient game for which you do not know the rules. It is most...amusing to me," the specter said, chuckling beneath its breath. The crone let out a wail of agony as the creature once more gnawed at her throat.

"Save your riddles, demon," Lucien said with a snarl. "Release the old woman. I won't ask again."

The specter erupted into unrestrained laughter.

"You shouldn't have come here, Cernunnos," the demon said.

"What is your name, creature?" Lucien said.

"I am the blight of the fields. I am the pit in the stomach of a starving child. I am the unquenchable thirst of a covetous heart. I am Pazuzu, the Great Shaitan of the East, and now, godling, it is time to return you to the great wheel!" The demon leaped from the old crone's bleeding neck, high into the air. Barbed, whip-like appendages sprouted from his back then raced toward the psychic. Lucien hurled himself backward but failed to fully evade Pazuzu's blow. Blood spilled from the fresh laceration upon his chest. His attention was violently splintered, the same wound forming simultaneously upon his mortal body. Whatever harm he sustained within this ethereal space appeared to affect him in the corporeal world as well.

Though he knew not how he could sense the surrounding foliage as though it were an extension of his own body. At his command, thick roots burst from the ground, one twisting around Pazuzu's ankle and hurling him to the ground. The demon let out an ear-shattering wail. His eyes turned red as blood and the ground began to tremble. Lucien prepared himself, pushing aside the pain that pulsed through his abdomen.


 
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An apology was the least she could ask for, and the offer to rescue her men ('if they're even alive' an inner voice reminded unhelpfully) was more than she had expected. Some of the tension faded from Oriane's frame, and she nodded.

"I'll keep you to that word. And alright," she turned to the three waiting behind, "you heard the man. Get some sleep while you can. Who knows what's going to happen tomorrow."

"Sleep? We were just unconscious," Felix said.

"Then sit in a corner and brood," Oriane replied. "I trust you can do it quietly."

His brow wrinkled, and Marcel clapped a sympathetic hand onto his shoulder, grinning.

"There are worse places for rest and relaxation. At least the walls are nice to look at."

She followed Marcel's gaze to the stained glass. The murals folded around them in a comforting embrace, throwing shards of every color onto the floor. She didn't recognize their style, though she was probably supposed to. Papa would have gone over it with her at some point, but she never did hold his wishes in high regard, and now it was far too late. Well, if what Beatrice had said in her last letter was true, then the shop was thriving fine in Nathan's hands, anyway. Her brother always was the better student.

Her fellow Hounds scattered off in search of peace and quiet. Oriane sat herself down on a pew away from the others, stared up at the glasswork, and let her thoughts drift away to memories from another lifetime.

------​

"It'll do what?" Arsene's eyes were large, hand curling tight around the sword on his belt.

"Summon phantoms that take the form of whoever we love the most," Marcel repeated. His posture was calm, his voice even, but his fingers danced restlessly along his bowstring.

"Not such a fucking benevolent tree after all, is it," Felix mumbled. The head of his flanged mace rested on the dirt. Felix leaned on it, trying to feign nonchalance, though he did a poorer job compared to Marcel.

Oriane checked the straps on her shield one more time, doing her best to ignore the fist that tried to squeeze her stomach in a death grip. She and her Hounds were spread in a diamond formation around the tree, with Oriane the closest to Lucien, and Marcel opposite. Her stare was steady as she watched him kneeling in his eerie circle of grass. The tree's weak glow did him no favors; in the absence of other natural light, it slapped a pale, sickly color onto her friend's face.

"Anything that tries to hurt you will feel our fangs first," she told him. "Good luck."

When Lucien began, an invisible thump seemed to hit the air, soundless but still felt, a point of chiseled force rippling outward from the tree. As one, the four mercenaries stepped back, wary of the witchcraft taking place before their eyes. A beam of light shot out of the tree's twisted boughs, piercing the darkness a short distance before it split into four tendrils and careened back towards the ground. Each landed by one of Lucien's protectors.

Oriane presented her shield, widening her stance slightly. The light before her stretched, its form growing in height and size until it solidified into the shape of a man. Detail etched itself into the glowing form -- boots, clothes, zweihander. Then the light faded, and as promised, Oriane found herself looking at Jourdain.

Her lover smiled at her, healthy and handsome, arms flexing as he lifted his weapon up to rest on his shoulder.

Oriane stared back, eyes as cold and hard as the surface of a lake in winter.

To her left, Arsene made a distressed sound, and before she could see what shape his torment had taken, Jourdain charged.

The zweihander came swinging down, a cleaving chop meant to divide her in two. Oriane sidestepped, raising her shield to meet Jourdain's shoulder as he slammed his weight against her. She gasped, not from the impact of his greater bulk, but from the ache of familiarity that hooked behind her ribs. They'd sparred many times when he had been alive, and she knew these movements as well as she knew him. Had known him.

Because she knew him, Oriane also knew that as she shoved him away, his blade would follow his momentum, carving a diagonal path to split her from the hip. She dodged it, circling around him, taking advantage of his heavier and slower speed in tight quarters. Her sword flashed out, sinking into his armpit, and came back wet.

Jourdain gave a pained cry. Oriane's heart trembled, making the same noise inside her chest.

Her brain shouted louder. This wasn't him. Jourdain was dead, killed and defiled by cultists, his corpse left behind in their dungeons. Oriane had honored his death in every way she knew how except actually burying him. This thing fighting her was nothing but a cruel insult hurled by a semi-sentient tree.

Unable to wield his sword properly with only one working arm, Jourdain let the zweihander fall with a thump. He lunged, fist flying, and found only the surface of her shield. Oriane turned the blow, throwing Jourdain's balance wide. He stumbled. Her sword followed, biting at his lower legs. He dropped to his knees, his face turned away from her, and she was grateful she didn't have to look at him as she plunged her sword into his back.

The ground beneath him turned dark. Oriane gave her sword a swing, slapping blood spray to the ground, then went to check on her mercenaries. Arsene stood shaking over the prone body of a red-haired woman, his sword as sullied as Oriane's. On the other side, Felix had a hand over his eyes. A child-sized figure was crumpled at his feet, and something dribbled from the head of his mace. Oriane couldn't see Marcel's opponent from her location, but her vice captain's bow was lowered, arrow pointing at the ground, his face a thundercloud.

Arsene spoke first. "Is... Is he done yet?"

Oriane glanced in Lucien's direction and gave a start, only now realizing he was wounded but not understanding how. The Hounds had kept their respective phantoms away from him. Was he losing his battle with the tree?

She stepped towards him, but Felix shouted, yanking her attention away. The little boy was on his hands and knees, head lolling at an awkward angle. Arsene's woman staggered to her feet, one hand clutching at the canyon in her belly, and on the opposite side of the tree, a man with the same beard and black curls as Marcel sprang into view, the shaft of an arrow coming out of his throat.

There was something hard and painful in Oriane's throat, too, as she turned, and watched Jourdain lurch upright. Steel scraped the ground as he took hold of the zweihander with his wounded arm.
 
The clamor of clashing steel echoed through the sky of the strange space. Pazuzu had undoubtedly split himself just as Lucien had anticipated and now besieged his mortal coil from multiple angles. He could only hope the company’s resolve was strong enough to withstand the demon’s manipulations.

Fissures opened within the surrounding ground. Ropes of glowing lava spewed forth then amassed into a large, molten orb. The core erupted with a pulse, hurling streams of fire toward the psychic.

With a wave of his hand, Lucien summoned a mass of roots, vines, and foliage from below, erecting an ever-growing shield of natural debris. The barrier hissed and crackled under the immense heat of Pazuzu’s assault. He called forth further vegetation to bolster his defenses though with each moment he could feel his strength wavering.

“The Lord of Flies has overestimated your strength, Godling!” The demon cackled.

The stream of flame intensified. Lucien’s defenses began to crumble, fire seeping through cracked branches before consuming them whole. Heat blisters began to form upon his skin, and he feared he would soon be engulfed by the inferno.

The voice of the emaciated goddess called out to him.

“I can grant you but a moment, Cernunnos. Make it count.”

A pale green light enveloped Pazuzu and the torrent of flame ceased. Lucien seized the moment of reprieve. He formed a hardened spike from the wooden barrier and thrust it toward the demon with all the strength he could muster. The javelin soared through the air before piercing Pazuzu through the neck and pinning him to the ground. Lucien did not relent: he raced toward his immobilized foe and struck him with his mighty claws, severing the demon’s head from his torso in a single, fell swoop. A high-pitched, deafening screech spread through the air then faded as quickly as it arose. Brilliant, white flames engulfed the goddess as she turned to Lucien. The sense of relief that accompanied her smile was palpable. As she vanished into the blaze, so too did the surrounding landscape collapse into swirling plumes of smoke and ash.

Lucien awoke from his trance. Lifegiving sap spewed from every orifice of the rejuvenated yew and as it washed over his wounds, it soothed them. He turned toward Oraine and her company of hounds who appeared to be exhausted as he was.

“It’s over, Orianne. Pazuzu has been defeated…”


 
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She had been worried when the dead rose again, but it seemed that not even the power of whatever tree spirit Lucien was wrestling with could push strength back into bodies as damaged as these. Round two with the specters was even easier. Jourdain's zweihander traced awkward patterns through the air, his swings slower and sloppier than Oriane had ever remembered them being. They were simple to dodge.

This, somehow, was still more of an insult than a relief. This sorry imitation of her lover made her feel nothing but anger. Jourdain would never have been this clumsy while he breathed. The brilliant, talented leader of their pack had met few he could call his match on the battlefield; more than a few of the Hounds had pledged to follow him out of sheer respect for his might. In the end, it took a betrayal by the lord of Lyon and vile witchcraft no mortal could stand against to bring Jourdain down.

Now, to bring Jourdain down, all it took was slamming her shield against his wrist to break his sword-grip, and a decisive stab of her sword through his stomach. Jourdain twisted and fell onto his back, staring sightlessly up at the curtain of darkness above them. This time, he didn't get up.

A sort of hush fell over the area, the only sounds now that of the mercenaries' labored breathing. The light seemed to change, as well; Oriane turned back to find that the tree's glow was now a healthier color, and that Lucien was moving. She waited, trying to see if she recognized the light behind her friend's eyes, or if she should keep her sword in her hand.

Once satisfied, Oriane went to join him. She noted with some surprise that his wound was gone, and then wondered if it would be simpler to stop being surprised by all the strange little things that kept happening down in this hellscape. She sheathed her sword and reached out for the sap with a cautious hand.

"Good work in there. Things went fine out here, too. The phantoms-"

She flexed her fingers to hide the slight tremble that passed through them.

"-weren't much after all."

Felix made a sardonic noise. The tree's light glinted off the wet on the head of his mace, and the shadows under his eyes made him look like someone who regretted not sleeping while he had the chance.

"Yeah, killing our former captain's just a small thing. So's killing my own son. Twice, even."

Arsene came to join them too, pointedly not looking at where the red-haired woman had fallen for the second time. As he drew level with Oriane, the four phantom bodies lit with a soft glow, then collapsed into clouds of glittering particles. Marcel blinked as his spent arrows clattered to the ground, now without a corpse to hold them. After a moment's consideration, he went to pick them up.
 
Lucien laid back into the expanding puddle of yew sap and rested there for several moments. His confrontation with Pazuzu, an evil so primal and absolute, had left a lasting mark upon his consciousness. Images of dried-up rivers, blighted wheat, and the faces of starving children flashed through his stream of consciousness in episodes. For reasons he could not articulate, he struggled to shake the subtle suspicion that some vestige of the demon somehow remained. He turned toward the yew and gazed upon its luminescent bark. The flow of sap had subsided some, revealing a small, golden box crammed within its crevices. Intrigued, he plied it from the yew with the aid of his kris. He traced his fingers along its sides and it opened with a click. Two, ornate carvings of exquisite quality, dressed in intricate gem and ivory frames, rested atop a worn, leather journal. The occult power flowing through the carvings sent shivers down his spine.

"Oriane, perhaps this could be of some use to you," Lucien said, tossing a carving toward his companion.

He placed his fingertip upon the remaining spherical carving. Some unknown power ripped him from his body. An ethereal plane, not unlike the space within the sacred yew, swelled rapidly into being.

Lucien lifted his finger and the scene disappeared, his trance broken.

Sabine and Yusuf approached. "We owe each of you a debt," Yusuf said. The scholar placed his hand on Lucien's shoulder and flashed Oriane and her Hounds an appreciative grin.

"Our little sanctuary remains safe for now, but we cannot linger here," Sabine said.

Lucien opened the leather journal.

"If you are reading this then I am dead; killed by disciples of a wretched she-demon from the lowest pits of hell. I believe her to be Lilith: Mother and Queen of the Succubi, but I cannot be certain. I've spent nearly a month scraping by in this strange dimension, sustained by the sap of a sacred yew tree which the demoness fears. This manna, whatever it is, has turned sour and the tree's protective light dims day by day. I fear that my soul shall soon be consumed by this vile queen. Her priests speak of her ancient vendetta against some foe whose name they shudder to mention. She cannot be killed by normal means. I have discerned this from the cryptic hymns the priests continually chant as they sup upon the flesh of man. She's somehow bound her soul to a phylactery. This 'Goblet of Roses', as it is called, must be destroyed if she is to be truly defeated."

Lucien turned the page, revealing a bloody handprint.

"I have suffered a blade to the stomach and shall soon perish in this hell, despite the powers that bolster me. But I will slaughter as many of these heretics as I can before that moment! May the Virgin Mother guide my blade!

- Simon of Lenda of the Knights Templar"


Lucien turned toward Oriane's company of Hounds. Their time within this hellish space had clearly left its mark upon the mercenary company, though something about Felix's seething expression was particularly unsettling.

"We must search for your surviving men. With their aid, we may stand a chance against this Succubus mother. I am...grateful, to each of you for your protection, though I suspect it won't be the last time I need it," Lucien said.

"We should rest and prepare for battle. It may be our last opportunity for a while. Oriane, I think you should read this," Lucien said as he handed her the journal.

 
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At the sound of her name, Oriane glanced up from where she had been examining the strange, glowing sap. She wiped her glove off on her trousers and caught the object with her other hand. Lightweight but not fragile, it fit neatly in her palm, a pleasant teal hue with a polished look that reminded her of ivory or seashell.

"What is it?" Arsene peered over her shoulder.

Oriane shrugged. She turned it over, trying to figure out how she was supposed to make use of it. There was a curiously-shaped notch along its side. In a flash of insight, she realized it might fit onto her sword. Oriane pressed the trinket into the crossguard and heard it latch on with a click.

She and Arsene stared for a few seconds. He smacked his lips, making an inquisitive noise.

"Is it supposed to do something?"

Oriane shrugged again. There might have been a low, humming energy coming from it, but it could also just be her imagination. They were standing next to a magic tree, after all.

The two scholars rejoined them. They talked like the Hounds were heroes, but Oriane didn't feel like a hero. She felt tired. She felt like a woman out of her depth, rocking on a ship caught in a storm, desperately trying to keep it from capsizing because the other only option was to die.

She couldn't return their grin, but Marcel made an effort. He clapped Yusuf on the back.

"You don't owe us a thing. It was you two who saved us in the first place, so we're the ones repaying our debt, yes?"

As Lucien recited the journal's contents, Oriane felt herself go still. Inwardly, her mind raced.

Lilith. The name rang familiar. Maybe she'd heard it uttered within the walls of that dark dungeon those long months ago -- that dungeon where Jourdain lost his life, and Oriane lost her way. So, it was Lilith and her cronies who'd started that downward spiral of her life. Even now, Oriane was still spiraling. Trapped in hell with what was left of her mercenary company -- Jourdain's company -- their ranks reduced to a skeleton of what it had once been. All her greatest woes had started with Lilith; all this was that she-demon's fault.

The thought of taking out Lilith resonated sweetly in Oriane's pounding blood. Sure, they had to fight for self-preservation anyway, but there was no rule that said Oriane couldn't enjoy what was to come.

She took the journal from Lucien. Her eyes were dark. "The Hounds will be ready."

Felix came stomping over then. He still hadn't cleaned his mace, and his face was twisted with the anger of someone whose words could no longer stay in his mouth.

"Ready for what, exactly? We're gonna go marching off to fight a she-demon and her army now?"

"We've still got a job to do," Oriane reminded him.

"Didn't know it was our job to get fucked over by a magic rock, and then get mindfucked by a fucking tree."

"Is there a problem?" Oriane's voice was low, but her tone was sharp with warning.

Felix met her gaze, bristling, refusing to back down. "You tell me. Whose fault is it we're in this mess? We could've had an easy time mopping up deserters from the French army, but instead we're stuck in this God-forsaken pit tangling with demons because you couldn't say no to a childhood flame. Captain Jourdain never would've-"

Oriane exploded into motion, journal falling to the ground, arm catching Felix across his shoulders, foot hooking behind his ankle. A hard shove put him on his back, and a kick sent his mace spinning away. Felix spat, starting to rise, but Oriane planted her boot in his chest. Her hand was on her sword, not yet drawing it but fingers curled with the readiness to do so.

"You watch yourself, Felix. You're out of line."

Felix glared up at her, his eyes wild with wrath. Oriane wondered what her own face looked like in this moment. She felt none of the calm coming through her voice.

"I'm just a mad dog to you, Oriane? You gonna put me down like you did Jasque?" Felix's lips curled, showing his teeth. "Like you did to our captain there?"

Arsene stood frozen, hands lifted in a futile placating gesture. Some paces away, Marcel watched them with one of his retrieved arrows touching his bowstring. Oriane caught his gaze, saw his brow pinch with worry. She forcibly exhaled and stepped back, removing her foot from Felix's chest. Her hand fell away from her sword.

"No. You're my comrade. An ass, with the stubbornness of one, but still a comrade. Look, it's been a hard day for all of us, and it'll only get harder from here. If you need to be angry, save it for that bitch Lilith. But don't you forget: I'm your captain now."

She offered Felix a hand up. He ignored it, working onto his feet with a scowl.

"Fine. 'Rest and prepare for battle', was it? Understood, Captain."

He grabbed his mace and stalked off for the chapel. Arsene jogged off after him, seemingly grateful to be able to leave the scene. Marcel lingered for a moment, opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately left without a word, as well.

Oriane watched them go as she picked the journal back up. She never was good with words. Jourdain had been the great speech-giver; he would've known how to better settle this. But he was gone now, and all the Hounds had left was Oriane. That bitter fact was a knife-twist in her ribs.
 
The confrontation between Oriane and Felix reminded Lucien of just how estranged to the world his years of isolation had left him. People's pursuits, their passions, their flagrant expressions of emotion: they all seemed so bizarre to him. He turned to Oriane but struggled the find the right words.

"A festering hatred lurks in the heart of your companion. This place, by its very nature, stokes the fires of resentment and rage. Keep your eye on him; we've lost enough men to madness."

There was something else about this Felix, though Lucien refrained from mentioning it. The mercenary's pallid gaunt and malignant rage seemed inexplicably familiar to him.

Lucien pulled a cauldron, an oak doll, and a small satchel of tonics and powders from his rucksack. The cultists' initial assault on their caravan had left him bereft of the majority of his arcane supply, though he suspected he had enough reagents for a couple of spells. He waved his hand over the cauldron as emerald green flames burst from its center.

"We need to be as prepared as possible for the upcoming battle. This succubus mother, Lilith: I have never battled a creature of such strength...I...sense that this demoness and her servants are not unfamiliar to you...nay, a singular hatred for this creature burns within you..." Such supernatural insight was one of his more subtle talents as a Wyrd Born.

He sprinkled a pinch of ground animal bones and several droplets of salamander blood into the inferno. Luminescent smoke rose from the cauldron, filling the air with a sour aroma.

"I shall brew us a potion. Should you find yourself defenseless in battle, whisper this word: Varek. For a few moments, your flesh shall become resilient as diamond and no enemy sorcery shall beset you..."

Lucien pulled a small handful of pine needles from one of his vials and cast it into the flame.

"Fiat caro ut adamas, impervia gladii et incantamenti effectibus," Lucien whispered. His words echoed in the air. The enchanted concoction hissed for several moments then fell silent.

Lucien scooped up the solution in a wooden spoon and presented it to Oriane.

"Drink up."


 
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Oriane watched Lucien busy himself with the contents of his pack. The casual display of witchcraft made her eyes scrunch, and the rest of her face scrunched as well when the spoon was offered to her.

"Smells like it came out of a horse's ass."

She groused, but took the spoon anyway. If the brew truly worked in the way Lucien had advertised, then it was worth whatever foul taste it put on her tongue. Still, the noise Oriane made was one of regret as she swallowed, gagged, and turned away. She tossed Lucien back his spoon without looking.

"Hrk. H-Hatred, huh," she forced out once she was able to speak again. Oriane scraped her tongue against her teeth, to no avail. "Demon magic or not, I can't really blame Felix. It's true enough that it's my fault he's here. I'm the one who signed on the Company for your job. And...

"And the hatred in my heart's real enough. You're right; I've heard of this Lilith before. Some brigands were making trouble in Lyon, so the lord hired us Hounds to accompany his forces while he went to take care of them. We were winning at first, but -- another group caught us from the flank and hit us hard. The lord took his soldiers and ran; we sellswords were the distraction for their escape.

"Our ambushers were Lilith's people, though I didn't know it at the time. Those of us who didn't die were captured; dragged into their dungeons and killed. Jourdain was our captain, and... my lover. He died under their knife. Him and so many others... You know our company once numbered over a hundred men? Those zealots cut us down to a quarter of that."

Oriane palmed the cracked, care-worn leather of the journal. "I couldn't tell you how we escaped. That part's a blur. But I do know that I never did pay them back for their hospitality.

"So," she finished with a smile, teeth bright, eyes unkind, "If demon magic is filling my head here, then let it. My hate'll be another blade to sink through Lilith's heart."
 
Lucien turned to Oriane, wrath seething in her eyes.

"The Succubus Mother has taken much from you and you desire vengeance. I understand this impulse. But to the arch-devils of the abyss, such hatred and rage are the very meat of their existence. Try to still your mind, warrior. We are in for the fight of our lives and must deprive Lilith of any advantage."

The psychic picked up his wooden doll. A white, linen shirt draped its wooden base with spells written in the seams. Its features were delicate, even childlike despite the unsightly needle protruding from its chest.

"I still don't understand why the devil stone would banish us to this realm in the first place...we need to learn more about this Lilith: of her enemies, allies, and designs. If we're to infiltrate her fortress and rescue your men, we'll need to spot a hole in its defenses. Perhaps this Templar's journal contains some clues," Lucien said. He plucked the needle from his doll and pricked his thumb. Blood now trailing down his hand, he pressed his thumb against the effigy's forehead, leaving behind a single red print.

"Duae mentes unum," Lucien whispered beneath his breath. A transient cloud of vapor rose from the effigy's wooden surface.

"One more thing...I need several drops of your blood. Demons are masters of deception but with this talisman, their sorcerous illusions shall hold little sway over us," Lucien explained, handing the needle to his companion.
 
Oriane's smile melted back into her face, and her gaze drifted to the ground. Her ears heard what he was saying, but her brain -- her heart -- couldn't let go of her rage. Even in the days before this cursed adventure, it had been all that kept her going sometimes. Better to hold onto rage, lest despair muscle its way in.

Still, she knew Lucien was right. So she breathed a strained sigh, feeling the anger sit in her chest like a nest of hornets. "I'll try," she said truthfully.

Then came another request to partake of his witchcraft. Oriane's eyes narrowed; the taste of the previous was still on her tongue. How many of those tricks did he even have?

She sighed again, deeper this time, and took the needle. "Fine. At least I don't have to drink this one," Oriane said, working the glove off her left hand.

Once she had done all that Lucien instructed her to, and wrapped a strip of bandage around her thumb, Oriane moved for the chapel doors. She wiggled the journal in her grasp.

"I'll let you know what I find."

------​

As she had thought, her men did not interpret the command to "rest" as "sleep". She found the trio seated on their bed-furs beneath the stained glass, sharing jerky that one of them had unearthed from the depths of their pack. Felix's expression was still sour when he caught her eye, but he offered her some of the meat without a word, which Oriane chose to interpret as a truce. Jerky clenched in her teeth, she parked herself against the wall between them. There the Hounds sat in silence as Oriane pawed through the old journal for clues.

She was no great detective, but for a blessing, Simon of Lenda had kept detailed and meticulous notes. He wrote of a vast battlefield littered with bones of the old fallen, where the ground was warm to the touch and seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. At the other end sat a fortress seemingly built of black glass, its crown of jagged spires cutting an oppressive silhouette against the eternal gloom.

Simon called it the "Sable Citadel", and after repeated attempts to breach the place, he suspected that Lilith's Goblet of Roses was hidden inside, somewhere in the fortress's lower reaches where the she-demon's other treasures and spoils were locked away. Unfortunately, he never had the chance to find out if he was right. Too many times he was forced to retreat, back across the hot earth with cultists trying to sink steel and worse into his back. And then one day Simon was too slow, or too unlucky, and his final journal entry was signed with his blood.

This information Oriane would relay to Lucien when she next saw him.

"There's one entrance our Templar friend mentioned but didn't get to try before he died," she said, running a cloth over her arming sword, a bottle of linseed oil by her knee. The other Hounds were likewise doing maintenance on their gear, one last round of preparation before an anticipated fight. "One of the Citadel's cesspits. The shaft above it apparently fell into disrepair, and looked like someone with a steady grip could climb up and into the privy."

Marcel hummed an amused note as he counted his arrows. "I don't blame him for leaving that path for later."
 
Apophis slithered over the sacred yew's branches and into his wicker basket. Lucien collected his serpentine companion, fastening the basket to his leather belt alongside his freshly sharpened kris blade. His bloodstained simulacrum, haunting as ever, rested securely within his grip. Several vials of the tree's nutritious manna laid at the bottom of his rucksack; sustenance for a perilous journey during which food would undoubtedly prove scarce. The pearl-shaped carving, gifted to him by the liberated goddess, rested within a side pocket. Whatever purpose the trinket served continued to elude him.

"We should head out for this Sable Citadel; we're as prepared as we're ever going to be," Sabine said, placing her last arrow in her quiver.

"This 'Goblet of Roses'...is it a metaphor or are we searching for a literal goblet?" Yusuf asked rhetorically, the hint of a smirk across his brow.

What could this goblet truly refer to? The question had crossed Lucien's mind as well. In any case, the scholar was right: they could waste no more time in this place. Oriane and her mercenary band of hounds stood at the ready; the time for combat was at hand.

**********​

Lucien paced down a dark, cobblestone corridor, the light of the now distant yew growing fainter with each step. His right hand hovered over the lid of his basket, ready to retrieve his basilisk so that he might don its skin in an instant should conflict ensue. His companions paced beside him, weapons unsheathed. At last, the chasm opened into a vast ritual circle, filled with shallow pools of murky fluid with the Sable Citadel visible across the abyssal plain. A tall statue in the likeness of a woman, carved from black glass, stood in the center of the grand display, surrounded by a ring of fire that burned with an unnatural, white-hot intensity. Her long braid draped over her shoulders. She had six arms, three along each side of her body, and barbed talons in place of feet. Strong but delicate fingers clutched scimitars in each hand. Inanimate as it was, the statue's odious presence nevertheless pricked something inside him.

Lilith, the Succubus Mother...it must be...

Lucien pulled the journal from his rucksack. He thumbed through several pages before locating a map marked with Oriane's notes. Crossing the abyssal plane, ever pulsing with a devil's heartbeat, would be a monumental feat. But should they survive the trek, they might have the opportunity to make the most of the Templar's discovery and penetrate Lilith's keep.

At the base of the massive statue, a man magically emerged, stone transforming into flesh faster than the eye could perceive. He wore robes white as bone and an intricate headdress that reminded Lucien of a winged scorpion.

"I must admit I'm impressed," the man said, readying a long, crimson stave within his grip, "few behold the majesty of this unholy place. To have slain Pazuzu and withstood his wiles...Cernunnos, The Harrier: the both of you have proved to be most formidable indeed...and yet, something of the wind demon lingers...surely you must have sensed it, Wyrd Born. In any case, this little charade must end. My lady has seen what she needed to, and shall not permit the Lord of Flies's interference for a moment longer."

Before Lucien could make any sense of the robed figure's cryptic prose, shards of jagged bone sprouted from the ground. He hurled himself backward, narrowly dodging the calcified shards. He retrieved Apophis from his basket and slipped into his skin as he had on countless occasions. His senses were immediately amplified tenfold. Each subtle movement of every living creature nearby vibrated through the serpent's scaly body like shockwaves. He lunged toward the enemy like a sprung coil, unfurling the basilisk's needle-like fangs and sinking them deep into the flesh of his opponent's leg. A rich cocktail of toxins flooded the bloodstream. An efflux of bile leaking from the man's lips accompanied his pained snarl. The figure retaliated. With no more than a wave of his hand, additional lances of bone raced toward Lucien and his comrades in a swirling arc of death.
 
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Standing at the edge of the ritual circle, Oriane's eyes narrowed into a squint as she leaned away from the unnatural fire's pressing heat. The air here smelled of bad eggs. Across the way, the fortress described in old Simon's notes was an immense, looming shadow, the ground that spilled before it lit with criss-crossing veins of glowing red. The sky was as dark as it had ever been since they'd dropped into hell, but she could make out the Citadel's dark spires poking upward, a row of teeth gleaming like glass.

The man's sudden arrival shuffled the Hounds into defensive position, weapons gripped tight. He complimented them on their progress, and Oriane's lip curled. She didn't want his praise. She didn't even want him breathing.

The first salvo of pointy bone scattered them into a hasty dodge. The sounds the grisly projectiles made as they impacted the ground reminded her of bolts from a squad of French arbalesters. At the periphery of her vision, Oriane was aware of Lucien's snake darting out like a whip, while the man remained behind, suddenly still. He must've called on his witchcraft again. Oriane rolled in front of Lucien and settled into a crouch, pulling him down behind herself and her shield.

When another set of white shards started poking out of the ground, Oriane was ready. Gathering her power within her core, strength and tension building, she slammed her shield forward with a shout. A shockwave blasted forth, colliding with the bone lances as they started to gather. The lethal whirlwind tore apart before it could pick up proper speed, shards bouncing off in random directions, away from the party.

Marcel found his breath and stood, bowstring bending back as he locked sights on the scorpion cultist. Felix and Arsene closed in, and their foe's staff pinged against the ground.

There came a horrible cracking noise as the ground yawned open, spitting out a bulky skeleton with ram's horns curving from its skull, fangs bared in a permanent grin, knees turned the wrong way. To Arsene's credit, he didn't falter, simply stepped in and swung his sword downward -- but the skeletal demon caught the chop in its hand, and with the other picked Arsene up by his middle. He yelled, courage wavering. Marcel's arrow ricocheted uselessly off the creature's bony cheek, and the demon flung Arsene over its head like a sack of grain. He landed hard, sword rattling out of his grip, and rolled on his back with a low groan.

As the demon laughed, Felix came up from behind, flanged mace arcing around to slam into the beast's ankle. A heavy snap echoed, and the demon pitched backward with its long limbs flailing, bone and balance both broken.
 
Beneath Oriane's shield, Lucien gasped, air fleeing from his lungs. Shattered, calcified shards littered the ground at his feet. The Harrier had, by some feat of physical prowess, staved off the sorcerer's blow. Lucien would not waste the opportunity. He slipped once more into Apophis's skin. The serpent's heart raced, venom still dripping from his fangs as Lucien coiled into a defensive posture. He gazed upon the sorcerer with a singular focus. Time itself seemed to slow down around him until the ideal opening for attack presented itself. A brilliant haze clouded his vision as emerald green light radiated from the basilisk's eyes. Large sections of flesh upon the dark figure's shoulder and ribcage petrified in an instant before crumbling to dust.

The sorcerer began to laugh: a snicker quickly escalating into a hysterical cackle.

"I did not think it would come to this. I have...underestimated you. Forgive me...it shan't happen again," the sorcerer said, casting his staff to the ground.

Thick plumes of black smoke engulfed the figure. Blood-soaked muscle fibers sprouted spontaneously from his skin, increasing in mass at an alarming rate. Now, standing before Lucien was an abomination, unlike anything he'd ever seen. The sorcerer had transformed into a massive orb of human faces, suspended over ten feet above the ground by six human legs like a spider. It gave off a sickly, yellow glow and some noxious vapor rose from every pore of its body.

"Suckle, take nourishment at the Succubus mother's breast!" The monstrosity's words echoed as though a legion of voices sounded in unison.

An arrow sped through the air before piercing one of the monster's many throats. It let out a high-pitched hiss, pulled the shaft from its maw, then perched itself atop the statue of the Succubus Mother.

"Yusuf, cut down its legs!" Sabine shouted, readying another arrow in her bow. Yusuf raced toward the creature's appendages, blade tightly secured within his grip.

Thin, slivered tongues emerged from the monster's many mouths. From each end, putrid gas rushed forth creating a swirling, poisonous nova.

"Don't breathe the poison!" Lucien screamed, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he pulled back from his foe.
 
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