The upper district was tense. Lothran could feel it in the air. Something… was on the precipice of happening, here in his corner of Hell. His hackles were raised. Instincts forged by centuries of hunting Godflesh drew him through poorly-lit streets. His stride was long and quick, his eyes hungry. Lesser imps and devils scurried for cover where he walked. He disregarded them. The consciousness of other generals were drifting in the same direction as he, but he knew he’d reach his destination before any else. His blood raced in his veins. He only noticed his state when flames began to lick at his forearms. He was excited. So much so that he’d practically gone feral. He felt a wide, jagged grin plastered across his face. When had that gotten there? The call was powerful this time. A rift bigger than most anyone had imagined possible was cracking the flesh of Hell tonight, and by a miracle of the Thrice-Damned, it was happening in HIS territory. He fought down a madman’s giggle.
As he got closer and crossed beneath the city wall, the scene opened up before him. The crack was in the flesh of the brimstone “sky” of Hell. A field that had been staged for construction was all that stood between him and the realm of Godflesh. Belatedly, he noticed another figure. One that wasn’t trying to run. It stood steady. It also wasn’t watching the rift. It was watching him.
It stood at just over 4 feet, barely taller than his knee. It should have fled by now. Except it shouldn’t. Because as he got closer, he found that the figure was none other than Samael, the Lordling. “Glad tidings to you, Lothran.” His voice carried clear through the night, soft but firm. “I see you’ve found the same thing as I.” Lothran could’ve ripped him apart there and then. He’d been SO CLOSE. “Indeed, Lordling,” he hissed. “Though it’s clear that you take the spoils this time.” “Not necessarily, General.” Lothran perked up at this. “Oh? Would you abandon your Right of Finding so easily, Lordling? I find it difficult to believe there’s a devil in Hell that’d pass up this opportunity.” “You might recall, however, that I, like the rest of the bloodline I carry, am no devil.” He smiled a bit at that. Lothran wanted to throw up. Of course he knew that Achvangzel and his spawn weren’t born of Hell. But to hear a Lordling directly deny his Devilry was sickening. It was a slap in the face. A punch in the gut. He might as well throw feces on the name of the Lord directly. If anyone had witnessed the scene, Lothran might’ve been killed for merely being present for such disrespect. But a Lordling does as a Lordling wishes.
“Then what do you propose?”
The Lordling gave him a vicious, toothy grin. “Have you ever heard of Sealing, Lothran?”
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Samael stepped out of the crack into an alleyway. He fought down a sense of nerves. He felt like he was doing something wrong, like he was committing a crime of some kind. Well, he was, of course. He supposed it made sense. But still. To reassure himself, he grinned down at the chunky, gaudy necklace in his hand. It looked something like a holy relic, if he did say so himself. A decent facsimile, at least. Then again, it didn’t have to be perfect. Just good enough that he could feel proud of it. And that he did. He smiled once more, tossed it in the air just to catch it, and waltzed jauntily out into the street. The afternoon air smelled like freedom.
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There were maybe twenty stalls in the street market, but in Samael’s eyes, it seemed like hundreds. People bustled about in a hurry, rubbing shoulders and elbows as they passed each other in the crowd. He wondered at them, their hurry and their bustle, so certain of their importance. So HUMAN. He was overjoyed. It was the most fun he’d had in years. He danced through the crowd. Unfortunately, his revels were cut short by a gaunt human woman slamming into him from behind.
“What the HELL do you think you’re DOING, you madman?!” She was not pleased. A light dress of a slightly nicer material than the rest of the market wore marked her as someone of status. She’s alone, He thought. She must think herself powerful indeed. “Why madam, I’m simply enjoying this fine evening air. I-” “Do you know who I am? Who my FIANCE is?!” She was yelling now. Not quite as powerful as she thought, then. The truly powerful folk don’t need to shout. But she was waiting for a response. A quick exit, then. No need for a mess. “Why madam, I had no idea! Who IS he?” Ooh, sincerity threw her off her roll. “He… He’s a knight. Very high-ranking. Powerful beyond belief. A Templar! He spends his weekends in castles, rubbing elbows with kings! If he finds out that you’ve accosted me this way, you cannot even BEGIN to imagine the hell that awaits you.” “Oh, I may just. And you’re right! I have no intent to find myself there anytime soon.” Samael looked around furtively. There was a clear circle around them. No one was getting close enough to get involved with this today. “Tell you what, my Lady.” He whispered a stage whisper from behind a cupped hand. He was working so bloody hard not to break character. “I have in my possession a treasure of the church. It has been an heirloom in my family since the war, but I feel certain, upon witnessing the Majesty of your bearing, that it would be better served in YOUR worthy possession.” He mimed fighting off her objections. There were none. Only mild suspicion. And curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat, my dear. “No, I won’t hear any objection. This treasure ought to belong to you, my dear. Consider it a gift, an apology for inconveniencing you today.” A thousand emotions crossed the woman’s face. None of them were remorse, nor gratitude. She was going to take it. She’s going to earn it, too. “Here, my Lady.” With that, he revealed the necklace he’d crafted earlier. “Sealed within this necklace is the promise of an angel. When it is broken, the angel from whence it came will descend to aid the current owner in battle. If you find yourself in danger, split it like a wishbone. You will get your justice, my dear. I guarantee it. Unfortunately, I am pressed for time, and must be off. Fare thee well, madam.” And with that, Samael beat a hasty retreat.
Samael’s evening revels continued, though significantly muted, and he took slightly more notice of the crowd, as to avoid running into the self-reverential poppet once more. He’d given her quite the thrashing, he thought. Well, not quite yet. It would be a minute, or perhaps a year, or perhaps a lifetime. But she’d get her comeuppance, and by his hand. That’s what mattered. He snickered to himself, and almost snorted raw air in a most painful way. There had been a disturbance of the energy of the town.
No, not the whole town. Something nearby. Wards layered like thick coats of paint covered all but a single sliver of the presence inside a shop to his right. They formed a bubble, thick as a rug, invisible to the naked eye, but JARRING to a being accustomed to demonic energies. Not only that, but what it was hiding… was demonic all to itself. The ethereal energies of his home drew him through the door, into the shop.