No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell. - Carl Jung

On Paimon’s second visit, Morningstar’s realm no longer resembles a hut in a tranquil forest. Instead he stands at the base of a flight of golden stairs stretching into the heavens. Glimmering columns flank either side. With a faint exertion of Will, he manifests himself at the apex.

  Cerulean sky and wisps of cloud form the backdrop of a vast floating platform. Along this plateau stretches a building of impossible size which folds in on itself in a high-level dimensional geometry. Even Paimon must exert some effort to comprehend its nature. Time passes before the vision resolves into a standard, if opulent, palace.

  Its architecture resembles a mess of styles from various human eras. All of it gold and ivory, from the soaring spires down to the images carved in relief along its friezes. Those stylings depict Goetic runes for concealment and protection, humans fighting dragons, the phases of the moon, cosmological wonders, and more. They are tiny and perfect; the entirety of existence may very well be depicted along the palace’s impossible length.

  Paimon Wills himself through the titanic door at the entrance---itself a marvel he could spend aeons analyzing. What few mentions of Morningstar persist within Creation depict a door or gate left slightly ajar. An invitation, or perhaps a promise of secrets just beyond, tantalizing those foolish enough to step through. The irony is not lost on Paimon.

  He materializes within a throne room. Silk curtains dangle throughout the area, so thin as to be near transparent, subtly warping everything within.

  Automatons glide between them, bearing trays of silver fruit bursting with ripeness or playing impossible instruments that both soothe and invigorate. These servants mostly resemble humans of incredible grace and beauty, though some exceptions exist. A mind-arachnid plucks at many strings with many legs. A naga slithers about, emitting a transcendent melody by flexing and unflexing its serpentine hood.

  They lack true minds, but they possess a facsimile of intelligence. Experiments in generating consciousness. A blasphemy that would have guaranteed Morningstar’s exile if such a thing still mattered. Paimon instinctually does not probe too deeply into their design in order to avoid the Increate’s wrath.

  The more time he spends within Morningstar’s pocket dimension, the better he understands it. The realm exists within a special resonance between the Physical Realm and Desolada, at once concrete and abstract. Morningstar was rumored to have forged the cosmos according to the Increate’s Design. Perhaps not even The Unmoved Mover better understood the complexities of how matter and energy may interact with the conceptual.

  So it is no surprise that Morningstar has fashioned a great body for himself, far too large to be contained within the room, yet fitting nonetheless. He has taken the form of an ophanim, four interlocking rings of holy white rotating within each other. Thousands of azure eyes blink along their rims, and in the center of the rotating whirlwind, a singular orb regards Paimon with a gaze that pierces deep.

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  The path of those spinning rings about the discerning eye is modeled after the interaction of celestial objects in gravitational orbit amongst themselves. Though Paimon often relaxes by watching star clusters, replicating such a cosmological relationship is beyond him. Among the Goetia, perhaps only Astaroth could build such a thing. The demonstration is not lost on Paimon. Morningstar is a greater Mind than he can even conceive of, to effortlessly display such a mastery of Space.

  In the center of the room, beneath the One Who Rules’ ophanim form, is a golden throne. Three steps led up to the dais upon which it rests, and on the third step sits the mortal known as Brother Augur. A scarred man in the brown robes of the philosophers, late into his fourth decade.

  The white sword at the mortal’s hip does not, of course, exist as a purely physical object; like everything else here, it functions as a representation of a deeper concept. Its true meaning escapes him: identity or the sense of self, related to fate in some inscrutable way.

  The mortal notices his attention. “This is Dasein. In the First Language, it means being-there. We philosophers love the literal tongue, because in the Physical Realm we are held captive to the limitations of our language. It describes the mortal existence in a way you could never understand as one of the Goetia. Our presence, rooted in the world, understanding our relation to it as temporal beings. We can make choices. Consider our future and alter it as we wish. Until we reach the end. Death. And whatever strange echo of reality lies beyond.”

  Paimon’s voice rumbles throughout the chamber. “You truly believe we cannot grasp the concept of time? Of death?”

  “Not in the way a mortal can. It’s one thing to understand water.” The man flicks his fingers as if spraying droplets. “What is wetness? What miniscule particles form its structure? But you’ll never know water like someone who swims through it. Always, some part of us is aware of our impending death, and in coming to terms with it, we learn to choose who we want to be.”

  “All beings are bound to Fate,” says Paimon. “With a pluck of the string, any of the Goetia can end countless lives and birth countless more.”

  “And you, Paimon, have been bound by fate for all eternity. You are a choice already made. Perhaps the purest, most perfect incarnation of that choice. But tragically incapable of growing beyond that. No matter how much knowledge and experience you gather, none of it will ever change you.”

  This mortal was not the first of his kind to ascend to such heights. The past and future birthed many who demonstrated excellence before their inevitable return to the void. Of those transcendent mortals, Brother Augur possesses a certain gravity unique to him alone. The weight of a soul that has observed quiet aeons. His presence feels more like a General or even one of the lesser Princes.

  “He is quite fascinating, is he not?” says Morningstar.

  Paimon considers this for an indeterminable amount of time. “Yes. Our first meeting was…enlightening. What is it that the two of you hope to accomplish?”

  The Lord of the Void feels no surprise when the human responds. An immortal experiences nothing so mundane as surprise. But he did not anticipate it.

  An empty smile spreads across Brother Augur’s face. “We will change everything.”