> There is nothing sadder than an empty jar. - Baal Berith

"Pass on the goodies!" grunted one of the thugs, a wicked glint in his eye.

"My backpack?" Baal questioned with genuine curiosity.

"Give it over, now!"

A sly grin tugged at the corner of Baal's lips. "You sure about that? It's mostly just empty jars, maybe a few filled with happy memories."

"Quit playing games!" snapped the other thug, his voice trembling as he brandished his weapon.

Baal's eyes flickered with a mischievous gleam. "Games? Oh, I assure you, I'm not playing. I'm completely devoid of anything valuable or trinkets worthy of your time, gentlemen. Taking my backpack would be a grave mistake on your part. But if you're intent on making that mistake, I won't be thrilled. I can promise you that. So, what's your call?"

Curiosity danced in the eyes of the first tug. "And what's that hanging from your neck?"

Baal's fingers instinctively moved to the pendant resting against his chest, a flicker of something deeper crossing his gaze. "Ah, this? A keepsake of sorts, a fragment of a world long gone. Perhaps more valuable than you might think, but I wouldn't recommend testing your luck."

"Quit stalling!" The second thug clenched his fist, trying to suppress the shakiness in his voice.

Baal cocked an eyebrow, leaning slightly to one side as if genuinely contemplating the situation. "Well, this is quite the conundrum, isn't it? On the one hand, I could give you my backpack, filled with priceless memories—jars of memories but useless for you kin. And on the other hand, I could keep my only physical attachment to another life. A life you couldn't even begin to comprehend its perfection."

The first thug's eyes narrowed, a twinge of doubt creeping into his bravado. "Look, man, we don't have time for this."

Baal's smile disappeared, leaving an expression so cold it could freeze fire. "Ah, time, the eternal thief. Steals from the rich and steals from the poor.

Baal let his eyes drop to the crystal pendant glowing against his chest. It was usually concealed, but serendipity had a sense of humour. "That's my most precious memory."

"Is it gold? The chain, is it gold?" The thug's eyes grew wider, glinting with a greed that matched the pendant's glow.

Baal paused. Any answer would be like gasoline to a flame. "How about we strike a deal?"

The other thug sneered. "I don't make deals with devils."

Baal's lips curled into a sly grin. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong. You see, demons don't lie at all! So, here's the offer: I'll give you this pendant, which, to me, is the most valuable trinket in all of Nyu. But in exchange, both of you must give me a small memory and—"

"A 'but'? There's always a 'but' with you devils!" The thug closest to Baal gripped his weapon, his knuckles whitening.

"I didn't finish. Listen to the end. But after—and I said after—you give me a tiny, small memory, you need to ask me, 'Baal, would you please give us your most valuable trinket?'" Baal executed a small bow, his eyes twinkling like stars. "As you see, it's rather simple, and no one would get hurt."

"Why a memory?" The second thug tilted his head, eyeing Baal suspiciously.

"It's my profession. And honestly, is it really something you need when you can collect a far greater fortune?" Baal made a subtle gesture, rubbing his thumb against his index finger, the universal sign for money.

The first thug stared at the pendant, his hand hovering hesitantly over his weapon. "A memory for something valuable, huh? And then we just have to ask you for it, and you'll give it to us?"

Baal nodded, his grin never wavering. "Exactly. My word is my bond. Demons don't lie, you know."

The thugs exchanged uncertain glances, clearly torn. Finally, the one who had spoken first sighed deeply. "Alright, deal. What kind of memory do you want?"

Baal's eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity. "Your happiest memory.

But remember, once it's gone, it's gone for good. Think of it as trading a fleeting moment for a lifetime of fortune."

"Are you nuts?" asked the other thug, his eyes widening. "He's tricking us!"

"If he is, we'll make him pay," replied the calmer of the two, his grip slightly loosening on his weapon.

"I don't like this."

"If he wanted to harm us, he would've done it by now," the calmer thug reasoned.

"True, wise man, I like him!" agreed Baal.

"I don't know about this dude," the other thug muttered, still not convinced.

"Let's do it!" With those words, the calmer thug extended his hand toward Baal, signalling his acceptance of the strange deal.

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Baal's grin widened, showing just a hint of teeth. "Excellent choice, gentlemen. Let's proceed."

Baal reached into his backpack and pulled out two empty jars, placing one at the feet of each thug. His eyes glowed with an unsettling hue as he peered into the very souls of the men before him, seeking their most cherished memories.

They were modest fragments, ephemeral wisps of better times: laughter shared over drinks in a dimly lit bar, the brief touch of a smile, moments of innocence from long-lost childhoods. Here, the comforting embrace of a mother; there, the joyful bark of a pet mutt.

As Baal focused, the jars started to fill, but only slightly. The memories barely covered the bottom of each glass container. There was nothing sadder than an empty jar.

"Well, it's done, sirs. Now for part two of the deal," Baal announced, locking eyes with each man in turn.

Confused, the two thugs looked at each other, then down at their own hands. One of them wondered why he was even holding a gun. As if waking from a dream, they both started to chuckle. Shaking their heads as if dismissing a strange encounter, they continued on their way, ignoring Baal completely.

"That's what I thought," Baal murmured, lifting the pendant to his lips for a brief, reverent kiss before tucking it back under his shirt. With a final smirk, he shouted, "You're welcome!"

But none of them could hear or even remember him.

"You're welcome..." Baal's voice trailed off, tinged with a subtle sadness—a yearning for permanence in a world that would never remember him. He quickly brushed away this melancholic state of nothingness, refocusing on his journey to nowhere and everywhere. After all, he was just a simple demon without a plan. He couldn't afford to stop; to pause would mean drowning in some dingy bar, wallowing in bad liquor and self-pity.

He continued his walk, his boots tapping a lonely rhythm against the cobblestone streets as dusk began to envelop the sky. The dual moons of this realm started to peek over the horizon, casting their luminescent gaze upon him. That's when he saw it—a giant wooden billboard that stretched across the road, emblazoned with words that were all too familiar:

WELCOME to RAVENDRIFT.

Baal chuckled softly. Ravendrift, "Shit!"

He stood there, hesitating for a moment before mustering the courage to cross the threshold. As soon as he set foot past the sign, officially entering Ravendrift, he quickly stepped back. "I'm not doing anything wrong," he mumbled to himself, taking another cautious step forward.

Once again, as he crossed to the other side, he retreated. "No, no, no, Baal. Don't be selfish, turn around!" And so he did, only to spin around once more. "What's your problem? You're just going to take a quick peek and then go on your merry way. Nobody is going to get hurt," he told himself, crossing the line forward once more.

"You stupid moron, you're the one who's going to get hurt! Enough is enough; there's nothing more for you here," he admonished himself, his words tinged with fear and frustration.

He paused, looking out at the sprawling horizon of Ravendrift, a mingling of darkness and light. "I just want to see her," he whispered, his voice breaking with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to feel. It was a simple desire but one loaded with implications he wasn't sure he was ready to face. Yet here he was, caught in a moment of indecision, a crossroads between his past and whatever future lay ahead.

"So what is it, boy? Are you going, or are you staying?"

Baal was startled by an old man's voice. He turned and found himself face-to-face with perhaps the most wrinkled visage he had ever seen. The man had a wispy beard that had seen better days and a completely bald head; he was seated on a shabby cart pulled by a mule that looked even older than its rider.

Caught off guard, Baal stood there momentarily lost for words.

"If you're going to Ravendrift, I can give you a lift," the old man offered.

"For an old man, you're not afraid to talk to strangers," Baal observed, his eyes narrowing slightly.

The old man chuckled, revealing a toothless grin. "Ah, but you see, I'm not talking to just any stranger."

Baal's eyes narrowed, intrigued. "How can you be so sure about that?"

The old man leaned back in his cart, stretching his arms as if savouring the very air. "I've travelled far and wide, my boy. People whisper about demons everywhere I go—deals gone awry, conversations filled with dubious intent. Yet, there's an odd silence in this particular region, especially in the past decade. No tales of demonic dealings, no nefarious exchanges. It's as if someone has either stolen all the business away or... someone's been making good deals. There's only one demon nobody talks about, and that's Baal Brith."

Baal considered this, his eyes drifting once more to the horizon of Ravendrift. "That's a rather poetic way to put it."

The old man chuckled softly, leaning forward as though about to share a secret. "Well, it seems I need to strike a deal with a devil. Would you be interested?"

Baal's attention was torn between the inviting billboard of Ravendrift and the old man's friendly, toothless grin. As he looked into the man's sunken eyes, it was as if he were gazing into a library brimming with cherished memories.

He saw warm summer days filled with picnics, brave speeches given to captivated audiences, the exhilarating rush of a first kiss, and the bittersweet moment of a last embrace. He felt a hug that lingered a bit longer than expected, smelled the comforting aroma of coffee, tasted the crispness of a freshly poured beer, and even felt the soothing coolness of the other side of a pillow.

This old man was more than he appeared to be, yet the treasury of his heart was an endless reel of precious moments amassed over years and years. It seemed that, despite his advanced age, the man had managed to preserve an almost infinite catalogue of moments that made life rich and full.

"It is a very tempting deal," Baal confessed, torn between opportunity and ethics. "But why would you—"

"Look at me, young man. I'm old; my days are numbered. Whether I go or stay, I won't have much use for these memories. But you would, wouldn't you?" The old man's voice carried an unmistakable sincerity.

"It would require a lot of jars," Baal mused. "I'm not even sure I have enough to hold them all."

"Nothing a quick trip to the grocery store couldn't fix," the old man replied with a chuckle.

"But I don't want to take your memories," Baal said, his voice tinged with discomfort. "I don't want you to spend your last days with an empty mind."

"Neither do I," the old man agreed, "which is why you'll have to accompany me. You can collect them at the precise moment my last breath leaves my lips."

The proposition was extraordinary, even for a demon accustomed to unusual deals. But the gravity of it weighed heavily on Baal, forcing him to consider not just the transaction but the meaning behind it.

"You feel alone," Baal surmised, eyes narrowing. "You want company, is that it?"

"I wouldn't say no to some company, but my request is much more complicated than the whims of an old man."

"What exactly are you asking for, then?"

"Do I have to lay out all the conditions right here, right now?" The old man's eyes twinkled, a smirk crossing his worn face.

"I like to know all the terms of a trade. Comes with the territory," Baal said cautiously.

"You may be the devil, but I'm just an old man with a treasure trove of memories," the old man responded, leaning back against his cart.

Baal studied him in the dying light, trying to discern the old man's true intentions. No malice tinged the air, no undercurrents of deceit flowed. It was unsettling, that clarity, leaving Baal conflicted. On one hand, the wealth of memories the old man possessed could fully restore his demonic powers. On the other, it could be an elaborate trap.

"So, are you coming with me to Ravendrift?" The old man finally broke the silence, looking at Baal expectantly.