Chapter 48: Dignity

"Defend their honor."​

There have been no demons thus far in your march, save for the growing sounds of ecstasy and celebration rising from inside the building. You look up to the entrance of the lair, to the strange box resting on crimson, and to the demon waiting inside. A nightmarish and impossibly long hand stretches outside of the ticket box. The appendage isn't anywhere near enough to you to be a threat. The long and clawed fingers are held up purely stop you from approaching any further.

Celegwen looks to you with no small measure of wonder as you part your hands from prayer, tighten your hold on Ofelia, and approach the box ahead without fear. You have seen this creature before in some capacity.

The minor demon is an owl with clipped wings. Its beak is painted red, and stretches into a grotesque parody of a smile as it shrieks. The demon's voice is a terrible blend of something avian and female, dripping with insanity. "Welcome, welcome, welcome! Tickets! Mind the script! If I have to explain the dress code to another couple I'm going to claw someone's fucking eyes out! TICKETS! ATTIRE! YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE!!"

It's fortunate that Celegwen's hands are almost empty. She places both to her delicate ears at the tail end of the demon's screeching, looking desperately to you for assistance.

"I'M NOT WAITING ANOTHER AGE FOR THIS SHIT! YOUR GRACIOUS HOST HAS REQUESTED YOUR PRESENCE AND YOU DIDN'T HAVE THE FUCKING DECENCY TO EVEN TRY ON HIS GIFTS?! BETTER MAKE IT SNAPPY! I'VE GOT A FEW HUNDRED KNIVES AND SOME POISON UNDER THIS COUNTER AND SO HELP ME I WILL WEAR YOU BOTH AS MY OWN STATEMENT PIECE INSIDE BEFORE I TELL MY MASTER THAT I DIDN'T SEE TO SUCH REVERED FUCKING GUESTS!"

You look around, equally distraught. There's no question in your mind that this demon is itching for a chance to wear your skin.

I could probably take it in a fight— if it comes down to it.

You try to tell yourself this, as it's infinitely less terrifying than your dawning realization.

Though there's flat walls of flesh, and a hopelessly dark entrance leading into the moist corridor beyond...

A few benches flank the entryway, though they are made of nothing but veins and bone...

There's a strand of sinew that vaguely looks like garland strung above the ticket box, and lights leading into the darkness that suck in everything around it...

The black lights are behind the ticket box, and the demon is staring at you, bug-eyed, looking as if virtually anything you do other than instantly changing and producing the tickets will set it off, but...

There's nowhere to change.

These are dark times.

This is truly a demon of the worst kind.

I'd take a few hundred knives— Mercy. Any day— but I'd rather die than for someone to see me without a shirt on right now.

There's only one way out of this.

You assume your most formal, proper, and entirely pious attitude (reserved almost entirely for sermons). You hate it, but the situation at hand is much more mortifying than delivering a speech in front of hundreds of humans. "Your revered guests will not settle for disgracing themselves in the public eye."

Celegwen's head snaps to you, instantly getting it. It is the year 605. She minds herself, letting you speak on her behalf.

You grimace, looking the owl demon up and down, and all the while gesture with a free hand towards Celegwen (as you keep hold on Ofelia). "I've brought with me two women to grace your master with. I come bearing no ill-will, along with the invitation and gifts that were sent to me— and you— you have the nerve to spoil Remigius' hospitality?"

The demon recoils, if only slightly.

Mercy, is it good to be dealing with something I'm familiar with.

"I may see fit to not inform your master of your intolerance, your threats and your utter disregard for his command— but our time is short, and I do wish to enter his domain—"

"FINE. IT'S GETTING LATE. FUCK YOU. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?!"

"Permit us some privacy. You've insulted the dignity of the women I've brought with me, and I don't believe I need to remind you of my own position." Very gently, you set Ofelia down, and glance up at the demon with a hand inching towards your holy symbol. "Or do I? Do I need to remind you of why your master has granted me entry—"

"STOP! DON'T—" The demon's voice plummets into a lower, entirely submissive pitch. You take a step back. Her wings bristle, the freakishly long hand pulls back, and the red beak flips into a grimace. "—don't you dare. Wait right here."

A few moments pass while your company maintains the ruse. It's so dark ahead that it's difficult to make out anything.

The moment four figures ahead catch your eye, your fists tighten, and your hair practically stands on end.

Mercy— this is so much worse—!

Alongside the owl-like demon, three more monstrosities now shuffle out from the darkness. Their bodies are entirely flat, thin as sheets, and are vaguely reminiscent of curtains.

The minor demon turns her neck completely around on her shoulders. It stretches away from her body, as she leers out of the shadows with a sickeningly sweet grin. Fangs bared, lips dripping with paint, she croons towards you. "Best we can manage on such short notice! Shame you took your sweet fucking time getting here. There was such a spectacle of a line, and my, was no one as stuck up as your pompous ass! HOPE THIS SUITS YOU FINE—"

"Not— not another step further!" You hold your holy symbol aloft, looking intently towards the imps as they usher themselves forward on many tiny legs. They're each longer than you are tall from end to end. The thin fabric of their loose skin wafts impossibly in a nonexistent breeze.

They do not appear to have eyes or ears, but they do obey your command.

You were looking so intently to the demons, you hadn't noticed it— but Celegwen is standing firmly in front of Ofelia, staff in hand. Her voice is a hardly a whisper, but your heart is racing, your blood is pumping, and you easily catch her words. "I will not compromise your mission, Father, but if they come any closer I will strike these creatures down where they stand. Your safety is far more important than these petty reservations."

The darkness behind you all is absolute. You can't imagine being able to see anything in a few more moments.

As the last of the sun climbs out of view, you scrutinize the imps standing before you. Their bodies are utterly devoid of any limbs, eyes, mouths or any other feature, save for their soft skin. You can only wonder what horror they were in life, to take on such a disturbing shape now.

Idonea was so vague when we last spoke. These demons are of no threat to me. I could easily strike down three imps— especially with Celegwen at my side— but I am here to show Mercy. Even if they're repulsive, I need to show restraint.

Your voice takes on its usual tone. There's a lingering desire to scrub your mouth out with soap after acting so high-and-mighty, but it will have to wait for another time. "This will— this will be fine. Thank you. Celegwen, I assure you, these demons cannot see or speak. Your privacy will be respected. Can you— please, will you see to Ofelia?"

Though it's concerning that the rogue has been sleeping for so long, you know she likely hasn't rested in days, and surely needed the respite. More importantly still, the thought of her panicking upon awakening and setting off an incident of violence— or worse— is enough for you to use the utmost caution as you set your friend in Celegwen's arms, and hand over the items that Remigius gave to you.

You hadn't properly looked over the volume of silks, gold, pearls and jewels previously, but you have to take the garments apart to piece out what belongs to the women. It's all in an odd fashion that you're entirely unfamiliar with, save for what Yech was wearing when you last saw him. Everything is ornate and exaggerated. The gowns for the women are adorned with elaborate trim in gold and black, with fitted bodices and exaggerated skirts. The dress meant for Ofelia is immediately evident, as it's half the size of anything else in the bag. You give both gowns over, along with the piles of jewelry before turning to leave.

Celegwen is keeping her distance from the demons, and uses the dress she was given as a makeshift screen. The silhouette of her setting down Ofelia is almost invisible against the blackest night at your backs.

You trust that she's capable enough to defend their honor, and look to the imps before you. They're totally inert, having obeyed your command.

The owl is back behind her box, using a knife to pick under her talons. "HURRY IT UP!"

You wince at her screech, but oblige. Moving behind the imps— making sure they're positioned between you and the women— you sort through the things you were given.

It's ridiculously tasteful, and entirely suited to your station. Flawless ebony and a silk tunic catches on the last of the black light. You look over a fur jacket, gold trim, and no fewer than 40 solid gold buttons that's perfectly tailored. There's a new belt that's also black and fastened with more gold. A matching, ridiculous hat (yellow feathers? Really?) should even conceal most of your scruffy hair.

It's all so exorbitant that you're instantly reminded of the gold trim, pomp and ceremony that you're expected to wear. You put everything on regardless.

In the setting sun, you're hyper-aware of the hundreds of scars adorning your demon-blessed body. A soft prayer is made to Flesh that eases your nerves enormously. As you set to fastening an extreme number of buttons, it's hard to miss the the old burns from scalding water and frost. Cuts, deep punctures and old openings from the weapons of the enemy. The blessings of the Gods. Callouses and bites. It's been so long since you really felt anything about the old gashes along your legs and feet from wading into unknown territory, from being taken captive, from kicking down doors and trying to rescue those trapped behind enemy lines.

This is nothing to be ashamed of. I bear the marks of lifelong service and devotion to the Gods. I should do so with some semblance of pride. Shouldn't I?

Your prayer to Flesh continues. It's not nearly as dramatic as your earlier plea for forgiveness, but a simple litany— to remind the God and yourself of your thoughts and devotion. You feel a good deal better about them, even concealed as they are now, and breathe a sigh of relief.

The tunic fits properly. The knitted flesh in your back from having saved the lives of all of your friends doesn't catch on the silk. Your raised scars feel phenomenal against the soft and forgiving fabric— as does every sword, dagger and axe wound in your side. It all fits and feels spectacular. It's almost nicer than anything else you've ever worn, and you're confident that you look infinitely more presentable now.

There's a lingering desire to burn the ill-fitting shirt that you'd been wearing from Yech, but you shove the rest of your clothing away, and step out. "...Flesh of my flesh, we thank you for Your strength."

Your jaw drops.

Celegwen seems to have needed to wake Ofelia out of necessity. Your prayer had to have masked anything they were whispering to each other, as they're both talking to one another in subdued voices. The halfling is extremely on edge— dagger in hand— and is trying to find a way to fasten a number of garter belts along her upper thigh to keep more handy.

The flash of freckled skin immediately has you turn around and murmur a prayer to Mercy as quickly as you're able.

The demon behind the counter's laughter is uglier than even Malimos' earth-shattering howls. You try to ignore it, while processing the glimpse of both women in extraordinarily fine gowns. Their bosoms emphasized to an extreme by tight fitting lace.

Their hips accentuated by remarkably full skirts.

A thigh exposed to the open air by a single slit in the fine silks and lace—

"Richard?"

You jump up, and glance down with a hand to Mercy's symbol. Ofelia is right next to you. Her chest and hips are unmistakably fuller than before. She's looking up to you with heat in her face— most of the liquor still clinging to her— and the look she's giving you is more than you can stand.

You glance away as she stutters, "n-no way. No fuckin' way. You look great!"

You want to have some pride, some confidence, and to not be afraid— but this entire situation is so far out of your depth of experience that you just want to get it over with. A sliver of light hangs over the entrance to the demon's domain. Celegwen gracefully makes her way over to you. Her skirts scarcely move. She seems to float over the flesh and bone beneath you all, and also seems completely floored. Looking you over, giving you a look that you aren't entirely sure that you like— until she takes you by the hand—

You almost pull away on reflex.

Ofelia saves you. "Gwen, what do you think you're doin'? We went over this. Yer my date. Leave the poor guy alone." The halfling looks up to you with a wink, as she wraps her arm around Celegwen's, and pries her away.

Your heart rate dies down— if only slightly— as you all approach the minor demon. You fish out the ticket, and present it without any fanfare.

An uncannily flexible and clawed hand swipes it out from your extended fingers. You pull your hand away at the last moment, as the slip of paper disappears into a puff of feathers and blood before your eyes. The bird croons to you all, "LAST DOOR ON THE RIGHT! ENJOY THE FUCKING SHOW!"

The imps are already shuffling back into the building, and the sunlight is gone, but you seem to have made it on time.

The demon behind the counter extends a cane towards you, just as you move to leave. It's encrusted with gold and black diamonds.

"COURTESY OF YOUR HOST! DON'T MAKE ME SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!!"

Without hesitation, you take hold of the cane extended before you.

I can't say that I don't like this, at least.

​

The owl bares her fangs— either trying to smile, or still threatening you. She lets go of the item a second later than she really should, and wordlessly screeches at you all as you turn to leave.

Ofelia keeps your pace. Her head tilts ever so slightly up to you, with her freckles obscured by her flush. Both women are staring intently at you. You'd like to focus entirely on the task at hand— but you're worried for Celegwen. She's being unusually quiet.

No matter how much I want to enjoy myself, I need to stay alert. This is still the lair of a demon, no matter how hospitable they are.

The darkness behind you all is absolute, as you step beyond the black light.