Chapter 51: Enjoy the Show

"Please sit down."​

You burst into the room, hand to your holy symbol. Celegwen has her staff at the ready, eyes wide.

You almost drop your hands in disbelief. The elf lowers her weapon as well. An ornately decorated and incredibly dark room is before you. A dozen or so tables are spread out— adorned with a single candle, bottles of champagne, cigars, and various other beverages— and at each one sits a multitude of demons. Succubi, incubi, major demons, and other monstrosities that you can't even begin to classify leer from the shadows. One incubus in the furthest corner of the room leers out at Celegwen's attempts to better cover herself with your jacket. Its sunken eyes take in the light emanating from you and Mercy.

You're like a beacon. The glow in your sight and the gold dripping from your injuries overpowers what's meant to be the sole source of light in the room— but for once, every eye is not on you.

Center-stage, under a hot light, and in the process of setting itself on fire is a living dress mannequin. It seems utterly at ease. Most of the demons in the audience are captivated by the process of the performer playing a strange, stringed instrument during the spectacle.

The audience extinguishes a fair number of smoking drinks. It instantly takes you back to Yech and his first realization of your prowess with Vengeance. An urge to invoke the God of Honor instantly rises as your eyes fall on your intended target.

Lounging in a small chair (clearly provided to better accommodate her size), feet kicked up on a nearby table (in a very unladylike manner) and talking at length to an imp (dressed in finery akin to servant's attire) is Ofelia. She's wearing a new hat. The round brim, large top, and blue ribbon all drift with smoke from her cigar. Champagne is being served by the imp at her side. Your friend seems entirely unharmed.

Celegwen makes no motion to sit down. She's extremely on edge, and trembling.

You clench your fist around your holy symbol, entirely uncertain of how to handle this.

The thought of someone possibly taking Ofelia sends your pulse skyrocketing. You don't know what else think or feel— save for that your nerves are still on end, residual pleasure spikes through every twitch in your body from extended abuse, and that you're furious.

Slick with sweat and blood, you stalk over to Ofelia's table and resist the urge to flip it over. Celegwen is obviously terrified— her eyes dart to the incubus in the corner that will not take his eye off of her— and sticks as close as she can.

The halfling nearly falls backwards from her precarious posture as you approach. There's a few murmurs from the tables around you as she stumbles to her feet. Her ridiculous hat falls to the floor, and the cigar she's smoking is pulled out of her mouth.

"What happened to you?!"

She takes a step back. Terror is all over her. Her hand hesitates by her side— almost as if she wants to pull out a dagger.

You stop her motions with the sheer intensity of your tone. "We're the one asking questions."

She doesn't hesitate.

Taking only one step closer— hand to your holy symbol, every inch of your ravaged body bristling— you catch her wrist. The threat of what's to come if she doesn't answer you perfectly resonates with each one of your radiant syllables. "What is your family's crest?"

She pulls hard against your hold on her wrist. You tighten your grasp. Your hand is so much larger than her slender limb that you could crush her in a second. She lets out a small whimper before hesitantly answering, "a white oak tree. We stamp it with a 'B'. Richard, it's me. I don't know what's goin' on, but you need to calm down! I'm not gonna hurt you or Gwen—!"

Simply leaning forward cuts her words short. The gold in your eyes warns her not to dare to reach for another blade. Your light and shadow utterly eclipses the halfling.

You don't pay any heed to the demons around you standing and complaining about you interrupting the show. You firmly keep her in your grasp, and tighten the hold. "How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

"Richard, please, sit down. There's nothin' wrong here—"

"Answer Us—!"

"Twelve! For fuck's sake— I have eight brothers, and four sisters! Please— stop— you're hurtin' me—"

Celegwen looks to you with no small measure of concern, and raises a hand as you take another step forward.

Putting a hand to the side of the chair next to Ofelia, you practically pin her small body between the backing and your own frame. You never realized just how utterly you eclipse her. Looking down, you avoid the gaze of the major demons and succubus behind you. They've risen from their seats to protect your 'friend'.

Your anger becomes a crushing whisper. It's not so much that you wish for no one else to hear you. It's that the thought of someone having taken this information by force from your friend is driving you mad. Your eyes are aflame with Mercy. Senses fried from prolonged pain, prayer, ecstasy, threat, and fear, you search your memory. Your mind claws at anything that a demon couldn't have possibly extracted from an interrogation— and it strikes you. The only time you ever attempted to really talk to your friend alone. Something you were told in solitude. Something so wholesome that a demon could never want for it.

"How much whiskey does Ofelia use in her honeycake recipe?"

She pauses.

The halfling looks up to you. Her face is white. All traces of intoxication are gone. She clearly fears for her life. "Th-that's a trick question. I mean— I use brandy, Richard. You— you know that, right? Ow— please let go, Richard. Stop, okay?"

The nightmarish realization of how hard you're gripping onto her wrist hits you with more pain than anything a demon has inflicted on you tonight. You take a horrified step backwards.

"It's only a splash, right? P-please sit down, Richard. Yer scaring me."

You do. You slump into a chair next to her— hands to your head— and release Mercy that very instant. The Goddess is eager to leave you.

The chair is a different kind of blessing. Exhaustion wracks your frame with such intensity that you no doubt would have collapsed otherwise.

There's another, softer noise, as Celegwen obviously sits down across from you.

There's murmuring and shuffling, as the various demons that stood to intervene in your outburst go back to their respective seats.

You feel terribly empty, and swipe a glass off of the table to immediately try to fill the void. It's champagne. Nowhere near as nice as anything Yech had made for you, and far weaker, but it serves its purpose. It's obviously meant for pleasure (not solely to get one drunk), and you drink the entire slender glass with a single motion. Angst wraps itself around you before your sweat can even dry. Heat, radiance, and divinity is entirely absent from your desire to go back to the corridor and meet certain death.

It's a new kind of whiplash as fear and timidness creeps straight back into your voice. "What's wrong with me? What am I even doing— are you alright, Ofelia? I'm— I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

You dare to look up, to set your glass down, to look at your friend. She's still standing and rubbing at her wrist.

"I've had a few guys rough me up worse, but you'd better explain what you were thinkin'. What right— this wasn't some shit with your Goddess, was it? Mind-readin' is scary enough, Richard, but I'm not gonna stand for this." The hurt on her face is evident, but it's laced with concern.

Celegwen is eerily silent. She's simply looking in terror at the incubus in the corner. You have no idea how to console her and address your growing agony simultaneously.

Looking back to Ofelia, you shake your head. It doesn't escape your notice (even in the dim lighting) that a few flecks of blood come off of your hair and neck from the motion. "No. Nothing like that. I— I had to invoke Mercy. We were attacked the moment you left—"

"No shit! After that stunt you pulled?!"

There's a series of shushes and whispers from the demons sitting around you all, gesturing for Ofelia to sit down and stay quiet. To your shock, she instantly obliges them.

The demon's music on stage nearly carries over her voice as she whispers, "we're surrounded, Richard. It's suicide to piss this many monsters off. What were you thinkin'?!"

"I could never—"

"You can drink and eat with a demon, tell 'em yer life story, gamble and sleep under their roof— and you won't even fuckin' swear?! What happened to you two?! What happened to Gwen—" Ofelia's eyes go wide as she seems to get a proper look at your silent companion. The rogue instantly gets up— knocking her drink to the floor— and sits in the same chair as her friend. She rips off a long length of the bottom of her gown to fasten around the elf's hips and chest. The halfling makes no attempt to look at you, nor does she say anything you can hear. She's whispering to her under the music.

You can't stand the secrecy, and speak up as she drops her voice beyond a perceptible range. "There's nothing you can say to her that I wouldn't want to hear, Ofelia."

The blonde whips her head around. Her fear and concern is peppered with anger. She practically spits under her breath, "keep yer fuckin' voice down before you get us all killed. Everythin' was fine. I was tellin' her that she's gonna fuckin' be fine, Richard. I don't need you to tell me what happened. We can talk about it if we get out of here. How many are comin'?"

You swallow hard, longing for something less bitter than the truth. You settle for more champagne, and empty another glass before murmuring, "all of them. The ones— the ones that weren't killed. I subdued at least twenty, though it's impossible to say for how long."

Ofelia looks to you with absolute horror, and slumps back into her chair. "Oh, great. That's great. We're going to die. Here I was, havin' a few drinks and a nice smoke, and we're all goin' to—"

Her eyes keep darting from you to the space that the door used to occupy. There's a long pause as she obviously realizes something.

Her eyes could not be wider. She gestures for you to lean in, not even bothering with Celegwen.

There's polite applause from the demons around you as the mannequin on stage finishes her performance. The entire room goes dark as the curtain closes.

You lean in and set down your glass. Dread creeps along your burned and lacerated spine.

Ofelia whispers, "they've locked us in."