Chapter 4.30: A Fear of Heroes

“Well, you have all received your blessing, some in a slightly different way than others…”
Daemion pauses for a second, looking over at the pleased Dargothoth. The souldrinker tries to hide his nerves, something he doesn’t have to do very often and he doesn’t know if he’s succeeding.
“It was a pleasure and thank you for helping me decorate my body even further.”
With the smog gone and the beacons relit, they can distinguish the black demon again from the already dark surroundings.
(Perception 4)
“There are already so many markings across your body”, Lyssa says, “that I can’t even spot all the changes. If I didn’t know where to look, I wouldn’t notice them.”
Daemion’s short chuckle is almost imperceptible.
“I’m glad I notice the chances”, he responds. “With every marking I grow stronger, more mature, and my connection with the Father grows tighter.”
As he mentioned that, it does look like he has grown a bit and is slightly more muscular than before. His snake hair is longer and definitely has more heads than when they entered this sanctum.
“We discussed something about fears right before I had my trial”, Oslando mentions. “Care to show us what you fear the most? I’m curious what you experienced during your test.”
The devyryl nods firmly and looks down at his chest. He runs his fingers across the antlers, which are bigger than any other symbol. He looks up at and stares at the altar.
“I was a young boy when I first laid eyes upon this statue. My caretakers brought me to the guldûn Gor-Thar’el, because I kept manifesting everyone’s fears. We’re all demons, half-elf, but that doesn’t mean all demons like each other. We devyryl aren’t very welcome in most places. Superstition bids the locals to believe we are bad omens. Luckily for me, Sa’arlach thought otherwise.”
As if the name of the demon is a summoning spell, the high priest appears from behind the altar. The dangling daggers on his antlers draw their attention.
“I made him face fear itself”, the crownhorned says with a raw voice. “It was a true spectacle to behold. Daemion, show them what you saw that day.”
Bruq coughs blatantly, his eyebrows raised and one hand in the air.
“Show us?” The hunter sounds concerned. “Can’t you just tell us? I think we have seen enough frightful stuff for our entire stay in Abaddon.”
The demons make eye contact and turn their heads back towards the satyr.
“I don’t agree”, Sa’arlach says, his thin fingers pressing against one another. “You should know what your Father looks like if you walk in his world with his blessing. Show them, Daemion.”
Without any room for the five visitors to object, the souldrinker lets his head fall back, raises his arms slowly beside him and hums. The antler sigil lights up, but quickly starts fading. As it becomes less visible with each heartbeat, a thick grey gas claws forwards from his chest. In front of the two priests, the mist shapes into an over ten foot tall colossus. His head is just like the statue, made of skulls and horns like antlers, but now he’s not made of stone. His antlers are covered in blood and the skulls forming his face are covered with thin dark pink strands of flesh. Blood drips out the sockets and string of saliva connect the rows of razor sharp teeth. His body is humanoid, but deprived of skin, revealing his dark red muscles and blanched ribs. His shoulders, arms and waist are covered with armor with dozens of crooked spikes pointing in every direction.

“So these are my four new servants…”

He’s the only thing they can hear. Everything grows silent, not daring to make a sound: the crackling beacons, the howling wind at the entrance, all has died out.
They can understand the demonic voice, but it takes long to decipher what he’s saying exactly. The sounds leaving the Father’s maw are a combination of beastly howls, scraping metal and some kind of crying. If they let their imagination run free, they would guess that the crying is similar to the sound of wailing and tortured souls. Whatever his voice is, it is instills fear in them like nothing has ever did before.

“I can smell the presence of my fallen brother.”

He slowly turns his head towards Dargothoth. Doing so makes the big metal chains around his neck scrape each other and the dangling skulls on it sway slowly. He doesn’t say anything else, but these few words make the cleric’s heart pound nearly out of his chest. He wants to resist the fear he experiences, but doing so against this deity is futile.

“The one who fears the Wandering Tree, step forward.”

All turn towards Bruq. His eyes are wide, sweat drips down his neck. He scuffles forward nervously, afraid to lift his hooves off the floor, scared he would falter in this eldritch presence.

“Hand me your glaive, he who fears a failed hunt.”

The manifestation of Gor-Thar reaches towards Bruq. His opened hand is almost as big as the satyr himself. He quickly removes the polearm off his back and tries to keep his hands as steady as possible, but they can’t help but tremble. He lets go when he feels an unseen force pulling the weapon away from him.

“One devoted to fear needs to wield fear.”

The glaive floats above the Father’s palm, slowly turning around its own axis.
A black thick fluid seeps out of the many skulls forming Gor-Thar’s face. It claws its way to his hand, moving like a beat-down animal crawling to safety. It moves quickly but in an uncontrolled manner and envelopes the Parent’s entire claw.

“My weapon of choice during the wars was Dreadbane.”

The twitching sludge shoots upwards and wraps itself around the hunter’s weapon. It spreads across it as if it wants to lay a thin coat of darkness across its entire surface. The shape changes. The long slender blade of the glaive turns to a twin-headed axe-like blade. The ooze retreats and reveals the transformed weapon. The metal is dark grey with a purple glow glistening within. The wooden staff connected to the cutting head is now black and orange glowing symbols are carved into it.

“Your weapon is made in image of mine. Terrorize my enemies with it.”

Unsure how he must respond, he chooses to bow his head to show respect. He turns his head to his hand when he feels his polearm has reappeared. It feels just as balanced as before, but it does feel more powerful. Maybe it’s just the idea a god manufactured it, a god! He can barely believe it.

“May your bones shiver eternal.”

Gor-Thar’s body dissolves into the same kind of smoke he appeared with and within seconds the fog draws back into Daemion’s chest. The demon sighs in relief, panting, his snakes hanging limply across his face.
“It’s seems you are truly blessed.” Sa’arlach smiles at them, but keeps his gaze fixed on Bruq. “It’s an honor to wield that weapon. It may not be the original Dreadbane, but everything created by the Father of Fear is a true sign he trusts you. You have done well.”
He evades looking at Dargothoth before he turns around. He walks past the altar and returns quickly. He holds a black book in his hand.
“I want you to have this. This is what every disciple of Gor-Thar learns by heart. In this tome are his ways, his history, information about his brothers and sisters. It will help you understand other demons and Parents better as you proceed your journey to hunt the archangels of the Silver Circle.”
He hands the book to the satyr, but doesn’t let go yet.
“You would be wise to live up to his commands, especially you, hunter.” There’s something sinister about the way he speaks. “Demons will turn to you when addressing your blessings. You bear the sign of true fear. You should make our Father proud.”
He lets go off the book and folds his hand together.
“I… I will”, Bruq stammers. “I will read it as soon as we reach Saal and have a place to spend the night.”
The devyryl and tharei look at each other. Their expressions try to hide something.
“To get to Saal, you need to west. Follow Akaleth, bend a bit to the right and you’ll be fine. Saal, however…” The souldrinker stops for a moment. “Some of the citizens have sought aid from the Father of Fear. A curse has fallen upon the village, but they are followers of Achalion, Father of Balance. If you want allies in Saal, you would be wise to speak to their priest at the centre of the town.”
They look at each other, knowing Oanoa said something ominous has been happening in Saal. Whatever this curse is, it’s probably the cause of him losing the sight of his children.
“What happened?”
Oslando is straight to the point. He wants to know what awaits them. The less surprises they’ll have during this long journey through Abaddon, the better. He hasn’t thought much about surviving, but after the grim omens of their trials, the idea that maybe they won’t all live to see the end of this adventure creeps up on him.
“Many of the citizens have gone blind”, Sa’arlach says before his pupil can answer. “And the number of those who still have their sight drops every day. If you want to stay in Saal, you need to watch yourself. You can’t trust anyone when it comes to an unknown enemy. Fear them.”
Bruq holds back a sigh.
“We’ll keep an eye out for them”, Lyssa says and she winks at the satyr.
The demons don’t respond to her wordplay. She doesn’t know if it doesn’t translate well into language or if they lack a sense of humor, but she doesn’t care. She’s glad to leave this temple behind.
“Go”, the high priest says with a cold voice. “Continue your quest and I hope you find whatever brings you to Saal. May your bones shiver eternal, children of fear, and those of who oppose you.”

Chapter 4.29: A Fear of Heroes

The mysterious god dissolves in the same smoke that fills the room, but it is dark no longer. It’s a deep green and between the hundreds of shining little stars the five companions can see each other once again for a short time. The mist starts swirling around Dargothoth, moving faster and faster, until he is completely hidden from the others. Then all stars die out. Darkness returns. The smoke disappears.
“It is done.”
The voice of the unknown god echoes a final time between these walls before fading away.
And now there Dargothoth stands. A cleric devoted to a new god, a frightful deity of a demonic plane, probably one more menacing than Nerull would ever be. It was powerful and impressive enough to make Daemion, a priest of the Father of Fear, faint.
“Dargothoth?” Mero sounds hesitant. “Are you okay?”
The cleric turns to the sorcerer. A revitalized glow shines in his eyes and a sincere smile reveals his ferocious teeth.
“I’m feeling more than okay, shiny metal puppet. I feel amazing.”
And then they see something they haven’t seen before, something that’s maybe more terrifying than anything he did before. He laughs, howls almost, and flips his head backwards with utter content.
Bruq’s and Oslando’s eyes meet and both seem equally surprised as uneased.
“I’m going to wake up the priest”, Dargothoth says, still chuckling. “I have some questions.”

“And that’s happened.”
Dargothoth concludes his summarized, rather manic sounding story about meeting a god other than Gor-Thar. Daemion didn’t say a word while the cleric was speaking. When he finishes talking, the souldrinker looks at what kind of blessing the sivak received. He gasps and takes a step backwards, startled.
“You are blessed by the Faceless God”, he says, almost whispering. “In a guldûn devoted to the Father of Fear! This hasn’t happened before. It’s unheard of.... I have no words.”
Daemion stops looking at the blessing. A featureless face with dark green contours floating in front of his own, it couldn’t be a more literal boon than the god’s name suggests.
“What kind of Parent is he?”
Dargothoth sounds thrilled. His entire body language has changed into a more lively one.
“Well… He isn’t a Parent, actually.” The devyryl stammers, still confused and aghast. “Baltor and Vexys had eight children. Akaleth, their first, was stillborn, because the powers swirling inside him were too unstable. To make sure their second child wouldn’t share the same faith, they granted him more divine power to contain and adapt to the powers of being a Parent. They soon discovered that they gave him too many powers to contain in one body. After that, they got their six other children, granting everyone only one of the many domains Baltor and Vexys possessed. First came the twins Neg’Crûn and Gor-Thar, as mentioned before, the Father of Death and Father of Fear. Then came their first daughter, Metrona, Mother of Creation, imbuing her with the power to help their family expand without Baltor and Vexys giving up their powers. Then came Mahaeleax, Father of Magic, Ur-Gha-Belesh, Father of War, and lastly came La’ava Sheran, Mother of Sins. The two first Parents told their children to create their own families, but the Faceless God thought too highly of himself and wanted to created his own spawns with his divine powers. Baltor and Vexys forbade him to do so and so the Faceless God rebelled against them. All other Parents joined the fight and punished him, stripping away his face and locking him up far beneath the earth of Abaddon, imprisoning him for eternity. Apparently though, it seems like his influences aren’t as locked away as they thought they would be.”
Daemion shakes his head. He realizes he hasn’t answered his question yet, but everything is just so overwhelming. He rubs the palm of his hand over his new mark, quickly checking his own aura to see if he still has the blessing of Gor-Thar. He does.
“We call him God instead of Parent, because he doesn’t have any children. He has no domain anymore, but technically, he should have all of them if Baltor and Vexys intended him to be the next to rule over the other Parents. You have sided with a dangerous god, Dargothoth. I hope you know what you got yourself into.”

Chapter 4.28: A Fear of Heroes

“It tasted spoiled”, Daemion says with squinted eyes and pinched lips. “Spoiled and corky. It’s bone dry, bitter and the texture is very uncomfortable. I can barely swallow it without coughing. All the moisture in my mouth just vanishes and my teeth get rough. The finish is a little better, it tastes like eating a fruit way before it’s ripe to eat. I expect a burn when swallowing it down, but it’s the complete opposite. It really cools down my throat, but when it gets to my stomach, it’s almost too cold to comfortably drink. It aches. Wow…”
The demon is unstable on his feet for a moment and his head wobbles for a bit. His snakes rattle. He stares at the ground to regain stability.
“The aftertaste is so overwhelming. Like sparks or flames. I can feel a power come over me in an unstoppable and crashing wave. It’s too much to describe and-.”
He stops talking, closes his eyes and drops to the ground. They can see how a white mark appears just below where the serpents sprout from his head. It’s a featureless face, a very small and subtle symbol to have.
Before they can observe it any further or aid the priest, his body disappears in the black fog. Instead of slowly overflowing from the mouth of the Father’s statue, the bust spews the darkness into the temple. All the purple beacons die out and even the statue’s glowing tears aren’t visible anymore. Even worse, they can’t see each other. The only thing is the manifestation the elder fihyr changed into.
“Dargothoth…”
A deep and hollow voice echoes from the dark. They cover their ears, but the voice keeps thundering in their heads.
“Bow before your new god!”
A thin and sickly grey man rises up from the smog and keeps doing so until he towers tens of feet above them. A worn-down dark red cloth covers his body, its tattered ends waving mysteriously with the smoke as dancing partner. Chains with dozens of golden masks dangle across his chest, the expressions woeful and in pain. The skin on his bare arms is stripped away at some places, revealing a deep green glow. They would swear it’s like staring into the sky at night, stars twinkling and slowly shifting. His face is hidden behind a same kind of red cloth. The edges are nailed into his head with thick metal spikes.
“I will not”, Dargothoth shouts. “I bow before Nerull and no other imposter deity!”
The giant raises his hands and crying souls fly throughout the room.
“Fool!” His voice grows even louder and more penetrating. “All your beliefs, your entire concept of religion, all of it is based on fear. You will not grow as powerful as you deserve to be if you continue to walk this road of ignorance and slavery. That’s what you are, Dargothoth. You’re an ignorant slave to what used to be a god in your world. He doesn’t hear your prayers, but I do… And I answer.”
The cleric doesn’t say a thing. Something in him wants to go against the being that is in front of him, but something else wants to hear whatever he has to say. If it is true what he says, it would be wise to listen. Hadriel and Oanoa told him the same thing and now a third omniscient-looking man is telling him as well.
(Insight 18)
“You do not instill fear”, Dargothoth says. “You are not my trial of fear, are you? Who or what are you?”
A slow restrained laugh grows in volume. The apparition is pleased.
“You are correct. Your sharpness pleases me. I’m no part of my brother’s trial. I’m the oldest living child of Baltor and Vexys. The demons rarely speak of me, afraid of my power and secretive about the legends written about me. I can grant you everything. I hold the key to the powers you desire, because I created those powers. I understand your motives, your true nature. If Nerull still lives and hears you, he doesn’t understand you like I do.”
Dargothoth stares at the hidden face and says nothing. The god, however, doesn’t need a verbal response. He senses what’s happening in the cleric’s mind. His devotion to Nerull is wavering.
“I ask for much, but I return equally. As your loyalty grows, your power will too. You will show those who doubt your capabilities your might. You’ll continue to never show mercy and you will never spare a single soul. If you are able to do these simple things I ask of you, my powers will flow through your veins and sharpen your keen mind. What do you say, Dargothoth?”
In silence, the sivak takes a single step forward. He holds his sceptre in his hand. The sapphire doesn’t glow red, but it resonates with the same deep green that pulsates beneath the god’s skin.
“I have always rid myself of thoughts about Nerull’s presumed death. I cast aside the stories everyone keeps telling me and focused on what I did best: killing in the name of a god. Now, in your presence, I finally realize the name in which I do my killing doesn’t matter to me. I will live in doubt no longer. If Nerull isn’t strong enough to grant me what I desire, I will answer to a god that will. Grant me your blessing and I’ll be your vessel.”

Chapter 4.27: A Fear of Heroes

“It’s okay if you messed up in the past”, Lyssa says reassuringly. “We all did at some point. Don’t let the trial get to you. I understand it’s difficult - believe me, I do - but you must not dwell in those thoughts. They’re toxic.”
Oslando agrees with her in his head, but he doesn’t show it in his face. She has a point, he does know that, but something doesn’t feel right about talking about this part of his past. He doesn’t want to show and admit he feels ashamed.
“We’re all screw ups, Oslando”, Bruq says somewhat comfortingly and he smacks him roughly on his shoulder. “That’s why we all get along so well.”
The satyr’s grin reveals his slightly yellowed teeth. It’s the first time he is so close to the half-elf while smiling that only now he notices one of Bruq's teeth is chipped.
“Speak for yourself, hunter”, the cleric snarls.
Dargothoth leans with his back against the wall, arms crossed and expression displeased, like most of the time.
“Don’t be like that”, the hunter replies. “You’re probably the biggest screw up of all of us.”
Even though Bruq says it with a teasing laugh, there is definitely truth in the words he speaks.
The cleric pushes himself off the wall and walks towards the hunter, but he gets distracted by the black demon that picks up the last bottle.
“Can we skip the whole wine tasting act when you drink that piece of my soul? It’s getting a little old. We get that you can guess their fears based on taste, big deal.”
Daemion raises his eyebrows and wiggles his head, annoyed by the sivak.
“Part of the trial”, he answers bluntly. “And I like it. So you’ll just have to sit through it.”
He brings the bottle to his nose with a pleased smirk on his face and smells. He quickly puts it down and starts coughing heavily.
“Very funny, priest”, Dargothoth says with grinding teeth, “you want to show how rotten I am. Get on with it!”
The souldrinker covers his mouth and shakes his head.
“No”, he says quickly during coughs, “that’s not all.”
His eyes are wide and his body is restless, chest heaving to catch his breath.
“This was not abstracted by this fihyr”, he continues after clearing his throat. “We have a few fihyr downstairs and one of them is an elder. Basically, he is bigger and badder than all the other fihyr. It’s so rare that it abstracts a drink like this that I forgot how strong the smell and taste were.”
He looks at the creature at the altar.
“I can’t use this one for the trial. I need to get the elder fihyr.”
Daemion walks towards to door, first steps fumbling a bit, and the creature of nightmares follows him.

During that brief moment that he’s out of the room, no one dares to speak. They fear a lot of things: what did it abstract from Dargothoth? What kind of unholiness are they going to see during his trial?
The sivak’s face doesn’t show any form of anxiety, but his interest is peaked. This again, for him, proves he is superior to all the others. Even the gods of this realm can’t instill terror in his heart without the help of a stronger creature.
“There we go.”
The devyryl re-enters the room and behind him follows another fihyr. This one is at least three times as big and has more vicious maws and penetrating eyes. Thick yellow saliva drips down its green and purple tongues. Its tentacles reach for Dargothoth, but Daemion keeps the monster in place.
“Well, this going to be very interesting”, the draconian says with a frugal smile and narrowed eyes.
Daemion is visibly uncomfortable. He peaks down to the back of his right hand. A white draconic skull with crystals for eyes stares back at him. He remembers how horrible it was to receive that mark, how sick he was the last time he drank something coming from an elder fihyr.
He sighs, closes his eyes and drinks the whole bottle in one go.

Chapter 4.26: A Fear of Heroes

“We meet again, Oslando, knight without last name.”
When the manifestation of the half-elf’s fear speaks the sound of snapping twigs resonates within his hollow voice. Even though his voice is loud and strong, it sounds like he’s whispering.
“I expected to see one of the Hollows as part of this trial. At least your looks have improved since we met last time.”
It’s unlike Oslando to be witty or wisecracking on a moment like this, but his companions believe it’s just one of his many sides they haven’t seen much of. They do recognize his unmoving attitude, the calmness he tries to always keep up.
“You sound not as pleased as I hoped, half-spawn”, the Hollow says. “Is it because you have found peace with your failures? Or did you tell yourself it’s time to stop caring so much about the flaws of your existence?”
The eldritch knight swallows, trying to rid the upcoming lump in his throat. He shrugs his head and shoulders ambivalently.
“I live to improve every single day”, he replies coldly. “Learning goes with ups and downs. Your presence doesn’t upset me. You’re here to taunt me and play with troubled thoughts from closed chapters of my past. You may do so and I’ll receive Gor-Thar’s blessings, improving yet again without you able to do anything about it.”
A baleful smile grows on his timber face, his blank eyes narrowing. He shakes his head slowly, the sound of a breaking tree accompanying his movement.
“You play the role of the bold knight so well. It feels like you have tricked yourself and probably everyone around you into believing you have figured out your whole life. How would they react if I lifted that false veil and let them peek into your worst failures? I know how you would react, Oslando. I can smell the fear in the sweat rolling across the side of your face.”
For a moment the half-elf breaks eye contact and looks over to his companions. They have faced their fears and no one judged them. Maybe it will be the same for him? However, that possibility doesn't ease his mind. He does indeed feel fear, fear of how much the Hollow will reveal about their previous encounter.
“Your adamant friend over here has a very interesting history”, the Hollow says loudly, receiving only silence in response. “After getting tired of being unloved by both sides of his family, this young half-elf tried to prove his worth all around the world. This journey eventually brought him to Oroki Isles, because he heard a rumor people had gone missing in the Jadesong Woods. The colonists there were chopping down one of the few Eternal Trees, ancient pinnacles of nature, all to collect its wood for building a ship. Misinformed and caught up in his heroic task to save people, the naive half-elf went into the Jadesong Woods. That’s when we met for the first time, didn’t we?”
He does not reply. His clenched jaw and the pulsating vein at the side of his head are the telltale signs for the Hollow apparition. He is hitting just the right nerves.
“He reasoned with us, or so he thought, but he didn’t listen to our reasoning. He was not in the position to order us around. He was empty-handed and without leverage, none of his diplomatic skills useful enough to persuade us to leave our home. You see, the Eternal Trees gave life to my people and with the increase of what you people believe is ‘progress’, my kind is slowly dying. Our numbers dwindle and we are in constant pain. And you, Oslando, burner of sacred trees, are the one to blame.”
The half-elf breaks the silence, his fists clenched by his sides.
“I did what I thought was right!”
“No!”
A long howl filled with agony and grief thunders throughout the temple. His pale copy falls forward and reaches for Oslando. His claws stop just in front of his head.
“No”, the Hollow repeats, “you did what you thought would make you a hero. Your desire to be praised outweighed the survival of my family. You fought my brothers and sisters and drove us away from the Jadesong Woods, proving once again that men and elves are just as uncultured and uncivilized as they blame us to be. We would have left all those people alone and leave the Oroki Isles unharmed, but you forced our hand. They burned down the entire forest to prove a point to us: the needs of men are superior to ours. Luckily for us, Abaddon has a few Ancient Trees as well.”
The half-elf’s eyes widen with terror.
“Yes, Oslando”, the Hollow continues, “we were here way before you were born and we returned to make sure nature will never suffer again like it did that day. This demonic plane and you have a lot in common. I feel your presence in Abaddon and I’m coming for you. We killed every single one of them, men, women and children, and turned their corpses into walking husks for nature to dwell in. We will see you soon. We Hollows are of one mind and I can feel we are legion. We are endless. We are armageddon.”

Chapter 4.25: A Fear of Heroes

With only two bottles left, one of the two draws Daemion’s attention more than the other. He seems intrigued, almost confused, by whatever is inside of it. Instead of giving in to his curiosity, he chooses to drink the other one first. He saves the mystery for last, feeding the slight fear of the unknown growing inside of him.
“It doesn’t really smell like anything.”
His mumbling is almost inaudible for his spectators. He takes a second whiff to see if he can figure out a subtle fragrance, but to no success. He takes a rather extensive sip to discover if his tongue can make sense out of it.
“It’s bland”, he says, louder this time. “It’s balanced well, but it’s done so that no distinct flavour stands out. The most predominant aspect is its oily texture. Even though nothing really interests me about this drink, it does invite to drink more.”
He sips it again. He drinks less this time and moves his tongue across his cheeks and over his teeth.
“Dry… Full body… It’s almost like eating meat. I like my wolf or stycha a bit more bloody and rare. The taste is like meat cooked too far, at least for my taste. You should try stycha when you can. Those blood vultures have a really distinct taste, a true delicacy, but I digress…”
He closes his eyes and focuses. He smacks with his mouth open. With him closer to them than during the previous drink fests, they can clearly see his deep purple forked tongue.
“Now a clear taste is present, it becomes sour shortly after swallowing. It’s an honest drink. It doesn’t pretend to be more than it actually is, but I feel it could be more, it could be better. Does that ring any bells?”
His gaze is fixed on the half-elf, who calmly waits until he is finished preaching. He knows himself well enough to guess what manifestation is coming for him. Or at least, he thinks so.
“It leaves my tongue a bit rough. The sourness takes away all previous experienced flavours. Well, to call it ‘flavours’ may be a bit too enthusiastic from my side.” He tries to scrape off any remaining drops of his tongue. “Every flavour just ran away, Oslando, just like you did.”
The half-elf looks closely as he comes near the priest. They both look at the arm with Bruq’s marking on it. Just below the twig wrapped around his wrist appears a new white band. It’s a shackle with a thin chain running down the inside of his lower arm.
“Failures in the past”, the demon says and he stares Oslando deep in his stoic eyes. “They haunt you, don’t they? They do leave a mark on people, literally and figuratively.”
He directs his grin to his new piece of body art and runs his finger across it. His sharp nail doesn’t notice any edges, any unevenness. It’s perfect.
“Which of these many drawings is yours, if I might ask? And does it mean?”
The half-elf’s calmness surprises Daemion. Even if his current state of mind is only a play to look untroubled, he’s doing a good job. All other participants usually can’t seem to be bothered by anything but the thing they fear or come to claim.
“I would rather keep that information to myself”, he says calmly. “At least for now. I don’t want to trouble your thoughts during your test. We’ll have time when you and your dragon-like friend have passed.”
Oslando looks past his shoulder and meets Dargothoth’s gaze. Displeased, the sivak loudly blows air throughout his nose. Calling them friends would almost make him laugh. Almost.
“Understood”, he replies. “I look forward to it. Please, continue.”
Daemion nods politely, lips thin and eyes closed, and turns towards the frightful bust of Gor-Thar. The pulsating glow of its purple crystals aligns with his breathing. The symbol of the shackle shines and joins the rhythmical gleaming. With every brighter pulse the Father’s head brings forth more of the clouding vapour. The blackness crawls rapidly across the floor and covers it like a cold and menacing blanket.
Within that blackness rises the sound of breaking wood. Even though it’s not mentioned for Bruq, he has a short flashback to his trial with the undead treant.
What walks out of the fog towards Oslando is also tree-like, but very different. An unnatural looking humanoid made of grey and dark brown wood takes slow steps. It looks like someone cut a tree to look slightly like a human or elf, but instead of taking the effort of carving a face, a thick branch forms its neck and dark green leaves shape its featureless head. Its broad chest is covered with the same frond, but something is ruffling inside of it. The leaves are pushed aside by two pale hands. They’re also made of wood and are connected to a body of the same colour. An entire upper half of a body pushes itself out of the tree. It looks like a man. With rigid movements he moves away the thin white roots that form his long straight hair. In front of them, still connected to the walking arboreal humanoid, is an exact copy of Oslando.

Chapter 4.24: A Fear of Heroes

With the darkness consuming the aasimar apparition and the fihyr returning, Mero walks over to the priest. There is determination in his steps.
“Is it possible for the manifestations of this trial to lie? Or to know information I can’t possibly know?”
Daemion has seen all kinds of fear and all the trials with the fihyr that fit them, but this one was new. During Mero’s trial, before the blinding light captured the room, he inspected his own body again to see if there was something similar. He knows he has a closed eye on his forehead, symbolising the fear to lose religious connection. A cracked skull on the ball of his foot for not remembering someone in death. He knows he has an eye without a pupil at the base of his neck. Maybe that one comes closest to Mero’s fear, forgetting your loved one due to magic or disease. They all have some common ground, but they all differ at least slightly from what his new mark means. The sorcerer’s hurried words draw his attention away his thoughts and he turns his head towards him.
“The trial does what it needs to do to tap into fear”, the demon answers with a hint of distraction in his voice. “Sadly, the truth is most often worse than the lies the fihyr can create. They are not quazeri, the many-faced, offspring of the Father of Lies. They tell what the Father of Fear sees in a soul.”
Mero’s face brightens up, at least as far as the mechanical constructions allow him to.
“You mean…”
He hesitates, doubting if he is too eager again to ask for answers.
“You may speak freely, Merodius. You don’t have to fear speaking to me when you just spoke to Gor-Thar.”
The sorcerer scratches the back of his head nervously.
“Was it truly him who spoke to me? The Father?”
Daemion tilts his head slightly, wondering where the golem is going with this.
“An aspect of him, yes. He spoke through by the magic of the purple tears. They make the fihyr shift their shape. Again, what do you wish to know?”
Mero lifts his head a bit more, showing more confidence.
“Can he answer my questions? He seems to know much of my past. He takes a look at my soul and knows what my mother looks and sounds like, that my father is in danger and that I’m an aasimar apparently. Is it too much if I ask him to reveal more?”
The souldrinker frowns and shakes his head. His serpentine braid unravels and his black snakes hiss furiously.
“You are in the guldûn of fear, Merodius”, he says with a stern voice, almost agitated. “You do not speak to Al’Kra Daresh, Mother of Secrets, or Ozephelyx, Father of Oracles. This is not the place nor the time to ask a favor again after just receiving his blessing. I will forgive you your ignorance, because you are ucha’ar and you don’t know better, but many a priest would be offended by these requests. Vahel, know when to ask these things and when to hold your metal tongue.”
The emphasis on the word ‘vahel’ strongly brings its meaning across: an exclamation and almost begging way to say ‘please’, also roughly translated to ‘come on’ or ‘have mercy’.
“I was only asking!”
His companions haven’t heard Mero’s raised voice very often. His new body surely helps him speak up and stand his ground.
“I didn’t want to be rude”, he continues. “I was just checking if it was allowed. You don’t have to verbally kill me the moment I want to check what the local customs are. Gods damn me for trying to be polite!”
Evidently, if that angelic woman truly was his mother, he’s quite the chip off the old block. He seems to have her temper. Now that the others hear him standing up for himself like this, they realize how much he has grown in these last few days already.
The demon stays silent. The snakes calm down and rest their heads against his chest and shoulders, covering several curious markings.
“Ch’lesh”, he says, meaning to apologize, “you are right. The trials drain my energy with every new mark that burns into my skin. Gor-Thar can’t help you any further with your hidden past. But you have learned new things, za?”
He hears that last part as ‘yet’ and ‘however’, but understands it’s the latter. The sorcerer nods without saying another word. He appreciates his apology, but he has a lot of thinking to do. Thinking about his parents and trying to connect the dots of the possibility of his angelic descent. Is that why he appeared as a bright silver figure when he changed bodies? Is that why his soul survived? He questions his mortality and ancestry, but an even more daunting thought captures him. Does that mean he could be linked to the Silver Circle? Is he part of the angelic prophecies Hadriel mentioned, because he is the hero to save Abaddon or because he is one of the villains the heroes have to slay?
He sighs, face buried in his cold hands. If he could cry, he would.

Chapter 4.23: A Fear of Heroes

“You’re my mother?”
The temple is deprived of all sound but his voice. It hasn’t been this quiet in here since they entered. Mero’s words lay heavy on all of them. His past has been haunting him for so long, not knowing anything about his previous life. And now, he sees his mother again, for the first time in this life. What does scare them is why she has appeared in his trial of fear and how she can be his mother without him even remembering her.
“Yes, I am. There are many questions for me to answer, but I don’t have much time.”
Even though her loud voice is almost ear-splitting and her message is troublesome, it’s still very pleasant for him to finally hear her, let alone see her.
“We need to talk about your father”, she says with a stern face. “After you died, he was devastated and driven even more mad than that beautiful man already was. I fear he has become a danger to himself.”
Before she can continue with anything else, Mero interrupts her, not able to wait a second longer to get some answers on his burning questions.
“How did I die? What caused it? Was it natural or-”
His mother raises her hand and he immediately stops speaking. She’s not casting any spell or whatsoever. He reacts instinctively. Even though his mind doesn’t recall her, his soul cleary does in some way.
“I’m not going to tell you.”
The golden flames behind her mask burn brighter. Everyone but Mero covers their eyes to stop the stinging pain.
“What?” He sounds astonished. “Why not? You and father are probably the only people who can answer these questions for me.”
She nods. He can’t see the expression on her face, but based on that he can hear her giggling, he guesses she looks happy.
“That’s the point”, she replies. “I’m not here to help you. I’m the manifestation of what you fear the most. What you fear, my boy, are the answers you’ll never get and the answers that will make everything worse. And I’m going to provide those.”
She flaps her wings and the black smoke swirls around her and her son. It mixes with her radiant presence, creating a spectacle of dark and light.
“I want to share the horrid part of the legend, the part about Iavolof the Mad they don’t tell. I think Oanoa doesn’t even know it. You can find your father here in Abaddon. There’s a portal to his own pocket plane. He created it right after his eight child was born. He thought himself so powerful he could create his own school of magic, create his own spells that would manipulate the fabric of reality around him. It attracted the attention of a lot of spellcasters, both the ones with good and bad intent. He was able to ward the entrance of his plane, preventing he would be disturbed, but there was a creature that proved too cunning for even your father. That monster is part of something worse than the archangels of the Silver Circle, Mero, and your father trapped it in his pocket plane. After he discovered the being’s presence, he decided to make his own pocket plane a jail for him. Keeping the wretched being in there, stopping it from wreaking havoc across Abaddon, is costing him his sanity and vitality. I don’t even know if he will be alive by the time you find him.”
She pauses for dramatic effect, observing in silence how her son is going to react. His emotions however seem soothed.
“You can’t know these things”, Mero replies. “How would a fihyr tap into my fear and give me answers it couldn’t know? It can’t abstract these thoughts from me. I didn’t even know my father was keeping something imprisoned. I believe you are telling me lies, with the sole purpose of scaring me off.”
The apparition of his mother pulls off her mask. The raging look on her face gets lost in her golden brilliance, paling every other colour in the temple. The intensity almost physically burns him and Mero closes his eyes this time as well.
“You are mistaken, son.” Her voice grows louder. “Iavolof was already turning into a maddened husk when you met him last time. You couldn’t help him then and I doubt you will reach him in time to even do anything but weep at his withered remains. Or maybe he will be alive. Yes, he probably has a spell or artefact to prevent him from dying. His body might not die, but that doesn’t mean his mind won’t age and deteriorate. You might be the only one that can reach him.”
She puts the mask for her face again. The temple cools down and darkness grows.
“And when you find him and see how mad the legendary sorcerer truly is, you’ll remember what you learned the last time you spoke to him. You can be the only one to put him down and stop his suffering. But… who truly knows? You don’t anymore, but that was my point. Your mind and memories are so clouded by magic, because I wanted them to be. I was the one to cast that spell. I made you forget.”

Chapter 4.22: A Fear of Heroes

“Thank you so much, Bruq. I nearly lost it.”
She wipes away the tear dangling from her chin. She looks at it, resting on top of her fingertips.
“Hopefully my soul doesn’t taste like salty tears anymore.”
She smiles, but evades his piercing eyes.
“We can talk about this later if you want to”, the satyr says comfortingly. “If we survive whatever horrors those other three will spawn. Can you imagine what’s coming next? I think I’m even more afraid of that than the Wandering Tree and-”
She takes his hand and shuts him up.
“Thank you for the distraction. I’m okay for now. When we get out of here, I would like a talk.”
Daemion interrupts them.
“You have Gor-Thar’s blessing as well. Even though this trial wasn’t very fearful for me, I must say I feel for you. That was horrible and exactly what my Father needed.”
“Thanks, I guess”, she replies.

“Oh, there’s nothing sweet about this drink, that’s for sure.”
Daemion takes another big gulp and swirls it around a couple of times before swallowing it.
“Quite dry, probably due to the strong flavour of grass. I imagine this is just how it tastes to gnaw on a piece of straw. It has a surprisingly light body taking in account how high the acidity is. I can feel my facial muscles tightening. It’s strange how it presents itself so fresh when it is clearly a rather long aged suspense. The burn in my throat gives it away. And yet… the silkiness, the creamy finish. It’s so complex and it leaves a divine taste afterwards. I have never tasted this in a soul before. To call it ‘otherworldly’ and ‘magical’ would do it short. It makes me almost forget what I was doing.”
The demon chuckles.
“Oh, but that’s the point, isn’t it? Forgetting is the key. A magical amnesia that covers the true tones of your soul. You fear never knowing, don’t you, Merodius? The past and the future, both so unclear. Every answer raises more questions. But what question do you need answered the most?”
The sorcerer stands up, but doesn’t go towards him yet.
“There are a lot, really.”
The sorcerer rubs his chin, making a sound like nails on a chalkboard. So many thoughts are racing through his mind and, frankly, having to think about them all together is driving him to the edge of despair.
“Can’t we just see whatever shape the fihyr takes and deal with that? It stresses me out to come up with an answer.”
The devyryl raises his eyebrows.
“That’s kind of the point, Merodius, but I didn’t ask the others, so I’ll just give you this one. Let’s just see what happens.”
The priest looks at the palm of his left hand. The contour of a head appears inside of it, but instead of a face a spiral swirls on its forehead.
“Forgetfulness.” Daemion whispers to himself.
He raises his hand towards the altar. The white glow coming makes the black fog rise. Something is different this time. Within the darkness, a bright golden radiance lights up the entire temple. A warm glow touches their skins. A pleasant sensation sends a shiver down their spine. It feels like they’re being kissed by our sun on a cloudless day.
At the centre of it all stands its source: a woman in white, golden eyes glowing behind a white mask. She blows away the fog with her two angelic wings. Her long blond hair dances around her. The sound of fire raging grows louder with every step she walks to the sorcerer.
“I didn’t think I feared the angels more than anything else”, Merodius says as he stares at her glorious presence. Even though there is no way he knows this woman, it feels like he recognizes her. He almost feels comfortable in her presence.
“Oh, foolish boy”, she says with a thundering voice, “I’m no angel, but rather a distant relative of them. I’m an aasimar, just like you.”
Merodius stakes a step back.
“Does that mean…”
She nods slowly.
“Yes, Merodius, my boy. You are an aasimar and I am your mother.”

Chapter 4.21: A Fear of Heroes

“The only thing you’re going to get, is a shot in the face.”
All of Lyssa’s lovely aspects completely disappear and hate and anger replaces them. At this point, she doesn’t feel fear like Bruq did. Her blood is boiling.
“Don’t be like that”, the apparition says with pouting lips. “I know you miss me. You even kept my accordion as a reminder. Couldn’t throw it away, could you now, lassie? I understand… you always admired how my fingers played the instrument. It probably remembers you of how I played your instruments.”
She is revolted by his smile. Her insides turn and her body burns. It’s almost like she feels his hands crawling over her. The temple even smells like the cheap booze he gave her to make her helpless.
“I’ll blast you to hell again, fucker. Those pirates were kind to you when they killed you. I should have tortured you.”
He grabs his junk and scratches it exorbitantly.
“Hell is pretty nice. Enough time in the afterlife to fool around your pretty mother.”
All emotions are drained from her face. She looks at him with an open mouth.
“She’s a good way of wasting time, you know. I prefer my women a bit younger, but it’s nice to feel where you got your skills from.”
Lyssa screams and draws her gun.
“Say that again! I dare you!”
Her finger trembles on the trigger.
“Lyssa, don’t!” Bruq runs toward her and quickly pushes her gun down. “The trial is messing with your head. Killing the fihyr will not change what happened.”
She pushes him away and points her weapon again to the pimp’s face.
“But it will feel very good!” Her chest is heaving and her eyes are watery. “I can’t put my gun down, Bruq. He needs to die.”
The apparition turns towards the satyr.
“If you’re not paying, then leave my merchandise alone”, he says angrily. “Let her do what must be done.”
Lyssa closes one eye and aims. She opens her eye again as Bruq blocks her line of sight.
“Step aside.”
Her voice is deprived of any form of kindness. She is sniffing.
“He is the reason of your sad lullaby, isn’t he?” The hunter is whispering, hoping only Lyssa can hear him. “I heard you singing to yourself. Don’t think no one will ever love you. Don’t think nobody cares. I care.”
He walks past the barrel of her blunderbuss and stops right in front of her. He wraps his arms around her tightly and puts his cheek against hers.
His bushy fur scrapes her skin, but the warmth is comforting. She lowers her gun, drops it and hugs him back.
“Thank you”, she whispers softly and she kisses his cheek.
He blushes.
Lyssa pushes him off of her. He is greeted by a sincere smile and she focuses on the man in the fog.
“Steve Waterrock, nobody ever loved you and no matter who you collected to ‘give shelter’ in the Wailing Wench, that never changed. I thought you broke me, but now I see you only showed me how broken you are.”
Their emotions have shifted: Lyssa seems very calm, while her self-proclaimed uncle grows more furious with every word she says.
“I don’t believe a single word that leaves that man-hungry mouth of yours! You’re broken goods, you filthy sea hag. Nobody wants a scarred and scared little girl, Lyssa!”
She turns her towards her friends. They all smile and nod at her, even Dargothoth seems sympathetic. She turns back and shrugs.
“I’ll take my chances, old man. Have a safe trip back to whatever place you came from. Bye now.”
She waves at him with an exaggerated grin.
The blackness rises and draws back uncle Waterrock.
“Fine!” They can hear him shout from within the fog. “Even if you find love, they will leave you eventually. You know I made sure you wouldn’t spawn any other sea witches while working for me. The bloody stains on my accordion are proof. I made you lick your blood off my cane, remember?”
His twisted laughter echoes.
“I cooked whatever I stomped out of you that night and fed it to the hounds”, he whispers. “You are broken, little Lyssa, and broken women can’t get children.”

Chapter 4.20: A Fear of Heroes

“Are you alright?”
Lyssa sits on the pew next to Bruq, her arm around his shoulders. She can feel him shake and hears his teeth chattering. If this was his biggest fear, then this must have been the worst nightmare he’s ever had. She found that tree to be horrifying, she couldn't imagine what impact it must have had on him.
“I am fine”, he says and turns his head to hers. “At least, I am now. Thanks. That was fucking horrible. I’m already sorry for what you’re about to experience.”
He leaves her staring into the distance. The hunter welters to Daemion, still weak in the knees. He holds the rail of the pew to keep himself on top of his hooves.
“Did I receive the blessing? Can you see anything?”
The souldrinker gives him a quick glance and nods.
“Can you describe what you see?”
The demon looks again, this time with some more attention.
“Same as mine”, he answers. “A see-through purple set of antlers float in front of your forehead, same shape as the horns of the high priest. It isn’t very extravagant, but you don’t need that. This does the trick.”
He taps him on the shoulder as he passes him by.
“Well done, hunter, and welcome.”

Daemion takes a sip of another bottle. He closes his eyes and nods.
“This one is more juicy”, he explains. “It’s very fruit-driven, all exotic and immensely sweet. The subtle pulp drifting in it isn’t even off-putting. It has a full body, just as I expected, and it tingles my tongue. I think it’s because of some spice that’s in it. The finish is very peppery and covers the sugary taste from before really well.”
His expression changes. His eyes have an empty gaze and his lower lip trembles. He turns his head towards to floor.
“Now comes the final taste. It’s incredibly salty. Not like the sea, but like when you lick a tear running down your cheek. The balance is way off. This ruins all the pleasantries I just tasted. It feels like it’s been bottled too long, but that can’t be the case. It’s just a few hours old.”
He spits into the corner of the room and rubs his hand rapidly across his lips.
“Can you come towards the altar, please? It’s obviously you.”
They all turn to Lyssa, who sighs deeply to shake off her nerves. She stands up and walks towards him. She evades eye contact and just stares at his naked body, curious and afraid what marking will appear.
Daemion looks down at his stomach. Just above the black cloth that covers his manhood his skin changes. The shape of kissing lips appear, but shortly after a couple of sharp pins or needles appear as well, piercing the lips and shutting them.
“Poor child”, he says.
Just as was the case with Bruq, the mouth of the statues starts to breathe more black smoke. The fihyr moves back into the darkness and disappears.
“Above all the things you fear, you fear something that you hope will never happen again, but the chances are so high you’ll do. Abuse… just humiliating, female unfriendly, emotional and sexual abuse.”
He stops talking and steps to the side, leaving the siren alone with the rising smoke in front of her.
After all these years, after making sure he could never harm a woman again, never harm a child again, she’s going to see him again.
The slithering sound the fihyr made just a moment ago disappears. Now, a faint sound of an instrument rises, becoming louder and louder. Recognising it is nothing more than a reflex: it’s an accordion.
It takes her back to her what was supposed to be her youth, when she came on land at Port Lorain and never returned again to her beloved sea.
A raw voice sings in the mist.


“Well, why don’t you come down to the Wailing Wench
and let a wailing wench come down on you.
Pay a coin and to naught she’ll strip.
Pay one more and she’s yours to rip.
Dock your salty ship in her harbour tight,
Just spank her if she doesn’t treat your right.
Why don’t you come down to the Wailing Wench
and let a wench moan and wail.”


Heavy steps accompany the sharp tunes of the accordion. The ominous sound closes in on the siren and then suddenly stops.
The darkness subsides to reveal a middle-aged man. Chunks of food rest in the grey nest he calls a beard and his chipped and yellowed teeth hold a smoking pipe between them. He stops playing, takes the pipe out of his mouth and blows her a kiss.
“Good to see you again, sugar tits”, he says while licking his upper lip. “Come here and give your uncle a kiss.”

Chapter 4.19: A Fear of Heroes

“Face your fear and receive Gor-Thar’s blessing, Bruq. There is no way back now!”
The satyr has fallen backwards, leaning on one hand behind him and shielding his face with the other.
“Protector of the Echoing Grove.”
The deep voice is accompanied by a cracking sound, like a cut tree slowly breaking and falling. The hulking tree rises above the smoke and towers above its spectators. It looks like the ceiling has disappeared and has taken a formless shape to make way for this manifestation of terror.
They recognise the creature as a treant. They’ve all heard the stories about the ancient souls inhabiting the equally ancient trees. They are described as patient, peaceful and comforting. This treant, however, is the exact opposite.
“You call yourself the ghost of the woods, the shadow of the forest and the blood running through the trees.”
It laughs. Through the shifting fog they can see something that almost looks like a mouth. Dozens of bright lights shine above the maw, crystals that look like eyes, going all around the upper part of the trunk.
“The only ghosts in the woods are those you couldn’t save, hunter!”
It swings one of its thick branches forwards, missing the satyr by just a few hairs.
Bruq looks through his fingers and sees the bright blue shades of his family follow the branch. It’s almost like they were hanged and the tree is swinging their corpses around.
“The only shadow of the forest is the one I cast down on it!”
The treant leans forward. It definitely has eyes, Bruq can see them clearly. Its mouth is nothing else than broken bark. The sharp pieces pointing away from the tree move like teeth when it speaks.
“The only blood running through the trees comes from when I spill it and enrich the ground!”
It pulls its roots from the ground and holds them in front of Bruq’s face. Blood drips from the razor sharp tips.
In a flashback he can’t repress anymore, he sees the corpses of other satyrs on those roots, dangling lifeless or coughing up blood.
“You remember me, don’t you? You fear I’m coming for you. We will meet, hunter. I walk the land of Abaddon, trapping the souls on which I feed over and over.”
“You have to get up, Bruq! You can do this!”
Oslando draws his friend’s attention. Even though it’s only for a second, it’s enough for him to recover.
“You are not real!” Bruq is shouting on the top of lungs. “You can’t hurt me! Not anymore!”
A maniacal laugh almost deafens him.
“I am real, hunter.” The treant shouts. “And now that you’re here, I can hurt you more than ever before!”
Burning leaves float down and heat up the temple. Bruq is sweating everywhere.
“Daemion, what do I do now?” The satyr looks at the priest, desperate and in awe. “How do I complete the trial?”
The branch-like symbol on the demon’s wrist is still glowing. It’s the only source of light besides the raging fire on top of the treant.
“Face your fears! Feed the Father with it!”
Bruq turns towards again to this horror of nature. It’s still laughing and mocking him, but he tried his very best to ignore it.
“You were the nightmare of my bedtime stories.” He would rather whisper than scream, but fears that the Father won’t hear him if he does. “You are a figment of my imagination, an unnatural personification of what I feared as a child. Tree, I am no longer a child and I no longer believe you exist.”
The roots smash the floor. The building shakes on its foundations. The orange flames blast upwards and even more burning pedals rain down.
“I am no figment, hunter!” Its voice thunders even louder, its echo hurts their ears. “You have seen me outside your dreams. You have seen me take lives you loved and you have seen me destroy homes. Tell me, hunter, who do you miss the most? Your father or your little brother?”
The perplexed expression on his face fades. Teeth visible, veins bulging, eyes black: there’s only anger now. He clenches his fists and takes a big step forward.
“You took everything that made the forest pure! The wildlife, my family, my childhood! But you burned down and your blackened corpse was cursed and buried. You will not take anything from anyone ever again! You are dead! You only exist in my mind from this point and I will never let you out!”
The flames disappear. The smoke slowly draws back to where the altar just was. A single root touches Bruq’s cheek, like a parent caressing his child.
“And now I live again.” The treant moves back into the darkness. “Risen by the curse that you thought would be my undoing. In my undeath, I wander the worlds again. I’ll be coming for you, hunter. I hope you live long enough to face me a final time.”
Bruq’s eyes widen.
“This can’t be true”, he stammers. “You lie! Why should I believe anything you say?”
The treant doesn’t answer. His form breaks down into the smoke he now hides in. Only seconds later, the fihyr is the only creature left in front of the statue.
“Well done”, Daemion says.
The demon turns his arm to admire this new marking. Its glow fades: the trial is finished.
“What do you know of this?” Bruq walks over to the priest. “What kind of fortune telling nonsense was this? Was it true?”
The devyryl looks away for a moment. He meets the gaze of the other adventurers. They look dumbstruck, mesmerised, horrified. This ritual has stopped impressing him a long time ago, but he remembers fondly how he felt when completing it. It was dreadful.
“We have stories about the undead treant as well”, he replies. “We call it the Wandering Tree. It’s a being resurrected by forbidden magic. Rumours say a group of heretics claims the souls before the Reapers take them and twist it in diabolical ways, turning the souls into wretched things, almost as rotten as they are. I believe the rumours to be true and I fear, sadly, that the Wandering Tree is out there somewhere.”

Chapter 4.18: A Fear of Heroes

The thing that floats into the room is almost too difficult to describe. It’s a pale green orb of flesh, roughly the size of an adult halfling. Its back and top are covered with sickly yellow boils and pustules, all looking ready to pop. Actually, some of them already popped and are leaking a milky fluid. At the front of the rotting blob, each of its eight drooling mouths are accompanied by one yellow eye above them. The eyes shifts rapidly from one perplexed spectator to the other.
As the fihyr drifts further towards them, the black fog subsides and they can see tentacles in different shades and sizes dangle below the monster. Some of the tentacles hang completely still, while others try to reach for its preys.
“Don’t be afraid”, the priest says to them. “This is not the part you need to fear.”
“It gets worse?” Bruq’s loud voice feels deafening between these walls, especially as most of the others are awestruck.
Daemion chuckles.
“Let’s start with you then”, he whispers. “You’re the closest thing to a demon your group has.”
The satyr’s mouth falls open. He turns towards the sivak and points at him.
“And what about him? He’s evil, scaled, has wings. He’s basically a dragon walking on two feet. How am I more a demon than him?”
The fihyr makes a deep growling sound. Its eyes turn towards its master, who shakes his head in response.
“No”, he commands and he turns back to Bruq. “Dragons aren’t demons and not all demons are evil. Luckily for you, that’s a misinterpretation, told to younger generations by those who think themselves the victors in the wars waged against Abaddon. You have horns and when you get upset, your eyes turn black. It's happening right now. If you had wings and a few more arms, you would basically be a balam. Be glad you look like this. It may work in your advantage at some point.”
Daemion cuts off the conversation by turning his back towards the unblessed. He looks down the bottles and after hesitating for a few seconds, he picks up one of them. He circles it around for a bit and smells it.
“Oh, this is definitely yours, satyr.”
The souldrinker gives him a penetrating stare as he brings the glass mouth to his lips. He dramatically whips his head back and downs the viscous beverage. It moves than slower than they would expect, almost syruppy in consistence.
“Hmm…” Daemion closes his eyes and smacks his lips a couple of times. “It accompanies the smell very good. The initial earthy tones match the smell of a forest after rain. Nutty flavour with just a hint of berries… goodberries, perhaps? It’s off dry, good body, not too light, but not too full.”
They stare at this curious scene: a demon tasting their fear juice and describing it like he’s judging a glass of wine.
“The finish is a bit bitter, herbal. Hmm… curious. The aftertaste tastes like burned meat. It’s like I can almost smell the smoke.” Daemion licks his lips. “Your fear… Your fear is losing the hunt. Not just any hunt. A particular one, one that didn’t give a reward, but still offered a story to tell. You’re just too scared to tell it.”
The black demon puts down the bottle and looks at the back of his hand. The skin around his wrist quickly turns white. A new symbol has appeared: it looks the branch of a tree that wraps around three times.
A trembling sound grows louder and more smog fills the entire room.
“This is the part that usually freaks demons out”, the priest shouts. “Just don’t attack the fihyr and you’ll be fine!”
They lose sight of the monster, now completely hidden in darkness.
Daemion raises his arm and his new marking glows brightly. The trembling changes. Screams come from somewhere deep inside the mist: men, women, children. The crackling of a raging fire. The stunning and deep sound of bark breaking.
They’re all sounds Bruq remembers vividly. He hoped he would never hear these things again, let alone see this horrid spectacle. Out of the darkness steps his biggest fear, shaking the temple with every step: a giant walking tree, its bark black and its leaves burning, coming for the hunter.

Chapter 4.17: A Fear of Heroes

“I’m surprised to say it, but I slept rather well.”
Lyssa yawns and stretches her arms out as she walks out of the dark room. She lifts her shoulder and rubs her cheek against it. She’s trying to properly wake up, but she’s still a little drowsy.
“I expected worse when Daemion said we would ‘enter the realm of nightmares’, but I haven’t had a single bad dream.”
Oslando sounds rather positive as well. He clears his throat. Maybe it’s because of what occult ritual the fihyr performed, but his mouth is as dry as parchment. He licks his lips behind his hand.
“I’m glad to hear you all had a good rest.”
Daemion appears out of the thick smoke, his eyes glowing bright. The mist hides his smile and the drop of saliva running down at the corner of his mouth.
“If you can all make your way to the central room we can begin the ritual. I’ll join you after I collected my beverages from the fihyr.”
It still sounds rather ominous to them, but they have made their peace with it. Maybe, in a world like this, this is a very mundane thing. Besides, so far these priests have been nothing but helpful and understanding.
“Unless…” Daemion stares at them. “Has anyone changed his or her mind? When we begin, I don’t want to interrupt the ritual. I could, but it will displease the Father, potentially influencing the other blessings.”
Dargothoth looks up from the ground. It’s now or never and he has to know.
“In my world I am a follower of the mighty god Nerull.” He overcompensates the shred of uncertainty with exaggerated pride. “I will not test and challenge a grand deity like him by showing signs of disbelief here. What does your go-” The sivak clears his throat. “What does your Father think of this?”
Daemion smiles with sympathy. It’s the question he expected him to ask, he only guessed it would be sooner.
“None of the Parents holds grudges for this. Every demon and devil can worship whoever he or she wants. There are a few rules however, all just plain common sense. If you are blessed by a Parent, the boon will be taken if the follower acts against the explicit will of their Parent. Also, killing another follower or defiling a temple or holy altar can have the same consequence. You can always change the blessing. You can just go the a different guldûn and replace it. You can’t have multiple ones. It’s all very reasonable. If it applies to us demons, it also applies to ucha’ari. As for your own god… I think you know his will better than I do, my fellow priest. And I think you fear the answer to that question.”

They sit on the first pew, close to the dreadful statue. Its terrifying shadow dances on the walls behind it. They don’t know exactly how long Daemion has been downstairs to collect whatever concoctions he wants to drink, but it feels like he’s taking too long. Maybe the anticipation for the horror show that will take place is part of the trial. If it is, it’s working for Bruq and Lyssa. The satyr’s hooves create a slightly annoying tapping sound with every nervous step he takes. The siren sits with one leg across the other, shaking her boot uncontrollably.
“You’re making the entire bench shake.” Oslando laughs and puts his hand on her knee, trying to stop the trembling. “I’m anxious too, but whatever we’re going to face, it’s only temporary. Just like pain, you’ll have forgotten it by tomorrow.”
A restrained laugh draws their attention. Daemion walks leisurely towards them. With every step, the sound of scraping glass fills the room. He holds five strings in his right hand, all tied to the neck of a bottle. It’s the size of a bottle of wine and see-through, so they can see the pearly liquid that fills them.
“I don’t know if you forget what you’re about the experience tomorrow already, but it will not hurt you. At least not physically.”
He puts down the bottles next to the altar and turns to the doorway he just came through. He raises his hands and his white markings light up.
“Let me introduce you to the creature that makes this trial of fear possible. This, followers-to-be, is a fihyr.”

Chapter 4.16: A Fear of Heroes

Daemion opens a metal door. An eerie creaking echoes throughout the room and an even deeper darkness than blinds the current room lies behind it. The same kind of mist that lingers throughout the entire temple crawls towards their feet. It’s as cold as Sa’arlach’s skin was to the touch.
“There are enough beds in there”, the demon explains. “Just feel around a bit and you’ll find them. You can’t use any light to look for it. That’s of the utmost importance.”
His voice is deep and guttural, but it has sounded friendly and comforting the entire time. Even when he spoke of unimaginable horrors, he was reassuring he wouldn’t force them to do something they don’t want to. Now, he sounds as stern as Hadriel did when he demanded the heroes to hand over the Enochian gemstones.
“The fihyr can’t stand the light and will do anything to make it go away, even if that means killing you.”
“You said they were tame.” Oslando interrupts him. “You promised they wouldn’t hurt us.”
Daemion crosses his arms.
“You can’t expect a dragon not to fry you when you throw rocks at him or a marilach not to devour you if you destroy her webs and eggs.”
They don’t know exactly what kind of monster a marilach is, but they understand what the devyryl is trying to say: don’t tease a creature you don’t want to fight.
“We get it”, Bruq says. “I have question, though. I am already well-rested and don’t need to sleep for the next couple of hours. Do you expect us to just lie around and wait until we fall asleep?”
“No, I don’t.” He’s already sounding more friendly again. “The mist you’re currently seeing escape the room will help you. It numbs the mind and usually makes someone enter the realm of nightmares within the hour. Don’t wander around, you’ll get lost in the lair of the fihyr. You’ll be awake again long before the three suns disappear. When you are awake, I’ll collect what the fihyr abstracted and take one of them with us to the altar. You’ll face whatever frightens you the most in front of it. That way, Gor-Thar can consume the fear and grant you a blessing. If you don’t have any questions, I suggest we don’t digress any further. Please, follow me.”

They have complaint about the cold, the disturbing slimy noises down the room and how uncomfortable their beds are. Now, as far as Bruq knows, everyone is asleep. He feels how heavy it becomes to keep his eyes open. He already knows what kind of fear he has to face. He wonders what the others fear the most. Someone like Oslando, the perfect warrior… Someone as terrifying as Dargothoth… He feels the grip on his thoughts slip away.
A humming sound shakes him out of his slumber for a moment. It sounds like Lyssa, but he doesn’t want to call her name, afraid the others will wake up or that he’ll disturb the fihyr. He lies silently, hearing how the humming changes to words. Very quietly, he hears the siren singing a song to herself.

“But I’ll just sing this sad lullaby.
You’re too busy to ask me why.
If you’d ask I know for sure I would lie.
No one knows of my sad lullaby.”

He can hear her sniffing, holding back her tears.

“I cry for help across the sea,
but all the good men who come for me
drown in these waves before they can see
me singing my lullaby.

Adored by all, but love it’s not.
Just some poor souls who got caught
by me humming, hoping I forgot
why I’m singing my lullaby.”

His heart breaks for her. In any other situation he would walk towards her. Hug her. Kiss her forehead. His body has already fallen asleep and he’s sure his mind will follow quickly.

“No man to kiss, no woman to hold.
No children to whom my stories are told.
No true love with me to share and grow old.
No one sings for me a lullaby.”

So… tired…

“But I’ll just sing my own lullaby.
All are too busy to even care why.
If you would ask me, I would break down and cry.
I’ll just drown… in my sad… lul-”

Chapter 4.15: A Fear of Heroes

“Yes, I am.”
A souldrinker. If there’s anything you don’t want to hear from someone who says he’s going to help you and consume your fear, it’s that he’s a souldrinker.
“Fuck”, Bruq says and he quickly reaches for his glaive.
Daemion raises his hands to calm him down.
“I am not literally going to drink your souls”, he says with a nervous laughter. “I’ll just drink an abstraction of it. It’s painless and freeing. I'll explain before you jump to any wrong conclusions again”
He runs his hand through his serpentine dreadlock and the snakes unwind into thinner braids. His hairs hiss with content.
“Everyone who desires the blessing of Gor-Thar needs to pass the trial of fear. To pass the trial, you just need to sleep in the room beneath the temple. As you sleep, the fihyr will do the rest.”
“The what?”
Lyssa raises her eyebrows and tries to ignore the nervous tremor at the corner of her mouth.
“The Mother of Nightmares created the fihyr - I know, it just sounds like fear, but it’s different - and gave them to her Father, Gor-Thar. These beautiful creatures were born from her magic and the nightmares of dormant demons. They feed on the emotions of their prey. Don’t worry, the fihyr we keep below are tame and don’t hurt the minds they search in. They merely abstract a solution of your deepest fear that I can bottle and consume. That’s how I get these markings and that’s how you are going to receive your blessing.”
They look at each other, dumbstruck and waiting for one of them to respond.
“Hold up”, Bruq stammers. “You need us to sleep in a room with mind-sucking demons?”
“Tame mind-sucking creatures, I said. They aren’t actual demons, but I don’t think that’s your problem with what I said.”
“No”, Bruq says loudly, “no, that’s obviously not the problem! How do you think you’re going to make me do this?”
Daemion shakes his head.
“I’m not going to make you do anything”, he responds calmly. “If you don’t want the blessing, you are allowed to walk away. Many demons are too scared to sleep there. Many come out screaming. Not because of the fihyr: they can’t see them in the total darkness, but they can hear them. If this isn’t something you want, well… the door is right there.”
The black demon points towards the entrance.
“I understand you might be scared. Trust me, I do. I am scared all the time.”
“Why is that?”
Something Daemion said sparks some interest in Oslando. It sounds so illogical for a servant of this temple to be constantly afraid.
“I feel every form of terror I have ever consumed”, he says and he looks down at his markings. “I fear dragons because of their fire and hunger. I fear sphinxes for not knowing the answers to their riddles. I fear the Reapers will take me by accident. I fear the Parents will forsake us. I fear the knocking at my door at night. I fear bridges, bugs, blizzards, blood and being buried alive. Name something and it will send a shiver down my spine. Name a letter and I can tell you at least ten things that scare me half to death. I always fear everything, because I need to be the embodiment of fear. Only that way I can take care of this flock.”
“That sounds awful”, Mero says sadly. “Living with all imaginable anxieties ever. If you can live with that, I’m sure I can survive a night of horror inside the chamber below. I will sleep here.”
The sorcerer turns to his allies. With his new body, his face becomes much more readable. He looks hopeful.
“If Mero is willing to do this, I will not leave his side. None of us will. Right?”
Oslando’s short attempt to convince them is fruitful. Lyssa goes and stands beside them. She looks at the satyr. She gestures with her head for him to come and stand by her side.
“You are going to cost me my blood and bones some day, captain.”
He sighs and shakes his head with disbelief. Bruq takes slow steps towards her and he sees the presumptuous smile on her face.
“I knew you couldn’t resist my charm.”
Bruq stops walking.
“Did you charm me? I couldn’t hear you do it. It’s so rude of you if you did.”
Dargothoth walks pasts him and bashes his shoulder against the satyr’s.
“I’ll take your blood and bones myself if you two don’t shut up.” The cleric growls and stops in front of the demon. “Tell me, if you fear everything, what do you fear the most?”
A weak smile appears on Daemion’s face. He puts his right hand on his chest. He taps his fingers on the white antlers that decorate his pectoral muscles.
“Everyone can fear something because of what that something will do to you. That’s an easy fear, but has an easy solution. Just don't walk into a dragon’s lair if you don’t want to face a dragon. A Parent is a much more complex phenomenon to fear, just because of what he or she is: incomprehensible and existing way beyond our form of being. Gor-Thar is all fears combined, the origin of the existence of every form of dread and terror. How does one not bow down in awe at the sight of his statue? How does one not tremble at the knees and sweat until there is not a single drop left? We are small, shrunk down to the littlest of things, in his presence. I fear him the most, cleric, and soon you will fear our Parents too.”

Chapter 4.14: A Fear of Heroes

“Unblessed ones, meet my pupil, Daemion.”
They follow the high priest into a room at the back of the temple. It’s less dark here. A magical light flickers in all corners, coming from the braziers with purple flames above them.
“May your bones shiver eternal”, the other demon says.
He looks very different than Sa’arlach, clearly not a tharei. He is black, but not just any kind of black. His skin is darker than coal, darker than any starless night they have ever witnessed. The only other shade is white. His eyes glow faintly and his almost entirely naked body is covered with strange markings. He is about six and a half feet tall, a little muscular and he has a deep voice.
“Yeah, you too”, Bruq says annoyed. “What’s up with the shivering bones? You said it as well when we met.”
He turns to the crownhorned.
“Daemion will explain everything”, he says, not answering the hunter’s question. “I have a mass to prepare. Good luck.”
And just like that, Sa’arlach turns his back towards them and walks away, disappearing in the murky mist that fills this chamber as well.
“It’s a form of courtesy”, the pupil answers. “It’s our way to welcome you in the home of the Father of Fear. There are so many different customs, one for every Parent. By saying this, others know we worship Gor-Thar. If you receive his blessing, that’s the way you speak to a priest of another Parent.”
“It’s not sacrilege to speak of your own religion against someone who believes differently?”
Lyssa feels more relaxed with this demon than with the other one. Daemion looks different than most people she knows, that’s for sure, but he looks less demonic than the high priest. Cyrzana and the pupil look just like her, only with horns, wings or a different skin tone. Sa’arlach looks like the monster parents scare their children with.
“We acknowledge all Fathers and Mothers”, Daemion explains. “They are all family, all forty of them.”
“Forty?” Mero shouts and immediately covers his mouth. “Sorry for screaming in your temple… But forty is a really big family.”
The demon waves the excuse away with hand, making it clear it’s unnecessary to apologize.
“It is. On the top of the family tree are Baltor and Vexys, the first Parents. Then there a two of their offspring who have almost no worshippers: Akaleth, the Stillborn, and the one who is just named the Faceless One. Then came the twins: Neg’Crûn, the Father of Death, and Gor-Thar, the Father of Fear. After them came two more brothers and two sisters. They all created offspring as well. So, to worship one Parent is to acknowledge all of them. Demons and devils are stereotypically drawn to the fascinating and terrifying. So am I and, I guess, so are you. Am I right?”
Bruq starts to nod, but then quickly shakes his head.
“I like the thrill of the hunt, but I don’t like to be terrified, if you don’t mind.”
The satyr laughs nervously, bleating shortly.
(Arcana 13)
“What are those strange symbols on your body?”
Mero, in all his innocence, doesn’t realize he’s completely ignoring Bruq and changing the subject. He knows it’s something magical. What he’s wondering the most is how he got them. He can see the glyphs aren’t painted on his skin. They are part of his skin.
“These are the marks of Gor-Thar”, Daemion explains and he runs his fingers across some of the white markings. “Every time I taste a new kind of fear, a new sign of the Father appears on my skin. I can draw power from them. When I have enough of them, I hope to become the new high priest. I would be the first priest that isn’t tharei. And you are going to help me with that.”
Mero raises his hand to draw his attention, but doesn’t wait for approval to speak.
“What kind of demon are you? And how are we going to help you with becoming high priest?”
The demon walks over to Mero. Now that he’s closer, he can some than his contour and obvious symbols. His black hairs aren’t actual hairs. They’re black snakes all rhythmically moving together as if his locks are elevated by a never stopping wind. At the moment, the serpents are all twisting and turning around each other, creating one big scaled dreadlock that reaches all the way down to his waist.
“Well, you’re all going to take part in the trial of fear in order to receive Gor-Thar’s blessing. You’ll take part in a very easy but sometimes unsettling ritual. After that, I will consume your fear and we’ll call it forth at the altar. That answers your second question. To answer your first: my kind is known as devyryl.”
They understand what that means and it is horrifying.
“You…” Lyssa stammers. “You’re a souldrinker?”

Chapter 4.13: A Fear of Heroes

“Our Father goes by many names”, the priest says and he gestures them to walk towards him. “My people were the first to be born from his immortal energy. We called him the Dread Crown. The shadows his horns cast down made his enemies tremble with fear. We, the tharei, are made in his image. Now that I’m old, I no longer strike fear into the hearts of those who oppose my Father. I am of no use anymore on the battlefield. My place is by his side, in the holiest of places.”
Even though tharei is the name of a race that doesn’t need translation, they understand what it means: the crownhorned.
As they come closer, they can see where the purple glow is coming from. Beside the high priest they see the statue of a head, a giant one. The thick fog comes out of the back of his gaping maw and slithers between its stalagmite-like teeth. The upper part of the head is made of smaller skulls, some bigger than others. Just below some of the empty eye sockets are purple crystals, shaped like tears. Their glow casts a shadow behind the statue, a terrifying one, from where the name Dread Crown obviously is derived from. Its antler horns reach from the statue to the temple’s walls and ceiling.
“He is also called the Howling Horror and the Purple Wail. Legend says his offspring is born from the tears he bleeds. The scriptures say his blood is purple and so his tears are as well. Sometimes, a tear doesn’t bring forth a demon. The dozen of crystals you see embedded in this altar are filled with his essence and come closest to his divine presence here on Abaddon.”
Dargothoth takes a step forward, ignoring the itchy feel he gets from the statue’s glow on his skin.
“We are here for a mission, not for a mass”, he says.
He has the same hiss in his voice as the high priest, only in a deeper, more growling way.
“What do we have to offer to receive the blessing and be on our way?”
Sa’arlach wraps his hands around his own neck. His vertebrae make unsettling cracking sounds. Normally, when they hear something as loud as this, they would assume someone’s neck is being broken. However, the preacher looks fine.
“So impatient”, he whispers.
He waves his hand through the fog and moves it upwards. The smoke hides his face.
“Fear is in all of us. Fear controls our life in every stage. The baby fears his mother will not come back after leaving the room. The toddler fears the dark. The youngling fears death. The adolescents fear rejection. The adults - well - they fear everything: poverty, loneliness, a loveless life, the loss of family. We fear others and others fear us, and to be feared is to be felt. You rush through their veins, make their hearts pound faster and take their breath away.”
Again, Dargothoth steps towards him, shaking his head.
“Stop preaching, high priest. What does Gor-Thar want from us?”
Sa’arlach stops talking and clenches his jaw. He folds his hands together.
“He wants you to fear him.”
He smiles, an unsettling sight for the five adventurers.
“Back in my world”, Mero says, “almost everyone fears at least a few gods. I don’t see why it would be different here in Abaddon. I think I fear him.”
The high priest shakes his head.
“No, saying it is not enough. You have to feel it, only that will be sufficient.”
“And how should we do that?”
Bruq scratches his back and shakes his shoulders. He can’t get rid of that shivering feeling he got when he entered the temple.
“Don’t you worry about that”, Sa’arlach says with a sadistic smile on his face. “My apprentice has some very helpful skills to help you face your deepest fears. Please, follow me.”

Chapter 4.12: A Fear of Heroes

The pews of the temple are filled with all sorts of demonic humanoids, all covering their eyes and ears while screaming in terror. The temple goers are shivering, shaking their heads or stomping their feet, as if possessed by an immense fear.
At the other side of the temple, across the entrance, the five adventurers see a big statue, details shrouded in thick smoke. Only some faint purple glows pierce the obscure veil and shine a light on the priest in front of it. The priest wears a black robe with a purple cloak on his back, slowly waving on a nonexisting wind. Long and crooked spikes point upwards from his collar. From this distance they would almost look like someone broke off the legs of a giant spider and sew them onto the robe. With his back turned towards them, they can’t see anything else of him, but they can hear his voice.
“These are times to let fear conquer your hearts, my children!” His voice sounds like how a big snake would sound if he could talk and it echoes throughout the room. “With angels on our doorstep we can’t be too careful! Don’t try to fight it. Embrace it! Fear creates vigilance. Fear leads to survival. If we dwell in our Father’s bottomless dread, he will protect us, for he is the butcher and we are his kettle. He is the boot and we are the ant. We live in fear for him, but we are his to take if he chooses to. No one else - not even those feathered heretics - can harm us. We are his to take and we should love and fear him for it.”
The preaching priest turns around, arms raised above his head and head tilted backwards. Two big antlers stick out of his skull, both decorated with small knives hanging of the branches. The metal blades cling against each other and company the priest’s voice with a haunting melody, like a wind chime.
“Return to your houses and lock your doors”, he whispers.
He lowers his head and stares at the adventurers. His head is shaped like that of a dragon, but without the scales. Instead his skin is grey and leathery, wrinkled and weary. His four eyes are milky and lidless. His smile reveals his teeth. They are small, but it looks like that they are still sharp and he has at least a hundred of them.
“I fear I have some guests to attend to.”

“May your bones shiver eternal”, the demon says and he shakes Dargothoth’s hand. “I am Sa’arlach, high priest of Gor-Thar, the Father of Fear. What terror drives you to his gûldun?”
His hand is cold to the touch, much colder than the other humanoids he has met before.
“Dargothoth”, the cleric says. “We are here to kill the archangels, but we require a blessing first.”
Even though the sivak may be the one who has spoken with demons the most compared to his companions, Oslando feels like he’s being too direct, too bold.
“Indeed”, the half-elf adds, “we were told to visit this temple to receive the blessing of your Father. My name is Oslando. We, as outsiders, don’t have one yet, but we are willing to make an offering to get one. Can you help us?”
Sa’arlach lets go of Dargothoth’s hand and shakes the half-elf’s. He smiles.
“Yes”, he hisses. “Tell me, Oslando… What is going to happen if you don’t? What do you fear that’ll happen?”
The eldritch knight’s mind goes blank for a second. He doesn’t know what to say. Most of all, he doesn’t know if he wants to say what he fears. It’s the same answer as back home, the same bigotry and narrow-mindedness as he always faced. Now, the story is still the same, but only filled with demons and devils instead of humans and elves.
“We don’t want to startle the people of Abaddon”, Lyssa says and she makes a small bow, hoping it’s the same a sign of respect as in their in world. “If we walk around without a blessing, the demons aren’t likely to accept us, hindering us in our duty to save you. My name is captain Lyssa Kaklamanis. Pleased to meet you, high priest.”
The demon slowly nods and points his claw at the two other strangers.
“Do you wish to introduce yourself as well? I feel that you are anxious, satyr. You doubt if you can trust me. And you, golem? Your worries are unclear to me. You fear that you’re… impolite? Unfriendly? So… peculiar.”
The two friends look at each other, not knowing which one of them must respond. And how.
“I am Merodius Darvantigo, but my friends call me Mero.”
The high priest tilts his head forward.
“In that case, I will call you Merodius, golem.”
The tone that he speaks with makes him feel uneasy, but he doesn’t want to show it. Maybe it’s just how his kind of demon interacts with others. He will give him the benefit of the doubt, just as he promised his uncle.
“I am Bruq Xantree”, the satyr stammers.
Lyssa leans in to him.
“Your last name is Xantree?” She chuckles. “What kind of name is that?”
“Shut up”, he whispers back at her.
“So, tell me, dunguli… What do you offer the Father of Fear?”
Now they aren’t called strangers or outsiders anymore. The priest just addresses them faithless ones, the unblessed.
“What does he want?” Oslando has recovered himself. “What could five mortal outsiders give him what he doesn’t already have?”
Sa’arlach slowly shakes his head. The jerky spasms in his neck take away the fluent motion. He turns his back towards them and walks towards the purple glow.
“He doesn’t want something he doesn’t have.” He hisses and they can hear him smile. “He wants more of what he has already… And you have plenty of that to offer.”

Chapter 4.11: A Fear of Heroes

“I don’t think we handled that situation very well”, Oslando says.
He breaks the silence that fell upon them when they left Zamazel behind. Even though he didn’t say anything when the injustice occurred, he feels like he can no longer keep it to himself.
“We got what we wanted”, Dargothoth says without turning around to look at the half-elf. “We know where to go and we got a magic arrow. You should be pleased. You are one step closer to becoming the hero you want to be.”
Oslando picks up the pace to walk past the cleric and stop in front of him.
“I don’t want to bring peace to this world if it means I have to do it like this. You might think that our purpose justifies all means, but I don’t. I have tolerated much these last few days, but I’m getting sick of the way you think you can just do anything you want. These things have consequences.”
They have all stopped walking. Mero stands beside the half-elf, while the others stand next to Dargothoth.
“Maybe we went a bit overboard”, Lyssa says, secretly hoping that they will notice her pirate pun, “but I can’t say he didn’t had it coming. He only had himself to blame.”
Mero shakes his head.
“I think we should have been nicer to Zamazel”, he says carefully, trying to keep the peace. “We didn’t have to force him to give up the only thing he has left of his family.”
Bruq is glad with the prized possession, but can’t help not to feel at least a little bad about how he acquired it.
“Maybe you’re right, Mero”, he responds, “but this arrow can give us a serious advantage in battle. This could be our ticket out when a battle comes we otherwise couldn’t win. Besides, look at what that demon hunted! Young wolves… and he couldn’t even manage to take them down without our help. Such a pristine arrow would be wasted on him.”
The half-elf looks at the satyr with disbelief.
“You know, Bruq, if I didn’t know better, I would say I’m hearing Dargothoth talking instead of you.”
The hunter is dumbstruck. He wants to respond, to tell Oslando he’s completely wrong and that there’s nothing evil inside of him, but he can’t produce a single sound.
“And he should be proud of it”, the cleric says and he lays his hand on the satyr’s shoulder.
Bruq looks at him and pulls his shoulder away.
“Maybe… maybe we were wrong”, he stammers. “It just felt like the right thing to do, you know? It felt like he deserved to be punished for bringing the title of hunter to shame.”
The half-elf sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I understand that you felt that way, but if we are going to do this our entire time in Abaddon, we’re going to make a lot of enemies. Besides, if he was supposed to live up to some honourable code of hunters, you should too.” He turns his head to Lyssa. “You wouldn’t want to sail a ship with a crew that shifts their morals whenever it suits them, right?”
She turns a strand of hair between her fingers.
“That would be problematic”, she says.
Suddenly, they hear screaming in the distance, coming from their destination. They can’t see what is going on inside the black building, but they doubt it will be anything pleasant.
“We should go now and find out what is going on in there”, Oslando says. “I would rather have our blessings sooner than later. Maybe if we can help with whatever is happening, they are more likely to grant us one.”
They start walking again, faster this time.
“Well, it is the temple of fear”, Mero says. “Maybe it’s supposed to sound like someone is scared.”
There is another scream, louder this time. Actually, now that they are coming closer, it sounds like multiple people screaming.
“I’m not going to leave it to chance, Mero.” Oslando draws his flaming sword. “Let’s go!”
He runs and the others follow. The clinging of their metal armors and the clashing of items in their backpacks are drowned out by the increasing volume of panic in front of them.
The building isn't very large. Its black roof rests on pillars made of the same kind of stone. Sharp curves form the corners of the roof and braziers with purple flames stand left and right of the entrance. No light comes from inside. It’s unnaturally dark, even for a building without windows. A barrier of magical darkness separates them from the horrid howls and pleas of mercy.
They enter, weapons drawn and ready to face whatever hides in the gloom.

Chapter 4.10: A Fear of Heroes

“Maybe this isn’t necessary”, Mero says to his draconic ally. “I think he learned his lesson.”
Dargothoth raises his other hand to silence the sorcerer. He doesn’t look away from the demon, who is still focused on the Ring of Muffled Screams.
“What is your most valuable possession?” The cleric grins diabolically. “Get it out of your bag.”
Desperate voices echo in Zamazel’s head. They cloud his mind with pleas of forgiveness and mix together with his own thoughts. He can’t think straight. The only thing he hears clearly is the command Dargothoth is giving. He turns around and slowly takes a few steps towards his tent, his body swaying in trance. He stops, looks down and reaches for his quiver.
“Don’t try anything stupid.” The priest growls. “I will not think twice about ending you.”
Although most of them don’t think the demon will attack them, Bruq takes out of his bow and Lyssa puts her finger on the blunderbuss’ trigger, just to be sure.
(Investigation 11)
Zamazel takes out a single arrow, one that draws Bruq’s attention immediately. It’s unlike all arrows he has seen before. The feathers at the end are not very special to behold. They look like the regular black kind he has seen on many arrows. It’s the tip that’s special. Instead of the standard flattened triangular form, this arrow has a teardrop-shaped head. It’s made out of metal and glass. Bruq doesn’t know why you would want an arrow made out of glass. It’s probably enchanted or something, but he can’t recognize what type of arrow it is.
“You offer me an ornamental projectile to spare your life?” Dargothoth flips his head back and laughs, looking like a stereotypical villain. “You better explain yourself.”
Zamazel walks back again. He doesn’t look at them, but stares at the cleric’s ring. He whispers to himself, but whatever he’s saying is inaudible for the others.
“Speak up!”
“It’s the only valuable thing I have left”, the demon says again, louder this time. “My grandfather left every hunter in our family one of these arrows when he passed away. I’m the only one left who hasn’t used his arrow.”
“That still doesn’t convince me it's actually worth something”, Dargothoth snarls. “Skip the smalltalk and keep your emotions to yourself.”
The demon’s concentration breaks and he looks up. He stares the sivak straight in the eyes.
“It’s an arrow of slaying”, Zamazel says with grinding teeth. “Just dip it in the blood of your enemies and it’s ready to fly.”
The priest turns around to his allies. He sees how the confused expression on the satyr’s face changes to a more enlightened one. The others still look like they have no idea what kind of arrow it is.
“Hunter”, Dargothoth says, “please, share your knowledge.”
Bruq takes big steps towards the demon and takes the arrow. Zamazel keeps holding the arrow, but eventually lets go. He seems conflicted about giving it away. Whatever kind of domination the cleric has over the demon, he seems to fight it. Unfortunately for him, it looks like he’s losing the battle.
“This kind of arrow is very popular amongst hunters”, he answers now that he can recognize what it actually is, “but it’s very rare. After dipping it in blood, the arrow grows hungry, sort of speak, for more of that kind of blood. So, if you would dip it in the blood of a dragon, that arrow could harm a dragon much more than any regular arrow ever could. They’re expansive and useful, but they lose their properties after hitting a target.” He rubs his goatee. “I never had one before, but I am glad I have one now.”
Mero and Lyssa look at each other, both finding it a bit unlike Bruq’s normal behaviour. They didn’t think he would accept this gift when the giver is being manipulated. They don’t say anything, both still upset with what Zamazel did, but still it doesn’t feel right.
“I will make sure it will have its use for a good cause, granting me a glorious victory when the hunt is tough.” Bruq lays his hand on the demon’s shoulder. “I’m just glad you didn’t use it on the wolf. Then you would have terribly screwed up twice in a day. One time is already one time too many.”
Zamazel breaks eye contact and stares at the ground, defeated and dishonoured. To have something so dear to him taken away hurts and feels unfair, but he’s scared of whatever this priest will do to him if he resists. His allies seem to have some problems with him, but he fears they will take the draconian’s side if it comes to a scuffle.
“You will not have to join us to the temple. Just point us in the right direction and we’ll be on our way.”
Dargothoth’s haughty tone is no longer mixed with all the voices that clouded his mind. The demon sighs and lifts his point to show them they way.
The cleric smiles.
“Don’t follow us.”