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.”