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.”
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