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.”