Chapter IV - Earthly Delights

[TennyoCeres84]

Upon sensing the revolting, lustful display on their furniture, Aislinn emitted an angry, snarling hiss, her nails digging hard into her fists. "The nerve of this bastard..." she muttered.

Her eyes had hardened, which she used to look over at Tom. "It might be a trap, for all we know. But we need to get him out of here. The sooner he's gone, the better. I don't know if Sariel and the others were able to leave before he showed up or holed up in their apartments, but in any case, they're vulnerable around him," she quietly said to him.

"We should get down there before he starts defiling the bar and kick his sleazy ass out of here, if he doesn't leave soon enough," she groused, firmly grasping his hand as she started to proceed toward the elevator. "Grab your staff, in case you think you might need it."

* * *

The whole experience of having her clothes altered as she wore them was quite odd, to say the least. Despite the lack of pain, she couldn't help but stiffen slightly at the sight of her pelt morphed into a purse. Meris did have to agree that the new attire suited her much better than the power suit she had bought a while ago. Given the exposed arms and leather pants, she had to wonder if this was to appeal to Oberon's fondness for the female form...

In any case, she viewed the outfit as modern and decidedly her. Her fingers brushed the silver charm necklace with a bit of surprised delight. Talk about finding things from your past...

"Thank you for the lovely outfit, and send my regards to Ereshkigal for the necklace, Friar Nybbas," she joked, using his previous comparison. "I didn't realize it somehow still existed, either on account of Chambers melting it down or the like."

[IamLEAM1983]

"Oh, I do believe I've left a flustered and enraged collector of Dalarath antiques fuming, somewhere back in Nazi Germany," offhandedly replied Nybbas. "Again, thank Ereshkigal for that piece of information; for many of your fellow rebels had lost track of many of the sunken city's Golden Age fineries. It was a hop from here to Walpurgis and from there to Scranton, Ohio, to find the house of an aging and brittle Void Weaver who'd been of some import to Himmler, back in the bad old days... He skipped Nuremberg, but with the last of his treasures gone, all he is to be left with is dementia and a bi-weekly visit by an unsuspecting nurse."

He shrugged. "Another hop to Walpurgis, and Madame Galbraith deemed it fitting to increase your arsenal. Telekinetic abilities and an Archmage's command of magic are both helpful, but it sometimes helps to have some good old steel on offer."

As he spoke, he cinched the necklace around Meris' neck, where it fell with a familiar weight. "As for whether or not titillation is on the menu; I was honestly thinking on going for a more savage outlook than what dear old Solomon went for, which was Bronze Age regal frumpiness. A little Pictish strength and vulnerability here, a few blue accents for makeup..."

Nybbas again stopped in front of Meris and then gently cupped her face with a hand. Low, glowing warmth surged out of his fingers and across the Archmage's face, leaving her with the impression that the oils and pigments on her skin had changed in distribution. Naberius parted with a slight nod, at that. "I was afraid you'd be rather harsh with the blue eye-liner, but it all blends nicely in her skin. These are decent cheekbone highlights for the era, Nybbas. I'm surprised."

The Faun gripped his jacket's lapel and smiled, a bit of a fatuously swollen ego showing through. "As I've said - I learn quickly. I might never be a model of decency or propriety, but I've always won all adaptation-related challenges. Only Procell, here, comes second."

The blue-skinned demon scoffed at that. "I have to credit Matriel and I's element of choice for this. You, on the other hand, owe it all to how flippant you've always been. Nothing ever matters to you, Nybbas," he said, to the tone of harsh criticism.

That left the Faun to turn to face his colleague, arms parted. "And what would you wish of me, hm? I've already abandoned Azazel's sheer loathing, Solomon turned my desire to toy with mortals into one of interaction and mutual enrichment - and you would like me to contemplate the coming end of our Queen's kingdom as its boundaries will shift? Do you want me to fret over the loss of Meggido?"

Procell looked stumped. "I'm with Amduscias on this one," continued Nybbas. "The Queen's productivity and comfort are what matters. My service will only end on the day her Pelagic Prince Charming and herself will have somehow managed to usher in an era of durable peace. Knowing human nature, that seems liable to last about, oh, all of five minutes. I may miss centuries on account of liking a good, prolonged round of philandering, but I'm by no means an idiot, Procell. I haven't missed human nature. I haven't missed what happened to my brethren - or how they're on the rise again, thanks to the combination of one man's folly and the wider world's empathy."

Agares rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it. There's always a point where it looks like we're outta headlines for the next few years, like everything's shaping out to be hunky-dory - and then some politician gets assassinated twenty years in the future. Some idiot with a Christ complex starts a war he can't finish. The Hyperborean Warlocks wake up after thousands of years of slumber, or Amaxi goes Shelob, picks a body and infiltrates mainstream news sources, hoping to spin us into thermonuclear armageddon. Peacetime's just some odd blip on the global radar, on the grand scheme of things. Without that empathy you spoke of, we'd be stuck in a scarier version of the Dark Ages."

* * *

Tom settled with a tense nod and a hurried walk for the elevator's doors. He extended his left arm to the side as he passed, his staff jumping out of an umbrella tin and immediately glowing with fissures and cracks filled with Hellfire. On the ride down, he rapped the cabin's floor three times, like an old-fashion stagehand calling for silence before a play's beginning. Rulers and practitioners alike had done this for thousands of years in the past - a warning to all who might tresspass into a guarded arcane sanctum. The last bang coincided with the elevator doors opening, Tom sending out a wave of blue-white arcane fire to burn away the taint of his maker's presence. Even if nothing felt damaged, the air instantly felt lighter in the club - except in a tight radius around the man who was sitting at the bar.

Asmodeus was thin, if not emaciated. His posture was almost vulture-like and wracked with low and constant shivers. His hair consisted of a few curling gray wisps that fell to his shoulders, with a thin goatee that had probably seen better days. With crooked teeth and inset eyes, he looked a bit like an extravagantly-dressed junkie, a long red overcoat almost drooping down to the floor below his used stool. He'd appeared dressed, but it was obvious he wasn't used to it. He needed every ounce of stamina he had to stop shivering long enough to turn the stool around, exposing a left hand that rested on his thigh, a bit too close to his own crotch for comfort. Tom didn't look too surprised - he'd seen that tic too many times to count: the absent prodding that usually followed, involuntarily performed. As if the Prince of Lust couldn't abide the fact of letting himself go flaccid, or as if the mere act of brushing a finger against the bulge sent a wave of explosive bliss outwards, something that was bound to be even more torturous and excruciating than what mere succubi and incubi experienced.

The Fiend had gone for a three-piece, but hadn't had enough patience to seal the deal. His vest was only loosely buttoned from the bottom up, his tie crooked and hanging, a cufflink missing from his right arm. Dark stains covered the crimson fabric in a few places, the clothes' overall make looking distressed, poorly washed or just improperly maintained. It made sense: visual enhancements probably didn't matter to a Fallen angel whose mind had grown consumed with the partaking of and dealing in the pleasures of the flesh. He had the warthog's burgundy eyes, but something made it clear this had to be a Veil of some sort.

"See?" asked Asmodeus, his voice hoarse, slight and stammering, "I clean up good too, son. Not as well as you, but..."

Tom ignored the banter. "I didn't summon you, Asmodeus. You're trespassing on my sanctum."

Something made the Fiend close his eyes and almost silently moan, then smile. "I'm sorry - you know how this is. I feel everything my children feel; and I distinctly felt you. You... and this succulent creature of yours," he said, giving Aislinn a low, hungry look. "You summoned me both. Hunger, sweat and blood all summon me. Flesh summons me, as is my right."

Tom gave Aislinn a look that was fairly eloquent: he had a feeling his lower instincts had acted as a dinner bell for the Vice. He'd been denied his favorite meal ticket for thousands of years, only for it to finally be offered a willing pair of arms. It only made sense for him to show up afterwards, as Sariel had warned. He didn't look apologetic or worried; his newfound nature allowing him to approach the situation clinically. He might as well have asked her Are you thinking what I'm thinking?


Tom chose to press on. "And you're here to wish us well, I suppose," he asked, his sarcasm obvious.

Asmodeus smiled, the gesture ugly. "Others would, yes. I chose to come here as a kindness. Consideration for the truly damned.
- I don't care for lectures," warned Magnus. "Say one word out of line and fire and elemental fury are both going to kick you out my door."

The Vice sneered. "No worries there, son. I heard Pride's wails of anguish; we felt the shockwave of the Spire's fall. I have all of the world's flesh to taste, but I still know all that happens in my realm. I'm not looking for your definition of a kick out the door - I only enjoy pain once I consent to it. What I've come to say goes thusly."

He paused, closing his eyes, going for a deliberately grotesque rendition of a Guns n' Roses verse. "Ooooh, love hurts... A truth burped out by talentless buffoons. Even if Aislinn and you both live in utter bliss for thousands of years on end, even if your spats and disagreements only ever bring you closer, nature states that one of you is going to die first. You'll wave me to your portals and say it doesn't matter anymore and maybe it actually won't for the first few months that will follow that unfortunate demise..."

He reached across the counter, his arm impossibly elongating as he picked a Brandy from the rack against the bar's wall. He poured himself a measure of the golden-brown liquid in what looked like a used whiskey tumbler, and then looked back to his hosts. "But it eventually will matter. You haven't seen it in Anjali yet, but you soon will. Your precious Soulborn? They all have a little too much energy, a little too much gusto, a little too much zest and vim and vigor...

Oh, and they can't be killed by conventional means, either. Remind me, Tom - what's the natural human impulse when faced with something we can't quite grasp or contain?"

Again, Tom eyed Aislinn. A sliver of doubt now marked his features. "We... fear it. We try and destroy it."

Asmodeus nodded and went for a look of pained sympathy. It obviously didn't work. "Archibald Holden will desperately, intensely love his little girl. He will cheer for each of her successes, clap at her spelling bees and passed exams. He will clasp his lapels and expand his chest once she'll join the police academy and teach her how to slow-dance once her wedding ceremony will glitter and gleam on the horizon...

And then, she'll survive one close call with your friends. And another. And another. And another. She will go from mere exceptional skill to near-invulnerability when confronted with other skillful killers. She'll stand beside the Orcadian one's spawn as Amaxi will be bested - and she will laugh in Her face. Dear old Archie will come to fear his own daughter, slowly and exquisitely..."

Tom opted to go for a snap judgment, something he probably wouldn't have done before the ritual. "Well, I won't fear Aislinn, just as she doesn't have any reason to fear me!"

Asmodeus smirked at that. "I said something to that effect, once. I promised Lucifer I'd never slip; that I'd apportion the lustful adequately and see to their... reeducation. I slipped, Tom - I bloody well slipped; first with Amduscias and then with your brothers and sisters. And with you. Now, the only option I have is to sate the beast by tasting it all. Feeling it all. I made a promise I couldn't possibly keep."

[TennyoCeres84]

Aislinn gave her best golf clap at Asmodeus' statement. "Wow, that's novel. A highly-unattainable broken promise. Then you sunk into the easier option of routinely raping your offspring and the Damned. If Lord Byron hadn't existed, I'd think you would be the next best option for Byronic hero," she retorted.

* * *

Meris lightly groaned at their speculation and clapped to dismiss it. "Alright, enough. Let's focus on the here and now and come up with a plan for the meeting. What do Vassago's notes indicate, Nybbas?" she asked. "What would be a good starting off point?"

[IamLEAM1983]

sybbas looked a bit taken off-guard. "Oh, we're doing this now? Right this instant?"

Vassago rolled his eyes. "Use my Archives before she loses patience, Nybbas..."

Looking a bit flustered, the protocol officer picked up Vassago's offered notepad and once again, left the conference room. He'd barely closed the door that he opened it again and stepped back in.

"Right. Earth, circa late 2025 A.D... We're looking at hyper-connected rulers across the globe, with staggering progress coexisting with the smiling and squeaky-clean version of Orwellian social control. The American right is still stewing over its loss of the 2017 primaries and President Dafyd Jones is either adored or thoroughly despised. South Korea's a Transhumanist paradise, North Korea's on its last legs after signing Jones' denuclearization treaties, Iran and Saudi Arabia are arcane and technological fulcrum points for innovation as much as they carry the world records for abuses of human rights - and Russia's elected its Clank President for the tenth time in a row. Russia's alright if you're from Siberia or the Tyumen oblasts, but Moscow proper's our new collective nightmare in terms of jolly old repression. China still goose-steps like the best Communist nations out there, but rather egregiously sends its citizens across massive shopping complexes the size of small cities. That's for those mundane nations that do matter in the grand scheme of things."

Eirean quirked an eyebrow. "And the Fae?
- To say you're divided would be an understatement," noted the Faun. "There's the usual Pre-Raphaelite niceties, of course - Summer and Winter standing opposite of one another for the sake of beauty and balance, but the modern world's gotten to you. Your divisions matter a tad too much to some of you, now. Anyone who agrees with the Royal couple is bound to stick to cheeky, half-serious contempt for the other Clan, but the Shadow Queens have seized the opportunities offered by the current climate. Divide and Conquer is their motto, and they've identified factors of identity they try their best to stress with the more prideful stretches of the Seasons..."

Vernon nodded. "Such as was indicated by a Summer salon hostess to Meris," he reminded. "Identitarian politics have never fostered growth.
- Tell that to Zuckerberg and his cabal," snorted the Faun. "There's constructive pride, and then there's locking the rest of the world out for the sake of preserving the illusion of something that never actually existed. Conservative movements are a gold mine for analytics firms."

Spector nodded. "So Meris needs to come across as an agent of positive change. How receptive are the King and Queen, overall?"

Nybbas consulted Vassago's provided notes. "Titania's current civilian name is Jane Danvers. Prior to her coronation, miss Danvers saw the Industrial Era's growth, much like Lord Haskill, here. She bloomed in the modern era, going from a convinced suffragette to an enthusiastic user of all her available rights as a woman and as a member of the Fair Folk. She donates to cancer research and a great many LGBTQA centers in and around the London Metro area, and champions a more symbiotic and biologically conservative approach to Transhumanism. She has brought some of her Commoners' employers to the courtroom for forcing them to undergo traumatic augmentation procedures that a mere Change above Changeling status would have rendered moot. She also argues that joining the True Fae cannot be forced, and has fostered psychological aid programs for both Changelings and Chimeras. She believes that empathy and a conscious effort in research and discussion is liable to unlock the Elysium natives' dormant nature and restore a lost genome to the Fair Folk's genetic diversity. More antibodies, healthier Fae with a higher tolerance for the Bane... It's a win-win situation for her."

Eirean glanced at Meris. "Hence why she won't require much convincing."

Nybbas nodded and turned a few pages. "Oberon is the burlier type of the two - no surprises there. American-born with Scottish ancestry, his given name is Langdon Miles. He's worked a fair bit in his life, going from a logging camp to Baltimore's docks in twenty years, back in the late 1890s. I'm showing a few musty convictions for drunk and disorderly conduct in '97, but nothing to really compromise our talks. His keepers taught him of his royal lineage in '98 and shipped him off to London. He brought along a very teamster-centric attitude, a very Blue Collar-type focus on workers' rights. Needless to say, he wasn't popular with the local aristocrats, and still isn't. The mundane Lords and Ladies aren't much more than civilians with a title tacked on, but the London Fae take their peerage very seriously."

He coughed. "He was challenged in the old rites, as per Winter custom, and went up against Domhall Everett, Viscount Canterbury. Everett was a glamourie-using aging fop with mutton chops, while Miles had carried full-sized logs around for years and could punch like an ox. To say there wasn't a contest to speak of is an understatement."

That left Vernon chuckling. "There wasn't, no. Taking the Hearthfire in felt natural to him, as well."

Nybbas nodded. "Like the old days: he stood naked in front of an assembly of bards and druids, with burning brands in both hands. Winter's bard found no blemishes - symbolically - and declared him fit to be King and to wear the Mantle of Oberon. The Celtic Traditionalists cheered, the Victorian ones balked. Past that, he's been a staunch follower of House Christmas' policies, which sometimes put him at odds with the ruling mundanes."

He then clicked his tongue. "Even before ruling, however, Langdon was always a bit of a Casanova. Logging-camp and dockyard trysts turned into an unending succession of mistresses once he turned King, and his nature seems to drive him to somehow manage to love his multitudes of women equally. Like many other Kings of Faerie before him, he went on to seed the myths of Father Christmas and Santa Claus, spending the last two hundred Christmas nights riding through a complex time-bending ritual temporarily granting him ubiquity. He then spends that night visiting his illegitimate children and their friends, their friends' friends, so on and so forth..."

Haskill nodded. "A pro-union representative before his time, a bit of a garrulous sort - and a match for his wife's more Cartesian sensibilities... Why would he disapprove of us? What makes him harder to convince?"

The Faun smiled. "He embodies Winter's more flighty nature and he considers a good bit of rivalry to be good for the spirit. Camaraderie works wonders, but a little competitiveness has always helped to keep Winter on the jollier ends of the spectrum. He approaches it harmlessly, but several Winter nobles assume that this legitimizes the Clan's quest for cultural dominance over Summer. Unfortunately, some follow Oberon's rhetoric too far and then fall off the wagon - and into Mab's clutches. He might be worried of the results, were the both of you to join in an official union. Spring Children, as they're called, are always tolerated, but plenty of graybeards on both sides of the argument would unrealistically expect your couple to definitively fall for one side or another."

Eir pursed her lips together. "Only the King and Queen can induct mundanes or Commoners from the other Clan into theirs, and I have a lot of staunch Summer supporters to thank for my success in Hope. I couldn't just - go Winter without expecting a small revolt.
- So we appeal to their own conjugal harmony," added Benson. "Before any politics are thrown in,  this is about two people needing to be free to live together, in order to better protect what they swore to protect."

* * *

Asmodeus rolled his eyes. "I didn't come here to ask for forgiveness, girl. I may be Lust, my mind is still my own. Tom's brethren, however, are beholden to me."

Tom looked a bit more self-assured, now. "They won't be for long. You know what I've started.
- Yes," replied the Prince, "cracks in the fabric of the Universe. The Thrones could issue a patch job for your first few hacks, but the more you abolish the boundaries between the planes, the more Amaxi and Her ilk find it easier to push through to us. You haven't done much for now, with a single city and two portals to call your own, but what about the coming years? What about your future three, four or five arcologies? You're walking the same path the Hyperboreans once charted - and they paid the price for their hubris."

He shook his head knowingly. "You won't be able to save us all, son. I know you still want to quench that fire in my chest, but it isn't like yours. It's a fire that I put there myself. A fire I carry within me, for all of my misdeeds. Once I'll go back, it'll burn too brightly for me to even speak to you as I am now. Lust will take me again..."

He shivered violently, like an excessive version of Tom's own tremors of old - hard enough to shatter the glass he was holding. "...and it's pulling at me even now," he said, giving his bleeding hand a distant, almost rapturous look.

Tom grimaced. "You've made your point. I suggest you leave."

Asmodeus stood up in a spasm-like movement, also snorting as he did. "Do me a kindness, before I leave," he crooned. "Kiss her again, for me. I want to taste your revolution, sample your downfall..."

[TennyoCeres84]

Meris thoughtfully eyed the two nobles. "So, technically our plan is your plan. With Mr. Haskill moving to Hope on a more permanent basis, how would you compromise if you were living together? You agree on quite a lot, but technically you're in the honeymoon period. How do you think things would change, and how would you adapt to that?" she asked them.

* * *

"How about no? No kisses, no kindness for you," Aislinn coldly responded with narrowed eyes. "You already fed off the energies from our ritual; that's enough. You can go ahead and take your decrepit ass back to your bordello. Watch our revolution and victory from afar."

[IamLEAM1983]

Eirean and Vernon exchanged a look, the likes of which Meris might recognize out of fellow immortals who were reflecting on the distant past to infer events or opportunities in the future. The Lady then lightly bowed her head, letting her beau start.

"Honestly, I doubt anything needs to change between us, at present. Unlike certain automatons and undead, I dress and act the way I do in order to call back to my native era's best traits - not out of some stultifying desire to live my life as I once used to, regardless of social or technological forms of progress. I've never resented Eirean for her choosing to remain fairly contemporary throughout the years, and she knows I respect her business acumen."

The Lady briefly, if quietly beamed at that. "Other cities have held joint Courts in the same building before, and my using the Greenvale's conference rooms every so often makes business-related reservations needlessly complex. If anything, holding both Courts from Frosthall would optimize our respective work.
- As well as incite comments," noted Spector. "Are you sure you both want to field the baseless accusations that are sure to follow?"

Eirean nodded. "I'm ready. I may be Lady Summer, I can't let the Winter people pick up after me, not in good conscience. If we're together, we're together."

Vernon offered her a look that combined surprise, gratitude and love. He reached out to her and squeezed her bare hand in his gloved one. "And I won't let Winter's support tarnish Summer's reputation in Hope," he said. "Those who will accuse me will find I will answer hatred with compassion."

Benson's ears twitched. "And once you'll have demons and angels traipsing around the Produce section of your local Faesides' markets?
- The very same," said Haskill, adding a resolute nod. "I may owe my martial prowess to our Japanese cousins, Bushido certainly stresses compassion. Sharpe's lackeys may send spies and assassins, we will use our arts to turn them to our cause."

The Bugbear looked a bit perplexed. "So you don't hate your would-be bomber.
- I resent his actions," precised the Lord, "but a man does as best as he knows. Our attackers visibly understood very little of the recent developments in Evergloam. If they had known, they would have sent their explosive engines back to Virginia - in pieces."

Eir then smirked at Meris. "We're a young couple, Meris, but I think you're already aware of what happens when people like you and I get serious with a relationship. Nereus wasn't the sort for afternoon flings, and neither were you. You still aren't. Early divorces, terminal spats a few months in... That's mundane stuff. You live long enough, you learn that love - honest love - comes with the need for both parties to make sacrifices."

That left Captain Sam to sigh from the other end of the table. "Ah, love... There's days where I'd curse me bride, spit in the sea outta resentment; and every time 'onna those days dawns, I remember all the good ones t'tide me over. Solomon told me it weren't going t'be easy, havin' a bride like the Oceans: she has a temper, she has, and there's days where y'wash ashore within sight o' the Far Reaches; just as there's golden days where her lips endlessly kiss me hull's ship..."

Amduscias nodded. "Right. Then the anchor comes down and y'go for a swim, eh?
- Oh, aye," nodded Samigina. "Work me gills, marvel in Matriel's handiwork, see t'beauty of it all, the face o' me bride..."

* * *

Tom looked like he didn't know what to expect out of his father. As for Asmodeus, he gave Aislinn a flat gaze, and then sighed.

"We launched a revolution too, you know. One we irrevocably bungled. I don't have Pride's issues; I can be lucid about this. Lucifer undoubtedly lied to us all and orchestrated the Fall out of deeper reasons, but what he did tell us was constructive. Or at least, it began as constructive impetus. He recognized the Host's deeply flawed nature and understood that for many of us, these flaws wouldn't ever be much more than quirks. Like in Gabriel's case or Sammael's. Human angels. Many among us, however, were flawed on a deeper level. We were told Hell would be a place where we would... self-actualize. Reflect on ourselves. Find the best of who we could be. He handed that mandate off to Pride and left, claiming deeper issues within Creation and severe outer threats both required attention."

That part, the Warlock seemed to know. "You told my brothers and I before. The only ones who carry this shame of ours in full awareness of our misdeeds walked in Ahriman's path. You thought you could take the urges of all those who'd been consumed by lust, carry them like the mortals foolishly assumed a plague-ridden Faun could carry their guilt, that you could pile evil upon evil on a creature that couldn't understand, without gaining another monster to leash.
- Azazel," confirmed the emaciated demon.

Asmodeus nodded and shivered. "When my burden subsides, I can think clearly. It never lasts, but I'm made aware of my mistake, my presumption. Here, far from my demesne, I can think just as well. These thoughts tell me Lucifer shouldn't have left. We weren't ready for independence. We still aren't."

Tom pursed his lips together. "Did you ever hear about Akoman?
- No," answered the Prince, his eyes alternating between clouded tumescence and desperate grasps for clarity. "Lucifer always fell mum when the Principle of Order was called up; as if he knew some things he couldn't share... The Goat spoke to you about it, didn't he?"

The warthog pursed his lips together. "Call it a professional secret. As much as I'm glad we could clear this up, I still didn't summon you."

Another sigh. "Ingratitude and fleeting, meaningless pleasures. My lot in life," said Asmodeus. "I can't get it through my head that you ended up being the one to fix our flaws, Tom - I could think of a thousand brothers and sisters of yours whom I actually can see out here, as adventuresome and flighty sorts. You? I think deep down, you always wished you had my marks of office."

Tom's brittle looks of respect shattered at that accusation. "I did not summon you. Thrice and be done, demon."

Asmodeus looked around the club and drained his glass. "I hoped I wouldn't have to placate the Goat with this display he ordered of me. I hoped you'd offer me an alternative. I was, and have always been, wrong."

One of his arms then lashed out, gripped the back of Tom's head and pulled him in, ostensibly to smash his snout against the countertop. Tom managed to strain in response and, using his staff like a lever, turned an opposite push into a hard swing of his staff across Asmodeus' facial features. The Prince's head whipped to the right with a grunt, spittle and blood following suit. A leering grin followed, a surprising amount of strength driving a forward tackle of both Aislinn and Tom.

[TennyoCeres84]

Meris nodded to Eirean's statements. "I wholeheartedly agree. I'm considering our discussion something of a dress rehearsal. While it might be obvious, these are the sorts of things that Titania and Oberon want to know. How well you work together, how easily are you able to sacrifice, as you said. How you act will in turn affect the local climates and the Nexus. You're both passionate individuals in your own way, but the throes of your passion might occasionally bring in a Nor'easter or any other weather phenomenon, if you catch my meaning," she noted with a light cough.

***

The forward lunge sent Aislinn toward one of the bar stools' rungs and screws, creating a sound gash across her forehead as she came into contact with it. The pain and sudden shift in his demeanor had her seeing red. Growling, she felt a surge of the newfound power from their ritual, like a set of tools that had that she could defend herself with. As quickly as she had gone down, she used her smaller stature to her advantage.

Asmodeus would feel the vicious kneeing of his family jewels, along with a couple other arcane surprises. A ball of golden Hellfire was lobbed toward his face and chest, more reminiscent of candlelight or a warm bonfire than the typically lava-like consistency. Its usual nature of weighing down the soul was gone as well; in its place, there was a righteous purity to its lapping flames.

Simultaneously, the roane bellowed, "You should've disobeyed the Goat, you piece of shit!" Her cry carried the sonorous capability of a cantor, filled with power that caused a high-pitched hum similar to the talents of the Seraphim.

[IamLEAM1983]

Vernon sharply looked away, his expressive ears drooping. As for Eirean, she smiled and laughed, the sound echoing like Pickman's Sound's beaches in July.

"It's always been hard for us Fae to seriously jeopardize the elements' balance," she conceded, the words blending into one last amused chuckle. "We can use them, but not with the Thrones' control or magnitude. Hope might be in for an early spring if things keep going, or Vernon might gently pull me down into a postcard-worthy winter - all marshmallow-like snow banks and light freezing. We'll probably make Rhode Island and some of Vermont's ski stations a lot of money, this season."

Looking back to her, Haskill looked a bit less embarrassed. "We ought to charge for royalties," he joked.

Still, something made Eirean consider Meris and cant her head to the side. "I'll admit to wondering, sometimes," she said. "You're Orcadian by birth, I don't think I need to introduce the idea of the Morrigan to you. Our native land's first and fabled Archmage and sorceress from the mists of the Neolithic Era, with battle awens as fierce as Merlin's and wisdom numbering in the dozens of generations. Story goes she was the first Morgana's sister and that she died trying to fight to protect Ireland's mortals and those repentant dragons that had sided with the first freed Seelie. Riona, Scatha, Nimue - they've all been important, but none of them were prophesied to reincarnate like Morrigan was. They've all been Mantles or ideas - sacred charges for some of Summer's women to uphold. All except Morrigan."

That made the Winter Lord give Meris a weighted glance, as he inspected her features. "Well, if you go by the old paintings and engravings the King and Queen have commissioned across the ages, Meris could certainly bear some resemblance to the mythical figure. The hairline fits, so do the eyebrows..."

The Court looked politely intrigued now, but Eirean shook her head. "I'm not saying your monarch hasn't just been a queen twice, now; that's just conjecture on my part, and it's based on old legends. There's no portentous rhymes attached to this one, or at least nothing our banfaiths recorded."

Vernon shrugged good-naturedly. "It seems poetically fitting, if anything. An immortal woman possessed of grace and strength, wielding the wisdom of the ancients as well as dominion over the earth and sea, with a Cantor's light and a deep knowledge of the dark depths of our enemies earned by extraordinary compassion. Compassion so strong it healed one from the darkness and rendered him athirst for light and freedom..."

Nybbas chuckled at that. "Milord, please - my Queen's head won't fit through the door if you keep piling these prestigious honorifics on her!"

* * *

The knee to the gonads hadn't done much of anything, but Asmodeus' supernatural constitution was quickly put to the rest by Aislinn's orb of Hellfire and her searing speech. Boils appeared across his skin, his clothes sizzled and charred, and a clenched whine finally managed to escape his throat as a full-bore scream, as he lurched away from the orb and staggered, arms flailing behind him as he looked for support. Finding none, he tripped in the hem of his coat and cracked the back of his skull on one of the sectional sofas' corners. Not being mortal, however, his eyes rolled for all of one or two seconds before the would-be concussion subsided as quickly as it had appeared. He leered from the floor.

"Agreement," he purred, "such a difficult thing to nurture! Not as easy as discord, I've found. Nothing in what I've said changes, but I might yet buy my children safety if I bring your heads to Pride's smoking rubble..."

Chuckling, he closed his eyes. "Let me just change into something a little more comfortable..."

Then, in what wouldn't have looked out of place in a scene from John Carpenter's The Thing, Asmodeus' form twisted and buckled, his back arching and his spine snapping as he simultaneously arched his back upwards while keeping his head above the high point of his waist. The bulge in his pants grew grotesque and finally burst open, blooming in what looked like a horrendously fleshly version of a flower, with a pungent stench that doubtlessly stained the Shadowlands as well. He grew and swelled, his moans distorting far below human vocal capabilities, his head first hanging far below the rest in what looked like the caricature of an orgasm, until his neck fully rotated. With his head now below the rest of his still-growing and swelling body, he could see his opponents between his own legs. He obviously favored a ranged approach, the still-growing starlike bud of flesh that had once been his groin first questing forward with its new graspers and feelers, until one of the main appendages quaked, sputtered and finally whipped forward, spewing out something that hit Tom's conjured shield as an acidic mucus.

Still, the Infernalist looked fairly lucid again. The discharge looking to be more acidic than arcane, his wards didn't look too stressed. Being more of a classic Infernalist, he brought his throat low and said something in what had to be a low form of Greek. A pool of Hellfire immediately erupted into being below Asmodeus, Tom being unable to repress a cringe as one of his relatively-new sectionals both instantly caught fire and sagged down into the molten mass the portal contained. Judging by the Greek inflexion over the word dollars that followed, Tom added an accusatory reference to the sectional's price as an added insult. Hellfire's nature allowed it to hurt other demons if it was wielded with intent, but opposing Hellfire with Hellfire wouldn't ever be as effective as Celestial light.

"Don't you wish I were constrained by mortal flesh now?!" taunted Asmodeus. "How does your plan look, dear son, now you've got an unleashed Prince of the Pit to contend with?!"

[TennyoCeres84]

At their speculations, Meris scoffed goodnaturedly and shook her head. "Poetic or not, I'm still me. Even if I was some sort of reincarnation, those memories would have been scrubbed away by Heaven ages ago. To verify such a claim, it'd take a great deal of divining and prodding the angels in charge of reincarnation. I'd rather focus on the goals ahead of us," she said with a smile.

* * *

"It's still fucking clear to me, as I'm not going to let you sabotage it!" Aislinn yelled again, the same purity-laced hum directed toward him. Her telekinesis had set to work at slashing deeply at the Prince's growing and swollen body.

The roane had taken refuge in the warthog's conjured shield, while she still brimmed with arcane focus. She reached out to Tom telepathically, "What else do you need to send him back through that portal? I feel like I can do something about that, right about now."

[IamLEAM1983]

"Of course," replied Vernon. "Apologies for the disruption."

He then looked back to Nybbas. "Are we also in need of, er, sartorial adjustments, according to you, sir?"

Nybbas scoffed good-naturedly at that. "I'm a one-client tailor by default, Milord. If you ever find a copy of the Lesser Key with my ritual in it - and these varieties don't come cheap - then feel free to place a call.
- Why is that? You'd assume such a useful reference amongst practitioners would be made available in its complete form."

Naberius smirked at that. "So said a man who has no plans to summon any of us. Granted, none of us here are akin to Leviathan or the Horsemen or what have you - but we still have charges to uphold, timetables to keep. Especially now, seeing as we've found ourselves a suitable Heiress. Can you imagine how chaotic your tithe would be if Winter's subjects were allowed to enter your private chambers at all hours? Here lies Vernon Haskill in his nightgown and nightcap, blessedly snoring away in his four-poster bed, and in comes a harrowed seamstress or a distraught dockhand? Raise me up, Milord, please! I beseech you - nay, command you - to raise me up from my lowly status! Bestow unto me your centuries of knowledge!"

That left Haskill to wince and smile at once. "Er - yes. I imagine there are undesirables to filter. Not all Infernalists and callers are alike, I'd assume."

Amduscias smirked. "People are people. Y'get those that take formality and ritual to the extreme, others that get by with the minimum, worthwhile causes championed by neophyte summoners who mispronounce your name six different ways in one sentence and exquisitely perfect calls sang by complete knobheads. Nowadays, I get kids who want to be the next Lindsey Sterling or Justin Bieber, who spend years singing off-key to a bad smartphone camera. All they want's a little recognition, a little push. On the other hand, I get would-be super seducers who realize their dating advice schtick isn't worth the shite on me boots. Why aren't I the toast o' the town, your Infernal Majesty?"

Vernon sympathetically rolled his eyes. "There's something to House Christmas: other Winter Lords and Ladies sometimes come to us when they realize their mandate is floundering. You would assume being made of the gentry would push some people to stop pretending, but being yourself seems to be a disease, nowadays."

Naberius smirked. "Say what you will about pride, a little self-esteem never hurts anyone. On that note, is there anything left to go over before the meeting?"

* * *

Tom kept an eye on his father while angling his mouth towards Aislinn. "He's getting too big for my Hellfire pool," he said, "and his projectiles are acidic. You should probably think less in terms of purity or arcane intent and more in terms of chemistry."

He adjusted his shield, a lancet of demonic spoor landing on top of the dome with a sizzling splat. "Mages tend to think in terms of elemental alignment, but they forget notions like pH. We need something basal, something to neutralize his projections, something to amplify using magic, seeing as we aren't Void Weavers. We can't produce calcium or potassium hydroxide out of thin air..."

Tom's eyes fluttered around the nightclub, until he focused on the elevator's doors. "Soap," he said. "We've got soap upstairs, in the bathroom and by the supper's dishes! We both move to the elevator so we stay covered by my shield, and you duck in and get the soap! I'll try and keep him busy!"