Redemption Bracket: Tobias Stalt Vs Odium

[Silence Sei]

Matches begin at 12:01 Central Standard Time tonight. Will our surprise guest continue to make an impact, or will the merchant prove to be his better? Have Fun!

[Odium]

It did not matter where they were.

The monastery itself could have been anywhere in the world. Its stone architecture gave no hint to the hands that had laid its mortar. The altars inside were devoid of idols and ornamentation, their attendants’ robes bare of devices which might identify them. Even the faithful themselves could lend only to ambiguous suggestion of what gods they served, for they hailed from a pool as wide and vast as all the cultures and creeds in Althanas.

Night lay over the land, its pelt studded with stars and unfamiliar constellations. In the darkness, bruise-like formations intimated shapes across the horizon. Perhaps they were mountains whose peaks disappeared into the misty heavens, but if so, what lay on the other side? It could be Salvar or Alerar, making the temple a redoubt of the Thayne. Perhaps its devoted pilgrims sought asylum from the All-Seeing Eye and the inquisitorial Church that gazed through it.

But perhaps not. It could just as easily have been one of Suravani’s sanctuaries, nestled in the heart of the Zaileyas’ high peaks, and the low sibilance that filled the air could have been the babbling of the river Attireyi as it flowed down to breathe life into Irrakam, holy land of the almighty Jya. Perhaps the priestesses concealed harpy wings beneath their robes and veils… or perhaps they hid drakeling scales, and beneath the mountains there lay not sand but lush jungle. Those distant, murky shapes need not be mountains at all, but could be the towering canopy of Lindequalmë, the forest of death, and that place a shrine of the great witch queen Podë.

It did not matter where they were, because Constantine would have chased the temple into the heart of hell itself, if only it meant an answer.

He hunted the whispers down with the tenacity of a starving predator. Scouring Radasanth’s criminal dens for any inkling of hope, his search soon widened to encompass other cities in other lands. What few fruit his efforts yielded turned out to be rotten and overripe under closer scrutiny, and long days spent poring over dusty tomes segued into endless nights offering up what little remained of his soul to the Fade’s cruel gods.

Yet his charge had been so simple. When he had signed his name in Nepharen-Ka’s fleshbound book, the price had seemed so insignificant, so infinitesimal beside the opportunity of a second chance at life. They asked a question, so like a riddle, so simple and yet when his mind grasped for purchase in its depths they eluded him. Not even an answer, just that he might search for one.

What is the power of a dream?

At first he almost laughed at the gall of it. His life returned to him, to answer that one question? And yet no matter how he struggled to squirm within its constraints, to wring meaning from them, to forge an answer like brilliant minds composed music or scribed the volumes of great sagas…. he could not. So he had turned to other men, to better men, to lend him their voices. Yet wherever he turned, he found only vague suggestions of the gravity of the question he had been asked. Conversing with soothsayers, he found their prophecies to be built on the foundations of lesser dreams, discovered that they merely took the weak and used their hopes as bones for the body of their own desire. Fraternizing with scholars, he realized the meagerness of their unimaginative minds, obsessed with small details like ants aspiring only to be fed.

What is the power of a dream?

The question led him through worlds of mysticism and across earthly continents, hounded always by an itching in the back of his brain. Was there an answer? Its pursuit led him through an incredible past into a strange present, staring into the eyes of an uncertain future.

Long shadows flickered across the monastery’s old stone walls. The torches ensconced in the wall offered scant illumination, but in the cool half-dark Constantine could make out the important details of his surroundings. The prone shapes of dead animals littered the floor, black blood running out into the spaces between cobblestones. Overhead the sky yawned like a great chasm, devoid of any stars. The well nearby gurgled like the throat of a living thing.

The priest gestured arcanely with the dead pheasant he grasped, inscribing some kind of rune on the ground with its blood. The cold wind carried off his words, but he could just make out the low chanting that reverberated throughout the courtyard. Constantine had arrived earlier that day, left haggard by the journey, and the monks had granted him passage, believing him to be a pilgrim come to offer prayer to their deities. He had not. He had come in search of this man, to ask his question.

“What is the power of a dream?”

The old monk’s face was thoughtful, his expression troubled by the riddle’s gravity. Wrinkles creased his skin into an origami lotus as he furrowed his brow and narrowed his almond eyes in concentration. Constantine hoped that the paper flower of his face would open up, and between its petals it would reveal an answer. He thumbed his prayer beads, played with the yellow silk of his robe, opened and closed his mouth as if tasting the air for some indetectable change. Finally, he had grasped Constantine’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the skin like an eagle’s talons. He showed remarkable strength, for one of his years.

“We shall pose thy question, o holy child,” he cooed in smooth but archaic Common, “to beings of greater ken than we mortals. Stand we shall on the shoulders of giants.” The elder’s eyes glazed with a fervor that did not belong entirely to him. It did not surprise Constantine. Something about his question, when he spoke it, commanded the attention of men whose stature should not have allowed them to be so penetrated by the feeble mutterings of a madman.

He fingered the pendant hanging from his neck. As Constantine’s thumb passed its mouth he felt its needle teeth sink ever so slightly into the flesh. Its alien tongue brushed the skin then retreated into the amulet’s impossible depths, disappointed that it had not been Constantine’s mouth on the other side. His reedlike smile betrayed the fragility of his hopes. Now he stood in the temple courtyard, watching the ritual through eyes that teared up with the intense pungence of magic in the air. He smelled the tang of hot iron as if he stood in a forge, underlaid by the bittersweetness of myrrh. Kneeling to swipe a finger through the sticky blood of the sacrifices, he noticed that it radiated a heat not of this world.

Looking up, he noticed the sweat dripping off the old man’s face. Every muscle in that ancient body was tense with effort. His lips trembled with the weight of the words he spoke, eyes glowing with the passion of his faith and the energies he borrowed from its source. Humbled, Constantine took a step back, watching from the shadows as he waited to see just what kind of being they labored to call forth from its rest in another realm.

[Tobias Stalt]

There had been no true beginning. Tobias blinked as his being flickered back into existence after being violently separated from Jak's momentary salvation. Shadows had consumed them, which lent weight to the Smith's steadfast cling to his beliefs. His body remained sluggish for the first few minutes. Tobias coughed, perspiration left over from his closeness to an inferno evident across his body. He was rife with the acrid stench of smoke.

Tobias began to wipe away the stains from his tears. The youth took his infant steps into an unfamiliar piece of the world, but blackness on every side of him consumed his sight. His only semblance of hope came with light in the distance. "You must know, Tobias," the whispered voice had ceased to startle him countless lifetimes ago, though Tobias was only a man in years of the flesh. "There is only one end."

The Soldier marched. With each step walking became easier, and the light shone brighter. A child at the beginning of life might have experienced the same phenomenon, Tobias considered. Elemental, impossible darkness and more emotions than he could comprehend swallowed the him in the womb of shadows, but Tobias marched for the other side. "Hang your ending," he hissed through his teeth, "I'm going to write my own damn story."

Light that washed over him when he took the first step from the corridor blinded Tobias, and he shielded his eyes from the stinging rays. The sounds of chanting became distinct, soft and pattering footsteps reverberating above a maddening silence. Straining, the Solider became aware of the twisted architecture and austere white walls, and he wrinkled his nose. It would have been too easy to lose himself in the air of insanity that lingered here.

There was consummate perfection in every design, yet they bespoke a true meaning riddled in chaos. Intricate patterns writhed into infinity and swallowed themselves before defining once more. Tobias broke his gaze free of the wall that stretched on forever, and he focused on the acolytes. Beneath their robes, the creatures seemed to take no notice of him. Tobias guessed that their minds were worlds away.

"They seek the end," the whispered voice taunted Tobias, and he leered at the profane effigy amassed nearby. "Powers beyond their control have always been the downfall of men," Lament continued, "what is the fascination, I wonder."

Tobias took a step forward. "If it means being rid of the gods, why not usurp their power?" He did not look to find the manifestation of sorrow, knowing the wretched look on its face would be twisted with contempt. "Killing them would but hasten the arrival of their chosen shackles, would it not?"

"As with all things," Lament sneered.

"Right. 'There can be only one end," Tobias began to draw his sword. "Why do I even ask you things?" Steel slid from the sheath as Tobias took another step. The maw of eternal darkness that gaped above him drew his attention, and Tobias grimaced. "Religious zealots really need to start outsourcing for interior designers."

What is the power of a dream?

Tobias looked around in alarm as the thought rippled unbidden through his mind. His body tensed in manic terror as the wicked air seeped into him at the first sign of weakness, and he took a haggard breath to steel himself. The unfeeling gaze of Tobias darted about, seeking the source of the mental molestation. "Stay out of my head," he growled.

"Pity," came the somber voice of Lament, "it seems their god has turned its gaze on you, my Knight of Tears."

"As if I didn't have enough voices in my fucking head," Tobias spat. Raising his blade, Tobias stared into the flat of the weapon and took another harsh breath. Defying the madness that swelled beneath the silence, the Soldier pushed the images of men falling on their own knives out of his head. Blood splattered on every side of him, but Tobias was numb. "This isn't tragedy," he muttered, "this is the gods damned sideshow."

His voice rippled as though his body were chilled, but Tobias stood beneath the throat of chaos and stared up at it. "Come forth, you twisted fuck. Come out so I can put an end to you!" Both hands were on his sword now, and Tobias swallowed the dryness in his throat.

What is the power of a dream?

"Nothing," Tobias whispered with a smile. "I know that better than anyone."

There had been no true beginning, but a finality was upon them all. Standing in the ruin of men and beasts, and wading in the visceral monument to their sins, Tobias leveled his blade. "You will not pass me."

[Odium]

Constantine heard the newcomer’s muttering before he ever saw the man. He turned to face him instinctively, hand dropping to the pommel of his blade, gray eyes appraising the darkness for any incongruities. He saw more than just stone and shadow, though. To Constantine’s sixth sense which proved responsible for detecting such psychic phenomena, Tobias’ soul was bruised, as if it had been handled too roughly by hands unused to such delicate work. The same bruises that covered his own soul, when Constantine found himself strong enough to take a peek inside and look at it.

The bruises of someone whose fate was not their own. Someone who would inevitably feel a bizarre kinship with Constantine, however hostile. He had heard of a saying among Radasanthian nobility: When princes meet, they find either brothers or themselves. Peace or war. Here, he sensed with implacable certainty, he had stumbled upon the latter. He could practically taste Tobias’ hatred even from this distance, even though his face was obscured in the shadows cast by the monastery’s stone walls.

Despite himself, he smiled. He blinked, and for the thousandth time saw Nepharen-Ka’s smile when he had been welcomed into the Fade, though in this world he had been nothing more than a fresh corpse yet to tighten with the rigors of death. He barked a harsh, shrill laugh, giddiness settling upon him. If nothing else, his life had been interesting of late. Deals with demons, journeys undertaken to convene with men he’d read about in stories and legends, a warrior appearing in the midst of a magical ritual to stop him…

It was all so very surreal. How many months ago had it been that he’d sat in his manor in Radasanth and contemplated such a life? Dreamed of it? But how many lifetimes ago did it feel like? Perhaps that was the power of his dream. Still possessed by that same cruel smile, he took a few long strides toward the darkness sheltering Tobias. For an instant the priest and his ritual were forgotten, replaced by a desire to punish the man who so interrupted the moment’s sanctity. One gloved hand rose idly to play with a lock of dark hair while the other happened upon the pommel of his blade. It remained sheathed at his hip, waiting for a chance to taste something besides its old leather scabbard.

“And just who the fuck,” he growled into the shadows, “are you?”

Instantly, all the emotion dropped from his expression and his stance. Constantine was once more the image of glassy remoteness that so unnerved men who kept his company. Silence swept in to fill the following seconds. Throughout those moments, underscoring the bitter breeze that blew through their bones and the priest’s mutterings behind them, Constantine’s question throbbed in the air. It pulsated like the heart of the earth itself.

[Tobias Stalt]

Slowly the wind howled through the room, like the yawn of a waking god. Tobias felt the cool draft of air tickle each drop of sweat. His fingers itched on the hilt of the sword, and he tasted impatience and terror on his tongue. Unfeasible, incorporeal shadows manifested above his head, but the small man stood in defiance. He barely heard the footsteps behind him.

At the startling question, Tobias turned about and held his guard. "Not what I was expecting," he muttered, "but things generally aren't, these days." He took several breaths, trying to shrug off the fetid aroma of corpse that permeated the room. Tobias felt his head swimming and stifled the belch that would have heralded vomit throes. Through his obvious discontent, the Soldier answered, "I'm no-one."

The answer seemed unreasonable in the situation. In the midst of a grandiose ritual and surrounded by the ruin of forest creatures and shrouded unholy men, this insignificant man simply said no. Tobias knew it would never be well received. "In games of the gods, I am nothing. The playthings of powers beyond their control often rise up in futility." He winked, "but then, you know all about that, right? You're here watching, same as me. You're no-one, too, aren't you?"

Spattered blood sloshed beneath heavy footfalls as Tobias surged forward, never allowing the question to fully fester. The steel slashed through air toward Constantine, and it whispered a shrill threat in the ominous wind around them. The otherworldly orifice above seemed to cackle.

This was nothing like the training grounds in Alerar. There were no mistakes, and the ground was not even. The world was foul and filled with horrors. Blood inside his mind and out, Tobias was tossed beneath a wave of violence and caught in a sea of chaos. "The only sacrament this deity wants is blood," the Soldier spat icily, "and that makes him an enemy of the people. I am no-one, but I am a soldier and I will do my duty."

The churning choir of voices rose up in the height of the ritual, and in the midst of a spiritual gathering the war erupted. It had begun long before either of them, but they were no less part of it. A haze of red drank the two men at its epicenter. The perfectly white walls were painted crimson. Reverent silence became haunted echoes of hatred.

This madness was the natural order of things. There was no perversion of peace, and there was nowhere to run. The temple of some unknown entity had become the holy ground of the god of war, just like everywhere else. This was like all other tragedies: only the beginning.

[Odium]

Like a fish drawn to a flashing lure, Tobias had come almost willingly to this place, unconscious of the forces which worked their influence upon him as imperceptibly as currents of air. Constantine listened to him prattle on nonsensically for awhile. His gray eyes coated the man, taking in every detail of the flesh. Brown hair, brown eyes. A small man, comely but not overly so. A perfect instrument, just sharp enough to cut but its edge was not so fine as to attract attention. He observed these things as a connoisseur might while fondly remembering each piece in their collection. His head ticked a centimeter to the right, watching, reptilian, for any sudden movements. As if ensuring the situation was ideal before rushing in for the killing thrust.

Tobias darted forward, blade slipping in sideways to try and bisect his opponent at the waist. Constantine’s sword sung as it left its sheath, catching the blow with the resounding echo of metal on metal. The air screeched as he pushed Tobias’ sword away, falling back a few steps to put distance between them. His expression remained eerily absent throughout the opening exchange of their bout, though the beginnings of a ghostly grin flickered at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re a fucking fool and you’ve damned us all with your meddling,” Constantine said, words harsh but not malicious. He spread his legs shoulder-width, assuming an appropriate stance. His fingers now curled firmly around the hilt of his sword, muscles tensed and ready to unsheathe it at any indication of violence. Watching Tobias, the bruises on the poor man’s soul throbbed. He felt their ache as if it were his own.

How could he hate such a pathetic creature? It would be tantamount to loathing the urchin children that begged for spare coins on the streets of Radasanth: a hollow, banal hatred for a hollow, banal man.

“Perhaps you are an insect that labors in the shadows of its gods, hoping only to go unnoticed by them. I, however, can attest to greater aspirations.” The shadow of a smile on his face flourished into a full blown rictus, teeth gleaming like little bones. “Among them, the answer to a very simple question. I came here in peace, bearing only the desire for knowledge. Your qualms with me are apart from that.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Or, at least, they were.”

The walls wept scarlet tears like crying eyes. The monastery was a tortured memory of an abattoir. Mist hung through its halls like midmorning fog. The air tasted like blood. The priest’s chanting voice fractured into a choir of thousands, intoning the same age-old syllables, evoking the same ancient cantrips that his father and a dozen fathers before him had spoken in their time. Sweat stained the old monk’s robes, his eyes rolled back to peer at something in his skull beyond the ken of either men who stood outside the ritual circle. Meanwhile his trance continued, and he remained oblivious to the brawl being born just a few feet away.

“You have invited this hell upon this, you who have presumed to interfere, like a dog rifling in another man’s belongings. You and whatever spirit has brought you here have called down ruin and you will balance it on your shoulders and yours alone. I came here pure of heart and mind and it is your violence that has stained this holy land, like blood creeping across a saint’s white cloth.”

The amulet hanging from Constantine’s neck rattled, whatever abomination inside it scuttling and clawing at its prison, hungry to taste the magic and mayhem that charged the air. Constantine could hear its whispers lurching through his skull like shapes in a nightmare and he prayed, silently, for them to end. To Tobias he showed none of this weakness, for to bare himself so before an enemy would be to lay his neck at the block and wait for the executioner’s axe to fall.

Overhead, the sky roiled and spat lightning in jagged streaks across the horizon. The light betrayed Constantine, as it always had. In it, one could see clearly the haggard lines streaking through his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, a thread that so closely resembled naked fear beneath the iciness in his stare. The portal spasmed and twitched as it descended, like a titan’s mouth as it bent to kiss the earth.

“Magic,” Constantine murmured half to himself, “is an art conveyed in agony. A story in a language written in blood. You cannot hope to create beauty without first offering up an equal measure of pain.”

Again, silence’s arms embraced them; covered their mouths with its hands and hushed them with awe. The world was chaos and darkness and blood, but through it all, above the feverish priest’s voice and the petty insults traded by the champions of two opposed primal forces, a light shone. It penetrated through their eyes and into their minds, banishing the shadows with whiteness that purged the world of all its color.

Her wings stretched wide, supporting her fragile body. Blond curls framed a face as white and fragile as porcelain. Robes hung loosely off her tiny form, and her arms reached up as if she had just roused herself from a deep sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, peering out at her surroundings with the innocence of the newly awakened. As her descent ceased, her feet never quite touched the ground. The animal blood filling the cracks in the stones had evaporated to provide the red mist, and now it curled around her limbs in tufts of white smoke. She smiled and her expression was so warm that all the cold in Constantine’s chest faded away to the far recesses of his inner self. Yet, even so, his face betrayed his horror, his eyes were wide with a fear so powerful it gave life to itself.

“The body is a hut for the soul, friend,” he whispered, as if avoiding the godlike being’s attention. He crept slowly away till he stood parallel with Tobias, waiting for the horror to unfold a few meters to the man’s right. He still held his sword in his hands, though his grip slackened as he waited to see what might happen. Somehow, he reminded himself not to drop his guard around the interloper. “And what your violence has done is turn that hut into a charnel house of horror. What soul could be summoned, after what you have brought here?”

It happened almost in tandem with his words. A shadow swept across the girl’s angelic face, and in its wake it left a visage contorted with pain. Her hands clawed at her throat as if the place’s tainted atmosphere choked her. Her eyes mirrored Constantine’s own, filling with a despair that crept its way into her smile, transforming it into a terrifying grimace. Tears slipped unbidden from dry eyes at the sight of such beauty brought so low.

“Not hers.”

As if the authors of this terrible story had spilled a drop of ink in her heart, her veins began to circulate a blood blacker than darkness. They traced themselves across her flesh like a map of all the world’s suffering. Her hair writhed, twisting itself into thick strands which seemed to hiss and spit as where there had been a beautiful golden mane there became a nest of vile serpents. Her eyes, the color of a perfect sky, filled with the same veins that stretched across the rest of her body like thorns assailing a flower’s petals.

Nothing was left of the perfect girl who had hovered there mere moments ago. She was gone, leaving behind only this grim caricature as a reminder that she had ever been there at all.

“Gods help us, yours and mine,” Constantine muttered. “And curse you to whatever torment you fear most for what you’ve done.”

[Tobias Stalt]

The world wept blood tears as the blades clashed, piercing above the chant with their defiant catcall. His faithful opponent rebuked him, but Tobias had lost any love he had left for their immortal tormentors. "My qualms lie with your gods," he responded in a drawl as the world contorted in a mockery of the once clean and peaceful temple. "I want none of their help." All things turned to ruin when left to the devices of the divine, and the walls bled as the abyss vomited its profane magic. "The hells can take your sorcery."

Tobias stumbled backward, harrowed slightly by the defensive shunt. His feet slid in the turgid swamp of death, but the Soldier managed to keep his footing with bent knees. The results of his training were obvious in that right. Labored breaths choked out in plumes of visible steam, the vile cold crawling through Tobi's veins. Magic was beyond his grasp, but its wretched tendrils wreathed him in their frigid embrace as though to spite him. Tobias snorted his indignation.

The cost was too great; this blasphemy of life itself demanded an answer. "You weep for her," Tobias snarled as his blade rose again, ripping savagely free of a meaty corpse that it had caught on, "but would she for you?" This man spoke of art in the presence of a twisted medium, and Tobias deigned only to gesture toward the anguished mockery of beauty. "You speak of magic with affection, equating life as nothing in its pursuit," he hissed over his dancing steel, "I see now my purpose in this place."

Tobias railed toward Constantine in defiance of his curses. The scintillating energies from beyond crept over Tobias and coalesced around their conjuration, and the Soldier listened to her wails. He tasted of an imperfection that toppled even gods, and Tobias could but scoff a laugh in response. "Where is your god?" Tobias spat as he twisted his body into the strike, spinning at breakneck speed through the mass grave. "Is that her face? See how she cries, like a mortal who has tasted of her own sins?"

Above them the sky cackled in its absolute indifference, whipping wind berating both men for their presence. "Gods weep only for themselves," Tobias whispered as thunder rattled the heavens, the apparent aftershock of such a summoning. His blade sought the pale man's shoulder, a blow intended only to maim.

A world without violence was a dream. Tobias stood at odds with this creature in the midst of a living hell, and he defied the very thought that this was an attempt at awakening any sort of peace. "We live in a real world with real problems," Tobias sighed shakily as he closed on Constantine. "It needs no more pain, nor does it need your magic."

An image of perfection had drunk up the blood of once living beasts to manifest itself, and in the shadow of mankind's true nature it had been eclipsed. The world would be forever stained by this broken dream. Teardrops from some archaic god dripped from the open wound in the sky, and the creature that had come to life before them now doubled over in the pitiful throes of agony.

The woman's wretched throes brought forth a vile ichor. Crimson burst from from her decaying lips and breathed new, distorted life into the pools of polluted black that stirred on the floor. Where sadness met death, enmity was born. Around the two men, the ground gave way to an indeterminate number of hands that clawed toward the heavens.

Rattling knees of hooded priests crackled against the floor as they begged forgiveness for the blasphemy they had unwittingly played party to. Screams that echoed from deep within the soul scoured the world and ripped at the mind, even as the arms stretched out to claim the men. Protests rang out unheard as the first priest was slammed to the floor, his eyes jumbled about as his head contacted stone. A wet crunch hinted that his skull had fractured.

Clawed fingers groped his face, and the priest howled his muffled prayers for forgiveness. As Tobias finished his attack and pulled his blade back into the defensive to prepare for the possibility of counterattack, the Soldier narrowed his eyes. Another hand exploded from the floor to caress the back of the priest's head as he slowly died, drawing him into the abyss below.

"Witness," Tobias offered, "the cost of your art, and tell me again about your purity."

[Odium]

"I weep for the beauty you soiled," Constantine spat. The world danced around them, shadows flashing across crimson walls, shapes undreamt of by any mortal mind peering back at them from their peripherals. He watched the soldier stagger through the slick wet mud that had begun to form around their feet. A metallic tang charged the air and languished on the senses, staining everything with bloodshed. He fought back the urge to retch, knowing it could spell only death in this place where to die was second nature. Sweat slicked Constantine’s brow and as Tobias pried his blade loose from the prone body of an animal on the stones, he quickly pushed his hair back from his face. His eyes, sunken with exhaustion, peered at the soldier and Constantine marveled at his blind conviction.

Murder moved with its own unholy momentum. What had begun as a duel between swordsmen had progressed into wanton carnage; the nascent demon pitched and heaved, vomiting ichor onto the stones. The ooze teemed with its own parody of life, and hungered for it as well, mingling with the gore that already swamped the ground and setting out to claim the priests who had fled their quarters and joined the men in the courtyard. A garden of limbs had begun to bloom like eldritch flowers in underworld spring. They reached up at their living counterparts, clawing men to the floor by their ankles, poking and prodding like curious infants at the soft bodies of the mortals who unwittingly prayed to them.

“This magic could have been measured in the lives of pheasants and fucking rats,” Constantine choked through the miasma that had settled upon the place.

All this chaos passed in a curious, sedate silence. The courtyard was possessed of the same respectful quiet of a classroom full of testing students, or a library. Even the clergymen’s futile pleas were whispered like desperate secrets in the ears of a lover. Their brothers stood in utter dumbstruck awe. Glazed eyes peered from the faces of a dozen races; oaths dripped from a hundred different tongues as they watched the blackest womb of their religion spit its child onto the earth.

No matter how sacred the text, the descriptions of hell merely dangled off their minds when its horrors remained unseen. Each in their own way, between the sickening crunch of broken necks and squelching flesh as death took every one of them, understood the way in which achieving this summoning stitched scripture to reality, bonded the stories they worshipped with the lives they spent confirming them. They felt it in the shivering talons that raked their flesh and scribed the demon’s signature in their skin. Felt their holy passage from one vessel into the next, from this plane into another.

“But your violence made it… something else. Made it this. Curse you and curse your fucking god, curse mine and curse me, curse me for being the vehicle of all this… all this…” Constantine’s sobbing broke off and he became instantly the sober, impassive wall from before. “All this tragedy,” he finished, and Tobias charged him. For some reason, the hands strayed from Tobias and Constantine, leaving the two warriors to their duel… but the mud was slick, and Tobias skidded through it, adding further momentum to his breakneck twist.

Breakneck might be a description all too literal in its implications. Constantine’s eyes were charged with light from another place, illuminating Tobias’ face as he pivoted into his strike. The thin wisps of energy coalescing around his throat tightened into real things, tendrils which wrapped themselves around his neck and tightened their grip. As the warrior spun at full throttle, foolhardily aiming only to cut Constantine’s shoulder, the tentacles would struggle to hold him place and let him snap his own neck with his momentum. That he had slipped only ensured he would be unable to stop himself from sealing his fate.

Constantine hopped back from the incoming blow so that the tip of Tobias’ blade sailed harmlessly past him. Tightening his grip on his own sword, he sliced quickly and purposefully, aiming to gouge the warrior’s throat out with the last few inches of iron and bring it down diagonally so that it might parry any counterattack if Tobias somehow survived the exchange. His eyes were focused and steeled, eager to end the life of tragedy’s champion.

Meanwhile, the girl continued her convulsions, soundless wails cresting her lips but emanating somewhere beyond hearing. She cupped the head priest’s face in her hands, the snakes atop her head hissing and tasting his sweat-salty skin with their long flickering tongues. Before his eyes his goddess’ angelic smile sharpened into the vicious snarl of a beast. Her delicate hands tapered off into talons which dug furrows through his cheeks as if to trace forever the paths of the tears that stained them.

New mouths formed along her arms, opening in the spaces between fingers and her palms. They nibbled at her summoner’s skin, caressed it with her many tongues. She inclined her head and her full, plump lips pressed against the old man’s mouth. For an instant the years dropped from his body, and he was young again, as youthful as he had been when he first took up the cloth and began uttering psalms to his ancient deities.

That moment quickly passed, however, and the demon of desire drank his life like wine from a goblet. He crumpled in her arms, flesh torn in places where it had been pried from the baby teeth of a hundred newborn mouths. She cradled him like a child there, smiling down at the corpse with an unnerving maternal warmth. The grin was like a spasm across her face, however, for as soon as it came the succubus as wracked with pain. She formed an ‘o’ shape with her lips, as if overwhelmed with the ecstasy of her predicament.

Despite the way she clawed at her own face and her many secondary mouths moaned in agony, that expression remained, as convincingly real as the howls of a whore with her clientele. Her voice penetrated through the screaming winds falling like velvet upon the senses, soothing the mind as it echoed telepathically throughout the courtyard:

You almighty who have brought me here with the great weight of your passions… Only ask of me a wish and I shall grant it. Pray for a boon and I will thrust it upon you. Disclose your desires and I will make them all too tangible to the touch... Her claws roamed her body, which contorted into a more suitably voluptuous shape. Where she dragged a nail across her thigh, a scarlet bead dripped from the cut. Her eyes rolled in their sockets in mad lust.

The two warriors were far too engrossed in their combat to respond, but another voice was not. Its echo resounded over the demon’s crying calls for attention, filling each crack in the old stone, tapping its drumbeat with the bones of those who lay dead on the floor. As one, despite however mutilated their faces might be, the priests rose their head and spoke with a common voice to ask their question, to beg their answer from the succubus who ravished herself in the absence of a warrior capable enough to do it for her.

WHAT IS THE POWER OF A DREAM?

[Tobias Stalt]

The elegy of emptiness echoed through the room as lifeless limbs molested prostrated men, stealing life from their groaning and protesting bodies. Bones twisted and snapped beneath flesh, and they rent outward to seek freedom from their lifelong imprisonment. The lowly priests howled their anguish.

Blood from men met that which had come from lesser creatures, and Tobias sprawled on the floor as his footing was lost. Constantine's blade sailed over his body in the space where he had stood only moments before, but the impact of his body against the floor stole his attention from that fact. Two ethereal hands gripped his throat, and the soldier gagged. "More fucking magic," he rasped, a hand clawing at the appendages around his neck. His fingers fought at the callous attempt on his airway, and Tobias scrambled to his knees.

A hacking cough from the Alerian conscript cut into the suggestive speech of the demoness, and several hands pitched forth from the refuse to writhe over Tobias' legs. The mere touch of his being caused them to recoil. Tobias struggled against the hands to summon a single sentence, but his vision was blurring. The demonic hands fell away from his body and back into the floor in a cringe, off to seek a presence that was not anathema to them.

The ringing of his blade clattering against the floor hung dimly in his mind, but Tobias still fought. In the distance, a single man who had once been pious now aged a million lifetimes. A creature of the depths drank in his essence, and the room permeated permeated a perversion that renewed Tobias in his tenacity.

Air filled his lungs in a supreme effort, and he called out loudly, "STOP!"

The room shivered beneath the grandeur of such a command. In this place so filled with the influence of a demon who was sin incarnate, a voice that rippled with divine authority shattered the false reality and interjected a moment of respite. Twin amber orbs stared in defiance toward Constantine as the occupants of the room struggled to regain their rightful composure, robbed from them by a seemingly insignificant man.

Tobias was the epitome of things never being as they appear. The wind itself seemed cowed by his charismatic call, and the whisperer of fell promises gazed at the youth blankly. He fumbled at the hilt of his blade, seeking to take control of it once more. The soldier soaked in the tainted fluids of sacrificial sacrament stared into the lifeless eyes of his enemy, and he snorted indignantly. "There are no dreams," he said in a soft voice, quiet defiance of the imposing question emanating from him. "Not for you."

His forced another breath into his lungs, and he quietly hoped that his desperate outburst had garnered a favorable response. He wanted the hands to fall away, and sought to send a message to the core of Constantine. Tobias shook violently, all imagery of heroism about him dispelled. He was soiled by death and smelled of a ditch. His being was rattled by the insanity of this place, and his body ragged from his proximity to death. Despite his hopelessness, Tobias stood in the face of this scourge. He flew in the face of the otherworldly powers with nothing more than a sword.

Forcing himself back to his feet slowly, Tobias felt his eye twitching from a lack of oxygen. He smirked. Blood spilled from his nose as the impact caught up with him, and he wheezed once more. "Tragedy is all you have left," he told the other man, and a tear dripped down his cheek.

"All of this," Tobias spat, "because your friends were not content with what they had. All of this," he sneered, "for magic." The spirits of men condemned to a fate far worse than paltry death writhed in eternal agony. Souls trapped between worlds swam above the bodies that had released them, and they howled in an infernal chorus. Woe had taken residence in the once pristine halls and redecorated in its own image.

"Lament must have had this in mind when it brought me here," the youth snorted. Morbid humor was the most Tobias could manage. The woman asserted control of her mind again, and the winds roared. Blood in the halls slicked the hands that now consumed flesh greedily, moving their hands in sexual motions over the most intimate parts of the once chaste priests. Everything was wrong.

His body shook with vigor he had never known as a man. Tobias took a step, splashing gore and grime. His ruined uniform reminded him of a soldier's duty when he became aware of it once more, warm and wet on his chest. Camile had told him once that a soldier wears a uniform because it stood for his duty, and for the men he was sworn to defend. He wore a uniform because it signified his authority to take action, and because it told those around him that he was instilled with potential and a strong will. For the first time, Tobias felt the honor that his garments were meant to inspire.

The Knight of Tears scowled, and he brandished his blade. "You deserve nothing more than tragedy. Have at you." A world in flames rippled around them. Tobias stared into the blaze with wetting eyes, and he found Constantine at the epicenter. Tobias could feel the heat beneath his eyes, his heart beating faster in his chest. Cracks coursed through reality in his field of vision, and his mind throbbed.

No world deserved to look this way.

[Odium]

Constantine regarded Tobias impassively. The hands which fumbled for purchase on the man’s feet fell away, skittering off like scorpions into the darkness. He trembled. His face was a mask of blood and shit and suffering, and in his weathered features Constantine saw all the weariness of a mortal man thrust into a madness that evaded the shackles of mere words. Tobias fought for each breath. Black blood poured from his nose. An eye twitched. But his smile was stalwart, the gleam of defiance in his eyes as irritatingly bright as it had been in those first fevered moments of their encounter. The hatred in his words was potent, the wrath in every movement so overwhelming it hung like palpable heat in the air.

At the soldier's emphatic command, the chaos seemed to pause for a moment. The tendrils snaked around his throat slackened their grip, as if compelled to by a higher power. They retracted, dissipating into the air harmlessly. Yet Constantine felt neither shame nor embarrassment: he smiled as though a crowd of lepers insulted his beauty. Not only did Constantine suffer pride, but also a pathological disregard for the estimations of other men. How could he squander his attention on their opinions when he was held in esteem as a champion of the gods? Death had taken many fears from him, among them the fear of scathing words.

Where the demon hands fled Tobias and violated the corpses of priests, they reacted differently towards the pale-faced warrior who stood at odds with the Knight of Tears. They seemed to go limp in a circle around him, calloused fingers and long yellowed nails outstretched like subjects prostrating themselves before their king.

“For all your white knight talk of justice and heroism, your hatred summoned the succubus who has killed these people. Your power was not enough to save them.” He gestured with his sword to the shrivelled corpse of the high priest, cradling itself at the demon’s feet. Flayed hands grabbed handfuls of his yellow robe and fought over him, while others explored his mouth and eyes like children playing a terrible game.

“This place is already a mass grave, and all you are is an obstacle on my way out. Save your tragedy for someone with time to indulge it.”

With a quick hop forward accompanied by the metal clunk of his armor, Constantine lifted his hands just slightly and brought them down, aiming to cleave through Tobias’ shoulder. Meanwhile, his eyes continued to radiate their same phantasmal glow, as if instead of looking at the man he looked straight through Tobias and into his soul.

Not so far away from them, the succubus roared with feral delight, pounding at the cage formed by the ritual circle’s protective barrier. Her tongue lolled stupidly from a mouth full of slavering teeth. She clawed at herself, moaning lewdly at the mere thought of the two warriors shedding each other’s blood. Every so often her screams shifted from ones of sexual fervor into those of agony as the hunger wracking her body became ever greater.

Constantine’s question still echoed in her mind, somewhere beneath the base instincts which overwhelmed her. In the core of her being, gears had begun to grind, and with them, answers had begun to flow like water through cracks in a dam. It was only a matter of time before it burst, and with the flood would come a tide of revelation.