radianceholy

[radianceholy]

i have served my purpose. goodbye forever

[radianceholy]

Owlcatober 2024 - Sweets

Knight Captain Tomila was a strange person, Arueshalae thought.

When they first met, she was quiet. Reticent, perhaps. Her expression was unreadable, even to someone who’d spent a lifetime learning to manipulate the subtle threads of mortal emotion, and her mercy was unexpected, if not unwelcome, for someone who seemed… so close to death itself. She spoke plainly, never bothering with flattery or unnecessary chatter. She smiled rarely, and her anger– when it came at all, that is– came out sharp and sudden, and it was a rare occasion that her anger left much more than ashes to clean up. She was beautiful in a way that Arueshalae was quite familiar with, and beautiful in a number of ways that were totally new to her.

The light of heaven was warm and gentle, a kindness that flowed in a persistent stream, and she could feel it now, radiating from the woman sitting across from her at the small dining table within her Commander’s quarters. Tomila sat, hands folded neatly in her lap, her strange, yellow eyes focused on Arueshalae, a variety of plates and platters between them, each loaded with sweet pastries, cookies, delicate-looking cakes and delicious looking pies. She would blink, now and then, and Arueshalae was rather thankful of it, as it was affirming when a mortal would continue to act in ways that mortals should, but the expectant gaze was otherwise just a little bit odd.

“…Aren’t you going to have any yourself?”

Tomila blinked, and Arueshalae tried to forget that she’d counted the seconds between the last time she blinked and now, and reached a delicate hand towards the fluffy, colorful pastries. She plucked a strawberry tart off of its platter and placed it before herself, an appeasing gesture.

“Is that all you want?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“But…”

“It’s okay. Go ahead.”

Arueshalae sighed. Her wings folded down, buckling under the pressure. It started out… rather humble, didn’t it? She asked for her help, once, and that help was to come and taste a new recipe of hers that wasn’t suitable for eating on the road. It was a batch of acorn cookies, sweetened with honey. Arueshalae had been confused, of course. She was a demon, and her taste in such foods was… undeveloped. And beyond that, sitting alone in a room with Tomila made her heart pound in a way that was altogether untrustworthy. But that mysterious expressionless face urged her on. What if she was disappointing her? What if it was as important as her humble request made it sound? What if she had her reasons, that it had to be her, and not anyone more accustomed to luxuries, like Camellia?

The acorn cookies were delicious, and Tomilia seemed to smile at her. And it was a moment she couldn’t quite bring herself to abandon…

…until the next request came, the following week they were resting at Drezen between ventures. It’s a recipe for croissants, she said. And then… efforts among allied druids to reinvigorate certain fruits within the Worldwound, which resulted in fruit tarts and jams, and each of them needed Arueshalae’s judgment, apparently. And then every variation on Skullberry pie that Tomila could possibly think of, week after week…

And now, a veritable mountain of food between them. Arueshalae sank down, as if trying to hide behind the heap of sweets. Tomila’s light was a gentle, steady warmth. The wild, freeing, and erratic dance of Elysium was a sweet song, liberating and pure, but Heaven had its own binding laws, and Arueshalae was starting to feel them bearing down upon her. She simply couldn’t bring herself to disappoint this woman, even if it had grown into something utterly outright

She blushed outright, when she caught the tiniest smile on Tomila’s face, as she plucked a scone from a heap of scones. Out of habit, her claws extended, as she picked it apart. There were blueberries baked into it, and the dark juices stained her claws an unusual color– carefully licking a bit of it off of the sharp edge. It’s curious how the flavor changes in the baking process. It’s curious how it all develops, when the right steps are followed. Maybe she’s something like a muffin or scone, herself? The right mix of ingredients to make something sweet…

“It’s good,” she finally said. “It’s… it’s really quite good, Tomila, but I don’t feel right having all of this here just for me. I don’t think I could really eat all of it, either…”

“Oh.”

“Why did you…?”

“I like watching you eat.”

It was the kind of simple answer Arueshalae expected, though it made her draw back a little bit. She was familiar with all sorts of paraphilia, of course, but it made her stomach drop to hear out loud. She rose up from her seat, not too quickly as to be too rude, but her muscles were tense, as though ready to make a quick exit.

“Tomila, I–”

“…You look happy.”

“Wait,” she hesitated. “What are you talking about?”

“You look happy when you eat.”

A simple explanation. Very much like her. Arueshalae tilted her head, briefly at a loss. She could swear that she saw her cheeks darken, on her otherwise uniformly unnatural gray pallor.  “I’ve watched your expressions. Troubled, afraid, angry, confused, or guilty. Only a few instances you weren’t,” she continued, “the banner, dreams,” she lowered her head down, guiltily. “Pastries.”

She sank back down into her seat, cheeks hot. What could she even think about something like that? It felt like something deadly creeping in her veins. A thousand opportunities to poison her. Something sweet and deadly laced into the pastries, or poured into the tea. As a succubus, she would have to find a weakness exploit before she did, in a deadly little game. It’s one of the many reasons she knew she wasn’t meant to be this close to her. The weakness in her heart, the violence in her bones. She felt her heart starting to pound in her chest.

“And it’s not just that,” Tomila continued, building up a little steam as she went, “it’s a pleasure to witness. When the supply lines are stable, everyone takes food for granted. When we don’t, food is food, everyone takes what they get. Not the same as watching someone discover it for the first time,” she continued, growing a bit more excited with each passing breath, “discovering each little decision you make, baking, cooking, plating, serving. Sharing food is an act of love between mortals,” She sat up straighter, the light of heaven pouring off of her, now, the entire room illuminated by peals of silver light. “It’s beautiful to see.”

Could poison really warm her body so? Was this another delusion? Her confidence faltered. She’d never seen her looking so passionate about… anything. “…I really can’t eat all of this,” Arueshalae replied in a rather soft, diplomatic tone. Her hands shook, the corners of her eyes prickled with hot tears. “…Maybe we can find some crusaders to give it away to?” She continued, a gentle compromise. “Without letting them know it was my idea. I don’t think there are many who would be brave enough for that,” she frowned, “But I’m sure they’d enjoy it, especially having come directly from you.”

“Very well,” she murmured. An awkward silence lingered between the two of them, and her voice was small when she finally found the words. “…I still want to do this again.”

Arueshalae folded in on herself, a little bit. “I– I know I’ve cooperated in this indulgence so far, Commander, but the risk…”

“You liked the skullberry pies.”

“I did,” her voice faltered.

“I have more for you to try. Twelve more. Not– not all at once,” she added, quickened with self-consciousness. “One at a time.”

Arueshalae squeezed her claws into her own tunic, clenching her fists tightly around the straps of leather and fabric. She’d been talked out of the dungeons once already.

“…Okay.” She nodded. “I’ll join you again, for the next time.”

She started to smile, despite herself.

-

12 Gozran, 4716

In spite of everything, all was going well in the fifth crusade. Victory was somewhere in sight, and soon, the Worldwound would heal. Arueshalae turned sideways, observing her own reflection rather carefully. She, too, had changed quite a bit, since those earlier days. Delicately, she pinched her nails into the side of her belly, fingers sinking into a layer of fat that she was certain hadn’t been there before. Weeks and months of plaintively-offered pastries. Mortals had all sorts of ways of showing their love, she supposed, and in time, it always ends up reflecting right back upon them…

She observed the change with a discerning eye, turning a thought over in her head as she shifted to observe from another angle. Her form could be whatever she wanted it to be.

…It felt kind of nice to see herself like this, though.

[radianceholy]

Owlcatober 2024 - Invisible

Arueshalae and Sosiel having a chat about art and love. No cws to speak of this time!

“It’s like a game, then, isn’t it?”

“…Some have made the comparison, yes.”

“Then… It's really only a step removed from a lie. Or, at best, another kind of performance… it's something that's real, but only as long as the performance goes on.”

“That is one of the conundrums at the heart of Shelyn’s faith, it’s true. Love is to be celebrated as a liberatory force. The ultimate expression of the beauty our hearts can conjure,” his voice rang out with a clipped grandeur. He’d heard those words hundreds of times too many, perhaps, and the meaning had long since drained away. “But it is a feeling ruled over by transient emotions, and but for the blessings of the gods, there are more tragedies than triumphs. Poetry and song work to conjure an image of the world far sweeter than we will ever know.”

Arueshalae’s lips twitched. She had to suppress the urge deep in her belly to pry her claws into a gap in his armor he’d so foolishly exposed, as a different kind of despair washed over her in its place. The walls of Drezen Citadel were damp and cool, and the cloud cover was thick enough that sunlight didn’t pierce through. She had come up here for the same reason he had: it is quiet, it is far from others, and it is easy to see everyone down below. He was avoiding the distraction and she was avoiding the very same, but nonetheless, she’d found it. She let out a sigh. “It’s no different, then. It’s just a comforting lie…”

Drezen was a rather cold and gray place. She often took comfort in the high stone walls and indifferent cobbled streets, the certainty of knowing where each road led and what each building held. She’d acquainted herself with every stray cat and memorized the routines of the soldiers in the barracks and she even knew a few of the faces personally– or as close to it as she let herself get with anyone, outside of the privileged few within the Knight Commander’s trusted inner circle. Anevia always seemed to spot her in her lonesome rooftop wanderings, catching her eyes with a sly, knowing grin, and she could sit in comfortable silence beside Arsinoe. Those two were rare exceptions.

Sosiel’s paintbrush was as much of a liar as she was, she thought, though it was hard to call it singularly ‘beautiful’ in the manner of the Silken Shadow. His artwork depicted things that were all rather common and plain. Ten-to-a-copper mortal lives, going about their business in a street whose colors seemed all the more vibrant than they had any right to be. She peered down from the parapets, and what she saw certainly didn’t live up to the brushstrokes. He cared to show a bit of green growing between the cobbles, or an unusually fancy brooch on a woman wearing rags. He saw so many more details than she, beneath a bright blue sky that they rarely ever enjoyed so near to the Worldwound.

“I’m not quite wise enough to have pierced through one of the oldest and most contentious riddles at the core of my faith,” he chuckled, a good natured smile on his lips, “that alone has caused schisms, even leaving aside the heretical cults and apostatic movements.”

She frowned, her tail lashing sharply.

“…What I mean to say,” he continued, noticing her impatience, “is that it’s an act of faith.”

“Of course. That kind of faith is a weakness all mortals share,” she murmured sadly. “Why would they believe in the promises of a demon, if not out of blind hope?”

His brow knitted, and he shook his head. “…The act of love itself is an act of faith in itself, I mean to say.”

“So it’s an act, a game, it comprises faith itself, and it’s a series of fickle emotions…?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she could hear the finger-wagging in his tone. “That’s probably only scratching the surface. Shelynites have spilled gallons of ink contemplating the nature of beauty and love.”

“And the poetry? The declarations of love? The… courtly romance, with all of those grand gestures and heroic feats?”

“We exist apart from one another,” a stroke of his brush. She crept closer, moving on her toes silently as though her footsteps might break the spell of his inspiration. “Our hearts are hidden to one another. You said once that you felt like you understood mortals, as a succubus, but no longer.”

He seemed to follow her gaze, stepping aside and gesturing her closer to look. A little wave of his hand, in that flourishing, graceful way he tended to move. His brushstrokes were deliberate, and she could identify each and every one, now that she was standing before his canvas. From far away, it was a delusion. Up close, it was an act of careful construction. She wasn’t certain what it meant, even knowing that much. Their hearts must be quite well hidden, indeed. “You rarely seem like you’re lying.”

“…It’s not a virtue in the eyes of the Eternal Rose, to blind ourselves to the truth, nor to disguise it from another. I’ve failed her and myself both, but I’m not proud of those lapses. I wish to stay true to myself.”

Her shoulders sank. She wanted to see. She wanted to see it. Why wasn’t it there, yet? No matter how she stared, the Drezen he saw and the Drezen she saw were irreconcilable. “It’s not as though I don’t understand. You’re grasping blindly at something you know to exist, yet can’t describe. Poetry, art, music, dance… you pull them out of your heart, and you hope that they’re seen.” She felt herself reaching towards the painting, as though she might sink right into it. Even as she said it, she could feel her own skepticism in her voice. How can you do it? How can you trust them to see it?

“It’s alright, you know. Art isn’t meant to be understood immediately.”

She closed her eyes, letting the city as she knew it disappear. If it was like a dream… if Desna and Shelyn truly lay together as lovers… maybe she could have this, too. A bright, beautiful, lively Drezen. Full of life, and the chaos that follows life. Stray seeds pack into the cobblestones and grow into flowers, and anywhere else in the world, they’d be weeds. Here, they’re a welcome spot of color and beauty, like each mortal life that found itself at the edge of the Abyss by circumstance…

She sighed, opening her eyes. The sky was still gray.

She’d hoped to see something different, but at least she could see it wasn’t a lie. Maybe that’s all she could hope for, right now.

[radianceholy]

i think that sosiel is allowed to say a lot more curse words about his commander's allies is all

sosiel lines in wrath of the righteous are really funny he'll just say something really innocuous like "hm, you know. i think we should be nice to people, and not be cruel unnecessarily" and then regill and greybor will immediately interject like "oh really now mr nice guy wants to be nice look at you over here you piece of shit you 'think' we should be 'nice' you dumb fucking asshole you personally are the reason that the worldwound exists i hope you get pulled apart by demons" and then people on reddit will turn that into a chad meme

[radianceholy]

sosiel lines in wrath of the righteous are really funny he'll just say something really innocuous like "hm, you know. i think we should be nice to people, and not be cruel unnecessarily" and then regill and greybor will immediately interject like "oh really now mr nice guy wants to be nice look at you over here you piece of shit you 'think' we should be 'nice' you dumb fucking asshole you personally are the reason that the worldwound exists i hope you get pulled apart by demons" and then people on reddit will turn that into a chad meme

[radianceholy]

Owlcatober 2024 - Second Chances

"I miss you very much, Arueshalae. I'm sad we won't be able to play together anymore! I really, really loved you Arueshalae, really! I'll always wait for you."

Centuries after the end of the Fifth Crusade, Ember meets her childhood friend.

i have an agenda here and it's that i don't think corrupted arueshalae is fundamentally any different from normal arueshalae, and i really love the idea that even after diving off the deep end, she can't really escape herself. i got way too into this one and i hope that people enjoy it!!!

cw: gore, violence, eye trauma, threats and implications of sexual violence, choking, burning flesh

"It's her again, isn't it?" The child stared up at her, lip twitching in a way that betrayed a great deal more fear than she knew how to properly express. Caught between two terrible possibilities, and looking to the one adult left in her left in her life that would give her the time of day, as though she could make sense of her fears. 

"...It is. That's precisely why you must wait." 

She shook her head, defiant. She wasn't very old, even by human standards. Maybe ten, or at most, twelve. She was an orphan child that had latched onto Ember in one of her travels, and had been trailing behind her with open fascination for the better part of a year, viewing her with the kind of open fascination that comes from a mixture of desperation and unpunished optimism. She had a certain brightness about her that betrayed her gentler years, much as Ember did. The girl’s parents had been comfortably wealthy before their disappearance, and they surely loved her to bits. She remained certain that someday they'd return to draw her back into a life of comfort. Ember had never been so naive, even in her childhood years. Her father was not 'gone,' he was dead.

The years had shown Ember the limits of human kindness. Her disfigurement was considered holy, to some; on the rare occasions when she met those who called themselves the Redeemed, generations removed from those that followed her so long ago. Wrapped in a threadbare cloak doing too little to shelter her frail figure, the world had extracted its price for her mercies. Her missing fingers, her blind eye, the arm that had been severed at the elbow… according to them, it was all proof of her goodness. Proof of a virtuous martyr, it was said. She would smile, denying them in the gentlest of terms.

"I can't! She's going to hurt you!" 

Age changed a lot about her, she supposed, but she was still mortal, caught in the whorl of her own personal history. Perhaps it was gratifying, to see this girl so young as to think this kind of cruelty was truly abnormal. She'd learned the lesson long ago, and whenever she'd doubt that lesson, she'd suffer the consequences.

Sometimes, the guilty must be punished.

"She is. She made a promise to me that she would. She'll want to hurt you, too, just for being near me." 

"I can't… I don't wanna stay here alone," she sniffled. "You won't come back. Just like mother and father…"

Ember sighed softly, brushing the girl's tears away with her thumb. "I was a child, and I let myself go to war. I never knew how much I was hurting myself."

"But, big sister…" 

"Please," she urged, quietly. "You're just a little girl. You don't have to hurt yourself." The world won't get any kinder, no matter what you sacrifice. She smiled sadly, those last words left unsaid. 

The girl grabbed her hand, clutching it all the tighter. Ember's fingers were already growing numb, and her frail body didn't have much strength to resist. She had a great power at her disposal, certainly, but none she would bring to bear against a child. She had spent her many years wandering the world, struggling to balance gentle guidance and harsh discipline. She was no closer to knowing, even hundreds of years after she left the Redeemed behind. She didn't quite know how to say it to this girl, but there were no answers she could give that would heal her heart and cure her of her fear and grief.

She sighed weakly, bowing her head.

"... There's one thing that you can do for me. But you have to follow my instructions exactly."

The girl nodded, tears in her eyes. 

"...Exactly what I say," she emphasized. "And if I cry out, you can't run to me. Remember that, no matter what."

-

Temples dedicated to Desna were always beautiful, each in their own ways. Grand skylights, beautiful painted murals, intricate architecture. ‘Opulent’ was never the right word, even if Ember had seen some reach rather grand heights. It was… inspiring, perhaps. She’d certainly witnessed a great many taking comfort in the temple. Mortal artists and architects poured their efforts into capturing a kind of beauty older than Golarion itself, and all mortal life upon its soil. In the heavens, there are stars. On the earth, there are flowers. In mortal hearts, there is love. 

This temple, too, was beautiful. An eye like Ember's could see it, no matter how it appeared to the world. Viscera strewn about, draped over the temple's pillars. Blood was splattered and smeared all over the walls and windows, and the stars outside twinkled through a crimson mirror. Two bodies lay together, gutted, their hearts torn from their chests even as their figures entwined in beautiful repose Red, red, red. She could feel the blood sticking to her bare feet, spilling out from bodies that were carved and sliced open with an artisan’s touch. Soot perched on her shoulder, wings tucked close against her sides. Some were still twitching, letting out gurgling, pathetic noises, in the throes of a succubus' kiss. All were beyond saving. 

"You're late," a sweet voice chided her, lounging at the foot of a statue of Desna in flight. It, too, was soaked in blood; intestines wrapped around her neck like a beautiful wreath. Strings of severed hands clung to her form. Grasping at her for grace, perhaps.

"You like it, don't you?" Arueshalae crowed, lounging on her throne of corpses so brutalized they could scarcely be recognized as human. The clergy had been stripped naked, faces torn off of their heads. The hollow stare of bloody, eyeless sockets gazed pleadingly towards Ember, like so many desperate followers seeking to abandon the demon lords that abused them. There was scarcely a speck of blood on Arueshalae's skin. Not so much as a drop, really. "My work. Payment to the Goddess for her kindness towards me. Her mercy." She sighed, seeming happy with herself. Happiness was a performance, and satisfaction was another piercing thrust. If it wasn't, it might be silent here for a moment too long. “If you’d come a few hours sooner, you could have saved some of them," she said, voice dripping with honey. "If you’d been here yesterday, they’d all be going about their lives quite happily. But you came much too late. How very sad, isn't it?”

"You always come to places like this." Ember's voice carried the slightest tremor. There were some people, she knew, that she couldn't help.

"And why shouldn't I?" She laughed. "She taught me so many wonderful things about mortals! Have you come to forgive me yet again?" She sits up, leering at her. "Their deaths are on your head, you know. Every last one."

"You did this," she said, failing to keep her voice even. "To them, and to you. Who are you really punishing?" Her anger was a sickening aberration, as twisted and malignant as the guilt that she felt.

“It’s you, of course!” She laughed. "So desperate! So utterly sincere! Laying your heart bare, where anyone could pierce it. Do you remember how gentle it was, when you held me in your arms? I would have drunk every last drop of you if I could have,” she purred. Her voice shifted, as suddenly as flipping a switch. She gasped and choked, tears in her eyes, wings folded in against her sides, eyes wide, demure, and trembling. “O-oh, Ember… Ember, please believe me. I'm so sorry-! I’ve done so many terrible things, and there’s no one else I can turn to! You have to trust me…!" 

Her one good hand touched the scar over her right eye, without thinking. Discipline. She had been taught discipline... but she wanted to believe, too. Arueshalae laughed uproariously, flashing a wicked grin. 

"You're so weak! So easy to manipulate. No matter how often you deny me, you always twist yourself into such convenient knots. It's pathetic, you know. It–" She suddenly froze. Ember's heart tightened, and for a moment, she didn't dare breathe. "--Wait. What is that? That sound. Is that…?"

Ember’s eyes blazed, as Flames danced at the tips of her fingers. Her anger was malignant, a twisted and hateful thing. She despised herself for being less than the savior the redeemed wished of her. But she had to admit, even if only to herself.

It was a mighty weapon.

Her cloak blew back, as Soot took to the air, a great pillar of flame tearing through the temple. The force of the explosion burned Arueshalae's gruesome throne to ash, Desna herself blackened and purified by a roaring pyre. The bloodstained windows burst into shards of glass, raining down to the ground in a shower of glittering moonlight.

"Your funny little tricks," Arueshalae cackled. She’d moved so fast, Ember hadn’t even seen it, but she was unscathed by the blast. Her reflexes were sharper than ever, and Ember’s body had only gotten weaker. She landed upon Desna's statue, one foot callously pressing down upon the head of the goddess. She toyed with one of her trophies - it was a beautifully engraved starknife, likely wrenched from the palm of some poor priest. It was made for ceremonial purposes, perhaps, but she knew from experience it would be exactly as deadly as it needed to be in Arueshalae’s hands. "Awfully quick to rely on them, too. Did you really lose your forgiving spirit? Or did I touch a nerve? Who is it, then, scurrying around in the shadows? An ally? A friend? A moon-eyed follower, blinded by your wisdom? I thought that filthy bird was the last friend you have left."

Ember couldn’t let her face give anything away, even if her pounding heart surely would have instead. A coil of flame burst forth from her palm, twisting through the air and streaking towards Arueshalae. Effortlessly, she leapt from her perch, wings spread as she swept through the smoke left in its wake. The knife whirled through the air, and Ember's movements were too slow. Blood spilled onto the stone as it carved through her side, slashing through her tattered, threadbare robes and worn-out cloak. A moment was all she needed. She dove, tackling her to the ground. She was small, frail. She'd survived on goodwill, and it was often in rare supply. Her back slammed against the ground and she screamed, hearing a loud crack from somewhere in her body as the demon leered at her from above. 

"...Oh, but there will be time for that soon enough. I missed seeing you like this." she purred. "Maybe when I take your other eye, I'll force feed that disgusting bird to you. Though... not before I make sure you see your little companion slaughtered, first. Whoever they are." She could hear Soot's crowing, feel the Succubus' hunger lapping at her abjurations, probing for a weakness it wouldn't find. The desire to see her pinned and humiliated was, perhaps, enough to distract a starving succubus, even if for but a moment. With one hand, Arueshalae forced Ember's good arm down. With the other, she stroked her sharp nails along her cheek in a gesture that almost seemed tender and fond. 

Ember's vision was cloudy, and she could only see her fangs, lips curled in a predatory satisfaction.

"Are you open to bargaining, at long last? The life of one follower isn't cheap, is it? I'll spare them, and you submit yourself to me. I could fit you with a collar and keep you chained to my throne. Tear out your tongue, so I don't have to listen to your obnoxious preaching. You'll be my blind, obedient little pet. You can sit by my side, listening to the music of the abyss and praying for my soul, as you always do." She ran a finger along her cheek, until it found the edges of her eyelids, prying it open and digging her claws that dug into her eye socket. "Forget that anything else in the cosmos even exists, save for me. I'll still show you far more kindness than these mortals have." 

She hissed in pain, twitching. Her arm jerked, but she was overpowered easily, even with her protective spells in place. She coughed on her own blood, letting out a weak, gurgling noise, but an odd smile formed on her lips.

"Oh, really? That pleases you, does it? You’ve spurned my affections so often. I thought you’d begun to hate me! Have you finally begun to submit?" Her nail dug in, close to gouging her eye out. “Praise me, and I’ll consider letting you keep your tongue. You can lavish me with those sweet words that lead doomed men back to the light and preach to me as much as you please, if you use it to lick my boots.” 

Ember let out a weak, trembling sound. She had changed over so many centuries, but even now, her heart… Her foolish, weak, sentimental heart…

“Go on! A bit louder. I can’t hear you.”

"You really can't let go," she whispered. "Of me, of Desna…" 

"Shut up," she snarled, pressing her finger in deeper. Ember let out an excruciating howl of pain. "I’ve changed my mind. You'll be better off without a tongue."

"...That's why you went after Seelah, too, all of those years ago… isn't it? She loved you like a sister."

"And she paid for it!" She barked out a laugh. "There's no one left to even tend to her grave!" 

"We didn't regret loving you."

Through the blood in her eye, Ember could still see her flinch back as if struck, her expression contorted into a mask of pain and rage. Her claw retracted from her eye socket. She looked up, with what little slack she’d now been given. The hole she'd blown through the ceiling gave her a good look at the church's bell tower. The night was full of stars.

"I don't regret loving you now, either," she whispered, her raspy voice carried by a faint, lonesome wind blowing through the desecrated temple.

Her lip curled into a snarl. "How pointlessly fucking vapid."

Ember looked into her eyes. "It's true," she sighed softly. "You were my childhood friend."

"Spare me!" Her voice rose to a shout, and her weight bared down upon her with far more intensity. Her ribs creaked under the pressure, and Ember let out an involuntary whimper of pain. But as Arueshalae drew in close, her voice was a deathly-quiet whisper.

"You should have killed me back then."

She squeezes her eye shut. "You were hurting..."

"You should have killed me," she repeated, cutting her off with a snarl, "the moment you heard about the turncoat demoness. The moment you saw me simpering and begging in my cell. If not then, when I threw myself back into that very same cell out of fear. If not then, when my sins were laid bare before you." Her voice trembled, rising to a fevered, maddened pitch. "You should have killed me when my eyes were blinded by starlight. When the song still echoed sweetly in my ears! You should have killed me when I could have hoped to be anything more than this! Let me die believing in a foolish promise of freedom, or kill me now, so that it finally end!" With a violent lurch, she wrapped both hands around Ember's neck, and slammed her head into the stone. 

Arueshalae’s grip had snapped her wrist, but the pain didn't matter. Nor did the stars in her eyes. With the last of her breath, she disappeared in a flash of light, body crumpling behind the temple's altar, struggling even to breathe.

Arueshalae let out a roar, grabbing the bloodied starknife from the ground, wings flaring in anger. "Not again!" She screamed. "You aren't going to do this again! I'll punish every filthy beggar who dared to accept a scrap of your charity! I'll hunt you down! I'll make you forget your own name, and I’ll rip everything you accomplished to shreds!" 

Ember murmured another incantation, trying to block out the anguished threats. Blood was still gushing from her eye, and her wrist was already beginning to swell, but she had more than enough power in her to stop the pain, even as frail as her body is. Positive energy washed through her body in a warm wave. 

"You'll live in your own piss and shit, that’s how far beneath me you are! You'll survive ten thousand years in my care, and scrape against the ground while I feed you the rotten meat of your own followers! I will brand you with my mark so that no one will ever look upon you without knowing who you belong to! I'll fuck you to death and stitch together what's left, so that I can fuck you to death all over again!" She leapt over the altar, frenzied, teeth bared.

The tolling of a bell could pierce clamor just as it could silence. Arueshalae screamed, her charge broken. The ranting and raving ceased, her body twisting and writhing in pain, and she hugged herself. She let out a whimper, collapsing atop the stone slab as though she were some ritual sacrifice. "What… what is that? What is that sound?"

"Your gift to us," Ember replied, her voice soft. She stepped backwards, never taking her eye off of her. "Do you remember? You might have succeeded in killing me, but you chose this place... this church. You really can't let go..." 

"That… bell? That stupid, insignificant little bell? It's here?! Of all places-!" 

Ember's voice echoed through the temple like the word of the divine.

"Burn."

Soot sat upon the statue of Desna, the blaze dancing in her beady eyes. 

"For the love of the gods, she's a child! She's a child!" He tore frantically through the wood at the base of the pyre, throwing it aside as his skin blistered and his clothes caught flame. He must have been in such terrible pain, but he wouldn't let himself stop until he could finally reach her. He desperately tore at her ropes with his own hands, his flesh beginning to melt. Screaming, screaming. The inquisitors wouldn't stop him, too paralyzed to slaughter their own, but neither would they help him, too faithful in their righteous cause. A witch should burn.

A witch should burn. 

The centuries had changed her, certainly, but not enough. Not nearly enough. The moment that a shred of doubt crept into her mind was the same moment she knew it had to end. She would pray for the Demon Lords of the Abyss, because no one else would. She would pray for Arueshalae, no matter how twisted she became. What hope was there for the wicked and forgotten, if no one would recognize their suffering? How could anyone ever challenge the abyss, if every right-minded crusader and gods-fearing mortal already accepted its terms?

Screams echoed through the temple. It must have been unimaginably painful. In her childhood, she took pity on the man who set the flames, and she took pity on the man who quenched them. She took pity on them all, and in her heart, her innocent and childish heart, she knew that there had to be a better way. Sacrifice would never make the world any kinder. A quiet little cabin somewhere, maybe. Or an endless road, promising freedom. A gentle word. A song. A single, fleeting moment of peace. But a sacrificial pyre?

Never. Never.

-

The little girl crept closer to Ember, anxious and pale. No doubt she heard some of Arueshalae’s uninhibited taunts, or Ember’s screams of pain. At very least Ember made sure to clear out the gore and corpses before allowing her to come wait in the ruined temple with her. The room smelled like smoke and ash, and it was a bitter, acrid thing, but it was no longer the gruesome sight it was before.

“I did well, didn’t I, big sister? When I rang the bell, it helped?”

“You did well,” she nodded. “You made it just in time, and you weren’t seen. I’m proud of you.”

“She’s… she’s not gonna hurt you? Or me? You’re sure of it?” The little girl glanced down at the face of the demon, fidgeting and squirming.

“I’m sure,” she replied.

“How do you know?”

“Look at her eyes.”

…It was a fitful sleep, but she could see it. Movement beneath her closed eyelids. Even demons could dream, after all.

“She’s pretty,” she said, almost without thought. “...Why did she hate you so much, big sister?”

Ember shook her head. "It isn't the right time to say. She needs her sleep."

A fat, orange cat sat on top of the roof of a warehouse. How did it get up there…? It was a mouser, but it was also well-fed and well loved. It was clean, groomed, and taken care of. It wore a cute little collar. She touched down on the roof, as gentle as could be, and lay beside the it, watching it for as long as it remained, but never creeping any closer. How simple it would be, to be born as something so effortlessly loved…

The world was better off when the Worldwound closed, but whenever she thought of her happiest moments… when the haze of violence cleared from her eyes and she could remember happiness at all, rather than a perpetual numbing hunger and clawing hatred... she thought about the war. Mortals, marching into a desolate and dead land, fighting against an incomprehensibly vast foe, and her place among them. Nervously braiding a young girl's hair. A joyous cry of ‘Sister!’ from someone bold enough to call her a friend. A thousand and one jokes she never quite understood. Two women so deeply in love their lives were like one. Art and poetry. Cold and uncompromising duty. A cause she believed in with her entire heart, even if her heart was forever unknown to her.

Dreams. Beautiful, lovely dreams, clutched greedily in her arms. 

When she opened her eyes, she found herself laying on Ember’s lap. Above her, a fat crow sat on a burned statue of the goddess, a beautiful little butterfly perched on her beak. Beyond that, a burning hole that had been blown through the ceiling, and far above, she could see the stars. She saw them in her Knight Commander’s eyes, once. Cold, distant, and impassive. Her judgment was certain. Her role in the cosmos had been long predetermined. What use is there, fighting the irrevocable law of her nature?

And yet... In the fog of sleep, she could imagine them, ever-so-briefly, to be a mercy. Just as she did before, when the future inspired hope instead of... boredom and fear. They were glittering map of beauty, myth, heroism and love, displayed upon a marvelous tapestry. In her weakness, she could see how lovely the heavens were. Just as the earth had flowers. Just as her heart had…

…

“Sh- she’s awake?” The voice of a terrified child. A snarling instinct roared within Arueshalae, hammering against her psyche. Kill her swiftly enough that Ember couldn’t stop her. Torment her with her failure! Bathe in her blood!

…She couldn’t bring herself to move. Ember had healed her completely, and the agonizing pain of that divine flame washing over her was gone, but somehow, she could no longer find the strength for it. Perhaps it had burned something crucial out of her being, rendering her helpless. She’d remain, a declawed and neutered demoness. How pathetic.

“You were so close,” she said. “Why can’t you just kill me?”

“It’s love,” Ember answered sadly, looking away. “If I don’t love you, then no one will ever love you again. My friend, who would shelter me from the rain…”

“Stop. Ember, stop…”

“You were always so afraid, Arueshalae.”

“I was fooling myself,” she spat, failing to drum up her usual level of venom and spite. “Fooling you, too. A demon can't love.”

“I still see her in you. Even now.”

“That girl you knew was a figment. A dream. A lie! Haven’t I proven that, yet!?”

“If she was a dream,” she said, “then isn’t she the answer to the riddle that vexed you so?”

It felt as though something in her broke. Centuries of pressure had built up, and now released. She hissed, like an angry cat, trying to sputter out some half-formed insult. What came instead was a soft moan, as tears welled in her eyes. She choked, clutching at Ember’s tattered robes.

For the first time in centuries, Arueshalae began to cry.

[radianceholy]

Owlcatober 2024 - Aim and Fire

One of Arueshalae's earlier encounters with mortals, set a few years after her run in with Desna.

cw: some blood and fighting and whatnot, arueshalae being non-explicitly weird about sex and violence

Focus. Breathe. 

Arueshalae closed her eyes, wind whipping around her body. Her hands trembled, clutching a stolen longbow and one of the last of her arrows in her hands. A half dozen or so were rattling around in her quiver, and she'd wasted too many in her last excursion. She was afraid to visit any mortal settlement where she might replenish them, stuck scavenging off of abandoned settlements or the bodies of dead demons. 

She'd thought of herself as powerful, skilled, and experienced, and in many ways, she still was. It's just that now, she could feel the tension of the bowstring as she drew it back. She could feel the weight of each life she was about to take.

She'd slaughtered her rivals at a distance, when it was convenient. Usually because it was safer to go unseen, and she wouldn't deny the opportunity to do away with someone that could challenge her. She had preferred to feel the blood dripping down her skin, to look them in their eyes as they bled their last, but business and pleasure couldn't always mix. She wasn't so proud as to deny herself an easy victory, back then. 

Now, it was a necessity. Getting close was much too dangerous. Even if she disguised herself, someone might see through her. They might try to hunt her down or kill her, and she might have to defend herself. She could run away, but if she hurt any of them in the process, how could she ask for forgiveness? 

And that left another possibility. No one would see through her, and they'd thank her. Begin to trust her. Accept her among them, inviting the poison into their own veins.

Arueshalae opened her eyes, focusing in. She had her shot.

Twang! 

Schir were easy prey, and Babau were often too focused on their victims to prepare for a surprise attack. The first demon let out a roar as it fell, and she swiped another arrow from her quiver. Five.

Twang!

Four. 

Twang! 

Three. 

Two half-elves had fallen over themselves, scrambling backwards away from the demons. There was a third, dead a few paces before them, a step too slow. They looked similar, like siblings. Would they be burying someone they loved, soon? 

A woman with horns shouted something, though her words were lost to the howling wings. She was clutching at a bleeding wound in the side of her ribs, but she was armed for combat, a shortsword in her hand with the blade thrust towards her foes. She did well to protect them, and she was the only reason those two remaining siblings survived long enough for Arueshalae to line up her shot. She must be very brave, Arueshalae thought. Why would the four of them be traveling somewhere so dangerous, otherwise? Was it all worth it? She had so many questions for them, but the more she thought about approaching and asking– 

She couldn't. She had to block out her desires, or else all three of them would be dead. Her hunger made it hard to think, sometimes, and she was growing weaker by the day, trying to suppress it. Her vision blurred, briefly, and her arms sagged. She couldn't – she couldn't think about it. Not here, and not now. 

Twang!

Two arrows left. Four demons. One shot missed. Their charge had broken, snarling amongst themselves about the ambush, but it wasn't yet enough to even the odds, and she couldn't gamble on those mortal lives even if it was. She leapt down from her perch, firing off two final snap shots. Non-fatal, but the pain made them flinch, giving her a half second of time to get into position. She landed between the other demons and their prey, a physical barrier to continuing their violent sport, perched on the back of the first Schir she'd felled to make it clear who had done the deed.

She glared. The message was twofold, and any demon would know it on sight. 

You are beneath me. They belong to me.

There was a moment of silent understanding as the remaining few fled, bleeding from their wounds and cursing her name. 

The tiefling turned her blade towards Arueshalae, but she was too hurt and afraid to make the first move. Arueshalae Glanced over her shoulder, meeting her gaze. How many years has she gone, without saying a single word to a mortal? Not enough, clearly. She was hungry. She wanted that woman kneeling before her. When Arueshalae spoke, it was one of the first honest things she'd ever said to a mortal. 

"Run for your lives," she was surprised by the anxious, fearful tremor in her own voice, "or I'm going to kill you." 

Her eyes remained fixed upon them, until she was completely sure that they were gone. She'd never get to know what would come of them, but that didn't matter. For the moment, they were safe.

[radianceholy]

unlock my potential

[radianceholy]

Owlcatober 2024 - Fake Names

Arueshalae engages in personal exploration through creative roleplay, with some unexpected company along the way. cw: some implied history of abuse, slightly flippant gender talk maybe, some alcohol use

His hair was short, trim, neat; he was a man of some means, perhaps, with all of the care taken to his appearance. His boots polished to a shine, the brass buttons of his doublet catching the flickering lamplight of a tavern edging ever closer to nightfall. Though it wasn’t the finest of material - nothing was, this close to the Worldwound, supply lines strained and any given luxury coming at a substantial premium - it was, perhaps, flattering. The look of a wandering poet, or maybe a fresh-faced merchant. Bright-eyed, slim, youthful. He was, no doubt, a stranger to these lands; an anomaly among the hardened veterans and knock-kneed recruits alike. He was, perhaps, uncertain if alcohol was to his taste, either. Wine, like fine fabrics, was rare enough; good wine ever more so, and he wasn’t so sure he knew to tell the difference, bringing the goblet to his lips as though its contents might just poison him. It was what one does in a tavern, though. What any mortal would do, certainly, provided that mortal wanted to be there in the first place. The question was, did he want to be there? “Studying the color of your drink, hm? Or transfixed by your own reflection? I can’t say it’s terribly hard on the eyes.” His gaze shot up, back straightening immediately, a familiar voice that put him on edge and made his heart jump into his throat. (No, jumping was good, right? Was it really jumping? Were those the right words for the feeling…?) He laughed. “My, my. You’re that flustered? That’s really not much of a challenge.” Daeran waved his hand, and it was hard to tell if he was dismissing him, or offering reassurance. “It’s dull here, with only the company of sub-par wine. And I’ve never seen your face around here before, so there's surely a measure of curiosity to be sated. But if you’d rather while away your hours gazing into your own eyes…" It was a feeling much more akin to anxiety, perhaps. It was’t as though he’d let a few unkind words sway him from his path (he often told himself that, again and again, like a prayer, hoping it would prove true), but he took no pleasure in mockery of his path. He couldn’t trust himself with anger or revenge, so those feelings had to be placed up on a high shelf in his mind. Not inaccessible, but far enough away that he wouldn’t reach for them the very moment something went wrong. It made it all the more upsetting that this man (the man that was now chatting him up) was the one that had decided to sit down, right at his side. Here, of all places. Tonight, of all nights.

…But right now, he wasn't that person, right? At least… for the role he was currently playing, he wasn’t the sort of demon that would be fun to tease and provoke. He didn't have to apologize for his own wickedness. “...I’m sorry. I’m… new here.” “Oh, that was established.” Daeran smirked, insufferable. It was a calculated twitch of his lips, to let him know that he was a huge asshole on purpose, and he really wasn’t quite sure why that should make a difference. Mortals are impossibly strange. “I know-! I know that you just said it, you know. It’s just that I’d rather say it myself,” he huffed, defiant, though that only seemed to earn him another laugh. “Callus. My name is… Callus.” “Indeed? And what, pray tell, has brought you to this den of misery? Idealistic enough to volunteer what limited means you have available to the Crusade?” “I suppose you could say that,” he murmured in reply. “I’m… a poet. From Mendev. I'm here to practice my art, on the subject of the Crusades themselves.” 

“I would hate to see the grim prose you’ve spun from this dismal subject. Dedicate poem and verse to overstuffed Paladins and their lopped-off limbs, with tearful praise for their great sacrifice and honor in the face of impossible odds…" That didn't sound so bad to him, but Daeran said it like it was the most boring thing he could imagine. "Unless you’ve a sense of humor about it, I suppose. Throw in a bawdy limerick about Balors, perhaps?” “I don't think anyone would enjoy that. It would be considered a tasteless joke, at best.” “Yes, it would. Naturally, I’d pay handsomely, as a patron of the arts.” He pouted. “...I just wanted to see a different perspective of the Crusaders. Something closer to them. Not mock them.” “Different, you say? Different from what? Parades and preachers? Wide scale recruitment of the idealistic and foolish alike?” He grinned, leaning in, close enough that the room seemed to fade but for his gaze. “You're much too vibrant to waste whatever talents might be at your disposal on that. I, on the other hand, could offer far more stimulating subject matter.” His eyes opened a bit wider. He had never seen his face this close before. His eyes were bright. Warm. They reminded her of that beautiful song, and the flights of butterflies. He knew Daeran quite well, in their travels - he’d said a hundred wretched things to him a hundred times over each, always with this awful tone of detached mockery. Sosiel often said that anything good or beautiful in the world becomes foul through the eyes of the Count. The smug mockery, pressing his boot against the back of someone at the edge of a cliff as though it were the most delightful of jokes; the gentle warmth of someone who felt he might be among equals, sharing in delight with one another, however fleeting it might be. Or, perhaps, willing to humble himself however briefly to give that impression. It’s what he’d have done, as a succubus. He knew that trick. He knew it. And even so, in his eyes– “In all of Elysium,” he whispered, “there’s truly nothing more beautiful. No one, nothing.” He trembled, stroking her cheek and tracing her chin with his delicate fingertips. His face was pale, sickly. He looked like he might just throw up on the spot, but the gentle smile was as genuine as ever.She had, of course, poisoned his drink. She could recognize it instantly. Her insides twisted and burned. Her body twitched, and for once, she couldn’t find the words. No twisted ultimatums or wicked lies. No cruelty could spring forth from her lips. It was the first time he’d ever poisoned hers, in turn.He wrenched his gaze away all too suddenly. Any trace of comfortable mirth was gone. He felt sick. 

“Oh? Here I thought we were getting along. I suppose I must have offended. And I wasn’t even trying all that hard to do so.” “No. No, no, I’m sorry. It’s not you.” Daeran leaned away, and he felt like he could breathe once more. A knot of guilt twisted in his stomach, but that was nothing new. “I suppose there’s such a thing as coming on too strong.” “...You reminded me of someone. Um, I guess… an old boyfriend.” “Now that would explain it. And it does spare my ego for a turn, so all the better for it. The wound is still fresh, is it?” “You could say that,” he said, voice small. “Well, well. I’ll leave you to your night, in that case. But should you be compelled to look me up again, say, when it becomes more of a scab, my name is–” “Count Daeran Arendae,” another chimed in. (Mortals use full names and titles when they’re upset with one another, he knew. But only sometimes. How confusing!) He flicked his gaze towards the new voice a little too quickly, forgetting himself. (A mortal shouldn’t act like a frightened fawn, should they? And he’s a friend. Maybe not Callus’ friend, but… wait, Was Sosiel his friend? He should really ask–) “It’s no surprise to find you here, haranguing a newcomer. Can’t you see how overwhelmed he is?” He scoffed. “I am nothing if not perfectly accommodating of the gentleman’s boundaries!” “He obviously doesn’t know you well enough, if he believes such a blatant lie. You’ve clearly upset him.” “For a priest so transfixed with beauty and inner goodness, you are remarkably unforgiving and dour, aren’t you? I’m almost proud to bear witness to your overbearing hypocrisy, day after day.” “It's okay,” He said, softly. ‘Callus,’ the name. It didn’t fit. It really didn’t fit. He wasn’t really a poet from Avistan, and– “...Daeran did nothing wrong,” he sighed, despite the smug ‘Ha!’ that came just from his right. “...I owe you an apology, then. The look on his face was simply…” “...Oh, don't act so contrite. I’m sure you were pleased as ever to come in on your high horse.” “And– and my name,” he continued, despite the bickering. “...I’m not Callus.” Both men glanced back at him.  “...You know, a false name doesn’t have much meaning if you're someone I’ve never met before in my life.”

Sosiel shot a glance towards Daeran, and then another towards Arueshalae. A look of understanding crossed his face… much, it seemed, to Daeran’s annoyance. Silence lingered between them all for a few moments.

“Naturally, I expect thanks,” Daeran hummed. “For my role as muse and inspiration in this whole performance.”

“A performance, really?” Sosiel interjected.

“It’s all performance,” he shot back.

Arueshalae adjusted his collar, letting out a sigh. “Even if I doubt it was your intention, you did give me the idea.”

“As disappointed as I am,” he mused.

Sosiel shot him another glare, resting a hand on Arueshalae’s shoulder. “...I’m sure you must have been nervous. And I am glad that the count truly did respect your boundaries,” spoken as a warning and eliciting an eyeroll, “and I wanted to assure you that nothing but good can come of exploring yourself in such a way. Find the beauty within yourself, and share it with the world.” He smiled warmly.

“...It was still based on a lie,” he replied. “I’m not a poet.” He wrapped his arms around his waist, hugging himself. He was as skilled at changing form as ever, but despite despite his skill in doing so, his tail had reappeared behind him once more, swaying and twitching to betray his feelings.

“I’m sure that you could learn. And I’m sure that the world would be better with your poetry in it, regardless of your precise origins.”

“Well, then-!” Daeran rose to his feet, the sincerity repelling his presence as sharply as ever. “It is, unfortunately for me, a night wasted. I’ll have to be wary of every willowy gentleman I come across from here on out, and that’s certainly going to cut into my personal time–”

“Wait!” Arueshalae spoke up. His horns had grown in the span of a moment, without even realizing it. “Ah… thank you.” He murmured.

“Really? No one’s ever embarrassed themself before you, I suppose? That seems unlikely.”

“...No. No, not that. No one’s ever–” he rubbed his arm, still hugging himself. “–no one’s ever backed off so willingly. I suppose it made things more pleasant than I expected.”

He looked, for once, like he was taken aback, an acerbic word choked to silence in the back of his throat. He let out a dramatic little sigh, some effort at saving face, and he was soon gone, leaving Arueshelae behind with Sosiel.

Sosiel offered a hand to Arueshalae, and he took it, rising up beside him. Hunched in on himself, his wings – there they were again – folded in as close to his sides as they could, a protective shelter. “This place is rather crowded, isn’t it?” He offered gently, gesturing towards the door.

“...It is.”

“Would you like to talk? I can provide what guidance I can, of course, but we need not speak in absolutes."

He nodded.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, the last light of the day beginning to fade. The stars above would soon be clear, ready to offer guidance, as they always had. The weather was chill, and in the beauty of night, the world felt more calm and still than it ever had before. Somewhere in the darkness, there was an answer to that elusive question.

Who are you, Arueshalae?