Chapter Text
On a happy day in Hell, Tilla lost her son to a terrible tragedy.
On the eve of his adopted brother’s birthday, haphazardly placed fireworks set the family circus ablaze in swathes of emerald death. Horses and imps alike scrambled for safety, terrified by the sudden danger that had enveloped their home. Amongst them, there were those who could not flee; bedridden by illness or hobbled by injury; easy prey for ravenous flames. Tilla was amongst them, ravaged by debilitating sickness and sheltered within a small circus tent; the very same in which her family had lived their entire lives. Yet she did not perish, for her darling child Blitzø leapt into the dragon’s maw and rescued his mother before she could be consumed.
Alas, fate’s hand is often cruel, its appetite particular, and thus demanded death be granted its due. In place of the mother, the child burned; his agonized screams an eternal to all who heard them. Overcome with grief, Tilla buried him at the foot of a great oak tree, where the wild stallions of Pride roamed free and untamed. From that day on, the circus never reopened, and the associated family scattered to the winds; hearts heavy and souls darkened.
Five long years have passed since, and legends are whispered of that same hilltop. Some say it is cursed, others say it is blessed, but none dare to tread upon its grounds…
…except for one.
He is where our story begins.
💀🕯️
“Ba-ba.”
Sat atop a highchair, garbed in fluffy pink pajamas and a dining bib, an infant owl cooed. Her smile was wide, eyes even wider, as a spoonful of mashed rat hovered towards her beak.
“Yes Octavia, ba-ba.” Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia said, as he mimicked his daughter’s joyous grin. Beneath a ceiling of ephemeral stars, she was brightest amongst them all, and any happiness she exuded infected him with joy. With a single talon, he tickled her tiny stomach. “Can you eat the rat for daddy?”
“Ra-ra!” Tiny hands slapped at the tiny tray which kept her safely seated, excitement in her giggle as she completely ignored the spoon. Discovering a new sound was far more exhilarating, it seemed. “A-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra!” Wild flailing, celebratory and innocent as it was, claimed the spoon as its first victim; swatting it aground with a clatter and flinging rat guts all over Stolas’ royal attire.
A weary yet determined sigh lowered his shoulders. “That’s the third spoon in ten minutes, little lady…” He had tried everything to get her to eat; sleight of hand, funny faces, even bribery, but none of the attempts had succeeded. Perhaps, he wondered, the felling of the spoon was a sign from the universe to take a break and retry another time. Yet she needed to eat, and what sort of father would he be if he couldn’t feed his only child? Pensively, Stolas braced his beak within his palm and considered alternative food options, when the door to the dining room creaked open.
“Your Highness, a missive has just arrived for you.” Polite words, punctuated by the tiniest of high-pitched squeaks in every syllable, announced the arrival of one of his impish butlers. “It hails from the Board of Magical Sufficiency.”
Stolas’ attention perked at the name, his avian head snapping about one hundred and eighty degrees. “Ah, excellent, bring it to me.” Fingers curled into a multitude of crooked positions on one hand, and an immediate aura of glimmering blue magic enveloped the fallen spoon; raising it back into the air via levitation. When the letter came within reach; rolled into a scroll, wrapped with a silken lavender ribbon, and blessed with the ivory wax seal of Goetian royalty, he casually swapped it for the dirty spoon.
With a barely concealed wince of distaste, the servant pinched its handle between two fingers and dangled it upside down. “Having trouble with feeding again, sire?”
“Regrettably, yes, and I am swiftly approaching my wit’s end.” Focused on the scroll, mystical flames burned at the tip of a single talon, and as Stolas pointed at the wax seal, quickly set it alight. Glittering starlight rose towards the astral expanse above, in trails of dazzling smoke, until the seal popped open and allowed him to unroll the scroll. Beneath his breath, he read the words aloud.
“Dear Prince Stolas,
The Goetian Board of Magical Sufficiency has examined your submitted research in full thoroughness. After deep consideration of its value to royal society, this board has determined that your findings, while bold in their approach, lack the required level of practical application. Furthermore, due to an absent proof of concept regarding said research, we have regrettably decided to deny you funding. Please resubmit an updated thesis with the aforementioned desired qualities at your earliest convenience.”
Sincerely,
The Goetian Board of Magical Sufficiency
Failure put to parchment stabbed at his heart, twined about within his soul, and ruffled the creases of his mind. Yet, more so, an unrivaled fear of what the letter’s response conveyed. Born of royalty, Stolas had been granted a more than substantial nest egg to secure a comfortable existence for himself, but the same courtesy had not been extended to his offspring; for it fell to those of royal blood who sired children to secure a line of sustainable income for them. The funds to fuel his research, and the revenue which would follow, was to be her wealth to draw from for eternity; revenue which he had just been denied in parchment and ink. A heavy, irritated sigh of defeat swelled in Stolas’ chest, only for him to unleash it all in an unceremonious, dull huff.
“Pringle.”
“Yes sire?”
“I am about to utter several strong phrases which would best be unspoken in front of my daughter. Would you kindly take her to the outdoor garden and have the nanny try to feed her?”
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
Stolas leaned in; frustration held at bay by the mere presence of the giggling owlet sat before him and kissed her on the forehead. Another giggle, one which could sunder storms with sunlight, leapt from her tiny lungs as she wiggled in her father’s grasp. “Do not worry, daddy will be back soon.” He uttered lovingly, before lowering her down into the arms of the imp. With his stature being rather small and wiry, he needed both to safely carry the princess; a sigh which would normally instill anxiety in others, but Pringle was trained for such a task and held a spotless record of baby transport.
He watched with a heavy heart, one ridden with longing, as Octavia was carried from the room; her large, round, and red eyes innocently staring his way. “Daaaa-da.” she cooed again, before the doors closed and Stolas was left alone.
The very instant his daughter was out of earshot…
…a vicious grip crushed the scroll, before setting it aflame in azure hues. “Fucking cocksuckers!” An ash-coated fist smashed down upon the nearest table, and the chandelier above trembled in its wake; crystals chiming away as they dangerously swayed above. “Absent proof of concept? Lacking practical application?!”
It was an outrage; an absolute outrage! Years of his life dumped down the drain at a whim, carrying with them the harsh and taunting sting of failure, spurred him into a beeline straight for his arboretum. Coat tails bounced above furiously flicking heels; the prince’s pace all but warpath towards the realm of his many labors, unceasing and indiscriminate in their brutishness.
As he approached a set of gilded doors, sequestered in the easternmost wing of his manor, Stolas braced his palms against them and pushed with unchecked aggression. Heavy wood crashed outwards as a clap of thunder, and rattled every leaf and branch sheltered under a towering, clear glass dome.
Familiar humidity descended like a comfortable blanket. Rows of bulbous plants stretched to greet him; their animalistic eyes flooded to the brim with unknowable curiosity and sentience. Between their meticulous placement and the winding paths of stone that vanished into the carefully cultivated overgrowth, there existed a tidy workshop area. Beakers, spritzers, trays and pots and a vast array of gardening tools all sat in predetermined spots; some held in racks, while others were simply arranged according to frequency of use. Seeming to sense their creator’s bubbling rage, the plants arched away; their curiosity forbidding them from fully ignoring him, however.
In the center of the table sat an open tome; its pages edged with silver and filled with lengthy scrawlings. Diagrams, tables, charts; data, all accumulated over a painstaking half-decade of constant research. “I’ll show them proof of concept.” He scowled; hands planted firmly on either side of the book. Like an old piece of tasteless gum, Stolas gnawed upon his own anger, fuming and musing over a solution.
Vague criticism did him little good. It couldn’t have been the health of his plants, for they possessed an occult sheen of magical protection. It couldn’t have been their function, for they were swift to gobble up and entrap any would-be intruder who dared step foot onto his property uninvited. It couldn’t have been their intelligence, for his plants all hummed and swayed to the tune of beautiful, instrumental and vocal creations alike. Nothing was wrong with his photosynthetic darlings, and yet they had been rejected all the same.
“Mayhaps--”
The thought began as a single word birthed into existence, lingering on the precipice of what came after.
“--it is not their function, nor design, which is inadequate. No--”
Embers of disdain coalesced with dawning revelation, and the prince’s breath hissed with the success of mental industry as the gears in his head turned and churned.
“--but an issue of volume…of grandeur.”
He turned the pages of the book until one particular illustration stared up at him; one of soil and the vast root system of a grand garden. Amongst the crops: trees, bountiful, powerful, and unbending. That was what he needed. Stolas tapped a talon atop the page until the idea cemented itself in his mind, then turned away.
“What I need…is a superior seedbed.”
And he knew just the place to search for one.
💀🕯️
Adrift upon an island, slumbering high in the lavender heavens of Sloth, existed an unassuming archive of knowledge. Moss and leaves blanketed the wooden structure, accessible only to those who possessed the capability of flight; a hidden roost, so to speak. High above pillowy clouds and calming waterfalls, the view the island granted was nothing short of miraculous, and those who made the journey for knowledge often found themselves lovingly toasted in the sun's motherly radiance.
However, the allure of a pleasant nap atop silken blades of purple grass was more than a simple fitting characteristic of Belphegor’s realm. Those unfit to resist its tranquilizing effects would seldom ever reach the halls of knowledge they sought; trapped in their dreams until the minions of Sloth carried them away. All members of the Ars Goetia were warned, as the library and its contents had long been an honorary resource of Hell’s elite, not to test the Sin of Sloth’s power; for those who did always found themselves in rather compromising positions, as a result.
Well aware of the grassy knoll’s magical enchantment, entry wasn’t difficult for Stolas, and he quickly found himself deep within the building’s dimly lit arteries. If Mammon, the Sin of Greed, possessed any interest in reading, he would have surely drooled at the treasure trove of knowledge nestled within its multitude of shelves. Musty, ancient, but nevertheless meticulously well-kept and organized, the answers he sought surely lay within; waiting to be awoken with a mere turn of a page.
Books on horticulture; grafting, fertilization, and the many methods to simulate proper climates for healthy plant growth soon stacked up on a nearby reading table. So vast was the topic that what started off as a singular tower grew into a miniature civilization. For any average reader, absorbing the knowledge on display would have taken weeks, if not months, but for Stolas it took but two hours of his immortal existence.
Two hours which, by their end, resulted in naught but frustration.
Nothing he had found pointed to the existence of any soil superior to that which he had already been using.
Optimism diminished, but not completely snuffed out, Stolas leaned back in his ornate, cushiony chair and stared up at the ceiling. Dimly glowing candles floated in the air, purple candle wax producing soothing azure flames; like a cold, clear winter sky. Incense drifted between aisles of weathered leather and aged parchment, and for a few moments, he allowed the sights and scents to carry his mind elsewhere. Just like the island, it too floated adrift; expanding and relaxing to accept new possibilities in, and thus, new avenues of thought.
Did I perchance miss a vital detail? Surely the answer to my question lay somewhere within these halls. But if I’ve read every book on the subject and remain wanting…
After much glancing about, he found not a single soul to converse with. It had been much the same on his way in; the few who did occupy the library peacefully asleep at desks or nestled within beanbag adorned reading corners. The single solitary other he had seen appeared to have been a wandering librarian; an elderly serpent cloaked in a veiled shawl. Perhaps what he needed was a second perspective; someone to point him in a different direction, so to speak.
And so, Stolas rose from his seat and began his search.
Wooden signs, suspended by rickety chains, creaked with the song of cavorting crows as he passed beneath them. Alone, he tread past corridor after deathly still corridor, nothing but the cool glow of burning starlight to illuminate his way. In what darkness remained, soft scrapes emanated forth, tickling Stolas’ ears and tempting his head to turn and pay them heed. The beginnings of unease prickled deep within him, for he knew it wasn’t the scrape of chair legs, but something more…granite-like.
Above, a sign gently swung perfectly into the light and exposed the indentation of its lettering. It read, CHECK OUT, and was accompanied by a bold arrowhead pointing upwards. Stolas couldn’t help but suppress an amused scoff; all the dignity and allure of the library, undermined by a need for archaic, yet effective, signage. Leave it to Belphegor’s lineage to result to the easiest, laziest answer.
When the front desk eventually came into view; its surface overpopulated by unsorted tomes and a thin coating of dust, a severe lack of visible employees turned the prince’s eye to the surrounding area, only to discover more of the same. “Hello?” he called out in a courteous and elevated whisper.
First, there was no response, but then just as he was about to turn away, an unexpected sound stopped him. It was a yawn, borne from beyond the desk. Curiosity piqued; Stolas leaned forward to chance a peek, only to be met with the languid rise of a dark-toned tail; complete with a spear-like tip. “Welcome to the archives…” a feminine voice droned on, sapped of all brevity and motivation. Upon her rise, long pointed ears laden with piercings pierced through curtains of curly hair, as a demonic forked tongue stretched far from a mouth of sharp teeth and curled in another overpowering yawn. “…how may I assist you?”
Was she an imp? No; too tall. Mayhaps, a succubus? No; no wings. Regardless, she was clearly at home in the realm of dreamers. It wasn’t until magnified silver eyes peered at him through a pair of glasses that he rediscovered his voice. “Oh, yes well, I had a question.”
“Had, as in—” A third yawn struck, and while the demon scratched gently at the side of her scalp; lifting up and dropping gorgeous locks of hair which carried the aroma of creation’s sweetest fruit, the barbed interior of her maw was revealed for all but a moment. “—past tense?”
“Yes—no—I have a question: currently speaking.”
“Okay.”
“I’m conducting research, you see, for a thesis which has been years in the making, and I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve read every book you have, regarding the focus of my studies, but feel as if I might be looking in the wrong place. I was hoping you might be able to offer some recommendations.”
Expectantly, Stolas lingered at the end of his sentence; gaze evolved into a pure stare in anticipation for an answer. When all he received was a blank stare, one which lasted for the better half of an entire minute, the owl finally blinked.
“Do you…have any?”
A soft hiss; was she snarling? Was it perhaps another yawn coming on? No, in fact, she was simply taking a breath; a deep one judging by the slow pace at which her chest rose. The receptionist’s dark tail twitched as fingers pushed up beneath her glasses and pinched at the bridge between her eyes. When the demon exhaled, it sounded more like a clothing iron touching fabric, rather than a normal exhale. At her odd behavior, Stolas’ head tilted as characteristic of his avian species.
“What…” she began, lips tense to the point of clicking on departure. “…are you studying?”
Realization dawned, followed immediately by awkward discomfort; he’d completely spaced on that part. The prince cleared his throat, clenched fist to not only catch his cough but to partially hide the newfound heat in both cheeks. “Plants; specifically, the multiple means by which they might be cultivated.”
“Alright, that I can work with. Now, what’s the bit you’re hung up on, specifically?”
“Every methodology that I’ve learned here, I’ve already tried. Sadly, the results left much to be desired. I need something with more…” Theatrically, wrists rotated and hands spun in empty air; trying to whisk up the proper word. “…oomph.”
Manicured nails dribbled and danced atop the wooden desk, besotting its thin veil of dust with curved infractions. “What we put on the shelves is the pinnacle of oomph. If you don’t find it there, then it’s likely not what you’re looking for.”
“Madam, please do not take me for a novice in the realm of research. There is always, always, more than what is stocked upon the shelves. Hidden texts tucked away for private viewing, records shown only to those with proper access, the contents of a king’s coin purse for a peek into superior knowledge; that is what I seek.”
A perked, pierced brow snaked across her temple, then curved down her cheekbones and lifted a wry smile onto her face. “Every secret has a shadow, doesn’t it?” Suddenly, elbows to wood; the demon propped herself forward and crooked a finger to bid him close. Naturally, Stolas obliged; guarded attention given to his sides for eavesdroppers. “Do you believe in urban legends, Your Highness?”
Perplexed by her question, mind fighting against the dulcet fog which came from her voice, he replied in a whisper. “I cannot say that I’ve heard that many.”
An aura of giddiness lifted the receptionist’s shoulders into several bounces and wiggles; face beaming, as if nourished by gossip and intrigue. “I think you’ll want to hear about this one. Alright, so, years ago in the Pride Ring there was this traveling circus, right? They were pretty standard; toured a few rings, got a big-wig or two under the big top every now and again, but somehow never managed to climb very high. About five years ago, a fire broke out; nasty one too, killed a few of the staff. One of them was buried on a hill in Pride, way out in the country, and ever since…people claim it’s cursed.”
It was then Stolas’ turn to raise a brow. “A cursed hill?”
“Yes, and the rumor gained so much traction that no one dares to go near it.”
“If no one goes near it, then how do they know it’s cursed?”
Tiny fangs slipped atop her bottom lip; the tapping of hidden hooves upon ground a signal of the joy. “Because ever since the burial, the single tree atop that hill changed. It doesn’t act like a normal tree anymore. Weird colored leaves, gnarled branches, inconsistent budding times, discolored bark; but, get this, the ground beneath it produces an insane number of beautiful flowers. At least, that’s the story.”
“Surely someone has gotten close. Wild rumors like that tend to draw certain types of people; thrill seekers and the like.”
“There’s been attempts, but anyone who tries always comes back scared out of their skin. Some babble nonsensically, while others lock down and refuse to say anything about it at all. Kind of makes you wonder what they saw there, doesn’t it?”
Stolas mentally mulled it over; decomposing matter regularly contributed to plant growth, but to have its nature be changed to such an abnormal degree was unheard of. Could it be that, if the legend was true, that the body blessed the hillside’s soil? He needed to see it for himself.
“This hill; does the legend say exactly where it is?”
“Way out in the boonies is a town called Pride’s Edge, right next to the countryside. It’s a complete backwater, but it’s the place where anyone looking for the hill has had the best luck. I’m sure if you dropped in and asked the locals for information, they’d be able to point you in the right direction.”
A quick glance towards the nearest clock showed that it was slightly past noon. Hastened by the inevitable darkening of day, Stolas dipped his head towards the lesser demon in a sign of gratitude and respect. “You’ve been of great help. If this legend happens to bear fruit, I shall return to tell you all about it and ask for your name. I might even credit you in my citations.”
Silently, she tipped her head back in return. “Just be careful, Your Highness.”
If only he had known, at that moment in time, how grave her warning would turn out to be.
💀🕯️
Pride’s Edge was, to put it bluntly, a shithole.
Muddy streets, low-income housing, and an overbearing miasma of inhaled addictions badgered Stolas from the moment his royal talons touched aground. Flying from Sloth to Pride had taken the better part of a whole hour; one’s woes of not having properly mastered portal magic. Once his research was verified and Octavia’s safety net secured, proper time could be spent on the arcane; an aspect of his royal duties long neglected for her sake. Merely thinking about his daughter filled Stolas’ heart with longing; the urge to see her smiling face and hear her infantile laughter powerful enough to guarantee his return.
It was all that kept him grounded, as a rancorous buzz of street life swarmed his eardrums.
Multitudes of imps packed ill-kept streets, some walking, some standing, but all possessed of the same demeanor. Tired, rugged, ragged, ornery expressions and barely restrained tongues awash in a sea of red skin and striped horns. Street vendors hawked their wares; hot pretzels, boiled coals, extra spicy chili, while small groups of imps congregated in circles; throwing dice and playing cards atop whatever they could. Stolas, in his social wisdom, steered clear of them.
Oddly, a warm sense of community rippled through the chaos of life, even if he couldn’t relate to anything they were doing. However, whenever a stray glance of eye brought him into contact with one of the imps, nothing but cold hatred burned within them. Hostility, quiet as it was, festered all the same. He was unwanted, out of place; a gilded lily in a dirty pond. Regret over his chosen attire manifested, in that moment, swallowed only by the objective need to push onward.
“Hello my friend!”
Through the masses, what sounded like a carnival barker’s call surprised him with its astounding cheeriness. Stolas stopped and turned, only to see a mustachioed imp jumping up and down, flapping its arm to get his attention.
“Yes, you there, the tall one! I’ve got just what you’re looking for!”
Pushing through the crowd and across the street earned him several more glares and sidesteps, until he reached the excitable imp. Frayed hat, rugged vest, and patchy striped pants all pointed to poor finances, but slicked back hair, polished horns, and invigorated eyes told a different story. Multiple charms lined the imp’s hat; cards, feathers, beads; and as it was the first part of him that reached closest to Stolas’ natural point of view, it made quite the impression.
Without missing a beat, the sharp flick of a card being pulled from a sleeve procured a business card worthy of the sound itself.
“Micky Don’a’Hue; it’s a pleasure. Now if you don’t mind me saying so bright eyes, you look like the kind of guy who’s looking for something; something special. Now down here in Pride’s Edge, that can only be a few things, and I’ve got every single one of them! Whatcha need—wait don’t tell me I can see it now—what you need is…” In a flash, a flourish, a truly sneaky sleight of hand, the imp pulled two handfuls of what appeared to be runic charms from his pockets. Attached by string and colorfully etched beads, each necklace dangled in bunches from every last one of his fingers. “…proooooootection!”
Every word, every motion was so swift that by the time the spiel finished, Stolas’ brain had just barely absorbed the last word. Whoever the imp was, he was now the best definition of a fast talker.
“I see your stunned expression, but don’t worry, I can explain everything! You’re wondering; Micky, how’d someone like you manage to get your hands on such powerful, magical, arcane wonders?! By being the best dog on the hunt, that’s how! Any single one of these babies guarantees you safe passage through the plains, at an absolute steal of only forty-eight bucks. I should be charging more, but I’m an imp of the people, and the people need to be protected.”
A rather obvious question lingered at the front of the owl’s mind, but he momentarily shelved it and eyed the imp up and down. While his attire was rather dingy, that seemed to be the status quo in the area, so there was little to divulge from appearance alone. So, instead, words became the focus of judgement. The landslide of word vomit which had spewed from grinning lips indicated an underlying, not to mention suspicious, degree of insincerity.
Stolas peered at the beaded necklaces; noting the bold lines of the engraved symbols, as well as their overall lack of coloration. Magical aptitude revealed many things, one such being the presence of magical power; power which the beads lacked entirely. “What do they need protection from, exactly?”
“Why, from the only reason anyone visits Pride’s Edge to begin with!” Fingers waggled, jingling and clacking the beads against one another, as the deluge of background noise faded into a blurry sheet of mumbled nonsense. Micky’s eyes gleamed with excitement; the sort that only daredevils gained whenever they skirted the jaws of death. “The Hill.”
“The Hill.” Stolas repeated in a questioning tone. Despite already possessing prior knowledge about it, new perspectives were always valuable, and the imp seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice; might as well please both parties, if possible. “I have heard of it. Supposedly it’s a cursed place.”
“You heard right!” Micky lined the necklaces atop one another, then draped them all around his neck; freeing his hands so they could wildly articulate. “It’s not just a rumor; the hill is befouled; haunted by a vengeful spirit! Those who dared get close all came back pale as a sheet, wet as a fish, babbling about how they barely escaped the horrors that awaited them. Farmers, wanderers, hunters; no one is safe!”
“If the people require your protective charms, then I assume this hill is easy to find.”
“No, in fact, it’s the opposite.” Wild glances to the left, then the right, bugged the imp’s yellow eyeballs from their sockets; as if simply regurgitating the information was squeezing his skull in a vice. Micky then leaned up on his tippy toes, cupped a hand to one side of his mouth, and pursed the corner of his lips. “It moves. You don’t find the hill; the hill finds you. My charms keep it away, keep you hidden. Only the brave and foolish wander outside of town without one.”
“A moving hill?” This time, Stolas couldn’t hide the unyielding doubt in his words. “That’s completely ridiculous.”
“So said the last demon to ignore me. I can’t stop you from doing what you want, friend, but let it never be said that Micky Fuckin’ Don’a’Hue didn’t give ya due warning!” Without even attempting a final sales pitch, the odd imp scampered away into the crowd and took his charms with him. The sheer suddenness of the departure gave way for all the noise to return in stunning clarity; a clarity which Stolas had to physically shake from his head.
Clearly, the imp was a hustler, but had all of what he said been false? There existed enough doubt to find even his name untrustworthy, and ultimately, a heavy sense of wasted time descended upon Stolas. Still, the conversation had shown some promise; barely two feet into the town, and people were already talking about the supposedly haunted hill. That meant, if anything, he was on the right track.
Lost in thought, the edge of town drew his unfocused gaze; a yawning expanse of sheer countryside, severed from concrete and stained metal by the finest knife in existence. Oddly idyllic, yellow grass stretched into the horizon where a faraway mountain range sat; its peaks occupied by clouds and the blackened dots of flying creatures. Passively, and without warning, he found himself standing at the precipice between civilization and nature; where fresh, fragrant air enticed his nostrils like a lover from a romance novel.
Near and far, Stolas scanned for sights of stallions yet found none amongst the tall grassy fields. Vast emptiness was all he saw; slumbering and all consuming, docile and insurmountable. Hidden within golden gleams of bladed grass, a dulled wheat-like hue revealed itself, and it stirred the Goetia’s gut in a manner most unpleasant. Shadow crawled in the wake of light; shading the field’s foliage in sickly swathes of grayed, pocked plague. Unable to avert his gaze, discomfort festered until it soured into physical ailment; a gurgle of the stomach, a disruption of equilibrium.
He did not know how, but…it felt as if the field was observing him.
“Pardon, but are you looking for something?”
Snapped from the plain’s intangible grip, a baritone sound rumbled in both ears. Stolas turned and beheld a most unexpected sight. A hellhound, built like a cinderblock with tall, pointed ears, towered amongst the waist-high imp population; its short coffee brown fur and cherry red stare potent enough to swipe clean his feeling of unease. Their attire was most odd; a thick checkered longcoat and turtleneck shirt stressed to compress its muscular form. Thin glasses sat upon its sharp and pointed muzzle, where the tiniest scratch posed in the form of a long-faded scar.
“I’m searching for a particular hill, actually.”
What passed for disappointment sighed across a well-groomed face. “Of course you are; same reason anyone visits this rusted pit of a town. I saw you chatting with Mickey; figured he might’ve bamboozled you with all his talk of magic charms.”
“I was, but no, he did not bamboozle me. I could tell they were fake from the moment I laid eyes on them.”
“Ah; well, good.” The hound extended a paw; one proportionately large compared to the rest of him. “I’m Lou.”
Seeing such a cordial gesture spurred Stolas to return it in kind, and so he grasped the hellhound’s palm for a firm squeeze. “Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia; a pleasure to meet you, Lou.” The resulting handshake was short but left a pocket of tingling warmth within the owl’s hands which lingered long after parting.
“Likewise; though I’m sure you dance with much more interesting people. So, out of respect for your time, I’ll jump straight to the point; what interest does a Goetian Prince have in our little local legend?”
“I study horticulture. In fact, I’m currently attempting to submit a realized thesis on the topic. During my research, I heard tell of the odd tree atop a supposedly haunted hill and decided to personally investigate the matter.”
“An odd tree…” Lou said, paws buried back in his coat pockets. Relief twitched to life at the edges of lips, and ears sank in similar sentiment while a shared gaze broke. “…so, you’re not here for the grave. Good, that’s—that’s very good.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Once.”
“So, it isn’t simply a story? I’ve been told that it’s rather tricky to find. Supposedly, it roams.”
Lou shuffled in place, then met Stolas’ inquisitive eye once more. “That’s true, but only in part. People think the hill travels more than it does, but it only moves four times a year. For a single day, on specific dates, the hill and the tree both appear at sunrise, then vanish at sunset.”
New possibilities raced through Stolas’ mind; the implications enough to ignite his blood in a most invigorating way. Could there be an enchantment at play? Were the uninitiated masses being played for fools by some clever incantation? It was possible; with magic, even time wasn’t completely untouchable; simply of the highest taboo and extremely secretive. Although, given how pointless such a vast utilization of magic would ultimately be, there existed no apparent motive to do such a thing.
“Do you know when?”
At the question, Lou’s head looked beyond him and into the fields ahead. “Today is one of the four possible days; that’s why Mickey was so eager to sell you his junk.”
Wariness rose to the hound’s words. By sheer happenstance, the same day on which he first learned of it also just happened to be one of only four days it could be visited. Stolas shifted, looking back at the crowd of pedestrian imps with a newly honed eye for mischief. “How fortuitous…”
“I agree. You are the first Goetia in memory to visit Pride’s Edge. For it to occur on this day, of all days; it must be fate.” Lou’s arm rose, and a ring-adorned, clawed finger pointed towards the leftmost edge of the mountains. “This field is rather large; continuing along either side of that mountain. Look for the wild stallions that gallop freely through the grasslands. Find them; you find the hill, for it goes where they go. If you begin your search now, you might be able to make it before sunset.”
Out of every question that had arisen throughout the day, each more eager than the last with every new detail, all Stolas could think of to ask was…
“Why?”
“Hm?”
“Why does it—why does it follow the horses? I don’t understand.”
Prolonged silence weighed upon Lou, but beneath it was nothing but thought. Stolas could tell that either his question was being considerately pondered, or the information was simple too difficult to blurt out. Indeed, those sharp features and dark fur tightened in the sun’s rays; their masculine majesty underlined by intense and sincere emotion.
“Because he loved them.”
💀🕯️
Little continued of the conversation after that.
Moments later, Stolas found himself soaring through open skies; staring down at the world below. With his immense wingspan, the little town of Pride’s Edge was soon nothing more than a dot in the distance; tiny trails of weak smoke to tantalize any who sought civilization. Lou had been nice enough, but whether it was to actually help or shoo him from the town remained a point of contention. He had been eager enough to divulge all sorts of information, but the moment that the actual occupant of the hillside grave was brought into question, the once chatty hellhound had grown intensely tight lipped.
Simply another mystery to add to the pile.
As Stolas banked wide around the western face of the mentioned mountain, its’ snowcapped peaks a perfect reflective surface for light to streak across the golden sea below, all he found was a distinct lack of occupation. Nothing but an occasional stray boulder disrupted swaying waves of grass; their rigid and resolute bodies sunk beneath the soil as if being leisurely consumed. He rounded the curve of the mountain, steady in the fierce breeze, and spotted an oddity.
White flowers flowed amongst the grass like a stream; winding and steadily expanding outwards to a place behind and beyond the mountain. Hidden from the view of Pride’s Edge, they spread towards an endless horizon of countryside, and at their farthest point in Stolas’ view…he saw them.
Horses.
Wild, untamed, free spirits with fiery manes and skeletal faces raced through the flowers. They did not whinny, for nothing spurred them to do so in the peaceful expanse of wilderness they momentarily called home, but their energetic galloping did well enough to announce their presence to the world. It was from their presence that Stolas drew a semblance of relief. With it, the hill should be close.
He scanned for it, peering deep towards the ground as if hunting for an evening snack; an anxious yearning to return home alight in his chest. Octavia had been in the care of the servants for many hours, and while Stolas trusted them fully, she needed her father. Work made it…strenuous, to say the least, when it came to spending adequate time with her, but he had tried to keep his daughter close; Satan knew his wife didn’t. However, it was Stolas’ sole hope that the upcoming leg of research would be the last.
Then, as if the universe had read his mind, he saw it.
An island unto itself; a single, large and leafless tree sat perched atop a crested hill; enveloped in more wildflowers. Stallions slumbered around the elevated landmass, their massive, bulky bodies creating indents; large impromptu nests, in the tall grass. After hearing so much about it, eagerness overwhelmed caution, and Stolas swooped towards the ground; dark red feathers bleeding into particles as he transformed back into a more civilized form.
The exact moment that his talons made contact with the ground, all grew quiet.
Clouds ceased, wind died, and ancient branches cracked with song. In the middle of nowhere, a lonely oak sat beneath a vacant sky and gazed upon a prince of stars and prophecies. It spoke through silence. It bathed in indifference. Bark of deepest, most brittle black bled amber ichor, dripping in corrupted streams of suicidal tears. Ashen flakes drifted from barren branches, caught in some force beyond that of Hell’s wind, and tainted the pure, alabaster flowers at his feet.
There was no grave to be seen. Whether worn down by time or simply never placed to begin with, any hope of glimpsing the name of the deceased was naught but a fantasy. Amongst what might be considered peaceful solitude by some, a prevailing twinge of sadness spawned within Stolas’ heart. The grand monument that stood before him, erected for a nameless soul, appeared to weep for a fallen friend; or perhaps the mournful dismay of whomever had buried him still lingered in the tree? Picturing such a scene only brought melancholy; a feeling which Stolas quickly attempted to bury by digging about in his vest.
Clear vials clinked together as he withdrew them; their fragility gleaming what light left remained in the sky. Time grew short and if he was to achieve his goal before the means vanished, dawdling would need to be put aside. So, with the soft familiarity of dirt against his knees, the brush of petals upon his fingers, and zero regard for his royal garb, he dug into the dirt with bare hands. By means of special incantations, the sample which he took could easily be replicated, and so not much was required; far be it for him to stir the dead.
Taking just a little wouldn’t hurt, surely.
With one vial filled and corked, his attention turned upwards towards the tree; its sap an alluring prize for study. At least, he assumed it was sap. Diligent thoroughness would ensure he’d never need to return, so he would be a fool not to gather as many samples as he could. What was one little vial of sap? The tree clearly had ample amounts to share, after all.
Shed bark shavings drifted upon his clothes as he approached the tree and held out his arm, aiming to catch a stream of sap as it slid down. Thick as snail snot, it caused collection to take several painstaking seconds, eventually ending with a sufficient amount pooled halfway up the vial. Engrossed in the oddities before him, every account of the location being haunted vacated Stolas’ mind, and as he sealed each vial with a cork, he turned away from the tree.
“Finally, now I can return home.”
Wind whistled.
Wood creaked.
Stolas paused.
Up ahead, the wild stallions had vanished; naught one to be seen. Their spots lay vacant: dark. A cold, ill wind struck his body.
Then; an instinct, a voice of survival urged within his mind.
Turn around.
Prickles of fear, of uncertainty, skittered along his shoulders as the sun’s rays dipped beneath the mountain.
Turn around.
Pinfeathers on edge and panic in his heart; he fumbled to tuck away the vials within his vest for safe keeping; a frantic, explosive ball of dread swelling at the back of his vast mind. It screamed…
Turn around!
He whipped about, heels carving through soil, cape in chaotic flutter amidst the wind.
All he saw was the tree; its wicked, crooked branches bent in dying light; moaning and groaning to the whims of nature’s breath racing through the hollow spaces. He did not know why, nor how, but the longer he stared at it the more Stolas sensed…sadness? It was as if the entity was hoping he could stay; that he might just be able to linger a little longer.
Diligent of the hound’s reminder, he dared not; and so, with a rather discourteous departure, the Goetic prince shot into the sky.
The smell of rain pricked his nostrils.
Lightning stirred and thunder rumbled.
Dark clouds brewed.
Luckily, home was far away.
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐