Dying Nights

Sat behind an eight foot wide desk in a high backed chair of dark carved wood and cracked red leather is Ze’orath. He is shrouded largely in darkness with only thin candles topped with dancing flames to pierce through what would otherwise be an all encompassing mass.

His head is lowered into his open left hand, the elbow of which is braced against the armrest carved into a mighty set of claws when Archibald shuffles into the room.

“That is close enough, visitor.” Ze’orath assures without moving an inch.

If not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, barely perceivable in all the darkness, the balding man would have sworn that the man he is visiting is dead.

“I-if you insist, and th-thank you for your assistance out on the street. If not for you…”

“Do not mention it.” Is the interjection from he who Archibald is visiting, his voice rumbling strangely as he speaks.

The strangeness concerns the well dressed visitor who he is enormously aware of a lump in his throat for it is preventing him from saying anymore. As a result silence is left to hang in the air. If it is as uncomfortable for the proprietor of this building then he shows no signs of it that Archibald can see, not that he can see a great deal due to the darkness that envelopes the majority of the room. Though, what he can make out are the outlines of furniture, all of it ornate, decorative, old fashioned. Where it came from the visitor cannot say as he has not seen items like it since his youth and even then they were infrequent, and never an entire room full like this either. Not that what occupies the room fills it to bursting. To be honest a better description of the level of furnishing would be somewhere between sparse and minimal. Upon which side of that spectrum it falls he cannot decide, though his considerations on the matter are dispelled when Ze’orath queries, “Why are you here?”

Something about the tone in which that question is uttered locks Archibald in place. Not literally, just figuratively. Though, he would not be surprised if he found his body frozen and unable to move. Not that he tries. The proprietor told him to approach no further and he intends on complying for this man he has come to ask for the services of is… He does not have the words to describe truthfully other than to say, different.

That is all anyone in Venrifere can say about him really as no one has ever seen much of him, including his entire face. He simply arrived one day, setup in this building and has been around ever since. Rarely, it seems, does he venture out in the daylight hours, which is a real curiosity in the city. And it is said that when he does he is hooded, face shrouded in shadow as if he yearns to hide something from everyone’s prying eyes. What that might be Archibald hasn’t a…

A flash of lightning strikes from the thick dark clouds of the overhead storm in the night sky illuminating much of the room he and Ze’orath occupy. In that short couple seconds the balding man gets a better glimpse of the furniture. It is older than he expected but immaculate, which makes little sense for nothing of such an age is ever so perfect, in Venrifere especially.

“I-I need your help.” Is the honest reply Archibald gives when finally he finds his voice.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the room. This time Archibald gets a look at Ze’orath. He recoils, afraid. The proprietor sat in the chair isn’t offended. He is used to it. If this visitor saw him in full light the reaction would be far worse, there is no doubt in his mind. It is why Ze’orath keeps to navigating the city at night unless it is essential and even then it is best he mitigates his meeting with others. They would not understand what they see, not because he is grotesque but rather as people largely fear what they do not consider to be normal and Ze’orath certainly fits the bill of not being what is considered the norm.

“Don’t fear, I will not hurt you, but you must speak. Tell me why you need my help.”

Several failed attempts at issuing a reply culminate in a strange chattering wet noise as if Archibald is choking on his own blood. He is doing no such thing, though is embarrassed by his performance, or lack thereof, until finally, “It is said you deal with the strange.”

The words are less a question, as Archibald had intended, and more of a statement. Because of that it makes it sound as if a reply is not necessary, thankfully the seated man offers one regardless.

“It has been known for me to do so from time to time, yes.”

A third flash results in a massive silhouette appearing across the wall behind Ze’orath, it also  informs Archibald that the man he is seeking aid from has changed position in his seat. Alas, the size of the silhouette only compounds the balding man’s fears, not abates them. Because of that he is sent into delivering only gibberish for a while. Yet, it is clear that Archibald is unaware of his rambling at first. Once he is alerted to it however he apologises, gets a hold of himself, averts his gaze, wishing to be concerned with what he is in the presence of no longer and begins afresh.

“Strangeness fills these streets and I-I am willing to admit while I cannot explain much of what happens in Venrifere I have never believed it to be from another realm.”

“But…?”

“I saw a woman, torn apart, from the inside. And from her…” Archibald’s hands shake as he recalls the details of what he witnessed for it was something which should not be possible and yet he saw it with his own two eyes; and is not a madman, nor a dreamer.

Regaining a modicum of composure the balding visitor resumes his tale, “…from what remained crawled a thing. Monstrous, deformed, rancid… It grew and grew until it stood taller than I. Then it saw me. I ran. Bolted shut my doors and windows and not left my home for four days, until deciding action needed to be taken. At which point I ventured here, to ask for your…”

A raised hand from Ze’orath silences Archibald who is quaking in his shoes unable to stop the images of what he saw replaying in his head. A whimper escapes his lips, he wonders how he managed to keep himself contained this long. No answer is forthcoming.

“This entity that you saw…” Archibald thinks Ze’orath’s choice of words odd, entity. Who would call what he saw an entity? And should that worry him? He doesn’t know but turns his attention back toward he who he has come to seek aid off.

“…did it start hunched, a red/brown colour, with short black protrusions upon its skin, one leg folded, the other straight, three eyes and a crooked grin?”

“Your description is sublime bar for the face which I did not have the misfortune of glimpsing.”

“Hmm.” Is the only response from the seated man and proprietor of Daemones Mortem, a name that means nothing to Archibald, other than it is from a language no longer used in the world of man.

For reasons he cannot give Archibald would like to demand to know what the seated man is thinking. If he did he would not like the answer that would greet him for Ze’orath, hunter of the demonic and the damned, knows that what this blue eyed man claims to have seen is a Sprememnon. A demon of disgusting proportions that likes to torment those who ‘gave away’ a child or children, whether that is literally or via miscarriage, abortion or violence it does not matter. To it they are all the same.

You see, the demon preys on all who are guilty and devours them from the insides until they are but a pool of blood and slithers of leftover meat. Yet, for this man to have seen such a thing is quite troubling seeing as Sprememnon are notoriously careful about when they strike. After all, they hold no power against those that are without the blood of infants and children on their hands. Not something this visitor would know, but still this development is a troubling one, if true.

“Where did this deed take place?” Is all the hunter of demons feels he needs to query and know.

After all, it is doubtful this human will be capable of telling him more that could lend aid. That is why they have come to Ze’orath after all and yet business, in a city drenched in demon activity, has been slow thus far. Does that surprise the hunter? No, it does not. Still, times are a changing and Venrifere seems to be at the centre of all that change, even if there has been no news on the appearance of a nexus.

A nexus is a sort of portal which serves as a bridge between the world of man and where the demons and damned frequent. It cannot be called hell, the underworld, or any other name first scrawled in texts of religious origins. Partly that is because these were the ravings of men afflicted by the very things Ze’orath hunts. They didn’t know it, until their deaths came, but it was where these torturous ideas stemmed from.

“T-three eighteen twenty four Euclid Gardens, fourth floor,” replies the shaky voiced Archibald whose face has gone pale from recalling what he witnessed so unwillingly those four nights ago.

 In the limited light Archibald cannot see that Ze’orath’s eyes, mauve and shaped like a reptiles, are locked on him, staring hard. Not that he needs to see them for he feels it instead. His hands continue to shake when he pulls at his cravat attempting to loosen it in the moments prior to the hunter querying, “And what were you doing there? Is that where you live?”

At first Archibald manages only to shake his head. Following that he blurts, “Visiting someone.”

“Who are they? Was it the woman?”

Another shake of the head follows, this time without any words to accompany. That forces Ze’orath, who’s right hand slides down and into place, to ask, “Then who is it you were visiting? Tell me, it’s important.”

“M-m-my mother.” Is the stuttering reply that finally comes.

In the wake of this reply Ze’orath retracts his hand from the weapon strapped to his thigh, a sawn-off double barrelled shotgun he calls Render.

“Well, dawn is coming; you’ll be safe to return home. I assume you don’t also live in that very same complex?”

“I do not.”

“Good. But you didn’t have anything to fear from what you saw.”

“Easy for you to say.” Is the response uttered by Archibald reflexively, his voice distant.

“I mean it. What you saw was a demon known as a Sprememnon and their ‘power’ allows them only to afflict those who have harmed infants.”

“Harmed? Are you saying that woman earned and deserved what…”

“No, harmed to a Sprememnon runs the gambit from purposeful to a tragic event such as a miscarriage.”

“Then it is a vile creature?”

“All demons are vile creatures; that’s why I hunt them.”

A slow blink from Ze’orath follows, not that Archibald can see it, though he does release a nervous chuckle that sees the hunter cock his head to one side in response to.

“Why so nervous?” Are the next words out the hunters’ mouth; calm and spoken in an even tone of voice.

“I don’t know, why not? After all, I saw a woman devoured, got chased here by a mass of cats with yellow eyes and am now stood face-to-face with…”

Without letting Archibald finish the demon hunter pulls Render, aims and fires it. The short series of events takes less than a blink of an eye to execute and sees the visitor hit square in the chest and thrown backwards into a wall. Shortly thereafter the body flops onto the floor, a pitted wooden surface that had been neglected long before Ze’orath came along to take ownership of it.

Ejecting the spent shells and replacing them with lightning fast precision Ze’orath prepares for the ensuing battle.

A choked sound escapes Archibald’s body. It is followed by, “Why on Earth did you shoot me?”

His tone is panic stricken and confused. Still, he rolls over onto all fours and then using the nearby wall he bounced off struggles to his feet. When he turns his chest is a gaping wound of gore that exposes his ruined rib cage, lungs and stomach as well as some of his intestines.

The utterance from Ze’orath is simple, “Because you lied.”

Another double shot fires roars, this time aimed for Archibald’s legs. They disappear from beneath him, spraying gore and leaving the torso to crawl not long after, heading for the demon hunter.

The face of the visitor is white like paper, drained of blood, sweat soaked and twisted with a mouth of pointed gnashing teeth. A noise is expelled from deep within that sounds just like the murder of a hundred souls.

The demon hunter snorts unsurprised by the demons failure to accurately lie. You might think it strange that the damned are useless at lying but they lack the ability to accurately recall the memories of one soul they have consumed from another. If they weren’t then Ze’orath might not have been aware of the deception. Though, any mention of Euclid Gardens being lived in should set off an alarm bell in anyone’s head for it was torn down some ten years ago. So would be difficult to visit. Even more so when you factor in that in its place sits an empty blot of land, long since piled high with putrid trash that fills the surrounding air with a death masking stench.

For a fact the demon killer knows that is where the bodies of many disappeared have been, and continue to be, dumped. What’s left of them anyway after the demons have had their fill.

Yet, to his astonishment he found no nexus to their plains of existence. A few nests, absolutely, but they fell swiftly. The demons unable to return their now due to the destruction he wrought against their talismans of protection using waters from Babylon to taint what they likely declared as ‘home.’

Leaping at the demon hunter, the thing that is not Archibald sails through the air towards Ze’orath who kicks hard at the massive desk before him. As if made of paper it flies through the air also, straight toward the demon known as a Hermineshifter. Unable to alter its trajectory mid-air, the Hermineshifter and desk collide with an almighty bang and a sickening crunch of bones. Ultimately, it is the desk that wins, forcing the ragged mess of flesh back the way it’s come only to slam full force into a wall with yet another sickening crunch before crashing to the floor.

Left embedded in a shallow crater in the wall is the Hermineshifter, its body twitching.

“You fucking demons always think you’ll get the better of me. Thought you would’ve learned by now to stop trying, but you never do, like dogs with bones but far dumber. And I gotta admit, it’s more than a little boring after so long, but it keeps me busy, employed. So I suppose I should thank you, shouldn’t I?” Ze’orath says walking toward the bloody mess on his wall without any hint of concern about what he’s facing.

Suddenly the twitching develops into full blown movement; bones crack as they pop back into place, fixing, healing, to recreate that which it has taken the form of. Sadly, without a blueprint to mimic the Hermineshifter cannot take proper form, and not only because its ‘legs’ are missing from the knees down.

Unperturbed by what he is witnessing the demon hunter asks, “When did you take this form? Got to be recent, I’d say. Maybe as the poor guy was on his way home? No. That would’ve been too risky, wouldn’t it?” The creature does not answer. Rather, it continues to snap and realign its body into something capable of combative mobility.

“Hmm. Why do I get the feeling you killed the poor fucker in his home? Yeah, that’s it, isn’t it? You pretended to be someone. Doubtful anyone he would know personally though.” Ze’orath mutters aloud before snapping the index and middle fingers on his free hand, the one not holding Render, “Someone in authority, a police officer perhaps. Yeah, that would get most people to answer their door. Sick fuckers, you demons, aren’t you?”

A garbled gurgle roar cry escapes from the Hermineshifter as it finishes making something of itself. And what it’s made would best be described as stomach churning for there are lacerations and gaping wounds all across the mass of flesh that should be pristine. Or at least would be if it were human and not a member of the damned hoping to feed upon the unsuspecting souls of Venrifere, a city deep in the depression of demon occupation and degradation. The precise reason Ze’orath came here and setup shop as a demon hunter.

The arms, angled in a way that would not normally be possible, prop up the lacerated flesh sack that is the newly refashioned body-head amalgamation, with the stretched face and mouth three times wider than it rightly should be. Its eyes, as if liquid, have slide off too far apart. Luckily a Hermineshifter can see through its mouth as well. If it could not it might otherwise be blind due to the positioning of the ocular organs on what had been the imitation of Archibald.

However, it’s the rear of the creature which is the biggest mess for the base of the spine and pelvis having split and fused with the femurs to create a strange pair of legs that are far longer than they have any purpose in being. And with the legs ending at the ruined knees, ragged shards jab and dig at the battered wood of the floor. A scraping noise soon follows to indicate that the monster intends to charge. Ze’orath smirks, cracks his neck. The thing charges toward him.

Dawn might be breaking but the room remains largely shrouded in darkness with some of the candles having been extinguished or annihilated in the kerfuffle that has played out thus far.

With a last minute sidestep the demon hunter avoids the charge. He follows it up with a swift strike of his own, in the form of a double blast from Render. The twin shots, at such close proximity, carve the Hermineshifter in two. The rear half left falls to the floor useless and does not so much as even twitch. The front half meanwhile goes skittering across the floor unable to grasp that its mobility has one again been cut.

Though once it recovers and turns it this time morphs using the remains of the intestines to grow to almost seven feet of hunched over macabre. Maybe eight or nine if it could stand fully erect.

“You just keep getting uglier, how do you do it?” Comes the taunt from Ze’orath who has already reloaded Render, fully ready for what will be coming next.

After all, this is far from the first time he’s fought a Hermineshifter. In fact, there is unlikely to be any demon that has not faced off against the hunter as he has been doing this for such a long and with incredibly ruthless efficiency to boot. Yet, ‘saving’ Venrifere is not on the cards, at least as far as Ze’orath is concerned. Not because it can’t be saved, but more because to save it there would need to be something worth saving. Sure the people, but that isn’t enough of a reason seeing as there is no profit in being the hero. If there was Ze’orath might’ve become one. Instead, he is nothing more than a provider of a service. It’s just that service is the dispatching of demons who have set foot in the world of man, a realm they should not be present in for they have a few of their own to roam and slaughter as they please.

An ear-splitting scream of a screech explodes from the too wide mouth of the flat front/face of the Hermineshifter in its current form. Its back spikes carving into the ceiling above destroying the plaster, which frustrates Ze’orath and sees him reply, “Really, I insult you and you damage my home? What the fuck? You’re supposed to attack me not the building, shithead.”

Enraged the thing lumbers forward. With its current size it is incapable of charging, but its increased size means each step allows it to cover much greater distances.

Not caring about the demons size the hunter fires, the shells from Render cut and carve but do not prevent the forward momentum of the Hermineshifter. Ze’orath reloads, fires, reloads, fires, over and over until the monster is essentially upon him.

Limbs flail like tentacles and the Hermineshifter unleashes a strike meant to crush. It doesn’t. Somehow, the demon itself does not understand how, the man with his white hair, beard and mauve eyes manages to survive, then fire, dive out of the way of the next impending strike and fire again.

Regrettably at end of the dive and fire the demon swipes. This time it doesn’t miss and grabs ahold of Ze’orath only to haul him off the floor, squeezing tighter all the time. If that were the sum of the assault upon him the hunter might not care but when he is flailed about Render is cast from his grasp.

Sensing victory the Hermineshifter pulls its opponent in close ready to deliver the killing blow, biting the hunter’s head off. Instead, it is met with a chuckle resulting in what can only be described as confusion from the demon.

If it could in this state the Hermineshifter would ask why Ze’orath is laughing. Regrettably it cannot and so can only listen in silence as the demon hunter questions, “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

A wet screech follows which can only be assumed to be a no. It could be a yes but seems doubtful, Ze’orath thinks.

“Didn’t think so, which is why I’m going to enlighten you; name’s Ze’orath.”

The Hermineshifter lets out a stuttering shiver of its jaws which in his form move independently of one another. That reaction is enough to make it clear the monster recognises the name and is fearful of it. That explains what it attempts next, which is to hastily attempt to intent its adversary. Sadly for the demon, Ze’orath has other ideas and in a flash his white hair turns blacker than any black you can imagine, his eyes glow purple, body becomes enveloped in thick grey armour with tangled horns replacing the beard on the point of his chin.

This aforementioned flash eviscerates the Hermineshifter’s tentacle hand-arm appendage leaving Ze’orath to float, smiling, at roughly head height with the demon. The monster gasps, recoils, attempts to flee but is grabbed mid-retreat by the clawed gauntlet and hauled back only to be greeted with a punch that forces the monster to the floor. Screeching in agony and panic it makes efforts to escape, to flee. These endeavours fail almost immediately as Ze’orath collapses upon the creature. And in a flash the hunter unleashes a pummelling with his fists only, then rends the things ‘arms’ from the remains of its body only to impale them through its legs like spears.

Pinned in place, squirming, crying and whimpering the demon is shown no ounce of mercy by Ze’orath who throws another punch. However, unlike previously this time millimetres before impact he unfurls his fingers and drives the claws of his gauntlet into the mess of flesh. His arm disappears inside, screaming fills the air until the Hermineshifter falls quiet when the demon hunter, who himself is half demon half angel, rips out the monsters brain.

The last thing the Hermineshifter sees with its eyes before it dies is Ze’orath crush the demon’s brain in his gauntled fist.

With the demon in his property dead, the hunter flings the remains of the brain and its matter aside. It slams low into the nearby wall and begins to run down, slowly.

“Looks like I’m going hunting.” Are the last words that pass Ze’orath’s lips, carved into a wide smile, before he disappears, having reclaimed Render.