Of Children and Demons

The old woman sat at the polished table, spread in black velvet, and reverently shuffled the blank pasteboard cards in her hands. The incense, overpowering in the small space, twined and twisted in pale streams around her hands and face. She sighed and placed a card upon the table, peering in interest as the image swirled into view on its blank face...

The House of Lost Souls...

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The fog had blown in earlier in the evening. No one could remember ever seeing its like before. It filled the air with a quiet malice, and a sense of unease and crawling dread, that sent animals scurrying to ground, and ensured that the fortune tellers and hedge magickers of the village, those who were genuine at any rate, bared and warded their doors and windows and vowed not to emerge until next light.

The house sat on a hill, but despite its raised position, the fog had blurred out all but the stark silhouette it cast on the skyline. No one went near the house, it was something of mystery in the village itself, for no one could remember it being built, but simply knew that it was, and had always been there. Many childish dares and games had centred on it, and time and again proposals to knock it down were raised, but just as quickly disappeared into smoke and dust.

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Two cards are laid to either side of the first...

Knights of the Word,
The Fallen; Demon Kin.

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The village militia gathered in silence around the perimeter they had created enclosing the house. Men from the main households in strengthened leather storm coats and mail undershirts, loading ancient and baroque firearms, stood shoulder to shoulder with the surfs brandishing long knives and pitch fuelled torches. Few from the village knew they were there, the mission was a secret, the Confessor had insisted upon it, they crept forward, slowly, silently ghosting toward the house and its current occupants.

Those inside the house knew nothing of what was approaching them thought the fog-cloaked darkness. Instead they were finishing preparations of their own. The main room of the downstairs space had been cleared and the heavy crimson drapes re-hung to discourage prying eyes. In the exact centre of the room was a perfect Solomonic seal, chalked in black, red and white. Surrounding this at a distance of approximately five feet was a double-banded circle of brass inlaid onto the wooden floor. Between the bands, written in crimson ink, were ancient wards, which hurt the eye to look at, whilst simultaneously tugging at the fabric of the floor itself, seeming to weaken the wood and thin the barrier between this plane and the next. Even the walls had been hexagrammically warded and sealed, the ritual was not to be taken lightly. The 666 ritually inscribed and anointed candles had already been lit, and the sconces had been slowly filling the room with incense for the prescribed amount of time. The Magi, in crimson robes, took their positions with in the circle around the central seal.

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Laid between the second and third, crossing the first,

The Babe in Arms...

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The child was dragged into the circle, the chanting redoubling in volume to drown the pitiful mewing from the tiny gagged and bound form. To men walked forward and with warded knives cut the ritual wounds on the face hands and feet. The child was dragged to the seal and placed within it, the chanting swirling around the room, seeming to take on a form of its own as the ritual neared its climax. The Magister stood, splayed hands gesturing to the child, drawing powerful wards and sigils in the air, and began to enunciate the closing statements and commands.

Flaming brands and heavy rocks arched inwards from the windows, covering all those inside with slithers of flying glass, and flaming pitch. Battle cries mingled with yelps of pain as the Confessor and the militia burst into the room, upsetting candles, and sending robed forms scattering in all directions. The crack of pistol shots and the flickering of knives surrounded the Magister as he fought to control the powers they had unleashed and finish the ritual.

The Confessors blow crashed into his skull and sent him sprawling in to the candles at his feet. Thick blood pooled about his head, and he knew that his neck was broken. Through fogging vision he saw the Confessor release the child, and in a last desperate attempt he pawed at the confessors robe.

"You don't understand, please you must listen..." the words emerged ragged and broken from blood spattered lips, "Please..."

"I declare you an abomination, and hereby grant you absolution," Remarked the confessor, not with out a hint of satisfaction. The pistol shot whipped downwards and blew the skull apart.

* * * * * * * * *

The old woman cast the last two cards upon the table, and a sob of despair escaped her lips as the final images swam into view on the blank pasteboard...

The Fool.
The Beast Ascendant.

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The Confessor walked into the night, the crimson glow of the burning house to his back, and the child in his arms. The young boy smiled as he clung to the man's chest. The Confessor had failed to see the brand, or the burns for the holy ropes and sacred unguents used to bind the child, had failed to see the mark of banishment half drawn on its chest...

Soon the wounds would heal beyond trace and memory, the Magi were dead or dying and the Confessor would take him into his household. Yes the boy thought, as he closed his yellow tinted eyes, it had been a good night, a good night indeed...

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