Rimechapel
Duke
- Local time
- Today 3:46 AM
- Messages
- 526
- Pronouns
- he/his
"Welcome back to our show this evening," the middle aged-man in the gray suit said, turning back to face the camera in a way that almost suggested he hadn't been waiting for the cameraman's cue. He was sitting in a comfortable looking chair, one of several that formed a half-circle facing the camera. "As we've mentioned before the break, we'll be conducting something of an unconventional interview tonight. We've contracted an Italian artisan to produce an original recreation of something found in The Greater Key of Solomon, which is a very old book dating back to even before my manager was born, if you can believe that." A truncated drumline punctuated briefly by the strike of a cymbal sounded from somewhere off-camera, followed by canned laughter.
"Now, before we begin, please consider this your trigger warning. If you're disturbed by the sight or discussion of blood, you may want to stop watching and catch us next week. I'd also like to take a moment to assure you that no animals were harmed in tonight's production," he continued, shifting a little as a pair of stout men wearing overalls and rubber gloves wheeled a cart onto the stage, sporting a pair of circular, bright yellow 5-gallon coolers. "No more than America normally harms animals, that is. Don't look at me that way. Both of the vegans that tune in to watch this show - we love you, we really do - have already written me letters. If you had a hamburger or a hot dog this past Fourth of July, you're as much a part of the problem as anyone. We've contracted with local butchers to acquire the blood they either wind up discarding or selling to ethnic markets for a lot less than we paid, and we've made certain everything is FDA-approved." He gestured to one of the men, and they both pushed the buttons on the spigots at the bottom of the coolers. Ruddy liquid began to pour out of the spigot, and the camera angle abruptly cut to an isometric view to reveal that it was beginning to fill the grooves in a very large ceramic circular dais on the ground, which dominated the a large portion of the stage. The grooves appeared to form a complicated geometric pattern with words and symbols throughout, and had a decidedly occult look to it.
"Alright, we're just about ready to begin," he said, balancing his one-note cheeriness with the panache required by his profession, as he took a sheet of paper from the table next to him. The fellows with the coolers tilted them to empty the last of the blood therein, and then hurried away. The host cleared his throat, and read aloud unnaturally distorted, hard-to-follow words from the paper, which angrily burst into a greasy red and orange fire before leaving only cloying smoke.
In a similar haze of smoke, a humanoid creature easily twice as tall as the host of the talk show seemed to coalesce in the middle of the large ceramic circle. The camera glitched and blurred, seeming to encounter interference, but through the disturbance it could be seen that this creature's skin was inky black, except for where it was bloody red, or pink. His chest was bare, masculine, chiseled with musculature defined so well that it might not have been flesh at all. He had horns on his head, which were in part obscured by gray, roiling smoke mixed with cinders and ash. His eyes glowed an array of orange colors, piercing and yet dull, seeking and yet disinterested, smoke issuing from their corners. His mouth, curled in a frown that was too deep, yet somehow not proportionately deep enough upon his face, betrayed the tips of fangs therein. Chains were curled about his arms, but seemed not to bind him. Large, leathery wings protruded from his back, folded tightly into themselves, bony protrusions reaching cruelly from the areas where they joined. From the waist down, the majority of this creature was obscured in the harsh smoke that seemed to pour forth from his head and around his body. Somewhere in the distance, the whine of a fire alarm began to sound, and strobing warning lights flashed.
"Welcome, uh... Gylbelishe! Is that how you wish to be addressed? Not the, uh... the Vinculum, was it?" the host said amicably, as though he was nearly oblivious to the fact that he had clearly summoned a demon or something.
"You are a fool," the creature purred, much the way a gargantuan kitten made entirely of pyroclastic debris and locusts might purr.
The host laughed. "Anything for the ratings, right?" The camera flickered and glitched strongly for a moment, evidently having difficulty keeping up with the happenings on stage. The host, smiling, turned to face the camera. "Why don't you back it up, Bob. Maybe... yeah, there. How is that? Better? Alright." He turned back to the creature he addressed as Gylbelishe. "So, what is it like, being a demon, exactly?"
Gylbelishe narrowed his eyes at the man and sighed, shaking his head. "When you learn to disambiguate between what is a demon, and what is a devil, we shall speak of this matter again." He eyed the ceramic form beneath him, searching for imperfections.
"Oh! Alright, well... tell me what it is like being a devil?"
Gylbelishe flicked his eyes back to the man. "Your magic is strong. Do not think it shall spare your soul."
"I sold that a long time ago to Hollywood, my good sir!" The host winked into the camera. The drumline and cymbal followed, along with more canned laughter. "Moving on, we have a few questions we'd like to ask, before we release you from your service here today. We have it on good authority that you are charged with protecting a young woman until the end of her natural life. Is that so?"
Sighing in irritation, Gylbelishe leaned forward to the man, although there was something curious about his posture - as though he could, or would only stand in certain ways. "The Singing Pact will not suffer to keep me here, should harm approach her. Wisely choose your next words, foolish son of man."
"That sounds more or less like a yes, so we'll move on to the next question!" the host chirped enthusiastically. "How, exactly, do you go about protecting someone in your day to day life?" The accumulation of smoke started to make things difficult to see, compounding the camera's interference. "Someone oughta open up a window. For God's sake, John!" He waved to someone off camera.
"There is no machination of mankind that would stand against me," Gylbelishe murmured, one of the chains on his arms uncoiling itself and hanging down to the ceramic dais. It slinked about, seeming to slither like a serpent with a mind and purpose of its own. "Your cries to a God in which you do not believe shall avail you naught."
"Enlightening, surely!" the host said, undaunted by the encroachment of smoke, and the failure of sparking studio lights above him. "Our next question comes from the municipal transit authority, which, in tandem with local utility companies, would like to ask if you had any hand in several malfunctions of traffic lights, downed power lines, and vandalism of a fire hydrant about two and a half months ago?"
"Your measurement of time is lost to me, foolish son of man," Gylbelishe purred, as convivially as something as horrific as he might. His chain, considerably longer now than its appearance might have first suggested, curled upward from the dais and slithered along some unseen surface. "There is no authority in this place I recognize, not even your own, save for that solitary rule which separates you from me as a silken sheet separates the sleeping fool from the lava flow. Make clear the path, and straight the way, wherever my ward should walk - for you should mislike my method of so doing."
"Excellent, well said. Our next question comes from a well-known manufacturer and distributor of women's cosmetics, who would like very much to know your opinion on their introduction of 'Angel Pink' to their lipstick line?"
Gylbelishe tilted his head in apparent confusion for a moment, widening his eyes in a way that very nearly succeeded in making him appear innocent. Then he narrowed them in a sullen, glowering way, and hissed, "Whether wax, or chalk, or bile of whale, or blood, or vomit, or tears, one need only understand these shapes, with steady hand and steadfast mind and boldness of heart to contain such things that would consume their body and from twitching and thrashing it wrench their hapless spirit."
"... Ah, you know, I wrote sentences like that in school, and my teacher always told me that I should use a period here and there."
"Angels are not pink."
"Very good, that's probably the answer we were looking for. One more question before we let you go; what is your favorite meal? Is it souls?" The host laughed, in that late-night idiot kind of way.
For his part, Gylbelishe laughed as well, if the rumbling sound of an avalanche within brazen lungs, and the throaty sound of gravel shifting on slate could be termed a laugh. "For to consume a living spirit should be such a waste - no, no not I, and who but I should find such better use for that spirit which is caged within mortal flesh but to free it from its rotting cage - as verily, yours does rot before me - and upon basalt and marble bind it with force and will to a story display? One pair of mortal hands a bas-relief can make, and one hundred hands a mausoleum to draw jealousy enough to fill it. But none can set their work to animate, save those willing to do use the only mediums that will do so."
"An artist! How lovely. Well, that's all we have time for tonight," the host said, grinning into the camera, which shifted and flickered in a way that made him appear positively ghoulish. "Normally we give our guests a considerably warmer escort off of the stage, but I'm sure you can understand how we would make an exception....." He plucked another page off of the table next to him, highly distorted in the smoke and the interference, and read a line of words that sounded just as unnatural and hard to follow as their earlier counterparts. Much as before, the page was rapidly consumed in fire. The interference on the camera grew considerably more severe, and the last image it caught before it failed entirely was the host giving a startled look towards the ceramic dais.
"Now, before we begin, please consider this your trigger warning. If you're disturbed by the sight or discussion of blood, you may want to stop watching and catch us next week. I'd also like to take a moment to assure you that no animals were harmed in tonight's production," he continued, shifting a little as a pair of stout men wearing overalls and rubber gloves wheeled a cart onto the stage, sporting a pair of circular, bright yellow 5-gallon coolers. "No more than America normally harms animals, that is. Don't look at me that way. Both of the vegans that tune in to watch this show - we love you, we really do - have already written me letters. If you had a hamburger or a hot dog this past Fourth of July, you're as much a part of the problem as anyone. We've contracted with local butchers to acquire the blood they either wind up discarding or selling to ethnic markets for a lot less than we paid, and we've made certain everything is FDA-approved." He gestured to one of the men, and they both pushed the buttons on the spigots at the bottom of the coolers. Ruddy liquid began to pour out of the spigot, and the camera angle abruptly cut to an isometric view to reveal that it was beginning to fill the grooves in a very large ceramic circular dais on the ground, which dominated the a large portion of the stage. The grooves appeared to form a complicated geometric pattern with words and symbols throughout, and had a decidedly occult look to it.
"Alright, we're just about ready to begin," he said, balancing his one-note cheeriness with the panache required by his profession, as he took a sheet of paper from the table next to him. The fellows with the coolers tilted them to empty the last of the blood therein, and then hurried away. The host cleared his throat, and read aloud unnaturally distorted, hard-to-follow words from the paper, which angrily burst into a greasy red and orange fire before leaving only cloying smoke.
In a similar haze of smoke, a humanoid creature easily twice as tall as the host of the talk show seemed to coalesce in the middle of the large ceramic circle. The camera glitched and blurred, seeming to encounter interference, but through the disturbance it could be seen that this creature's skin was inky black, except for where it was bloody red, or pink. His chest was bare, masculine, chiseled with musculature defined so well that it might not have been flesh at all. He had horns on his head, which were in part obscured by gray, roiling smoke mixed with cinders and ash. His eyes glowed an array of orange colors, piercing and yet dull, seeking and yet disinterested, smoke issuing from their corners. His mouth, curled in a frown that was too deep, yet somehow not proportionately deep enough upon his face, betrayed the tips of fangs therein. Chains were curled about his arms, but seemed not to bind him. Large, leathery wings protruded from his back, folded tightly into themselves, bony protrusions reaching cruelly from the areas where they joined. From the waist down, the majority of this creature was obscured in the harsh smoke that seemed to pour forth from his head and around his body. Somewhere in the distance, the whine of a fire alarm began to sound, and strobing warning lights flashed.
"Welcome, uh... Gylbelishe! Is that how you wish to be addressed? Not the, uh... the Vinculum, was it?" the host said amicably, as though he was nearly oblivious to the fact that he had clearly summoned a demon or something.
"You are a fool," the creature purred, much the way a gargantuan kitten made entirely of pyroclastic debris and locusts might purr.
The host laughed. "Anything for the ratings, right?" The camera flickered and glitched strongly for a moment, evidently having difficulty keeping up with the happenings on stage. The host, smiling, turned to face the camera. "Why don't you back it up, Bob. Maybe... yeah, there. How is that? Better? Alright." He turned back to the creature he addressed as Gylbelishe. "So, what is it like, being a demon, exactly?"
Gylbelishe narrowed his eyes at the man and sighed, shaking his head. "When you learn to disambiguate between what is a demon, and what is a devil, we shall speak of this matter again." He eyed the ceramic form beneath him, searching for imperfections.
"Oh! Alright, well... tell me what it is like being a devil?"
Gylbelishe flicked his eyes back to the man. "Your magic is strong. Do not think it shall spare your soul."
"I sold that a long time ago to Hollywood, my good sir!" The host winked into the camera. The drumline and cymbal followed, along with more canned laughter. "Moving on, we have a few questions we'd like to ask, before we release you from your service here today. We have it on good authority that you are charged with protecting a young woman until the end of her natural life. Is that so?"
Sighing in irritation, Gylbelishe leaned forward to the man, although there was something curious about his posture - as though he could, or would only stand in certain ways. "The Singing Pact will not suffer to keep me here, should harm approach her. Wisely choose your next words, foolish son of man."
"That sounds more or less like a yes, so we'll move on to the next question!" the host chirped enthusiastically. "How, exactly, do you go about protecting someone in your day to day life?" The accumulation of smoke started to make things difficult to see, compounding the camera's interference. "Someone oughta open up a window. For God's sake, John!" He waved to someone off camera.
"There is no machination of mankind that would stand against me," Gylbelishe murmured, one of the chains on his arms uncoiling itself and hanging down to the ceramic dais. It slinked about, seeming to slither like a serpent with a mind and purpose of its own. "Your cries to a God in which you do not believe shall avail you naught."
"Enlightening, surely!" the host said, undaunted by the encroachment of smoke, and the failure of sparking studio lights above him. "Our next question comes from the municipal transit authority, which, in tandem with local utility companies, would like to ask if you had any hand in several malfunctions of traffic lights, downed power lines, and vandalism of a fire hydrant about two and a half months ago?"
"Your measurement of time is lost to me, foolish son of man," Gylbelishe purred, as convivially as something as horrific as he might. His chain, considerably longer now than its appearance might have first suggested, curled upward from the dais and slithered along some unseen surface. "There is no authority in this place I recognize, not even your own, save for that solitary rule which separates you from me as a silken sheet separates the sleeping fool from the lava flow. Make clear the path, and straight the way, wherever my ward should walk - for you should mislike my method of so doing."
"Excellent, well said. Our next question comes from a well-known manufacturer and distributor of women's cosmetics, who would like very much to know your opinion on their introduction of 'Angel Pink' to their lipstick line?"
Gylbelishe tilted his head in apparent confusion for a moment, widening his eyes in a way that very nearly succeeded in making him appear innocent. Then he narrowed them in a sullen, glowering way, and hissed, "Whether wax, or chalk, or bile of whale, or blood, or vomit, or tears, one need only understand these shapes, with steady hand and steadfast mind and boldness of heart to contain such things that would consume their body and from twitching and thrashing it wrench their hapless spirit."
"... Ah, you know, I wrote sentences like that in school, and my teacher always told me that I should use a period here and there."
"Angels are not pink."
"Very good, that's probably the answer we were looking for. One more question before we let you go; what is your favorite meal? Is it souls?" The host laughed, in that late-night idiot kind of way.
For his part, Gylbelishe laughed as well, if the rumbling sound of an avalanche within brazen lungs, and the throaty sound of gravel shifting on slate could be termed a laugh. "For to consume a living spirit should be such a waste - no, no not I, and who but I should find such better use for that spirit which is caged within mortal flesh but to free it from its rotting cage - as verily, yours does rot before me - and upon basalt and marble bind it with force and will to a story display? One pair of mortal hands a bas-relief can make, and one hundred hands a mausoleum to draw jealousy enough to fill it. But none can set their work to animate, save those willing to do use the only mediums that will do so."
"An artist! How lovely. Well, that's all we have time for tonight," the host said, grinning into the camera, which shifted and flickered in a way that made him appear positively ghoulish. "Normally we give our guests a considerably warmer escort off of the stage, but I'm sure you can understand how we would make an exception....." He plucked another page off of the table next to him, highly distorted in the smoke and the interference, and read a line of words that sounded just as unnatural and hard to follow as their earlier counterparts. Much as before, the page was rapidly consumed in fire. The interference on the camera grew considerably more severe, and the last image it caught before it failed entirely was the host giving a startled look towards the ceramic dais.