Fable - Ask A Few Devils

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Nemeska Elissal

Gildan Devil
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Character Biography
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Nemeska Elissal practiced smiling before her mirror everyday. Always did she begin while dressing herself, staring into the mirror as her hands, accustomed to their motions, went about their work near entirely of their own accord. The trick was to ensure that her smile reached her eyes. This was something no one needed to worry about other than when they wanted it to happen on command. A natural smile was easy. One fashioned for a purpose was difficult.

"A pleasure, Priest Madrissal."

She shook her head in dissatisfaction. Now that her doublet was on, her hands dutifully went to her hair; she never left home without it being arranged into a perfect bun.

"A pleasure, Priest Madrissal."

There. That gleam in her eyes. That lift of her cheeks, causing in their turn the slight rise of her lower eyelids. That was what she wanted. Yes, lovely, pristine. She needed only to be of two minds. One mind thinking of something which did please her and make her happy. The other mind muted, operating only as the pilot of the ship that was her body, going through motions, not thinking about how distasteful it was to show humility before the Priest.

She looked then to the top of her dresser which sat beside her mirror.

A sheathed knife was resting atop it. Nemeska reached for it. Touched it. Pondered for a moment. No. It was safer just to return home after the War College and before she went to see Priest Madrissal. She had time to return and retrieve it. Yes. Her father strongly advised patience and compliance, that soon conditions would at last be right. But Nemeska had been patient for years. And she was tired of waiting. Tired of her station remaining as it always had been since her eyes first became tainted gold with her magic. Tired of Priest Mehmet Madrissal being superior to her. No. She was superior to him. Today was her chance. Perhaps her next Priest would be more deferential to her, as was only right.

Nemeska covered her mouth with a gloved hand. Laughed into her fingers. Watched in the mirror as that gleam in her eyes turned vicious.

"My, my, Priest Madrissal, you shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have done that at all."
 
Castulo loved the gardens in the grand courtyard outside the Temple of the Everburning Flame. What better place was there to kick back and let a hangover drain out of you? Lay down in the shade, or in the sun if you felt like the warmth would do you some good, whatever suited your fancy—either way, the grass was nice and soft and didn't cost any silver to crash on. His medicine of choice today was shade, so Castulo lay propped up against a tree, legs stretched out and crossed, arms folded together and set to rest on his stomach.

He still had all his gear on, favorite cloak included, and his crossbow was leaning against the tree next to him. He had just gotten back into Gild yesterday evening. Finally. He and a few of his mates had gotten a job to go into the Spine. Goddamn raid on an incoming caravan to Gild. Orcs or something—that part, the whodunnit, wasn't really important. The caravan turned out okay, arriving in on time and mostly unmolested, but turned out a Beyar's daughter, who was riding along on that caravan, had gone missing during the attack. Yeah. The caravan had to haul ass through the ambush to make it here, and there was no shortage of confusion. So the job was to find the Beyar's missing daughter.

And they did. Took a lot of searching, but Castulo and his mates found her, lost and malnourished and probably about half-dead from exposure. But they found her and helped her out and got her back to Gild safe and sound. What happier ending than that? And what better occasion to absolutely paint the inside of his gut the color of ale?

Like usual, Castulo didn't find his way home after making some barkeep a richer man. He found his way to a nice place the gardens of the big Temple and passed out there. It was damned force of habit now. And a good one at that.

But you know what would be even better?

If he didn't have Bashrahip Mustafa Junnal, his old nemesis who just couldn't stand the sight of him freely using property that was supposed to open to all Gildans, standing over him after having woken him up.

"Castulo Arnal," said the bashrahip in his usual low and disappointed tone. "How many times do I have to say it?"

"Your holiness," Castulo said by way of greeting, using his usual fabricated and facetious address for the bashrahip. He and Mustafa had been through this song and dance so many times it would almost feel wrong if it didn't happen.

Castulo deigned to open his eyes, if only halfway, and to look up at the esteemed bashrahip. "I earned it this time. Let me have it."
 
"So you want to be a Regulator," said Boesarius.

He sat cross-legged at a small table in the mess hall of the building known simply as "The Sanctum", wherein the Regulators of the Church of Jura made their home and based their operations. It was a stone's throw from the Temple of the Everburning Flame, a darker building fashioned like a small fortress. No one had any business coming in here unless they had some sound reason to do so.

And what Boesarius had before him now was a young woman, standing in a tight military posture, hands folded in the small of her back and legs spread, which suggested heavily through its formality that she had not been too long out of the War College. But her presentation was immaculate, as if dust itself dared not settle onto her garb. Her expression was neutral, lips a solid impassive line. And she had approached him directly, not any of the other Regulators sitting at the long table or any of the other smaller tables around the hall.

He liked that; all three of those things. There was promise in them.

"What's your name?"

"Leah."

"Are you a Praetor?"

"Yes."

"I've never seen your face before."

"My face isn't important."

That actually coaxed an amused smile out of him. He asked his next question, "When was your Holy Accolade?"

"Three months ago."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one winters."

"Are you prepared never to see your twenty-second?"

So many faltered at this question. The slightest bit of doubt crept in, right there. Hesitation, fear, second thoughts, realization. And it was at that moment Boesarius turned them away. If they were foolish enough to want to pursue the path of the Regulator afterward, they could talk to someone else. But not to him. He didn't want to even see them, whether they were a Praetor or not. Regel usually took care of them in short order if they did join the Regulators: they wound up dead soon enough.

But Leah did not falter. Her expression remained stolid, her tone changeless. Her answer was the best he'd heard from a hopeful Regulator-to-be.

"I will celebrate it in the Fields of Emir."

She was an ideal recruit.

Boesarius smirked as he rose from his table. "Follow me," he said. "There's work to be done."
 
Nemeska arrived punctually, as she always did. Tardiness was so unbecoming—unless one was, of course, maliciously being tardy. She greeted the gate guards at the War College with a smile and a little wave, as she always did. They waved back and then the second of the two of them admitted her through: if she wasn't mistaken, she believed that he fancied her. As well he should. Yet she found the crookedness of his nose, whether he was born with it or had acquired it through war or a stupid tavern brawl, to be distasteful, so fancying was all he would ever experience.

She reported into the Instructors' Hall, as she always did. Today she was to be paired with Instructor Garren Pontus. Oh what a rube, his family hadn't even Gildanized their name yet. And his mustache was off-putting. It looked like a caterpillar had died beneath his nose and started decomposing. And he was balding. Disgusting. At least the class she was to be assisting with was a class of First Years. How delectable. Often there was a strapping young man among them, newly acquired from Gild itself or its surrounding territories. Certainly a more gentle and welcome sight on the eyes than Instructor Pontus.

It was just before noon when Instructor Pontus finally had the class assembled in one of the training grounds, his longwinded preamble done, and his introduction of her at last spoken:

"And, today, I will introduce Assistant Instructor Nemeska Elissal," Instructor Pontus said. Some of the students, these young Praetors-to-be, recognized her family name. She saw those little flashes of awe, of being overwhelmed by grandeur. Pristine. "She will be providing you all the means of, for the first time, properly practicing your particular Praetor powers."

Gods, Pontus was so proud of himself for that little alliterative line. He used it every time. Every. Time.

Pontus produced the key to her anklet from his pocket. He crouched down, and there came a small click of metal. And when Pontus rose, anklet in hand, Nemeska already felt the refreshing return of her magic, as if some long lost half of her soul had descended back into her body and merged with its other half, making her whole again. Complete.

She drew in a breath through her nose. Let it out.

Then looked over the class. "How many of you have even seen magic before?"
 
"Disturbing the peace. Offending the pious. Drunken disorderliness. General nuisance. And perhaps it is only Regel and yourself who know the true extent of what affairs occupy your time in the midnight hours," Mustafa said.

"You didn't even mention the urination in public this time."

Mustafa pinched his eyes and his lips shut for a moment. "Tell me that I need not mention it. Did you do that this time?"

"No."

"Praise be to Regel, for all Gild is blessed."

"Your holiness—"

"There is no need to call me such. It is incorrect and improper."

"Your holiness," Castulo repeated, "I'm just a man enjoying the beautiful space provided to all Gildans right now. All that 'general nuisance' stuff was done last night...or early this morning. Whichever. Point being, I'm not doing anything now."

"You are right," said Mustafa. "You are doing nothing."

"Glad you agree with me."

"You are doing nothing with the life you have been given."

"Sure I am. Ask Beyar Jelal. Or, I'll save you the walk: brought his lost daughter back to Gild yesterday. Wasn't that sweet of me?"

"Yes, you are quite adept at assuaging your lack of true purpose with auxiliary tasks strung together in a shoddy resemblance of such."

"I think that's the most intelligent way I've ever been insulted."

Mustafa turned to go, but said in parting, "Castulo Arnal, when will you make something of yourself?"

The bashrahip left him, and it was just in time, because that hangover headache was coming back and Castulo figured he could probably nap until midday meal or so, and by then he'd be good. And just for Mustafa, if he had to take a piss, he'd drag his ass up and go find the right place to do it.

Problem was, Castulo didn't quite get that nap he wanted. The bashrahip's parting words stuck with him. Even though they shouldn't have. But they did. He had just rescued a Beyar's daughter—it didn't get much cleaner than that. Happy ending for all, right? Of course that was something with his life. It had to be. It had to count for something.

Yet he stayed up thinking, just thinking, until the noontime sun was high above Gild, about what Bashrahip Mustafa had said.
 
Boesarius led Leah to the armory of the Sanctum. Axes, the weapon of choice for many a Gildan, hung on the walls and were set in racks. Other weapons accompanied them: rapiers, messers, curved daggers, polearms, bows and crossbows, armaments even more exotic and specialized than this more standard fare. Silver-bladed weapons were secured in high-end cases with glass, well-maintained.

"Take a crossbow," he said.

Leah followed his word without hesitation nor protest. The entire selection was dwarven-made, and one would find no better craftsmanship than one fashioned by dwarven hands. She left the heavier repeaters alone and acquired one of the light crossbows.

"In the barrel to your left, there's ironhead bolts. Take some."

Leah picked up one of the bolt quivers and filled it with munitions and fastened it to her belt and then turned back to face him, weapon in her hands and ammo at her hip.

"How much do they tell students at the War College about jins these days?"

"Not enough."

An ideal recruit. "Did you encounter any on your field expeditions?"

"No." And then she added, "But that will not save them."

Boesarius ignored the latter comment. "You will know our enemy soon enough." He gave a small gesture of his head. "We're going east. Crossing over borders and going all the way to the shore of the Anatol Sea."

Leah blinked in surprise. Her brow knitted ever so slightly in confusion.

Boesarius smirked. "The Armistice keeps the peace among nations, but our war never ends, Leah. We keep the Bloody Crescent slaked."

He stepped forward. Walked right up to her. Looked down and locked eyes with her. A meeting of midnights, that match of their gazes.

"Come with me, and I'll make a killer out of you yet."
 
Nemeska's time with the First Year class didn't last too long—her visitation with Priest Madrissal was known, so the live practice was shortened. As usual, there were some of the students who showed great promise already and some who needed work. Best of all, there was a strapping young man among them: taller than her at his age, sturdily built, lovely black hair and chestnut eyes, and his natural Gildan tan (sometimes she fancied how she would look with such a tone!) was deepened by farm work out in the country sun. She would work on him. Over time. Most young men hardly needed any coaxing, but some did. And, she had to admit, she adored it when a little coaxing was needed. Somehow it made the reward all the sweeter.

But now. Priest Madrissal. He had a date with destiny, didn't he?

Nemeska returned home. Fetched the knife and the holster that would keep it strapped to her lower back. She took her doublet off and fastened the holster to herself and put her doublet back on and checked herself in the mirror. Good. Nothing too obvious.

Then Nemeska left home and started down the busy midday streets of Gild toward the Temple of the Everburning Flame. She almost had a skip in her step. Oh, how exciting! She loathed her status as a Penitent—especially as a Second Penitent. But it was at times like these, treating the rules and the law as mere playthings, mere obstacles, mere impediments to overcome, these were the times when she felt truly alive. Her heart would beat at a flutter matched only by sex, her blood would race with the same manner of intensity, and her mind would sharpen to a razor's deadliness. So...oh, perhaps she could concede that she both hated and loved her status as a Second Penitent. It allowed her the chance to express her superiority in a manner that was quite thrilling. Now if she only had an ear upon which to proudly proclaim all the genius of her exploits and eyes from which to drink in the associated awe.

Speaking of.

Ahead, as Nemeska entered the sizeable garden courtyard of the Temple, she saw Castulo Arnal standing up from his seat on the ground by a tree. They locked eyes, and Nemeska went to him. Smiled with a graceful cordiality.

"Did you sleep well, Castulo?"
 
"Woulda been better if I had your company, Nem," said Castulo, grinning.

Ah, Nemeska. She was a favorite, and the arrangement they had suited both of them very well: all the good stuff, none of the dull stuff. Come and go as you please. And what was more, he did actually enjoy her company; there were your vapid but good-looking girls who'd lose nothing if an arrow flew right through one ear and out the other, there were your girls who ceaselessly preached about Regel this and Regel that (while at the same time not being so adept at the "practicing" part of "practice what you preach"), and there were your girls who were too shy or timid to be any kind of fun at all, even in conversation.

Nemeska, though? She had everything. Wit, looks, attitude. A few fucking fools might look down on her just because she was a Penitent, but Castulo figured those same fools walked around with the taste of envy in their mouths. Damn he missed the old days, messing up this guy or that girl who had pissed Nem off. Some telltale (he still don't know who) saw them one time getting some of that revenge. Castulo had gotten flogged in the Forum for it, nothing he hadn't weathered before; but Nem, poor Nem, got slapped with becoming a Second Penitent.

Things were better these days, though. He wasn't worried about Nemeska tripping over her last chance and finding herself scourged and beheaded. She had her head on straight. She wasn't running around stabbing people or anything of the sort.
 
"Look at you, telling me the delightful truth," she said, lifting a finger and playing with his beard, swishing the hairs at its very tip this way and that. "And how about I return the favor? I would much rather prefer to spend the day with you..."

She closed her eyes and gestured her head toward the Temple and opened them again.

"...as opposed to where I am going."
 
"Madrissal again?" Castulo huffed. Now, he wasn't completely godless, Regel sat on his shoulder and sometimes in a voice he usually couldn't hear told him he ought to do this and he ought not to do that, and yes, he sometimes went to temple. But having mandatory temple visits? Ugh. Penitents had it rough in his view.

"Same as always, right? You just have to tell him all the things he wants to hear, make yourself out to be a regular Fatima Maisal, and he'll give you a pat on the shoulder and a fatherly smile and send you on your way. That how it goes?"

For as long as Castulo had known Nemeska, and a few other Penitents for that matter, he actually had no idea what went on between them and their attendant priests. Probably a lot of that "high in the sky" talk, which, to be fair, yeah, Castulo himself liked on occasion and usually with a few ales in his belly, but the fun of it was the spontaneity, the serendipitous nature of striking upon a deep conversation out of nowhere in places and with people you wouldn't expect.

It really was the mandatory part of the Penitents' temple visits that bothered him.
 
Nemeska wet her lips.

Not this time, she almost said. And though she knew she could trust Castulo to keep a secret, she figured that, for this one, it was best if he were not involved. Not if he didn't need to be, that is.

"Promise me something?" she said, her hand moving up to cup his cheek at the precise moment of her question's inflection. "If I need you...will you be there for me?"
 
Castulo smiled. His eyes with a deliberate conspicuousness looked her up and down.

"I'm free tonight."

Even had a fat coin pouch so they could go have some fun before they had some fun.
 
Nemeska smiled back.

"Not for that," she said. Then her eyes did a coy little dance and she amended her words with, "Maybe for that. But..."

That golden hue of her magic-tainted eyes, that trait of hers which marked her out as a Penitent far more than her anklet ever could, seemed in the midday sun to gleam with a dangerous inner light. Yet the sun had little to do with it. Rather, her heart was set on her deed, the tool of its realization strapped to her back, and her will so reflected in her gaze was as sharp as that very knife.

"...something much like the old days," she whispered to him.
 
Oh.

Oh she was about to stab someone (or something of the sort).

Wait. The Priest? Priest Madrissal? Now he knew his lovely Nem had some daring, but damn, that was going to cause one hell of a stir. For the first time in forever Castulo actually felt a tinge of worry for her. Not that he didn't think she had within her to do the deed and do it clean (might need some help getting rid of the body, and that's where he figured he came in), but this was big. Big.

But. You know what? What did she have to lose? She was a Second Penitent. Any major charge from the law and she would get the ol' headsman's shave anyway. Probably was her thinking on the matter. Risk it on the big ploy if it all came out the same in the end.

Castulo's smile broadened. He leaned in, kissed her cheek, and said, "You know where to find me."
 
She patted his cheek. "I knew I could count on you." And then she allowed for her hand to slip away.

The smile she gave in parting to Castulo did not need to be fashioned at all. Not like the one she was about to show Priest Madrissal. And there by the tree in the garden courtyard did she leave the one man on her way to see the other. With one she could be genuine. The other, she had to be artificial. But...the humble Priest would in the slow series of his final moments have the privilege of seeing just how genuine Nemeska could be.

She walked along the marble pathway leading toward the Temple. Ah, Priest Madrissal. His fatal mistake (other than not showing the amount of deference Nemeska knew she was owed) was that he had become predictable. He liked to take walks. Walks around the city, talking with her and the other Penitents during their meetings all the while. And there were, as it happened, a few places he liked to pass by. Places where a discreet colloquy, among other things, could occur. It was all his fault, really—
 
Nemeska stopped. Dutifully, you could say. Perhaps such a descriptor would have been adequate, if a better one was not available. She stopped not particularly out of some sense of obligation or respect for authority, but out of percipience and a keen sense of self-preservation.

She had been thinking as she was walking, and her awareness only snapped back when the man commanded her to stop. And that man was Regulator Boesarius Terral. In his shadow was a small group of other Regulators as well, all equipped and prepared to set out on some mission of theirs.

Defying them would not have been very shrewd.

"Good afternoon, Regulator," she said pleasantly to Boesarius, using the entire force of her formidable will to crush the awareness of the blade she was illegally carrying, such that it would not taint her tone with any tinge of trepidation. "Keeping yourself busy, as always."
 
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Nemeska actually couldn't tell if his smile reached his eyes or not. Only a few times did she have direct interactions with Boesarius Terral, and each time she found herself just a bit more enamored with him. He had about his person a palpable aura of danger that she, perhaps despite herself, found irresistible.

She had tried to seduce him once. Just once. He had turned her away. Definitively. Said to her, "If you ever try that again, I'll kill you."

Gods, she wanted to try again. The danger. But today was not that day.

"To see Priest Madrissal. It is my monthly communion, of course. Praise Regel."
 
"No, you're not."

He could have told her outright. But he didn't.

It was always useful to study someone's reactions. Especially to the unexpected.
 
Nemeska smiled.

And she couldn't tell if her smile reached her eyes or not. She could only hope her practice had made it more like second-nature. She didn't need to give Boe any more reason to keep her detained here (what risky feelings she had to the contrary squelched on the matter). And, further, it was inopportune to have any more awareness than was rote and routine drawn to her communion with Priest Madrissal. Pity. She might even have to delay the deed out of necessary prudence if this continued.

"Are you here to whisk me away with your troop to wherever it is that you are going? Oh, I could use a nice walk, and it is a gorgeous day, is it not?"
 
Boesarius regarded her for a moment. He spoke only when he was good and ready.

"Your place is here," he said.

Then he reached into his coat...
 
...and Nemeska's heart first skipped a beat, before her brow then knitted in puzzlement. In Boesarius's hand freshly withdrawn from his coat was a small parchment—folded, sealed, and stamped. Her bewilderment only increased when the Regulator extended his hand, offering the parchment to her. She couldn't help it; she cocked her head just slightly.

"What, may I ask, is this?"
 
"Priest Madrissal asked me to give this to you," Boesarius said. "He figured you would be on your way in just now. He commends your punctuality."

He allowed Nemeska to take the parchment, the invitation, from his hand.

"Nemeska Elissal, you are to report to the Pontifex's chamber."

Boesarius lifted a hand and touched the bowed brim of his hat with two fingers and a thumb. Then, as he started to walk away and as his Regulators followed, he said without looking back to her, "Your father wishes to speak with you."
 
THE CHAMBER OF THE PONTIFEX​


Even the tallest of Gildan ogres would feel small, so grand were the doors to the chamber and even more so the arched ceiling of the chamber itself. Two dwarves, each with strong arms as thick as a mule's neck, who were part of the Pontifex Guard opened the doors for Nemeska upon presentation of the parchment and sight of its wax-stamped seal. She entered, and they closed the doors behind her, the mighty doors with the deep sound of their shutting giving firm evidence to their weight and stature.

Beautiful stained glass framed the far wall of the Chamber of the Pontifex, depicting scenes from Gild's earliest history: the planting of the Ragged Banner, the mercy of King Andreas for the ogres, Fiona Gildal being hailed as "Peacemaker" by the dwarves of Belgrath, the utter destruction of Cura. In an arc along each of the apexes of the windows were the letters which formed the word J E M A A T in Old Gildan—the Community, in Common. Light poured in from the towering height of these windows despite the noontime angle of the sun, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling bathed the chamber even more. The large circular rug on the tile, colored in a light gray to represent the plentiful silver of the land which Gild claimed to its fortune, had upon it a long table and two opposing couches, each opulent in their make.

The Pontifex, seated closer to the stained glass windows, rose from his desk and gestured to one of the couches. "My beautiful daughter..." he said, smiling magnanimously. "Come to me."

Pontifex Elissal with open arms received Nemeska into his embrace, this for the first time since she had been charged with the crime that made her a Second Penitent, those few years ago.

Such a simple joy, to hug one's father.

She had wanted to do so for so, so long.
 
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