Fable - Ask A Few Devils

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When they pulled back, Pontifex Elissal produced a key. Held it up as his eyes flashed down to her anklet and then back to her gaze. "My dear Nemeska, you may remove that stifling thing in my presence."

It took her a moment to truly understand it. Oh. Oh, it was a key to her locked anklet. While it was possible that it was the same key, the only one she truly knew of, that Instructor Pontus had been given at the War College, that said key might have hurried its way back to the Temple and into her father's hands before her own arrival...such was unlikely, given the timing. Was it then a duplicate key? And if so, when and how was it made? She did not question it, and she discovered that she did not care much to know.

What captured her most was, of course, that refreshing feeling of having the anklet off, that obnoxious physical weight shed from her, and the flood of completeness, of a hollowness at last filled, once again trickling throughout her body—nay, not her body alone, but her very spirit. It just felt so right.

"Sit," said Pontifex Elissal genially, gesturing to one of the two couches.

She did, her legs crossed and hands on her knee, and her father sat across from her on the other couch.

He smiled. "Are you by chance hungry? Thirsty? You came straight from the War College, yes?"

"Not straight from the War College, no, father," she said, smiling herself. "I did take the time to partake. You need not trouble yourself."

"Very well." Pontifex Elissal entwined his hands. "How are the students at the College, those whom you aided in their instruction today?"

"Much as it always is: some will make great Praetors. Others..." Nemeska gave a dismissive shrug. Perhaps this was the way of the world with anything you could possibly imagine: merchants, writers, singers, warriors, mages, Praetors, so on and so on. An immutable rule, that most who engage in any activity of any description will through harsh inevitability come to form the greater bulk that is mediocrity—being adequate, but hardly remarkable. Greatness by its very definition trampled upon this bulk, and by no means gently either, but crushed it beneath the staggering weight of its own undeniable magnitude.

Her father nodded in a slow series of three, his smile taking on a pleased character, as though her remarks had gone exactly to some plan. "Do you lament this lack of potential?"

Nemeska closed her eyes and huffed amusedly. "No. Those who do not seize greatness do not deserve it." She looked across the table at her father, the rare sight of him, and though pride shined through in what she would come to say, there was beneath it a certain uncomfortable somberness as well: "You seized greatness, father. Despite the ruination caused by my magic, when that old lout Pontifex Gouddal passed, you against all opposition won election and the blessing of the bashrahips to this very office."

A bitter memory. The discovery of her magic had not been a...controlled incident, and its awful timing, the scandalous nature of the whole matter, cost her father his first bid for the office of Pontifex. At least Pontifex Gouddal had the decency to perish in a timely manner.

"The whole of Jura is in your hands," she concluded.

Pontifex Elissal's lips pursed with...humility? He said, "My daughter...my dear Nemeska...I am not great."

She canted her head in confusion. What? What was he...how could such words even be uttered by him, her father, her father, no, this...

But before she could say anything, he smirked and said, "But I will be. And so shall you, my daughter. For you see...our great works are yet to come, and the time of their commencement is at last at hand."
 
Like father, like daughter, and so Nemeska could tell when he was drinking in her delight. But he did not come to the point just yet, like the patient mason laying one stone at a time. He said, "Doubtless you have heard of the incident in Westlurch Pass."

"With Praetor Irene Savashal. How could I not? All Gild was aflutter with the tale of it—I've heard a number of fanciful versions. The Insanlar can be painfully imaginative with their embellishments."

"There is a version which is foreign to your ears: that of the hidden truth, known only to a few, for the highly sensitive nature of it."

Nemeska leaned forward ever so slightly, her interest and curiosity piqued. "Oh? And may you make my ears...acquainted?"

Pontifex Elissal smirked. Said, "It was the Ommites."

Just as in the moment before, again Nemeska canted her head in confusion. "The Ommites? They...they sponsored the Althhaven mages? But why?" To Nemeska it made little sense. Gild lost the war with the Ommites five years ago, the consul Kadir Gildal surrendering on their terms, and for all those years Gild was bound by the treaty to pay a tribute of silver to them (and why even mention the loss of Gildan territory to them, as if the tribute were not embarrassing enough?). Why would they risk the start of hostilities when they could bide their time, collect their tribute, and gather their strength for when the next proper war inevitably broke out in Campania?

Her father explained, and, really, once he said it, it was as obvious as it was elegantly ruthless: "Because they thought they could do it and have the deed forever shrouded in secrecy, and so they did, their aim being to weaken us, my dear Nemeska. Through methods of deceit do they wish to bring us low, to ripen us for their ultimate end: to subjugate us, Nemeska. They wish to dissolve the Kingdom, to annex Gild, to bring us into their stinking fold and erase everything we have all worked so tirelessly to achieve over the centuries in the name of Gild and in the name of Jura and to do this until there is none of the Gildan legacy left—none!—but instead everywhere that of the Ommite." He scoffed. "Such a fate sickens me, my daughter. Sickens me in a manner unmatched by anything else my ears might hear, my eyes might see, my mind might imagine."

Nemeska's lip curled with disgust. "A Campania ruled by the Ommites, by the Arveiians...a Campania which does not hail Gild as its capital is a travesty. Everything from the River Galacon to the River Astor should rightfully be part of the Jemaat."

"Yes, my daughter, beautifully spoken." Pontifex Elissal inclined his chin, the features of his face coming to exude a hawkish cunning. "This so-called Armistice, this peace among nations once exhausted by war, has provided fertile ground for opportunity. The peace will come to an end, and soon...because it will be we who shatter it to our advantage."

"Father...the senate, the consuls, they—"

"Will never know a thing."

Nemeska's chest rose with an inhalation. The shine in her eye was one of anticipation, wonder, and devious excitement.

"I have upon donning the robes of the Pontifex toiled restlessly with this question, of how Gild in all its years, for all the virtue and courage of its people, has not come any closer to the fulfillment of its destiny in Campania. With righteousness as revealed by Regel do we live and wage war, and yet? Where has that gotten us, especially in recent times? We are left with a shrunken Kingdom, our land gobbled up by the Ommites; our Gildan silver, paid in stipends to fill the coffers of the kujar; and now, appearing weak, our enemies poke at us with concealed blades, and this, I do assure you, my dear Nemeska, will continue, and will continue with wanton abandon, our neighbors like vultures descending on an animal stricken with a fatal wound will come to feast—they desire what is ours as much as the Ommites do.

"And the answer? So simple, and patiently waiting for me to cease dallying with loftier answers and to embrace that simplicity. That answer is this: with goodness alone, you can only get so far. What is the light without the dark? What bonfire is brighter in the day rather than in the night? Is it not clear what we need? Honor, courage, the strength of our arms and the earnestness of our pious hearts, these Gild has relied upon for centuries and for centuries have we stagnated, what small and insignificant ebbs and flows of fortune aside. And then by providence it came to me, Nemeska, the means of that necessary dark to accompany the light."

Pontifex Elissal, her father, looked to Nemeska now from beneath his brow with a smile whose intentions would shape the destiny of all Campania.

"Gild has many Saints...but what it needs...are a few devils."
 
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IN THE HOME OF NEMESKA ELISSAL​


They couldn't even get all of their clothes off before they began. Their journey of carnal frenzy began in one corner of the room, traveled to all the others, and ended at last in the bed. Somewhere along the way the rest of their garb found its way to the floor.

Castulo lay on the pillow, Nemeska in the cradle of his arm using it as her pillow, and his hand lay idle upon her bosom. Well, not entirely idle.

He was the first to break the utter lack of words between them. Heh, when she had found him earlier, all she had done was take him by the hand and, full of silence but with an expression that practically defined joy, led him to her modest house (she might be the daughter of the current Pontifex, but, crying shame, she couldn't live in the Krala Ait). He didn't ask any damn questions. Not then. Paid off. But now that they were both tuckered out, might as well start asking and excavate that answer.

"Things went brilliantly with Priest Madrissal, I take it."
 
She never neglected the pure bliss of what came after the climax—unless, of course, she were merely using the man in question, in which case he could be shooed away. But that wasn't the case with Castulo. Lying in his arm, feeling the heat of his body and firmness of his muscle, hearing the little breaths he took through his nose and watching through the corner of her eye the rise and fall of his chest, this was a throne fashioned for her and for her alone. And a few adventurous fingers provided a touch of playful excitement in that calm comfort, tempting the height of another peak whilst they basked lavishly in the shaded valley.

Nemeska smirked when he spoke.

"My sweet Castulo...I did not see Priest Madrissal."
 
Now that gave Castulo some pause.

"You didn't?"

Explained why she didn't need his help with anything messy, and why she was in such a good mood. But how'd she get out of her communion?
 
"No."

Nemeska turned her head ever so slightly, such that she could look over and up to him.

"I instead had a long chat with my father."

She smiled, and oh was it the caliber of smile she would have shown to Priest Madrissal right before the end—prideful and exultant.

"And he told me, Castulo...such wonderful things."
 
It was almost too much to comprehend.

But then Castulo put it all into the right context for him to instantly understand. What Nemeska was saying to him, what her father the esteemed Pontifex Elissal was secretly proposing, was exactly like what they used to do: something much like the old days. That. Him and Nem going about Gild, doing what they needed to do to ruin some asshole's day (or end them), and keeping it all quiet and in the shadows, nobody the wiser. That, but on a much bigger scale, with much higher stakes. It wasn't just Nem's pride that was on the line here; it would be the destiny of Gild itself.

Pontifex Elissal had likened it all to saints and devils. Said that there were deeds meant to be done in the light, and deeds meant to be done in the dark, and that Gild was sorely lacking the latter. Nemeska, with her paraphrasing, explained it best: these dark deeds would open the way for the light to shine through, and all the brighter through its triumph at that. A few devils were needed to elevate the saints to heights never before reached. What the saints couldn't do...the devils could.

Bashrahip Mustafa had said the exact wrong words to him this morning, hadn't he? This wasn't what the good bashrahip had in mind, Castulo knew that for damn sure. But those wrong words of Mustafa's turned out to be so right for Castulo. What Nem was talking about here? This was exactly what Castulo wanted. To borrow from the bashrahip, this wasn't a bunch of "auxiliary tasks strung together", this was true purpose. This was precisely what a man like himself was made for. Built for.

Almost like Regel himself had a hand in the whole thing. Funny that.

"So the Pontifex is the mastermind, you run the whole thing, we keep it all in the dark, and not a soul in Gild but us 'devils' know about any of it. That sum it up?"
 
"And...I get to use my magic," Nemeska added with nothing but pure delight.

Finally. At long last. Being relegated to nothing more than an Assistant Instructor at the War College, having her magic be nothing more than fodder for student Praetors to practice on, was such a waste of all her possible grandeur. So many of her fellow Gildans could be so shortsighted about this. Did Regel not see fit in his great design, in his Right Ordering of All Things, that she, Nemeska Elissal, should have magic and should use it for the benefit of all Gild? Come now. It would be heretical to say as much, but Saint Sofia was a mere country girl before her deification. Her magic saved an entire army. She won the admiration of the people for it. How could she earn such a thing with her magic, but Nemeska be vilified for it?

They would see. They would all see. In time.

"There will be no rules, Castulo," she said to him, words sweet like honey. "We shall be able to let loose all of our fury without restraint. And while our noble countrymen do what Gild has always done during the day..."

In her grin the flash of sinister eagerness.

"...we will be the demons who bring terror by night."
 
No rules.

Demons by night.

"I can do that," Castulo said, slowly bringing up his arm to coax Nemeska to roll on top of him, and so she did. Eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, heart-to-heart, they looked to one another, felt one another, and both were as eager for the future as the other.

"So we go and put together this team."

He kissed her, and she kissed him back, and it took a long while for him to have the opportunity to ask his question.

"What's the Pontifex's first move with us?"
 
Nemeska rose up, confidently straddling him, fingers digging into his chest. And from this high vantage of hers now it was as though she were a herald making a declaration which would alter the destinies of countless lives down to an innumerable crowd of awaiting souls.

"My... sweet... Castulo..." she said in a low and husky voice.

Her eyes flashed, and this was no trick of the light, but the tiniest flaunting of her magic, for her anklet lay shed on the floor along with all of her attire.

"...we are going to start a war..." She dug her fingernails into Castulo's flesh. Hard. Deep. With intent as vicious as it was prurient. Blood made crimson her nails. And she leaned her face down toward his again. "...the greatest war the Bloody Crescent has ever seen."

She kissed him again, but her biting teeth drew yet more blood from his lip before she pulled back.

"And from those green fields turned red...Gild will rise...it will at last rise."
 
Nem could be very forward when she wanted to be. Just ask his chest and his lip.

"Sounds like we've got a lot of work to do tomorrow," he said jovially. Then his hands slid up her legs and came to rest on her hips. "So let's tucker ourselves out and get a good night's sleep."

And after they finished, all the remaining night they spent peacefully in each other's embrace.
 
RECRUITING BOESARIUS​


Such a tricky thing, this business of gathering likeminded individuals to the cause. Trust, which this whole affair required, was a most delicate item, you see. Recruiting Castulo was easy, an obvious first choice. But who else? Who else indeed. Oh, but it wasn't like her father hadn't given a list of potentials. He had, and some of the names on it were quite surprising; dear Regel, she underestimated the reach of her father's knowledge! She supposed, though, that one would learn very much about a wide variety of Gildan things, its environment and its people, while serving as the Pontifex.

But back to the matter at hand. She had names, some on her father's list, some which she knew of exclusively, some even provided by Castulo, oh, pristine days, he was so reliable. Yet...one couldn't simply be a buffoon and go walking up to one of these potentials, crudely broaching the topic with the subtlety of an ogre swinging about his warclub. These things took time. Trust.

Or...leverage.

Hush now, those adorable concerns. Leverage doesn't necessarily need to be a bad thing, does it? Gentle pressure can be applied, by offering someone something they just can't resist. Which brought her to...

"Boesarius Terral," she said to Castulo.
 
Castulo almost spit out his drink.

"Are you serious??"

Well they were having a relaxing lunch. Sitting outside on the cookshop's patio, enjoying the sunshine, partaking of this delicious lamb and its even more delicious lamb sauce. Would've been nice to wash it down with some ale or mead or something, but water for right now—he could get drunk tonight. Maybe he'd get double drunk, what with Nem's present suggestion.

He made the effort to lower his voice again. Keep it confidential. They had a few Insans also dining on the patio, minding their own business, but you couldn't be too careful, not with this thing Pontifex Elissal was trying to put together.

"Nem," he said, "Boesarius is a Regulator's Regulator. And, hell, he can't even get through wiping his ass without thinking about killing Fae. He'll never go for it."
 
"But that's where you're wrong, my sweet Castulo," Nemeska teased, taking her time in actually giving her answer, cutting herself another slice of lamb and spearing it with her fork and savoring the taste as she chewed. Half-lidded, enticing eyes watched Castulo all the while.
 
They would never get along perfectly, would they? Oh no, Boesarius was much too serious, and Castulo was quite nearly the direct opposite of that. Sure, it would be such a delectable circumstance if Nemeska could have both men for herself, but such were the wistful longings of life.

The least they could do, though, was work together. That, Nemeska believed, she could manage. And she had to, for she imagined that this little roster of Devils, once it was all formed, would be comprised of an assortment of clashing personalities. They'd have to be kept in line. And, truly, there was no better way of ensuring that than appealing to one's irresistible sense of self-interest.

Speaking of.

"Boesarius is a man consumed by his work, yes...and that is precisely what am I counting on."
 
Fuck, he wasn't looking forward to this, working with Boesarius. His brother Balian was alright, if a bit stiff and scholarly, terrible at holding conversations outside of his area of expertise, but Castulo would take that any day over a Boesarius-type. Too bad Balian didn't really have the aptitude for this kind of dirty work.

So Boesarius it would be then. Well, if old Boe ever got himself into a spot of trouble doing some Devil work, he could rely on somebody else to help his ass. Castulo didn't like him, and he sure didn't need to save him if he needed saving. Best Boe never end up in that situation, heh, Castulo wouldn't mind scouting out his replacement if some horrid tragedy befell the "friendly" Regulator.

Castulo glanced around before he asked this. Even leaned in. "How are you going to get him?"
 
"Me? Oh, I would never. I am but a humble Penitent, after all."

Nemeska smiled.

"But my father might have a word or two with him."

* * * * *​

Actually catching Boesarius at an opportune time proved to be a challenge in and of itself. Her father was adverse to officially summoning him to his Chamber—too "high profile" a move to make. So it was up to Nemeska to, in effect, play the reverse role as what had happened earlier, when Boesarius had delivered the summons to her from the Pontifex.

First, Boesarius had to return from a mission abroad with his new protégé, Leah Kadashal. Then, for a few days, he had made himself scarce, and innocent inquiries from a few of the more talkative Regulators suggested that Boesarius was "on the hunt". On the hunt for what, they didn't specify—perhaps even they didn't know. Regardless, Boesarius made himself known about the Sanctum and the Temple before too long. Nemeska managed, somewhat by foreknowledge and somewhat by chance, to catch him eating in one of the Temple's Refectories.

She stood before him, placing her palm over her heart, bowing her head deeply, showing him all the respect she knew he'd be keen to see from a Second Penitent—especially herself—and she said:

"Regulator Boesarius, may I speak with you?"
 
Boesarius paid Nemeska no heed at all. It was as if she had not spoken to him, or even as if she were not there, standing nearby his table beseeching his attention. None of the other three Regulators sitting with Boesarius acknowledged her either—they simply continued eating.

Boesarius found the Pontifex's daughter to be...a nuisance. Perhaps he had not made himself clear before? She was a harlot in all but actual occupation, and Boesarius wished nothing to do with her in any such regard as that.

So let her stand there and wait. Until he was good and ready to entertain her.

Boesarius leisurely continued to eat.
 
Nemeska held her Gildan salute, keeping her hand over her heart and head bowed, standing there just like that and intent on doing so as long as she needed to. So it was to be a game of patience, then? She could be quite good at that when she wanted to be.

And she needed to show Boesarius that this was not a matter as frivolous as before. Oh, but she would certainly let him take her to his bed if such a thing were at all "in the cards", to borrow a phrase from Castulo, yet that would forever be one of those wistful longings she had thought about earlier. No, no frivolous thing, this. This, her present business, was serious. Meaningful.

So she waited. Holding her salute.
 
At last Boesarius and the other Regulators finished their meals. The four of them stood together, the other three taking their empty plates off toward the counter outside the adjacent kitchen for the Temple servants to clean, Boesarius, finally, deigning to look sidelong at Nemeska.

"What?"
 
Was there something wrong with her? Was there a reason why she absolutely adored the disdainful attitude shown to her by some men, while loathing it in others? Was there a reason why disinterest could be so damn alluring to her in these cases?

No. No, of course not, there was nothing wrong with her. She was perfect. Perfect just the way she was. Even if Gild at large did not recognize it...yet.

But this wasn't the time to let a certain satisfying heat fly her away.

Finally she lifted her head and let her hand return to her side. "I have a message for you from my father, the Pontifex. He wishes to speak with you."
 
Boesarius's eye, the sole one facing Nemeska, narrowed.

"If the Pontifex wished to speak with me, I would have been informed through other means."

He turned fully then, his back to her, beginning to walk away.
 
Now here, she had to take something of a risk, didn't she? And so she did.

Nemeska stepped forward, reaching out and grabbing, however lightly, Boesarius's elbow, entreating him to stop with an oh-so-gentle tug of his arm. Hopefully, this would impress upon him the earnestness of her purpose, and not invite some sort of reprisal that would come, not here in the Temple's Refectory in front of all the clergy and Temple personnel, no, but later, when she least expected it.

He did, at least, stop. And this gave Nemeska her chance to make a further plea.

"Regulator Boesarius," she said, "this is no trifle, I assure you. The Pontifex does indeed have a matter he wishes to discuss with you, for it is you, and you alone, whom he trusts to handle it. You must forgiven the unorthodox discretion, but...this is because it deals with your particular area of expertise. You understand the sensitivity of these matters."

There it was. The bait. And it wasn't entirely a falsehood, no, her father planned to use the troublesome Fae menace as quite the selling point behind getting Boesarius onboard; a Campania ruled over by Gild would undoubtedly give Boesarius more of the work he loved...more than he could himself handle.

Would he be enticed?
 
Boesarius for a long time stood as he was. Not looking back. Not shrugging off Nemeska's hand from his elbow. Not making a move to walk away.

He stood.

Calculating.

Then at last he looked back over his shoulder.

"Come with me," he said. "If the Pontifex is unaware of this 'matter' of which you speak, I will make you regret approaching me."

He wished not to be made a fool of by Nemeska's fanciful games. But, if she spoke truth, and there was some matter concerning those hated jins, the Fae, dire enough to have reached the Pontifex's chamber, then he would be keen to rectify it.
 
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