She should have expected this, really. What did she think would happen when she turned her camera on? She knew what she looked like, and she knew Quinn wouldn’t react well to seeing her this way. A reflex maybe, to seeing her on the screen—an impulse to make things feel somewhat normal again, whatever it was that counted for that these days. In truth though, a part of her wanted this. Wanted something to validate that last, sane part of her mind she’d shoved down, screaming that what she was doing wasn’t healthy, wasn’t sustainable. Besca was too buried, Roaki couldn’t care less, and Follen…well, she’d found a building distance growing between her and the doctor.
But here Quinn was, throwing her a rope she knew she needed, to climb out of a hole she’d dug for herself. She was too good, this girl. For RISC, the CSC, for piloting, for Illun, really. But Dahlia say there, and listened, and met Quinn’s budding sternness with small nods and a rueful smile.
Only the truth, after all.
“I…” she sighed. “Can’t…make that promise. I’m sorry. I know you’re right, I know I’m not handling this well. I want to do better, but I just…can’t make you a promise I might break. I don’t know what’s going to happen in a week, or two weeks, or a month. I don’t know where my head will be, or what I’ll have to do, or…” Or anything. God, she didn’t know anything. No pilot did, that was the point. That was the life. Quinn had to understand that by now, had to get that neither of them were guaranteed their next hour let alone their tomorrows.
If something happened, it was on them. It was always on them. It was always…
Dahlia rubbed her eyes. She was tired. More than that, she was willing to admit it right now, which was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to waste on being cynical and bitter. Quinn was right, and for as long as her mind wasn’t going to fight her body, she was going to follow her advice.
“I can try,” she said, smiling apologetically. “For now that’s what I can do. I can promise to try. And I’m about to fall over as it is so, I’m gonna go now so I don’t pass out in the shower. Then get some sleep.”
She turned off her phone’s camera, about sick of seeing herself in this state, and certainly not wanting to show it to Quinn anymore. Instead, she tried to put some of the life back into her voice as she pulled herself off the sim room floor.
“We’ll get those shakes out to you asap, just try to keep them to yourself. Don’t think they’ll win you any friends for their flavor.” she giggled, it felt genuine even if it was a bit weary. “Talk to you again soon, Quinn. See you soon, too. Love you.”
“In Chains we find Reason. In Chains we have Virtue. In Chains we are Human.”
Before the Chains, humanity was an unbound monstrosity, corrupting everything it touched. Base creatures beholden to nothing but instinct, their shadowy masses would have consumed all life on Reah and left the world a silent, starving husk in the void. Even the Arbiters, bearing the wills of their celestial lords, could not hold them back, and little by little humanity pushed into the kingdoms of beast and fey, of dragon and titan and all mythos lost to time.
It was only the appearance of the Moon, and the intervention of the Mother of Prudence which forestalled Reah’s end. By binding her lunar vessel to the world, the Mother also bound humanity with Reason. Her Chains gave form to the blight, carving and shaping each shadowy vestige until the amalgam was unmade, and in its place stood the first, true, humans.
The rest, as they say, is history. Some of it written, much of it lost. In some ways nothing was changed; humanity did, eventually, supplant the kingdoms of the Arbiters, and many of the mythos earned their name, fading into legend. The Mother never left her Moon, but her silent presence was felt all the same.
In her shadow, in her Chains, humanity came to rule Reah after all.
The Chains which bind humanity, the conduit of its power, and the only thing preventing its devolution. The malignance from which they came was not destroyed, only bound by the Mother’s Virtues. Each person is a flood, each Chain is a dam; should they be broken, there would be no person at all, only a monstrous force of nature.
That is to say, should all be broken.
Old humanity was so destructive for a reason—it was powerful. While the Chains do prevent them from devolving, they also restrict that power unique and innate to humans, and had they remained as strictly bound as they were, Reah would still be under the celestial rule of the Arbiters.
It is only by breaking these Chains that one can access their ancestral power. The process is highly regulated, its particulars known only by a select few across every kingdom, but it can be done. Some would say it must be done. Breaking a Chain is a difficult feat to perform, but even more difficult to endure. Done indelicately, one can flood the body with too much power at once; the person may die, or worse, the flood may shatter every Chain in its rushing and they may devolve into monster, endangering countless lives before they can be slain. Likewise, a person who has not prepared themselves physically and mentally for a breaking may fail to contain their new power, and suffer similar consequences.
Each Breaking is more dangerous than the last, and for every one who has achieved the godlike status of First Chain, tens of thousands fail to break their Fifth. To free oneself without fully understanding the Virtues that bind them is doom, but to embrace them, to realize them, is both an entirely individualistic journey, and also only the first step.
The Chains are as follows:
Using one’s reason to determine the nature of a thing, be it right or wrong, selfish or selfless, good or evil. It was judgement that allowed humanity to first distinguish itself from the blight, to understand consequence and remorse, to feel, for the first time, as a thing with choice. Through judgement one understands the weight of their actions, and also the actions of others. They forge laws by which to govern and abide. They form opinions through the crucible of their values. They mete out justice by the rigor of their principles.
Using one’s reason to confront danger, pain, fear, and uncertainty. Sometimes disparaged by those who see doing so as the abandonment of reason, but for the valorous, bravery is reason. When humanity emerged from the blight, doubt and sin heavy upon their backs, it was valor that strengthened their bodies. When the creatures of Reah sought to extinguish them in their weakened forms, it was valor that drove them to break their Chains again, it was valor that carried their spirits and ambitions into the future they now possess.
Using one’s reason as a means of resisting temptation. The temperate are merciful and humble, almost monastic. Tempering oneself is a long process, and most are judged by the content of their journey rather than its length. As humanity rose, as their desires exceeded their means, it was through temperance that they found the path towards growth. Restraint is critical to the evolution of one’s capabilities, without it every Breaking would end in disaster. Only through understanding one’s limits can they be expanded. Only through knowing when to stop, can one know when to begin again.
The first of the non-cardinal virtues. Hope exists beyond reason, almost by necessity. Hope is the Chain of imagination, creation, and belief beyond logic. When the Mother of Prudence severed the Chain of Faith, it was humanity’s own hope, its belief in itself, that allowed them to push on and utilize the Chains that remained. The hopeful, often thought of in tandem with the brave—though they are distinct—stand against the odds, or create their own.
Once thought to be inextricable from the broken Chain of Faith, the Chain of Charity—sometimes called the Chain of Love—much like Hope, is removed from reason and deals much more with humanity’s heart. Through Charity was humanity given its second chance, through innumerable and unspoken sacrifice has it survived to realize that chance. To give unbidden and without expectation, to introduce kindness where it may not exist, and to bolster it where it does, is perhaps the most virtuous act of all.
Once foundational to the magic of virtue, this Chain was shattered by the Mother of Prudence herself, so that her descendants could evolve without her. The belief in a higher power, while perfectly reasonable, is not necessary for humanity’s growth, and for the love of her children such a power would not wish it otherwise. However, through profaned rituals—ironically made viable by the act of removing piety—some have reforged this Chain in order to bind themselves to other beings of great power, so that they themselves may taste godhood.
The power once wielded by the qovu was devastating and manifold. However, with nothing to guide them their capabilities stagnated. Now, bound by the Chains, humanity can improve their capabilities through rigorous mental and physical training.
But as in all things, caution is key. The limits imposed upon one’s body by their Chains exist for a reason, and attempting to surpass them prematurely can easily result in a catastrophic Breaking. While outliers exist in every statistic, the capabilities of each Chain level are generally understood, and those who set out to study and improve will most likely be aware of when they have reached their limit.
The Links are as follows:
One’s strength can be trained in a multitude of ways. Raw power, speed, durability; strength encompasses countless aspects of one’s life, and so this Link is one of the hardest to master in its entirety. Indeed, most practitioners choose to focus on one or two facets, evening out their experience with other Links along the way. Fifth Chainers who have mastered this Link might find themselves able to run farther for longer, might find their skin less likely to bruise, or themselves more likely to leave bruises. Fourth Chainers might find they run much faster than their lower Chained peers, and their fists pass easily through stone and concrete, where Third Chainers would see similar results with steel, and their bodies might be able to weather the edges and impacts of mundane weapons.
Also called the Link of Reflex, as both are necessary for one to successfully master it. Instinct is vital to one’s evolution; as one grows, so too must their intuition, their ability to perceive and react to things be they physical, mental, or arcane. Without instinct, the strongest warrior may not know where to throw his punch. Without reflex, the fastest runner may overlook an obstacle, or trip as a result of their poor reaction. With good instinct, one can learn to read the intent of another. Fifth Chainers who have mastered this Link might find they never miss a stair, or have an easier time swatting flies at supper. Fourth Chainers would begin to anticipate attacks from their opponents, and in the right circumstances might find themselves capable of deflecting bullets. Third Chainers may find their duels escalating into protracted feints and parries as both intuit and recalculate their moves.
The simplest and also most crucial of all the Links, the Link of Capacity pervades all other disciplines and cannot be ignored. Tied directly to the well of power innate to all humans, training capacity is what allows one’s limits to be pushed, and indeed, is necessary for a successful Breaking. It must be mastered both generally, and also specifically for each discipline. A Fourth Chainer without the proper capacity for Fourth Chain strength would find themselves at best no stronger than they were at Fifth Chain, and at worst, tearing their body apart with power they were not ready to wield. One’s capabilities are tied directly and inextricably to their capacity.
Proto-humans wielded all manner of magics, albeit in much more banal forms than exist today. The Link of Arcana is indisputably the most expansive and thus most difficult to master of the Links. In fact, those who have not unfastened their lifespans would find mastering it impossible, and those who have would still struggle. There exist so many schools of magic, broad and narrow, popular and obscure, and so many spells within them that one could spend even an extended lifetime trying and failing to master them all. Naturally, most choose to specialize either in private practices or at academies. Fifth Chainers might study pyromancy and manage to conjure modest flames. Fourth Chainers with their mana expanded by their Link of Capacity, might focus on golemancy, and forge constructs of raw materials or even elements, whereas a Third Chainer might harness illusionism to warp an entire battlefield into a nightmarish landscape to confuse and harass their enemies. The possibilities for this Link are nearly limitless, and as such, it often bleeds most heavily into the others.
WIP
Magic existed in Reah long before the Mother lifted humanity from its monstrous origins, and has taken many forms throughout history. The Arbiters channeled power from their celestial gods; the fey cultivated their magic from the earth; the magics of titans and dragons was entirely unique to them. Even old humanity possessed profaned, horrific magic of its own, still utilized by the creatures that sprout from Reah’s ley lines.
But humanity is no longer limited. Through a process known as Arcane Sympathy, humans are capable of learning any type of magic, be it elemental, material, primordial, draconic, and so on. To this day, new schools of magic are still being discovered at various established institutions across the world, but also, occasionally, in the homes and minds of particularly determined individuals.
One’s magical aptitude is tied closely to their mastery over not only their Arcane Link, but the others as well, depending on their schools, and even the paths within those schools. One cryomancer may focus entirely on the conjuration of projectiles and frigid conduits and have no use for Links like Strength, or Instinct, where another may center their discipline on enhancements to their body or their weapons, necessitating good strength or reflexes.
Likewise, there are schools of magic that seem to fill the gaps in the boons offered by the Links. Vitality magic, for instance, focuses on the warding off of disease and the reduction of fatigue or the length of time one might take to recover from an injury. Most importantly, it offers the sole method of extending one’s natural life—a path sought after by practitioners of nearly all Chains. In other areas however, magic is narrow in particular ways. For instance, there is only one school of restorative healing magic, practiced almost exclusively by devotees of the Charity Chain, in which one takes the wounds and ailments of another onto themselves.
Regardless of school, all magic relies on one’s Arcane Link, which develops in tandem with their skill, but also just as importantly with their Capacity Link, which dictates how much of their innate mana they have access to. While outliers exist, the general pools available to each level of Chain are understood, up to First, where there is no true record. As such, most schools classify their spells not only by discipline, but by Chain level. While some spells improve as one sheds their Chains (e.g. A Fifth Chain lightning bolt versus a Third) others simply cannot be cast by higher Chains due to their cost exceeding the pool. For example, the Vitality school’s coveted spell which extends one’s lifespan is not only closely guarded, but also requires a Third Chain pool to perform.
Once the lands belonging the five Arbiters, humanity now reigns. Each nation is led by its sole First Chain, called their Sovereign. While there is a degree of cooperation and global trade, the kingdoms rule independently. That said, outright war has been stifled by stifled by ancient treaties, prioritizing a combined effort to stand against the creatures of the ley lines.
Led by the Sovereign Dysos, called the Judge, Hyphon holds itself and its citizens to the highest standards of law, order, and justice. From it came the institution of courts, of prisons, and systems of punishment and reform. While all nations operate independently, many adopt Hyphon’s laws and mimic their methods of law-keeping in at least some capacity.
Hyphon boasts one of the largest landmasses in Reah, but its northernly placement renders much of it into poor farmland. Its mountains, however, burst with rare metals and other precious resources. Several prosperous ley lines run through its lands, making it a leader in energy production as well.
The people of Hyphon are hardy and taciturn, valuing unspoken adherence to order, but also and sometimes paradoxically, a devotion to one’s own principles. It is the sentiment of the people that a person must decide for themselves what is right and what is wrong, and that when ideals clash, it is by the Mother’s will that one triumph over the other.
As such, though Dysos has created much of the law, he leaves its interpretation and especially its execution, in the hands of his lords. Disputes are often mediated in court, but Hyphon has always allowed for more martial determinations of victory, and there have been no shortages of small-scale wars fought between the various lesser rulers of the land.
Once ruled by the Phoenix, the only Arbiter sympathetic to humanity, and the creator of the fey race. When he died his final death, his flames passed on to the Sovereign Genwynir, who inherited the remnants of his undyingly loyal Fey Knighthood. Though regarded as a hero, Genwynir’s sickly nature and lack of martial achievements has begun to erode her reputation amongst her people.
Munedori is a nation of glory, ruled by a code of chivalry. Comprised of a massive, moonlike peninsula as well as nearly a hundred coastal islands, Munedori is the beating heart of Reah’s waterborne trade, and also boasts the largest military force in the world. And no wonder, because the largest and most active ley line runs directly through its mainland, and splinters off even into its island territories.
As such, the people of Munedori grow up fighting. They train their Links from early childhood, so that even those who never rise above Fifth Chain may stand some chance of defending themselves. Every vassal commands their own army, and every family seems eager to add their name to the sacred Hero’s List. To live with honor is to fight fiercely, to love bravely, and to die in service to one’s fellow man.
But, life is not always so simple. Munedori warriors seeking glory may find themselves in one of countless mercenary troops, bolstering the ranks of armies all across Reah. Here, the code of Chivalry can be muddled for the sake of a beautiful battle, or the chance to cross blades with someone of greater renown. Those that fail to find their glory in honorable ways may walk less savory paths, blinded by their own ambitions.
Currently led by Myal the monk, Waywen is the only Kingdom whose Sovereign does not extend their life, and as such, the seat shifts with relative regularity compared to the other nations. In fact, the practice is quite rare in Waywen overall.
A nation of massive mountains and cavernous valleys, one might see the wavelike geography of Waywen as antithetical to the balance at the center of its identity. In fact, Waywen’s people see its lands as perfectly emblematic, offering both the highest highs and the lowest lows in all of Reah. Cities climb up the mountainsides and spread through the sprawling valleys, but also, one can find plenty of steads suspended in the gaps between peaks. Bridgetowns and Bridgecities are a common sight, offering temperate living conditions and also, importantly, safety from the ley lines that plague the earth and even some of the mountains.
Waywen is a peaceful land of, not plenty, but enough. Excess is rare but so to is poverty, and those who seek to capitalize on its amicable nature find themselves politely but firmly rebuffed, either in diplomatic negotiations or, if necessary, at the hands of warrior monks from any of several highly regarded schools. This societal structure leads to Waywen being a leading exporter of all manner of goods and services deemed unnecessary within its own borders. Be it food, minerals, or labor, one does not have to look hard to find something or someone from Waywen no matter where in Reah they are.
Which leads some to believe the people who live there would much rather live elsewhere. A gross overexaggeration, but not one without a degree of merit. Some find the monasteries’ regulations stifling, climbing above one’s station is at times considered impossible without the right connections. Social capital, after all, cannot be weighed on a scale—but it can most certainly be felt.
Led by Luca the Painter, their Sovereign’s appointment is testament to Riello’s ideals: to be passionate is to be human. Riello is the home of innovation and creativity, of artists and musicians and inventors. Galleries, theatres, concerts, cinema, all things that originated in Riello that now permeate Reah as a whole. To many in Riello, there is no life without art, fundamentally, the two are inextricably linked.
A nation of rolling hills, pastel woodlands, and expansive fields, many consider Riello to be the most beautiful kingdom in Reah. Even its cities blend industry with artistic expression, producing wild and striking skylines and strange but beautiful architecture. Outside of the more urban areas, one can find countless picturesque towns set beside tumbling hillsides and scenic beaches.
In its heartland stretches the largest unbroken farmland in Reah, from which the food exported serves as the economic backbone to Riello’s artistic endeavors. All the kingdom’s people study agriculture in their youth, and in place of a mandatory military service, every citizen of Riello spends two years working in the heartland—plenty of whom find their passion as farmers and remain thereafter.
Its lack of a proper military force and reliance on mercenaries for protection from the ley lines, leads some to view Riello as a helpless nation. However, its arcane universities have produced some of the most fearsome and accomplished mages in Reah’s history, and hopefuls from all across the world fight tooth and nail for the opportunity to study there. Even the Sovereigns of other kingdoms have been known to grace the halls of Riello universities, and on one occasion, the venerable Judge Dysos was said to have sat middle-row in a lecture taught by Painter Luca himself.
There is no Kingdom of Charity. Ixil was lost in a profane ritual conducted by a sect of heretical humans, who, in an effort to slay the dragon Arbiter Vormorri, reconnected with their unspeakable origins. The resulting destruction did indeed slay the Arbiter, but also turned Ixil into a hive of terrible power, infecting Reah’s ley lines and bringing the locked-away monsters of old back into the world.
Those who strictly follow the path of Charity ceremoniously call Ixil their home, and as such these devotees wander as nomadic healers across the world, establishing no schools and claiming no homes. Likewise, the identity of their Sovereign, known colloquially as the Saint, is unknown to the world outside of a select few.
Humanity’s origin, their monstrous beginnings. Though restrained and refined by the Mother of Prudence into proper humans, the Qovu remain an ever-present threat—not just from their emergence from the ley lines, but from the Chains themselves. All those who fail their Breaking inevitably devolve, losing their humanity in form and function, and becoming some bestial creature, devoid of all but their most basic instinct: hunt, destroy, consume.
Dahlia knew what it sounded like when Quinn was putting herself back together, the quiver in her voice, the hitching in her breath. It was like plugging a hole in a boat with your hand; good enough for now, but a little water still leaks in, and eventually it fills up, or your arm gets tired, and you sink. Some days Dahlia felt she was up to her neck already. Some days she didn’t.
Seeing Quinn on the other end of the line made it one of the latter days.
She looked like a mess, but Dahlia couldn’t judge. When she turned on her own camera, the face she saw shocked her. Greasy hair pulled into a bun, eyes sunken into dark pits, lips chapped from long, dry stints in the sim pod. Her clothes were rumpled, her fingernails were jagged from chewing, and if she chanced a brief sniff at her arms, she had no doubt she might retch on the call.
Quinn laughed, Dahlia blinked, and then she burst into laughter too. Uneven and garbled and teetering on the edge of something less happy, but she could hardly control it. God, she looked like the dead.
“Yeah,” she said, when she finally got ahold of herself. “I think we can swing that. Not like we’ll miss them here. I’ll tell her tonight, after I go through every ounce of soap we have and maybe take a nap. Think I need one of those, bad.”
It was so stupid. She was so stupid. A glance at her recent sims would have told her how tired she was, how badly the spiral was impacting her abilities. Besca had said it a thousand times: it didn’t matter how much she trained if, when the time came and she had to act, this was the state she was in. She couldn’t protect Quinn if she felt like a zombie in her own skin. And right now, at least in this single moment, she didn’t have to. Quinn didn’t need saving—all she wanted was a god-awful protein shake.
“Call me again. Whenever. Okay?” She laid her head back against the wall, settled into something that might have resembled a smile in the right light. It felt comfortable, anyway. However long this moment of clarity lasted, she was glad for it. “This’ll be over before we know it.”
Well, she had been aptly forewarned. As the goons armed themselves and moved into what might have loosely passed for some kind of formation, Yam pulled the trigger on her contract. A chill washed over her, like someone was brushing cold paint down her limbs. Her skin shifted, her arms most noticeably; they didn’t grow larger per se, but they hardened like chitin or scale or some kind of hellish tree bark. They were heavier, but with that heft came a surplus of strength, which she quickly stoppered once she had enough to work with. Power was influence, and if she borrowed too much, it was harder to turn off. Bel’s strength was soda spilled on a carpet; water would dry just fine, but all the sugar and chemicals would take much longer to wash out.
She looked down at her hands, at the obsidian claws glinting on each finger. Her eyes—their eyes—flicked up at the goons, scanned over their weapons. Clubs, knuckles, miscellaneous bludgeons of dubious integrity. Nothing particularly sharp, and nothing that could blow holes in her. Seemed like they weren’t interested in adding corpses onto the list of whatever other shit they were dealing with.
“Less paperwork,” she said. Bel sighed, and the claws receded.
I give you hands to get dirty, and you still insist on wearing gloves.
The goons moved first. One came at Marty, and though she felt an instinct to cover him, two more lunged for her. She took hold of her righted chair with one bolstered arm and launched it like a fastball at the closer one. It connected full on with his chest, splintering like rotten driftwood and sending him sprawling onto his back. The second swung at her with his club, but Yam stepped in, took him by the arm and torqued around, lifting him up over her hip and slamming him hard into the ground.
Her mind went back to Marty, but before she could check on her partner, something hard connected with her face, and it was only by the split-second shift of Bel’s skin on her cheek that her jaw wasn’t shattered. She stumbled, blinking back her composure as the hulk of a goon drew back his brass knuckles for another swing. Yam whirled into it, meeting his fist with her own. Sturdy metal smashed into jagged demonic knuckle. The metal caved with a crunch, splitting skin and cracking bone. The goon yelped, clutching his bloodied hand back before Yam caught him in the gut with an uppercut and shoved him on the floor.
Finally, a moment to breathe. She tried to take stock of the rest of the bar, eyes darting to find whoever else might still be standing. She quickly found the man in the purple suit, who hadn’t deigned to get involved. Yet.
“Marty, you good?” she shouted over her shoulder, not wanting to take her eyes off the supposed leader of the bunch. Marty wasn’t the biggest or meanest demon she’d ever met, but, and this was important, he did have four knives.
“Just so you know, the neighborhood we’re headed to is a real shithole. In case you’ve never been.”
Yam resisted the urge to point out that the whole city, in fact, was a shithole. From the crime scenes to the homes to their own base of operations, New Helle was one flush away from a Richter scale sewage disaster, regardless of where you looked. But, the etiquette drilled into her from years of conversation with antsy tourists begged her: “What does arguing here serve?” To which there was rarely an answer other than “Nothing, but it’d feel good.” Besides, she wasn’t sure if shit was a sensitive topic, him being a fly and all.
Anyway, he was right. The Paradise was a shithole.
Worse than that, it looked like they’d missed a very lively, very relevant party. One could have been forgiven for assuming the last person in was some sort of bomb or a living tornado, which wouldn’t have been the least believable thing they’d seen today.
The tension shifted as soon as the remaining patrons caught sight of them; the gangs in New Helle might have been underhanded and sometimes terribly occult, filled with every flavor of demon and sleazebag and demon sleazebag imaginable, except rats. Even among the rat demons. Few things opened criminal mouths to authority ears in this city. Money worked, sometimes, but no one in Section 7 got paid enough for that, and anyway, they hadn’t come bearing a heavy briefcase. Talking was riskier, but, it could work—
If you didn’t instantly brandish a weapon or four.
She wasn’t sure what an intimidating voice would sound like coming from someone like Marty. Probably not like this, at least not to her ears, but maybe the incredulity was numbing her to his ferocity. She was afraid the gangsters would suffer a similar immunity.
“Yeah,” she sighed. “You’re the good cop.”
Bel chuckled in the back of her mind.
As rough around the edges as Marty’s negotiating prowess might be, she couldn’t deny that between them he was infinitely more personable. Did that mean he could sweet talk his way through a conversation with a group of gangsters he just threatened at knifepoint? She didn’t know. Better not to gamble.
So, while Marty stepped up to the diplomatic plate to bat, Yam picked a toppled chair over and set it back upright. She shucked off her coat and draped it over the backrest, flexed her shoulders and cracked her neck, then rolled up her sleeves. Mother’s runework slithered over her ashen skin, winding in arcane patterns that she couldn't have unwoven herself even at the height of her training. She grimaced; at least if things went sideways now, her mood was already ruined.
Yam pulled her tie loose and used it to bind her hair back into a frankly still-too-big tail. She considered wrapping her belt up in her fist, but this wasn’t a tussle on the street after bar-close. Instead, she held a mental finger on the trigger of Bel’s contract, ready to shift. If she’d learned one thing about engaging with the city’s underworld, it was that you didn’t go into it half-cocked.
On the bright side, Marty didn't seem physically capable of putting less than one hundred percent into pretty much anything, for better and, much more likely, for worse.
Yam still wasn’t used to getting picked last. Growing up, her arcane aptitude and pedigree had gone a long way in making her a first draft pick in everything from group projects to school admissions. At the time she’d enjoyed it, and then, slowly, she’d come to realize how much her mother’s name was carrying her through the aspects of social life that she wasn’t particularly good at. Being rid of it, accomplishing feats on her own, as her own, was validating; her hard work paid off in the Hexen, where eventually people stopped caring who she was and were more interested in what she could do.
Except now she couldn’t do, not like that, not anymore. Now she was saddled with a metaphysical anchor and no nepotism to smooth over her…charm. So, all said, she wasn’t surprised when the scene cleared out and all that remained was her, and the bug. Maybe that was a good sign; at least there was someone equally as despicable.
Well, two someones.
Hurtful.
“I’ll drive,” she said, fishing her keys from her pocket and following Marty outside, tossing the chief a farewell wave on the way.
She led the way to her car, a sturdy, compact thing with faded paint but, surprisingly, no dents. Just as surprising was the interior, clean and tidy, which might have counted for more if it didn’t still whiff of tar. As she settled into the driver’s seat, she repaid her brimstone parasite’s sass by lightning another cigarette and taking a long, thoughtful drag. Yam didn’t know if demons could get lung cancer, but she was willing on Bel’s behalf to find out.
She turned away at the last moment, blowing smoke out of the window when she remembered she wasn’t driving alone. This would be one of the few times she’d worked alone with the…enthusiastic demon, and while she certainly had her gripes with his attitude, she couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit guilty. It didn’t take long after Marty walked into a room to see how people felt about him, and though many of those feelings were fairly earned, others certainly weren’t.
“Good call back there. Good intuition.” she said, pretending like she was waiting to finish smoking before they left, like a responsible officer of the law. “Never seen magic like that before, infernal or otherwise. Weird. But I think you’re on to something with the whole…” she made a vague, flowering motion near her head.
There, a good deed for the day before whatever shit was waiting for them at the end of their trip. She flicked what was left of her cigarette onto the pavement and started the car.
“You’ll have to navigate,” she said. “I could get lost in a cardboard box.”
The phrase ‘This is new’ was rote in Section 7. Whether it was gang wars, corporate espionage, or ritual zealotry, every single case had something(s) that got it ejected from the desk of whatever department should have been handling it, and put on the Easy Runner’s tab. New became norm, zebras became horses, and some days Yam was convinced all it would take to dupe their entire department was a cut and dry murder. Give them a jilted lover, and they’d likely spend a year trying to connect the victim to the Children of Helle, because Section 7 couldn’t see the forest through the trees unless it was on fire.
All that to say, this was new.
Not the scene itself, which was new in the old way. The shock and awe of a mass murder, smacking of weird and reeking of dead wannabe syndicate bigshots. But Armand was here, which was new in the new way; which meant it wasn’t actually new, because he’d shown up on a small number of cases before, but rather, it was now new in a way that made its old-new weirdness new-new weirdness. True-new. New plus. Suddenly every burning tree in the forest mattered.
Damn.
Yam crouched down in front of one of the flower-headed bodies. Lantanas. Interesting choice, which she did think it was—a choice. It wasn’t a bouquet, each of the eight overgrown victims sprouted the same flower, which meant they were chosen deliberately, or out of uniformity. Methodical inexplicability was the worst kind; there’d be rules, and Yam didn’t like playing games she didn’t know the rules to.
Thankfully, bugboy was on it. As grating as he could be—which was perhaps his most potent quality after his unshakable persistence—she hadn’t yet actually regretted having him on a job. His perspective, like his eyes, was manifold, and when you were dealing with weird, you wanted to see things from as many different views as you could.
Speaking of.
Yam shut her eyes, ignored the wriggling feeling beneath her eyelids, and then opened them again. She was, as always, keenly aware that they were no longer her eyes, but she saw through them all the same. Albeit, there was a subconscious tug, almost like an itch, trying to force her attention to certain places.
Thoughts?
Plenty, constantly. Bel’s voice was paved gravel, paradoxically smooth and also entirely too abrasive as it scraped across her mind. If that was a question, though, you’ll have to be more specific, and much more polite.
Yam blinked her own eyes back and shut him out. She wasn’t in the mood, not until she'd had a few cigarettes. Besides, there was enough here for her to go off of on her own, at least for now. She got back to her feet, surveying the rest of the carnage. Blood, bullets, slashes, stains. Whatever came through here wasn’t just big, it was too big.
“Think we’re looking for a human,” she said, moseying back to the others. “I’ve never seen a demon who could do this, and anyone who could would be wearing thirty pounds of curses. You don’t get that kind of work dispelled without people hearing about it.”
"Really easy to get blood on your hands in this line of work. Thankfully, these aren't my hands." _______________________________________________________________________________________________
Name:
Yamiel "Yam" St. Sero
Age:
26
Gender:
F
Race:
Human
Description:
The first thing you’ll notice is the skin. Gray like fresh concrete from head to toe, even the freckles on her face have turned into a pale black spatter. It makes the red of her hair seem more fiery, makes her sickly eyes shine like polished gold, and makes Yam physically upset every time she looks in the mirror, so try not to mention it.
Next you’ll smell the smoke—relax, it’s only cigarettes. There’s one in her mouth now, there was one in her mouth five minutes ago, and five minutes from now there’ll be another one. She’s polite, she won’t blow it in your face, but Arôme de Nicotine is a powerful perfume and it’s the only one she owns.
Suit, tie, boots, coat, you get the feeling she’d wear a mask or a full suit of armor if she could get away with it. Some demons, especially ones who get cursed down to size, can be touchy about their earth-side appearances, but that’s not the case with Yam. She’s all human. Yep, check it again: Human. That’s not her skin, that’s her contract. It’s probably the worst ink job in New Helle; no artistry, no flourish, nothing but a blackout—well, grayout—nightmare.
It's easier to tell under the clothes. Pull up her sleeves, you’ll see some of her mom’s handywork: a webwork of curses, sigils, whatever the fuck those Hexen weirdos call it, Yam’s body is rife with them. They're like the tattoos on top of the tattoo, they even move. Creepy shit. You don’t see that much, cursed humans, but there’s something going on with that contract of hers that makes it necessary.
Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. She’s a little touchy, a little temperamental, but her heart’s in the right place. Not in her job, holy shit no; it was pulling teeth dragging her back into the fold and she’s practically got it in her contract that she won’t get within a thousand feet of her mother. I meant her heart—when it’s actually her heart—isn’t as hellfire as she might put on. Buy her a drink, carry a lighter, you’ll get on fine.
Background:
Saliel St. Sero is the real deal. God knows what they feed the Hexen, but they’re on some Be-Not-Afraid, Keep-My-Glock-At-The-Vatican, Angel-Blood-In-My-Cereal type shit. Name any bigshot demon walking around New Helle, and chances are they’ve got Saliel’s work on them somewhere.
Some thirty years ago, before she was that good, she met a demon who, like every demon the Hexen meet, wanted into New Helle. By and large, the Hexen aren’t a personable sort; in the same way you don’t make small talk with the TSA, demons don’t generally get chatty with the people in charge of cursing them. But this one was different. He talked plenty, asked questions about Saliel’s life, her job, her hobbies, and when she proved unreceptive to conversation, he introduced himself.
His name was Bel, and he did not want to be cursed. Refused it outright, in fact. He wanted into New Helle, but by now means would he allow Saliel or any other Hexen to curse him. This was, of course, incredibly illegal and Saliel, being a perfectly dedicated rising-star, denied him entry. Bel left, and there were no hard feelings.
Then he came back, making the same request. Again she denied him, and again he left. And came back. And left. And came back. And came back. And came back.
Eventually Saliel’s superiors looked into him, and found nothing. No Bel, no demons who knew Bel, or at least no demons who would talk about him if they did. He had made no threats, given no outright indication that he meant harm should they continue to deny his entry, and so it was decided that he was a nobody, and whatever reasons he had for lying about his identity didn’t concern the Bureau until he agreed to their terms. Saliel thought differently. Bel was polite, but in his presence she felt a distinct danger, a tension that wafted off him like smoke. He wanted something in New Helle, and while he was patient now, she had a feeling he would not be patient forever.
Sure enough, after almost five years of their routine, and an avalanche of promotions for Saliel, Bel showed disappointment for the first time. A frown, a twitch in the eye, and as he turned his back Saliel knew, somehow, that the next time he returned there would be no talking.
So she stopped him. She pulled the demon aside, they talked briefly, shook hands, and then he left. She never saw him again.
Smash cut, seventeen years later and Yamiel St. Sero has graduated highschool, on track to join the family business. Saliel was an unfair advantage; not for nepotism’s sake, but because there were few fiercer instructors than Mother St. Sero, and Yam had spent every year since her tenth birthday in the classroom of their home.
New Helle itself was also a teacher. Yam grew up alongside demons, half-demons, and humans with demonic predilections. She came to know the city’s streets well, to understand the tumultuous nature of its social contracts, to see how vice and virtue were so intricately woven together here. Sin was familiar to her, but she had a family and goals to keep her in line.
For a while, anyway.
Eventually, and to no one’s surprise, Yam joined the Hexen’s ranks. She had a wonderful six years of service, conjuring, tweaking, and replacing curses on demonkind both at the portal, or when necessary—and with supervision—in The Pit. She had her mother’s fortitude, which came in handy when her job put her on the bad side of Hell’s less-enthusiastic travelers. She got good at staring back, good at not flinching, not giving into the urge to conversate. She was on track to becoming as frigid and unlikeable as her mom, in a good way.
Then, one day on the job, she met Bel.
He approached her while she was alone, and was incredibly pleasant. They chatted for a while, she told him about her life, her job, her hobbies, and he artfully avoided any similar inquiries about himself. When it was time to leave, she said goodbye and he did not reciprocate. Instead, he offered his hand, and not wanting to be rude, she shook it.
She’s not sure how long she was out, but when she woke up she was in a hospital with her mother sat beside her. Oh, and her skin was gray. And she was covered in cursework—familiar, St. Sero cursework. An uncomfortable and inevitable conversation followed.
On the list of things you don’t wait for your kid to find out on their own, somewhere between “you’re adopted” and “I used to do porn” is, “I contracted you to a demon before you were born.”
Yam was dumbstruck; her mother had promised Bel her first born out of, what, fear? Risk aversion? What was worse, Saliel wasn’t nearly as sorry as she was proud—of herself. Bel had only asked for the contract, maybe assuming he could somehow use Yam to circumvent the Hexen, but had made no stipulation preventing them from cursing her. By his own word now he was trapped, having vowed never to darken New Helle’s door if the deal was held. It was, in Saliel’s opinion, and evidently the opinion of the Hexen, a decisive victory.
Yam agreed. She congratulated her mother, discharged herself from the hospital, and then promptly quit the Hexen and ran away. Unfortunately, when you belong to a small family under the Bureau’s protection, you don’t really get to disappear. What you get is the illusion of freedom, behind which a system of constant surveillance and protection waits to pounce and shatter any ideas you might have had of living your own life after being betrayed by the people you loved and trusted.
Yam figured this out when the city’s syndicates eventually realized there was a Hexen in the wind. Most steered clear, except for the Children of Helle. Whether they meant to ransom her, use her to lift curses, or just kill her for what her family had done, no one knew. In the end, it didn’t matter; the Bureau swooped in and snatched her up, at which point she was given a choice: go back out onto the streets, and pretend she didn’t know she was living under a microscope, or join up with the Bureau, where she might at least find some semblance of independence.
It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was a simple one.
Ability:
Once, Yam was a rising star among the Hexen. That was before the curses. Now her skills are restrained, her ability to weave intricate seals bottlenecked by her mother’s nigh-unbreakable work. She can still untangle curses well enough, still knows the practice like the back of her hand, and while that comes in handy against the occasional talisman, it's not what her family trained her for.
Her real abilities lie in her contract with Bel. The tattoo covering her entire body isn’t just for show, it’s part of the pact. Most demon contracts will grant things like hellborn strength, the ability to breathe fire, or conjure golems of brimstone. Yam didn’t make her own contract though, Bel did, and what Bel wanted was access to New Helle. In a way, despite Saliel’s efforts, he got what he wanted.
Yam can transform any part of her body into Bel’s. Her arms can become his arms, his eyes her eyes, etcetera, etcetera. She came to understand quickly that the narrow, polite man she had met in Hell proper was not Bel’s true form. In reality his skin is scaly, immensely durable and incredibly strong. His claws can break stone and rend metal, his legs can leap great, powerful bounds, his eyes can see much more sharply than her own. Even restrained by Saliel’s cursework, the power afforded to her by their contract was enough to bring Yam into Section 7’s field team, and to this day she's still discovering the extent of her patron's twisted abilities.
Mostly, she uses it to smoke with his lungs.
Artifacts:
N/A
Connections:
Saliel St. Sero and the Hexen Yam's mother, and one of the premier members of the Hexen's families. Powerful and experienced, Saliel has spent most of her life in cursework, and has seen firsthand how important their job is to keeping New Helle safe. Mother of the year when there are no other contestants and the judges are in a coma. Yam will and has gone out of her way to avoid interacting with her.
Yam's relationship with the Hexen in general is quite strained. She struggles to call them family these days, but can't bring herself to find out if the feeling is mutual.
"Really easy to get blood on your hands in this line of work. Thankfully, these aren't my hands." _______________________________________________________________________________________________
Name:
Yamiel "Yam" St. Sero
Age:
26
Gender:
F
Race:
Human
Description:
The first thing you’ll notice is the skin. Gray like fresh concrete from head to toe, even the freckles on her face have turned into a pale black spatter. It makes the red of her hair seem more fiery, makes her sickly eyes shine like polished gold, and makes Yam physically upset every time she looks in the mirror, so try not to mention it.
Next you’ll smell the smoke—relax, it’s only cigarettes. There’s one in her mouth now, there was one in her mouth five minutes ago, and five minutes from now there’ll be another one. She’s polite, she won’t blow it in your face, but Arôme de Nicotine is a powerful perfume and it’s the only one she owns.
Suit, tie, boots, coat, you get the feeling she’d wear a mask or a full suit of armor if she could get away with it. Some demons, especially ones who get cursed down to size, can be touchy about their earth-side appearances, but that’s not the case with Yam. She’s all human. Yep, check it again: Human. That’s not her skin, that’s her contract. It’s probably the worst ink job in New Helle; no artistry, no flourish, nothing but a blackout—well, grayout—nightmare.
It's easier to tell under the clothes. Pull up her sleeves, you’ll see some of her mom’s handywork: a webwork of curses, sigils, whatever the fuck those Hexen weirdos call it, Yam’s body is rife with them. They're like the tattoos on top of the tattoo, they even move. Creepy shit. You don’t see that much, cursed humans, but there’s something going on with that contract of hers that makes it necessary.
Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. She’s a little touchy, a little temperamental, but her heart’s in the right place. Not in her job, holy shit no; it was pulling teeth dragging her back into the fold and she’s practically got it in her contract that she won’t get within a thousand feet of her mother. I meant her heart—when it’s actually her heart—isn’t as hellfire as she might put on. Buy her a drink, carry a lighter, you’ll get on fine.
Background:
Saliel St. Sero is the real deal. God knows what they feed the Hexen, but they’re on some Be-Not-Afraid, Keep-My-Glock-At-The-Vatican, Angel-Blood-In-My-Cereal type shit. Name any bigshot demon walking around New Helle, and chances are they’ve got Saliel’s work on them somewhere.
Some thirty years ago, before she was that good, she met a demon who, like every demon the Hexen meet, wanted into New Helle. By and large, the Hexen aren’t a personable sort; in the same way you don’t make small talk with the TSA, demons don’t generally get chatty with the people in charge of cursing them. But this one was different. He talked plenty, asked questions about Saliel’s life, her job, her hobbies, and when she proved unreceptive to conversation, he introduced himself.
His name was Bel, and he did not want to be cursed. Refused it outright, in fact. He wanted into New Helle, but by now means would he allow Saliel or any other Hexen to curse him. This was, of course, incredibly illegal and Saliel, being a perfectly dedicated rising-star, denied him entry. Bel left, and there were no hard feelings.
Then he came back, making the same request. Again she denied him, and again he left. And came back. And left. And came back. And came back. And came back.
Eventually Saliel’s superiors looked into him, and found nothing. No Bel, no demons who knew Bel, or at least no demons who would talk about him if they did. He had made no threats, given no outright indication that he meant harm should they continue to deny his entry, and so it was decided that he was a nobody, and whatever reasons he had for lying about his identity didn’t concern the Bureau until he agreed to their terms. Saliel thought differently. Bel was polite, but in his presence she felt a distinct danger, a tension that wafted off him like smoke. He wanted something in New Helle, and while he was patient now, she had a feeling he would not be patient forever.
Sure enough, after almost five years of their routine, and an avalanche of promotions for Saliel, Bel showed disappointment for the first time. A frown, a twitch in the eye, and as he turned his back Saliel knew, somehow, that the next time he returned there would be no talking.
So she stopped him. She pulled the demon aside, they talked briefly, shook hands, and then he left. She never saw him again.
Smash cut, seventeen years later and Yamiel St. Sero has graduated highschool, on track to join the family business. Saliel was an unfair advantage; not for nepotism’s sake, but because there were few fiercer instructors than Mother St. Sero, and Yam had spent every year since her tenth birthday in the classroom of their home.
New Helle itself was also a teacher. Yam grew up alongside demons, half-demons, and humans with demonic predilections. She came to know the city’s streets well, to understand the tumultuous nature of its social contracts, to see how vice and virtue were so intricately woven together here. Sin was familiar to her, but she had a family and goals to keep her in line.
For a while, anyway.
Eventually, and to no one’s surprise, Yam joined the Hexen’s ranks. She had a wonderful six years of service, conjuring, tweaking, and replacing curses on demonkind both at the portal, or when necessary—and with supervision—in The Pit. She had her mother’s fortitude, which came in handy when her job put her on the bad side of Hell’s less-enthusiastic travelers. She got good at staring back, good at not flinching, not giving into the urge to conversate. She was on track to becoming as frigid and unlikeable as her mom, in a good way.
Then, one day on the job, she met Bel.
He approached her while she was alone, and was incredibly pleasant. They chatted for a while, she told him about her life, her job, her hobbies, and he artfully avoided any similar inquiries about himself. When it was time to leave, she said goodbye and he did not reciprocate. Instead, he offered his hand, and not wanting to be rude, she shook it.
She’s not sure how long she was out, but when she woke up she was in a hospital with her mother sat beside her. Oh, and her skin was gray. And she was covered in cursework—familiar, St. Sero cursework. An uncomfortable and inevitable conversation followed.
On the list of things you don’t wait for your kid to find out on their own, somewhere between “you’re adopted” and “I used to do porn” is, “I contracted you to a demon before you were born.”
Yam was dumbstruck; her mother had promised Bel her first born out of, what, fear? Risk aversion? What was worse, Saliel wasn’t nearly as sorry as she was proud—of herself. Bel had only asked for the contract, maybe assuming he could somehow use Yam to circumvent the Hexen, but had made no stipulation preventing them from cursing her. By his own word now he was trapped, having vowed never to darken New Helle’s door if the deal was held. It was, in Saliel’s opinion, and evidently the opinion of the Hexen, a decisive victory.
Yam agreed. She congratulated her mother, discharged herself from the hospital, and then promptly quit the Hexen and ran away. Unfortunately, when you belong to a small family under the Bureau’s protection, you don’t really get to disappear. What you get is the illusion of freedom, behind which a system of constant surveillance and protection waits to pounce and shatter any ideas you might have had of living your own life after being betrayed by the people you loved and trusted.
Yam figured this out when the city’s syndicates eventually realized there was a Hexen in the wind. Most steered clear, except for the Children of Helle. Whether they meant to ransom her, use her to lift curses, or just kill her for what her family had done, no one knew. In the end, it didn’t matter; the Bureau swooped in and snatched her up, at which point she was given a choice: go back out onto the streets, and pretend she didn’t know she was living under a microscope, or join up with the Bureau, where she might at least find some semblance of independence.
It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was a simple one.
Ability:
Once, Yam was a rising star among the Hexen. That was before the curses. Now her skills are restrained, her ability to weave intricate seals bottlenecked by her mother’s nigh-unbreakable work. She can still untangle curses well enough, still knows the practice like the back of her hand, and while that comes in handy against the occasional talisman, it's not what her family trained her for.
Her real abilities lie in her contract with Bel. The tattoo covering her entire body isn’t just for show, it’s part of the pact. Most demon contracts will grant things like hellborn strength, the ability to breathe fire, or conjure golems of brimstone. Yam didn’t make her own contract though, Bel did, and what Bel wanted was access to New Helle. In a way, despite Saliel’s efforts, he got what he wanted.
Yam can transform any part of her body into Bel’s. Her arms can become his arms, his eyes her eyes, etcetera, etcetera. She came to understand quickly that the narrow, polite man she had met in Hell proper was not Bel’s true form. In reality his skin is scaly, immensely durable and incredibly strong. His claws can break stone and rend metal, his legs can leap great, powerful bounds, his eyes can see much more sharply than her own. Even restrained by Saliel’s cursework, the power afforded to her by their contract was enough to bring Yam into Section 7’s field team, and to this day she's still discovering the extent of her patron's twisted abilities.
Mostly, she uses it to smoke with his lungs.
Artifacts:
N/A
Connections:
Saliel St. Sero and the Hexen Yam's mother, and one of the premier members of the Hexen's families. Powerful and experienced, Saliel has spent most of her life in cursework, and has seen firsthand how important their job is to keeping New Helle safe. Mother of the year when there are no other contestants and the judges are in a coma. Yam will and has gone out of her way to avoid interacting with her.
Yam's relationship with the Hexen in general is quite strained. She struggles to call them family these days, but can't bring herself to find out if the feeling is mutual.
"Really easy to get blood on your hands in this line of work. Thankfully, these aren't my hands." _______________________________________________________________________________________________
Name:
Yamiel "Yam" St. Sero
Age:
26
Gender:
F
Race:
Human
Description:
The first thing you’ll notice is the skin. Gray like fresh concrete from head to toe, even the freckles on her face have turned into a pale black spatter. It makes the red of her hair seem more fiery, makes her sickly eyes shine like polished gold, and makes Yam physically upset every time she looks in the mirror, so try not to mention it.
Next you’ll smell the smoke—relax, it’s only cigarettes. There’s one in her mouth now, there was one in her mouth five minutes ago, and five minutes from now there’ll be another one. She’s polite, she won’t blow it in your face, but Arôme de Nicotine is a powerful perfume and it’s the only one she owns.
Suit, tie, boots, coat, you get the feeling she’d wear a mask or a full suit of armor if she could get away with it. Some demons, especially ones who get cursed down to size, can be touchy about their earth-side appearances, but that’s not the case with Yam. She’s all human. Yep, check it again: Human. That’s not her skin, that’s her contract. It’s probably the worst ink job in New Helle; no artistry, no flourish, nothing but a blackout—well, grayout—nightmare.
It's easier to tell under the clothes. Pull up her sleeves, you’ll see some of her mom’s handywork: a webwork of curses, sigils, whatever the fuck those Hexen weirdos call it, Yam’s body is rife with them. They're like the tattoos on top of the tattoo, they even move. Creepy shit. You don’t see that much, cursed humans, but there’s something going on with that contract of hers that makes it necessary.
Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. She’s a little touchy, a little temperamental, but her heart’s in the right place. Not in her job, holy shit no; it was pulling teeth dragging her back into the fold and she’s practically got it in her contract that she won’t get within a thousand feet of her mother. I meant her heart—when it’s actually her heart—isn’t as hellfire as she might put on. Buy her a drink, carry a lighter, you’ll get on fine.
Background:
Saliel St. Sero is the real deal. God knows what they feed the Hexen, but they’re on some Be-Not-Afraid, Keep-My-Glock-At-The-Vatican, Angel-Blood-In-My-Cereal type shit. Name any bigshot demon walking around New Helle, and chances are they’ve got Saliel’s work on them somewhere.
Some thirty years ago, before she was that good, she met a demon who, like every demon the Hexen meet, wanted into New Helle. By and large, the Hexen aren’t a personable sort; in the same way you don’t make small talk with the TSA, demons don’t generally get chatty with the people in charge of cursing them. But this one was different. He talked plenty, asked questions about Saliel’s life, her job, her hobbies, and when she proved unreceptive to conversation, he introduced himself.
His name was Bel, and he did not want to be cursed. Refused it outright, in fact. He wanted into New Helle, but by now means would he allow Saliel or any other Hexen to curse him. This was, of course, incredibly illegal and Saliel, being a perfectly dedicated rising-star, denied him entry. Bel left, and there were no hard feelings.
Then he came back, making the same request. Again she denied him, and again he left. And came back. And left. And came back. And came back. And came back.
Eventually Saliel’s superiors looked into him, and found nothing. No Bel, no demons who knew Bel, or at least no demons who would talk about him if they did. He had made no threats, given no outright indication that he meant harm should they continue to deny his entry, and so it was decided that he was a nobody, and whatever reasons he had for lying about his identity didn’t concern the Bureau until he agreed to their terms. Saliel thought differently. Bel was polite, but in his presence she felt a distinct danger, a tension that wafted off him like smoke. He wanted something in New Helle, and while he was patient now, she had a feeling he would not be patient forever.
Sure enough, after almost five years of their routine, and an avalanche of promotions for Saliel, Bel showed disappointment for the first time. A frown, a twitch in the eye, and as he turned his back Saliel knew, somehow, that the next time he returned there would be no talking.
So she stopped him. She pulled the demon aside, they talked briefly, shook hands, and then he left. She never saw him again.
Smash cut, seventeen years later and Yamiel St. Sero has graduated highschool, on track to join the family business. Saliel was an unfair advantage; not for nepotism’s sake, but because there were few fiercer instructors than Mother St. Sero, and Yam had spent every year since her tenth birthday in the classroom of their home.
New Helle itself was also a teacher. Yam grew up alongside demons, half-demons, and humans with demonic predilections. She came to know the city’s streets well, to understand the tumultuous nature of its social contracts, to see how vice and virtue were so intricately woven together here. Sin was familiar to her, but she had a family and goals to keep her in line.
For a while, anyway.
Eventually, and to no one’s surprise, Yam joined the Hexen’s ranks. She had a wonderful six years of service, conjuring, tweaking, and replacing curses on demonkind both at the portal, or when necessary—and with supervision—in The Pit. She had her mother’s fortitude, which came in handy when her job put her on the bad side of Hell’s less-enthusiastic travelers. She got good at staring back, good at not flinching, not giving into the urge to conversate. She was on track to becoming as frigid and unlikeable as her mom, in a good way.
Then, one day on the job, she met Bel.
He approached her while she was alone, and was incredibly pleasant. They chatted for a while, she told him about her life, her job, her hobbies, and he artfully avoided any similar inquiries about himself. When it was time to leave, she said goodbye and he did not reciprocate. Instead, he offered his hand, and not wanting to be rude, she shook it.
She’s not sure how long she was out, but when she woke up she was in a hospital with her mother sat beside her. Oh, and her skin was gray. And she was covered in cursework—familiar, St. Sero cursework. An uncomfortable and inevitable conversation followed.
On the list of things you don’t wait for your kid to find out on their own, somewhere between “you’re adopted” and “I used to do porn” is, “I contracted you to a demon before you were born.”
Yam was dumbstruck; her mother had promised Bel her first born out of, what, fear? Risk aversion? What was worse, Saliel wasn’t nearly as sorry as she was proud—of herself. Bel had only asked for the contract, maybe assuming he could somehow use Yam to circumvent the Hexen, but had made no stipulation preventing them from cursing her. By his own word now he was trapped, having vowed never to darken New Helle’s door if the deal was held. It was, in Saliel’s opinion, and evidently the opinion of the Hexen, a decisive victory.
Yam agreed. She congratulated her mother, discharged herself from the hospital, and then promptly quit the Hexen and ran away. Unfortunately, when you belong to a small family under the Bureau’s protection, you don’t really get to disappear. What you get is the illusion of freedom, behind which a system of constant surveillance and protection waits to pounce and shatter any ideas you might have had of living your own life after being betrayed by the people you loved and trusted.
Yam figured this out when the city’s syndicates eventually realized there was a Hexen in the wind. Most steered clear, except for the Children of Helle. Whether they meant to ransom her, use her to lift curses, or just kill her for what her family had done, no one knew. In the end, it didn’t matter; the Bureau swooped in and snatched her up, at which point she was given a choice: go back out onto the streets, and pretend she didn’t know she was living under a microscope, or join up with the Bureau, where she might at least find some semblance of independence.
It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was a simple one.
Ability:
Once, Yam was a rising star among the Hexen. That was before the curses. Now her skills are restrained, her ability to weave intricate seals bottlenecked by her mother’s nigh-unbreakable work. She can still untangle curses well enough, still knows the practice like the back of her hand, and while that comes in handy against the occasional talisman, it's not what her family trained her for.
Her real abilities lie in her contract with Bel. The tattoo covering her entire body isn’t just for show, it’s part of the pact. Most demon contracts will grant things like hellborn strength, the ability to breathe fire, or conjure golems of brimstone. Yam didn’t make her own contract though, Bel did, and what Bel wanted was access to New Helle. In a way, despite Saliel’s efforts, he got what he wanted.
Yam can transform any part of her body into Bel’s. Her arms can become his arms, his eyes her eyes, etcetera, etcetera. She came to understand quickly that the narrow, polite man she had met in Hell proper was not Bel’s true form. In reality his skin is scaly, immensely durable and incredibly strong. His claws can break stone and rend metal, his legs can leap great, powerful bounds, his eyes can see much more sharply than her own. Even restrained by Saliel’s cursework, the power afforded to her by their contract was enough to bring Yam into Section 7’s field team, and to this day she's still discovering the extent of her patron's twisted abilities.
Mostly, she uses it to smoke with his lungs.
Artifacts:
N/A
Connections:
Saliel St. Sero and the Hexen Yam's mother, and one of the premier members of the Hexen's families. Powerful and experienced, Saliel has spent most of her life in cursework, and has seen firsthand how important their job is to keeping New Helle safe. Mother of the year when there are no other contestants and the judges are in a coma. Yam will and has gone out of her way to avoid interacting with her.
Yam's relationship with the Hexen in general is quite strained. She struggles to call them family these days, but can't bring herself to find out if the feeling is mutual.
Lemons
BurningCold
Ladypug
Carlyle
ScreenAcne
Score1
Noctis
wintersoldier
