Kirche twirled the scalpel in her fingers, studying the demon. Her Consecration would last about a half hour, time wasn’t an issue, but her weapons might be. She drew the other tools from her pocket, five more scalpels and the scissors, each with their edges chipped and blued from their blessing. They would do fine, she decided, tucking the spares into her belt.
She looked up, squinting through the haze of peaking suns to see that the beast had started to slowly walk down the street. Gress jerked his chin for her to follow, the both of them staring at each other while slowly moving further from the clinic.
One on either side of the street, shoes clacking against whatever scrap materials formed the porches and pathways. Wood one step, metal the next, concrete the one after. A dull rainbow of poverty.
“Your tricks won’t help you this time.” Kirche started. “No stray bullets, nobody to get in my way. What makes you think you have a chance?”
Gress shrugged in response, she was right, in a direct fight he didn’t really have a chance. If he could get her angry, angry enough to make mistakes, that could give him a chance.
“Who knows, but I’ll be damned if I just let you get away with that. Razgrith is, or was, your friend, the hell is wrong with you?” He sharply bit out, then clicked his tongue at the lack of reaction.
“You’ll be damned all right. Besides, what happens between me and my people has nothing to do with you.” She drawled, the scalpel was still her hand, whizzing the air with each twist of her fingers. The second he stopped moving, she was ready to strike.
Gress glared around him, giving a concerned window peeper a stern look of warning. The eyes disappeared quickly, replaced by muffled discussion behind the wall. A solid, brick wall.
Gress’ brow twitched with the sparks of strategy. He turned his neck back towards the slow-moving hunter, matching his sluggish stride.
“While you’re in my town it does.” He reached out, brushing his fingers against the rough wall, glassy claws clinked against the material, then scraped and sunk in, leaving thin lines in their wake.
“Your town?” She answered with an incredulous huff, it dropped back to a low, droll tone. “Yes…your town. A hive of willing traitors, allying themselves with filth like you.” Kirche paused her stride, growing tired of the slow, plodding stroll. “I’ll deal with them later…”
“They didn’t do anything!” Gress snarled out through bared teeth, he slowed but didn’t quite stop, still carving out shards of the wall.
“Exactly. They did nothing to rid themselves of you. Well, some of them did, didn’t they?” Kirche lowered her gaze, offering a knowing smirk. “It makes it easier for me, the chaff’s already been sorted.”
“Your fight is with me, don’t touch them.”
“Fight?” Kirche huffed another sharp, cold laugh. “This is an execution, filth, not a fight. And afterwards, a cleansing.”
Gress had stopped and turned fully towards the street now, clenching his hands into tight fists.
“An execution? At this point it sounds more like a sermon.” Anger, he needed to spark anger in her, somehow. Kirche tightened her smirk and stopped twirling the blade in her hand.
“Maybe you’re right, freak. It’s a waste of breath to try and reason with beasts.”
“Yeah…It is.” Gress swung his claw wide, carving out deeper lines into the wall. The material didn’t shatter out in dust and debris, instead disappearing into the glossy black hand. His claw tip levelled at her, cracks in space shattering out from it.
Kirche didn’t miss her moment, running the jagged scalpel across her skin and flinging it towards him in a smooth motion.
Gress steadied his stance, watching the blade spear through the air towards him, he felt the movement of space around his arm, and heard the crackling of a portal opening.
The scalpel pierced through the hole, shattering it and burying into Gress’ shoulder. He barked and clutched the tool. The cracked space snapped shut with the impact.
Fool.
He looked from the wound back to her steadily striding across the thin street.
Another scalpel was drawn, dashed across her arm, then thrown. Fresh, blessed blood steamed on the blade. Gress held his arm up again, focusing on a specific point in the air. The portal crackled open, and was shattered through again. The scalpel buzzed against his arm, leaving a sizzling cut where it brushed past. Gress backstepped with a hiss, his back hit the brick wall behind him.
Were you not paying attention? This is the enemy - their blood is poison, their weapons cursed.
“You don’t say…” Gress gritted out, hissing at the new spikes of pain along his arm. He tried to pull the scalpel free of his shoulder. Tearing, burning bolts of pain shot out with each pull. The blade didn’t budge.
Are you just going to stand there and let her kill you?
“Not if I could focus…” Gress was watching the woman close. She was halfway across the street now and was rearing to throw another scalpel.
He rushed to sidestep it, but the blade still glanced his check. He barked at the searing sting and staggered back against the wall. His hand rushed back to the ceramic surface.
I see.
An icy stroke along the back of his skull purred approval.
Not bad.
Gress’ smirk turned sharp.
Kirche took a strong, heavy step forward, drawing another scalpel from her belt, one more step and she paused, hazel eyes going wide. Buzzing - she’d heard that buzzing before. The Splinter’s fanged grin supported her fears.
Through the gap in his cloak she glimpsed a cloud of screaming debris.
“Shit!” She exclaimed, backstepping away.
“You’re not getting away!” Gress rushed forward towards her, closing the gap to barely a metre. With a roar he ripped the scalpel from his shoulder, tearing hunks of his own flesh out with it. Freed from the anathemic pain, his hand raised back up, holes popping open around it.
Kirche planted herself and assumed a tight, tucked guard. Debris shot through the holes like a cannon. Sharp, cutting pain hit her in a heavy wave.
Her consecrated arm held up to the assault, but the other was shredded, ribbons of ugly scar tissue being ripped off by the torrent, while flakes of brick peppered her scalp and shoulders with dirty cuts.
She shakily dropped her guard, gasping through the shock. She risked a look at her tattered arm. It was a ridiculous mistake to make, not anticipating the trickery of a demon, and the mess of shallow wounds was her punishment. A strained, exhausted chuckle took her attention back to the Splinter.
“That looks like it hurts, huh?” He lazily tossed the scalpel to the ground between them. Kirche’s blood had solidified and spiked into barbs, tearing out Gress’ flesh with its removal. “Good, now we’re even.” The Splinter was gasping out unsteady, heavy breaths through his smile.
“Even? You and I will never be even.” Kirche looked at her bloody arm with uneasy stillness. “Even implies equality. I am a Red Shoulder, a student and vessel of The Presence.” Her fist balled tight. Blood poured from tattered wounds. She looked back to the smug Splinter, casually standing there, catching his breath.
“You’re filth. A cancerous blight poisoning our good and just world!” Spittle flew from her gritted teeth, heaved breaths turning to a groan as she dragged her consecrated hand along the torn flesh, pooling her blood into it. “This blood is votive, my word is vow. Presence guide me as I burn this blasphemy from your world!”
Gress’ grin had disappeared, chased away by the feral ferocity pouring from the Shoulder. He cautiously stepped back, feeling behind him for the carved up wall.
“Nydefuub, Nydemaha, Almahara-” Kirche started to breathe out the mantras, all her tight rage turned to gentle, almost song-like grace. The blood collected in her palm sizzled and popped like pitch.
Stop her!
The command came loud and quick, a hammer blow of noise to Gress’ senses. It froze him in place, stuck between the demand to lunge at the woman and disrupt her and the intended strategy of backing away.
“Second Choir-” Kirche gripped the boiling blood in hand, raising it across her chest “-Invoked Schism!” She threw it out, the liquid turned to a thrumming crescent in the air.
It was fast, much faster than the scalpels. Gress twisted and lunged to the side, but the edge of the hissing slash still sliced across his stomach. He groaned deep, doubling over and clutching the wound. A long, shallow wound that burned with the deep, intense heat he’d felt from the cut last night.
The pain was joined by a fresh bolt of stabbing agony. Another scalpel had buried itself into his side. He felt the barbs hardening and tearing into his flesh. He looked back at her, shock trembling his features.
“I was naive. I’m not so proud as to deny that.” Kirche started, her tone was no longer the light, honey-sweet surface to a sadistic sneer, but icy flat and cold. All words pronounced with a stagnant, awkward pause. Her eyes were distant and flat.
“I refused The Presence at first, thinking I could banish you in Its name myself…” She looked at her arm, freely pouring blood down onto the dull-orange dirt. “...No longer.” Her arm moved with unnatural smoothness, whatever pain she felt from the skin being torn open, dulled and numbed by an outside force. She leaned down and plucked the bloody scalpel from the ground, her other hand patted the remaining tools in her belt; two more scalpels and the scissors.
“You’re pierced once. Three nails remain. Four nails to…to. To what?” Kirche’s tone creeped back in, she blinked away confusion. She looked between the scalpels and Gress, clenching them in a fist. “...I see. To banish you.”
She paused and blinked something away again, then rubbed her nose. A faint trickle of blood was smudged on the back of her hand, seemingly insignificant compared to the mangled mess the rest of the limb was.
Nails?
That clawing, frozen voice turned further frigid. Fear upon realisation.
Don’t just stand there!
Hurry up and kill her while she’s distracted.
Gress pulled his arm away from his stomach, black flesh had sealed the wound and dulled the pain enough to let him move, though the shift in the voice didn’t escape him. It wasn’t as smooth and curt as usual, not toying with him, no mocking sneer. It was panicked, spewing out the words, strained. The pain of his wounds flashed back as he finished the thought.
Now!
Gress stepped back, swinging his corrupted back to scrape away more brick debris. The movement caught Kirche’s attention, who readied another scalpel. Their arms extended in the same beat.
The thin blade was knocked away by the launched shards, but without looping they didn’t carry enough momentum to reach the Shoulder. She was running in close now, fast and low, plucking the fallen scalpel from the ground as she did.
Gress spat a swear, crossing his arms in a panicked guard. The Shoulder crashed into him with a charge, knocking him back against the wall. Her empowered fist smashed into the soft centre of his chest, knocking the air from him.
“Pathetic.” She spat, grabbing him by the cloak collar. She swung him out and away from the house, ignoring the panicked cry of his name coming from the parted doorway. He crashed and rolled against the ground, hacking wet, choking breaths
“Someone get El!” One of the house inhabitants called out, Kirche slammed the parted door shut with the back of her hand, they yelped out in response.
“Is this the people you’re so willing to defend?” She called out, a challenge to both Gress and the peering townsfolk. “Look at them! Hiding in their safe little houses, too scared to actually get involved. Their sin of inaction, of cowardice, it’s not just for hiding you, they’re too afraid to do anything about you!”
The words sent a deeper pain through Gress’s chest, he looked around with teary eyes. There was some truth to her words, several pairs of eyes were watching them, yet all from behind corners or through parted windows or doorways.
“That’s not how it is…” He weakly replied, raising himself on shaky knees.
“Isn’t it?” Kirche bellowed, arms wide to invite any arguments.
“They’re just scared!” Gress barked.
“Exactly. Scared. Scared of you.”
“That’s…It’s…” Gress broke his stare from Kirche, looking around hoping someone would deny it. Hushed whispers in the dusty wind was all the answer he had.
“No…Grgh!” His low groan was hushed by another bolt of fire, another scalpel buried into his skin. The soft skin under his ribs, lanced by the scalding blade and shredded by the bloody thorns.
Focus! You’re pierced twice now. Don’t let there be a third.
The cold voice shut his mind away from the fiery ache and back to his slowly approaching opponent. Her hands were clasped in odd prayer, changing their sign with each whisper.
Gress risked a look down, she’d thrown him back onto the street, nothing but packed dirt below him. Hardly an effective projectile, but it was all he had. He leaned down and plunged his claw through the sand before staggering into a low run towards Kirche.
Gress swung his arm wide towards her neck, Kirche deftly backstepped it. His hand stopped between them, splaying open and forming wild cracks in space that scattered the dust around. The Shoulder clicked her tongue, wincing against the grit, it gave Gress enough of a pause to step in and attempt another lethal slash.
Even flinching from the dust, Kirche was able to duck under the clumsy blow, stepping into Gress’ side and gripping the buried scalpel.
She wrenched it upwards, causing the Splinter to bark out in agony. She straightened and aimed a wide blow at his jaw. Gress jerked his neck back to avoid it. Kirche’s elbow snapped out and crashed into his mouth. He reeled back, clutching his face. Blinding tears welled in his eyes.
What are you doing? Keep your distance!
“Can’t beat her like that…” He winced out, then was stunned silent by another bolt of heat driving into his stomach. He snapped his eyes down, seeing the scalpel buried into his gut, and the stone gaze of the woman holding it.
“Three nails…” Kirche whispered flatly.
You can’t beat her at all. Either give yourself to me or die here.
“No!” Gress snapped at the voice. He gritted through the pain, locking his hands around Kirche’s outstretched arm. It still burnt his corrupted hand, but to a far lesser degree than before - like metal left in the sun rather than the forge.
Kirche tried to retract her arm, grunting against his desperate grip.
“Let go!” She barked, beating into his side with her free, damaged arm. The blows were solid, but Gress endured through it.
“Pain alone won’t stop either of us, will it?” He released her arm and flicked his claws up around her neck. Claws dug into her skin, beads of blood popped like hot oil against them.
Both Kirche’s hands moved up to try and free herself from the demon’s grip. Gress used the leverage to pull them closer, his free hand jumped to her belt and tossed the last scalpel away. A flash of panic struck Kirche, she released her grip on his arm to jab his throat.
The shocking pain sent Gress reeling back, clutching his throat while gasping out windless chuckles.
“Looks like-” He steadied himself, swallowing down air and meeting the tight scowl of Kirche with a grin. “-neither of us get our tricks now.”
The Shoulder turned between where her blade laid - a few metres away - and the sneering demon. Hate and rage directed her towards Gress.
“Are you done running your arrogant mouth, filth? I don’t need that to bury you!” She barked, rubbing her good hand along her other arm. Only a few streaks of red came off onto her palm, the dust cloud having clung to and dried the surface of the shallower wounds. She breathed out a swear.
Gress couldn’t form any more breathless taunts, instead struggling to raise a shaky stance and be ready to meet the Shoulder hand to hand. Kirche gripped down on what blood she mustered, feeling it burn in her grip. Her trepid scowl paused, then turned into a smirk.
Without an invocation, she flung the splash of blood towards his eyes. The moment the Splinter raised his guard to stop it, Kirche rushed in. The tackle took him clean off his feet. The ground impact punched the air from his lungs again.
“Aladi-Fuub-Nydenaz-” Kirche spewed out the chant, tight and quick while she kept the heaving Splinter pinned below her. She pressed down on a scalpel to still him with pain.
Throw her off, get away, NOW!
“Can’t!” Gress gasped out, receiving icy spikes of pain along with the searing bolts.
“-Nydeiga-Maha…Maha-” Kirche froze, her lips struggling to form the word. Blood pooled and trickled down her nose, a mental wall being rocked from both sides. Gress took the opportunity, plunging his claws into her side.
“Get off me!” He barked, wrenching his grip up to twist pain into the woman. It steadied her trembling gaze back to him, righteous fury pouring out from her glare. A fist smacked across his jaw, stunning him. Kirche grabbed the scissors from her pocket, and plunged them deep into the demonic arm.
The voice screeched out, pure noise rebelling from Gress’ mind. The ringing in his ears was pleasant by comparison.
“Mahara!” Kirche spat out.
Her eyes went glassy and distant with the word. Another bright flash seared her vision. It turned into a soothing, warm glow, massaging her throat to honey out the incantation. A small, independent part of her tried to press her lips closed.
But, it didn’t matter what happened to her now, she realised. With this act, the filth would be cleansed - her duty fulfilled. This was her purpose, it sent a shiver of pleasure through her spine. The greatest and holiest act she was capable of.
Martyrdom.
“Guide me in my sacrifice, Saint-Mother Helena. Fourth Choir, Almighty Nails*!” With the last words of her invocation, a bolt of arcane pain shot through them both.
Kirche fell to the side. Blind, deaf and numb, only a shrill, white-light searing her nervous system, something unknowable and greater had used her as a conduit, and thoroughly burnt through her resistances. She clutched her head and wailed, writhed, spat, spasmed, stammered, and sobbed.
Gress froze from the first blow of intense, crushing pressure, then the arcing waves began. Bolts of flame shot between the scalpels buried in his skin. Slicing and searing through his flesh. Every part of his body that had been consumed by the glossy flesh boiled and spasmed.
He bellowed and hacked out cries of agony. Under his own voice the bestial, crackling screaming of the demon echoed his pain. Crushed from the outside in, burned from the inside out. He could do nothing about it, unknowingly thrashing against the ground, curling and clutching at himself while dribbling out spit and tears, searching for an impossible comfort to the pain.
No such relief came.
His mind flashed white, the searing, plasma-hot white of a sun. Then icy, freezing dark; battling against one another in fresh torment.
It all disappeared an instant later, replaced by vacuous numbness.
* Almighty Nails - The only Fourth Choir invocation readily taught to the Red Shoulders, solely due to its efficacy at exorcism. A direct call to The Presence to banish their enemies.
Saint-Mother Helena was the first Shekhinist to broach the Fourth Choir, though her research is now mostly lost. Her sacrifice was a tragic miracle, being the first provable example of The Presence being brought into reality.
For a single, beautiful instant, the Saint-Mother was one with The Presence. The molten nails left behind tell the tale of her success.
