Lust was no fool. They knew what this was about. The snake had been careless, arrogant even. And the onus was on the Consulate to solve it, of course. This was liable to happen any time they outsourced like this; they were prepared to discuss it. Hurdles like this were like a zit. They varied in size, but they all pop the same way. Lust just had to find their angle… and squeeze.
Regency Palace was as gaudy as ever. Lust rolled their eyes at the minimalist, rounded design. Every potential edge was chamfered and bevelled to give the impression of dreams. Lust instead perceived a child’s toy, gargantuan with every sharpness frantically sanded down. It did not portray friendliness, but fear, not power, but cowardice.
Lust imagined the ugly front gates and found themselves stood in front of them. Two guards stood watch, confused.
“Mary? What’re you doing here?” asked the human.
“Mary? That’s Brixen,” corrected the dragonborn.
Lust wondered how long they had been dead, and whether this unending afterlife offered an eventual intelligence that these two had simply chosen to pass on. “I am neither, and I am expected. Inform Somnan of my presence.”
The dragonborn guard nodded and stepped inside, closing the immense door behind herself. Lust tapped their foot impatiently. The human eyed them with confusion, trying to find the identifying spot and confirm their suspicions. Beauty mark, what a silly name. It was a damned inconvenience, and an indelible one at that. Still, with the generous drawbridge separating them, the human could not locate the mole on Lust’s lip. The door opened, the dragonborn returned and retook her position. “The Regent will see you now.”
“He does not greet me?” Lust was insulted.
“He awaits in the throne room. He said you should recall the way.”
“I am the Consul of Embran, I rule over every devil and demon and every nightmare you've ever had. I will be escorted.”
“Afraid that’s not in accordance with the Regent’s orders, sir.” yawned the human.
“Such disrespect! You do not fear me?!”
“No ma’am,” answered the dragonborn. “Never found much use for fear since we died.”
Lust was livid. They ought to burn the palace to the ground. They ought to tear the heavens from the sky for this… this… No. They would not overreact. This is part of the game, the political to-and-fro. Lust centred themselves and stepped past the guards. Oh, and very accidentally, their natural charms prompted both guards to step over the drawbridge and fall into the moat. Then, Lust meandered through the halls at an insufferably slow pace. Somnan happily insulted them, so they would happily waste his time. They examined tapestries with very convincing interest. They marvelled at the frankly disgusting decline in Mad Artist’s latest works, inferring he must unfortunately be recovering. Finally, they wandered into the throne room.
Somnan, the image of patience, is seated in his tiny silver throne, overshadowed by the vacant gold throne of the Allmother. “Asmodeus, you decided to join us.”
“Us? I see only yourself, Dream Regent.” Lust approached, picking an appropriate distance to bow from and curtsying. The Consul noticed their appearance was now that of Vána’s, which meant the insufferable couple were still as stable as ever.
“A mere turn of phrase, friend. Though my wife, who you’ve so perfectly imitated, may be along. We have much to discuss.” Something brushed against the back of Lust’s legs, and they turned back to see a modest chair. Somnan continued, “Please, be seated. There may be much to discuss.”
Lust begrudgingly sat, crossing their legs and cradling their chin in their hand. They looked around, trying to identify a beverage of some sort. “No slaves, Dream Regent? Must I fetch my own drink?”
“Assistants, Consul. And handsomely compensated ones at that. I did indeed tell the staff they would not be needed. Please, imbibe at your leisure.” Somnan beamed down with a saintly smile that failed to mask his intentions. He was being difficult. That was new, but Lust was undeterred. They summoned a blood red glass to their hand and sighed, swinging their leg gently as they waited for Somnan to get to the point.
He adjusted his posture and spoke. “Appropriation Cages. I was under the impression they no longer existed. Frankly, I was never truly sure they existed.”
“As was I. Has one been discovered?” Lust expertly masked their annoyance. There were few things left as old as that cage, and it was little more than rent metal and glass powder now.
“And succinctly destroyed, yes. Though not before Ostla Hehlezhee used it to steal the power of my niece.”
“The Gilded Heretic? And here I was thinking he would be little more than a footnote in the history of the Holy See. A mortal walking about with Kerna’s power is a great danger.” Assuming the wrong information was a textbook misdirect, and the Consul did so in the image of candidness.
“Her sister, actually. A no less dangerous circumstance.”
“To be sure. What shall you do?” Lust switched their crossed legs and settled again. “And how does it concern me?”
Somnan sighed, apparently frustrated by his own pleasantries. “I am confident the Hehlezhee issue will resolve itself. My concerns lie with his patron.”
“Do you believe a subject of mine is complicit? I should hope you have some sturdy evidence, Dream Regent.”
Somnan drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne. Lust smiled innocently. The unsaid accusations were inferences, likely correct ones too. But there was nothing empirical backing it up. A little charm and feigned ignorance would place the blame on some high-ranking underling. Lust would promise to deal with it, and find this fictional underling suddenly disappeared, along with the Gilded Heretic. How unfortunate!
Lust had many hidden treasures, hushing the snake away until it was absolutely needed would be easy. After all, the appropriation cages were kept secret for millennia without a lick of suspicion.
“Enough, Consul. You are the patron in question. You have funded and endorsed a violent fundamentalist, providing them with the tools to procure unprecedented power. Not even the mortals of old had the nerve to actually use an appropriation cage on a seraph.”
Lust feigned ignorance with the same convincing gravitas that had kept them in power for millennia. With a furrowed brow and a hand clasped to Vána’s pasty, underwhelming chest, they barked disgust in the Goddess’s stolen voice, “How dare you?! I have had some dreadful things said about me in my time but this is a new low! And from someone who claims to be so perfect and neutral. It is no fault of mine that your silly niece cannot fend for herself, that mortals can so easily trap her like some common insect!”
Lust composed themselves, ready for another bout of rebuttals, when Somnan reached into his robes, and produced a small, rolled up sheet of parchment. Lust folded their arms, tutted, and did everything in their power to not deflate with utter disappointment.
“The problem with a pact, Consul, is the paper trail.”
Somnan lifted a finger, and the scroll tumbled free, unfurling down the lap, across the dais, and coming to rest at Lust’s feet. Their eyes flitted down, locking onto their unmistakable, ostentatious signature on the dotted line. It looked rather silly now, to have signed it with such bravado. Lust supposed they would have made a good Pride.
“Well. He told me he was trying to capture Sathoren. How could we have known it was all a silly blind by your niece? If anything, I’ve taught her a valuable lesson about fibbing, don’t you think?” Lust swung their leg idly, checking their nails. Let him blow up, they would keep calm. The Regent would look unreasonable in comparison, apoplectic against their cool demeanour. Scál obscured many of their machinations from view, but she had let the residents grow careless. A few lashings should rectify that.
Somnan rolled the contract back up, slowly, manually, and spoke as he did so. “I shall hold onto this, for posterity. It has become a rather important document, more than you seem to understand.”
“What? The first time someone has matched your divine power?” the Consul asked with faux interest. Cool didn’t disallow snide.
“This will be the first time the Conclave will be expelling a member, actually,” Somnan said with maddening composure. “Twenty-seven to four. Some rare concordance between us all for once. I hope it was worth it, Consul. I had higher hopes for you.”
Somnan stood and walked off toward a side chamber with his characteristic hypnotic shamble. “So be it,” the Consul muttered. They stayed seated, scowling in the vain and frankly petulant hope that there was some way to fix this. Lust sat there a long while, perhaps hours, maybe even a day. Nothing came to mind. After whatever length of time passed, a door opened somewhere behind them. The Consul did not turn around, finding glancing down to their own image a less subservient method of deduction. They wore the image of the Warkiller now, the silly peddler of peace that so tragically broke the Seer’s heart.
“Bold,” the Consul grinned, mouth dry from the hours of disuse, “to forcefully escort me out. This will do no favour for interplanar relations.” The footsteps stopped behind the Consul; an unimposing shadow cast over them. “Ah! Blackfinger. I suppose you asked specifically for this job. Sororal love is always an odd one. Indelible, fiercely protective, but always strained. ‘No one bullies my sister but me!’ Perhaps the mortals are merely copying you. You set such a charming example after all.”
“The Regent’s hospitality has been expended.” The droll in Kerna’s voice was not coldness. This was not a wall hiding her annoyance at the Consul. It was distant. The consonants were stiff, like a golem’s mechanical, learned-by-rote movements. She was seeing.
“When did you start taking orders, General?”
“The Regent’s hospitality has been expended.”
A hand clasped on the Consul’s shoulder. A cold that could freeze hell sang across their clavicle. Lust quickly rolled their shoulder free of the icy grip. “I suppose you’re foretelling all the ways you’ll slice me up on my way out?”
They saw Kerna now; what a pretty face. What a terrible shame about the permanent scowl that… Kerna’s eyes brightened, a smirk eked its way up one cheek, like a fishhook had snagged her lip. The Consul began to doubt their understanding of the Seraphim. They were all becoming annoyingly unpredictable.
Kerna spoke lucidly now. “Hurry home, little devil. A fate far worse than I awaits you.”
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