Post by Resident Demonolater on Dec 13, 2018 20:15:40 GMT -6
The scent of slowly burning beeswax flooded Walther's nostrils as he entered the Melrose's third penthouse. For months now the myriad of candles inside had slowly consumed themselves as the provided they hastily assembled sanctuary with their flickering glow, but now so much had changed. The lavish, original renaissance paintings of a dozen saints had been stricken from the walls, each, and every ornate, golden crucifix plucked from its blessed, cold iron nails, and beautiful Franciscan tapestries that only recently so proudly heralded God's glory were reduced to ash. Even the candles themselves had languished in neglect, all burnt down to not but nubs, and guttering sickly in pools of their former glory, but to room's current master..To that man the refuge had never been more inviting. He stood motionless in the entryway for a moment, his now darkened eyes fixed on the final vestiage of what it had once been: the alter.
Painstakingly positioned dead-center on the back wall stood a proud, ancient marble column nearly the full height of a man. Carved by hand it showed it's age, but in beauty, not ware. From bottom, to its flared, pulpit like top the visage of angels clad in heavenly armour stared back, locked in eternal battle with grotesque, and savage demons, all culminating in a beautiful rendition of Saint Michael, hands outstretched above his head to serve as it's holy platform. A massive, well-worn, and hand writ Bible rested atop them, its yellowing pages held shut by a carefully gilded clasp, and a lock in the shape of the Archangel's sword. For nine centuries both objects had travelled with Walther bringing him comfort, and resolve, shielding him from harm, and granting him the strength to bring death to any, and all affronts to the Church. But now..
A spiteful grimace formed as the man snarled in its direction, his eyes averting from its splendour of their own accord. Bitterness had overcome the now cold comfort it still extolled. In the dimming, dying light of his sanctuary the shadow it cast danced about just above, curiously refusing to ever move in his direction. Just another insult now.
Walther stalked forward, his pointed heels echoing off the hardwood flooring as he closed the gap between himself, and his once prized treasure in a single elegant stride. Bile crawled up his throat as he stared down at it, towering above the thing like a Wright choosing its next victim. For too long he had knelt before it, shackled to the dead words of old men, for too long he turned to it for guidance in the darkness, for too long had his lips mirrored its message in contrition. He had a new treasure now, a far grander treasure, and a more fitting place for it could not be found. With a flourish he delved his left hand into the flowing folds of his open jacket, fishing out a mass of tattered brown cloth roughly the same size as the book before him, and immediately the atmosphere of the room shifted. The door well behind him slammed shut, the temperature plummeted, and a biting, frigid breeze picked up forcing the candles' flames into a wild dance of selfpreservation. Choking down the hateful muck in his throat Walther took a deep breath, and unwrapped his new treasure.
The cloth fell away with ease, fluttering down to the floor, and pooling around his feet in a heap. What was revealed by its shedding however shook the very foundation of the hotel in resentment: The Grand Grimoire.
The simple leather cover, unadorned save for the hastily scrawled Latin bearing its title, and the name Honorius of Thebes beliled the devastating power of the artifact Walther now held; to even touch it was to incur an unfathomable curse for mortal souls. He no longer feared it however, to have his very soul wrought with damnation would first require having one, a burden he no longer bore. There was a subtle, dark freedom in that realization, a kind of quiet surety he'd not felt since his father's passing, and one he had never accepted the craving for. Repression, lies, guilt, and deflection had become his life's rudder, somewhere along the way submission to the Church, to God had simply become easier than holding his head up high - but no longer. With another deep breath he swept aside the old Bible unceremoniously, allowing it to clatter to the floor without a second thought, and placed the Grimoire upon the pedestal. The reaction to such blasphemy was immediate.
Again the room shook, the Melrose enduring what could only be described as an earthquake, as the balance of power within his sanctuary careenwd from one end of the spectrum to the other. The pedestal was not exempt either, deep fissures bursting through the base, and tattering each angles' intricately carved wings. When the tremors finally subsided everything felt quite different; Walther was submerged in the thrum of the Veil now, but it was nothing like what he had ever felt from Catherine. It was stronger, darker, and most alarming of all unbridled.
He paused, doubts flooding through his mind like a monsoon - after all over nine-hundred of emphatic dogma, and rigid devotion didn't simply disappear in a few short months. More, and more these days his ever action felt like madness, even with all the evil of Grigore flowing through his veins, and no soul, no humanity to anchor him any longer it felt like a bridge too far. Such sacrelige was anathema to everything Walther had worked so hard to become, but now..Now something else drove him, and as he faultered it was the memory of Hildebrand's soft words, and her slender fingers rhythmically stroking his hair that drove him further into damnation. He wasn't blind, there had been no love, or semblance of affection in her actions that night, it was merely a sense of duty, obligation that had compelled her, but what she had said had true logic behind it. Hollow, or not that night meant everything to Walther, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. His back.
He reached out, hand trembling, and opened the Grimoire. Everything that followed happened so fast even he could barely process it: the book went mad, its pages flipping past wildly of their own accord, each candle died out in unison, the stoney face of Saint Michael cracked in half, and every window the room had shattered all at once. That's when he began to feel it. A presence, far beyond anything he had ever encountered as a hunter, so oppressive, and concentrated it ripped the air from his lungs, and left him gasping in burning agony. He knew he wasn't alone anymore.
"Clever man, aren't you?" A low, inhuman growl responded to his thought, like nails on chalkboard mixed in to a legion shouting just short of unison. Yet beneath the maelstrom of sound was a peculiar undercurrent of beauty. Walther's body rejected the sound, his ears ringing, and bleeding as if in protest to keep the wretched sound out, and yet he couldn't stop trying to pinpoint it. A part of him needed to listen. "No need to force a facade of humility," it goaded, a twisted reflection of mirth bleeding into the cacophony "I know your ego well."
Painstakingly positioned dead-center on the back wall stood a proud, ancient marble column nearly the full height of a man. Carved by hand it showed it's age, but in beauty, not ware. From bottom, to its flared, pulpit like top the visage of angels clad in heavenly armour stared back, locked in eternal battle with grotesque, and savage demons, all culminating in a beautiful rendition of Saint Michael, hands outstretched above his head to serve as it's holy platform. A massive, well-worn, and hand writ Bible rested atop them, its yellowing pages held shut by a carefully gilded clasp, and a lock in the shape of the Archangel's sword. For nine centuries both objects had travelled with Walther bringing him comfort, and resolve, shielding him from harm, and granting him the strength to bring death to any, and all affronts to the Church. But now..
A spiteful grimace formed as the man snarled in its direction, his eyes averting from its splendour of their own accord. Bitterness had overcome the now cold comfort it still extolled. In the dimming, dying light of his sanctuary the shadow it cast danced about just above, curiously refusing to ever move in his direction. Just another insult now.
Walther stalked forward, his pointed heels echoing off the hardwood flooring as he closed the gap between himself, and his once prized treasure in a single elegant stride. Bile crawled up his throat as he stared down at it, towering above the thing like a Wright choosing its next victim. For too long he had knelt before it, shackled to the dead words of old men, for too long he turned to it for guidance in the darkness, for too long had his lips mirrored its message in contrition. He had a new treasure now, a far grander treasure, and a more fitting place for it could not be found. With a flourish he delved his left hand into the flowing folds of his open jacket, fishing out a mass of tattered brown cloth roughly the same size as the book before him, and immediately the atmosphere of the room shifted. The door well behind him slammed shut, the temperature plummeted, and a biting, frigid breeze picked up forcing the candles' flames into a wild dance of selfpreservation. Choking down the hateful muck in his throat Walther took a deep breath, and unwrapped his new treasure.
The cloth fell away with ease, fluttering down to the floor, and pooling around his feet in a heap. What was revealed by its shedding however shook the very foundation of the hotel in resentment: The Grand Grimoire.
The simple leather cover, unadorned save for the hastily scrawled Latin bearing its title, and the name Honorius of Thebes beliled the devastating power of the artifact Walther now held; to even touch it was to incur an unfathomable curse for mortal souls. He no longer feared it however, to have his very soul wrought with damnation would first require having one, a burden he no longer bore. There was a subtle, dark freedom in that realization, a kind of quiet surety he'd not felt since his father's passing, and one he had never accepted the craving for. Repression, lies, guilt, and deflection had become his life's rudder, somewhere along the way submission to the Church, to God had simply become easier than holding his head up high - but no longer. With another deep breath he swept aside the old Bible unceremoniously, allowing it to clatter to the floor without a second thought, and placed the Grimoire upon the pedestal. The reaction to such blasphemy was immediate.
Again the room shook, the Melrose enduring what could only be described as an earthquake, as the balance of power within his sanctuary careenwd from one end of the spectrum to the other. The pedestal was not exempt either, deep fissures bursting through the base, and tattering each angles' intricately carved wings. When the tremors finally subsided everything felt quite different; Walther was submerged in the thrum of the Veil now, but it was nothing like what he had ever felt from Catherine. It was stronger, darker, and most alarming of all unbridled.
He paused, doubts flooding through his mind like a monsoon - after all over nine-hundred of emphatic dogma, and rigid devotion didn't simply disappear in a few short months. More, and more these days his ever action felt like madness, even with all the evil of Grigore flowing through his veins, and no soul, no humanity to anchor him any longer it felt like a bridge too far. Such sacrelige was anathema to everything Walther had worked so hard to become, but now..Now something else drove him, and as he faultered it was the memory of Hildebrand's soft words, and her slender fingers rhythmically stroking his hair that drove him further into damnation. He wasn't blind, there had been no love, or semblance of affection in her actions that night, it was merely a sense of duty, obligation that had compelled her, but what she had said had true logic behind it. Hollow, or not that night meant everything to Walther, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. His back.
He reached out, hand trembling, and opened the Grimoire. Everything that followed happened so fast even he could barely process it: the book went mad, its pages flipping past wildly of their own accord, each candle died out in unison, the stoney face of Saint Michael cracked in half, and every window the room had shattered all at once. That's when he began to feel it. A presence, far beyond anything he had ever encountered as a hunter, so oppressive, and concentrated it ripped the air from his lungs, and left him gasping in burning agony. He knew he wasn't alone anymore.
"Clever man, aren't you?" A low, inhuman growl responded to his thought, like nails on chalkboard mixed in to a legion shouting just short of unison. Yet beneath the maelstrom of sound was a peculiar undercurrent of beauty. Walther's body rejected the sound, his ears ringing, and bleeding as if in protest to keep the wretched sound out, and yet he couldn't stop trying to pinpoint it. A part of him needed to listen. "No need to force a facade of humility," it goaded, a twisted reflection of mirth bleeding into the cacophony "I know your ego well."