Interlude: "Farewell" - 5 (Patreon)

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If one were to request dossiers from Temple Clerics, inquire about the opinions of Magical Guilds, ask questions of Adventurers, or even buy expensive and completely unofficial agency reports of the Eyes of the Eternal, they would all easily agree on one opinion concerning one very famous person. This opinion is extremely easy to describe with a single statement, a clear conviction that Ereb Fatogg is not a good individual and would be better if he didn't exist. You can't say that the half-breed of an endowed giant and a human warrior, who once abused a defeated opponent, was a bloody maniac, slaughtering everyone around him left and right... because that would be a wild understatement. One of the most notorious, in a bad way, criminals of the continent, who had a great legacy in all its regions, had a reputation so bad that many creatures looked like standards of adequacy against his background.

It is worth starting at least with the class, the fully developed main archetype, and the other two that are not inferior to it. Not just a simple Heretic, but an entire Heresiarch, who, according to numerous dossiers collected on the last of the Fatoggs, was one step away from receiving the prefix Great and moving up from the legendary level. Heretic classes were understandably forbidden and frowned upon, carefully monitored, and strictly controlled. A high-level heretic would be accepted in any structure, but at the beginning of their journey, they are tolerated even less than witch doctors and other lovers of tickling someone's insides with a sacrificial dagger. Few people want to quarrel with all the clergy covering the younger generation because even the highest heretics if they receive patronage, it is completely unofficial, a kind of cover from the top, a non-public designation of immunity.

Some ignorant people believe and even describe such nonsense in their writings that heretics come from clerics who misinterpret the will of their God, misinterpret the Scriptures, and do not do what God expects of them. They believe heresy is equal to the betrayal of the deity, trying to snatch a part of their power and benefits but not paying with Faith and Service in return. The error is understandable and very rational, but it does not cease to be less because the problem lies much deeper.

First, if any cleric began to misdeed too much in his understanding of the doctrine of the Faith, he would quickly be prompted to the correct answer. Whether by colleagues, mentors, or brothers in the clergy or by the celestial themself, whether by a prophetic dream, a word spoken to one of the higher dignitaries, or even a personal appearance, depends on the personality of the deluded one. No, it's not about error, not at all. After all, the heretical classes are one for any religion, for any apostate. At the same time, most of the "lost souls" who have gone too far in their delusion will be punished by the will of the Deity without much effort. They are literally imbued with grace, part of the power of their patron, and therefore, the latter has over them quite clearly marked reciprocal power! We can only exclude the most amazing individuals who would be able to wrest the presence of God from themselves, and those of them, who would be able to fill the resulting void with their power were so few that they can be left out of the calculations altogether.

Secondly, it is not always clerics, priests, novices, and other God's people who are branded heretics by the All-Seeing One. Often humans and non-humans not connected with temples directly or indirectly become heretics. It is not advertised, but becoming a heretic practically does not depend on the attributes or level, only on certain skills, worldview, and character. That's why such revelations are not publicized - heretical classes have power, so there will be those who want to possess this power, especially if it is relatively easy to get it.

The nature of any Heretic, from the weakest and only the first to embark on this long and ruinous path to mastodons like Ereb, is to challenge, deny, and deliberately disbelieve, to renounce the Faith. It is not that Heretics do not believe in the gods, for atheism, or whatever this strange sub-religion is called, which is known only from the testimonies of some of the summoned, cannot exist on Alurei, where the Celestials regularly perform their Miracles. Rather, any Heretic is a fierce anti-theist, believing in the Gods even more sincerely than ordinary clerics but fiercely, to the core, opposing their power over the minds and souls of all those endowed with it.

Heretics, in general, are associated with clerics only because to become one of them, in addition to hatred, contempt, or just antipathy to the Gods in any form, one needs a very good basis of clerical knowledge, reading, and erudition enough to not just understand the sermons of the priests but also to know where their fallacies, understatements or outright falsehoods lie. At least from the Heretic's point of view.

It would be all right if they just hated quietly. Maybe they would muddy the waters, or even slaughter some village dervishes. There are Apostates, Dissenters, and Cursed by the Faith. Those who betrayed the temple can be defeated by the same Templars. The Apostates have lost their patron. They lost divine favor and the right to help, weakened and deprived of almost all of their striking power. Some of them quickly perish at the hands of punitive detachments, some of them change clergy, though they rarely decide to accept renegades and are always watched very carefully, even if not by the gods, so the other priests. Some manage to change class repeatedly, most often to something very, very black, associated with a lot of sacrifices and creaturefication. The passive abilities of a priest do not disappear at the loss of grace, and you can use them in the most sophisticated sacrifices. The vacated space, the void in the soul, where God used to be, allows you to fill yourself with the same Darkness up to your eyebrows. Such people usually do not live too long either, and die as creatures.

Not so with the Heretic. His endowment is untouched and surprisingly strong, rarely allowing his soul to be tainted by corruption. His power is always with him and depends only on him, and these creeps are also amazingly effective. Effective against priests, against clerics, against fledgling Saints, or even against full-fledged paladins, being, in a way, true assassins of divinity. Weaken the divine curse or remove it altogether? Overcome an enemy Miracle during a battle of armies? Protect against the epiphany of divine prophecies? All of these things they could, able to do, and practiced regularly, and there were still many things that classical clerics usually used.

Yes, it was fraught with danger to quarrel with the temples, openly helping such personalities, but any respectable structure wanted to have such a specialist on its staff. Because the temples might one day be out of the way, or there might be misunderstandings between worldly and temple bosses, too small to fight but requiring the intervention of someone who could fix the mischief done by clerics.

By all rights, many heresy bearers weren't touched until they were the first to get in the way, but alas, Ereb was a true Fatogg, the last descendant of an ancient line of prominent warriors destroyed by the Warrior Priests. His mother was far from the first in her line able to swaddle a three-meter tall giant with the shamanic class and immense physical strength to conceive a child strong enough. The Fatoggs had never been numerous, but for over fifty generations, it had never happened that one of those bearing their clan name had not risen at least to the fortieth rung of the Ladder. And when the mighty loners, unwilling to part with their accumulated relics and warrior trophies, were pressed on the subject of the equality of warriors, wished to take by right of blade and strength what the Fatoggs considered theirs when they were all cut down at the root, when the patrons turned away, when the actions of the clerics were not even particularly condemned, the present Ereb Fatogg was born - murderer, instigator, sometimes rebel, mercenary and brigand, sparing no one in his path.

Naturally, they tried to kill him, sometimes even killing him, but it is difficult to kill someone who, after death, resurrects in the same place where he was killed, only full of power and cleansed of any curses. Or resurrects not in the same place but on a pre-selected and unremarkable point, which is very difficult to find even with the help of a developed Seer and supporting circle, and the higher the stage of development, the more such points can be left! A one-time and isolated gift of one of the family's relics, used by the young man at that time right during the storming of the family stronghold, because the young man knew that this very trophy, obtained in the last campaign, was the main cause of the conflict.

Three rebirths for every twenty-five steps, each renewed every three years. Not enough to not fear for life, even if you forget that any form of death denial can be overcome or cheated. But enough to be an extremely tenacious pain in the world's ass. In addition, the Gift had another documented and very unnerving property. Anyone who permanently cut Ereb Fatogg's life short would receive an extremely nasty curse that worked with the Laws of Luck and Fate - fatal bad luck, to put it bluntly. This curse will easily go down the chain from the perpetrators to the beneficiary who provoked the death, spreading through the entire family tree and taking even the possessions and subjects of the murderer, albeit in a weakened form.

In another situation, it wouldn't have been a problem. Even such a gift would have been taken away, redirected to some loser or a willing victim.... or even a special summoned of the right classes. That is, if the curse takes root at all, for the illustrious Ilkhan or the Emperor of Ages are protected at the highest level, there were mythical artifacts of their own. And in the last resort, one could always turn to the temples and the Deities, who would be able to deal with such a challenge to their power.

That wouldn't have been a problem, yes. But Ereb was a Heresiarch of crazy power, and it was his curse that even the Incarnation wouldn't be able to lift... well, not impossible, after all, God in his own right, but the celestial would ask for it as a full-fledged appearance of himself on the battlefield. There remain all kinds of artifacts and other preparations, without which the rulers would die from the curses of the people they ruined with frightening regularity - count the number of those who cursed, even without class, skills, and abilities of the Malefic, on pure hatred. There were, yes, but no one was tempted to check.

Therefore, when Ereb Fatogg was caught and captured eighty-four years ago, they did not kill him but sent him to imprisonment. The services of such an individual could be useful to the Eternals in the future, and the "prisoner" himself was well aware that he had overdone his last escapades. A chance to sit in a personal dungeon, doing unburdensome work for the Eyes and the Eternal dynasty, would have been a good outcome. Sure, he'd bled the Empire and its loyal Lords, but he'd ignored the Eternals personally. Not out of fear, mind you, the Heresiarch was too indifferent to the status and number of persons he angered. There was simply no point of conflict. No contradictions were found and could not be found. To seek them out for no reason would be too much, even for Fatogg.

The numerous dead and injured subjects, nobles, and vassals worried the dynasty strictly within the framework of lost resources. Kings used people like lemons. Squeeze them and throw them away. Emperors are far above mere kings, aren't they? All the more so because the revenge-seekers had been honestly promised that the prisoner would never see Heaven again while sincerely intending to fulfill that promise. No one was going to release such a figure with such capabilities and no rights, not the Eternal fools. Ereb also knew about it but kept his opinion to himself - unlike the dynasty of Chronomancers, he, thanks to the same Gift, did not age, which was ironic, so the descendant of giants had plenty of time to wait.

Basically, he didn't make a mistake, not even a little bit. He waited.

The venerable Ereb's quarters were isolated from the world, a masterpiece of barrier art, creating an extremely secure dungeon with some comfort. And yet, even though Fatogg was not a particularly good sensor, he could not help but sense what was going on in the Eternal City, though now he doubted whether this place should be considered Eternal or whether it had already changed its nature too much. It was not very good to listen to what was going on, but somehow, he did not want to get out of his cell, excuse me, apartment right now. Yes, those first humiliating years when Ereb was regularly reduced to one single life had passed. He managed to get rid of humiliating execution procedures, often not the most pleasant. Many people wanted to make fun of the defenseless Heresiarch.

If Fatogg had decided to break through and escape, he would have had a chance to leave the dungeon and even make his way into the sunlight, but no more. All his revival points had been found and destroyed before his imprisonment. There was nowhere to put new ones, and they would kill him more than once. Moreover, he would be killed all nine times and on the tenth anniversary. Three lives, three attempts of the primary Gift, three more for taking the quarter hundredth milestone, and the last three for the title of Hero. The tenth life, the last, was his own, his own. He was not going to take any risks, preferring to wait, but now, at this moment, when the Eternal was either being dragged through the Astral to somewhere in the Alishan deserts or thrown into the depths of Hell, or something completely unimaginable was done, now it was possible to try. The guards were busy with something, something bloody and painful, if the echoes of battle were to be believed, and the echoes were fading.

Tear out the wall, take on curses and contracts, burn the magical brands on his skin, and disembowel his body, tearing out the trap artifacts sewn into his bones, losing the first attempt. Then, he met with confused guards, clearly not what they expected from the always quiet and calm Ereb, albeit elite but not ready for a battle with him. Even dressed only in simple cloth clothing, he remains a hulking half-giant of enormous stature, with most of the human tribe breathing only a little above his navel. Steps and classes will do the rest, weapons he'll pluck from dead hands, ignore magic and arrows, revive a few more times, and still get out of his confinement. Especially while the guards are busy with someone else. He may not need to wait for the guests. His captors may have been freaks, but they were protecting Fatogg from the wrath of most of the continent, and the attackers may be among those who are angry. In general, Ereb had not yet decided what line of behavior to choose - whether to flee without looking back, to attack the guards weakened by the conflict, to help them against the attackers, or to stand against all of them as a third party.

In the end, the god-hater decided to just wait, preparing for everything. Too much is at stake, and more and more sensations reach him through the protection of the apartment. It seems that he already knows who exactly has come to visit him, as well as guesses the purpose of the visit. He does not want to make a mistake and does not want to lose his last game without even drawing a card, but the prisoner's stamina is enviable. One mistake, one misstep, and the price will become unbearable, but he has already deceived similar "allies" in his life and defeated them when they turned into enemies. He can only hope this time, he will be the first to betray them.

The door to the prison opened.

The bright room, lit by magical lamps, was decorated in pastel colors, with many fabrics, lush pile rugs, tapestries, and paintings. Ereb prized the work of several not particularly popular artists, often asking for their creations for favors rendered. It would have been impossible to ask for anything more serious than that, but at least it was pleasing to the eye. The furniture was made for his size, but there was a normal-sized armchair for possible guests. Ereb Fatogg was sitting in its larger counterpart, covered with a huge woolen blanket, reading, or rather, re-reading the Rights of the Sword for the hundredth time, in one of the rarest and most unapproved editions, even by the Warrior Temple itself.

"Oh, greetings." A chesty and rumbling bass echoed off the walls in the heretic's even and calm tone. "I suppose calling you Lord Bradmore would be a mistake, wouldn't it."

The body melted like a waxen figure in the heat, speaking for itself. He had met with possessed devils more than once, and such characteristic melting was the prerogative of Honeyed Canvas, the iconic technique of Devils. In the depths of his soul, sealed by the monoliths of his will and his conspiracies, flashed a grim satisfaction at the fate of the arrogant and vindictive Tirm Bradmore, whom he had not minded killing in a particularly painful way. He was ready to kill many people in this way, but it was easier to list those whom Ereb Fatogg did not wish to die.

"We have met before, dear Ereb." The voice of the possessed man, who had overstretched his vessel and thus lost all his disguise, was the same as his appearance, as gurgling and boiling as if a cauldron of bubbling hot fat were bubbling, and human, in the tradition of the most repulsive of the wild Cushitic tribes. "This meeting is the fourth, in case you were wondering."

He was curious, and what was said was impressive indeed, close to making him nervous. If this thing, which did not hide its nature nearly enough, was already in the place of the annoying and intrusive Tirm, that alone spoke volumes about the danger level of the thing that had already settled into the guest chair, serenely putting a leg over a leg. It looked repulsive, as if something had tried to perfectly pretend to be human, had honed that skill to perfection, had gotten into its role to the end, but now it was as if it didn't notice its injuries, continuing to play even though the makeup and costume no longer fit the role. The mighty body, hidden under the plaid, did not tense up in full readiness only because of Ereb's composure and because he could not have been more collected if he had wanted to. He had only one purely martial class, sharpened for chest-to-chest combat, but he could probably tear this creature apart with his bare hands. But the next ones would come after him, and it would be harder to talk to them.

"Well, honorable word-bearer." Outwardly and mentally, even spiritually, the heretic shows no confusion, no apprehension, no confusion, remaining a monolithic block, an indestructible sculpture of himself. "May your Lust not be extinguished, and may its warm flame warm those who suffer and give them the happiness they deserve, whether they wish to comprehend it or not."

A ritual phrase, and a very old one at that, so old that, apart from Ereb himself, at best half a hundred people on the continent would be able to realize its full depth and subtexts, barely half of them Endowed. His eyes are like two dwarf-made telescopic sights, soulless and cold, looking out from under the defensive nozzles of his brow, monitoring the external and internal reactions of his interlocutor. The Heresiarch's eyes see as much as the eyes of a high priest, even without divine assistance. Especially without that help.

"Ah, how nice to hear an old tradition." Gestures, body position, and even movements where the face of the devil-occupied body should have expressed complete admiration and complacency, accepting the play and acknowledging the open dialogue. "They don't talk like that now, not here, alas. The black children of subterranean Darkness prefer to impose their traditions on dialog. It makes it spicy, but so bitter at times is the inability to remember the past."

The beginning of the dialog is great. The devil takes the lead not only defiantly but also in a more subtle way, opening up on his own, actually opening his throat, and taking his time to apply the tricks favored by this tribe. This is more disturbing than trying to bind his mind and soul in a thousand sweet chains because Lust needs something from Ereb. They need it so badly that they're talking to him now, giving him a position of power. It may be foolish to see it as a weakness. It may be easier for a devil of this aspect to seduce and take from a lower position than any other, but the fact itself speaks volumes.

"All claims to the loss of high art, send them to the Great Desert." Ereb allows himself a slight smile, the very designation of it looking surprisingly harmonious on a face seemingly carved of stone and molded of iron. "Her glorious Kings will gladly listen to them and perhaps deign to answer."

It's not even rudeness, but something beyond it, a direct indication of the growing conflict, but at the same time, an indication of the need to speed up, to skip the obligatory exchanges of hints and undertones, in which Ereb will still lose to the devil by definition. And the very reaction, its absence, to such willfulness shows more than it should. The possessed deliberately demonstrates more and more readiness to speak, skipping whole layers of dialog, trying to get to the basis of a possible pact as quickly as possible. He is in a hurry, the creature, in a great hurry, which means that they are being pressed to the limit, which means that something in their invasion did not go as planned. But, at the same time, his very presence in this place is more beautiful than any deceptions, which tells how many other moments have passed strictly as the devils needed.

"My name is Envoy." The word said, even if Ereb guessed almost immediately what type of devil had come to visit him by matching small details like stunning social mimicry and the ability to manipulate his visage to the highest level. "And I able to speak of Him."

One of the inherent qualities of Envoys, which allows them to speak the words of the Lord of the Domain, its Master, its Sovereign, its Ruler, its Lord, its Holder, and its Tyrant, is given very rarely, far less often than new Envoys are created and nurtured. Now, he cannot lie directly, or rather, he can and will, just as he cannot lie with the truth, but he cannot promise Ereb more than the archdevil of the Domain has given him the right to do so. So you have to be triple careful. Such modifications allow one to make instant contracts, taking advantage of the smallest of clauses, forcing you to be very, very careful with your words, as well as with the words of others.

"My name you already know." Ereb again pursues the line of swiftness, the demand not to breed verbal duels, and again, he is indulged. Again, he agrees. "What does the one behind you desire?"

"What do you think, last Fatogg? What are we looking for here? Why did we show up here and take your city?" Not coming in from afar seems physically impossible for the creature. "You've already figured out exactly what's going on. The defenses of your dungeon have fallen, and it's not hard for someone with your experience to understand what we've done, Executioner of Ristrt."

At least he's not the Pide, who is outrageously turned on deceit and ranting. This one at least somehow shortens what was said. But a reminder of the city, which, with his undoubted participation and help, had gotten to know the aforementioned Pride, even too closely, was quite unnecessary. All the more so because what was happening to Eternal surpassed what he and several temporary allies from the cultists of the Pride, in close association with some unofficial helpers from Alishan, had done to the aptly named Ristrt. It must be pronounced without declension, gentlemen, if you don't want to be known as rustics and ignoramuses. Like the chant of the Original Temple prayer of a wandering dervish.

"Almost two million souls," Ereb answered in an unreadable tone, not fully understanding what his interlocutor was getting at, having only vague guesses. "Two and a third, if you count the near suburbs and the occasional vagrant. Artifacts. Treasures. Weapons Arsenals, and Guild warehouses. The Palace Reliquary and, if you're lucky, the Library."

"Ah, leave it, Honorable One." The creature waved the creature away, letting its true essence out for a moment. "We have already lost as if not more than you describe. How many of my high brothers and sisters, those whom the All-Seeing One exalts as Legend, have we already lost? How many of the rarest souls have been irrevocably dissolved into our Lust? How much labor and preparation, faithful to the last thought of a toy, how much time has been lost in the end? Our Supreme Coock has fallen, and his cauldron, in which I have had the chance to swim and love new souls, has been emptied and has been eaten out! The Lord of the Leashes is right now fighting for his eternity when one of Jerem's pups turned his beloved Maiden against him! No, we will take all you named, but the true goal is far greater. Without it, all the spoils, even if we captured them with far less loss, would be but bitterness on the honeyed molasses of defeat."

Ereb thought, straining all the resources of a mind as sharp as a thread of iron web. What came to mind made him lose face, drop the mask of stony indifference, and realize and confirm his guesses about the scale of what was happening. In fact, what the creature was hinting at was done regularly and regularly interfered with. For that, the devils were known and disliked. It was just this time there was a completely different scale, which, if he had not been hinted at now, Ereb would not have grasped. Not right away, and even then, he would have doubted. He doubted to the last. He wonder if the Eternals themselves realized what fate the devils had in store for them. More likely yes than no because they would have had enough time to think and analyze.

"That is correct, my dear Ereb." The creature smiled with a cracked face, literally tearing the remnants of the muscles still holding together, turning that face into minced meat, and tensed even more than the heretic, preparing to take his reaction. "One of the oldest human dynasties in the world, ruling their domain for centuries and millennia, bound to their land as firmly, as completely as is even possible without becoming a genius of merging with their chosen territory. Imagine their blood, their souls, and their power turning out to be ours. Just imagine."

The barely manifested pressure of the fleur, too quiet to be perceived as an attack or even noticed, too weak to be feared, interferes with the Envoy's voice, seeking to find a gap in Fatogg's consciousness. The creature is ready both to continue the dialog, to begin bargaining, and to instantly attack the stroppy tool unwilling to follow its destined role.

"And you've had a rough time with the Eternals, I see." The dialogue was discarded, the mind locked in a dungeon, the power pulsing through the huge body along with the blood, ready to burst out. "Otherwise, you would speak very differently, far differently than you do now. And dragging the whole Empire after the city is beyond you, neither you nor your Master."

"Were it otherwise, we would not be speaking at all, Ereb Fatogg." The creature, too, would cast off its good-naturedness, grinning its essence, revealing the true Envoy, invisible and indistinguishable, vanishing before your eyes from all modes of perception, leaving only the barest optical image. "I would command, and you would listen and believe. But yes, the casualties are high, too high. We did not believe from the beginning that we would be allowed to take the entire Empire, take and uproot a chunk of the world, skin it up, and annex it to the Domain. Neither would your ascended or other Vices be allowed to take their own or take ours. We were originally preparing for something else, and you know what."

"Oh, yes."

To take the whole Dynasty, or at least part of it, for souls. To take advantage of their connection, their Right, to claim that right... An empire without Capital and a Dynasty will be quickly divided, torn between neighbors who have grabbed pieces, freedom-loving vassals, turning the former monolith into a patchwork quilt. But the new states will be too young, their right just being born. The provinces taken by Alishan or the Empire of Arms will still remember the will of other Emperors. And this bridge, this binding thread, the Hellspawn will use it to channel their Lust. And then will begin the greatest seduction in modern history - not even in the time of the war mentioned earlier, when the Great Desert found its undead masters and the enemy was gone, leaving only a multitude of cursed ruins. Back then, the power of Hell was drawn, and the techniques of soul magic were studied, giving rise to many different classes and schools of magic, mostly black and forbidden, but even at the dawn of the fall, the ancient mages destroyed themselves and their world, fed it, not given it to be eaten by creatures.

If Lust takes over, things will become different. In every city, in every village and roadside inn, their whispers will be heard, their tantalizing voices, their barely discernible pressure on thoughts, their enclosed desires, their corrupting fantasies. Some will overcome, some will ignore, some will prevent, but thousands of new cults will spring up like mushrooms after a warm rain. Orgies will become larger and larger, maidens will become more compliant, fantasies will become more varied, private bed comforts will become publicly available, and the intimacy of bodies will be treated more easily than the satisfaction of ordinary hunger. Lust will germinate, change, distort, multiply cults, and increase the general background of the fleur of the territory being seduced until the difference between cultists and the ordinary liberated population disappears completely.

Of course, they will interfere. They will desperately fight back and burn cults and new trends with a hot iron. The new masters of the territory will challenge the right and influence coming from Hell, priestly prayers will flow, and the Gods will not spare any effort, cleansing the territory and relamping the pressure until the power of the captive souls of the Eternal Dynasty is finally exhausted. In turn, the contagion of Lust will flow from the spoiled territory further, climbing into the lands of those who snatched a piece of the remaining decapitated state. And not at once the impact of the creatures will become noticeable. Not at once, it will be understood and deciphered. The method of taking the big through the small, of course, is known, but not on such a scale. It is one thing to corrupt a clan through its patriarch or matriarch, to influence a city or a small barony, but the Empire of Ages is quite another.

If the devils don't rush in.

If they reach the flesh and souls of the Eternal.

If they use them properly.

It's not just a chunk of the continent that will be lost.

Hell will take all of Alurei.

Not immediately, not in a year, not in a decade, or even a century, but after a couple or three centuries, Ereb has a good chance of not recognizing what the world around him will become. Hundreds of devils, each with their independent cults, the lure of Lust, and the thrill of the hunt. A simple plowman who once had a beautiful dream and followed it. A boy or girl who received a small gift and immediately put it to use for the heart of their first love.... and it will be everywhere. Without a basis, without a center of control that can be calculated by the usual methods. It would be pointless to burn out nest after nest if they reappeared.

Mass miracles, molten relics that cover entire cities and provinces that do not burn out the power of Lust but make it harder for it to do its work and prevent it from achieving its goals, will come into play. Ereb will be able to prevent it, even single-handedly. The powerful Heresiarch, Bringer of Trouble, and Cursing Knight will be able to single-handedly tear up area blesses, extinguish prayers, and remove their effects on entire regions at once. And it will take a long time to catch him. In every corner, people seduced by devils will give him shelter and lodging, each of the points of revival will be lost in the territory desecrated by the fleur, and the usual search for these points by the seeing will become a very dangerous occupation. Devils will not be lazy to cover their tools, at the same time hunting for too-open seers. By opening themselves to the vice that covers the land, they will unwittingly scoop up the Lust and succumb to its influence.

"I think I know why you need me." Ereb's face is not so impenetrable now. Now it is simply evil, skewed in a grin so unfamiliar on the always peaceful face that has always been complacent and open since settling in this place. "And what do you wish to offer me."

Anyone who makes a deal with a devil is already a priori a loser, even if it seems to him that he managed to win because the very fact of the deal will take something away, mark something. It's not as if they can't be outsmarted or deceived. The last Fatogg had dealt with Pride and Gluttony. He betrayed them first, leaving before the deal was exhausted, and the creatures would have taken the last value available in the deal - the Hero of the Cursing Faith himself. There were also episodes in his life with Agony and Despair, though they didn't even come to an initial agreement. There was also that story with Sloth, which could have taken the then not a Hero, but Sloth is so Sloth.

Only now, he would have to not only get dirty but dive into the Vice with his head, not hoping they would ever let him go, knowing for sure they would not let him go, that they would find the keys to him during the time of forced cooperation, while they were working close to each other, back to back. Ereb had long ago said goodbye to the possibility of leading a normal life. He had given it up and then confirmed it with rivers of spilled blood, betrayals, and stabs in the back to everyone. But now he would have to say goodbye to any hopes for anything - such an alliance would not be forgiven. And he would have to betray the first again if he did not want to become a toy in the clutches of devils greedy for new inventions and pleasures.

But first, he would have to betray the whole world, condemning it to a very unenviable fate, and at the same time ensuring himself in case the creatures' plan failed and he was in their ranks. To become an outcast even more, to become even more hated, though it seemed impossible, to doom even those crumbs of humanity that remained in him, making another deal, following his thankless path, leading, as it should, to nowhere. Would he risk it, would he dare, would he leave thousands and thousands of living and breathing endowed to feed the Vice?

Well, that's a weird question.

The whole world had learned long ago that he, Ereb, was a Fatogg, and there had never been any good personalities among the Fatoggs.

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