A Soul for your Thoughts [BloodAndChocolate & DamonHuntington]

[BloodAndChocolate]

There wasn’t really anything about Rowan Hart that stood out. He was attractive, but not in the way that made people look at him twice. Tall but not too tall, brunette, brown eyed, nice jawline, lean but not thin, good shoulder-to-waist ratio. Perfectly ordinary, unmemorable, normal. Like an unsuspecting car on a busy highway, he faded away into the background. He usually prefered it there.

“The thing is, Martin,” he says, to the man sitting across from him, and then snaps his fingers and asks, “Do you mind if I call you Martin?” when he doesn’t get a negative response, he continues with, “The thing is, I’m much too young to be having a midlife crisis. I mean, I’m only 24. So assuming I live passed 48, this can’t be a midlife crisis. That’s supposed to happen at, like, 50 right? At least, that’s what all the movies say.”

Martin doesn’t answer him, but it’s all as well, because Rowan is pacing at this point, rambling. “Maybe it’s not so much a crisis, maybe I’m just bored. I told myself I’d never get one of those 9-5 desk jobs because I’d have to throw myself off a cliff with that kind of repetition in my life. But even my current job is starting to feel repetitious, ya know? Maybe I’ve gotten too good at it. There’s not a thrill any more. It’s like...making a sandwich, right? Like, it’s a fine sandwich, whatever, but I used to really enjoy the sandwich. It’s like boring sex, that’s a better metaphor. I wonder how married people do it. The same fuck every damn day for the rest of their lives. Maybe if he’s really good, but damn man, I just can’t see it. I guess you can’t understand that though, eh Marty? Still a virgin, what a shame. So I guess think about the sandwich then.”

Rowan stops by the open book on the table, tapping his pocket knife against his chin in thought. “Did you know I was never very good at Latin?” he asks. “My grandmother always wanted me to learn it better. Used to smack my knuckles with a ruler. Used to tell me ’Rowan, if you don’t learn to read it, you’ll never understand what’s in this book.’ The ironic thing is, if she knew that I was using it, she’d skin me alive. Good thing she’s dead, I guess. Oh!” He spins around again, facing Martin. “I’m not speaking ill of the dead! I miss her, honestly. She used to know great things about the occult. She just never wanted me getting into anything bad. But being good is so boring, ya know? And we’ve already talked about how much I don’t like to be bored.”

Still, no response. He’s unbothered, and turns back to the book. The diagrams make the ritual more coherent, fill in the words that he can’t understand. “She was from Louisiana, my grandmother. I used to really believe in this stuff. Voodoo, the occult, anything like that, when I was a kid and she was raising me. Got a little older and thought it was bullshit. But then in college, it was like, my calling. And now? Well, hell, what can it hurt?”

A good bit, actually, if he’s translating right. Things like cutting him in half if he does the lines wrong, or condemning him to hell if he says the words wrong. “Probably shouldn’t be fucking with all this Latin if you’re not fluent, huh, Martin?” he mutters. “Maybe I should just pack it up and go home, yeah? But to what. An empty apartment, whatever free porn I can get off of Tumblr, and some instant ramen? Alright, that’s melodramatic. I actually have a good porn membership. My job pays well, ya know? And the instant ramen is more of a preference choice, I can eat better, I just don’t want to cook. Maybe that's my problem! Maybe it’s laziness!”

He doesn’t bother looking at Martin this time, because he knows he’s not going to get an answer. Instead he reads the passage he needs and lets the room lapse into silence for a moment. Finally he spins around and walks back over to his companion. “You believe in God, right? What am I saying, of course you do. The whole ‘sex after marriage thing’ really bit you in the ass. Think your God is proud of you for your celibacy, Marty? Think he’ll be ashamed of me for selling my soul for a couple of cheap tricks?”

Rowan grins, and tilts his head for a moment while he waits. “Not gonna answer me huh? Ah well, all for the best I guess. What do you know anyway? You’re dead.”

Martin Stutterburg’s corpse stares back at him, wide eyed with blood running down from his open mouth. He’d been a lackluster kill. Hadn’t even begged for his life, just dropped to his knees and started praying. It’d made it too easy to step behind him and slit his throat. Rowan hadn’t even felt a flicker of...well, anything. Anticipation, fear. Maybe a little excitement, when he saw the promise ring on the man’s finger. Three virgin kills completed his circle.

So now here he was, in the basement of his home with three bodies, using his fingers to paint blood around in pentagrams and runes, and now that he had the last symbol, he sat down in the middle of it with his book.

On this day, Rowan Hart - hired killer, bored millennial, occultist prodigy, - was going to summon a demon, straight from hell or whatever there was beyond this world. Maybe he’d ask, when the thing arrived. It was beyond the point though.

The point, was that his life was missing something, and if he had to sell his soul to get a few puzzle pieces, then so be it.

“Hey Martin, watch this.” He sent a wink the corpses way, and then began to chant.

 

[DamonHuntington]

​

[td]

The man sat atop his throne, bored with the prospect of twiddling his thumbs for another millennium or so. Well, perhaps "man" was not the most accurate term to refer to him, in fact.

He was more comparable to a force of nature, a relentless being of power that strove to get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Humans had a name for his kind: they were simply known as "demons", which was an all-encompassing term for a group that was much more diverse than humanity could fathom.

The creature's true name was unknown to humans, as those pitiful creatures were unable to listen to it without having their mind blanked like a clean slate, overwhelmed by the energy contained in the sound. As a result, the demon used a specific name to refer to himself alongside the eras - he was known as Zane Nox.

And it was amidst Zane's boredom that a ritual seemed to start being conducted. This was a rather rare occurrence, in fact: the rituals to invoke greater demons require a series of convoluted steps and a great deal of knowledge regarding to occult; knowledge that was gradually lost alongside the span of eras and eras. The fact that someone was willing enough to invoke him, and knowledgeable enough to know the procedure, made Zane raise an eyebrow in curiosity. "I wonder who's the stupid human that thinks this was a good idea", he wondered, solidifying his resolve to enter the human realm and see the answer in person.

Rather than taking an outlandish form, though, the demon opted for a more elegant and approachable demeanour. Zane retracted his claws, tails and horn and covered his body in a slim-fitting suit with the snap of a finger. His long and jet-black hair flowed like a curtain made of pure darkness that reached his shoulders.

The only thing that indicated Zane's true nature was his violet eyes, which burned in an unnatural colour that was outlandish to any human. The iridescent irises glowed with the colour of a strong amethyst and a faint hint of red, in a way akin to an idyllic lake that contained a dangerous predator well hidden in its depths. This eye colour was Zane's signature, so to say, and many ancient texts referred to him as "Nightshade", in correspondence to the deadly flower that showed the same hue.

The demon was not intent on doing a quiet entrance, though. If the human evoking him was interested to see the creature in full, then so he'd aid the man from the beginning. With a blast, Zane transported himself to the centre of the circle, glaring at the man that had called him from the depths.

"Well, well. What do we have here?", Zane said with a certain degree of disdain towards the creature that was in front of him. The man he saw was unremarkable in all aspects - unlike the crazy cultists dressed in black or the humans that exuded an aura of failure, which were usually the ones to conjure him - and for that reason the demon had his interest piqued. What moved that person to a demonic ritual that cost his soul?

Other things were, likewise, out of place. The bodies used for the ritual were killed with mastery and clean cuts; not with the haphazard stabs and messy gashes that Zane customarily saw. There was a certain order and organisation to the human's method, that was for sure: the pentagram was crisply drawn as if the man took his sweet time to conduct the ritual. "Fascinating", Zane stated, unwilling to address the remark any forward. He looked forwards and stared deep within Rowan's eyes, urging him to speak.

"My time is precious. I am here, so you'd better tell me your name and what you want", came the order from the demon in a sly, twisted smirk.​

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[BloodAndChocolate]

It worked.

Rowan wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was awe or smugness. But regardless, it’d actually worked. Just in front of him, between carefully painted runes and symbols, a man appeared. A man and not a man at the same time. It looked like a man, an insanely attractive one, but it didn’t feel like a man. And his bright, violet colored eyes were a sure sign that he was definitely something more.

Rowan let the book fall from his lap as he slowly stood up, never taking his eyes off the demon. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and if he’d dared to tell anyone else about what he was doing, he’d assume this was some kind of elaborate prank. But he hadn’t told anyone. Not one person.

“It worked,” he breathed, and a grin broke across his face before he ran both hands through his hair, leaving it in a messy disarray. His brown eyes were glowing in delight, like he either didn’t notice or was unfazed by the demon’s disdainful reaction to him.

While he was looking at the demon, the demon was looking at the area around him, and he had barely noticed until the man spoke. Rowan met the demon's gaze and, though he would never admit it, definitely got trapped in it. The violet was a beautiful sight to behold. Unlike Rowan himself, the demon was remarkable. He wondered, briefly, how much of that was an illusion. His grandmother had always said demons were reproachful creatures. But she’d also said the same things about the guys in the yearly Fireman calendar.

“Your time is precious,” Rowan repeated, then covered his mouth when he seemed unable to stop his newest grin. He was giddy and amused and it made him feel a little high. He didn’t trust himself not to ask the demon if he knew how hot that smirk was. Which would have been embarrassing and, probably, unprofessional. “I’m Rowan,” he said, between parted fingers because he wasn’t going to stop covering his mouth. “Rowan Hart. Oh, and this is Martin,” he spun and pointed to the first dead virgin. “That’s Katy, and that poor bastard's name over there is Colon I shit you not. I really feel like I did a favor killing that one. Oh! Which brings us to what I want!”

Rowan turned around again and then bit down on another grin. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just can’t fucking - I mean wow. I summoned a demon. I’m kind of a badass, I hope you know that. I mean, how many house calls do you really make? Can’t be a lot. Not in this day and age. Even if people try, this ritual is pretty damn easy to fuck up. Who even knows Latin any more?”

“I’m getting off topic, sorry. I’m usually not this all over the place but damn, this has to be the best day I’ve had in awhile.” Rowan shakes his head and then shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s still grinning, and it’s the kind of smile that doesn’t make him look so ordinary, paired with perfect teeth and completely reaching his eyes, lighting up his entire face. “I’m bored, you see. Bored to death. With my life. With my job. With my romantic partners. Everything is just very gray. And used to, when that happened, I’d just go kill someone. Get that thrill going, you know? Feel my heart pumping. Blood, sex, rock and roll. That’s what I’m here for. But I’m too good at it now. There’s no flavor, no extra punch. It’s just ‘grab, stap, repeat.’ But, in my nifty little book there, it says you can teach me some new tricks. For a price obviously, but, well,” Rowan shrugs, nonchalant. “How much of a soul can I really have left?”