Chapter 8.5: Hey Siri, What is the Geneva Convention?

A silhouette stood on the edge of the ridge overlooking the village. His ashen skin appeared almost human in the golden light, warmed by the sunset behind him. If someone had looked up, they may have seen a figure, and they may have seen the flaking blood slash on his forehead, but no one did. Of course, even if they had, they would have failed to grasp the significance.

It seemed almost ages ago when his Lord fell, but his rage and resolve had never faltered. He was as filled with grief as the moment he scarred his palm and swore by his Lord's side. He haughtily observed the village and its complacency, at the cattle below carrying on about their pointless human lives, then the demon turned away with a sneer, vanishing over the ridge.

The demon rested his hand on the hilt of his sheathed rapier, knowing he would never find peace. There were no true winners in a war, but he had lost a long time ago. Every demon had, and each of his soldiers had eagerly signed up volunteering to sacrifice their spirits to their grief. It was all many of them knew. What good was a soul with no joy, no family to share it with? So they turned themselves over to their revenge, knowing the alternative was to wither away into worthless, directionless husks of a once-proud race, hunted like animals.

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In Deep Creek village, Marie walked down the street, carrying a young child. She was exhausted and the blister on the back of her heel was beginning to hurt unbearably. She sighed and hushed her child as he began to cry, rubbing his hair and murmuring soothing affectionate words. As she trudged home, the child watched over her shoulder. He was quite unnerved as the ridge behind them appeared to ripple and crawl in the deepening blue twilight, twisting with the far-off shapes of many strange-looking figures.

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As the sun abandoned the village, the demons advanced. They washed through the village, silencing villagers as they lay down to sleep. With motions as practiced and graceful as an artist they executed them all.

In a merry dance they ripped children from their mothers' arms, delighting in the way they wriggled and screamed; in a blood-drunken frenzy they set fire to what they could not steal; in grief they watched the village burn for their vengeance which they knew would never be satiated; in their hearts, they once again buried the hollow feeling of nothingness that threatened their burning crusade.

Was it better, to resist? Or to choose to become animal? The demon did not know. The only certainty was that soon, the heroes would come, and then they would have one last chance. One last chance to repay many debts due.