Chapter Text
It was a dark night. Not stormy in the least; the sky was completely clear of any clouds, and while the stars were visible and twinkling ominously, the moon had waned out of existence and was not due to make a reappearance for another night. In other words, it was the perfect night for evil to take root.
The evil in question were two men, or men shaped beings, who had assembled a ritual just behind the sleepy town of Tadfield’s church. Of course, they had not set up the ritual that night. It was too important for them to have to worry about floundering around in the dark. They had been setting it up for the past week, avoiding the town residents by hiding out in the woods the church backed into.
The ritual, laying incomplete at the moment, consisted of a lightly dug trench in the flat ground, a circle entrapping a concentric triangle, with runes inscribed around it. Now the two men in question would have much preferred to have set up their ritual inside the boundaries of the church’s graveyard, but graveyards have a nasty tendency of attracting daytime visitors who become incredibly distressed and vengeful when they find their family plot to have been disturbed, whereas the space behind a church tends to be a place of superstition where only a few brave souls ever wander, and usually only when dared to. No, the two individuals just had to make do and hope that the close proximity to the consecrated ground would protect them.
Unfortunately for them, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
The two individuals were opposites in appearance, one pale with deep black eyes, the other dark with fiery amber eyes. But as differing as their looks were, they had met here for the same purpose.
The pale one spoke first. “Just think. This time tomorrow we will be the most powerful witches in all of England.”
The dark one smirked. “You’re thinking on too small of a scale Hastur.”
Hastur’s face broke into what could be an approximation of a smile. “Well Ligur, we would want to be able to enjoy our powers before we go worldwide.”
The smirk on Ligur’s face stretched into a grin to match Hastur. He reached for one of many vials on his belt, handing a clear liquid to his companion before grabbing a larger, crimson one for himself. “Just a precaution,” he said quietly.
Hastur’s expression turned sour. “We won’t need it,” he muttered before placing himself on the outskirts of the ritual circle. Ligur moved to stand in opposition of him.
“Are you prepared?” he asked, reviving a nod from the pale witch. Ligur held up the vial before ceremoniously unstopping it. To anyone unfamiliar with the type of ritual that these two men were performing, one might be naïve enough to think that the vial was simply filled with a red paint. Anyone cynical enough to suspect the type of ritual these two men were performing would note the faint smell of rust wafting out the open top. The most optimistic of the cynical ones could only hope that the contents of the vial came from the local butcher shop rather than any other source. But anyone with a good grasp on reality would realize that these witches weren’t the type to mind blood on their hands.
The dark hand tipped, and the viscous liquid flowed continuously, falling into the prepared divot and spreading along the existing lines with a burning sizzle. The liquid solidified and glowed leaving two faces underlit by a sinister red light. The ritual was prepared; it just needed to be activated.
The two figures faced each other over the red glow. It was time.
As one they spoke the words of a supposedly long dead language. A summons if you will, but not the polite request ‘oh dear you simply must come over for a visit’, rather the more unpleasant experience of hearing someone saying your name repeatedly, getting louder and louder until they rip your earphones off and scream in your face.
It should have been no surprise for Hastur and Ligur that an unpleasant summon would result in an unpleasant arrival, but both were quite taken by surprise as the ground shook and a fiery column of light shot up. A scream like a thousand tormented creatures rang through the air, destroying any peace the night had to offer.
Inside the circle a shape was emerging. For a fraction of a second it could be described as human-esque before deteriorating quickly. Hastur and Ligur could only make out writhing shapes, a hint of scales, glowing yellow eyes, and feathers. Rows upon rows of raven feathers pushing up against the edge of the circle. For a moment it seemed the ritual would hold. Then cracks formed in the ring of light containing the eldritch abomination that was a true demon.
“Bind it! We have to bind it now!” Ligur’s voice could barely be made out above the din the creature was making, but as soon as the words passed his lips the demon’s focus snapped sharply to the dark-skinned man.
“Noooooo!” screeched the being, furious before seemingly concentrating on something.
Hastur began chanting anew, lifting up his vial before throwing it in the center of the circle. The monstrosity shrieked and reeled back where the blessed liquid broke free and splashed it. The brief respite was ended moments later when demon finished gathering itself and shattered the ring of light with a blast of hellfire that incinerated Ligur before he had the chance to scream.
Hastur, on the other hand, finished his chant and promptly started screaming loudly and repeatedly, running around the ritual circle to the still crispy remains of his once companion. He ignored the sudden lack of light and the shape shrinking down and slithering off into the night in favor of tearing at his face in never-ending horror.
There is a reason witches are warned not to summon demons.
.....
The people of Tadfield, witches and nonwitches alike, slept peacefully on.