The seasons turned like pages in a great tome, and before Gregarious knew it, the crimson banners of the Blood Festival began appearing across Abhorrent. Five days remained until the most sacred event in demonoid culture - a celebration that drew their kind from every corner of the land, from the deepest mountain holds to the farthest demonoid territory outposts.
Gregarious watched as the city transformed. Market stalls overflowed with black candles and ritual knives, while butchers prepared the ceremonial cuts. The air carried the scent of iron and incense, a perfume that made his pulse quicken. This year would be different. This year, he would participate not as a teenager or awaiting adult, but as a true demonoid.
The Blood Festival served twin purposes: to honor the Blood Mother's covenant and to welcome new adults into their society. Gregarious had counted the days since his twenty-first birthday a month prior, when he'd become eligible for the Rite of Horns. Until a demonoid drank from the Blood Mother's chalice, they were considered little more than humans with red eyes and hunger for humans - no matter their age.
He rubbed atop his head where his horns would form. After the ritual, they would grow elegantly. But more than horns awaited him or any other eager new adult. The Blood Mother's gift came in three parts: physical maturation, increased strength, and for the fortunate few, awakening of a latent ability. His cousin had gained night vision; his neighbor could smell lies. Gregarious dreamed of what blessing might flow through his veins.
"Maybe I should stop by Castri's place for a bite to eat. No—better to grab something small along the way. The mountain path isn't long, but I'll still need something to keep my stomach full," Gregarious mused.
"Gregarious! You nearly forgot your sword!" His mother's voice rang out as she rushed from the house, blade in hand.
"Mom, how many times must I tell you? I don't like carrying this thing."
"You shouldn't be so careless with your safety. And the hero's spear," she hissed back.
He sighed in reply. "Who'd dare steal the spear of the hero Kastran? Even thieves respect his name."
"Too late for arguments—I've brought it this far, and I'm not hauling it back inside." She thrust the weapon toward him.
He rolled his eyes. "Fine. But I promise you, it's unnecessary. No trouble will find me. The mountain's been clear of beasts for months."
"And what about the rumors? Humans have been spotted in these lands. Do you think they hold the same reverence for our hero as we demonoids do?"
"Don't worry, mom. I'll return by afternoon—and if I'm delayed, I'll stay at an inn, just as we agreed."
"Then at least stay safe." Her voice softened, though her grip on his sleeve lingered.
Gregarious flicked the reins, urging his horses forward through the familiar streets of his neighborhood. The cobblestones here were uneven but well-kept, flanked by rows of modest, ivy-clad homes where the lanterns burned a steady amber even in daylight—a ward against wayward spirits, or so the elders claimed.
His mother had chosen this district for its safety, its quiet. "No cutpurses, no drunken brawls, just good demonoids who mind their business," she'd say. Yet her worry chased him regardless. Whether his jobs took him across the city or across the lands, her litany never changed: Sword sharp. Eyes open. If close, home by dusk.
He glanced back just before the last turn, where the road dipped into the merchant's quarter. She still stood in the doorway, arms crossed, the morning light catching the silver in her horns. He waved, grinning when she scowled in reply—her wordless I'll fret if I want to. Then the wagon rolled on, and the curtain of noise from the city's heart swallowed the quiet behind him.
The change was immediate. The air thickened with the scent of charred skewers and fermented berry blood wine, and the crowds pressed close, their laughter ringing off the garland-draped eaves. This was the true face of the Blood Festival: a riot of red silk banners, of drumbeats thrumming through the soles of his boots.
Gregarious guided his wagon through the chaos. Around him, demonoids in festival finery—crimson sashes, bone charms clattering at their wrists—bartered over spiced sweets and sacrificial trinkets. Above, unlit lanterns hung in dense clusters, waiting for nightfall when they'd ignite with the traditional fire-magic, painting the streets in bloody light.
Rose petals carpeted the ground, crushed underfoot until the cobblestones seemed to sweat scarlet. Every dawn, the city's sweepers refreshed them, a ritual as old as the festival itself. At a stall to his left, a vendor ladled out the traditional drink—velthorn, fermented in hollowed ram's horns, its surface shimmering with a faint, magic-bred haze.
A pang twisted in his chest. Normally, he'd be elbow-deep in decorations by now, untangling lantern strings with his mother on their rooftop, their bickering half-drowned by the distant festival clamor.
But not today.
The spear's weight in the wagon was a silent reminder. Decorations could wait. Kastran's relic demanded higher priority.
Gregarious guided his horses through the thinning crowds, leaving the festival's clamor behind as he approached the 3rd Outer Gate—a towering arch of black iron, its edges twisted into thorn-like spirals. The guards stationed there wore the city's signature armor: onyx-black plates adorned with crimson swirls, their helmets specially forged to accommodate the horns of demonoids. Their eyes glowed faintly behind slit visors as they scrutinized passersby.
One guard stepped forward, halting Gregarious's wagon with a raised gauntlet.
"Where are you headed?"
Gregarious didn't hesitate. "Up the mountain," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I bear a delivery for Kastran—the hero's spear."
The guard's posture shifted instantly. "Ah! Go right ahead!" he exclaimed, waving him through with uncharacteristic haste.
No surprise there. Serving the hero warranted urgency, even from the sternest gatekeepers.
The road up the mountain wound through scattered villages, their thatched roofs smudges of brown against the rocky slopes.
By midday, Gregarious pulled into one such hamlet, its lone tavern reeking of iron and spice.
Inside, the air was thick with the murmur of patrons and the wet crunch of teeth tearing into flesh. He took a seat, and moments later, a tavern worker—a wiry demonoid woman with serrated nails and a bloodstained apron—slid a plate of raw, salt-rubbed meat in front of him. The flesh glistened, marbled with fat and dusted with crushed fire-peppers.
Gregarious devoured it in seconds. "Another plate, please!" he called, licking the remnants from his fingers.
"Very well, young man," the demonoid woman purred, already carving a fresh slab from the hanging carcass behind the counter.
Human meat was a delicacy, of course—rich, gamey, best served fresh. A demonoid could survive on grains, fruit and other animal meat, but to demonoids that diet made them only weak. Yet as much as he savored the meal, Gregarious couldn't linger. He tossed a few coins onto the table and stood.
Kastran's spear wouldn't deliver itself.
He too was guilty of holding the hero, Kastran, to such a high degree.
—
Gregarious craned his neck upward, his breath catching as the Blood Mountain loomed before him—a jagged titan wreathed in thick mist. Its slopes were said to cradle the tomb of the Blood Mother, the primordial matriarch of all Demonoids. To his kind, this was no mere landmark; it was a sacred blasphemy, a monument to their unholy genesis.
The ascent was arduous, but the ancient road—worn smooth by centuries of pilgrim feet and wagon wheels—held firm. His horses trudged onward, their muscles straining against the incline until, at last, the path leveled before the mountain's top.
Gregarious dismounted, securing his steeds to a gnarled bloodoak (its bark the color of dried veins). Then, with practiced reverence, he dropped to his knees. Fists planted hard against the dirt, head bowed, he murmured the traditional thanks to the Blood Mother—gratitude for the mountain's welcome, for the privilege of bearing its burdens.
As if in answer, the colossal stone doors groaned open. They were carved with the Blood Mother's visage: a towering Demon figure with wings spread like a stormfront, her crowned head gazing down in judgment. The air that rushed out was cold and metallic, like the inside of a ritual chalice.
From the shadows within emerged a Demonoid priest, his crimson robes stitched with black sigils that seemed to writhe in the dim light. Haydric, as he introduced himself, moved with the eerie grace of one who'd spent decades in the mountain's throat.
"You must be Gregarious Illmuth of Abhorrent, son of Agetha."
Gregarious dipped his chin. "Pleased to meet you. Correct—she is my mother."
"Come," Haydric said, already turning back toward the gloom. "Do not forget the spear."
"Yes, right away."
Months of preparation had led to this. Gregarious had strengthened his body, hardened his grip, all for the honor of carrying Kastran's relic. Yet even with the leather strap cinched across his shoulder, the spear's weight threatened to buckle his knees. He hauled it from the wagon, two hands locked around the shaft, muscles trembling as he adjusted the strap with a hop.
"R…ready," he gritted out, sweat already beading at his temples.
The priest glanced back, his eyes glinting like smoldering coals. "Then let us not keep the Blood Mother waiting."
Gregarious crossed the threshold - and immediately collapsed to his knees as an invisible weight crushed down upon him. His vision swam with flashes of crimson as the mountain's aura invaded his mind, flooding him with primal terror, gnawing despair, and the sour taste of impending doom. His fingers clawed at the stone floor, but his arms refused to lift his body.
Haydric's bone-white hand appeared in his wavering vision. "Ah yes," the priest observed calmly, "you haven't received the Blood Mother's gift yet. Those unblessed often find their will... extinguished here." He pressed a small obsidian vial into Gregarious' trembling palm. "Drink. This will grant you enough resistance to continue."
The potion burned like liquid fire going down, its flavor reminiscent of rotting copper and bitter roots. Gregarious gagged but forced it all down. Slowly, the crushing pressure lessened - though his limbs still shook like saplings in a storm.
"It tastes like death," he spat, "and I still feel like the mountain wants to flatten me."
Haydric's lips twitched in something resembling amusement. "The potion is but a candle against the Blood Mother's inferno. Even we who bear her gift feel her presence like stones in our bellies. Now, follow."
Gregarious rose unsteadily, his knees threatening to buckle with each step. The spear's weight, manageable outside, now felt like it was carved from the mountain itself.
As they navigated the torch-lit corridors, Haydric posed a question that cut through Gregarious' suffering: "Do you know why you were chosen for this mission?"
Gregarious adjusted the strap biting into his shoulder. "Not truly. I'd like to think it was for my experience, but..."
"Your skill is noted," Haydric interrupted, "but insufficient reason alone." The priest turned down a branching passage, his robes whispering against the stone. "Kastran owed your late father a blood-debt. With your father's passing, this was how the hero chose to repay it."
Gregarious nearly dropped the spear. "My father knew the Hero Kastran?" His voice echoed too loudly in the sacred halls, drawing glances from passing robed figures.
"All here knew him," Haydric said simply, accepting a torch from an acolyte. The new flame cast dancing shadow-horns on the walls. "In time, you'll understand more."
The corridors teemed with activity - acolytes carrying sacred texts, guards in spiked armor, priests chanting in guttural tones. Yet Gregarious saw none of it, his mind reeling with this revelation about the father he'd barely known.
The torchlight flickered against the ancient walls as they descended deeper into the mountain's belly. The air grew thicker here, carrying the scent of aged stone and something faintly metallic—like old blood trapped in the cracks of the world.
"Do you know the true history of our race, Gregarious?" Haydric's voice echoed strangely in the narrow passage.
Gregarious shifted the spear's weight, his shoulders burning. "Only what they teach in the schools," he admitted. "The Blood Mother's descent, the First Awakening, the—"
"All half-truths wrapped in pretty mythology," the priest interrupted. He paused at an intersection, the flame of his torch guttering as if nervous. "We are descended from humans."
Gregarious nearly stumbled. "That's... impossible to even suggest."
Haydric's chuckle was dry as tomb dust. "And yet here we stand as proof." He gestured forward. "Nine centuries ago, human refugees fled some forgotten cataclysm and settled these slopes. In fear of not being able to defend themselves, they sought weapons. When they mined the mountain, they found their ores and along with them these doors—already ancient, already waiting."