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As Shura watches her attendants begin to set the table for tea, she thinks back to the last Deviculum she attended.
‘The Thirteenth of Betrayal’.
That’s what they’re calling it in The Netherworld. She’s being paying a lot more attention to the news and affairs and politics of the Netherworld ever since everything that transpired that evening. Not for any sense of endangerment on her end—not primarily, at least. No. All the extra attention she’s paying can be credited to a very particular man. Sabnock Baal.
Shura can’t help laughing softly just thinking his name. The attendant closest to her—the one currently setting out different spreads for the scones—gives her a bemused look.
She shakes her head and blooms a flower in her palm. ‘It’s fine’.
The attendant hesitates a moment before nodding his head and turning his attention back to his task.
The hesitation is likely because Shura typically uses her voice to speak to her attendants. Perhaps he’s taking the use of a flower as a sign that not all is well, but is simply accepting the answer out of respect for her privacy. But Shura isn’t lying. It’s simply that her thoughts are putting her in a silly mood, and she doubts she can keep her voice level and controlled with the things running through her mind.
The person running through her mind.
Sabnock Baal.
And again, she laughs, less soft and a touch giddy. This time, however, she ignores her attendant’s concerned gaze. She pulls the tea set closer to herself and begins the process of preparing the tea. As she crushes the dried red hibiscarce petals, she lets her mind wander, sifting through the information she’d recently received from her feelers in The Netherworld and from her own sleuthing.
Sabnock Baal, ‘The Thunder Lord’. Younger brother to Sabnock Sabzan. Uncle of three. He was attractive even in his younger days, when he was still working his way up the ranks on the Southern Frontier and unable to strike a pose that wasn’t at least somewhat awkward. He’s only grown even more attractive with age, like a fine fruit wine. And that attractiveness most definitely runs in the family, judging from the pictures of a younger Sabzan (because Shura will respect the privacy of a man who’s locked himself in his forge and hasn’t made any public appearances in that many years) and from the pictures of his two nephews and his niece.
She’s only seen him in action once, but she’s committed it all to memory. The agility with which he took to the air. The way his crisp white suit stretched and strained against his muscles as he drew his arm back to throw his spear. The grace with which he landed after, a far cry from ruthlessness with which he subjugated the demon rushing Shura just seconds before. The ease with which he took her upon his arm, and how weightless she felt seated there, hand against his chest. The smile on his face, gentle but doing a poor job hiding the feralness that lurked beneath it.
And his eyes. Oh, his eyes.
Shura comes back to herself a little when the ceramic of her bowl, reinforced as it is by numerous priests’ magic, makes a sound of extreme strain. She takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself. Her hold around the bowl loosens, and she looks down to find that the petals have been ground down to a fine powder. Too fine to remain as dregs at the bottom of a teacup, but just fine enough to remain suspended in the tea and cloud its flavour. Clearly she’s not in the right frame of mind for work that needs her to be delicate and focused. She clears her throat quietly, and one of her attendants is at her side in the blink of an eye.
“If you’d please,” Shura says, handing over the ceramic bowl. “Thank you.”
The attendant gives her a bow and makes her way to the kitchens to fetch more petals and crush them in Shura’s stead. It’s unfortunate that she isn’t doing this herself. She understands that the hibiscarce’s magic of endearment is more potent when the one who seeks it is the one who works with it, but she sees no need to serve Baal subpar tea just to achieve that. With nothing to occupy her hands, Shura goes back to staring unseeingly at the variety of snacks spread before her and returns to her thoughts. Where she left off.
Sabnock Baal’s eyes.
Golden. Sharp. Intense in the focus they had on her and only her. Barely containing a wildness, a madness, that Shura has only ever heard of in Harpnus’ and Thoth’s stories of a time before the first Demon King—one she’s only ever read about in pages far older than The Netherworld as it is today. Like he would devour her, given the chance. It’s embarrassing to admit to herself that the thought of having Baal devour her is not unappealing in the slightest.
She does her best to steer her thoughts away from the direction they are heading in. As much as Baal’s appearance, demeanour, and… readily apparent hunger captured Shura’s attention, it’s not the only thing about the man that Shura has taken interest in.
She’s paid some mind to reports on his professional life: one of the more well-known and well-liked members of The Thirteen Crowns, much closer in power to the three greats than to the fresher additions to their ranks. An alumnus of Babyls, and a well-lauded one at that. The research of magical tools flourished under his guidance and withered upon his departure, and it’s revival is a rather recent feat—one that he is not unconnected to, no matter how distant the connection may be.
She’s paid mind to reports on other things too, of course. His other professional life, for instance. The fact that he doesn’t actually use the name Sabnock—a fact linked to he and Sabzan rarely ever speaking, though Shura doesn’t know the specifics of the matter and doesn’t plan to do any digging. The large sums that are transferred from secretly held accounts as untraceably as possible, leading to dead ends. The threads linking him to an organisation that even The Deities pay some attention to: The Demon Reformation Movement.
That last bit of information in particular brings Shura some discomfort. There are very few demons who truly understand Deities. Even The Three Greats, or that one demon who blips in an out of relevance—Mephistopheles, with their greater knowledge of Deities relative to other demons, still do not understand much about their nature. Perhaps it was the nature of the particular Deviculum Shura was invited to attend—a bold plan to announce the joint effort to groom multiple candidates into suitable replacements for the missing, not dead, Demon King. Perhaps it was Shura’s small stature, a choice on her end given that weaker demons—which is most of them, really—would quite literally evaporate were she to bring her full presence to The Lost Lounge. Perhaps it was the fact that Shura was the biggest and most important political piece on the board—the fact that despite everyone in the room being aware of that, they forgot why exactly that was.
The long and short of it is that Shura could have easily disposed of Behemolt, even in her limited guise. Very easily. She sometimes wonders about the genuineness of Baal’s actions, especially when she thinks back to the barrier. The barrier. She knows that beyond Gran, the most common of demonic protective spells, such barriers can only be cast by two bloodlines: descendants of Amy and descendants of Morax.
Baal is neither Amy nor Morax—cannot be either, because he is a Sabnock in all but name, and strong bloodlines do not take well to each other. There’s more to Baal’s feat than the simple desire to save a soul in danger. Much more. And it all starts with the barrier, but that is where it ends for Shura as well. She can hear a voice that sounds suspiciously like Thoth’s telling her to exercise more caution—to follow the facts until the end or until there is sound reason to abandon the effort. Shura has reason to abandon the effort.
‘Sound reason’, says the voice of Thoth in her head.
“Be quiet,” she mutters under her breath.
The nagging voice disappears. Good. However, around Shura, the sound of her attendants moving about quietly grows even quieter. Her face flushes. She would never command more silence from her attendants when they are already doing their best to limit their bustle.
“As you were,” she says, doing her best to keep the embarrassment out of her voice. “My apologies. My request was not directed at you all.”
Everyone goes back to going about their business as usual. Shura’s bowl is set before her once more, this time with the dried petals crushed to a more reasonable size. She checks the time. Just a few more minutes left. Few enough that she can put the tea to steep.
It’s back to her thoughts once that’s done. Her reason. She’s chosen not to pay any attention to the fact that everything might have been a set. She’s chosen not to because… because… with a sigh, she rests her cheek in her palm. She feels her stomach flutter. Because of that feeling. Because Baal dresses up for her, even if she has the suspicion that someone else is handling his wardrobe for him whenever they have their tea parties. Because Baal lets her talk and talk and talk, even if his responses are short and cursory. Because even if it’s just a passing fancy, just infatuation—even if Baal will ask to see less of Shura like she has a feeling he will at some point today—she sees no reason not to enjoy Baal’s attention and company to the fullest while she can.
Shura looks around the garden to find that her attendants have made themselves scarce. A quick glance at the time shows that it’s about two minutes to Baal’s arrival. She rearranges herself in her seat, puts her veil over her face, and tries to contain her excitement as she waits for Baal to step out of the dimensional door. His appearances always feel so—
“Greetings, Princess Shura,” says Baal, stepping out into the garden.
—sudden. It’s only recently that Shura has found it within herself not to startle.
“Baal,” says Princess Shura, joyful. Joy is extremely easy to come by whenever Baal’s smiles at her.
The tea party is like any other they’ve had before, for the most part. Shura offers Baal a new selection of sweet treats, stating like always that she knows he he has a sweet tooth. He denies it, though not overly so, and preemptively excuses his avoidance of anything savoury by claiming that it would be rude not to have what the Princess has provided with him in mind. He takes a sip of the tea and compliments it as usual, though this time she can tell it’s a hit with him from the way his eyes widen ever so slightly, the pleased little hums that follow every sip, and his taking a second cup. He listens as Shura speaks—hums and ‘is that so?’s and ‘I see’s where appropriate.
It’s only as their tea comes to an end that he finally speaks, as opposed to simply responding and reacting. To be quite honest, Shura is surprised that he’s waited as long as he has to say what’s on his mind—what she knows he’d like to say.
“Actually, Princess, I had wished to speak to you,” says Baal.
“I had suspected as much,” says Shura, smiling.
She can’t help smiling—all this has been extremely enjoyable, and she isn’t so resentful a person that she’d hold the start of the end against Baal. She won’t do the spiteful thing and rescind her word-of-mouth support for Baal and any attempt he makes at taking the Demon King’s throne for himself.
“Would you perhaps like to request fewer tea parties? I understand that it can be a bit demanding: meeting with me so often only to listen to me speak and speak, on and on.” Shura really wishes Baal had brought this up while there was still tea to be had. Having something to sip would really help with how awkward it feels to acknowledge that she can be extremely chatty, and how that particular quality of hers might be affecting this arrangement. “I wouldn’t mind it, if that were—”
“Pardon my interruption,” says Baal. He sounds courteous enough and looks truly apologetic about doing so. Shura nods. “My intention was to hand you this.” He places a box, tastefully plain, on the table. He continues to speak as he pushes it to her end of the table. “You have expressed repeated interest in the Netherworld and its culture. Given your garden and your interest in flowers, I though that this would be an appropriate gift to you…”
Baal’s voice trails off, and he watches as Shura carefully takes off the box’s cover to find… she gasps silently as she lifts out the most beautiful vase she’s ever seen in her life. Its body is made of glass, clear and spotless. The glass is raised and stained in the shape of flowers, unidentifiable but beautiful, around the bottom of the vase. On the bottom, in a perfect circle, is a niginigi weed vine-and-leaf pattern alongside an inscription invoking healthy and bounteous growth for anything placed inside the vase. The vase must be artisan-made, maybe by a Stolas or a Strow or by a combined effort of the two bloodlines, given how powerful the magic of it is.
She looks up at Baal, at a loss for words. Her face must convey enough emotion, even through the veil, for him to understand what she’s thinking, because there’s an extremely pleased smile on his face.
“Baal, I…” she feels her cheeks flush. She searches her mind for words to say, and again comes up with nothing.
“Princess Shura,” says Baal, “it’s true that our tea parties are rather frequent. That does not mean that I do not enjoy them or the opportunity they give me to get to know you better.” His smile grows softer, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I especially enjoy your stories, Princess. You have a way of making each word that falls from your lips blossom like a flower, and arranging them such that your sentences are the loveliest of bouquets.”
It feels a lot like the floor has been pulled out from under Shura’s feet. She could levitate above it if she so wished, as if the sudden nothingness under her feet has no affect on her, but in this metaphor she’s falling fast and she isn’t even remotely interested in stopping her descent. She can’t describe the feeling, but she’s sure of one thing: she wants to know more about Baal. Not from the dry reports that she receives from her sources of Netherworld information, or from her own conjecture based on what she herself has found, but from Baal himself.
“Next time,” she tells Baal, “please tell me stories about yourself. As many as you can.”
***
There’s a troubled look on Amduscius’ face as he looks at the massive bouquet the princess sent Baal. The expression’s intensity increases as he continues to look over the bouquet. The rest—Atori, Ocho, and Kirio—wander over, clearly curious about what’s kept Amduscius silent this long. They all watch as Amduscius shuts his eyes. Pinches his brow. Sighs. Intentionally relaxes his shoulders. Then, he turns to Baal very slowly.
“What,” Amduscius says, controlled and quiet, “did you do?”
Baal shrugs, accepting the cigarette Kirio hands him. “Exactly what you told me.”
Amduscius gives Baal The Look™, the one that leaves even Atori fearful for his wellbeing. “Just the vase and the reassurance?”
Baal lights the cigarette and takes his first drag. It’s unfortunate that the taste of the smoke dampens the lingering aftertaste of scones and jam on Baal’s tongue, but definitely worth the way it feels to have that smoke fill his lungs. He holds it there a moment, and gives his response as he exhales.
“Mmhh.”
“…This is a return present for the vase? Just the vase?”
Baal shrugs. “Yeah.”
Amduscius looks at the bouquet again, and his face... see, Baal understands that flowers have meaning. Hell, he knows Paimon and Amaymon can send whole encrypted messages to each other just through their choice of flower and arrangement. He simply isn’t versed in the language of flowers himself—can barely even name what’s in the bouquet beyond the marcabrose, because only an idiot wouldn’t be able to recognise a marcabrose. But surely whatever Shura’s trying to tell him doesn’t warrant the way the furrow in Amduscius’ brow goes from ‘troubled’ to ‘extremely concerned’.
“Hey Poro, why the…?” Atori gestures at Amduscius’ face.
“Yeah, yeah, what’s wr—”
“Shut up!” Amduscius says viciously, cutting Ocho off. He turns to Baal and speaks, this time softer. “Maybe you should cut down the number of d—tea parties.”
Baal takes another drag of his cigarette. “Too late.”
Again, Amduscius looks at the bouquet. He puts his palm to his forehead and drags it down his face. He sounds done with everything when he responds. “Thought as much.”
“Besides,” says Baal, falsely chipper, “what’s the harm in entertaining her until she’s satisfied?”
***