text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, post-apocalyptic, supernatural, anti-hero]
  
  Your fifth candle of the night burns low on your desk. The flame flickers in the cool breeze blowing in through the open window. Outside, you can hear a drunk man singing. On the floor, a half dozen books lay open. Some are taken from the University library, and some darker ones come from your own personal collection.
  
  A boy with curly hair, a pretty face, and a dull personality lays face down in your bed. He's snoring. Already, your interest in him has dwindled into nothingness. You hold a letter from your uncle Jack in your hands, with a broken wax seal depicting the crest of your family.
  
  Nephew,
  
  I hope this letter finds you well. Last week, I ascended Chapel Mount and lit a candle in your parents' name. Such a terrible tragedy, for them both to take ill so young.
  
  I trust your studies at the University are progressing well? You are a man of House Winter, after all; I would expect that you are at least as good as your professors, now.
  
  I'm writing to let you know that I've taken ill, and I expect to die shortly. Do not mourn me, for eternal life awaits me.
  
  Your inheritance is waiting for you at the family estate in Seffonshire. I trust you remember it? You spent so many of your childhood years running through the halls. The journey is perilous and long. You must hire hardy men to reach your destination.
  
  Our suffering in this life is great but it pales in comparison to our reward.
  
  Love,
  
  Your Uncle Jack.
  
  This is the third time you've read it. The words are rich with the promise of adventure, leaving a thrill in your chest each time you read them. You glance at the signet ring on your right hand. The lion stares at you with cool dignity.
  
  In your dreams, you wander through impossible vistas in the shadowed days of antiquity.
  
  > reject your inheritance and pursue greatness on your own.
  No. You've learned too much, and your studies are almost complete. It seems a hideous waste to throw away years of studious dedication to the occult just to claim an inheritance.
  
  You awake the next morning, clutching the letter in your hand. Your companion stirs blearily in his sleep.
  
  "What's going on?" he mumbles.
  
  "Time for you to go," you say. He protests, but with a bit of effort you're able to force him out the door. You turn your attention to the letter, which still seems rich with the promise of adventure. In life, one must be practical, you suppose to yourself. You twist your thumb and forefinger and it catches flame, burning away in a few seconds. As the ash blows out the open window, it's as if the letter never existed at all.
  
  You resolve to recommit yourself to your studies, in the hopes of becoming as proficient an occultist as you can.
  
  Later, you find yourself bored. You are a half hour into a lecture on human anatomy. It is held in a gargantuan lecture theatre and operating hall. The oak floors and carved wood seats lend a certain gravity to the whole affair. In the centre of the room, the professor — a tedious, doddering old man — is dutifully dissecting a corpse. He holds each element of the body up to the light, for his students to appreciate, before dumping it unceremoniously in a bucket with a wet schlop!
  
  Next to you sits one of your peers. She's a plain looking young woman with a recently-shaved head and bags under her eyes. She bears the distinctive pallor that all aspiring occultists at the University bear. You mentally search around for her name. Sarah? No, but something like it. Selina? That sounds more like it.
  
  You glance over at her. She rolls her eyes.
  
  "Fuck this," you mouth. She smiles.
  
  "Can you get me the offal bucket?" she whispers, so softly as to be almost inaudible.
  
  "What do you need the offal bucket for?" you whisper back.
  
  "I'm working on something. Just do it, I'll make it worth your while."
  
  When the tedious lecture ends, you approach the professor, distracting him with a meaningless barrage of questions. He answers slowly, carefully enunciating so as to make himself understood; you understand none of it. He also manages to shower you with a barrage of spit. Selina flashes you a smile as she steals the bucket of meat, and some human blood sloshes on the floor. The old man does not notice.
  
  > fetch the Bucket
  You step outside, into the chilly afternoon air. The buildings of the University are as old as the city itself, and the campus has a way of making one feel small under the eternal gaze of the gargoyles. Selina holds her prize, grinning. "Thanks," she says.
  
  "Don't mention it. What's it for?"
  
  "Some friends and mine, we're working on something that needs a lot of meat. Cheaper to get it here."
  
  "I take it you're not cooking a meal," you say. Suspicion creeps into your voice. Whatever magic ritual is performed secretly and requires buckets of meat, it is probably not sanctioned by the authorities.
  
  Selina smiles guiltily. "You should come join us, tonight," she says.
  
  It's a tempting offer. Your studies have begun to frustrate you, as of late. You are learning much of what you already know, and you are becoming increasingly convinced that the path to arcane mastery does not involve sitting in a classroom.
  
  > say Yes
  "I'd love to," you say.
  
  "Good," she says, "come by the Fits when it gets dark. Go up to the bartender, and ask for me."
  
  You recognize the Fits; a popular short-form for Fits and Starts, a seedy pub frequented by slumming students. "I'll be there."
  
  That night, you don your coat and step out into the rain-slicked streets to make your way to the Fits. Inside the pub is a lively affair, full of drunks in various states of dress. At the tables, men play knucklebones and droughts while women of loose moral fibre hang on their arms. Ale flows like water from a spring. The air is heavy with sweat and vulgarity.
  
  You approach the bar. The bartop is a gargantuan, smooth piece of bone. The bartender is a round man, with an eyepatch, bulging biceps, a tattoo of a harpoon on his neck, and not much of a mind for stereotypes.
  
  "Looking for Selina and the rest," you say. You're not quite sure who "the rest" is, but it seems the right thing to say.
  
  He nods. "Aye, in the back," he says as he jerks his head towards a back door.
  
  "'Preciate it," you say as you head for the back. You step into a basement, and descend some narrow steps. It's dark down here, and the smell of sweat and alcohol fades away and is replaced by the smell of moist stone. You reach a thick stone door, and knock on it three times.
  
  It swings open, and Selina is standing on the other side. She smiles when she sees you, and bids you enter. It's a respectably sized cellar, but all of the casks have been shoved to one side. You recognize some of your peers, lounging on the casks. There's James, a round-faced alchemist-in-training from the year under you; Sarah, a mousy, bespectacled brown-haired girl your age, with a perennially unfinished sleeve of crude-looking tattoos, Selina, and yourself.
  
  In the centre of the room is an empty clay vessel. The outside is adorned with sacred sigils, some of which you recognize; the Ankh of Life, the Talons of the Stranger, and the First Malediction.
  
  "You know your stuff," you say with some admiration.
  
  Selina smiles. "We've been working on this for almost a year, now."
  
  James shifts fidgets nervously. "Are we sure we can tell him what we're working on?"
  
  "You don't have to. You're hosting a demon," you say confidently.
  
  "Bingo," Selina says.
  
  "You're not going to rat us out?" James says.
  
  "Wouldn't be here if I meant to," you say. "What needs doing?"
  
  Selina explains the rest to you. They have all the components, surreptitiously stored in one of the casks (this took a hefty bribe), but needed another competent occultist to actually breathe life into the creature. You and Selina will keep the link to the outer plane stabilized, while Sarah binds it to the group's will, and James keeps its physical form stable. When the ritual is done, if done correctly, the demon will be compelled to answer your questions.
  
  > The Summoning
  There's little time for making friends. You strike while the iron is hot, and begin the laborious process of chanting, conjuring, and above all, dumping prodigious amounts of offal and blood into the vessel. The lights in the room shimmer strangely. The chanting takes on a manic tone after a couple hours. Sweat begins to drip down your forehead.
  
  Something begins to take shape in the clay pot. Meat begins to fuse. First it grows a mouth, then three more, then a few eyes, an ear stalk, and a few appendages you don't recognize. Blood begins to spew from its mouth as the creature vomits the amniotic fluid of its blasphemous womb.
  
  "Something's wrong," James says nervously. His eyes are wide with fear.
  
  You barely mask your contempt as you speak. "Shut the fuck up, and hide your fear better."
  
  Sarah gasps in pain. You can see her visibly struggling to hold up her end of the ritual. Why are you surrounded by such fools? Selina is the only one with enough competence to not endanger you all.
  
  "Why..." the creature whispers. Blood spews from its many mouths as it speaks its first word. "Do... you..."
  
  "The connection is weak," Sarah warns. "I'm holding on as best I can."
  
  "Fuck!" Selina yells. "The dead flesh!"
  
  An idea occurs to you. "Hang on," you say. You step outside the circle, and grab a bung hammer resting on a discarded cask.
  
  "What the fuck are you doing?" Sarah asks. She begins to whimper as the psychic strain grows unbearable. Selina grits her teeth in frustration. Tears begin to stream down James' face. You can see his resolve failing in real time.
  
  You bash James' skull with the wooden hammer with such force that he lurches forward into the cauldron. "In you go, fatty," you hiss as you plant a knee on his back and shove him face-first inside. He screams as his head liquifies and a thousand hands reach out from the vessel, dragging him into the unfathomable depths of the abyss. You can hear his miserable whimpers from a thousand miles away as a fountain of gore erupts from the cauldron.
  
  "What the fuck did you do?" Sarah asks.
  
  "He saved the ritual," Selina says, smiling. She wipes blood off her lips as she stares at you in admiration. "We needed live blood,"
  
  "He killed James!" she protests.
  
  "James was a fat, incompetent fuck. He served his purpose," you say. The cauldron begins to bubble.
  
  A great thing emerges from the unfathomable depths of the portal. It casts off James' gore like a spent cloak as it reveals its terrible forms. Its body is an unfurling spiderweb of eyes and arms; it clutches a sword and a trumpet.
  
  "I am Chn'magoth, the Herald!" its mouths move but its voice appears in your mind.
  
  "Say the fucking words!" you yell at Sarah.
  
  She fumbles with her spellbook. "Chn'magoth, the Herald, hear our words. We have summoned you from the Beyond, and given you new flesh. Accept our offer of blood, give us mastery over life and death, tell us the secret things."
  
  Chn'magoth's teeth chatter as it simmers with incomprehensible irritation. "I am compelled to accept," the ghostly voice says in your mind.
  
  > The Ones who Understand
  Chn'magoth's blessings are as numerous as they are obscene. He teaches you every spell the fools at the University have to offer. You abandon your education, finding it severely lacking compared to the bounty of knowledge you have conjured from the infernal places. Silena matches your enthusiasm. She is a sorceress as skilled in the blasphemous arts as you; you spend hours hurling firebolts at each other, summoning horrors, and learning the secret languages that afford you power over other men.
  
  You take a dozen scholars from the University, and they recruit a dozen more. Soon, you are a body unto yourselves; two hundred souls or so, referring to themselves as the Ones who Understand. You teach your acolytes some of the miraculous truths, but not too many; your primacy must not be challenged.
  
  By happenstance, you recruit a high-level nobleman into your organization, one Viscount Chevernier. He hosts you and your acolytes at his estate. The secrecy afforded by the high walls is good for ones who study the hidden facets of reality..
  
  You stand at centre stage in a grand theatre. Chevernier was once a great sponsor of the arts, but you now use it as a lecture hall, where you disseminate what Chn'magoth tells you. Your breast swells with pride as you see your students in attendance; they stare at you with rapt attention underneath the theatre lights. Good. Let them admire your superior knowledge.
  
  The sacrifice writhes under his magical constraints. It's the same imbecile you slept with, in what feels like another night; luring him into an alley was trivially easy. Such was his profound ignorance that he barely even noticed when you put the rag over his mouth, before unceremoniously stuffing him into the back of a carriage.
  
  "With the right application of the Secret Words, you can defy even Death himself!" you say confidently. Your audience cheers as you draw an ornate broadsword with the practiced grace of a circus ringmaster. You behead him in one stroke. His severed head screams wordlessly as you trap his soul in the body, preventing his flight to the Underworld. Your students politely clap as you brandish it to the audience.
  
  You look into the head's eyes as it mouths a plea for mercy. You toss it on the floor for someone to clean up, before deciding to retire to your chambers.
  
  You retire to your chambers. Silena is there, lounging in a chair, leafing through your notes. Her hair has grown out a bit, and you have finally managed to talk her into wearing makeup and finer clothing. "It is simply not appropriate for an acolyte of Chn'magoth to look like a spinster," you repeatedly said.
  
  "Good demonstration?" she asks.
  
  "Yes," you say, a little suspiciously. You're not sure why she's in your room, but you feel reflexively irritated at her going through your notes.
  
  "Chn'magoth isn't happy," she says.
  
  "He's never happy. I gave him a whole arm the other day, what's wrong with him now?"
  
  "He wants to expand our operation," she says. Silena snaps her finger. A mummified corpse, animated with elder magic, shuffles into the room. It's still wearing the spectacles it wore in life. "Sarah, show us the meeting I had with Chn'magoth."
  
  Sarah opens her mouth and doubles over. She begins to retch.
  
  "Get a fucking tray!" you bark. Sarah grabs a discarded platter, and vomits blood into it. A second later, the blood begins to shift, granting you a view of a past event, ripped from Sarah's memories. The images are faintly distorted, like a moving oil painting.
  
  You see Chn'magoth's hideous form, standing opposite to Silena.
  
  "You must take control," the demon croons. "Kill the other one, and offer me his soul. Then, I shall teach you the final mysteries, and this plane can be ours."
  
  "I'll think of it," Memory-Silena says. The blood-memory ends.
  
  "That's a tempting offer," you say. "Why didn't you take it?"
  
  "You're not bad at what you do," she says with a smile. "Not great, but not bad."
  
  "Appreciate the compliment," you say.
  
  "Besides, I like having you around."
  
  You think about this, for a moment.
  
  > betray Selina and Offer her to Chn'magoth
  You lean forward and tenderly kiss Selina. She's startled, but soon leans in and wraps her hands around your head. You slide a hand around the nape of her neck. She gasps as a claw protrudes from your finger, neatly severing her spinal cord. She falls to the ground as blood begins to spill from her lips.
  
  "Not so fast," you say. You trap her soul in her body, trapping her in a state of undeath.
  
  She stares at you. Her lips can't move, but her eyes are full of unconcealed hatred. You chop her head off and hand it to Sarah. "Be a dear and carry this for me."
  
  With your undead butler in tow, you bring Selina's severed, but very much alive, head to Chn'mgoath's cell. His physical form is rotten and emaciated, and no amount of sacrifice seems to be able to restore his health.
  
  "Chn'mgoath, I offer you the soul of the most powerful sorcerer I could find. Take this gift, restore it, and teach me your final mysteries."
  
  He scuttles over on his many-jointed limbs. He is emaciated, and his dozens of eyes are aflame with the hunger of an addict in need of a fix. You twist your hand, and the bars of his cell vanish. You toss him the head.
  
  He digs out her eyes and scoops out her brain, smearing himself greedily in the meat. Then, he places three hands on her ravaged skull, and sucks the soul from the meat. You watch in fascination as he grows plump, like a mosquito filled with blood.
  
  "Very good," he says. "You have done well, my child."
  
  "Teach me the final mystery," you say, having tired of supplication and formality.
  
  "Very well," Chn'mgoath says, "I shall honour our bargain. Drink of my blood, and you shall have power like me."
  
  He slits one of his wrists with a fang, and offers it to you. You gag as you press your lips to his fetid veins, and drink of his eldritch blood. You fight the urge to vomit.
  
  "What's changed?" you ask.
  
  "You may feast on souls, as I do," he says.
  
  "Interesting," you say.
  
  He does not have time to respond before you leap on him. You grow fangs and arms and legs and wings as you tear the demon to pieces, gorging yourself both on his meat and every soul he has ever absorbed. When he is dead and in pieces, you admire your reflection in the puddle of blood on the floor. You gaze upon your venom sacks, your hooves, your horns, and your forked tongue. You find yourself to be beautiful and terrible.
  
  You cackle in delight as you leap into the air, punching a hole through the ceiling, and flying off into the night.