Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Devil Devil Devil
Some gross devils, or things like devils, or just gross things.
Flayed, fallen and charred, feathers half-melted onto its flesh, filthy and flaking off as it becomes covered in calluses and skin tags. Its has teeth, which no bird should have. Eyes like an unseeing milky constellation across its face, neck, and chest.
Extremely knowledgeable about emotions, psychology, and neurology; is able to make a person loved by all by physically extracting ambient bad feelings about them and placing those bad feelings into itself. Kind of an asshole about this talent, demands to be held on high in exchange for its services since it cannot and could not ever fly. Insists that it is The Fuckbird, not merely a Fuckbird.
That Old Time Religion
Pontifex regaled in stories as a gentle guide and storyteller, always offering sympathies and applicable parables to whatever troubles burden a listener. Has never once led a wanderer astray. Instead asks if they would be able to place a nickname upon their companion, a name between friends, a personal signifier that the pontifex can remember in their growing age—there are so many similar names in the world, after all.
They have been doing this for some time now, and have only ten names they need to shed that remain.
Despite the title, this being is not solely a withered pontifex, but can also appear as such: the pontifex regaled in milky robes and holding a candelabra, the goat-priest adorned in woad and untanned skins, shrieking from constant STIs and foodborne parasites; the pilgrim full of pestilence and sunburned flesh, eyes milky and useless; the lamplighter prophet with flame behind their teeth, toes rotten from gangrenous boots.
Valet and majordomo to The Devil Himself, The Betrayer, The Tempter, The Opposition to God. Maintains an underhanded series of contracts with every devil in existence to funnel every single sinning soul towards Hell; this is not to torment them, but to relieve the strain on all the heavens from containing so many virtuous souls. Hell is spacious enough, and the souls are kept sleeping until they may be sent to their just rewards.
May or may not be an actual toad, or every toad in existence that has ever been. Was recently pinned to a tree and is impatient for the nail to rust away so it may continue organizing the dead.
Posted by Hutch Lucke at 6:45 AM