Transmutatio Infernalis
Hey there! Long time no see!
Sorry about my absence for the past like, two months. School and work both have been hell. However, I finally had some time during the winter break to sit down and write again, so here's something I had in the works for a while! For @kwillow as always.
After what felt like an eternity of cruel torment, it appears Comte DeLuxe's story comes to a bitter end... Or, perhaps, there is a new beginning for both him AND his tormentor! Be wary, though, it involves lots of magic and even potentially some GAY content (gasp)!
// CW: Mental and Physical Anguish, Torture, Bloodletting, Despair, Satanic Imagery, Death.
Cold. It’s so cold this time around. Usually in October, this far south, the sun shines and shimmers even way during the month’s end. Yet, the gloomy, gray sky with moist, chiseling snow dropped heavier than shackles on a prisoner’s ankles. The harsh, rocky terrain did not go easy on a prisoner’s gilded hooves, either, as the captive himself stumbled and limped through snow-capped rocks and roots of olive trees. And as he trudged through torturous, slippery soil and gravel, the prisoner chuffed and moaned through the gilded muzzle, bestowed upon him akin to a crown - encrusted with runes for “protection,” no doubt. There is nothing but a while gown marked in runes of sangue on the prisoner - so the cold shudders eventually get to him, and so he falls again.
The Hierophant posing as the Good Shepherd leads his Sacrificial Lamb to slaughter… Or worse.
It happened on the outskirts of a boreal desert. Comte DeLuxe was deceived and pushed into the heart of Killinger territory. Back in the olden days, Mortimer’s family served as advisors to the Basileus, so they were granted a tiny, yet most privileged estate - quite close to the Holy Mount, no less. One really could wonder how such a noble bloodline got lost in foul sorcery and hedonism, but that’s too big a rabbit hole for anyone to explore. Even the Killinger heir, himself. But that’s besides the point! What matters is - the old Killinger estate is quite nearby, abandoned and ripe with energy for Mortimer’s ritual to commence.
Ambroys’s leash clicked and clanked against the muzzle as he was shoved and tugged on it by Mortimer’s gloved hand. “Come on then, your gait is lacking!” he grumbled, impatiently yet encouragingly. The wizard-doctor’s hide-booted paws hurried atop a rolling hill. Perhaps he’s gone too fast - there’s a muffled “Oomf!” following suit. Oh Heavens, another bruise on the old count’s kneecap. All the more disappointment is added to the fat cat’s pouting face. Mortimer slowly turned around and gazed down upon Ambroys, with utmost contempt in his eyes. Ambroys, in turn, didn’t dare look up, shuddering and sniffling like a stray dog.
“…You were right. I should have left some more spirit in you,” Mortimer said then, “You’re too weak to run, to walk, or even curse me. What a waste.”
Something within Ambroys still boiled and threatened to pour over. His pride, his poor, insulted pride got him back on his feet in an instant. The potion’s effects are wearing off. His halo flickers and tries to form. The glorious, angelic donkey prepares to use his horn to pierce the wizard’s heart, and finally free himself of bondage with sheer strength and passion!
…Yet all he gets in turn is an awkward stumble forth. The fat cat’s leash be damned! And, to add more injury to insult, Mortimer suddenly bent up, then down. His leg was raised, and the heel of his boot urged Ambroys to fall further. Harder. Painfully so. The joints popped on that aging noble-pony, and a muffled, pained yowl soon followed. The warlock ground the hard iron heel into his face, then went back to clacking along the rocks with speed Ambroys could never hope to catch up with.
“Told you,” he said, “You’re pathetic, Your Grace. Nothing screams of helplessness more than your raging and bickering. And yet, it entertains me so… Keep walking, lest you want me to geld you before my lords and saviors.”
And Ambroys followed. Chuffing, Comte DeLuxe was nearly brought to tears with the pain in his guts and on his face, his shackled wrists reached up to wipe the salty wet and soot off the latter. Thus, the stumbling continued at an increased pace, with increased proneness to frostbite and injury. This was no spot to collapse again. And so, Ambroys no longer walks out of fear or out of pride - he walks out of sheer spite for the second wizard that screwed his life over.
Those pesky wizards… How did he even get here? What WAS the cause of such a tragic downfall? Hyden. It must be Hyden’s game all over again, the pony thought, grumbled, professed. Yet, there isn’t a Hyden to be seen around here, so he refuses to acknowledge Mortimer’s power over him - even after several months of mocking captivity in one’s own home. It was time to continue the path “home”, however. No room for thought. The unicorn stumbled forth, and, at last - the two found a clearing on the steep cliff they climbed, below which there was nothing but cold, dark saltwater.
A house stood on that cliff, too. An old, rugged manor of brick and mortar - so little wood it almost felt like a cave, both within and without. Broken columns surrounded the outer courtyard, while a tiny stone chapel was juxtaposed to the abandoned manor. However, the first Killinger estate isn’t as abandoned as it would seem upon first glance: Eight servants in all-black, save for their neckerchiefs, slowly come out through the front door’s dark portal. All carried a dagger of silver and a big torch of sweet sage. Once their hoods of sangue and soot were lowered down, it’s clear to Ambroys that most of them are dogs. The bigger ones are twice Mortimer’s size, and yet they wordlessly follow his gestures and directions. Frightening beasts, yet still servile to the core… Disgusting.
Ambroys’s muzzle and shackles were, at last, undone. Truth be told, they were there only as ballast and cheap tools of Mortimer’s entertainment. There was no need to restrain the once-shimmering, haughty unicorn. His weak state was going to be his downfall - and he wouldn’t run a hundred meters even if he put his mind to it. Mortimer also bestowed the honor upon himself to do this, so that he could wrap his grabby paws around Ambroys’s malnourished waist and snatch him by it. How sweet of him.
Everything was prepared for the ritual. Way in advance. There are three magical circles forming a target around the rotund, heavy altar of Roman concrete. Some evidently tried to turn it into a fountain of sorts, but failed miserably at doing so. Within the magical circles, there were plenty of runes and symbols etched. Inscriptions in old tongues, scriptures going from left to right and right to left, akin to snakes eating their own tail. And by each column, there was a mark - the four cardinal directions, and the adjacent directions with them. Trails for liquid were placed right where the servants stood, and they led directly to the multiple circles etched into stone.
Now, this was a sight as grim as any. Still - Ambroys tried to be courageous in the face of the enemy… And he failed at it miserably:
“I ah, I still haven’t figured out why you’re so obsessed with me, Witch,” he finally spoke, panting yet smirking.
Mortimer stopped in his tracks. The whole preparation process stopped, in fact. The fat cat’s ears flickered as his eyes trailed down to gaze upon the grinning prey. “Really? Give me a rundown of ideas, then,” The “Witch” inquired, as the celestial bastard started chortling.
Ambroys laughed in Mortimer’s face, perhaps out of fear and desperation. The frail, drained unicorn’s grin missed a tooth or two, but it was still there, mocking the warlock’s efforts at breaking him down. Because of one reason he states after the fit ends:
“Heheh! Heh… Well it could be anything with you, really! Spirit of competition? Some sick need for validation? Ph- Perhaps some, some utterly perverse sexual gratification out of making me suffer?!”
A confounded silence followed. Mortimer’s face was unimpressed with such blatant accusations. Yet, this is all Ambroys had. Perhaps embarrassing him in front of his servants was the only way of getting back at him, now that the warlock’s achieved nigh absolute power over the celestial halfblood.
“…Interesting. But what makes you think about that last bit, though?” Mortimer inquired some more, moving in closer and leaning over the prostrated unicorn.
“You make it obvious with your flamboyance and gests, you idiot,” Ambroys snarled in turn.
“Oh, is that so? If that would of been the case, dear Ambroys, it wouldn’t be wrong of me to claim you’re the most decadent, frilly little fruit for all Uranians wherever you go,” Morty replied then, “Have you seen the way you dress? Gest? Speak? Compared to you, Amby, I am but a humble romantic in search of a little fun~”
“So you DO admit you’re a homosexual?! I knew it!” Ambroys got even more accusatory, now, and pointed his lithe finger at Mortimer looming above. The cat, on the other hand, rolled his eyes and gently pushed the hand away.
After a long, winded sigh - Mortimer felt like his actions deserved an explanation. It’s something akin to a confession during the saint’s last supper: “…Why yes. You’re right. I am gay, Ambroys. But I’m certainly not gay for you. And I’ve no need for gratification - you serve no purpose but being my current target and sacrifice, and, well... Ahem. Because, while you might have some attractive qualities, and a rich, vapid taste in garments - it’s not what I am after. For me, you’re nothing but a means to an end. A tool I have used to get a cushy resting place for a month, and will use to finally bring a good friend of mine here. The last droplets of your blood, your sweat, your tears, your everything are what I’m after. Nothing more, and nothing less.”
“But… What of the torment? What of the passion you have demonstrated? Wh- What about your stupid, disgusting means of seeking MY approval through “healing” me?! What was all that for?!” Ambroys yelled, rising back to his hooves and shaking his fists.
Now it’s time for Mortimer to smile and chuckle: “Ahh, the torment… Nothing but cheap entertainment, really. I don’t hate you, Amby. I don’t love you and I don’t hate you, I just don’t… Have any strong feelings for you. There isn’t anything of worth in my connections to you, besides your flesh and blood of course. Evidently I don’t need your money to support myself, and - I don’t need your company. It’s you who wants to live the life of a rich lordling, deceiving others into believing you have a modicum of nobility, and yet…”
“But you… You… Liked, me. You did, I- I saw your dirty little diaries, I…” Ambroys stammered then, and then some. His fists were clutched so tight tiny specks of his golden blood rushed down the fingertips - the sharp, overgrown nails dug in too deeply. Shocked, baffled, and angered to the core, he was juxtaposed to a calm and calculating cat right before him. Mind you, the guards were ready to tear the pissy prissy pony apart for such strong words and yowling, but Mortimer gave each a command to standby. After all, it was his mess to handle.
Mortimer nodded, and spoke of the events long gone rather somberly: “That you did. A long time ago. I’ve simply grown out of it, Amby, and you should have, too. I don’t have too many attractions to the material plain, as you might have noticed. The riches come and go, so - I don’t need some fop to mooch off of me for the rest of my days here. Sorry, not-sorry.”
“Quit your bullshit, Killinger!!!” Ambroys yowled, on the verge of tears, “You did all of this to me only because you were bitter I never liked you! YOU liked me first! It was YOU!!!”
“Stop humiliating yourself,” Mortimer replied, “You’re b- Well, actually - no. You aren’t better than this. What are you going to-”
Fall down and bang his fists on the floor. This is exactly what Ambroys did. His halo flared up and flickered, quite weakly so, as his words grew incoherent and his face was blinded with rage and tears. Clearly, the cat’s had enough of that bickering, so he calmly walked up to the tantrum-ridden unicorn, and smashed his heel into his liver. That finally caused the celestial to quiet down and hungrily gasp for air, his still-teary eyes flickering up in more blind rage. Mortimer, on the other hand, was cold and hateful in his eyes, as he loomed over the poor thing once more and growled over his floppy ears:
“Would someone that loved you even for a second do THIS to you? Quit struggling and prolonging the inevitable, you stupid, vain, ugly, good-for-nothing Piggybank of an ass…”
These words hurt. Physically and mentally. Ambroys sobbed and tried to get up, but couldn’t. Mortimer’s face grimaced in suppressed anger and disgust, as he nodded to his servants. And thus, they carried something heavy out of the abandoned manor. A pole of wood with another log nailed to it, whilst more and more nails soon made it out to the rune-covered flooring. The ritual was nearly prepared, and so - Ambroys finally gave up on his attempts to stop it. The pony finally sat still and silent as Mortimer proclaimed “NAIL HIM!” With a voice loud as thunder. There was no stopping as to what was coming, but hey… perhaps there will be some relief soon to come.
As the brutes brought Ambroys to his back, Mortimer tossed his hood away and revealed his full ceremonial outfit: The all-black cloak was folded and thrown elsewhere, and thus revealed a sleek robe of harsh cotton and wool - all painted black and crimson. The seal of some infernal beast was present on Mortimer’s chest, welded into a copper medallion. It was polished. Prepared. Glistening and steaming from the temperature contained within. Shining, shimmering boots with pointed heels seem to grow all the shinier, too. Falling snow thaws within the circle, even as the blizzard starts to get stronger. Something about this whole place is dry, filled with death. Uncomfortable. One could even say disgustingly-warm. It’s clear - there is a summoning the wizard has planned, and most certainly an infernal one:
The unicorn’s weak, limp body was then carried off to the cross by two hounds at the front. Mortimer was too busy adding logs to the fire by the circle’s east. The cross was put on the opposite side - the circle’s very western border. And so the hammers did their harrowing deed - causing the shimmering unicorn to scream in utter agony, as the three nails of wrought iron caught both his wrists and his crossed ankles, thoroughly nailing him to the logs of smoked sandalwood. There was no use in pleading or crying anymore - not that Ambroys had any more tears left in him. Either way, the wrought iron is already set, and rust starts running down his bloodstream…
That wasn’t the only damage done. There would be no mercy - no single slit to the throat, no. Instead, Mortimer personally came over, and, smiling from ear to ear - slit both his wrists with an aluminum knife. Ambroys stared right into his glowing coals for eyes, defiant to the very bitter end. Mortimer let the pain of a wound that couldn’t regenerate seep through, causing the angelic creature to gasp and call unto its father’s name. In spite of his defiance, however - the summoner knew just how to break his victim. And so, the last thing that broke Ambroys in two was a deep, disgustingly-squelchy stab in between the ribs, right by the left.
There wasn’t anything human about the felinid looming above the prostrated unicorn. That smile had a dozen teeth too many to be human, all of them fangs. Serpentine tongue slithering in between them, almost chomped off and drawing blood. And the eyes indicated nothing but infernal joy over yet another soul being brought down to its inexistence. With that last look before departure, Killinger stepped back, and a mere step later - Comte Ambroys DeLuxe was crucified. Hoisted above ground as he bled, and the droplets of gilded sangue befell the soil marked with someone’s seal. Someone powerful, no doubt… Yet not as powerful as one could presume.
As Ambroys struggled to stay awake, moaning and screaming his gargling lungs out, the flames in the pyre opposing him burst high into the sky - and the summoned revealed himself unto others, much to the Count’s horror: A period-piece straight from the Wild West appeared in the center of the circle. A leopard, no less than eight feet tall, in a cowboy get-go of red, brown and gold. His boots’ heels clacked against burning-hot stone as he got up onto his feet and gave each of the hounds a disgusted look with his amber eyes, whilst the whole of his body was still coated in smoke. Grinning and clearly overwhelmed, Mortimer dropped to his knees and kissed the seal resting by his neck:
“Ganic Tasa Fubin, Flauros! Ganic Tasa Fubin…”
Ambroys was horrified. He never knew his blood, pure and clean, could be used for purposes so nefarious. Well - he did, he simply never saw it. Because unlike Killinger, Hyden had the decency to never harrow his trusted blood donor. Now, the disgraced celestial could see and feel the true potential of angelic blood - as an infernal creature stood right before him, staring Killinger and his servants down for a long, tense moment. Everyone fell quiet besides Mortimer, who went on with his enns and praises until what looked like a bounty hunter loomed directly over him. The tiger then spits off to the side, and lowers himself down to one knee:
“Why. The fuck. Did you bring me back to this shithole?”
That question rumbled across the field with thunderous volume, as the summoned contract killer’s voice roared in proper feline fashion. Even Mortimer looked a little flabbergasted - but not nearly as pissed-off as Flauros, himself. When the bigger cat took a look around, his flaming gaze focused on Ambroys. For once, amidst all the surrounding bastards - he felt a bit of… Empathy? Towards him in particular? It couldn’t be - a damned demon was more invested in his health than anyone else surrounding him. “...We’ll talk in a moment,” he said then, growling next to the wizard’s ear, “For now - take this poor creature down, at least!”
The hench-dogs looked rather confused as to who they should listen. Disappointed and desperate to suppress his own anger, Mortimer nodded, replying: “Well - you’ve heard the man. Take that… “Poor creature,” down from the cross. And don’t forget about the nails, or they’ll end up in your wrists, instead!”
With all that said - Killinger and Flauros walked together in a tense silence, while the wizard’s servants got to mounting Ambroys down. By this point, he was left entirely unconscious, and seemingly losing his breath with every strained huff. With a common shrug amongst the remaining hounds, they pulled the cross down, the nails out, and quickly dispersed from the lodge, leaving the dying unicorn to rest in the slowly-pouring rain…
***
“GAGH!!!” - A loud, gurgling grunt yowled past Mortimer’s lips. A kick to his gut, then another directly to his chest, incapacitated the whole of his breathing. To say Flauros was furious with his sudden summoning would be a grave understatement.
“You annoying, pestering, fffucking bookworm,” Flauros growled at the panting cat, “I told you not to kill in my sake on the grounds again. I fucking told you, several times, and you did it again!”
“I h-had good reason for it,” Mortimer stammered, “Flauros, listen to me, I had a damn good re-EGHRNGhh…” - another kick to the spleen left the mage coughing and sputtering, almost to the point of actually drawing blood. There was no threat like a demon scorned, and even though Flauros was enraged - he still tried to listen:
“Really? What good reason?” he inquired, “Name one good fucking reason for killing another halfblood celestial in front of everyone. Sure. Enlighten me.”
For a moment - one could see true fear and uncertainty in Mort’s eyes. Something so-very rare nowadays, even his older henchmen couldn’t recall a moment like this. Yet, he spoke like a complete coward, with his voice growing shaky in Flauros’s presence: “H… Heyyy, Flauros, you ought to relax a lil’ bit! Chill, Mr. Danger - I think I finally have a proper trail to Hyden! This mutt I brought over for ya? He’s got a real lea- ACKhh… GaACKhh…”
As soon as talk of Hyden resurfaced - Flauros simply grabbed Mortimer by the neck and made sure the fire from his palms licked at the flesh underneath, his squeeze utterly merciless.
“I told you, Killinger - I told you,” Flauros snarled, “To put that damned wizard’s name off your TONGUE! Three hundred years ago I told you so, kept telling you so until this moment, and I’m telling you so now. Shut UP, about Hyden, he is GONE!!! Stop killing in my name for something that doesn’t exist!!!”
“But I didn’t do anything in your name!” Mortimer warbled some through the tight grip, “All I gh- did was t-try and find more clues, more leads, and I finally found proof that he still exists!-”
“Killinger…” The bounty hunter sighed, and let go of the hopeless fool. Flauros then took a pause to pinch at his nose and cool his senses off - this was his patron overground, after all. “...I don’t care about your passion for Lord Hyden. I really do not. You must understand. I only care about the fact you kill celestials, halfbloods or not, so fucking overtly.”
Oh, Mortimer wasn’t too happy to hear about that. So, his tail swayed, and his own coatrims caught fire as he angrily stepped past Flauros. “Really? You don’t care?” he said, “While I do understand why, I don’t understand why you never bother to look deeper into this issue.”
“What other issue is there, besides YOU committin’ bloody murder of the blessed?! Murder, that attracts attention to ME?!” Flauros snapped, “All you do is meant for your own gain, no matter how many of your employees, co-workers, friends, family you have to step over the heads of. I will NOT be that guy, Killinger - I will NOT get smited just ‘cause YOU wanted to meet your stupid fuckin’ sensei!!!”
The smaller cat could only roll his eyes, as the leopard fluttered and fumed right behind him. “If you feel like you aren’t cut out for the job, we can end it there and I’ll find someone else,” Mort said, “Though it would be a shame - never thought Flauros the Kinslayer of all creatures would be willing to break contract. Over a few bodies, no less.”
“Look, Killinger,” Flauros snapped, “All I’m saying is - you should summon me for more important matters than jus’ some ghost-huntin’. I care about my own safety first, but also about yours. Haven’t you ever thought it might be dangerous for a Sylvanian t’provoke the higher powers so much? No, seriously…” Flauros then stepped forward. Cooling off a tad, he squatted down in front of Mortimer and placed both hands on his shoulders, staring him down intently: “...You sure you ain’t goin’ mad? Cause the Baron Killjoy I know would never.”
At long last, the two of them have come to their senses. With Mortimer’s eyes dashing over to the altar hill, he simply trailed off for a good while.
“...No. I don’t think I am going crazy - in fact, I’ve always been a bit of an obsessed loon,” Mortimer said then, hushing his voice down and returning to his mercenary, “But I knew DeLuxe. He had a strong, strong connection to Hyden. Stronger than I ever did. I summoned you here just so you could try and track him down. Please, Flauros, just this once - take a whiff…”
It was rather unusual to hear Mortimer beg for something, for he nearly-never does. That caused the spotted bounty hunter to raise a flaming-red brow, only for the smaller witch-cat to pull out a fanciful rug stained in Celestial blood. A few seconds of pondering passed, and so - with eyes closed and heavy chest heaving steam - Flauros took Ambroys’s soaked neckerchief.
“I swear by my titles and fortune, Killinger - if this is another ruse, our contract is void,” he said then, bringing the silky rag up close. The leopard first took a whiff of it, then - licked over the traces of blood, dried and wet, left on top of it. Muttering something under his breath, Flauros snapped his head elsewhere - so much so it crackled in a gut-wrenching snap. The whole body of his was soon to turn in the direction opposing the altar hill:
“Northeast,” he said, “I sense a strong, yet contained, magical presence there. Far, as far as one can go, but it’s there… Smells of, hold on… Rabbit.”
“See?! I told you, this hunt is going to be one of my last! I’m almost at my goal!” Mortimer beamed and bellowed right after Flauros’s analysis, “Come, come with me, we are heading out now!”
And so, the fat cat started rushing back up the hill, with the bounty hunter slowly trailing behind him. “You know there could be more than one wizard who just happens to be a rabbit, right?” Flauros said, only for Mortimer to turn and snap back:
“Why yes, but there’s only one DeLuxe spent lots of time with, and only one who could give off a trail so potent… So lively now, I’m getting my cart as soon as we get upstairs!”
Baron Killinger was in a hurry like no other. He didn’t even care about the altar any longer - he won’t be here to witness Ambroys be thrown off or buried, anyway. Flauros, grumbling under his breath, rushed to the front and lead the way. With his getaway vehicle already prepared, Mortimer quickly planted himself within and let Flauros handle the directions, leaving his henchmen to do the rest of the work on their own! The bounty hunter, naturally, didn’t share the same passion, but if rescuing someone Killinger admired meant a big payday for him, well… He can at least pretend to care about earthly things for a short while. And so they were off, in such haste the clouds of dust covered nearly the entire place of sacrifice. With the Comte’s cross pulled down, there was nothing left to do, besides get rid of him…
…With that out of the way, it seems the yearning student caught onto his teacher’s distant trail.
***
“So, boys - what da HELL do we do wit’ dis thing?” One henchmen asked the other, as more and more dogs piled around the body of a barely-breathing unicorn. Taken off the cross, it disassembled and used for parts, all that remained as the evidence of crime was Ambroys, himself. Lost in thought, or lack thereof, the big dogs looked between one another as the disgusting, near-death gurgles of a man soon to fall into the depths of Hades. An unbearable sight at best, with the arms slit and the face falling limp, Killinger’s houndish henchmen started to scram.
“I asked, what do we DO?!”
“J-Just leave ‘im there, no one comes ‘round here anyway!”
“Nah, nah, get the fuggin gasoline, we can’t let anyone-”
“Drop that cunt down th’ ditch an’ be done with it, I wanna go home an’ have a smoke already!”
“Y’know what? Dat’s a good idea!”
“Yeah!”
“Yeah. Down th’ ditch it is…”
Ambroys… Tried to shake his head, in a last-ditch effort to protest his seemingly-inevitable fate. His spine and lungs hurt too much to budge more than an inch, however, so, grimacing, he was forced to lay limp and continue bleeding out on the scorched field of sacrifice. New tears found themselves running down his cheeks, with his face losing color and his mind losing its grip on reality. This whole ordeal was already beyond-humiliating, but… Oh Father Almighty, is he really going to be tossed down a cliff by these oafs?! No, this cannot be!
“Nghrnhh… Rn-RNHGHNHHRNHH- Nghoohh! NghhRNHOHH yghooh fghrrnghh!!!” - the fanciful pony bellowed through grit teeth and the last seconds of rage he could possibly ever experience. However, the pressure was too much. His wounds squirted more of that precious sanguine fluid out, and soon, he started to drift into sleep, right as his wrists were grabbed and the meatheads laughed at his misfortune. Not for long, however, will they laugh, as, through the veil of death-slumber - Count DeLuxe heard profanity and the same disgusting gurgles. Hot, slimy fluid rushed itself over his stripped frame, yet it wasn’t just rain. Rain could not of been slimy, not in these arid parts, no…
Surely it must be someone’s blood. A hound’s blood.
With all the forces he had at the moment, Ambroys opened his eyes, and saw a hooded figure slice and gut Mortimer’s hench-dogs, one by one. The clacks of jaws indicated canine origins of his sudden savior, as well. He… Couldn’t see too clearly, as his eyes started rolling back and more blood splattered all across him. With all the threats now either gone or limping and gurgling, Comte DeLuxe’s guardian angel turned out to be nothing but some small, thin, yet rather fit dog, with his muzzle barely sticking out of his cloak’s hood. Too weak to say or do anything, Ambroys laid there, barely bleeding at this point… And that’s when things started to get really weird:
“Adoni, atama ki’ire tama ava’akim ve ke sakha to no cheloh,” The dog spoke in an unknown tongue, yet in spite of his senses signing off - Ambroys could hear every word of it. Something about it seemed so pure, yet so… Disturbing. Nothing good came of it in the long run, and yet - there was no more pain in his wrists and forearms, as they itched more than ivy and started to spasm. Ambroys’s chest burnt as the mysterious dog placed his arms onto it, even leaving proper red marks once he withdrew them and raised his frame to look to the northeast. “Ten lolah ku’um, Adonai! Ten lolah ke’mariim, Adonai!” - the hound continued to bellow and violently toss his arms to the northeast, bowing and kneeling and then jumping back up, until Ambroys felt a mysterious, foreign force pull him back up, and…
He gasped himself back into consciousness.
“GAAH!- G-Get away! Get away from me!!!” Ambroys yelled at the top of his lungs, stirring awake and lucid, utterly terrified and freezing-cold due to the rain. Staring upward, he soon found his sudden savior walk among the corpses of his kin, only to take his hood and cloak down to reveal himself:
Ambroys was right - his savior was a dog. Most definitely a dachshund, judging by his rather distinct height and spread of body mass. He looked prim, proper and noble, with a sapphire-blue waistcoat hugging rather tightly around a crisp-white shirt and a black neckerchief wrapped just as taut about his neck. His beige breeches were, no doubt, made of the finest material - so was his tailed greatcoat, hanging rather loosely on one ornate silver button. Goodness, there’s quite a lot of jewelry about him for someone stranded so far away from his presumed home! Even his boots’ belt buckles appear to be made of silver or cobalt instead of brass.
The hound’s fur contrasts greatly with his cool outfit, however - as a warm beige domineers over his short, plush fur, with a longer “mane” stylized as hair being a hot redwood ginger. Darker circles over his eyes and black nose also indicated for spots of interest, and lastly - the warm, trustworthy, russet-brown eyes stared directly downward, the patron’s gloved hands soon planted directly on the blood-soaked ground just to move in closer to the pony at hand.
“It’s okay, Your Eminence - it’s okay, you’re okay, now,” the hound spoke, his voice mellow and soothing. He tried to get to Amroys at a face’s reach, yet the unicorn stumbled back in terror.
“Wh- Who are you? Who hired you? A-Are you here to put me back on the gurney?! Answer me!” the Count snapped, over and over again, until the dog silently raised his hand and explained himself:
“Your Eminence, I’m… My name is Douglas. Douglas Dollopworth. I, too, am Sylvanian nobility, more recently promoted than your house, and I’m here to help you. In fact, I believe I’ve saved you from the-”
“Shut up!!! Shut up, I get it!” Ambroys bellowed again, as Douglas rose with a quiet “Yes Your Eminence.” Wobbling and trembling, the horse - yes, horse - got back onto his hooves, and looked downward - only to witness his horrifying reflection: Above him, there was no halo. Nothing, indeed. His hair, of gold and silver, simply turned to a dull, shimmering steel and a harrowing ashen-grey where gold once used to be. His face - sagged, with twice the wrinkles adorning it, alongside much, much darger bags under his eyes, and his spine suddenly no longer able to support his weight as much. Ambroys slouched, and touched his face repeatedly in utter horror at what has become of him.
“What… Where… Wh-Where is it? Where’s the halo, the, the essence, the… Where are my powers?!” Ambroys wailed, so much that his voice returned a couple of times from the hills nearby. Douglas did not answer, at first. The Count’s eyes flicked between his reflection and the hound that “saved” him, absolute terror evolving into soul-scorching despair. More tears soon fell down the olden pony’s cheeks, with the whole of his face blanking out before a set of screechy, broken wails echoed across the hills once more.
Ambroys knelt. He knelt before his scarred, aged, disgusting reflection, demonstrating and reminding him with every passing second that he was now a mortal. He couldn’t look, he couldn’t face the facts, so instead the once-unicorn rolled on the ground and brayed in unabashed hysteria. Then, after the initial panic had set in - Ambroys hyperventilated, his chest heaving so much his heart looked like it was ready to jump out. Eyes wide and rabid, he soon turned to the edge of the cliff, slowly starting to crawl toward it… Only for the dachshund to swiftly catch him and wrap his arms around him, with surprising strength and tightness at that.
“L-Let me go, I cannot, I- I cannot exist like this-” Ambroys stammered, only for Douglas to hus him up:
“Y-Your Eminence, you simply cannot do that! Your existence is a detriment to solitude!”
“What does it matter if I am no longer MYSELF?!”
“You’re still you, Your Eminence! Please, you have just been brought back and you’re out of blood! It needs to be restored before-”
“Shut up! Shut up and let me go! I no longer wish to be around, n-no one can SEE me like this, I SAID LET ME GO!!! IT IS AN ORDER!!! LET ME GOOO!!!” The Count broke down into a full panic attack once more, though at this point - it appears Douglas wet a cloth with something sweet and herbal-scented:
A soft press of said fabric over Ambroys’s muzzle followed not long after. Doug held onto the wailing and thrashing husk of Ambroys DeLuxe, slowly letting the valerian and poppy take hold of him instead of sheer strength. The violently-writhing horse’s eyes rolled around in panic and despair some more, marked with tears of what appears to be silver, which soon turned transparent the more he “bled” liquid from his eyes. So much for holiness, and yet… The sedation forced Ambroys to be at peace, in spite of a storm still raging within his mind, still.
“You’ll be alright, Your Eminence,” Douglas whispered to Ambroys, “You’ll be alright…”
A few whines slipped past the ex-celestial’s lips, until his limbs were too weak to protest. Douglas moved silver hair out of the Count’s face, and simply let him drift off to a peaceful sleep. Celestial or not, it doesn’t matter now - at least, Ambroys felt like he was in strong, safe, trustworthy hands. And that thought, that thought alone let him drift away to slumber, finally at peace and no longer bound to a gurney…