Going to California (Guitar/Mandolin Mix) by Led Zeppelin
The sound of music filled Sheena's enormous Braixen ears as soon as she entered the tavern. The song was soft and comforting, contrasting everything else about the place. Dim lighting, dingy atmosphere, and dull patrons covered every part of the room but the stage. One of these dull patrons was her contact.
Up on that stage a Floragato sat on a stool, playing a mandolin. Behind him a Makuhita banged on the drums and a Luxray plucked at a guitar. Around him, little illusory Pokemon danced. They seemed to be having more fun than the real ones. He wore a tattered tricorn cap, a black vest, and a black cape, each trimmed with gold. The large scar over his eye was the only thing about him that indicated a fighter, but the outfit and the way he wore his fur seemed to point to it. He wanted the whole world to feel it's weight. Whether it was a point of pride or a warning, Sheena couldn't tell.
She strode right up to him as the song came to a close and flicked a coin into his mandolin case.
"Do you know the Down at the Crossroads?" she asked, loud enough that the whole room could hear.
The Makuhita and Luxray looked confused, but to her surprise, the Floragato nodded. He leaned back to his bandmates and said "Take five, this one's a solo."
Cross Road Blues by Robert Johnson, Arr. Patrice Durand
They shrugged and reached for their drinks. The Floragato gave Sheena a flirtatious wink and launched into a dissonant but undeniably exciting mandolin solo. Some in the room perked up, others grimaced, but as she walked back Sheena didn't see any of the responses she was looking for.
She sat at the bar again and ordered something vile. Perhaps her contact wanted to act natural. She surveyed the crowd again. Not a one looked like they were hearing a song about selling your soul to a demon.
Some sought the God Above All Gods for power, others for relief, but Sheena only sought HIM for one thing: victory. She wasn't stupid. She could see the way the wind was blowing. The Sand Continent had already fallen to HIS armies, and Mist only lived on borrowed time. The God Above All Gods had earned HIS name. The age of Arceus was coming to an end, and Sheena wanted to secure her place in the age to come.
She sat there at the bar until the end of the night, when someone finally approached her. To her surprise, it was the Floragato.
"Dandelion, one for me and one for the lover of obscure musics whose acquaintance I'd like to make." He flashed her a toothy grin and hit her with another flirtatious wink. "I'm Mick. And you are...?"
"Sheena," she said shortly. This couldn't be her contact, could it? It was hardly like a servant of the God Above All Gods to stand at the center of attention. There were better methods of suicide than an inquisitor's blade.
"Sheena. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl."
Sheena rolled her eyes.
The Cubone named Dandelion returned with their drinks. To Sheena's surprise, it almost tasted good.
"Only the best for my big draw. How much longer do I have you?" he asked Mick.
"Only a few days longer. While I still have a little unfinished business in town," he said, winking at Sheena once again, "I really ought to move along. A bard in place grows stagnant."
Dandelion glanced between them, then smirked. "I'll leave you alone, then. Stay as long as you like, Miss Unfinished Business."
He walked off, leaving Sheena alone with a man she didn't understand.
"Where did you learn that song?" she asked.
"The same place I learn all my songs: around. Where did you learn it?"
Sheena struggled to remember protocol. When uncertain about the status of an individual, you say...
"A-a refugee from Sand. He played it on his f-flute and it enchanted me."
"It's an enchanting piece. That continent has so many enchanting songs. Perhaps you'd like to hear more? I would hardly mind giving a private show to such a lovely lady."
Sheena's face flushed, still unsure if she had found a compatriot or a companion. The songs of Sand were a tell, and even if she were wrong there was hardly any shame in a private serenade from such a sturdy, rugged, handsome...
"T-that sounds wonderful," she sputtered.
"May I?" Mick offered her his paw, which she accepted.
Mick led her up the stairs to the room in the back corner of the second floor, humming Down at the Crossroads all the while. He walked with a cane, though it seemed obvious that he didn't need to. Inside she saw a variety of papers, some sheet music, some lyric poem, and some arcane knowledge, strewn about the place haphazardly. Right by the door sat a sheathed scimitar, the sight of which startled Sheena. She was unused to weapons, preferring to fight not at all and, if necessary, with only magic.
Mick closed the door and said, casually and in much too loud of a voice, "You are the one they sent for the ritual, then?"
Sheena reacted like a Donphan had stomped on her tail.
"I-I-I'm sure I don't know what you mean!" she almost shouted. "You have s-such an odd way with women!" Then in a low voice she hissed, "Of course a spoony bard wouldn't speak the language of subtlety. Prancing around on stage, drawing oh so much attention to yourself, and now practically shouting to your neighbors about all your illicit activities. Do you simply wish to taste an inquisitor's blade?"
"I'll take that as a yes then," he said, getting louder and louder by the word. Sheena grasped at her fur in anger and fright. "You may think a spoony bard is hardly a fitting cover for a heretic, but my mandolin affords me many opportunities that a more traditional dark stranger at the tavern bar would never find. I can travel frequently between cities without question, carry arms and practice magic without question, and most importantly..." He banged his cane against the wall of the room, and some light green magical shimmer fell loose. No one on the other side made even the slightest whimper of protest. "I can soundproof my room without question. You may speak freely here, Miss Sheena."
"Oh."
She took a moment to compose herself and straighten out her fur. "Yes, I am the one sent to assist in the summoning ritual. I have no further information as to this ritual's nature. I was told my contact would provide it. May I ask why you sought assistance?"
"The ritual calls for ten, and we are but nine." Mick grimaced and looked out the window. "I must warn you, we were ten. One of our number went into the woods to perform a warding ritual and returned as a bloody pile of proof that we need one." Mick turned fully to the window, so Sheena couldn't see his face. He took a moment of silence to stare out into the woods.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"All we can do is move forward, and ensure he is the last victim."
"Do you at least know what he was the victim of?"
He turned to face her, face determined, haloed by the setting sun.
"The Red Nightmare."
As though she were supposed to know what that was.
"He was slain in the woods by a bad dream?"
Mick, ever the dramatist, deflated like a Drifloon with a hole.
"You've never heard of the Red Nightmare?"
Prelude for Mandolin Solo by Giovanni Sollima, Perf. Avi Avital
Mick grabbed his mandolin and began to strum some dark, minor chords as he spoke.
"He's a demon who hunts those of our order. Some believe he possessed a Pokemon of strong enough will to resist him. The followers of the Gods Beneath say he 'awoke to justice.' If you ask me he just awoke a traitorous spirit and an insatiable bloodlust."
The gentle strumming became harsh and loud, before transitioning into a discordant melody. Illusions began to dance around him, visions of demons and wisps of fire. Sheena backed up towards the door.
"He rends our brothers asunder with the halberds and greatswords he carries as though they were hatchets and daggers. His very breath can fill a room with smoke. His evil eye can steal a soul with a glance. They say he roars so loudly that---" He froze when he realized he had reduced his guest to a shuddering mess. "Ah," he said, putting his mandolin down. "Got a tad carried away. Forgive me, it's just my nature."
"Surely," Sheena said between shallow breaths, "if such a demon existed the one we summon tomorrow could protect us. Let them tear each other limb from limb, then summon another to conquer the town with."
"It's not that simple. The Red Nightmare can be summoned by accident if there's a mistake in the ritual, even a small one. That's what got Voss out in the woods. The beast could infiltrate our sacred hall before we have an ally, unless..."
Mick turned to the desk and riffled through his things until he came to a thick stack of papers, which he handed to Sheena. They outlined her role in the ritual in excruciating detail.
"Study them intently. We must be extremely precise."
Glancing through the pages made Sheena's heart sink down into her stomach. So much detail to learn in so little time, and so much at stake if she failed. This would be her first summoning, and they were more involved than she had heard.
Sensing her fear, Mick put a paw on her shoulder and gave her a look of grim determination. "You will not die. No more of us will, not as long as I draw breath to speak of it." His paw felt warm, securing. Sheena leaned into his touch, closing the gap between them.
"Did you mean it when you called me beautiful?"
"I would never joke about a woman's beauty."
She traced a line up his chest to his chin and scratched him beneath it.
"Perhaps I find you quite handsome as well. Perhaps we could..."
"No distractions tonight, Miss Sheena," Mick purred. "But when this town belongs to us, perhaps you could finish that sentence. And perhaps I could show you the real reason I keep this room soundproof."
The Battle of Evermore (Guitar/Mandolin Mix) by Led Zeppelin
Sheena and Mick each spent the next day preparing for the summoning in their own ways. Sheena fretted over her role in the upcoming ritual, studying every page and practicing every line with a thorough intensity. She was apparently tasked with driving the knife through the sacrifice's heart, a role she had to emotionally prepare herself for. It would be her first kill, but surely it would be no trouble. She need only dream of the recognition she'd receive from the God Above All Gods, how surely HE would take someone who gave such a sacrifice in HIS name under HIS divine protection.
Mick woke early to patrol the outer edge of the forest. He insisted on performing the task alone, since he alone had the speed and guile to escape such a beast as the Red Nightmare. Far from spoony, he was the most dedicated servant Sheena had ever met. Apparently he took it upon himself to train their brothers and sisters, prepare the ritual space, and even draw up alibis for all involved, just in case. Really the only thing he didn't have a paw in was the acquisition of the sacrifice. That had to be done as close to the time of the ritual as possible, to arouse the least suspicion, and was delegated to someone less... obvious.
Naturally they chose a traveler, somebody nobody would notice gone missing until too late. An Amoongus carried a Mienfoo wrapped in Ariados silk and subdued by spores down, down, down below the basement of sect leader Thelmos into his secret ritual chamber. Torches on the black stone walls illuminated blood red etchings and eldritch symbols of the God Above All Gods.
Sheena basked in the warmth as best she could, but her fur still stood on end. That feeling permeated the ritual chamber, a moment of triumph spoiled by the knowledge that the Red Nightmare could be upon them with just a simple slip of the tongue.
Not a shred of such fear reached Father Thelmos the Skuntank. He strode into his own station last, holding his podium with the confidence of a victor.
"Before we begin," he began, "I wish to say a few words. I can see the fear growing in this room. Know, then, that we have already won. Our offering is on our altar, and neither the town nor the inquisition are any the wiser. As for the rumors, you have practiced and studied your roles with an intensity I have never seen. I have no fear of any nightmare, nor should you."
"Hear hear!" cried Mick, and all in attendance echoed it back to him.
With their spirits somewhat restored, the assembly began the ritual. For what felt like years, they performed dances, spoke litanies, sang hymns, and recited scripture. Each slight misstep, missed note, or misspoken word carried with it a tinge of fear, but no nightmares to speak of. The rest of the room began to calm down, but not Sheena. As the ritual came to its end, the time came for her to give the offering.
"O God Above All Gods," she said, "I commit myself to you, and offer this meager soul in exchange for a drop of your great power." The dagger shook in her paw. She glanced at Mick beside her, who nodded slowly. This next step took the most focus. Very particular gestures, very precise movements, very sharp dagger in her hand.
The sacrifice groaned.
It was just enough to disrupt Sheena's rhythm.
Just enough to make her cut herself just a little.
Just enough to send a couple droplets of blood spilling onto the altar.
Just enough to wake a nightmare.
String Quartet No. 8 Movement II by Dimitri Shostakovich
As the blood met the altar smoke began to fill the room. The congregation began to chatter in fear when someone --- something --- burst forth from the altar. It seemed to wear the guise of a Torracat, covered in red and black that blended with what bits of the environment weren't yet covered in smoke. It also wore a helmet, and it seemed every etch and scratch in it drew Sheena's view to his disgusting, milky eye. In one paw it carried a greatsword, in another it carried a halberd. It could only be the Red Nightmare.
It smiled at her, smoke pouring out of its wretched mouth. Then it leaped into the cloud. All she could see was gray, all she could hear was screams and some frantic wailing from Mick's harmonica, and all she could smell was sulfur. She caught glimpses in the fog of her compatriots scrambling to defend themselves, most with naught but their ceremonial daggers. Only Mick seemed to be able to go claw-for-claw with the beast, but even he seemed overwhelmed. While one hand fought with his scimitar, the other had to perform magic with that grating harmonica. Every time Sheena caught a glimpse of the Red Nightmare it seemed larger, uglier, more demonic, and it was covered in more blood.
Sheena inched into the fog, dagger held forward. Sometimes a scream would begin loudly, then be cut short with a gurgle. Other times there would be the loud shing of steel meeting steel, and the crunch of steel losing.
She heard a growl, soft and low, right behind her. Without thinking she spun around and drove her dagger straight into the source of the noise, straight into Father Thelmos.
"S-sheena... you..." he croaked as he fell over.
Sheena left her dagger buried in her fearless leader and ran screaming, as though death itself nipped at her heels, for the door. She'd lost track of it in the smoke so she raked her claws along the stone walls, begging for the touch of wood. She found it, mere moments before colliding with Mick.
"Sheena!" he cried, throwing the door open. The beast appeared right behind him in the smoke. "Go!" He turned to face the Red Nightmare, seemingly unafraid.
Sheena started to protest, but remembered the determination in his eyes the night before. If even one survived, he would be satisfied.
"Thank you," she whispered before darting out the door.
Cross Road Blues by Robert Johnson, Arr. Patrice Durand
Sheena ran and ran until she reached the crossroads and fell down on her knees. To her left, the wide road that led to her home, her compatriots, and her old life. She could warn them of the nightmare she had witnessed, of all the death her own two eyes had seen.
A whole sect, wiped out in an instant.
A whole sect, wiped out in an instant.
A whole sect. Wiped out in an instant.
She looked to the right. A narrow road led to the base of operations for the local inquisitors. She would be surely tried for heresy, but they would offer mercy to one willing to sell out a whole sect. She would live. Perhaps many years in a cell, but she would live. Could her old sect truly guarantee the same?
Sheena wasn't stupid. She could see the way the winds were blowing.
She kneeled there at the crossroads, thinking and thinking, feeling like the whole world was trying to swallow her whole.
Mick held his scimitar proudly at the Red Nightmare, even as the beast loomed over him.
"Back, you foul demon! I'll not let you touch her! As long as I draw breath, I swear I'll---"
"Mick," the Red Nightmare said in a low, rumbling growl. "She's gone."
Summertime by George and Ira Girshwin, Arr. Thane Glenn
Mick glanced behind himself to see smoke trickling out into an empty staircase. He lowered his scimitar and raised his paw, and the Red Nightmare helped him up and lit up a torch with his breath. As the smoke cleared and the illusions disappeared, the demon became a frightening, hideous, but unquestioningly mundane Torracat. The milky eye stayed, as did his natural sour grimace, but his more demonic features faded away in the plain light of the flame. He spat out a pair of spent smoke bombs and laid down his halberd.
Around them lay eight bodies, some dead by halberd or greatsword but most dead by their own compatriot's daggers. When fighting a demon in the fog, one tends to stab first and ask questions later. It saved them both quite a lot of hassle.
They examined each other next, ensuring the thrill of battle had not hidden a deep wound.
"Ah, Rocky, someone got you quite deep on your paw," Mick said to the Red Nightmare. "Let me fix that."
He swung his mandolin off his back and began to play a triumphant little tune that slowly stanched the bleeding and turned the deep cut into a mere scratch, as well as making all their mere scratches good as new. As he played, someone groaned on the ground behind them.
"A live one," Rocky growled softly.
"That would be none other than Father Thelmos himself," Mick replied. His face lit up with the thrill of the hunt. "Perhaps I owe him an explanation."
Mick walked over, knelt down, and pressed on the dagger still lodged in Thelmos' healing flesh. He writhed in pain.
"Y-you--- how dare---" he sputtered.
"How dare I what? How dare I pull the wool over the whole cult's eyes? How dare I let them each do their own dirty work? How dare I spoil the precious ritual just as you felt the most confident? If you wish to curse me you'll have to be more specific."
"How dare you... betray..."
"Betray. It must be such a cruel thing, to be killed by ones you trust. To realize that every act of kindness and camaraderie was nothing but a mask covering murderous intent." Mick twisted the knife a little. "Perhaps that's how they'll feel when they find your body draped in ceremonial garb in a room meant to summon a demon."
Thelmos grimaced and writhed as Mick continued playing with the knife.
"The truth is, Father, I feel you cultists have all grown too comfortable. You hide in your halls of ritual, summon demons to do your dirty work, and enjoy the terror you instill in the good Pokemon of this world. I think you deserve to feel as afraid as the rest of us."
Mick stood up and began stepping on the dagger as Thelmos screamed in agony.
"I think you deserve to know how it feels to die somewhere you believed safe, at the hands of someone you believed your neighbor."
He raised his scimitar and ended Thelmos' screams for good.
Mick and his brother Rocky believed strongly in the power of fear. They believed firmly that this war was not one of land or territory but of hearts and minds. And they believed surely that the armies of the light were at a disadvantage because the cultists had nothing to fear. The Inquisition could kill them, sure, but not in the moments where they should be safe, not in their halls of worship and at their very altars. The only one who could do that would be a demon itself.
So they set about creating a demon, the Red Nightmare, who hunted cultists at their safest. Sect by sect, they intended to not just kill cultists but create horror stories cultists tell each other in hushed whispers, to make cult life as dangerous and frightening as civilian life. Hopefully then, fewer civilians would be willing to defect, and fewer cults would be willing to act brazenly. They'd have to pick their summons very carefully, if any one could end with them all dead.
Rocky began to cleave through the dead bodies of those he hadn't killed. With every cut and every word from their designated survivor, the legend of the Red Nightmare would grow and the vice grip of fear the cults held over the world would weaken.
As the smoke cleared the room fully, the brothers realized they had an uninvited guest. The Mienfoo had awoken just as Thelmos had to the sound of Mick's healing song. She sat there, on the altar, tied up and eyes wide.
"You killed them all!" Her shout echoed through the stone room.
"Your, uh, your mind must be creating things after what you've suffered," Mick said frantically. "You might be seeing me as a cultist, or hearing speeches that were never said, or even seeing the terrifying visage of the Red Nightmare as just a---"
"Torracat. Just a Torracat, but so much more."
"You've gone mad with fright! Your mind is protecting you from the horrible truth!"
"I know what I heard, I'm far from afraid." A wicked smile crossed her face. "I am Iyo of the Open Skies, and I want in."
By Cruachan BlueSky AO3 FFN Part of goblin_serf's DEMON FORME universe