The Sketch Rift: The Seal of Demons

Lesser of Two Evils

"We have a problem," Count declared at the side of the Countess before a recently erected and somewhat useless podium, while the Ambassador anxiously supervised behind them as if to assume their functions when they inevitably stepped down. Snohalerat was engulfed with a drove of estranged townsfolk awaiting their justification of the accounts of violence that seemed to be creeping into central Hendera. "The Fviron are undergoing the process of returning here with the Time-Bound Thief, potentially to wield against civilians. We must be prepared to pay any cost necessary to succeed in this upcoming struggle." This was not the response that the audience was intending, nor was it the one that they seemed to deserve. Not only this, but Count's account was direr than almost any reply of his in the past, even when the Time-Bound Thief itself had constricted Hendera with the infinite reach of the corrupted Ammeroap.

"The source of this information was allegedly an undercover adviser of Charles Hemingway's, who was subsequently assassinated on the street," Lucy resumed the city's untimely and unfortunate obituary, before September First had even dawned. Moth continued to dither. "We have ordered the militia already to blockade them at Hendera's borders. Join them should you value the survival of our dear, albeit tenuous, sanctuary." The grimness of their imploration was too calamitous to possibly be plausible, and once more indicated a declining faith and hope for victory -- or anything remotely near victory -- when Sulukrita should rise. The crowd was distant and suspended high in disbelief of their weathered ears.

Moth finally spent this oblong pause to step forward between the diarchs, murmuring in each of their ears for an opportunity of insinuation. Just a moment later, Count reached for his yelling tone once again, this time with a very different variant of apprehension plastered onto his face. "Ahem," he sputtered, a skittish mob glancing back just before rushing in every different trajectory from the head of Snohalerat. There were only a select few individuals remaining in the bloodcurdling theater now to attend to this message. "...I have now been informed that the Fviron are not, in fact, aggressors in this scenario, but they have already been provoked... by... rebellious militiamen." Count palely spouted out updates as Moth whispered. "The earlier adviser's murder has sparked an internal clash. This story may be explained further later. We have business to attend to... Good luck."

As Count and the Countess fled into the depths of the Hall, the Ambassador remained, now in expression more determined than grave. The same audience who had been addressed of a Fviron attack now began to trail back onto the main street, some of them carrying wounds that they did not possess before, now prime targets for Moth's new rally. The former prisoner of the Crusade clasped the rickety podium, almost snarling with curbed spite.

"Long ago, when I first encountered the anarchic Hemingway, I shook his hand in reluctance, a symbol of solidarity against the ruinous Crusade. But with the Crusade deceased, ancient prejudices have reawakened. His demonic power is growing in strength, and I am the only one upon whom you can rely to save our world from the global carnage this madman is due to present us. The battle to save Hendera has already begun."

"But you used to be friends with Hemingway!" the meager Anibar, once widely known as a sworn ally, stepped out from within the swarm, defying the Ambassador's twist on what they had come to know. "Quit lying to us! There's only one way to tell history, and there's absolutely no way that we can succeed!"

"Lies!" Moth thundered, and Anibar retreated solemnly. "You have all been told lies. The Count and the Countess cannot do you any more good. Under my resilient leadership, only one side will prevail: ours. Even if that means that we must band together with Sulukrita, then Hemingway will be destroyed, no matter what it takes. We will fight to the very end. And when it ends, we will sell out of Vorren Lanterns, for good. Without opposition, the Reacsoa Hand will be ours. And the universe will tilt in our favor. Kyueb Reacsoa, your throne is ours! Write our own story! Write our own story!"

This time, however, the chant was not as popular. Much of the crowd, although appalled and frightened, voiced their support anyway with an unmatched volume. The others rushed to the south, the familiar sounds of clashing swords and shields emanating from afar, many of them aware that this was a tantalizing dilemma, intolerant of both. Hopefully, the Fviron themselves were not "for him," nor "for the caped one" at all.