The Medial was colder than the vast empty cosmos of Earth, not even the human-created liquid nitrogen would equate to its instantaneous chill. No other realm in the Abraaxis compared to the void. The demonic realm, as the mortals called it, felt cold but it was pleasant in comparison. Its true name was hard on the untrained tongue, Demornacte was the name she knew it by. That place was more than cold, more than monstrous demonic forms. There were worlds within, veils dividing it, orchestrated by the most powerful. Those with the power, preferred the more appealing male form, giving them the aspects of Lucifer. Though no one compared to his beauty, they did well in their masquerades.
In their elegant costumes of flesh, they indulged and delighted in every perversion they had taught to man. Through whispers, dreams, and silent thoughts. The Witch had served her sentence in that realm. Raveena knew firsthand the perversions transpiring, even after her incarceration. She closed her eyes and sighed as the nightmares grazed her memory.
These were only a few of the reasons she had sacrificed nearly her life to gain access to this non-place. The Medial was a nearly unreachable nothingness, a suffocating vacuum of darkness and deafening silence. It was toxic, instant death for the truly mortal. Those unawakened, non-magical mortals, who clung to Christianity as if it would deliver them would never survive one second in the void. Without power, or the ability to protect oneself from falling into oblivion, even the strongest immortal could perish. There was no light, it was oppressive darkness that obscured all forms of organic matter.
The Medial was her sanctuary from the demons she had barely managed to abscond. Her escape had nearly destroyed the barrier between the Terra and the Demornacte. Only the superior demons, kings, dukes, and lords were capable of corporeally breaching the barrier. The ones she had evaded, exorcised themselves the moment they discovered Raveena’s escape damaged the ruins locks of their prison cell.
The witch inherently knew exactly what those monsters would do if given the opportunity. It was agonizing draining herself, to gain access to the Medial. Her teenage form had been unprepared for the excruciating pain it would demand of her. The torment she endured was minuscule in comparison to the hell she endured during her seasons with them.
Her new home was a black canvas between all worlds in the Abraaxis. An all-access pass to every world, every resource, and unlimited power. The regulations were simple complications in her struggle to survive. Raveena had to keep her distance, never entering the realms, only watching through the silvery apertures she had created. Through them, she could conjure and summon an endless number of resources.
In her intangible sanctuary, Raveena had materialized several silvery apertures of various shapes and sizes. The majority of them resembled a jagged gash in the ethereal walls of the Medial. All carefully and meticulously constructed to avoid any chance of detection. Each spectacle was encased in fiery red sigils, reflecting naught of her presence to the worlds revolving around the Medial. The ones she evaded for centuries now had her signature, her essence, and the sweetness of her taste in their memories. Regardless of any other venture during their years in Terra; she knew the minute sign of her existence would summon them.
She was the pet they enjoyed most for she could endure a variety of torments beyond what the mortal toys could handle. The scry’s allowed her to view their norms from a distance. Those sigils served a dual purpose, alerting her to the presence of the Kings (a name they had given to themselves). Each of them had left behind some fluid on her small frame and she used those liquids to her advantage.
In all her time, Raveena never amassed enough power in the universe to eradicate the debilitating fear she felt for them. She had been the only one to escape. The singular soul who watched their debauchery from a distance. An evil that with every passing decade grew increasingly sinister and perverted.
Raveena had been only sixteen when the Kings had taken her. Unlike humans, age meant nothing to them. The immortality of her witch body would allow her to survive their torment. She had been with them long enough to understand the vengeance they would enact on her. It would be something beyond simple rape.
The Medial, though home to her now, was by her former race, considered the realm of the Demon Witch. A slur that tasted sour in her mouth, a poison that dripped from her lips. It had been an eternity since she set foot in her own realm, she had all but forgotten the name. Raveena was certain that was the King’s plan all along. To wipe her memory of everything she had known. Where they failed, in some ways, they had succeeded.
All baseless rumors spread the night she was taken; a neurotoxin, shutting down any chance of assistance. Raveena was isolated long before the ethereal cabin where she spent her teen years. Only one rumor about her was entirely factual the sacrifice she made to orchestrate her escape. The affront she committed to escape their clutches meant her realm was no longer home. She had become a pariah among her own.
Blood magic was forbidden among her bloodline, seen as an alliance with the demonic. She had made a sacrifice, despite the fact it had never been human or witch, the creed remained non-negotiable.
Those forked-tongue cowards believed she would willingly sacrifice a child of any species. For them to conclude she would, of her own accord, sire a child with a demon and be his willing bride was incomprehensible. The conception of a demon-witch child was no less a violation of the creed than blood magic.
Nevertheless, Raveena had been branded with the epithet of Demon Witch. Her realm never knew of the rapes and near-daily torments forced upon her. There was no way of knowing, out of the four of them, whose child she was carrying. A creature who could pass effortlessly between realms. Its witch blood, a free pass which meant it could summon unending power. Raveena had done the Abraaxis a favor, whether they knew it or not.
There had been something shifting in the Abraaxis for she had not obsessed with these memories or the emotions branded into them for nearly a millennium. Raveena drifted slowly around her domain in the Medial, its’ transparent walls shimmering against endless darkness, making it appear as an oil on the ocean. The floor was a transparent glass of energy, defined by orange sigils that prevented her from stepping off the edge. Hourly, maintenance of her sanctuary was required to keep her safety and her secrecy. In comparison to the torment she had endured at their hands, the grotesque offerings the Medial demanded were worth it.
Raveena abhorred their crimes but they afforded her the ability to sustain the majority of her flesh. The temporary carnage created in their wake provided her the nourishment the Medial demanded as payment. Her thievery from the town in which the Kings had taken residence, would go unnoticed. The Medial’s appetite would never be sated and with every feeding, its appetite increased. When she could not satisfy its gaping maw with a whole body, a severed limb, or the visor decorating the streets, her own anatomy would have to be substituted. These snacks might buy her an hour or two until she could summon a viable option. If she could get her hands on a body, it would buy her at least a day. The Medial was never generous, understanding, or reasonable. It simply demanded rent for her presence, a contractual arrangement, nothing else.
It would accept a temporary down payment of any obscure creature she could obtain. However, it preferred the humanistic form; witch, young vampire, unchanged werewolf, or mortal. Any being who resembled or mimicked the beings of Terra, would suffice. Raveena had never gotten her hands on a demon, though she would love to, perhaps they would buy her more time.
Raveena stood in the middle of her temple with the mirror silver blade glimmering against the darkness. Its runes hummed with power, glaring with deep purple light, reflecting the source of its magic. Her sacrificial knife would be useless if untied from the shadow realm in which it was designed. The waste high structure before her was only visible to the evolved entities of the Abraaxis. It resembled a large stay of the Catholic religion. An abyss of oily marble with ever thrumming bowl of ink that waved of its own accord. It appeared to breathe and flow with a life force that would remain reasonless. Through the pulsing waves, Raveena was able to commune with the Medial and sustain her home.
She lifted her left hand into the air, watching the maroon sleeve of her gown slide down her to her elbow. Even in the dim light of the glyphs circling the patera, she could see the deep scars of missing flesh and the nubs of her severed fingers. Her other hand dawned an iron gauntlet, laid overlapping jagged scales, encrusted symbols made from gemstones, and tipped at the fingers with obsidian claws.
Raveena pressed the razor-sharp blade into her flesh and drew it down five inches from wrist to elbow. The red crimson flowed forth from its gaping wound, dripping down into the oily pool before disappearing into the void. Her sanctuary trembled, the apertures vibrated, her glyphs hummed brightly as if overpowered with electricity and on the edge of exploding. The Medial breathed as if a great dragon waking from its eternal slumber. She felt her body warm, nearly burning with heat as sweat dripped from her skin, a reward from Medial for upholding their contract.
The Witch sighed in relief, knowing she had ensured her safety for a few more moments. Pain held no meaning to her anymore at this juncture of her life. It had become a regularity, a necessity in her continued existence. Raveena wiped the blade on her dress, another unnoticed streak of crimson that would dry to a crust.
Then she passed her palm over the seeping laceration and the flesh slowly pulled itself together. Raveena wiped the sweat from her face with the edge of her cloak before pulling her hood up. The scrys glared, and the glyphs hummed with renewed power. There was no time for rest or renewal, despite her borrowed time. The Kings were due for a new center of operation because they were running out of resources. She would need a suitable sacrifice until the Passing, the name she had given to the initial process of the King’s arrival. In every new mortal town, they warded themselves from interference before graphically slaughtering those who served no purpose to them. Unlike the biblical Passover, no amount of lamb's blood would cease the slaughter and death was never instant or easy.
Raveena had been unable to predict their next target or arrival. She was on the losing end of a chess match where there was no possibility of gaining the upper hand. If she dared intercede it would mean an eternity of torment for her. The only thing she could do was keep an eye out for their movements and watch in silent horror as they played.
There was, however, an unmistakable change in the energy of the Abraaxis. A feeling of resolution or Armageddon for them. If it was happening, Raveena would make her presence known. She would lend every ounce of power to the cause and put an end to them. All of them deserved to die, but he, the leader most of all.
Without his power, cruelty, and perversion; none of it would be possible. He was the driving evil behind everything. Surely, he knew she was watching helplessly from her sanctuary and that was the reason behind their mission. It was their vengeance upon her for the crimes she committed. The end was coming, of that she was certain. It was all a matter of biding her time and waiting.
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