[INTERLUDE AND PREMISE OF VOLUME TWO.]
Hello again, dear reader. Care to guess the demon speaking?
'Tis I, your friendly narrator: Staplehead.
Our story began with the clash of swordsmen born of Hel, the promising ascent of a young Hellion to mystical realms—and I'd be fork-tongued as a fucking Gorgon to say I wasn't saddened to see the fall of the Apollyon. Oh well, but it isn't the end of our tale, innit? Just the end of a volume. Emberfall is no more, its ruddy earl vanished. And as Hel's Librarian, in the appearance of the Titans and domination of the Eldorian Fae Empire, I was graciously invited to act as official [Scribe] to the violent acts of the Underworld.
A moment, if you will—
The fucking servant at my feet; some shaven cunt who was once Lord and General Byron, missed a spot in the polishing of my hoof. I'm tempted to stomp his bald head to a pulp. But then who shall shine my equestrian feet?
I smack the man's head instead. My talons glint off it like a mirror. He knows then to focus more. This man...this weasel: an [A Rank] superior Marshal is nothing more than the specks of this muddy mortal world he cleans off my hooves. The only difference between a conquered realm and the volcanic plains of Hel is the bright, golden sun.
They have that at least!
Otherwise, Her Eminence, Lilith Firstborn has re-created the apocalypse of Eldoria into a reality of the nether realm.
But then, I digress.
Shall we get to the added ranking for this new volume then?
The presence of demons on the planet, among other thriving magical factions of the Elven, Weres, and Merfolk, has also caused a surge in the potent celestial and infernal mana available to all beings ranked [Supernatural]. It means fuck all—save that Angels are now also within this incarnate world.
In my study of angels, Angels have been grouped into nine categories, from lowest to highest:
[Angel]
[Virtue]
[Archangel]
[Power]
[Principality]
[Dominion]
[Throne]
[Cherub] and
[Seraph].
Nine grand [Celestial Clouds], comparable to our nine [Infernal Rings]. However, angelology from the very first to the ninth is all [S Rank]. They only vary in position of their stars. Thus,
•From the messenger [Angel] to the third Celestial Cloud, [Archangel], they all possess 1-3 stars on their halos and are called collectively the BRASS SAINTS. Sounds like a weird cult name if you ask me—but who's counting?
•The fourth Cloud, [Power] to the sixth, [Dominion] gather 4-6 stars on their angel halos. These are the most abundant species of heavenly forces among men. They can be incarnate and can also possess. But unlike us fiends, they have to ask—nicely!
I wonder who the fuck kind of trippy wanker says yes to a possession?
[Powers], [Principalities], and [Dominions] are collectively named the SILVER SAINTS. Most of The Fallen of Hel belonged to the six-star category before the Great War of Heaven. They are majorly SS-RANK celestials in this class, and are often honored with sculptures and figurines by mortals. Personally, I only steal the statues of St. Salome for a good wanking. What can I say? The sculptors rendered her some nice fucking tits! Who cares if they're wood?
•The grandest ecehelons of heaven come last, ranking upwards from the [Throne], [Cherub], and [Seraph]. These are the most enchanting group of angels, with a gorgeous smattering of 7-9 stars on their halos. They are carved of the finest porcelain, skin a melted, running ivory, eyes like the sun dewed in alabaster, and bodies adorned with the handsomest gemstones.
They are the GOLD SAINTS.
I know for sure of only one among The Fallen who was formerly in this hallowed sect. You don't need think too far, Lucifer Morningstar.
In addition to being too fucking beautiful to sometimes even look upon, [Seraphs], the ninth of the glorious ones, possess six wings. Paintings of their astute splendor are found in the cathedral of the Highfather. Several monks have gone blind from submitting to their lusts and jerking off to a particular lush Lifesize statue of Archangel Gabrielle. As a curvaceous blonde doll, the Templars often plagued with stiff woods at night couldn't resist fingering her fat white thighs, cold as they may be.
All in this category are SSS-RANK.
Hopefully, in this volume there will be a lot of corruption of the Holy Ones, naughty [Nuns] and milky moms. A lot of temptation and giving in to it, from sacred and blessed into the darker and wicked, for as Lord Morningstar reckoned, 'You haven't seen true paradise until you shag a saint!'
"A taste of God's love," I call it. I know I would just LOVE to suck Heaven's Ambrosia off Gabriela's robust jugs.
Demonology remains the same. You can check it out in my former script, [HEL'S HIERARCHY]; I must remember to change off that rotting face book cover though and put a new one. Perhaps, this ex-General Byron's face—mummified. The bald sod can't even polish a hoof right.
As for the MAGE SYSTEMS, rankings are controlled by the Court of Whispers, headquartered in the Corynthian Isles where the elusive witch academy is. Though our conquest never made it across the Cold Sea, I still detail their levels as follows:
[Novice]
[Apprentice]
[Caster]
[Acolyte]
[Master]
[Grand]
[Supreme]
[Mages] fall into three categories bearing these ranks, [Druid]. [Sorcerer]. [Witch]. Basically, the three factions are intertwined, but would call you a racist prick if you mistake their title. The only difference I feel worthy of journalling in my script is that therefore, when it comes down to [Mages], it's all a matter of the question, "Who's your Master?"
[Druids] serve the gods.
[Sorcerers] serve Kings.
[Witches] serve themselves. . . narcissistic cunts!
Thus, the MAGE SYSTEMS can be a [Druid Acolyte], a [Sorcerer Apprentice], or a [Novice Witch]. I've no fucking idea why, but in Eldoria, men are also called Witch. Or perhaps I do have an idea?
But alas, dear reader: my fair one, I must take my leave of you. A tale is already in the making, a legend in the spinning. The coronation of the Usurper is at hand. And it promises to be a party of hedonism for hellions and mortals alike. What's the fun of conquest if there isn't a little fuck fest?
I step on the bald man's head as I rise. I do not intend to kill him, but human heads are far softer than I'd thought. His skull caves in, squishing like a bug under my hooves. Brain matter pours out his ears. Shit, the poor General. I'll have to use his face for my book cover after all.
Nonetheless, fair one, let macabre and sultry thoughts usher in your mind into the story unfolding before you, in a continued tale of HORNS AND HALOS, so named the next volume. I'm pretty sure you lot all know by now to keep an open mind—gaping like Aphrodite's asshole—but don't wank in front of your mum. Unless you're brave enough—or one of us.
Until next time, your once friendly, but now neighbourly demon, Staplehead.
Now fuck off, cunts!