Day 5 Morning

[Ada Wong]

During the Warlock Challenge, because I couldn’t help myself.

Splinters of rock as sharp as crystal glass exploded in whichever direction the ghastly Warlock chose. Fireballs and blazing bursts of energy cut dark smoking trails through the air, odious darkness mingling with the groans and sighs of the wounded and undead.

Light on his feet despite the weight of his gun, Crowley dashed hither and thither amid the smoke, doing his best to dodge most fiery blasts and all the while attempting to ascertain the direction they were hurtling out from. His yellow eyes narrowed, the rank stench of another demon burning like vinegar under his nose. Posturing and the frazzled, slightly-singed state of his appearance momentarily forgotten, Crowley ducked around the fragmented outskirts of the battle, searching for an opening.

Aka Manah soared and wheeled about like a corkscrew, taking obvious delight in punishing the bold group of primes who would dare challenge him. With wild abandon, he flung gust after gust of fiery mojo about the cavern, each one striking the ground with the booming severity of thunderbolts. The curved horns of his skull angled beside his grinning, fanged maw, twin pinpricks of malicious reddish-yellow intensity weaving in and out of his eye sockets, becoming mere blurs of color as he was swept up into the intoxicating fire of fight.

During a split-second lull in Aka’s frequently discharged defensive maneuvers, the ram-headed demonic thing alighted upon an outcropping of rock set at an unnatural angle. As Crowley observed from afar, his gun humming discordantly in his hands and sending cascading echoes of sound ringing about the crater-like cavern, a woman garbed in a celestial white robe sacrificed herself for the sake of her comrade. It was apparently all for naught, however, as the Warlock readied a new plume of unholy torture to inflict upon the one she had saved.

Crowley’s eyes flickered to the woman’s body, broken, tattered, and utterly lifeless, torn asunder like a piece of parchment and bleeding ink around the edges of her oddly strewn limbs. He then scanned the others scattered all about the chamber, struggling to return to the fight with renewed strength, searching for a reason not to give up.

He could feel rather than see the meteor plunging towards them from above, as final as the callously sharp and glinting blade of a guillotine. Steeling himself for the shuddering recoil, Crowley exhaled, took aim, and fired.

Post-Warlock challenge.

That…. was that it?

Crowley looked at the helmet, then at the place where the demonic goat had been standing only a few moments before, attempting to destroy them all. It was an awful lot to take in, and all of these relics were a bit hard to juggle along with his bulky weapon. Maybe Magus could—

Magus. “Magus!”

Clutching the helmet and greaves to his chest much in the same way that a mother baboon carries her young (a rather unflattering comparison), Crowley clambered over towards where he had last glimpsed the mage striving to hold his own. He wasn’t made to look for long, for he soon caught sight of a suitably exasperated and even more grievously wounded Magus attempting to lift himself from a pile of sizzling rubble.

“Magus!” Crowley exclaimed, nearly bounding as he arrived within his wounded ally’s sights. He virtually crammed the helmet into his face, grinning delightedly over its gleaming helm. “Look at this! That Warlock can rest in pieces for all— hey, you don’t…. look very good. Magus?”

He scrambled to find some support for the guy, even attempting to position the greaves into a rough crutch, but not much seemed to be helping. By the end of Crowley’s frantic mother-henning and Magus’ putting up with it, a shiny streak of sweat dotted the wizard’s brow.

It was around this time that a young woman with red hair approached, although you really could never tell age with some humans. She seemed nauseated just standing within a few feet of the pair, wringing her hands together and giving off a whole battalion of uneasy signals. Crowley was about to ask what her issue was, standing around like that, when it hit him.

He had killed this girl. Killed her and then vamoosed the hell out of there. No wonder she was upset.

They exchanged a few words, each feeling rather tense and strung out along a treacherously thin threshold, but by the end of their discussion Crowley felt a little… lighter. Legend tells that the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day, yaddayaddayadda. He was quite glad to get that over with.

Crowley helped Magus to his feet; it was painfully obvious that the wizard wouldn’t last much longer, and the human-shaped demon’s eyebrows knit themselves together in concern. They spoke, briefly, with Crowley contributing a grand array of incomprehensible mutterings to the conversation, and then Magus went and revealed to him his true name.

Now, Crowley understood the importance of a True Name. His own was nothing more than a collection of harsh syllables and questionable hissing. It wasn’t much of a question that he wouldn’t reveal it to anyone, because even demons harbored some propriety when it came to such things.

As they drew up with the rest of those who had fought against the Warlock, Crowley chose to hang a ways back while Magus did all the talking. He didn’t trust his uncanny ability to smooze others with that lot, anyway, and so much of his time was spent half-listening and toying idly with the relics he had secured.

He looked up, feeling a mite jumpy. Well, there went Magus. Wandering off into the wilderness, probably to join a herd of wild Mageese. Perhaps he would settle down, raise a family, and graze on clods of meadow grass. Crowley watched him go, wondering just why he was putting himself through this bizarre inner torture of inventing endless positive scenarios when the crippling reality of it all hobbled off over the sunset, right before his very eyes.

The demon visibly grimaced. His gun hooted and hollered something about milkshakes and bringing boys to the yard, and honestly he was beginning to feel a little let down by the entire situation. All Crowley wanted to do right then was curl up on his lounge chair, drink an entire liquor store, and then sleep for half a century.

He glanced at the goody two-shoes crowd, the whole flock of them staring back in an understandably judgmental way. Suddenly, he wished desperately to have his sunglasses back.

"Er... hey?"