Hierophant Green Requiem Novels & Stories

It was a snare, designed not to call something forth but to pull something in and hold it there. At its center stood the High Priestess, draped in obsidian silk that drank the light around her, crimson eyes gleaming with quiet triumph. Her presence wrapped the chamber in stillness, a velvet hush heavy with anticipation. Three hooded figures flanked her, motionless and silent, their forms obscured by shadow—Umbra mages, Gregory assumed, instruments waiting to be used. He took another step forward, ready to begin, and then his breath caught.

- The drowned priests of Dacia (translucent, glowing, singing the Deep Script in perfect harmony). And in my head, quiet and proud: Grandma Elowen and the Ghost-Queen of Dacia stand side-by-side like proud grandmothers, occasionally arguing in ancient languages about whose ring is prettier. I’m wearing white (not a dress). White leather jacket painted with violet lightning and blackbird wings, white ripped jeans, white boots with stormglass soles. Hellebore Mist is sheathed at my back like a vow. Sânge Furtună is under my arm like a bouquet.

I reach over slowly, debating whether or not my action may spook him. If he feels me coming close, he does not react. With soft movements, I smoothen the space between his brows. He turns to me then, and grabs my hand in his, clasping our fingers together. Then, he drops a kiss on our joined hands. Neither of us say anything. We don’t need to because through the silence, our voices are loud as day. “ We’re in this together”… The Hernandez Mansion looks gloomy together, even the beautiful foliage is helpless against it. It’s as if the atmosphere knows that we’re on our way to the guillotine, and depending on the verdict passed, we get to keep our heads…or lose it.

Their edges sharp and unforgiving. The altar loomed ahead, draped in a moth-eaten shroud the color of dried blood. A silver rosary coiled atop it like a viper. Its metallic sheen catching the faint, sickly glow of the dream. Black beads glinted along its length, each one intricately carved with the butterfly’s twin-skull sigil, a silent, mocking testament to death. “You know how this ends, querida (darling),” Esteban’s voice echoed from the rafters. The rosary slithered toward me of its own accord. Its chain rattling like bones in a shallow grave. “Kneel.”

Xavier sat comfortably on the long velvet couch, one leg crossed over the other, a satisfied grin spread across his face. The dim light above cast shadows on his wrinkled features, giving him the look of a man who had seen and done things that others could only fear in their nightmares. The faint smell of cigar smoke lingered in the air. A soft classical tune played in the background, it was slow, elegant, and disturbingly calm for what was about to happen. He stretched his arms across the back of the couch, his fingers tapping the cushion lightly to the rythme of the tune played. The air in the room was thick, heavy with a strange kind of excitement. A knock came on the door.

“By the power of earth. By the power of air. By the power of water. By the power of fire. Let forth the spirit. Descend to the lantern of sorrows of the South, to the trumpets of doom of the West, to the praise of harlots to the East, to the horns of death to the North. Descend!” The heroes cheered, repeating the ends of his sentences. They howled and gibbered in triumph. Everyone was focused on the blank spot. Everyone waiting for the end. Everyone except Crixen. He had spotted one odd thing in the eyes of the High Priest. Terror. Why was that? What had he missed?

She jabbed her wand in his direction and he suddenly could not move his hands. "Like I was saying" she continued in a calm tune like she did not just yell a few minutes ago. "These herbs include the mandrake root, mugwort, sage, bay Laurel leaves, and Rosemary. There are many others but we will look into the ones mentioned for a start" she revealed and brought one of the plants forward. "This.. is the mugwort plant" she announced, raising it for everyone to see. I stared at the weird-looking plant before, it did not look one bit like the one in Mrs. Springwood's hands. As a matter, the plant before me had a strange phallic shape that got me wondering if it is natural and not absurd.

The woman finally leaned forward just enough for the flickering green light of the altar to catch the bridge of a nose and a pair of eyes that were wide, unblinking, and devoid of color. "I was once like you," the madness-filled voice said, her head tilting at a sharp, bird-like angle. "Fierce. Protective. I fought for years in the dark, girl. But you? You have hours. Keep that spirit up. It’s such good fuel for the 'peeling.' The more you hate us, the deeper the roots of the God-Seed grow." The woman began to hum a distorted version of the McKinnley Requiem, her fingers dancing in the air as she watched the shadows begin to lace themselves around Sophie’s womb like a shroud.

The stench of rotting magic filled the pristine starscape as the High Priestess fully emerged from the jagged fissure. She didn't look human anymore. Her skin was a patchwork of gray, necrotic tissue held together by pulsing veins of toxic green fire. She leaned heavily on a staff carved from the femur of a Lycan, her hollow eyes locking onto the First Crown hovering above my head. "Centuries," she hissed, her voice sounding like grinding tombstones. "I have waited centuries for the Crown to reveal itself. Give it to me, little Vessel, and I might let your mutt of a husband die a quick death."