Thread: The Alembic (SinfullyDelicious & Echoplex)

In thousands of years, Ammon's disciples have known her only as stoic and calculated a philosopher, not unlike her mentor. Her fortitude was so revered that she was offered a seat on the Council of Nine, often witnessing trials conducted by King Minos as new damned souls were ushered into the gates of hell. Minos, over time, came to favor her, much to the chagrin of others. Eventually, she used her knowledge attained from Minos' trials - and the damned being tried - to usurp the throne of the sixth circle belonging to Epicurus. He did not eshew it willingly, having been its overseer since the virtual nascence of philosophy itself, but in the same breath, he was exhausted and sought a restful eternity, absent of the screams of the heretics castigated to his tribunal. Unfortunately, the election of a new eminence was never a peaceful event, despite Epicurus wanting to relinquish his crown. Many of Epicurus' faithful fled the City of Dis, driven into political upheavel by their new herald. Instead of punishing them like all heretics in hell - by being encased, internally, in a tomb of fire - Ammon let them flee. Her reasons were never made clear, but those who venerated her didn't concern themselves any further. That was, until, one of those she spared made off with an instrument of war she had stowed away. Should the council glean that she possessed such an artifact let alone had it stolen, she knew she would have to face one of her higher-ups a figure of immense power, one that could inflict on her thousands of eternities of suffering. Epicurus, witnessing her grief, elected to watch her throne despite his time having passed. He knew that Ammon was scheming to give herself, and others, a release of their hellish bonds, thus appointed himself her minister. Epicurus would have dispatched himself, but he was too old and too wizened to transition between planes without his soul experiencing unimaginable anguish, more than he was, embarassingly, willing to experience. So, Ammon took it upon herself to stow away to reality. And it was the ascent that she dreaded . Incubating a human body was something not even science could yet quantify, if ever. She bred her body from her own demon blood, belched out from a mire some miles from civilization. A couple discovered her, nude and caked in half-dry mud, on their return from a camping trip. After carting her back to a police station where she was ruthlessly interrogated, but escaped when two deputies were arguing over how to handle her 'case'. Meanwhile, Ammon's brain began developing. There were so many thousands if not millions of memories. Her synapses tried desperately to make sense of everything, like a disgruntled office employee attempting to file their paperwork in chronological order, lest their superior chastise them. Words were garbled and incomprehensible. She sat on the corner of the street, aside a copse of homeless folk, sporting an oversized sweater pilfered from someone's trash and a sweat-stiff set of denim jeans, grumbling like a toddler. As the days passed, she became exponentially more cognizant of her autonomy and history. Her capibilities manifested in unusual ways, such as cajoling a middle-aged woman into letting her stay a night in her home since her daughter was away in college. Ammon, impartial to the woman's stories, was almost disturbed - yet simultaneously pleased - with how apathetic she was, yet, still found a way to communicate her thanks. It took almost three showers and a soak in water so hot it could inflict first degree burns on a human. She purged the dirt from her complexion, revealing a swarthy complexion and eyelashes as long as a spiders' legs. The mats in her hair were so fargone she had to carve them out, ultimately borrowing a set of clippers from her host to shear the entirety of her head. By the time she had dusted the last remnants of raven black hair from her shoulders, she felt the familiar throbs of pain start at her fingertips. She thanked her host for her hospitality and was on her way, shrugged into her daughter's rugby underarmor and her husband's ill-fitting sweatpants. That night the city streets were thick with moisture, as the stench was rising up from the sewers. It was a comforting smell, not unlike some of the sulfur lakes outside the City of Dis. She was so ensorcelled with the putridity of it that she did not notice the fragments of trash biting into her baby-soft feet. Eventually it become apparent enough for her to seek some sort of resolve, but it did not come in the shape of footwear - it came in the shape of a decanter of whiskey purloined from a corner store. She kept herself ensconced in an alleway, drumming up schemes to help her better situate herself and extract her alembic, wherever it may have been. It was then that some students traipsed by, or what she believed to be students. They all appeared young like her, but much better clothed. She snapped open the plastic neck on her whiskey bottle, hungrily pouring stuff down her throat as if she was parched for water. By then, the students were chuckling at her. She blinked they were gone, the pads of their footsteps but an echo down the alley. She was more content with staving off the pain in her body than the laughter of some human souls, so stuck to her haunt, lapping at the last drops of her drink until another familiar scent rode up into her nostrils. This scent, however, was not something native to the human reality - it was something from her home. Ammon stalked the alley, her nose to the brick, to the dumpsets, like a hound searching for a fox. It was then she'd witnessed a creature from her home, hiked up on all fours, poised to pounce on a straggler from the human group. Instinctively, she lobbed the bottle at its head, which shattered and resounded like a grim, glassy deathknell. It huffed, snarling and sending spittle every which direction. When it made eye contact with Ammon, it winced as if injured. Your Emanence, chattered in broken english. Ammon encroached, barefoot still, her feet bleeding on the jagged hunks of glass. I have come, to find it, on your behalf. It was a lie. By the time it had finished speaking, Ammon's hand - which was strangely covered in ritualistic tattoos and markings - was on its forehead. What came next was its undoing. With the full, sheer force of a shotgun, the demon's brain matter was splattered over the brick, bright red in the dancing neon light that slanted through the broken staircase overhead. Ammon, one clean, was sodden again, disdainfully wiping chunks of fetid black flesh from her winsome face.