A/N: Who needs to not start another story? Me. Who's going to anyway because she's dumb? Meeee. Yey.

Warnings: Lots of blood, torture, noncon, violence, death, religious blasphemy I'm sure. It gon' be fun.

Enjoy~

There is a verse buried down in the book of John, hidden along in a long-winded debate between Jesus and the Jews upon the Mount of Olives; a verse that's nearly hidden within the tales of Mary Magdalene's exoneration and the Jews making their stand against the self-proclaiming Son of God. Buried in an argument long since forgotten of God versus Abraham, disciple versus child, a clear and simple truth rang onto blockaded ears, one casually cast aside for petty squabbling and ignorance abound. Within that group, standing on that hillside with stones in their hands, fingers gripping coldly along now-useless flint ridges, each word the man spoke reverberating through the redolent air, a factuality was brushed off as nothing more than a self-satisfying obloquy.

It was the work of a politician, smooth and seductive and slithering so easily off anyone's tongue. Misdirection was the name, an attempt to make the collective halt and freeze in fear in a 'realization' of the 'error of their ways'. These attempts have gone a number of ways throughout the course of history, more than once the group finding themselves at unease amongst not only one another but the man who stood within the glass before them. Sometimes it was like a jolt, a brisk push into clear-cut liquid ice. The world could stand still for those few moments, those junctures where every mind began to whir, every eye fell to the ground as though the sediments beneath them contained their answers to relieving their shame.

However, on this day, such was not the case. And regardless of who was right and who was wrong was for history to decide. But, pushing aside such arguments, forgetting the low blows instilled on either side, this much was clear: They'd missed crucial information dressed so prettily as a persuasion. One side brushing it off all together, the other only touching the tip of the iceberg, ignorant to the depths of truth resounding in his easy-going tone.

"Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of it."

The context of such a statement does its best to overshadow the truth, fertile as the ground on which they stood upon on that day. Father? No. At least, not in the sense Jesus had spoken of. The devil was nobody's father but one. And that one was not to come along for some time. But these core values of which the Messiah spoke of God's ostracized counterpart, they were always in the works.

The devil was a liar. He was a deceiver. He was clever, ever-keen to the reality of the fallen Eden. Such ignorance within the mortal realm, however, for him, was the bountiful oasis. So easily he could slip cleanly through the populous like the smoke he had been sentenced to. Swathed in the security blanket that was their naiveté, he'd found himself on the battlefield of truth and kindness, more often than not the victor of the crown. From that first bite of fruit to the last drop of blood that would ever be spilt upon the earth in the name of darkness, he was to be the ultimate marionette that guided them along.

Occasionally along the way, he'd be pushed back down a few pegs. After all, light was the thing that had a tendency to break through the barrier of emptiness, it was a fact of life. Michael striking him down and Job persevering through his trials had proven that maybe, just perhaps, he was not the all-powerful one within the everlasting battlefield of souls. Most powerful or not, however, mattered not. What did matter was the small victories. The great contests between himself and the Divine Father could be seen clear as day, make people shout angrily of his name; Furrow their brows and stomp their feet oh-so-childishly, thinking themselves immune from him.

But the devil never started with the apogee. It always began almost unnoticeably. Tiny things like oversleeping through worship, a little extra payment used for just a little extra something that one didn't really need, per se. Then it would evolve over time, giving one a slight temper, a bit of a mouth when things went so drastically from what they'd expected. A barren spot of soil would no longer result in nothing more than a slightly cocked head and a small prayer to God, assuring Him that they knew He knew best. Now it turned into a scoff, worn, calloused hands clenching into fists, skin turning white over the knuckle as one attempted to keep their frustration to a minimum and went back to their other chores.

And then? Then it got fun.

That frustration began to build genially over time, began to solidify in one's chest. It was repression of the worst variety, embers beginning their embrace around the wood and trying to spring upwards and strong. And, in as little as an accidental push within the marketplace, the wildfire would roar into life. Sparks of light would break out into the sky, tidbits of ash burning all those within the gamut. It could take many forms: Yelling, crying, fighting, throwing stones or going to war. It was all about progression. From there on out, this person who'd began so innocently was now caught within his conniving trap. Escape was nearly impossible, simpleminded mortals far too easy to vex, to overwhelm as time progressed and the world became more complicated day by day.

God was losing. And He knew it.

So the smoke still rose towards His pristine haven and He watched from afar. 'That serpent,' He'd thought, watching follower after follower falling to the wayside. For too long He'd watched this, observing as time marched on, wars were waged, and Satan found himself growing in not only followers, but ego to match. If there was one sin that the fallen angel embodied, it was pride. Such hubris over his simplicity resulting in the fall of so many, the way he symbolically spat on God's face and cursed His name, grinning that malicious way he did as he grabbed mortals to drag into the fiery pits on the other side of the cosmos.

For perhaps the first and only time, God felt helpless. His might still reigned, His authority still concise, but there was little more than sorrow as He watched His creations crumbling hundreds at a time. The counsel of His archangels did little to guide Him along, their ideas few and far between, far too preoccupied with the lingering anger they still felt for the demon who was once their brethren.

God had sent kind people, one after another, straight to the slaughterhouse. Each of them were struck down by temptations far too great to ignore, no one able to find the strength of Job residing within themselves as they were swept in the tide of fruition.

God wept.

Until He'd found himself in the company of a small child, taken at an early age by fever and hallucinations. Far too young to find herself in the hands of the dark shadow, a girl of not quite eight years. Meira, her name had been. Bouncing tufts of amber hair swept back under a glowing halo into a braid one of the elder angels had done just for her. She'd stepped up to the deity, reading the misery on His face. She knew why. Everyone knew why. From the babes to the elderly, they knew the problems that their Lord faced, the tribulations He was going through, watching His children being swallowed alive by the snake as he slithered about. His appetite was never-ending, his venom forever lethal.

She'd stared at Him, at her Lord. Her face had been twisted the way any child's was when faced with the choice of using their voice. Talking to any other adult was trouble enough. But this was God. She would be taking on a responsibility that would overwhelm even the steadiest of men and women in their prime. At seven, Meira was far from eloquence. But she was ripe with hope, with light and the logic that only a child could possess.

"God?" she'd said, voice timid and quiet as He'd looked at her. She visibly relaxed as God gave her a comforting smile that He'd perfected over the ages.

"Yes?"

She had licked her lips, twiddling with her fingers as though she'd been caught taking a sip of her father's favorite wine when his back was turned. "He's a snake...right?" she'd mumbled shyly.

He let out a long sigh, nodding softly and putting a palm on her head. "Yes, he is," He said, watching her face go red with the affection and chuckling quietly under His breath.

She glanced up at Him, eyes shimmering like the clearest of ponds as a gulp fell down her olive-skinned throat. "I once saw a fox kill a snake," she commented, almost offhandedly. "Maybe...maybe one can get him," she shrugged.

God smirked for a bit at her, the innocence resounding within her that was once felt among all His people bringing Him an inkling of nostalgic comfort. Then He paused. It wasn't a suggestion, it was merely a child offering condolences in the only way she knew how. But...she was right.

To match evil with kindness, light with dark...opposites only got in the way. One was always fated to take the other, and unfortunately, they were separated by the thinnest of lines on all accounts. But to step onto that line, to meet Satan face to face. No glancing over one's shoulder for the inevitable overtaking. No philosophical dissertation on whether light destroyed darkness or night was victor of day.

God would have to put that aside for now and try this new consideration: Fight fire with fire.

And so from the Earth, in a feat He'd done so long ago it was but a foreign memory now, He crafted himself a man. Clay and bone molded together piece by piece. The occasional angel peeked at His work before realizing just who it was they were spying on and scurrying away. His seven archangels were by His side, watching with stern faces as the creature lying on a table of light was built. Compacted, fair clay was formed, a body taking shape. Lean and lithe, a touch of delicacy about it with subtle muscle just barely cresting. Perhaps a scholar's son, the only exertion he'd experienced being that of bringing his father books and tomes.

God had a spark in His all-seeing eye, a rush of vigor over this new life. This child would be an answer, would be a light.

Granting him gift upon gift of craft and cunning, wit and rapport, the new life began to tremble upon His light. Eight pairs of eyes watched as a long, winded breath, the first air into newly formed lungs expanded a narrow chest. Eyes the color of the olive leaf fluttered open, obscured time and again by copper-tinged lashes. A gentle hand slid under his head, the healer Raphael sitting the newborn up on the table. He followed with a groan, fresh nerves beginning to fire, pristine blood rushing through his fair flesh, the clay beginning to soften from crust to dough; airy and smooth. Fresh curls slid over his scalp, forming in ringlets the shade of the setting sun, stark and boldly red against the overwhelming purity of white surrounding him. Locks crested over Raphael's hand, and the angel looked to God, seeing the approval within His gentle expression.

But he who was created was not a man, but a boy of perhaps only twenty. Too old to be afraid of the darkness which lied beyond, but too young to be so set in one's ways. The ripe age of rebellion, of smart-mouthed replies and a snarky disposition likely to take hold.

"My child," God spoke with a geniality of the father He was.

The boy looked at Him, green eyes widening before a relaxation swept through him all at once. He knew who this was, it was ingrained within him. He was the one to trust, the one to follow. He was the one who breathed into him, gave him life.

"I have a job for you," God continued. "Will you follow?"

As though he had a choice, the boy blinked, looking at his newly formed hands for a moment before turning back to his Lord, nodding silently.

And God and His archangels rejoiced.

Through the multitude of earth that Lucifer had crept, few held such a place in his seeping heart as the Mount of Olives; the Har HaZeitim. Once bountiful with the fruits of its name, now it lay nearly barren. Furnished only with the dead lying under his feet, compacted down into its soil. He often found himself strolling around the mount, once a site of stoning and public humiliation, now a sacred landmark to the Jews who silently inhabited the dirt. It was almost a shame, but it certainly made his imaginations all the more real. Mount of Olives? No. Not anymore. This was the Mount of Death. Nothing but decay surrounding such a once-lively area.

A pity, really, for humans to hold onto death as something so revered. Especially when oh-so-many of them had fallen screaming straight into his scarred hands.

He glanced down at said hands, wounds from Michael's heavenly sword, Triumph, still buried deep into his palms. The scars would never heal, just as this ridge never would thrive once again. Both it and he were destined on the same path: to do nothing but grow darker, colder. To make themselves symbols of nothing more than where the end laid.

Unlike the mountain, however, he could change this appearance. He could shed the scars with a new skin, a simple ritual to undergo should he so desire. Shed so easily as his name was left in the past by all but himself. He was no longer Lucifer to the world. He was the morning star, the fallen angel, the Beast, the devil, Beelzebub, Satan.

Not that he had many complaints of such an array of titles. More than God Himself, in fact. Certainly not one to take any victory with stride, it was one of the things that the demon relished in.

A soft snapping noise caught his attention, lips curling into a grin. A mourner perhaps. Someone else to snag while in the midst of grief, send them into such despondency that even God coming from the clouds before their eyes wouldn't lessen their disbelief.

He scurried around towards the sound, gliding smooth as the morning tide. Coming around the entrance to a mined cave, he glanced to see a small redhead sitting against a broken, decrepit tree. Dressed in a muted rust tunic and no more than a white sash around his slim waistline and one within hair the color of Armenian apricots in the sun, he had to figure this boy was nothing more than perhaps a farmhand's son. A widow's son at that by all accounts. He was frail, the sign of one who did not labor in the fields, but labored in the home, perhaps caring for a heartbroken mother and taking on the tasks she was no longer able to do with the loss of her dear husband. Nine out of ten times he was correct. The devil smiled. Time to test the odds.

"You there!" he called, watching a slender neck pivot, meeting his eyes head on and grinning widely. Lost in seas of green was the clarity of a man who knew his purpose. They were always the best to unravel. Young, virile, looking like nothing more than a kind boy with little to live for, he was a deer at the edge of Lucifer's bow. Lost in a trance of dazed tangibility of another creature before him, his string was ready to be released and plunge his arrow into the innocent sitting there. "You aren't by a grave," he commented offhandedly. "Are you a desecrater?"

"Far from it," came a smooth reply. "I merely enjoy the mountain air. Is that such a crime?"

An attitude. Good.

Lucifer smiled, a cruel, sick pleasure about it. "Not at all," he purred. "It's just... so much can be done up here, don't you agree?"

"Hm," the boy mused, shrugging disinterestedly. "I suppose."

"Could bring yourself up a fine young woman," he continued casually. "Lie her down right here on the hillside and no one would be the wiser."

A skinny cinnamon brow cocked at the implication. "I don't much care for desecrating land as such. My being here is teetering on such sin enough."

"Oh?" he questioned, brimming with excitement and stepping closer towards him, the boy noting the airy, weightless quality of his step. "And how is that?"

He got to his feet, Lucifer watching as he himself stepped forward, catching the same amount of smooth glissading and his lips falling if only a smidgeon. "I'm alive," he said plainly, thin arms spreading out to gesture to the land. "They know that the living is above them. Isn't that something of an insult? To literally walk above them as though I were God and they were nothing but worms?"

Lucifer paused, nose crinkling as he sniffed the air around them. The boy didn't smell of a home. He didn't smell of pottery, linens and river water. He smelled of grass and trees, he smelled of soil caked with heat from the afternoon sun. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Nuri," he replied smoothly. "And you are Lucifer, are you not?" he continued with a shrug, looking at the devil with an almost bored expression.

He straightened up just a bit, seeing God's fingerprints all over the fair-fleshed form in front of him. A test it seemed. A match. He chuckled deviously, "And if I am, what does that make you?"

"A man standing eye-level with the devil," he said, not missing a beat.

Lucifer nearly jerked back from the astute brashness of the boy. "Eye level? You better look again, Nuri. You did not inherit your father's height, did you? Then again...nothing to inherit when you're nothing but dirt," he hissed.

Nuri stayed perfectly stable. He didn't know exactly what it was he was doing here, God told him only that he was to confront Lucifer. Not to barter, not to ask for favors, just to confront however came naturally. Back talking the fallen angel before him? He imagined nothing could feel so natural. "Just because I am not of your height does not mean we're not eye level," he countered. "Because you are nothing but a short-sighted, hunched-over fool."

"Oh am I?" he taunted, biting the side of his tongue just slightly, giving him a cocky smirk. "Short-sighted of what, Nuri?"

He gave him a reflecting grin and a shrug, "You believe you'll win in the end."

"Have so far," he reminded him.

"There is still more good than evil in the world," Nuri scoffed, crossing his arms stubbornly. "Even on this mountain, I'm sure that of the bodies here, most were sent to Heaven, not swayed by your arrogance."

Lucifer grinned, light sparking through deep brown eyes. They reminded Nuri of the eyes of the archangel Barachiel up in Heaven. Nearly dark enough to seem as though they were encompassed in nothing but black. But Barachiel had a charm to his expression, a light-hearted easiness lingering within. This demon had no such charm, only a vile repulsion. "Arrogance?" he repeated. "Why, Nuri, we've only just met," he said innocently despite the malice resting on that face. "Just what could you know of me? If I'm not mistaken, I'm willing to bet you were forged not days, perhaps not even hours ago," he drawled, taking steps closer to the redhead, watching him remain steady as he approached.

"Even a newborn babe could smell the revolting stench of brimstone on you and know your purpose," Nuri frowned. "For one so 'deceiving', you're not very subtle."

"Subtly is God's method," he smirked. "Subtly results in nothing but doubt from whomever you're trying to influence. I prefer the direct method. People trust what they can see."

"I see you just fine, and I wouldn't trust you with so much as holding onto my sash for safekeeping," he said dryly.

He snorted, "Doesn't count if you're one of God's little missionaries. So tell me, what is it you seek, hm?" he asked, beginning to pace around the redhead, the wolf cornering his lamb. "If you succeed in...whatever this is," he waved towards him aimlessly, "then what? You have no life. No family. No friends. No love. What is your purpose here?"

"I am God's servant," he said sternly, watching him with sharp eyes that could cut like glass did Lucifer not tread carefully. "My purpose is to Him and Him alone. He will decide where I go from here."

"Ah," he nodded. "Shame. You don't seem to be such a type."

He hitched his brow. "Type?"

"The type to take orders," he elaborated. "You seem to be a free spirit. Named of fire and sitting against a tree," he gestured towards the broken trunk across the way from them. You aren't afraid to be burned," he cooed. "So why play so safe?"

Lucifer stopped and they locked firm stares, the devil looking for any hint of wavering in those algae-coated irises. He frowned, finding none. "I'm not playing safe," Nuri scoffed, arms dropping from their crossed stance to his hips. "My purpose is moot, what matters is who I am. Clay or not," he affirmed. "God gave me free will, same as any other man, and I choose to use it to remain in His light."

He shook his head in disappointment, "Such a headstrong air about you," he sighed. "That's how it starts, you know. They start off stubborn and slowly drip like candle wax down to my hands," he held his out and gripped it into a fist. "Stubborn or not, it's only a matter of time before you break, Nuri."

He smirked cockily, "Same could be said of you. Regardless of paths, the result can only be the same. And if you believe that I'm to fall to darkness, then I believe the same for you. Only, your darkness isn't Hell. Your darkness is losing the war," he drawled.

Spine stiffening, dark eyes glazing over at the thought, he narrowed his gaze to the confident redhead. "You think so?"

"No, I know so," he scoffed, beginning to walk, Lucifer matching him step for step as they circled around one another. One with the flames beneath his feat, the other with the licks resting softly atop his head in a halo of light. A grudge match, a silent challenge: First to break is the one to lose, no exceptions. Losing one's self in a mess of self-indulgence was the enemy, this was of dexterity and that alone.

And one was already teetering.

"You're terrified of it, aren't you?" Nuri continued sharply, thin sandals sliding through the dirt and kicking up small plumes as he glided about. "Terrified that what you're doing is for naught, that God will still win regardless of your petty little games."

"Seems to me He's the one who's terrified," he huffed. "Sending a child out to do what should be His own work."

Nuri shrugged, "Perhaps He merely realizes that you're not worth His valuable time. Why should the shepherd come for the lambs when the apprentice has already rounded them within the pasture?"

"You believe yourself to be God's apprentice, do you?" he growled.

"He is my teacher and I am His student," he replied thickly. "I was literally created under His wing and guidance. So yes, I believe that could be said."

"You know, He doesn't look kindly on false prophets," he smirked.

He rolled his eyes, "Perhaps you should take that advice. He's not one for false gods either, and that's all you are. Nothing but a falsity."

Lucifer stopped, Nuri halting with him, remaining standing across from each other atop the eerily silent mountain. "I believe I'm as real as you yourself, Nuri," he challenged.

"No, because I don't sustain myself on the fruit of lies," he said primly. "You are nothing but a pathetic soul scrapping about, looking for attention. You feed on nothing more than people falling to your whim. And you call me a child," he mimicked. "God is going to win, Satan."

The devil stopped, the arrogance, the confidence brimming from the boy in front of him was overwhelming. He didn't like being challenged, being told no. He didn't care for someone defying him. Not someone like this, someone crafted of earth and nothing more than a shell made to harbor God's insecurities. He was the Beast. He didn't take this from mortals, not from his demon minions, not from God Himself. Teeth grated, fists clenched, and a look passed through basil eyes that set his entire body ablaze: A smug look of pride. His own reflection in this tiny young man. Both crafted by God's hands. One a scarred mess from a war gone wrong, one a flawless messenger, nothing more than a soul sent to anger him. To enrage him.

Well. It worked.

Satan snapped forward, Nuri gasping as he grabbed around his throat and rushed him back, slamming him against the broken tree. A glint of silver was all the mortal caught before a sudden agony burst through his chest, a crooked ruby-encrusted dagger slipping through the vulnerable flesh, puncturing his lung.

He choked, struggling to relinquish the hand from his neck as Satan grinned maliciously. "Not so cocky now, are we?" he purred.

He watched with a narrowed brow as a suffering smile crept onto Nuri's face. "He wins," he whispered, grunting as Satan jerked the dagger within him. "They'll know...everyone will know," he continued, air struggling to break through his throat, chest pulsing in a burning white anguish.

"Know what?" he growled, twisting his knife again, a long winded screech escaping Nuri's rasped throat.

A few moments of silence passed before a quiet, "You can be defied...you can lose," slipped between the both of them, nearly as quiet as the wind rustling the sparse grass around them.

Satan blinked, watching as Nuri began to cough, sparse spatters of blood falling onto his cheek as he stared at the life slowly draining in his hand. Nuri's tunic was soaked with the deep stain of garnet fluid, trailing down his legs and pooling around his feet barely touching the ground. "He sent you for a story," he said in disbelief. "Hope that works for you, Nuri. Knowing that you were nothing but someone sent to die."

He was silent sans increased coughs, his blood finally beginning to trail out of his lips, green eyes glossing over dully. Satan leaned closer, shaking him and getting his fading attention back on him. "You won't be the only one," he said affirmatively. "Whenever He starts to lose, another one of you is going to come. And I'll kill him, too," he promised. "I'll kill every fucking person that He sends to defy me," he hissed.

Trembling lips curled into another cocky smile that filled him with a deeper rage. "Keep doing...this...and you'll always lose," he promised. "The hasty...always...lose," he screamed through gurgling blood as Satan lost his patience and tore the knife up violently, ripping through his ribs and sternum with a steady hand. Nuri's eyes went dull before it passed through his throat, slicing through his chin. Satan ripped his dagger out, scraping it against the mandible and panting with adrenaline. He jerked back from the boy and let him go, watching his split body limply fall onto the ground, slumped upright against the bark, torn chin drooping and covering the slit in his throat. Blood spilled like from that of a slaughtered goat, completely staining the innocent and the sinners that no doubt laid below him under the broken tree.

Dripping steadily from his lips, gushing from his chest, stilled heart barely cresting the corner of the tear, he was a sight to behold, one that painters would no doubt replicate. Or maybe they'd capture the moment just before, that smug grin over his face with a knife sticking out of his chest. Defiant to the last second of breath in his oh-so-short life. Perhaps that would be the title: 'Nuri Defying the Devil'. No, no. 'Eye-level with the Devil.'

Satan looked down, brow furrowing at his blood-caked hand. He was trembling. He threw the dagger down, bringing his shaking hands up, glancing at the one that had been clasped around Nuri's throat. He'd torn straight through his own flesh in his rage. He scoffed, closing his eyes and feeling it healing with a simple concentrated spell. A shuddering, furious breath fell from him, and he looked up into the clouds, teeth gritting. "You coward," he spat, wiping Nuri's blood from his face, licking the remains spotting the corner of his lips. "Sending a little spoiled child. Well, keep sending them!" he screamed. "Tell your fucking stories all you want! I'll fucking kill anyone you give me," he promised, pointing at Nuri with a shaking hand. "He got it easy. Next one? The next one will turn on you before I fucking gut him! He'll be mine, do you understand me?!" He panted angrily, shaking his head at the resounding silence and looking back at his victim sternly. "Consider yourself fortunate," he muttered to the corpse, bending and grabbing his dagger, shoving it back into its sheath on his waist. "The first is always the easiest to go."

He turned and walked away, down and far from the Mount of Olives. He never returned again, never knew what became of Nuri's body. And he didn't want to know.

Time passed, civilizations fell and grew. He himself resigned to residing in Hell, only sparsely going up to the surface world when it felt necessary; a rarity as the modern world spawned above him. Whether it was Nuri's story or not, the world had shifted. He was nothing more than a story, a folklore. Something told to children to make them behave, never a viable threat. But that didn't matter. With the centuries came age, even for a deity. And with age, came a tired bitterness. All he wanted was for that smirk to stop following him through the ages, for his own confidence to be renewed after staring down such a weakling.

But, it never did. The fox had swallowed the serpent whole.

However, as he sat across the room from the noirette he'd raised for over twenty years, crafted from brimstone just as Nuri had been crafted from clay, a renewed hope flourished within him. Within his child, he saw that spark, that same spark of confidence and arrogance that Nuri had so long ago taunted him for.

Now suited in a body fit for a demon, red flesh and horns and all, he could see the future in his son's eyes. The clock was ticking, and the world was slowly going back to the ways of before. Where his name was synonymous with fear, where people were beginning to fall back into their ways and sin was considered to be the norm.

He'd felt it soon after Damien had been spawned, only a few months in fact, a little crying demon not taking his attention as something within him struck with a familiar dread. That familiar presence was back on Earth. He himself? He was far beyond those matters, regardless of the constant dreams of those leaf-green eyes staring him down so ferociously over the eons.

Damien? He was not. He'd become what his father once had been, he was ready to take his steps into securing revenge for his father's honor, restoring the power to his name.

And the time was finally settling, the reality meeting its apex. The world was at its lowest, the devil was in the wings, and Nuri was back.

A/N: Slippin in some reincarnation nbd nbd messing with religions is my thing apparently. And some Seven Candles references because apparently I'm just crafting my own version of Christianity because I'm a bad person pft.

Bible quote is from John 8:44 btws.

This story's gonna be bloody and fun I can tell

Thanks for R&Ring!