PART THE FIRST: The Darkness Without
Ever since the Church of Humanity had arisen from some infernal depth into the light of day, Kurt Wagner, soon to be a Priest in God's Church, had felt ill at ease amongst the cool and shadowy cloisters of his adopted home – The Church Of St. Michael The Archangel. The cause of this discomfort was not even clear to the blue furred demon, so his friends had little chance of deducing it, seeing only the effects, not the cause. They knew no more than Kurt did, what that dark and shadowy figure in Montana had whispered into his ear in tones both sweet and terrible. The memory was to Kurt a blur of light and shadow, dwelling in the darkest depths of his mind. The Nightmares. The terrible, terrifying Nightmares that stalked his every waking hour. The Nightmares, which were the reason why he had, in the very dead of night, drenched with ice cold sweat, teleported from his accustomed room in the mansion and reappeared here.
The dark was lush and cool, yet it did not comfort as it should, as it had before that day. There was a time when the darkness of night was like a comfort blanket to a small boy terrified of his own nature and the looks and glances of those around him. Then he had been safe, there in the darkness, the shadows his cloak and his protection. But now, those same shadows leapt and danced unpredictably and the flickering of the votive candles cast macabre patterns upon the walls, even the altar, the holiest of holies, looked wrong, tainted by the evil that seemed to follow his every step.
Kurt Wagner, man of God, was but one step from absolute terror as he desperately sought sanctuary in the alien landscape of what should have been his haven. The darkness seemed to be diving towards him, laughing and jeering, and snatching at the hem of his quickly donned vestments. At that very moment, the thought entered his mind, 'dear God, am I going mad'. The candles finally went out in the draughty stone building yet the smoke continued to form itself into strange and awful shapes. A cross, shaped like an "x" floated up into the rafters followed swiftly by a horde of insane monks, as he desperately raised his hands towards his face, trying desperately to block the assault out, only to find that the dark shadows stopped dancing and started to whisper into his delicate pointed ears. The voices sounded like a discordant choir, the heavenly host cast out of tune and twisted and perverted until it could say things such as those shades whispered into the ears of the supplicant. They were the only answer to his desperate prayers; he could hear nothing else but their frantic and hoarse words.
"Look at you," they said their tone slowly becoming more menacing, "Look at you. You think you're a man of god. You're deluded. You're insane. A demon going around thinking he's human. An affront to God and Humanity. Why don't you give in now? Give up now? Flee the house of God before you can pollute it with your insanity."
A high scream tore through the night and reverberated in the lofty spires of the church. It came from the mouth of the young man huddled upon the steps of the transept, his vestments in disarray, his green surplice which had worn so proudly weeks ago stained with tears, his strange three-fingered hands desperately tearing at his ears, trying to shut those voices out as they continued unarrested in their fearful litany.
"Oh, but don't, don't do that. It pleases us to see you struggle, to see you squirm. Don't, please, don't escape now, or you'll deprive us of our fun. We want to see you suffer. To see you meet the end of all heresies at fire and sword. You wanted to be a teacher, didn't you? We'll let you teach a lesson, teach the children of God not to stray from the righteous path, or die by the divine will of God himself. And thy screaming and thy torment shall be a fine hymnal."
The huddle of clothes that on closer inspection would turn out to be a most extraordinary young man, shuddered, as eyes never meant to cry moistened the green embroidered cloth, and he, between the sobs, in a plaintive voice called upon God and all his angels in Heaven to let this torment cease. And his head jerks back in another scream fit to bring down the heavens. Then his head falls back onto the stone floor, and he lies there unconscious finally earning himself a brief respite from the darkness as a small trickle of blood pours from his scalp onto his grass green robes.
And this was how the Lady Magik, Mistress of All Limbo, came to find her brother and ally.