Written by Rosekitty
I love warlocks. I always have.
The word itself has a fairly clear history, originating in the Satanic fascinations of Christian Europe. There, witches and warlocks were women and men who had made pacts with devils for terrible power. The image of the fell magician proved lasting, and it gained a certain appeal in the modern era as superstition became more of a game than a matter of life or death.
I remember laughing at a Scooby-Doo movie where the villain proudly proclaimed himself a warlock whose ancestor had been burned as a witch. The name shows up in Artemis Fowl as a kind of generic mage, though the most notable warlocks were all demons. In Dungeons & Dragons, the warlock class was a latecomer to 3.5 that beat out dozens of competitors to make it into both subsequent editions.
That last instance is probably what defines the term for most people, given that D&D has become so popular in the past decade or so. A warlock is a charismatic spellcaster pacted to an otherworldly entity, performing services to that entity in exchange for a well of raw power and the secrets of the arcane. While fiends are iconic, warlocks in the tabletop can pact with fairies, outer gods, and even angels. Sometimes a warlock’s magic can be revoked if they betray their pact—like a paladin breaking their oath—but others prefer to run it that all of a warlock’s gifts are permanent and irrevocable; to betray one’s patron is to invite their wrath, but a clever warlock can get away with their stolen power.
That’s the version I like. I want to be powerful, clever, and beholden to no one. Maybe that’s why I was so willing to sell my soul; some part of me still thinks I can steal it back.
Even if I can’t, I might be fine with this path. The lord warlocks of the Covenant are feared and respected in all the ways I want to be, envied for their incredible power and the luxuries they are owed as the masters of an empire. The four peoples of the Covenant have all been slaves to darkness at one point or another in their histories, and it was warlocks—not paladins or wizards or wardens or swordsouls—who broke their chains. To be a warlock in Heroes of Telvaria is to be a conqueror of the darkness, bending the forces of the underworld to your will. In the Union that makes them a necessary evil, but in the Covenant they’re enshrined as the ruling aristocracy.
Clad in grim raiment, demons and horrors leashed at their side, calling forth the darkness to swallow whole any who stand in their way—how could I not fall for them? I want the cloak and epaulets, the minions, the prestige, the liberation from being held accountable to anyone but my—
Gunshots break my daydream.
While I was admiring the sleek, wicked form of the lord warlock sent to greet us, that idiot elf was arguing his rights. He said exactly the wrong thing: that he had no intention of joining the Covenant and serving its ends. So, as the Lady must have predicted when she threw that moron into our dwindling group of twelve, the lord warlock gave the command and a line of soldiers fired. The sound scrapes my ears. An example is made.
His death is quick and brutal. Infernal munitions shear through flesh and bone, pulping half his face and tearing open his chest. He falls to the sand, crumpling, thrown a bit from the force of all those impacts, and when his head hits the ground he’s already dead. An eye, cartilage, chunks of brain. Blood, so much blood.
I’ve never seen… this. Not up close. Not fresh. The demon was one thing, but this was a human—well, almost human. Was this what my body looked like? Was this what that truck driver had to look at? Were there pictures on the news, or was it too grotesque? Was there anyone in my life who would have gone looking? Did I have any relatives left who would have cared? Any chance of it getting to my old guildies?
The stench of brimstone and offal fills the air. A hot wind brings it to my nose and I cover my face, turning away in disgust. Why did he have to die in front of me? Couldn’t they have taken him somewhere out of sight to kill him?
“Well,” muses the lord warlock, her voice smooth and crisp, “I suppose that’s as good a demonstration as any. Welcome, one and all, to the Covenant’s tender mercies. Those who work with us shall be rewarded with all the grandeur and resources you can dream of. Those unwilling shall be put down like the rabid dogs you are as threats to our great empire. So! There is a lovely banquet waiting in the train with options for the carnivores and vegetarians alike, as well as tea, coffee, and a few bottles of plum wine from my very own cellar. Do make yourselves at home.”
So we do. The demon train follows an ethereal rail out past the crumbling edge of the world, its exterior adorned in jagged spikes and screaming mouths. Hellfire plumes erupt from the engine at the front.
The inside of the train is lavish and spacious—and bigger than the outside, of course. Chandeliers float overhead, the palette of the space a mix of reds and golds and browns. It’s the kind of luxury train you’d expect to read about in a murder mystery, the kind that fetches four digits for a single ticket.
We’re led to a dining car with a single, long table draped in pristine white cloth. Six seats to either side, and one chair at the head for the lord warlock.
Our host introduces herself as Lord Valas ren Shanadar, a name I recognize from the MMO. She wasn’t the NPC who greeted new players in the original starting experience, but she appeared in a few places in the game. She carries herself with a regal, imposing presence that the virtual world never captured. Her silver eyes gleam with ruthless intelligence as she politely and eloquently tells us all the ways in which we might die over the next month of our lives.
To be a warlock in the Covenant of Thorns is to be exceptional, for better and for worse. The first drow empire fell because their ruler, Queen Xariya, sold her people to the Abyss in exchange for ultimate power. Warlocks have brought forth plagues of demons and curses of undeath to blight the world. Not every warlock will become a calamity like Xariya or Ularak, but every warlock has that potential.
Every year, a crop of fresh prospects emerges from the Black Pyramid and is taken to the drow capital, Evergloom. These chosen few, selected by the Golden Lady and gifted to the Covenant, are destined for greatness or disaster. Usually disaster.
They are culled—that is to say, we will be culled—through a series of trials put forward by the lord warlocks seeking an apprentice that year. To be honest, I’m not really that impressed by the speech; I’ve played through those quests, what, three or four times? I was an altoholic—that is to say, the kind of MMO player that made a lot of secondary characters. So, my main was a cheshire warlock, but I also had a demonblood warlock, and a drow warlock, and I’d make a new warlock just about once every expansion just to mess around on.
Lord Shanadar fields questions from the prospects, acting the part of the charming host. I focus on the meal; I haven’t eaten since I died for the first time, and I’ve been working up an appetite. I dig in with gusto.
Our feast has a little something of everything. There are boiled clams and candied potatoes and stuffed mushrooms and rice cakes and biscuits and flatbread and soup and roast and fish and tarts and muffins and wine and tea and punch and ale, and more. I recognize quite a few dishes from the game, and I’ve sampled a small number of those from when I went on a home cooking kick and bought the official licensed cookbook. I take cuts and nibbles and sips from all of it.
The flavor profile is subtly different from how I remember it. In my first life, I was the kind of trashbag that would stuff my face with sugar all hours of the day, from lemonade and coffee cake in the morning to orange soda and powdered donuts in the late evening. I would eat greasy fast food from the same place until I got sick of it and started ordering from somewhere else, and every so often I’d go on a health kick and try to start eating more vegetarian and making more food at home.
Now, the sweet treats don’t have the same appeal, and neither do the veggies, really, but the meat is scrumptious and the fish is divine. Is this what it’s like to have a cat’s sense of taste? That’s messed up. God, would catnip work on me like weed now? I should test that, at some point, for the high and noble sake of science.
Embarrassingly, it takes until I’ve well and stuffed myself to wonder how Momo feels, staring at this banquet through my eyes but not able to eat any herself. I hesitate, unsure if I could get away with whispering something to her.
She notices me tensing. She laughs. “Don’t worry about it, love. In the Lady’s palace, I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. This spread is nothing to the tea parties I’ve attended in the realm of gods and witches.”
…Interesting response. I really need to ask about that when we have the time. Did the hours flow differently for her, or has Momo spent the past half-decade in the company of Alice and Nyara? I’m not sure which would be worse.
Lord Shanadar announces her departure from the banquet with a final speech emphasizing the rewards we are set to obtain if we can survive the culling process: the rights and privileges of a lord warlock, estates and servants, access to forbidden archives, and so on. She promises the power to shape the world as we please, and I can see in the expressions of my peers how that whets their appetites more than the feast ever could.
We’re each assigned a room in the sleeping cars and led there by a servant. Mine is a blue-skinned demonblood with a kind of nervous excitement about her. She introduces herself as Glory at my prompting, which I try to commit to memory. Being polite to service workers is one of the Rules.
The room is nice. There’s a private bathroom and a bed big enough to roll around on, plus a writing desk with fresh paper and what looks like a fountain pen. There’s a standing mirror in one corner, and in that mirror I see my girlfriend where my reflection should be.
“Momo,” I breathe, and I reach out to touch her, but of course my hand doesn’t pass through the mirror’s cold surface.
She waves at me shyly, biting her lovely bottom lip and staring at me with half-lidded, doe-like eyes. “Hey, Rosekitty,” she says softly, almost whining my name, “are you mad at me?”
She’s trying to drive me mad, looking like that and talking like that. Animal hunger stirs between my legs and shoots up my spine, and for a moment I have a flash of desire to grab hold of Momo by the arms, pin her down on that bed, and rip the clothing right off her. When she whines like that I want to make her moan.
It’s a futile craving; separated like this, the best I could accomplish would be a bit of voyeurism. I’m sure Momo would be happy to exhibit, given what she was like while alive—and, okay, being nervous about asking a girl out may seem silly when she’s already shown you her nudes, but you have to understand, Momo was just like that and I’m pretty sure every sapphic in the guild had been offered those. It’s part of her charm.
Still, the hunger is there. Momo can see it in me, and she lets slip a pleased expression before returning to her performance. You cheeky minx, you were trying to make me horny.
“If you’re angling for punishment, you’ll have to wait until I can get my hands on you,” I tell her with a smirk. Then I force myself to sober up. “But, more seriously, I don’t blame you for any of this. I think the malevolent goddess makes for a very convenient scapegoat.”
Momo rolls her eyes and pouts at me. “She’s really not that bad, I promise! The Lady might have a bad sense of humor at times, but she’s not our enemy, Cat. We were chosen for a second chance at life. We were resurrected by her grace, her charity, her love. Yes, there will be pain, because no miracle comes without a price, but we have eternity together thanks to the Lady’s generosity. Please don’t look down at that gift.”
I sigh and run my hands through my hair. My new ears twitch. “Okay. I’ll leave it be.” I still have mixed feelings about Nyara and what she’s done to us, but there’s no real point in talking to Momo about those feelings. Not when she’s… like this. There’s something unnerving about the faith she puts in her goddess.
Her expression softens and I can’t even feel frustrated anymore. “I love you, Cat. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” My heart aches. “It’s been so lonely since you left. What… what has it been like for you? Was it six years, or does time flow differently in that place?”
Momo tilts her head and starts tapping her chin idly. “You know, I’m not really sure. About the time, I mean. There wasn’t really ‘day’ and ‘night’ in the same way, and my memories… they’re kinda fuzzy? Like, there are specific moments I remember clearly, but it’s mostly just this bright, pleasant blur. There were tea parties and dragons and the coruscating fire of a dying star, but I spent most of my time in the palace library, reading and writing, or entertaining guests in the parlor. I don’t think it feels like six years, but, I’d have to ask the Lady to be certain. What about you, Cat?”
I immediately regret asking. I laugh weakly and scratch my head. “Well, y’know, not as glamorous. Retail jobs, striking out with girls, staying cooped up in my room.” Thinking of killing myself, distracting my suicidal brain with porn and video games, crying myself to sleep and getting high in the morning so I can make it through work. “I got really into the otome stuff thanks to you. Tried to put more work in our project, when I could. Spent a lot of time thinking about you.” Needing you.
“Oh, Cat,” Momo says, sweet and lovely and painful. She presses her hand to the glass and I meet her, skin parted from skin by a tiny and infinite barrier. “I wish you could have joined me sooner. I’ve been waiting for you.”
I laugh darkly. “Maybe I should have killed myself years ago. I would have, if I knew I’d get to see you again. Is that wrong?”
“Nothing that brings us together could be wrong,” she says passionately. “I’m so glad you’re finally here, with me, where you belong.”
Something about our love might be twisted, but I can’t bring myself to mind; I want to be wrong with her. “Love you, Momo. Now… let’s get our heads in the game.”
I drag the chair over from the writing desk and sit down in front of the mirror with a pad of paper on my lap. I start scribbling my thoughts.
“Obviously, our top priority is getting you manifested. I’m not going to be content with just a few minutes of access, so we need to find a more permanent solution than the kind of summoning that was present in the game.”
Momo nods. “The lore has an obvious answer: I need to be bound and sealed. With the right rites, I can walk around as an ordinary human—no crazy anima upkeep—until you see fit to release my power and throw me at someone.”
“It’s the obvious answer,” I agree, “but I don’t like it. Those rites were developed to enslave; I can’t even begin to imagine how long it would take us to rip out the compulsions and command structures from the architecture that suppresses your form.”
“Then, we just skip the rip, right?” Momo laughs at my frown. “C’mon, did you really think I’d have a problem with that stuff? I know what I signed up for, Cat. I’m yours. Besides, I trust you completely and absolutely, so I don’t see any problem in handing you that kind of power. I like it. I like you.”
I hesitate. I’m not stupid; I know Momo’s inclinations. She’s got to be the most submissive girl I’ve ever met, and yeah, sometimes that drives me wild in all the right ways, but I’ve heard too many horror stories about couples that went too intense too quickly. One of us has to be the responsible one here. “Momo, I—”
“Unless you don’t really want me that way,” she says, interrupting me with her most pathetic, bullyable tone and expression.
“Of course I do,” I snarl, leaning forward. Then I rub my temples and break from her molten gaze. “I want you like I haven’t wanted anything for six miserable years,” I say quietly, desire restrained by anguish. “But how can you trust me that deeply when you don’t know the person I’ve become? You don’t even know the person I was—not the full story.”
“I don’t care,” she answers immediately. “It’s still you, and you’re still mine. Always and forever. I promised. Accept me. Claim me. Take what’s yours.”
I stare down at my notes. I’ve listed out questions and ideas, but all the margins are filled with our names and little hearts. I’m mad for this girl, and she’s obviously mad for me. Isn’t that enough? Even if it’s against the Rules to do something like what she’s asking?
I’ve lived so much of my life afraid. Momo was the only one who could take away that fear, when we were together. But then she vanished, and I kept on living, and I was forced to set aside old dreams. While Momo was drinking tea with witches, I had to deal with reality. I’m not the girl who Momo fell in love with; I’m the girl that was born when that girl died. But then, I guess that girl is dead, too, and I’m what comes next. So, what comes next?
I twist the ring around my finger. “I don’t really know who I want to be in this new world. I promised to become worthy, but worthy of what? I don’t know. I don’t know anything, Momo. I know that I love you, and I want to be with you. But I’m not ready to decide what shape that should take. So, for the moment, let’s consider alternatives. A vessel that won’t require binding, a font of power you can siphon, hell, maybe another deal with your Golden Lady. We have to do this right, Momo. You have to… to still have a choice, once it’s done.”
Momo looks at me with something that might be pity. “You’re still living like you’re in their world, Rosekitty. But you’re not. If you really want to play the hero, go ahead, but I don’t think that’s what you really want, deep down. I don’t think you picked that ring to be the kind of person that sacrifices your desires for what you believe others believe to be right. Their laws don’t bind you anymore, Cat. Their justice, their morals, none of it has any meaning here. So, if you really want to be a hero, then you can be… but no one can judge you if you choose to play the villain. No one can stop you—not when you have eternity on your side. So… think about who you really want to be. Experiment a little. You have all the time in the world.”
And then she’s gone. Momo vanishes from the mirror, my own reflection restored, and I feel her presence settle around my shoulders, warm and loving.
I breathe out. I suppose that went as well as it could have. I don’t really feel like I’ve made any progress; my instincts from Earth are screaming at me what a bad idea it is to listen to Momo, but maybe she’s right and I’m adapted to the wrong context. Who’s left to judge me?
If I kill someone in a loop and then turn back the clock, have I actually committed a murder? Are there any crimes so heinous that I’ll bear their sin even through the winding of the hourglass? And if something does get locked in, what does it matter? Who will hold me accountable? Who will tarnish my name? Who matters to me that isn’t Momo?
Maybe no one. Maybe I’m free. Maybe Momo is right, and I should be what she wants me to be, and that’s exactly what Nyara has planned.
But I’m not convinced. I need to know more about this game I’ve agreed to play.
I crawl into bed and sleep, finally allowing the exhaustion to catch up to me. Darkness falls quickly, and I dream. In my dreams, I follow a white rabbit down a hole.
On the other side, Alice is there to greet me.