Ƶ, The Black Goat

The Stages Of Ƶ

Blood poured from the mouths of the children, eyes shriveled and green, from within them came the voice of the spirits of evil, “TwISt iN ThE WInd, BLacK GoAT!” 

Dozens of them, children of the town of Crystianvale, who have swallowed the bitter waters of Cancer, and have no been possessed by Demons. Slicing heretical marks into their flesh with knives, pieces of glass, and other such sharp instruments, they murdered their parents, adults, and children who have yet fallen under the curse. 

“JoIN the EvIL BEYond! JOin OuR JamborEE!” they spoke in unison, betraying the hivemind behind the demonic possession. 

“Legion!” Ƶ, spoke the true name of the hateful spirit, causing the animated bodies of the children to contort, and mutate. Large humps grew from their backs, and swollen tumors to form on their faces. Teeth shot out of their gums, and grotesque spirals formed their, as the tips of their fingers sharpened into claws. “Christ, King of Kings, condemns you! Expel! Expel! Ex—!”

A sharp cry escaped his mouth, as he felt a slicing claw rip into his back, causing his green blood to spill from his freshly opened wound. Burning, he felt the demonic venom seep into his veins, and as he backed away from the demon that wounded him, he found he was about to be quickly overwhelmed. 

Rushing away, he climbed the stone steps leading away from the town center, and up onto a hill, where consecrated ground was, waiting for a soul to give safe haven. Climbing the hill, he felt the searing pain of his wound start to bubble with corruption, as soon as he secured himself into the church’s, locking the doors tightly behind, he tended to his infected wound. 

Picking out a mirror form his back, the oval reflective surface, show him the festering, evil that formed around his wounds, making his skin yellow. Quickly he took out a bottle of holy water, and ripping off the cork, he poured it on his back. As soon as the purging liquid touched his infected wounds, it frothed with purple and blue, and flowed from down his back pooling onto the floor. 

Holiness of his blessed water saved him from becoming a tormented, possessed puppet of Legion, but the cuts were deep and required stitching. 

A rock was flung through the glass windows of the church, the possessed were flinging rocks at the holy structure, in rage of being denied their prey by divine intervention. Backing away to the back rooms of the church, where they weren’t any windows, he pulled out a needle and thread, and began to stitch his wounds, in the light of the mystic candle he lit. 

The flames danced at the shadows of the room, and the smell of burning wax, and incense, mingled with the dust ridden gloom. Whatever occurred to bring about the demonic possession, was not a instant thing, it was a steady poison that built up in the life blood of the town. 

Hidden in the woods, and surrounded by miles of mires, anyone or more of the town, couldn’t be called to, or even found by happenstance a place of worship of a pagan deity. Whatever awe inspiring idol they found carried with it a curse that robbed them of their will, turning them into vessels for the Legion demon. 

Cancer, no doubt, the fiendish irreligion of the Black Oil Crab, that taints the minds of mortals with promise of eternal life, and ever lasting existence. However they do not preach their deathless world of stagnation, mutation, and soul rot, that only strengthens the evil that blights their lives. 

Death is change, and purges the toxins the souls intakes before salvation or damnation. Only the wicked and ignorant fear this, and are more pliable to accept the servitude of a agent of Cancer, in this case the soul enslaving Legion, who had began to set the Church on fire. 

Setting branches of trees aflame, the mutant demons flying the blazing branches through the windows and around the building, soon set the moss covered timber on fire. 

Finishing stitching his wound, and cauterizing it with the candle flame, Ƶ packed up, and tried to escape the growing flames, but the way he came had combusted. The fire had gotten to the dry, cracked wooden pews, and had accelerated the pyre which engulfed the majority of the structure.

Despite being a holy place, it was not immune to the natural destructive elements of the world. Unable to get out through the front, he tried to find a escape in the back, but the back walls of the church were built against solid rock. The entire church was built upon rock, however as the smoke started to fill the air, Ƶ saw etchings in the rock walls of the backroom. 

Markings of the Stonemasons, a ancient guild of stoneworkers, who were said to be trusted with the secrets of many of Earth’s founding societies. Templars, Illuminati, Rotary Club, these societies used the Masons to construct elaborate architecture and mechanisms to safeguard their treasures, and forbidden knowledge—but also to provide escape routes for those of their own. 

Catholics have such signs, the two-barred cross, a symbol misappropriated by the Church Of Devour, following it would always lead to ones of faith to salvation. Following the right side of the cross, crouching under the plumes of rising smoke, he found another cross, and then he saw a Latin letter directing him down. Beneath the stone slab underfoot there were signs of a ancient mechanism, activating it, made the ancient stone slide away with a low grind, operating as it did when it was first assembled. 

Leading down into dank, bitter smelling darkness, Ƶ had no alternatives, he grabbed onto the top, and slowly lowered himself down. Standing in ankle high, chilly sludge-water, he heard a clicking sound, and the crimson light from above was sealed away as the stone slid back into place. ]

Left in darkness, he heard as the church start to crumble from above, imaging how it collapsed into a heap of cinders, leaving the town doomed to be the cesspool of demonic presence. That he would have to stop, by finding the source of the possession, the gateway between Earth and the demon sphere, where they impose their will onto the mortal plane. 

For that he needed to escape, but Ƶ felt something vibrations through the stagnant water, something Cancerous resided down there, and was just aware of his presence. 

Lighting his mystic candle with his last match, the mystic illumination of his candle cast away the gloom, but before it did, a flicker of malevolence was in the shadows. A shimmer of many eyes looking at him, their fangs clicking, before silently melded back into the shadows. 

A spider? A scorpion? ‘Damned evil festers everywhere in this abyss.’

The only comfort he had was the cross carved into the wall of the passage, reminding him, that even in the lair of absolute darkness, God is by his side. Pulling out his scimitar, crimson, with its serrated blade, he drudged forward, confident he’ll see the light again. 

***

Beware the Mǟozhik, as dark as the shadows, and as wily as a serpent, it cuts, and swipes with poisonous claws, and venomous fangs. 

Beware its silent steps, its cunning mind, and worst of all, its evil soul. 

Innocent and guilty alike, no not this fiends purpose, or are spared its malicious acts. 

Keep your cross over your heart, and your faith in the Lord, God, for no steel alone can defeat this creature. —Ƶ read the inscription on the wall, translated from its old Latin language, warning of the horror that stalks the underground passage. 

From what he could guess, it was a underground escape route, build within a well system, that would carry fresh water to the town’s well. Ages of neglect had allowed clusters of sludge to build up, and stagnation to make the water stale, and the air almost too sour to breathe. Whatever secret route the Mason’s or the Church meant this to be, had been long abandoned. New tunnels had been duck into the singular canal, most likely done by the shadowy creature. 

Solid stone was torn aside, showing traces of its massive claw marks upon it, deep, and slicing into the natural rock. 

There was also something else within the darkness, a pungent stench that wasn’t the smell of natural earthly decay, it is vile, and unnatural. Certainly demonic, without any trace of moral binary, only a singular taint of evil. Whatever Mǟozhik came from, Ƶ could sense it was a an intelligent creature, although of the spirit, it had manifested a physical form. 

Demons in the mortal planes are merely ethereal entities, without bodily form, however if it somehow finds a totem, it can create a body of its own, made of the dark thoughts of the people around it—“Its here!”

Ƶ couldn’t help but exclaim his sudden epiphany, Legion’s idol that had allowed him to possess the people of Crystianvale, it was in the well. Having most likely run out of water, they dug deeper, and must of perforated into a chamber that connected into the canal, allowing the demonic presence to contaminant the water. 

Down there, he was going to find the gateway, and exorcize it, or be at the cruel mercy of the demons. Eventually he reached the end of the canal, leading to a ladder leading into the surface, but that was not where he needed to go—he needed to find the gateway.

For that he needed to take another path, bringing his candle to a opening into the wall, he gazed into the gnarled passage. Darkness was pushed back several feet, enough to see the emptiness of the void ahead, a nasty, lifeless space, that he choose to enter. Sword drawn, crouching, he maneuvered forward, till he felt a skin crawling chill on his back. 

Turning around he swiped at the cold sensation with his weapon, and for a split second he saw the manifested face of Mǟozhik. Bloated, vaguely human, with large insect eyes, sprouting out of his face as if they were pitch filled boils. Clawed fangs, and scythe-like mandibles poked out from its sideways maw, filled with crooked nails. 

Profane, abominable mutant of dreams of man and child, united into a phantasm of nightmarish dread. Once Ƶ sever one of its limbs, it back away into the darkness, silently retreating, leave nothing, not even its severed limb which faded as soon as it touched the ground. 

Cautious going forward, Ƶ took out his mirror and held it between the fingers of the hand he used to hold the candle, so he could see to his front and back. Taking steady, but purposeful steps, he advanced onward, cautious of what he could see, but mostly of what he couldn’t. 

***

Whether it was the shock of being struck, or a sense of toying with its prey that halted any further attacks by the Mǟozhik, Ƶ couldn’t say. Going deeper into the intersecting earthen tunnels of oblong shape, and stark edges, he eventually emerged in a chamber of well furnished stone. 

Just going further towards the center of the tunnels, led him to that place, which easily lit by his candlelight, as his wax began to wan, and melt onto the ground, the foul air became more cleansed by his incensed infused candle. However the pungent stench of evil still held supreme power, so what little blessing the candle offered, could not ultimately halt the sensation of demonic evil from fulfilling its desires. 

The Mǟozhik brought its victims here, bones, and gnarled ornaments made of mucus hardened organs were built there, acting as bewitching totems. Wards and spies for the demon, who Ƶ could tell was aware of his intrusion in its lair. Backing away from the tunnel, he relied on his mirror to see around corners, and doorways of the underground complex. 

So far he could see nothing, but the grave murals on the wall. Stone carvings depicting the people who once lived in the lands—the House Of Cancer. Who built monuments to their profane God of stagnation, which angered the Almighty, who drowned them in a mire of their own vile sins. 

Sunken into the swamp, the temples, and monuments of their wicked religion were lost, but not forgotten, as the mural continued to show a battle that happened, between the Christian Church, and the Cancer Druids. 

Death, human sacrifice, and demon summoning, had tainted this land in a curse, a cycle of evil that returns to enact the same blighting ritual. To expunge live, in a purging flame, as the Holy Knights had done to the druids so long ago. 

Rapt up in the deciphering of the mural, Ƶ didn’t notice in his mirror, a horrendous demonic figure approach, and just before it struck, he felt a sensation shock his entire system. Rolling aside, he dropped his candle on the ground, it popped from its holder, and rolled on the ground, dimming its light, so that the Mǟozhik could meld better into the shadows. 

Both hands on his scimitar, Ƶ kept his eyes peeled to any shift in the darkness—suddenly one silhouette stretched out to him, like a shadow of a monster invading through a child’s bedroom window. Swiping at it, hacked away apart of its form, it retracted but he could feel it moving around. 

Remembering his mirror he pulled it out from the pocket where he tucked it away, and tactfully tossed it towards the candle. 

The metallic frame, and sturdy glass withstood the tumbling, and as if guided by a miraculous hand, was poised behind the light, reflecting the light into the darkness. 

Within it he saw the slinking figure of the Mǟozhik trying to come at his flank. Letting loose a vengeful cry, he charged at it, driving his blade into its form, and hacking at its body, slicing away pieces of it, despite it fighting back, and cutting at his face and hands, Ƶ let his bloody fury enrage him into a violent fervor. 

Violently, and without pause he sliced at the demon’s form, sending limps and chunks of body all about to be evaporated. So eager was his wrath it took a few moments to realize he completely destroyed Mǟozhik’s physical manifestation. 

All that was left, was the demonic spirit, which reflected in Ƶ’s crescent pupils. A mass of darkness with two crimson, glowing orbs, that moved about the darkness as if it were some foul gaseous cloud that reviled the notion of existence. 

Deprived of physical form, the demonic spirit filtered about, and vanished into darkness, to lick its wounds, and await for it to reform its body using the sinister thoughts of mortals as fodder. 

Ƶ convulsed and dropped his sword, having seen a demon’s naked form, had harmed his partially human mind, causing him to fall to his knees, praying almost gibberish. Unable to retain composure, he had tried to search for the mind clarifying words of prayer. 

Again and again he tried, till he was able to repeat the sacred mantra that commune him to the heavens. After his shaken mind calmed, he was able to calmly recite the Lord’s prayer, and he didn’t stop speaking it, till he could utter it without flaw, stutter, or pause. 

Finally recovering from the sanity testing horror he saw, Ƶ came fully to his senses, recovering his nearly faded candle, and mirror, he began his search for the source of the demonic infiltration. 

***

Hours of searching the chambers didn’t yield any results, his candle dwindled to a puddle that extinguished the light. Trapped in darkness, Ƶ had to feel at the walls to guide him about, using his memory to map out the various passages. 

He knew he was retracing old steps, but he needed to find a way forward, he couldn’t go back, not while he was so close. As he passed by a familiar passage, his finger’s felt a odd gap into he walls, something his candle couldn’t reveal. 

Touching at the gap, he realized that his candle didn’t just dispel darkness, but shifted shadows, enough to conceal a narrow opening. Putting his finger’s inside, he found with effort he could move aside a section of the wall. Opening it wider, unsealed a an enclosure that allowed gray daylight into the dark underground. 

Fully shifting the stone mechanism till it became locked in place, Ƶ moved towards the light, and almost immediately recognized the underground chambers connect to the bottom of the town’s well. Smells of mucky water filled his nose, and the sounds of tormented, demon possessed townspeople could be heard from above. 

Moving towards the light, his eyes were drawn not to the sunlight above, but the shallow waters below. Fresh water ran dry long ago, the people of Crystianvale survived on filthy ground water. Seeping up from the underground caves, the brown muck bubbled to the surface, waiting to be carried up in a bucket. 

Something else was down there also, a hideous idol of ancient Blackened Rock, naturally formed by primordial heat, and heretic occultism. A idol, a black, accursed idol. Appearing human shaped at first, Ƶ could see its dark shape even in the muddy water. Reaching into the puddle he pulled it out, with some effort, as it was half-sunk in a puddle of mud. 

Holding it up to the light, the muck and water dripped from its form, revealing its true form—a depiction of the Oily Crab, Cancer, God of Stagnation. Slick to the touch, the obscene statue had two bulbous orbs affixed to the base, where wiry tentacles, and two enormous claws stuck out. 

Eyes as pitch dark as an empty night sky, and a long limb resembling a elephants drink, whose mouth is lined by many teeth. Ghastly, it radiated with atheistic evil, damning anyone who would fall for its influence—this was the gateway the demons had infiltrated the mortal world. 

Rage filling him, Ƶ unhesitant, despite the idols influences over minds, smashed it into the stone floor. Breaking off the claws and several tendrils, the idol remained undamaged, but above Ƶ could hear the sudden maddening howling of the townspeople. Something was driving them into a frenzy, but he couldn’t pay it any mind. 

Desperation consumed him, and he hammed the idol with all his might, silently reciting the prayer for banishing evil. 

Again and again, he mentally recited the mantra. 

‘In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God, of Blessed Michael the Archangel, of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints. and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry,

we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil. God arises; His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee before Him. 

As smoke is driven away, so are they driven; as wax melts before the fire, so the wicked perish at the presence of God. Behold the Cross of the Lord, flee bands of enemies. The Lion of the tribe of Juda, the offspring of David, hath conquered. May Thy mercy, Lord, descend upon us. As great as our hope in Thee. We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects.’

Each time he recited it, the idol became weaker in his grasp, and each time he hammered it into the sturdy stonework, chunks of it fell off and was grinded into dust. On the last reciting, the the screams of pain grew louder from above, as Legion was being exorcized from the town, and the gateway that sustained his evil was fading. 

After the last thunder slam, the town went quiet, and the Cancer Idol became dust in Ƶ’s hand. Taking deep breathes feeling mentally exhausted, he felt a pleasantness in the air, a purifying freshness that came with a new wind. 

The evil was gone. 

Climbing from the well, Ƶ expected the townspeople to be freed from the demonic influence, however as he climbed the iron ladder bars of the well, he poked his head up, and was crestfallen at what he saw. 

Everyone, all the children that had taken over the town in the throws of possession had been burnt to death. Legion not wanting to leave the innocent unharmed, freed of his control, had set them aflame, the fires from their bodies had set the town buildings aflame. 

Smoke, and rising flames, would soon spread to the trees, and the entire woodland in the marshes would be a purging pyre. Unable to do anything else, Ƶ hurried out of town, speeding away from the flames that followed after, driven by a natural urge to devour all it could touch. 

***

The paved road diverged towards the marshland, but the lone horseman, dressed in the plate of knightly flare, watched as it was now a ferocious pyre, consuming all in its flame. Black smoke, and crimson hellfire could stretched out into the grassy countryside, if not for a deep drench of water, surrounding the swamp. 

The knight watched as one figure came out alive from the inferno, covered in singe marks, he was lucky to come out alive. He wanted at the divergence in the road to meet the stranger to inquirer what had happened. It wasn’t till he saw the hood being pulled back from the stranger’s face did he recognize the appearance, from rumors he heard on the road. 

Instantly a stern, repulsion came over his face, and Ƶ looked up to see the knight give him a disgusted look, and knew his infamy had soured all first impressions. 

“If it isn’t the Black Goat, come to spread more chaos and destruction. I should smite you where you stand…but I am compelled to honor my oaths of my knightly order. Begone from my sight, heathen, and may God judge you in his own time.” 

Ƶ said nothing in his defense, he knew he couldn’t be believed. Once people saw his blackened face and horns, he was known by that dehumanizing title, Black Goat. A moniker of shame, that followed him as closely as his shadow. As he passed by the mounted knight, he wanted to meet his eyes, but somehow the shame of his existence, kept his eyes humbly to the ground. 

Hurrying off, Ƶ had to continue on mission, to expel evil from the world, and carry the Lord’s laws with him, wherever he went. Despite the ire inflicted upon him by mankind.