Canto #1: Forgive Us Our Trespasses

"Los Angeles weather is the weather of catastrophe... of apocalypse."

--- Joan Didion



The Current State of Things

Six months have passed since the 2023 Los Angeles Earthquake and the resulting Devil’s Night Riots. Electricity and running water have been restored to all the neighborhoods in the city. Much of the merely cosmetic damage caused by the quake and the riots has been cleaned up and repaired. News reports have shifted focus from tragedy to "the triumph of the human spirit." The city works to rebuild those structures that were more seriously damaged, and construction crews seem to be nearly omnipresent. A movie about the inherent drama of it all (starring Mark Wahlberg) is already in the works. Despite the hundreds who died and the tens of billions of dollars in damage, life in Los Angeles is slowly returning to what passes for normal.

It's widely accepted among demons in L.A. that the earthquake and the riots were not entirely natural occurrences. On the night in question, many of the fallen sensed incredibly powerful infernal magic at work in the city. The popular speculation is that one or more Earthbound are responsible and currently residing somewhere in the area. The possibility is very much a concerning one, and several demons have made efforts to find signs of their cults.

The public has not forgotten about what has been dubbed the "Devil's Night Miracle." When the violence and destruction of the riots had reached their apex, a glorious figure of light revealed itself to the crowds. It blazed across the night sky and stared down at the city in judgment. Though the being only remained visible for a few moments, it was enough to quell the riots and awaken the once-dormant faith of the people of Los Angeles. News crews and bystanders with smart phones recorded the fateful event, disseminating footage of the miracle all over television and social media. While many mortals have been quick to dismiss the miracle as a hoax, just as many are convinced that God (or some sort of higher power) took a direct hand that night. The initial upwelling of faith among Los Angelinos has not died down, leaving a gold mine of potential power for demons to tap.

Most fallen in L.A. are certain it was the Son of the Morning who appeared and that he may be hiding somewhere in the city. Every demon still grapples with the immensity of that bittersweet revelation and what it means to them. It has long been assumed that the Morningstar betrayed the rebels in order to avoid an eternity in the Abyss. Thus, seeing him now has ripped open old wounds and reignited inter-faction hostilities. Debates rage throughout the Infernal Court as to how best to proceed. A number of fallen, especially Luciferans, chose to abandoned their courtly duties, having decided that locating their Prince takes priority over all other concerns. Others, notably Raveners, have formed the equivalent of lynch mobs intended to flush out the Morningstar and destroy him (if such a thing is even possible). Even worse, new demons have been arriving in the city each week, drawn by the footage of the Devil's Night Miracle and the promise of Lucifer. These newcomers have only added to the weakening court's problems. Spenta Mainyu, the local Tyrant, and his ministers are working hard to keep a stranglehold over an increasingly chaotic situation.

For those fallen who can see past their personal desires and resist the pain of their Torment, they will see that there is a great opportunity set before them in the aftermath of the quake. There is a chance to build something better from the ruins. They can use their power to remake the City of Angels according to their ideals, creating a new kind of garden where the seeds of human creativity can bear fruit for the sake of the entire world. It is a chance to prove that it’s possible to turn back humanity’s slow slide into destruction, and in so doing the fallen might redeem themselves of their past sins. It is a slim hope to be sure, but for beings who helped create the universe, no challenge is too great to overcome.

And so we begin.


Date: March, 2024
Time: 7:14 pm
Location: Griffith Park, the Los Feliz neighborhood of L.A.

You wait in a medium-sized parking lot.

The lot is mostly empty. You are surrounded by rows of unused parking spaces. Beyond the lot's edge is the thick greenery that forms L.A.'s 4,200-acre Griffith Park. At this point in the day, the sun has just dropped below the horizon, leaving a darkening twilight in its place. There are no street lamps here, so only the glow of a waxing moon and the lights of nearby Downtown Los Angeles are providing you with illumination. Even in the disappearing light, you can still see the distant peaks of the Santa Monica Mountains, and you can make out, just barely, the blocky white letters of the HOLLYWOOD sign on Mount Lee's southern slope. Most hikers and visitors have left, and very few vehicles are remaining. Though the park is open till 10pm, people tend to leave before nighttime arrives. Nighttime is when the park becomes home to coyotes, bobcats, and less savory types of mortals. But it's good if you're hoping for some privacy.

Earlier this evening, your Celestial name was invoked. You felt a pull at your mind as the name was recited. It wasn't a matter of someone off-handedly uttering your name. No... you were purposely addressed. An attempt at communication, or what some fallen sardonically refer to as "demon radio." The speaker wanted your attention.

The person contacting you identified himself as Hector Campos. You know him, or at least know of him. In the ancient days when the world was young, before the poisonous touch of the Abyss had its malforming effect upon you all, he was known as Fell Knight Shemyaza, the Slayer of Mountains. Once a warrior of the Alabaster Legion, he now serves at the whim of the Ministry of Lions. For those of you who make regular attendance to meetings of the court, his face is a familiar one.

Campos sends an urgent request that you come meet him. He claims that it's a matter of grave importance, and that he's attempted to contact several other fallen but you're the only ones to respond. He doesn't quite have the courtly authority or eminence to compel your obedience, nor does he know True Names with which to subjugate you to his will. Thus, all he can do is make a request and promise that Lord-General Abezethibou, senior minister of the Swords, will look favorably upon your assistance.

To say that Richard Griffin is the conspicuous sort would be an almost disgusting understatement. He is a nearly seven-foot-tall pillar of muscle, his massive muscles straining against the thick leather of the black biker's jacket and ripped jeans he insists on wearing everywhere he goes. He wears a pair of black "cool guy" shades, and just above them a single horn twists from a burn mark on his skin, a cutaneous growth that he displays, proudly and perversely. Dick is not particularly cagey about his fiendish nature, as evidenced by the horn, and the fact that he's known on the streets as "The Devil," for It's sake. Perhaps there's something in that strategy of hiding in plain sight. Perhaps Dick is just careless.

Dick leans against his motorcycle, a souped-up monstrosity with brass accents and a bull's head between the handlebars. Behind him stand two others: a hugely fat man with a leather half-face mask strapped to his lower face, and a young woman in a trench coat with a very conspicuous bulge beneath it. Despite his tough exterior, Dick's eyes dart back and forth from behind his glasses, paranoidly searching for the person who knew his name. His true name. It is not a name that he gives out to just anyone. In fact, it is a name he has given out only seven times since he came to Earth, and one of those who heard it is already dead. Depending on how things go today, that number of deceased name-bearers might see itself doubled. Nervously or idly, he plays with the heavy crowbar he takes with him everywhere.

When Anthony pulls up into the Griffith Park parking lot, he remains in his car - a falcon-wing Nikolai Model CK, the luxury SUV-crossover model - and takes furious pulls at his vape pen.

He hated being in places like this, at times like this... he felt conspicuous, and not in the way he liked. Anyone observing would think he was some rich schmuck traipsing down out of the Canyons, here to "have an adventure" or play pretend at being edgy - to score a filthy and anonymous hook-up or some blow.

And the part that, of course, rankled him most about this thought he projected onto his fictional observers was that anyone under such assumptions wouldn't be far off from the truth.

That personal distaste was what struck him first, and it was hard and real, but it quickly took a back seat, once he had parked, to the other reality - or the SURreality - of what he was actually here for... The compulsion he felt that drew him here... hearing someone - or someTHING - else utter the name of the Being within him... It made his blood run cold.

He had only a vague sense of what had happened in between then and now, until he was actually in the front seat of his own car and driving here, he had felt like he was in the back-seat of his own body. His own head. As he so often did these days... The invocation of the demon name, Gevorah, had brought it into control.

But for now, at least, he was himself again, and as himself, his eyes were darting from shadow to shadow as he staved off a mild panic attack, with his hand returning again and again to the presence of the Sig Sauer in the waistband-holster in the small of his back, which reassured his mortal-self.

Given your Resources, that’s all fine for you to have. No problem.

Dick's eyes narrow at the cat, but he pays it no mind beyond that. The masked man, however, leans down and holds a hand out to the cat, making hoarse, muffled kissy noises from behind the mask in an attempt to attract it.

Anthony watches the amalgam of gathering faces, and he wonders if one of them is the being that called to him?

'Er... to Gevorah.'

Anyway, rough-looking crew...

'Maybe I should just drive off... no harm, no foul.', he powers up the Nikolai.

But then he stops as he thinks to himself, "This is what you asked for Anthony. This is what you wanted. Power does not come without a cost. Not to you. Not anymore. This is the first step. This is the beginning."

He sighs and pops the cap on his vape, and before he knows it he's gotten out of his car and is straightening his suit pants and jacket.

Anthony Burgess is a man of about average height (thanks to his heeled dress shoes) and average looks. Somewhere in his 30s or 40s. Though it's hard to say exactly because of his hair which has gone white, despite his dearth of wrinkles. You can tell underneath his well-fitting suit, he is solidly built, which looks like a bit of a contradiction for this man, by his dress and manner, but ultimately forms a picture of vanity.

He clears his throat and takes a few steps away from his car, towards Dick and the others.

"So...", his voice is pressed with impatience, "who are you?"

Dick looks at the approaching man, and regards him without moving.Dick's fat tongue briefly pokes out of his mouth and tastes the air, running along his teeth before disappearing back into the recesses of his maw. He smacks his lips, and sneers.

"None of your concern, Snow Miser." His voice rumbles like an avalanche. "Why don't you mosey on outta here? I gotta meeting to attend, and it don't concern you."

The crowbar he's been twisting smacks into the ground with a loud clang, digging out a small chunk of sidewalk. It's rather clear that he won't hesitate to make use of it for more violent purposes.

Anthony snorts and snickers, "Alright, Hard Man. You're clearly not the important one here.", and so he just turns to look off up at the moon, taking a pull at his vape.

"The Hell'd you call me? You don't gotta damn clue who you're fuckin' with, asshole."

Dick walks up to Burgess. The others follow suit, surrounding the white-haired man. The blue eyes of the masked man burn from behind his mop of greasy hair. The woman's greens, on the other hand, are cold and unemotive. Dick's are invisible from behind his dark, dark glasses.

"Look here, kid. Ordinarily I'd keelhaul you for that 'til there wasn't a corner of this city that wasn't smeared with your guts, but I got other things to do. I ain't got the time to waste on you. But all it takes is a second for a good swing and your brains'll be smeared across the pavement, so get the Hell outta my business. You can come back when I'm done here."

Anthony smirks and with the vape pen in his left hand, he pops the cap on with his right, and gently caresses the aluminum case of the thing beginning down at it's base. He's still looking off at the moon... As his fingers run up the aluminum, the metal becomes like a fluid in his hands, yet it doesn't drip to the ground.

Instead, at his light touch, he pulls at it with seemingly no force or effort at all, and he stretches the metal casing of the thing up into a short, thin blade with a flourish at the end that may be put on, or may be necessary to do the thing he's doing.

He sniffs and spins it in his fingers like a drummer might do with their stick at a performance, and then he pushes more of his energies into it as he drawls on the words and looks at it admiringly, and still without paying any more attention to Dick or his cohorts...

"You might find it takes you more than a second..."

Dick's companions back up at Anthony's display, but the hulking gangster stays put, eyebrows raising slightly. Then, a grin splits his pockmarked face, revealing his yellow-brown teeth.

"Ah, shit, that changes things. Damn. I was kinda looking forward to getting a swing in."

Dick stands back and sticks the crowbar through his belt. He takes a cigarette from a carton in his pocket, and pulls a lighter from a retractable holder dangling from his belt. He lights the thing, and takes a puff. Then, he snaps his fingers and the thing goes up in flames, burning down to the stub in a single draw. He takes a powerful breath as this happens, inhaling every last bit of smoke, and blows it all in Anthony's face. As the smoke ever-so-briefly shrouds the two, Dick tips down his sunglasses, revealing a pair of eyes that shimmer with iridescent green and blue, like the patterns on a peacock's tail feathers. The smoke disappears, and Dick stands there, leather-gloved hand outstretched.

"Dick Griffin. Though I'm more publicly known as "The Devil." Stupid name, I know, but I didn't come up with it, and it ain't entirely inaccurate. You don't get my third name."

Gevorah's mouth twitches into a frown for just a moment as a small piece of himself curses inwardly as he admires the improvised blade and realizes it can no longer be used to smoke on.

But then he blinks and the frown quickly turns back into the smirk, and he pivots to acknowledge Dick's change in demeanor. As the smoke cloud billows around him, Anthony inhales it vigorously looking Dick dead in the eyes and then wrinkles his nose, "Your breath stinks, dick."

And then he reaches out and with three fingers, index middle and thumb, pinches Dick's gloved thumb and shakes it up and down.

"Anthony. Pleasure, I'm sure."

Then he sighs looking down at the ruined vape pen again and just kind of slides the newly made blade into his belt.

"Don't I know it," Dick sneers. He grabs another cigarette from the carton, and hands it off to Anthony during their handshake. "You oughta try getting one of those in you. Make you look like less of a tool than your little hunk of metal and plastic. This one's on the house."

Dick stands back and again snaps his fingers, the tip of the cigarette flaring to life. He seems utterly unaware of just how much every single action of his makes him look like a tool.

Anthony takes the cigarette with gratitude, appraising Dick anew over the small gesture. He raises it as if to say, Cheers, and takes a drag.