Primal Crusades: Witchblooded

The Coven

The Oracle assessed each of them when they turned nineteen. She looked into each Witchblooded heart and decided where their aptitudes lay, how best they could serve the Coven. Would a child be attuned to the healing power of herbs and salves? Would they be battle-born? Were they the sort of witch or warlock who wished nothing more than to sink into the archives for the next hundred years?
Laertes had ambition, and he felt a thrill of excitement at any role where he could better himself, improve his casting, and serve the Coven in an active way. The only thing he could not allow himself to be was a Breeder. No matter how the elders spoke of the important role they played in keeping the coven bloodlines pure, or enhancing the strength and purity of their magics, he could not help but suspect you became a Breeder only when there was nothing else at which you excelled.

Laertes must excel. He must have his purpose. Even if that fateful decision was still four years away.

He attended the Oracle's house (more of a mansion, really) for Meredith's ordaining. A dark-haired cousin from the Blackmoore family, Laertes knew her as an erstwhile baby-sitter. She was sweet-natured, gentle, kind-hearted, and helpful. In short, to Laertes she was uninteresting. The Oracle placed her as an Apothecarist, set to a life of healing potions. That suited someone as soft as Meredith but Laertes craved challenge, intellect, impressive talents that led to impressive actions.
Alder had been like that, a year older than Meredith. He had gone to the Oracle the autumn before, and had been chosen as a Sacrifice. Laertes' parents had not allowed him to attend the ceremony, but Alder's little brother, Robin, had been forced to watch. Now Robin was terrified that he too would be selected to be unwound into energy and light and sent up into the heavens to appease the restless spirit of Gaea.
Laertes had no such fears. His confidence in his own usefulness prevented any touch of fear from taking root in his heart. The only thing he needed was a role-model. Someone who could show him the paths to greatness.
Someone like Pyrrhus, his Demon.

His family was still unsure what to make of his having bound a Demon. On one hand, his mother had been impressed. His father had been proud but wary. His little sister, Cassandra, had been all starry-eyed. But on the other hand, it had been an illegal act of magic. Witchblooded children--that was anyone who had not yet been ordained--were forbidden from casting without supervision. Youth was a time of training and practise, honing your knowledge and technique so that when the Oracle placed you within the Coven proper, you could act autonomously.
Demons were rarely summoned because they could not be trusted. They were bound only by the strongest witches and warlocks, those who had magic potent enough that the Demon could not find a way to wriggle themselves free. Those with a Demon in their thrall were formidable, and had access to the sorts of magics that mundane humans put into fantasy films. Demon magics were like that. Witchblooded magics were more...subtle.

Laertes knew subtle had its time and place. Working among humans required a great degree of subtlety to avoid suspicion and prevent riots. But the wars had been waging among the supernatural factions for centuries; if humans hadn't noticed shifters fighting demons in the very streets, he doubted a bit of conjuring was likely to bring the illusions crashing down.

Still, the Coven had its rules. Rules for everything. And when Laertes had summoned and bound a Demon, underage and alone, he had broken the strictest rule of all.

The strange thing was Pyrrhus had sort of...helped Laertes to bind him. Laertes had been only fifteen and had stolen the spellbook from his father's collection. He'd translated the runic circles and incantations by himself. In retrospect it should have gone terribly wrong. Yet, no sooner had he opened the circle, peering down into the realms of Hell, did the Darkling face float towards the surface, skin like a shark's all grey and slick, eyes like black orbs staring from the otherwise cherubic face.

"No, it's pronounced 'lee-GA-rre' actually," Pyrrhus has whispered up through the sparking runes. Demons knew Latin well. It was, after all, their invention. Laertes had corrected his pronunciation of ligare and continued his incantation. Pyrrhus had continued to help, correcting the positioning of his hands, the quantities of protective salt, quite cheerfully and even sweetly assisting.
At last, the Darkling Demon was floating in an orb above the summoning circles, waiting for the final binding. There was a quite moment as Laertes breathlessly regarded him and Pyrrhus smiled back.
"Why are you helping me?" Laertes had asked.
"Ever been to Hell?" Pyrrhus had replied with a flippant shrug.
"Of course not," Laertes had snapped.
"Well, it's wretched. Why do you think the Dukes of Hell are trying so hard to conquer Earth? If we had any say, we'd all be getting out. It is Hell, you know." Pyrhhus' voice was wispy and childlike, an echo heard through the woods. In expression, in temperament, he was not...what Laertes had been expecting.

"Yes, but..." he tried to collect his thoughts. "I'm trying to bind you. This is not a release into the world, this is bound servitude."

"Did I mention Hell?" Pyrrhus replied, grinning.

"Suit yourself," Laertes said, steeling his resolve. "Demon--"

"It's Pyrrhus," the Darkling injected cheerfully.

"Pyrrhus, then," Laertes corrected, charging forward with the final rights of binding. "I bind thee in accordance with the Eden Proclamation to be beholden to me, Laertes Tybalt Lark!"

"Suits me fine, thanks chum!" Pyrrhus agreed at once. 

And that had been that. Pyrrhus encouraged him to tell an overblown tale involving lightning and struggle and a nearly shattered summoning ring. Otherwise it might seem suspicious, he'd warned. Whenever anyone questioned Laertes too closely about the actual casting, he'd given them his best stoic stare and repeated how much lightning there was.
He was excellent at stoic stares.

Pyrrhus was average size for a Darkling Demon, little more than three and a half feet tall with stubby little wings and long tail with an ivory plume of downy fur at its tip, a shaggy mop of hair to match. He was bound to go everywhere Laertes did, but Pyrrhus often rendered himself invisible with Demon Glamour. Darklings were especially good at the flashy magics Laertes had wanted. 

After extensive arguing, the Coven let him keep the Darkling. Laertes suspected Pyrrhus was even more chuffed than he was.