## Ishatari POV I was born in blood. I will kill with it as my instrument, I will die with it as my final breath. That is why I do not fear the war we are about to wage. That is why I do not fear the sacrifices that will be made. For every drop of blood that will be spilled from my servants or by their hungry hands, I will be a step closer to my ascension. Come may, a day when I am bathed in the flood of that noble Bloodtide once more, whence all the world is smothered in crimson and the sharpest stench of iron. They will see me for the Goddess I truly am, and they will cry for mercy. But when the waves of blood reach them, my palms, my fingers, my very soul reaching out through the tide itself, only the worthy will be granted something as rare as mercy. Only the most unwavering of loyalists will be accepted into my eternal domain of red, while the rest will be washed away like filth. My deification, nigh. My power, an unrelenting force that can be stopped by none… Eventually. These things take time\! I am still stripped of my bloody attunement and forced to use these fickle, bumbling peasants as my servants. Bah\! Just today, I was inside one of my more diminutive (**BUT STILL VERILY MIGHTY**), condiment homunculi to escape the bounds of that blasted Duke’s diner wards. As we drove in the Mad Scholar’s vehicle, I tried tuning the vehicle's auditory channels to the proper wartime anthems. Bands of terrible fury, such as Iron Maiden, Megadeth, and the Dead Lambs Club. But of course, that whiny human girl who cannot even properly summon a horde of demon rats complains that the music is “too loud” and “damages ear drums” and “nyeh nyeh wah wah wahhhh.” **PATHETIC**\! How dare she try to grab my homunculi form as I attempted to utilize the radio’s functions… *Where was I?* Oh, yes\! We were driving out to engage in guerrilla espionage and possible combat against the lapdogs of Morax. Who were there to meet with a few of my servants: The Lesser Devils, the Unraveling Angel, and my Bezerker. When my secret contingent and I arrived separately, the Mad Scholar began his work from afar, utilizing both useful and completely useless artifacts and machinery to glean the energies of the gang we were hunting. While Morax himself was not there (clearly intimidated by my presence), I believe that my Scholar can find further information with the data he has collected and root out weaknesses in those pathetic criminals. But surprisingly, it was the Teenage Occultist who spotted a crucial secret. My homunculi form of solidified pastes and aioli planted itself on the top of her head, and used her strands of golden hair as my reins to steer her towards our engagements. The Teenager realized that the vessel that Pris, the Demon of Sloth, was entering was someone we’d met before… She was a cultist who had barged into our domain the first day I had arrived in this wretched city\! A sycophant of that Knight of Envy? I do not understand why she is here, or what she is planning, but I sense that the Shape-changing Demon who assailed us is making a move. I must remain vigilant. A surprising catch by my servant, indeed. If only she and the Scholar had not become so frazzled and reckless after this information, stumbling about, calling attention to themselves, then gaining the ire of the Chainwielder Occultist. Then the bumbling Scholar was attacked by hellish dogs. These dogs cannot be trusted; they are mutts who are doomed to bite the hand that feeds. Every hellhound \- especially that blasted Cyrus \- should be tossed into the Abyss to be forgotten entirely. Anyways, the Scholar tried to explain himself, but only further enraged the Chainwielder, who called him “a tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny man who could not properly control his devil,” or something along those lines. And while I agree that he is tiny and small and pathetic, the Chainwielder has no right to spit such vitriol at one of *my* servants\! If I were in a larger form, I would have killed the fool right there. But instead, these groveling servants of mine all stuttered apologies, and we slouched back to the Deviled Egg with only the Scholar’s blood spilled, and my reputation besmirched. Hmph. The Lesser Devil of Lust has usurped the Unraveling Angel due to the Devil’s pandering to the Duke and has been put in charge of laying out the plans for this war. For the true battle we are facing is not against the legions of Morax, but against Heaven itself… Or at least, its vegan restaurant down the street. This Devil is… fine? I have not considered what kind of role exactly he will serve in my future paradise, but he has provided me with a technological device that will surely become useful now that I can escape the bounds of this Diner more easily. Although he coats his words in polish, this glamour is nothing but a disguise for his constant pleas meant to pacify judgment against him by others. We will see if he can prove to be a capable leader, or if his preylike instincts prove the better of him. Regarding our foe, I do not care for heaven, but I do not have a particular vendetta against them specifically. I scorn its angels and curse its systems of unfair hierarchy just as I hate the structures of hell. It does not matter which side we will arm ourselves against \- my ascension will come all the same. Angels have not dared to cross me, besides my sniveling manager. In fact, it was angels who broke the bars of my containment in Albuquerque years ago, even if the freedom was temporary. Even if fleeting, the months I spent out of that prison were… They were everything. After the Lust Devil discussed our plans, the rest of the week became a blur of activity. Preparation, rituals, forging new weapons of both blood and knowledge, and forging new relations to manipulate for the future. The Unraveling Angel has found another like himself to waste time with. But perhaps he will manage to learn how to become a stronger manager, one who can lead us into battle against angels without hesitation or error. Meanwhile, the Scholar has spent time in that digital domain, spreading nonsensical intellectual warfare, research he surely means to use to poison the minds of the public. However, after a pitched phone call the other afternoon, he has strangely become both more irate and aroused, muttering about “showing his archnemesis his devil”. I verily understand the drive to murder one’s enemies. Though I have a feeling that no one else in this diner, besides perhaps the Bezerker, is truly capable of committing to the act. In Avar Nu, it was I who slayed the Abyssal Da’aru who had infested our chapel. Even though it strode through the halls with hundreds of legs and an ape-like face that contorted into nightmares, I, at only seven years of age, wielded my first forged blade of blood and sheared it in two with immense speed. It flailed and screamed for mercy, but of course, the Bloodtide couldn't be stopped as I ripped out its spine in victory. Afterwards, Hollow of Heart prepared iced creams procured from the coldest stones of Morningstar as a reward\! ‘Twas quite tasty indeed, especially with the Da’aru bone marrow sprinkled on top\! Ahhh, I still remember the Da’aru’s gibbering screams as I bit into my scoop. Even before I took this mortal form, I was raised with tales of my previous incarnation having toppled Archdevils and Archdemons in the First Infernal War, and having toppled the other members of her pantheon in wars even before that. Ishatari has always been the most powerful being — I have always been the most powerful being\! For she outlasted her entire pantheon and mythological culture\! She outlasted her allies in the Infernal War. Just as I have… outlasted my sanctum. And outlasted coworkers… And outlasted Dani. All washed away. Swallowed and consumed by forces greater than this mortal body I puppet. Why do I get to remain? Why am *I* still here? This filthy, wretched form, so limited and waifish. This tiny, tiny form that can do nothing but slather festering concoctions that do nothing. A form that does nothing, is nothing, yet is chosen to remain all the same. Pathetic. I only wish that for once, please, that the things I cling are not taken from— **Silence yourself Ishatari\!** …There is no time to waste on tears. In this world, it pays to be ruthless, does it not? We must shed our skins if they are what drag us to the floor. We must cut away the limb that gets caught on fantasies of the past. Ruthlessness is something my servants must all prepare for. I, for one, will also be preparing. With the Duke having loosened the bounds of my prison, I must begin reconnecting with the Bloodtide and bending every member of this Diner ever to my will. Rituals must begin. Rituals such as my attendance at the Dead Lambs Club concert next week\! Although the tickets were forged through a dream, they have remained in this physical reality \- and thus must be utilized. I had them gifted to the lowly Teenage Lesser Occultist during that Christmas delusion, so it is nigh time to see if she can be molded into my servant as well. It is not like there is anything else she does with her time besides stare at her cellular device with panicking eyes and attend the wicked institution of torment known as High School. There is, of course, the chance she will refuse. But this band plays the proper symphonies, ones that will be invaluable spells in strengthening our souls. It is a music of boiling blood, a band that knows deeply how to throw off shackles and pierce what seems impenetrable. This diner will need something like that. Sound, music, wardrums. Notes like drops of blood on every inch of my skin, melodies like roaring rivers. Now, we are weak and scattered, but to hear the songs? To feel the rage in their bones? If they know this, truly, understand the communion, then they will not be washed away by the tides of blood. The blood that will soon be spilled, and that will not end. I do not wish for them to be washed away like the ones before them.