It's also that as well. You see, like other Green-skinned creatures that start with O, it has layers.

I give myself an hr with a prompt and then bounce to something new or back to work on my own work/actually employment.

The commenter below pretty much got it. In my mind's eye the Faith has indoctrinated our protag into not seeing herself for who she is, with the High Priest using a glammer to alter her perception. If I decided to work on this piece I'd add clarity, but this and other stuff I post are sprints to get ready for Nanowrimo on another project.

She readied herself for her deserved death with the calm of a penitent. So many things fell into place. The beastknight rushed towards her... then past, grabbing up the young girl and her brother in his arms and letting out a roar that shook the dust from the walls of the hiding place. The hordesmen answered, and she heard the swell fill the temple.

More beasts began to flood the room, two tattooed healers looking over the children, another trying to staunch the blood flowing from the healer the Guardian had run through. As the beastknight rocked its children back and forth, she heard the monster letting out a low prayer.

Gaad ti'Shilul-zorad, saniadai uldrod busul rosharichad, filpra-nod brandul mamadal siatazor. Blessed Mother of Quiet Places, I call to you your blessed mercy, hear my prayer, your loyal servant, though I am far from my homeland.

She looked at the armor the beastknight wore, and saw the enamel working on their breastplate. A green set of clawed hands, holding the earth between its fingers.

The hammers fell and she questioned whether it was time. She realized then that she did not have the will to do it. A life taken in righteous combat? She was not above that. But what the Horde would do would be a cruelty. She did not have the courage to do what she must, and the children would suffer.

She shook her head, and decided then that they would not have the children.

She held each of them as she started.

"One sip, don't worry about the bitterness, it will all be better soon." the lie leapt out of her mouth just ahead of the nausea.

She had been traded from her parents due to her piety, and they had... it was a hard road here. She wondered if it was her treatment that had hardened her. When she told the Guardian Primal of what they had done he had chided her, asked why she had not dressed as a boy to hide herself.

It was then that she refused to unsex herself for their desire. They wanted her to bind herself, to accept their crude glances as she dressed and undressed in the page's chambers. The first hands had been met with fists. The second with a knife.

They had called her cold, unwilling to drink with them when they snuck off during Devotion. The life of a Guardian's wife was far better than signing into the Book of the Blessed. She refused their proposals, their advances. She became strong, but ready to attack anyone who touched her, prepared to kill to defend her temple.

By the time she had given the last draught the first hole appeared. It was a matter of minutes before the chamber was opened wide enough for the first of them to come through. It was a thin creature, its skin the colors of the evergreens of the Guardian's homeland. She hadn't thought of that place of long winters since she arrived there, not yet a woman. Now, she prepared to strike and thought of that place.

Her sword struck true, and she saw the shock in the monster's eyes. Unarmed and unarmored, a scout. The blade glowed in the dark where its blood poured, and she saw what it carried.

Herbs. A pot, and herbs. The smell of the herbs was medicinal and sweet, and the tattoos of the creature showed in its lifeblood's light. Soft whirls of black and red, the glinting of stones in the beast's hair, milky pink quartz and bright blue lapis.

"Mirhapad. Djulad. Mama' Djuladi." the beast fell, but she had learned enough of the monster's tongue. Fool. Healer. I have come to heal you.

The cries of the Hordemen outside were deafening. They pounded at the walls as they tore the false stones away, rending with tools and bare clawed hands. The opening was widened, and the healer was drawn out as a tall monster in a set of armor stormed in, dragging the High Priest by his hair. The armor was close to her own, and the monster opened its mouth in shock.

"What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" it demanded in the Guardian's language, its voice full of... anguish? Despair?

She didn't even have time to respond before the beastly knight lifted the High Priest, breaking the poor man's neck with the effort of wringing life from a plump hen.

The soft susurrus of released energy filled the room, and around the Guardian a dozen children, once human and now in the shape of beast whelps, lay in dreamless sleep.

The temple had fallen.

She stood alone, set to guard the greatest treasures of her Faith. There had been warnings from the men; cruel japes and vivid descriptions. For her own safety, they had said, they had placed her there, at the protection of the children. They warned her of the horrors of what would happen if she fell, and she felt the first tears to fall since she wept in joy over her elevation as Guardian of the Faith.

She prayed to her god, and feared her doubt would make that prayer fall on deaf ears. Her god smiled down, Her beauty beaming as she held the blessed earth within her outstretched arms. Her order was not one of war but of peace and love. This holy temple was desecrated by the presence of the Horde.

She heard them pillaging, the tearing of tapestries and the smashing of holy statuary. She felt no fear but a deep resignation. The Horde's press had filled the sky with dust for hours before their arrival, and she was but one stone standing in a tide of brutality. The false wall behind the High Priest's quarters would hide her charges only so long.

Lady of the Quiet Places, hear my prayer. Know that I, your servant in full, stand resolved to defend your people. Bless me with the strength to raise arms, the wisdom to guide my blade truly, and the serenity of death eternal with your Host if I shall fall this day. In your name I declare my life, on this day if it be my last.

She heard the screams of the High Priest as the Horde broke into his chamber. Their guttural voices grinding through the stones of the false wall. The striking of His holy flesh, the Anointed and Promised husband to her Lady in this world. Her children, the children who had been sent from the cities that knew of the advancing Horde, trembled behind her. She turned to see the smallest of them, a girl no more than five whose feet the Guardian had cleaned and bandaged herself, bury her head into the rags of her elder brother.

They will sacrifice the children to their bestial goddess. It would be a blessing. A true blessing. Only a sip, and they will pass into an eternal sleep. No pain there. the High Priest had given her the skin before she was walled in, inured and kept from the battle to protect the children from the Horde. Even if not from her own Treachery.

She gripped the hilt of her sword and stood tall as the hammers started their ringing on the wall.

The rage of a demon is fierce. The room went quiet as a hospital chapel as Berith raged, throwing papers and tearing his suit coat off to bear long, beautiful white wings. The demon shouted in a dozen tongues, some simultaneously, as he threatened me with a thousand sadistic tortures if I did not give in and let my soul go to Hell.

Ivo waited. This tired, middle-aged schlub waited for the hatred of Hell to calm with a saint's patience, allowing it to calm before he carried on.

"Your mother, Zelda Cohen, was matrilinearly Jewish. Though her husband was Catholic, she kept a kosher home. And even as you grew, even if it was without his knowledge, Mr. Moore did not break a single mortal law that cannot be refuted by Deuteronomic statute. Mr. Moore..."

"Yes?"

"Did you eat shellfish?"

"No, never even tried it, seemed dirty."

"The meat of pig or other unclean animals?"

"Never."

"Did you keep the Sabbath holy?"

"Well, I never did go to Church on Sunday but I always took Saturdays off and relaxed."

"Did you wear clothing of two separate natural fabrics?"

"No, I only wore cotton."

"And when you, uhh, committed acts of congress, did you seek to provide pleasure and complete your action within the standards of reproduction and growth of your bloodline?"

"Well sure. I was sterile from mumps as a kid, but I liked to c-"

"That is sufficient."

Ivo paused, collecting his thoughts.

"Whether through his own knowledge or sheer dumb luck, Eric Moore has followed to the letter the standards of the Jewish faith. Even as a homeless man, he gave to those less fortunate. He never asked for interest and forgave debts. He performed tens of thousands of small mitzvah within his life, and while he never completed his acceptance of the faith through the ritual of bar mitzvah, he was matrilinearly confirmed as a member of the Jewish people and thus, must be judged by the standards of that faith and not of the Catholic rule."

"Objection! The Damned murdered his father!"

"Deuteronomy 22, verses 23 to 27. The victim of his father, one Jennifer Thompson, nee Moore, was betrothed in her heart to one Paul Thompson, her now husband. As there was no one to hear her calls for help, it was to the standard of Deuteronomic Law thar her attacker, one John Moore be put to death. Whether knowingly or unknowingly, through his actions, Eric Moore carried out the standards listed within the faith to which his soul was assigned upon the quickening of his breath, and must be deemed adherent, and thus found if not Innocent, then safely Just."

Berith looked like he had swallowed hot coals, or maybe a mouth of holy water. The veins on that perfect face pulsed, and with nothing further to say the hellspawn sat down, defeated by a schlub in a cheap suit.

The rest of the case was minor stuff. Misdemeanor sins, I'll be here for a couple decades. But time passes different while you're waiting, and I know how to wait. Maybe I'll carve my name in so the next guy knows I was here. I laugh when I think that, but for a loophole I would be burning in eternity today.

I guess sometimes the angel is in the details.

I always thought there would be more clouds.

Heh, if I'm honest to you? Really honest? I thought there would be more fire.

For all of the pomp and circumstance, the afterlife looked a lot like a cell at Cook County. Bare concrete brick painted in that off-white institutional color that always made my skin crawl. The same odd graffiti on the wall, either carved deep or written sloppily in flaky brown-red ink that seeped into the cheap industrial slapon paint. The last scrawls of some guy who had spent the night here and left that mark on the world. Crude rhymes and allusions to a life lived outside of this place.

It made me feel hopeful. Even though I knew there wasn't a reason for that hope.

The thing that made me realize this wasn't just some dream was what was missing. Smells. That jail funk you get, an odor of stale bodies barely covered by industrial bleach, the reek of puke from the drunk tank down the row. Even the screw that kept peeking through the slit in the double reinforced door looked like some Kowalski or Zebrowski, a big Chicago Polish guy who was the fifth generation of pricks who got their jollies looking in on some guy picked up off the streets.

After what seemed like an eternity but could've been an hour or a week they came for me. Two big old Midwest boys, dressed in immaculate uniforms with crisp pleats in the pants and shoes that shined like mirrors.

"On your feet, Jackson." Ahh, yeah, been here before.

They didn't even put me in cuffs for the transfer. Just led me out, into a hallway that was so long I couldn't see the end on either side. Thousands of doors on either side of the hall, and as we passed each I could hear the voices within.

I didn't do it! You have to believe me! I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me Do you know who I am?

And then the screams. The screams were the worst.

The voices were legion as I walked down that long corridor, flanked by two screws who had that cock of the walk attitude that came from dealing with thousands of guys before you. They radiated the calm energy of men who knew violence, and I knew that if I decided to fight they would stop me quickly, efficiently, and I'd just go back to my cell and wait some more. If I was thirty years younger...

But I wasn't. I was as old as I would ever be. I recalled those last moments, the paramedics over my body, my ribs broken and all of the blood. No good deed goes unpunished, and trying to step in for one too many people in trouble had led me here.

The kid couldn't have been more than fifteen. Dressed up in her adult costume, and the predator had been waiting for someone to slip. The alley was dark, but I'd been in that dark for a while and could hear what he was trying to do. I hope I got there before he could hurt her too bad, because that knife was sharp, and his fist were like sledgehammers coming down on me.

I needed a drink. I doubt there are beers in Heaven.

After a long walk we got to the courtroom, and I was settled into the chair. My public defender looked run through, a cheap poly blend suit with a stained tie. The prosecutor was a lot better dressed, a sharp black suit with white trim, dark brown hair slicked back and immaculate.

The bailiff stood, and we all rose to meet him.

"All rise. Case Number 71293913719, regarding the Dispensation of one Eric Moore, Son of John. The Honorable Judge Raguel presiding."

The judge just appeared at his seat. I had expected a nice suit or even some black robes, but the Honorable Judge Raguel was sitting in a get-up more like some frat boy at a toga party. He sat on a large volcanic stone, looking at me with eyes like a nun at Saint Nicholas Academy. I hadn't thought of that place in twenty years, but I knew not to make a wrong move in front of those eyes.

"Please be seated. Advocate, Renunciant, please present yourselves." the voice of the Judge was aloof, almost bored. My defender moved forward first, the prosecutor in lockstep behind.

"Ivo of Kermartin, Advocate."

"Ba'al Berith, Renunciant. "

The two men stood before the Judge, and with a final tilt of the head the case proceeded.

Berith, as the Renunciant, took the floor first.

"Honorable representative of the Lord of Hosts... this is as clear-cut a case for remand to the custody of my Master as has been brought before the Court in some time. Eric Moore has been nothing if not thorough in his flouting of the laws and Law to which his soul was committed on June 14th, 1978 by entry into the Covenant through the blessing of baptism. His blasphemies number in the tens of thousands. He has given himself to pleasures of the flesh and violations of his body countless times, and broken the laws of man and your Father in so many ways as to be a bit of a minor celebrity."

Berith started to read my sins out loud to the court, producing a stack of papers as thick as my wrist. As he read them I recalled each moment, a twinge of regret. Abuse of my body, violence against my fellow man, cursing and damning God for putting me through this existence. Theft and sloth, coveting and lying and cheating. The recitation of my flaws took a lifetime, my only response was to fidget as I was renounced, taking in the sheer weight of my crimes against the world. By the end of it all I was flush with embarrassment, and ready to crawl into any fiery pit the Judge deemed fit to send me to.

"If it was just these crimes? Well, Mister Moore has my respect even if he has no dignity. But Honorable Raguel, I have forgotten the worst of his crimes." the demon turned, a grin spreading across his smug face. "Eric Moore is a patricide."

I knew I was lost. It had been a dumb thing to do, I could have taken more. My father was a monster. The things he had done, but I could take more. As long as I knew my sister was safe. Safe from his long glances, the beatings, when he would...

*That night I had come home from working at the Frost Palace with a pint of ice cream. It was Jen's thirteenth birthday. I was sixteen, and the closest thing she had to a real parent. When I heard her sobbing I knew. I knew, and I hated myself for believing it would stop. That because he had done it to me he wouldn't have the taste for her. I learned too late that monsters didn't care who they devoured, just that their bellies were full. *

I didn't even hesitate. I took the bat he had given me the... the first time, and I went to his room. I beat that creature until my hands were sore, until no one could recognize him. I did it for every time, every single damned time, and if I relished the violence then? It was what I was taught.

I knew I was going, then.

"And so Eric Moore is renounced. I beg the court to hear his Advocate." Berith stared at me as he walked back to his seat, then settled in with the look of a child ready for movie night.

My defender rose from his seat, dabbing at his brow with a hastily produced kerchief. Sweating. My advocate was sweating and I was terrified.

"While my colleague, in his Renunciation, has made clever points, the scales of our Lord's justice are weighed heavily in favor of the Judged. As the Renunciation has stated, the Judged was placed under the standards of the Catholic faith by Rite of baptism. That is the reason I stand before your blessed Judgment today in his defense.

"While it is true but Eric Moore was given over to the Church through the Rite of baptism, our loyal Opposition has also proven through his declaration that Mr. Moore has never held to the tenets and standards of that Faith, nor was Mr. Moore confirmed into the Catholic Church by his own free will. As declared time and time again within these Hallowed halls, the Lord on high has demanded that we, His servants, follow both His divine Law and the hearts of the Judged within our observation of their life in total. In that way, Mr. Moore's case would fall outside of the Courts of Heaven, and I would move for his case to changed to the venue of an accepting faith. "

Berith choked on his smugness. "Honorable jurist, this is uncalled for!" the demon shouted, standing up as Ivo rifled through a sheaf of papers that had appeared at my table.

Ivo raised his hand to stop the demon's rebuttal and moved forward.

"Having had time to review his case in full, I requested verification of jursidiction involving Mr. Moore's dispensation. Mr. Moore's case does not qualify for review within the Hall of Odin, nor does his case qualify for review by Anubis, Legba, Hades, or return to the Blessed Wheel of Karma. In fact, it would appear that Mr. Moore's closest relationship to the preternatural dispensation of his immortal spirit would be within the confines of this Court..."

Berith made a noise of muted satisfaction, and I felt the creeping sensation a mouse must feel when the cat pauses to play with its food.

"Except that Mr. Moore is Jewish."