Being a creature of habit, Baal loathed to have his routines disturbed. Especially the rare habits of whimsy he allowed himself to enjoy -- like spending an hour of his valuable time just enjoying a painting. Someone was going to pay for this at some point, and he had a pretty good idea of who this someone was. And no, rearranging his routine to go enjoy the copy that hung in the National Gallery wasn't an option. This was a matter of principle and pride.
A draught of cold air crept past him, sending a tendril of chill up his trouser leg. Baal blinked, and half-turned his head in surprise. What he saw, was the back of a tall, thin woman dressed in stark whites and blacks. She was striding straight ahead, headed for the next room.
There was no mistaking the haughty bearing and that aura of dread that lurked in her wake. Baal repressed a spiteful sneer. Great. Just wonderful. And she hadn't even bothered to acknowledge him, the miserable little bitch.
Baal was in no mood to tolerate any slights, real or perceived, and certainly not from the likes of Beleth. He trailed after her, and as she stopped to stare at a section of wall, he found himself not in the least bit surprised. Of course she had liked that painting; it did show her Word quite accurately, just like Picasso's Guernica showed his own. But that didn't give her any excuse to skulk around here, in his favourite museum. She could damn well go stare at the one in the National Gallery.
Beleth turned her head slowly and gazed at him with a pair of slightly bulging eyes; so pale that you could hardly see the shade of blue in the irises. He saw her scarlet lips form his name, even if no words were actually spoken. Baal locked his gaze with hers and curled his lip a little to convey his disdain.
"You didn't greet me, Nightmares," he murmured as he came to a halt by her side.
"I didn't see you," she murmured back, so softly that only he could hear. "Where were you?"
Baal's lips thinned. "In the other hall," he answered and gestured minutely in the direction he'd come from.
"I was not aware that you frequented this place." Beleth's whisper lingered like a veil of shadow between them.
Violence flared up in Baal. "Don't. Do not play games with me, Beleth, for I tire of your theatrics." There was bloodshed in his murmur and ugly death in his eyes.
She lowered her eyes then, acquiescing to his authority and withdrawing her clammy presence. It did little to lessen Baal's scorn -- he was bound to the War, after all. Backing down was in his eyes a show of weakness, and so he could never respect such an act. Beleth was weak as ever, and quarrelling with her wasn't worth his time and energy.
"Why have you come here?" he asked her after his anger had died down a bit.
"To investigate," she answered, then added a question, "Have you been to the National Gallery after the theft?"
"No."
"Then would you allow me to show you something there?" Beleth looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, rimmed thickly with kohl. "It's quite interesting."
Baal thought about it, and decided to indulge her. If she wanted to hand him information for free and not poke her nose into his business, he wasn't going to complain. He could live with no one knowing about his fascination with the Madonna. "Very well."
They walked away from the museum, and only moments later wandered into the National Gallery, half a town away. Beleth lead him up the stairs and into the hall where "her" painting hung, and -- because the artist had a whole exhibition to himself -- "his" painting as well.
Baal felt it as soon as they entered the room -- that unmistakable shivering whisper of a Tether, and a powerful one at that.
"You can feel it, yes?" Beleth breathed.
"Aye," Baal nodded. "But I can't pinpoint it precisely," he added in a vaguely annoyed tone.
"That's because this one is quite unique as Tethers go," she explained. "It anchors at more than one point. There's that one over there," Beleth gestured towards the painting of a ghoulish creature frozen in a silent scream. "And another anchor over there," she pointed at a painting of a lush, naked woman who looked just ripe for the taking.
Baal took a closer look and saw that she was right. Moreover, the whispers from the Tether hinted of shadows and loss, chaos and bereavement. Quite obvious now that he was listening. "I see..."
Beleth drew her lips out in a cold, feral smile. "There are more anchors than these two. In fact, there's one for each original of these paintings. And guess where they go."
He could feel the hatred coiling inside, the need to tear that upstart Prince Force from Force burned in his heart. One day, Baal swore to himself, one day he would make Valefor pay for this particular theft. As long as this Tether existed -- and with the iconic status of the paintings now secured within the minds of the naked apes, it would remain for a long, long time -- he could never again look at the Madonna.
"Indeed," Baal murmured. "Are you going to let him get away with this, Nightmares?" he asked. She was the one who had been publicly "had", after all.
Beleth's smile became even colder, and a mad light shone in her eyes. "I dealt with him already, Baal. Valefor paid his dues, and the Screams are all mine now. Have a good day, General." And with that, she melted into the Tether, leaving only an illusion behind.
Without a word, Baal turned and marched out of the gallery. Blood seeped out between his fingers, and out through the sides of his clenched fists. He nearly pushed his claws straight through his palms in order to keep his rage in check. A Tether to Hell was something he couldn't, as General, go after. But by all that was holy to him, he was going to make them suffer for this.
Asmodeus was bound to be interested in this little alliance brewing between Valefor and Beleth, and wasn't there one particularly clever little ape who had once said something like, "It is only one who is thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war that can thoroughly understand the profitable way of carrying it on."?
Oh yes, it was time to start pushing a little harder, time to expose a few choice projects of Nightmare's and Theft's that clearly needed to be under the General of the Horde's direct supervision. All of Hell could use a reminder of just who was master of the art of war.