Evil at its Finest | IC | Closed For Now

[Elerian]

Rules-
1. Listen to me and whoever my coop happens to be.
2. You’re not invincible so don’t try to be
3. No god modding, one liners, or flaming
4. If you refuse to be active you won’t be around for long
5. Being too OP is a no-no

Map: http://s21.postimg.org/idmvwm4g7/Evil.png
Political Map: http://s18.postimg.org/mrbhajh61/Evil.png
Note: On the political map the Green is a terra-incognita of sorts. Also, the Overlord's domain is in the Deep red color.

OOC- http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic.php?f=31&t=304789

Please begin your posts with this:

Code: Select all

[b]Location[/b]
[b]Character Name[/b]


---

Sarvana-Eledil Border

The sun was beginning to set high in the sky as the two armies stood face to face. It’s oppressive glare made the raw steel held in each man’s hand glitter. A breeze blew from the west that set the banners to flapping lazily. Priests of Mauro walked amongst the men with incense and said prayers in hushed tones as they passed. The Royal standard of Sarvana began to move forward, slowly at first, but soon it picked up a steady pace. The men began to march forward in loose formation. As they passed along the field several mages rode horses to the front of the line and began chanting in a queer language. The King and his Knights strode slightly ahead of the left flank. Once the two armies, the bear and the wolf, were several hundred feet apart the two armies surged forth with a deafening battle cry. As the armies came within mere meters of one another the mages had completed their chant and a massive wall of flame sprung forth and engulfed the first ranks of the opposing army. Some of them men farther back cried out that Mauro had deserted them and they fled from the field. Then the two armies came together in a cacophony of dread, pain, and hunger for death.

The wolf and the bear danced their dance of death that would leave only one standing. After nearly an hour of fighting the bear bloody and battered struck the final blow that killed the wolf. The wolf king was slain and his head was put on a pike and hoisted high above for all to see. The people of Sarvana were without a King and leadership. And the army of Eledil had bled itself nearly dry. It seemed as good a time as any for the roots of evil to take hold.

---

Prison of Balor
Jon

Jon sat alone in the damp dreadful place that was his home. Deep in a forest there was a prison, a prison meant for someone so evil that no one dare speak his name. Once he had been a hero, but he was corrupted by evil and fell from the light. Within the prison that Jon called home was that infinitely evil creature. The prison had grown decrepit over its long history. The priests of Mauro seemed to have forgotten that evil still lurked no matter how far away it was. Either that or they no longer cared. Jon walked down a long hall that led to the monastery that held the Black Dread of all that was good in the world. He sometimes liked to look at the crypt that held the man’s body. He was supposedly still alive but Jon had never heard him so much as move. Jon walked about and dusted off some of the furnishings as he always did. When he was done he walked over to the crypt and sat there staring at its smooth stone. Jon touched the surface and drew back his hand; it was so cold it almost hurt. And all at once he was filled with sadness and dread. He stumbled back and fell over a bench. He got back to his feet as he heard the heavy steps that could only mean a Paladin was coming.

The Paladin in question was a big brute of a man, even for the standards of the Paladins. Jon knew not why he had been sent to this god forsaken place but everyone was here for one reason or another. Jon had almost gotten away with stealing an ancient relic, though they had caught him and with one less hand had been sent to this prison. There were less than a hundred souls that inhabited this place though it was meant to house over a thousand. The Paladin, walked over to the stone coffin and was about to touch it but drew his hand away at the last moment and turned on Jon. “You’ve been told half a hundred times to resist the temptation to touch it, yet you do it anyway. They may as well sever your other hand for all the good it does you.” The Paladin walked past Jon and as he did cuffed the back of his head. Jon stood straight and walked from the room. What he heard next was something that unsettled him unimaginably. The bell of awakening was being rung. It meant the prison was under attack. Jon felt a warmth seep down his leg and when he looked down he saw that he had defecated himself. Looking up he saw the Brute draw his massive great sword and then he looked to Jon and simply said. “Get to your post boy” before departing.

Jon ran down the corridor and was tempted to follow the man but resisted and turned towards the armory. When he arrived he saw half a dozen Paladins arraying themselves in their splendid armor. It was enameled in an off white and almost made them glow. As one of them left past Jon he heard him whispering a prayer, “Mauros, oh holy one, I beseech you to protect us in our time of need . . .” Jon walked to his weapon and armor. He slipped his leather jerkin over his head and grabbed his sword and shield. He ran down the hall to his station as the bells continued to toll. Several priests could be seen at a shrine of Mauros blessing several Paladins for the coming fight. Jon and two others had been given the task of getting word to the outside world that the prison had been compromised. Jon went to find the Commandant to see if he needed to flee.

[Bearon]

The man known as John Grey watched warily as the town guard circled his smithy once more on their evening patrols. Grey was one of Harvak's many blacksmiths, as a young boy he had been taken as an apprentice by the old blacksmith Darin because Darin had pitied the orphaned cripple. As the years passed by the old smith had even forged Grey a wooden and metal brace for his leg to make up for his deformity. Grey was eventually adopted by the old blacksmith and when the old smith passed away he left Grey everything he owned because he had no children or other family himself. Upon receiving the smithy Grey worked hard and made a name for himself throughout Harvak even though he lived in the slums of town and was still poor because of the heavy taxes the ruler placed on the people of Sarvana. One night after Grey had finished a particular long and arduous order he had gone to a bar and drank his trouble away. Meeting a woman who was as lonely as he they both spent a night of drunken passion together which led to the birth of his son.

Once the woman, who had been named Elena, had given birth to his son she had refused to marry Grey and left claiming disgust at Grey's apparent deformity and lack of courage and lack of faith, as she fervently supported the "war" against the dark forces and worshipped the gods while Grey himself did not. Cursing at him as she walked out the door she had left their newborn child for him to take care of by himself saying that any son of the town cripple was sure to be a disgrace and that she wanted no part in raising such a despicable child. Raising the child on his own had been hard but he had loved him more then anything and was proud of the strong and intelligent young man his son who he had named Simon had become. Grey himself had been born with a malformed leg and so he had not been forced to fight in the eternal war that plagued the inhabitants of Sarvana, a small part of the island off the coast of the as of yet unexplored continent.

The ruler of Sarvana had however implemented a draft that ripped all children the age of fourteen and onward from their homes and families to train and become apart of the so called army of light which waged constant war against the forces of darkness. The forces of darkness were supposedly led by them mysterious being known only as The Overlord, but everyone knew this was just propaganda as the true figure known as The Overlord had been defeated centuries ago and the so called forces of darkness were little more then small bands of rabble and the occasional dark sorcerer. Grey's own son had only to wait a fortnight for his own fourteenth birthday and Grey would be damned if he allowed them to take his son away from him and throw his life away over a meaningless war against a long vanquished enemy. Scowling Grey swore that they would have to take his son from his cold dead hands, though unfortunately that would likely be the case in a fortnights time unless Grey figured out a way to protect his son from these sycophants.

[Delmonte]

Myronnis; Myron
Gideon Slovell

“Lord Slovell, we are ready for you.”

The air was dank, not only due to the mist, but due to the part of the city he was in. It was nighttime, but that didn’t help to cover up the grime of Westend. This was the worst, most notoriously poor section of the city. There wasn't a temple of Mauro for long stretches as the priests knew they would find no followers. Commerce stagnated, population had plateaued, but crime had absolutely thrived. Extortion, gambling, prostitution; you name it, it could be acquired in Westend. As long as it was illegal or stolen. It was the fact that places like these existed that made Gideon wear his armor compulsively and have his house guarded to prevent assassination.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll be right in.”

Lietenant Craw saluted and left the Grand Marshal in his carriage to return to the warehouse-like structure from whence he had come. Gideon dusted off his armor and donned his black leather gloves. He threw back the remainder of his wine and exited the carriage, which bore his own arms and those of his kingdom. Those of his king were getting slightly worn, but he always went to great pains to ensure that his were freshly lacquered.

In full plate, save for helmet and gauntlet, he strode through the muck of Myronnis’ under-city streets and into the now well-lit building. The inside was dingy. This fact and the neighborhood it was in reminded Gideon that these people were forsaken by Mauro. That gave him comfort. The room was occupied by about a half dozen rotting tables, a dozen ruffians, and two dozen guardsmen, holding said ruffians with spears and crossbows.

“Hello.” Gideon said, cheerfully, to the sullen youths sitting at the assorted tables.

“So, I understand that you boys are new here. Think of this as paying you a friendly little visit. An orientation, even. See, we have rules here in Myron. Rules that you broke. Some of them are very nuanced, but one (the one that you broke) is very simple: Absolutely no murdering citizens. Particularly wealthy citizens.”

One of the gang-members snorted. Nobody spoke, though, so Gideon went on. In fact, he sat at an empty table positioned so as to roughly face the criminals.

“First of all, I’d like to know: Who is the biggest, baddest, scariest motherfucker here?”

The youths looked around. They started pointing silently and eventually arrived on a consensus: A tan, brawny man in the corner.

“You?” Gideon inquired.

“Me.” He confirmed, puffing his chest out. “I run this outfit.”

“Hm.” Gideon said, sounding amused. He waved a hand and three quarrels flew into the man’s chest who, for his part, immediately collapsed.

“What the shit?!” one of his friends shouted, leaping from his chair. He was quickly detained. Gideon folded his gloved hands on the table in front of him, pausing to frown at its lack of cleanliness.

“So…” he began, “He was the biggest, baddest, scariest motherfucker here, but now he’s dying.” He gestured to the unfortunate thug, who moaned with pain. “Who is it now?”

Silence.

“No takers?”

Still nobody spoke.

“Right. You see, you were wrong from the start. I am the biggest, baddest, scariest motherfucker here. I’m the biggest, baddest, scariest motherfucker in the gods-damned city!” He got up and began to leave.
“Remember that or die. If you are particularly good criminals, you might even become Guardsmen one day. Normally we would trash the place, but...” He paused once to look around, "This place is such a shithole that there's really not much more we can do. Let us know if you get some valuable possessions that we can break."

And then it was back into the carriage with Lieutenant Craw. The mist was starting to turn into a drizzle now, as the carriage clattered through the streets of Myronnis back towards the Palace of Patience. Gideon looked at his Lieutenant.

"You don't think we were a bit too harsh?" He said, gamingly.

Craw smiled. "Who gives a fuck?"

"Good man." Gideon replied, chuckling. The setting gradually changed. Obviously, it was still dark, but as they traversed into the more well-to-do areas of Myronnis, the peace that Gideon had achieved had made its presence known. With no fear from organized criminals, shop owners could stay open late and children could be seen playing out in the streets. Dancing with the devil, as it were, had yielded prosperity. And, besides, dancing with the Devil was fine as long as you were leading. The carriage clattered up to the Palace's gates. It was the Seat of Law for Myronnis as well as all of Myron. It also housed the apartments of the Grand Marshal of the King's Messengers. Gideon normally preferred to live outside the city, but the King was very old now. It was very important to be close by.

[Bearon]

Sarvana-Eledil Border

The sun was beginning to set high in the sky as the two armies stood face to face. It’s oppressive glare made the raw steel held in each man’s hand glitter. A breeze blew from the west that set the banners to flapping lazily. Priests of Mauro walked amongst the men with incense and said prayers in hushed tones as they passed. The Royal standard of Sarvana began to move forward, slowly at first, but soon it picked up a steady pace. The men began to march forward in loose formation. As they passed along the field several mages rode horses to the front of the line and began chanting in a queer language. The King and his Knights strode slightly ahead of the left flank. Once the two armies, the bear and the wolf, were several hundred feet apart the two armies surged forth with a deafening battle cry. As the armies came within mere meters of one another the mages had completed their chant and a massive wall of flame sprung forth and engulfed the first ranks of the opposing army. Some of them men farther back cried out that Mauro had deserted them and they fled from the field. Then the two armies came together in a cacophony of dread, pain, and hunger for death.

The wolf and the bear danced their dance of death that would leave only one standing. After nearly an hour of fighting the bear bloody and battered struck the final blow that killed the wolf. The wolf king was slain and his head was put on a pike and hoisted high above for all to see. The people of Sarvana were without a King and leadership. And the army of Eledil had bled itself nearly dry. It seemed as good a time as any for the roots of evil to take hold.

The small town of Harvak, which Grey called home, lay on the borders of Savana and the Overlord's ancient territory. This territory was commonly referred to by worshipers of Mauro as the Cursed Lands, or the Black Lands, due to the ashy and blackened landscape which was unable to grow crops. The news of the King's death on the battlefield had propelled Savana into chaos, each of its lords trying to claw their way into positions of power. The Captain of the Guard had overthrown the Governor who had ruled over Harvak for decades and had become the new Governor of the town. It was said that he had moved quickly during the night, rounding up those soldiers that were loyal to him and slaughtering the other guards in their beds and then storming the governors lavish mansion and murdering him in his sleep. At first the people had cheered his name with only a few who had had the previous Governor's favor protesting, though they were quickly silenced. The old Governor had been a cruel master employing the laws made by the King with relish and delighting in making his citizens suffer. It soon became apparent however that the former Captain of the Guard was an even crueler man then the old Governor had been as he delighted in raising the already crushing tax rate and watching families descend into poverty and starvation.

Many of the townspeople were surprised to find that Harvak's new Governor was even crueler and less lenient then the last, as many had thought he was a good man who had served Mauro and the Light. Grey himself had been unsurprised by the changes that had occurred after the Captain of the Guard had taken power, knowing him to be a cruel man who took delight in the suffering of others as evidenced by his lack of emotion when doing anything other then taking the children of Harvak from their homes. Grey had not himself been idle, however in light of recent events. Once he received news of the King's death he had begun packing for a long journey that would take his son and himself far away from Harvak and Sarvana. Over the past few weeks Grey had been packing all the supplies he and his son would need to escape and live in the wildernesses of the Black Lands away from the sycophants of Mauro. Too purchase the supplies that would be needed for such a trip, Grey had sold his smithy and all his tools for less then half of what they were worth, shedding a tear for each tool which had become apart of him over the years, now to be used by a stranger who probably wasn't half as competent.

As Grey finished saddling the horse he had rented from the town inn, though he had not told them he intended to rent it permanently, he hesitated over the nearly completed black armor and sword he had been forging for a lord. The metal itself was provided by the lord and it had been a strange material that Grey had been unable to identify, though the lord had said it was melted down minerals found within a black meteor that had fallen near his estate. Whatever the material was, it was extremely hard and near indestructible Grey had been confused at first as to why the lord had come to him to forge such a valuable piece of sword and armor before realizing that his reputation must have spread throughout the countryside. Looking down thoughtfully at the armor, Grey set the armor pieces on his anvil and began to hammer out the edges. Once finished with the armor, Grey walked over to the blade and began to sharpen its blade and polish its edge, once he had finished he admired the sword and armor before stowing them in once of the packs on the side of his horse. The armor was of course too large for him, as the lord who had brought the material to him had been a large and bulky man, and the blade itself was so heavy he could barely lift it, but they would fetch a good price if Grey and his son happened to stop at a market on their way to the Black Lands.

[Yoite]

Thandlarax, The Beast's Cage

For whom did the Bell of Awakening toll? In a ruin so old few remembered its birth name, and even less cared, the servants of a mighty God prepared for battle, but so too did a broken tyrant stir in his grave. Even in their faded armor, the Paladins were resplendent upon the battlements as brittle arrows fell among their ranks. So far the only enemy that had made itself known was a swarm of skeletons, bones bleached white with age and rushing the walls in blind fervor. Many among them did not belong to humans, but strange beasts unrecognizable without their skin and flesh. As the old arrows fell harmlessly among them, the Paladins returned fire with holy spells that crushed the skeletons under the weight of their light and arrows of their own which were blessed by Mauros and smote the creatures with ease. It was a pitiful exchange to watch.

In the dark trees, arrayed in fog and shadows, was a mysterious figure. The Paladins suspected it was the necromancer behind this futile attack, but were too smart to leave the safety of the walls to find out. They simply saw that even as they ravaged these skeletons, more came forward with crude ladders hewn of fresh wood to aid in scaling the walls. No casualties had been suffered on the side of the defenders, but there seemed no end to the skeletons which marched. Even as holy spells and arrows crushed the ladder bearers, more came to seize their burden. For the moment, it was too dangerous to send forth runners with so many corpses afoot. These forests had been the home of ancient battles, and it was unknowable how many the necromancer could bring forth.

The Paladins fell into a pattern, charged with their divine magics and holy bows no skeleton survived to reach the walls. The men even began cheering Mauros' blessings, as surely he smiled upon them today. As the flood of skeletons slowed to a trickle, and a field of bones lay scattered with their antiquated weaponry on the grass, a man screamed. It was no scream of victory, it was a cry of pain and terror. The Paladins turned as one of their number toppled from the wall with a black arrow lodged in his back, there were cries of shock and outrage as well as those of pain. Archers adorned in featureless black armor had marched from some strange hole in the rocky cliff face and taken the courtyard, as the Paladins rushed to dismount more black arrows fired from great bows struck their number. Volleys came in unison, taking men with each spray of arrows. These were no withered bows, but finely kept weapons reinforced with metals.

The Priests in the courtyard below had mostly fallen in the first of their volleys, but they fired back with their blessings and rained beams of light among the black archers. With each sizzling beam that struck, an archer melted into a pool of acrid metal which even the others stepped away from. However, there were simply not enough priests. The Paladins ranks had been nearly halved before they reached the lines of the archers, and their blessed swords cut through the thin metal plates with ease cleaving the enemies apart. The archers fell back into the shadows, and the holy warriors rushed forward to corner them in whatever black cavern they spawned from, but as they reached the shadows their blades were met in kind.

From the darkness, tall and imposing warriors stepped forth in silence. There were no battle cries from among these dark soldiers, only steel without pity or remorse. They were armored just as well as the Paladins, and amidst their ranks one bore aloft a black banner bearing a darkened sun. Each enemy the Paladins felled was replaced by another to fill the ranks, they struck in unison cleaving through their foe with patient inevitably. There was no passion or fervor in their strikes, this was not a heated contest of survival. It was simply Paladins dying, and empty things stepping over their corpses and wisps of energy glimmered within their blades.

"Our souls...they're taking our souls!" one Paladin screamed, noticing for the first time in his terror the mist that seemed to collect on the black soldier's blades, rising from the corpses beneath. With a scream he turned and fled, abandoning Mauro and his brothers. The Black Paladins did not care, they had a simple directive. Kill, collect. Despite their training, faith, valor, and determination, the servants of Mauro were simply overwhelmed in numbers. They felled many of their ruthless foes, but in time the machine of war ground those that did not flee to dust, and several hours later what had been a prison for thousands of years was in the hands of the shadow once again.

From the keeps gate, a figure entered trailing shadows and mist. In their hands was a great tome on which words in an indecipherable scripts seemed to write themselves, and their face was cloaked in darkness. The Black Watcher reordered the troops, stationing the archers on the wall and forming the Infantry at the gates with little more than a thought. Its will was simply done. The puddles of liquid metal rippled and strained as if a force were pulling at them, then began to coalesce and stream into a second figures hand. This figure was made all of metal with swirling runic patterns emitting a shimmering blue glow.

The Gate Keeper stepped forward from the shadows of the secret passage, the Keep of Thandlarax was built against the rock face. When it was recommissioned as the Black Sun's prison the Forge Gate remained hidden to even the subtlest of detection. Beyond it, in the Undercroft, the Gate Keeper had made and remade the Black Order from scratch for more than a thousand years, recycling the same souls and materials until he had perfected the process. Now the Knights of the Black Sun were a force to be reckoned with, and soon the reckoning would come. The question now was where did they entomb the Master? It would make sense for the old chapel to house his prison, as a matter of personal choice he would have imprisoned such a powerful being on a barren plane of existence. Priests, however, did not think in terms of the arcane.

The Gate Keeper's boots made hollow echos on the cobble stone floors as he traversed the inner keep above, it was amazing how decrepit the humans had allowed the Master's sanctuary to become in just a few short millennium. The mortar had turned to dust and the bricks themselves were crumbling, he would not doubt the roof had collapsed in some places. The chapel, however, was exactly where he remembered it being, and as he guessed there was an unadorned stone tomb within. It bore only simple markings, the runes for Ba and Lor. Ancient characters which had become associated with danger and evil in their time, even the name Balor had been corrupted. It had once meant burning light, a sign of holy fervor, but now it was interpreted as light's bane.

The Gate Keeper laid his sword across the top of the sarcophagus, within moments the metal began humming with energy, then he knelt. Behind him, the twelve Black Watchers entered the room and formed their circle around his tomb. They were conduits of the Master's will, and with their magics the seals of Mauro would be undone. Their tomes of power were places on the ground, and together they formed the arcane circle. The Keeper's blade would serve as the focal point for their energies. As the magic began to flow the Mauro's Seals contracted, tightening their defenses for the incoming attack, but it was useless. The power was burrowing through them from without and within as the Master began to connect with his servants after an era of slumber.

Lightning arced off of the blade, cracking against the slab of stone and sending deafening peals of thunder through the room. The stone trembled as the whispered, almost soundless, chants of the Watchers berated the Keepers mind. He could hear the steady din building as the same whispered chants came from the voiceless all throughout the keep. Then, with a sound like tearing parchment, a line appeared across the stone lid and it split with an anticlimactic rustle of coarse stone brushing against itself. Inside the broken sarcophagus was the body of a man which many considered to be the greatest force of evil to ever exist, a man that had brought nations to the brink of collapse and set societies back hundreds of years. A man single handedly responsible for the blind worship from which Destervald itself had arisen.

He looked peaceful.

Unfortunately, he was not. Any attuned to the Master's spirit such as they were could hear the infinite screaming abyss his mind had become. For now it was the Mask which called out mindlessly to the Black Order, awakening them and begging for freedom. Within his tomb the Broken Knight had broken, and the Fallen Lord had sank into insanity. It would take time, and patience, to bring him back. To make him forget the lifetimes of silent waiting he had spent locked away in the darkness he had embraced.

[Liecthenbourg]

Desterwest
Davios Iron-Heart.

Desterwest. A paradise to some, Seventh Hell to others. Her pristine shores of yellow, cool coasts of the lightest blue and tall vegetation of green were attractive to the eye. But her beauty came at a terrible price. The 17 different city states upon the continent, ruled by old and insane men, found every excuse to wage war on another. Some said Mauro had made the plains and grasslands of the continent the most fertile on the planet - Desterwest's civilian inhabitants (and Davios) knew this was false. Everyone had lost a father, son, uncle, cousin or brother to someone and the vast fields of green had become a giant tomb for the dead, the fertility being fed by rivers of blood.

Davios got up from his seat at the ecampment The Iron Legion had built upon the shore. Mercenary work, that's all there was here. Loyalty? Almost non-existant. He with the funds had the hearts of the people in his hands. The Iron Golem stared out at the sea, watching the waves come forth only to recede quickly - like the darkness. He was just about to sit back with his compatriots when heard a dark voice call out to him through the shadows of the evening.

"This way... Davios..."

---

With a mighty swing of his scimitar did the tree blocking his path fall. It fell with a quiet creak, before slamming against the soil with a loud thump. With the path now cleared the Golem continued advancing, his heavy footsteps causing the nearby vegetation to shake in response. His trek resumed upon the path, the voices calling to him again.

"Oh age old Iron-Heart... Oh age old Iron-Heart... Your calling is near... From this realm you will depart... And all the Light shall fear."

And that was when he saw it, a bright flame of scarlet emitting from ruins atop a hill in the distance.

---

Around the fire they were seated, seven hooded and robed individuals and Davios shouted again, drawing forth The Harbinger of Destruction in an attempt to intimidate them.

"Answer me!" he yelled "How do you know the Iron-Heart name?"

Silence, it was their response as they watched the crackling of the fire. One turned its head, looking at the Golem.

"We are The Usurper Cult, we know all... and yet so little..."

A second continued, his voice raspy and cold. "All we can say is that He has returned... the darkness will come with him."

Davios was about to interrupt when they all suddenly vanished, their vocies echoing a final statement.

"Travel across the Seas.., Iron-Heart to find Him. Your destiny is there, amongst the lands and tales of old..."

The Golem sheathed his weapon, beginning to return to the beach. Did they speak the truth? Fibs? Omens? Davios did not care, anywhere was better than Desterwest.

[Lavan Tiri]

Tunnels of the Krazr'Dreharr,Lord Simale Re.

Simale stood, stock-still, before the prisoners. Thirteen humans, and then the special prisoner. The one who Simale would personally kill, after shaming him before the entire tribe. "Father...(gasp)...please...don't..won't happen...again" Simale turned his jet-black gaze to the young man. Pale, with auburn hair and green eyes, he was the spitting image of...Simale. "Father? I. Am. Not. Thy. Father." He growled. The boy, Alame, looked up, defiance and fear in his eyes. "Thy? Really, Dad? Bit old-fashioned. Like this whole damn tribe. Old-style, worshipping an Overlord that may or may not even still be alive?" "Shut your damn face, you little shit. The Overlord is our master, and we guard his Mantle! Evil will rise, and we will reclaim our land." A great cheer arose from the crowd, but Simale shot them a look that had literally killed before, and they quieted. "Evil? Evil is done. Good has defeated Evil, once and for all. You cling to these out dated traditions like they're the gods, father! And for what? So we can live in tunnels, and scrounge on what we can steal from human villages?!" "I SAID SHUT UP, ALAME!!" Alame stood from his kneeling position, and Simale drew his sword. "At least let me die on my damn feet." Gasped Alame. His father stepped forward, placing Redblooder on his only child's throat" I should slit your neck. But I don't want to waste this keen edge on your worthless flesh. M'Kralka." Finished Simale. Alame screamed, and a bolt of light penetrated his chest. He exploded as his blood boiled, the crowd splattered with spitting red liquid. "As for those.." Simale grunted," give them as a blood sacrifice to Balor Evil-Eye."

[The Black Plains]

"It is our pleasure and our privilege to serve His Majesty."

Halderforth nodded, removed his crown, and knelt in front of the High Priests of Mauro that bowed in front of the dais. Light shone into the Great Hall from all directions. Where there were not windows, mirrors were hung. Where mirrors could not be hung, there was cloth of gold. And where mirrors could not be hung and where there was a draft, candles were placed. The result was a room bathed in light; burning, blinding, laying secrets bear. Truly, the Eye of Mauro scoured no room so well as this one. No four walls had seen as many thorough Castigation Rituals as these.

The ranking High Priest placed his calloused hands on either side of the Royal Head. He began to hum. His friends began to hum at a key higher and a key lower, respectively. Then, the ranking Priest began to chant with one of the attending Priests responding

Oh, Mauro;
Bring our souls i-i-into Your Light...

Oh, Mauro...

We seek it out;
And it cannot be evaded

It scours all...

We shall know...
The pure of heart

Mauro, please reveal...

Shine a light upo-o-o-on our sins!
That they may heal...

We are unworthy...

That the foulness
May be cleansed!

Purity...

And be expunged!

Conformity...

Here, the High Priest raised his head and reached the crescendo. Beams of light shot forth from his eyes, nostrils, and hands. They permeated the King's skull.

Oh, Mauro, Strong!
Thy strength is ours!

Purity...

And in your strength!
We shall prevail!

Conformity...

Reveal to us!
The sins... of... this... man!

Here, the High Priest entered a trance-like state, light still pouring forth from his eyes. He spoke with not one voice, but one thousand. They echoed throughout the Great Hall.

"This man... This King has indeed sinned against Mauro. Since the last examination of his soul, he has born false witness twice. He has had impure thoughts regarding women once. And he took Mauro's name in vain! Mauro, in his divine mercy, has forgiven him! Count not these sins against him, for he has confessed and repented. His soul has been wiped clean once more!" And then it was over, and the High Priest nearly collapsed and had to be caught by his friends. Mauro's gaze is quite thorough, after all. The High Priest, named Doloran, was given a seat and Halderford reclaimed his throne and crown now that his daily Castigation was complete. This was made far more elaborate, complete with chanting, than it was for the common folk. But it had the same end goal: The confession and expunging of all sins. He felt pure and warm, knowing that Mauro's gaze had been upon him. And every day, after every Castigation, he found himself wondering what more he could do. How he could improve. What more he could offer Mauro. How he could best please a God that was so difficult to please.

With that being over, his Court convened.

"Doloran; what is the status of the spirituality of our realm?" The same question, every day. Mauro never let his guard down; why should he?

"Sire, the people worship Mauro with fervor. The bi-weekly Castigations have seen increasingly fewer sins... and the Beacons of Mauro shine brightly... the Citadel of Mauro is abustle with activity. More initiates enter the ranks of Mauro's Chosen than ever before. It makes an old man very happy to be High Priest. Gandolo has made more inroads at the port cities, but this is to be expected. And it is not to Mauro's exclusion, merely to Gandolo's inclusion. Mauro and Gandolo are compatible, as far as deities go. I would recommend that you appoint a High Priest of Gandolo from the ranks of the Priests in one of the port cities. Our friends could doubtless do with some leadership."

The King nodded. "I'll consider a list of candidates. If you would provide such a list, I would be very grateful. Praise Mauro."

"Yes, of course, Praise Mauro. Also, Your Majesty... we have an... interesting find. As I'm sure you are aware, our Kingdom was once in possession of four Artifacts of Mauro, forged by Mauro himself."

"Yes, the Ankh of Mauro, which we still have, the Sword of Mauro, the Shield of Mauro, and the Helm of Mauro."

"Correct... the latter two were lost long ago, but... the second, the Sword, was hidden by one of your, ah, less devout ancestors."

"He was not impious, he was completely insane. Mauro would not want you to soften the truth on my behalf, Doloran. In darkness, the truth will fester. In day's light, it will be made clean."

"Praise Mauro." One courtier said, confidently.

"Yes, true, Your Highness. But... well, I don't know how to put this... but we may have found it. That is, we may know where it was hidden."

Halderford leaned forward in his throne.

"You what?"

"Well, the Citadel, as you know, was carved out of solid rock into mountain with fortifications built atop it. It goes down quite a ways. But we've been excavating older passages for well over a century, now. And we found what we believe was the chamber of your great-great-great Grandfather's Castigator. Rest assured, he was of similar mental tendencies as your ancestor. However, and this is thankful, he kept meticulous journals. According to him, your Grandfather dispatched two knights to take the Sword to the Lake of Despair and cast it in. Now, the lake..."

"No longer exists..." Halderford finished for him, in silent realization. "The river that fed it was diverted long ago and it is now a barren, rocky basin... which means..."

"That we can excavate it. And, perhaps, find the Sword of Mauro."

"And so we shall. Praise Mauro."

[Terintania]

Small 'Uninhabited' Island
Leroy Talisman

Leroy walked through the camp that The Shadow had made on this supposedly uninhabited island. As far as anyone but members of the group new, it was uninhabited, and that's why they where here, so no one would think to look here. It was a fairly ramshackle camp, but no one minded. Most people were staying in tents, but a few ramshackle wood houses had been constructed. Leroy planned to turn this island in to their base, and it was coming alone nicely so far.
As he made his way through the camp, people glanced at him. Some nervously, some less so, but all with a sense of cautious respect.
The reason for this could be read in Leroy's posture and appearance, as well as his expression. His eyes were ice-blue, and the expression behind them mirrored their cold expression. There were those who would know fear simply by looking him in the eyes, with their icy expression, void of any warmth or mercy. His sharp, low eyebrows helped strengthen this effect, shadowing his eyes. His posture was tall, confident, and intimidating. He stood with a straight back, and walked with a confident step. Add all that together with his all-black outfit, and he made quite an intimidating figure.

Suddenly, a young man in his early 20s ran up to Leroy. He was the newest recruit. Young, but talented. Also, given guard duty. "Something to report?" Leroy asked, his voice as cold and chilling as his eyes. "Y-Yes, my Lord. T-there's a ship, heading for the shore. I think they plan to land. Probably p-pirates, based on their flag," The young man said, clearly nervous around Leroy. Leroy gave a nod,"Back to your post. Take someone with you that you can use to send me a message if you see anything else. Don't leave your post again." With that, he turned on his heel and headed over to his second-in-command, a young mage woman with long blood-red hair. "Gather a group of rogues. We have a pirate problem."
The woman looked surprised, then hurried off to gather some of their rogues.

Once giving orders to the rogues, Leroy headed through the trees, toward the beach, to meet the Pirates. It wasn't long before they arrived, climbing off the ship. Leroy stood in plain sight, his arms folded behind his back, staring coldly and calmly down the beach toward the Pirates, who soon spotted him. They seemed to get all cocky, and made their way over. "What're ye doin' 'ere? We arr claimin' this island, ye see," The Pirate captain said. Leroy fixed the captain with his icy eyes,"It's already claimed," He said coldly. The Pirates laughed and drew their swords,"Arr ye goin' tah stop us?" The captain said.

"Yes," Leroy replied, unfolding his arms from behind his back, revealing that he was holding two swords. As soon as he did this, the Rogues leaped out of the trees, attacking the Pirates from above. The Pirates fell quickly under the ruthless surprise attack. Once they were dealt with, Leroy spoke up,"Search the ship. Kill anyone left alive, and bring me anything of worth." The Rogues nodded, and headed off to finish the work. Despite having given the order, Leroy followed, unlike some people who would let others do their dirty work for them. It didn't take long before the rest of the Pirates were dead. It was all very quick and efficient.

As Leroy stood on the deck of the ship, a couple of the rogues dragged a young boy to him. The boy couldn't have been more then ten. "We found him hiding in the cargo hold. He says he's not a pirate and was simply trying to get passage home to see him mom. Perhaps we sh-" The Rogue was interrupted as Leroy drove his sword through the boy's chest. The rogue who had been speaking looked faintly surprised as he let go of the boy's limp body. "Sir...Was that...." The Rogue began, but Leroy paid him no mind, and simply cleaned his blade with a cloth,"There can be no witnesses. No one can know we're here," He said coldly, making his way up the steps to the wheel."Clear the bodies off the ship, bring me anything valuable," He called out over the deck. Not long later, one of his men came back carrying a couple of gems,"This was all there was of worth, Sir." Leroy took the gems in his hands, then looked out over the ship. "No matter. This ship is valuable enough," He said, running his hand over the wheel.

[Great Empire of Gamilus]

Deep Under the Earth, The Fortress of the Keeper...

*Tap, Tap, Tap...*

The droning sound of a staff's base cracking against solid stone tiles of the great fortress, its large master crafted halls lit by magical torches and glowing lava lamps. The figure walking along was tall, Male and commanded an aura of dread and mysticism with every step taken.

*Tap, Tap, Tap...*

The figure walked through the hallway, turning a corner towards a giant set of steel armoured doors, guarded by two Dark Angels, these warriors of Darkness stood stoic and expressionless, their blue hue'd skin and defined muscle unflinching as he walked past, a pale purple aura glowing as he walked by, towards the pulsating heart of the dungeon, a massive semi organic magical construct tied to his own lifeforce.

Walking over to the raised dias above the pit that contained the Dungeon Heart he ascended the steps to the platform hovering gently above, a throne and table with a bottle of wine and a wrought glass of demon iron sat there, as well as a Staff rack. Placing his staff in the rack he sat down and pored some wine.

As the hours went by he fell into a deep slumber, Visions and images of great armies and forces of soldiers moving their armours contrasting with each other in patterns of light and dark, clashing in battles of a grand scale not seen since the days of his father, Dark Gods rest his soul, as well the fall of heroes across the small island they found themselves on, The vision turned to look at a massive dark figure and several others standing around him, while he could not make out the details of this dark individual but he noticed he stood at the side of figure, his own eyes an midnight blue with the arcane magics as his own minions surged forth... Could this be a sign?

With that the vision disappeared from him in a cloudy near instant flash before the real world overtook him, the Dark Angel Azariath stool before him, concern clearly shown on his face as the man stood almost as if he was in a military parade, Azariath knelled in front of him on one leg.

"My lord Keeper? Have the fates visited you in slumber?"

The Keeper motioned for Azariath to stand and spoke while doing so.

"It is time, Another being of great evil has risen, I have seen the signs that we are to act once again" Taking the staff from the rack he hurried down the stairs and quickly was off into the maze of corridors and rooms, Azariath behind him, receiving a flurry of orders.

"Prepare a raiding party, ten Hellhounds, twenty Cultists and two Black Knights. You will lead the party Azariath. Go and see what the surface world is like these days."

Azariath nodded and went off to acomplish his task of gathering the forces, soon there would be blood spilt in the closest town to the Keep,trying to remember the name he smiled as it finally came to him... Harvak.

[Bearon]

As Grey finished the preparations for his journey, he smiled at his son who had begun playing with the friends he had made that were scattered throughout the town. John hadn't had the luxury of friends himself as a child but he was glad his own son could enjoy the company of the other children if only for a little while. Unfortunately his son wouldn't be seeing them again after today as they would likely be dead or brainwashed within a few months time due to the draft implemented by the new Governor. Scowling to himself Grey forced himself to clear the dark thoughts from his head and think of something happier, if not for his own sake then for his son's. Soon they would be off together forging a new path and living a new life away from the oppressive influence of Mauro that had seemed to follow Grey his whole life. Grey frowned to himself as he had forgone telling his son about their upcoming journey. He knew that he would be stubborn and not want to leave his friends and neighbors and the only home he had known for his entire life but Grey knew that it was for the best or so he told himself. What he would not admit even to himself was that he was afraid he would call his father a coward for running and choose to stay in Harvak with the accursed god Mauro as his mother had done so many ears ago. Only the smallest part of his mind and soul recognized this, whispering to Grey's inner consciousness that yes he was a failure to his son and all those around him and he was unworthy of his son's love.

Shaking his head to clear away all thoughts of his thoughts Grey finished strapping on everything they would need and was about to stroll over to a neighbor to ask if they could watch over his son while he went to the market a not uncommon favor among the residents of the slums. Just as he reached the door of a kindly old woman he had known for a while Grey wheeled around in shock as he heard the unmistakable beat of horses. Grey's blood ran cold as he saw tall man with a stern face wearing a white cloak with the insignia of the church on his right breast make his way down the streets of the slum toward his son and his friends as they obliviously continued their game not noticing the men dressed in white riding towards them. As Grey turned about he jogged over to his son and their friends gesturing at the children to run back to their homes as he grabbed his sons shoulder and steadied himself in front of the town guards which had made an encircling ring around Grey and his son. Gripping his sons shoulder Grey kneeled down in front of the new Captain of the Guard bowing his head and not daring to look up fearing retribution from the as of yet untested man. As The Captain arrived in front of him he eyed the surrounding villagers that had come out of their ramshackle huts to watch the spectacle eyeing the children that hid behind their mothers aprons wondering if any were of age. Turning back to the two filthy peasants before him he eyed them appraisingly wondering why the two had stayed.

The Captain of the Guard smirked at the kneeling peasants as they bowed their heads before his steely gaze. "You." The Captain growled at the groveling man before him. "You are one of Harvak's blacksmith are you not? It is the middle of the afternoon, why are you not at your forge?" The Captain asked suspiciously, eyeing the man and child below him, suspecting the child's age and the reason for the man's absence at his forge. As Grey continued to stare down trying to quickly come up for a reason for the horse and packs the Captain smiled down as he dealt a blow with his right foot to Grey's side "Well worm? I don't have all day. Why are you not at your forge working to please Mauro as all other righteous men are doing?"

John Grey bowed his head even lower after he recovered from the blow and said "Oh gracious lord, I was going to take my wears to the market on this day which has been blessed by Mauro." Grey answered paying homage to the despised god and gesturing at the horse and the packs to the side "They packs are filled with simple tools and the finished orders of my customers." Grey said hoping the Captain would not investigate further. To his horror the Captain nodded to the horse and the men ransacked the packs "Wait!" Grey cried out only to be silenced by a blow to the head this time by the Captain's left foot. Racked with pain Grey could only watch in terror as the soldiers pulled out the sword and armor and food.

The Captain looked at Grey triumphantly saying "Well, well, well, look what we have here." As he gestured to one of his soldiers to bring the gleaming black armor before him "It looks as if the town blacksmith wants to make off with the wares he was ordered to make." The Captain said his grin only growing wider as he watched the now trembling Grey in sadistic amusement "You know what we do to thief's in Harvak? We gut them like the godless pigs they are." The Captain gestured at Grey before halting them as an idea came to his mind. Smiling down at Simon who had a confused look on his face he said "But then you will not have fully atoned to Mauro for your transgressions." As he grabbed the boy by his shoulder.

"No!" Grey cried out even as he was pushed back by the flurry of blows that were sent his way by the multiple guardsmen. "Please I beg you to spare my son! I will do anything! Give you anything!" The Captain laughed aloud still gripping the shoulder of the boy tightly as he struggled to free himself from the man's iron grip "And what could a lowly worm like you give me? Gold? Power? You are nothing and there is nothing you can give me that I want." As the Captain drew his sword Grey cried out "Wait! The sword and armor." Licking his lips in nervousness Grey continued "The sword and armor and my fealty my lord." The Captain laughed before placing the boot in front of the now prostrate Grey and said "Kiss my boots."

Grey looked up at the man in shock before saying "What?" The Captain moved his boot forward so it was even closer to Grey's mouth. Smiling down he said again "Kiss. My. Boot." This time more menacingly. Grey looked down hovering between the feeling of shame he would feel by doing this in front of his son and the relief he would feel when the man and his soldiers was gone he slowly bent down and rested his lip on the Captain's shoes before being thrown back by a particularly strong kick which was followed by the laughter of the soldiers. Smiling down at him the Captain said "You have your life and now I will have your son and the armor." The Captain said "I never agreed to give you my son!" Grey yelled.

Turning The Captain scowled at him saying "Be happy you have your life worm. Your son looks like he is of age already and Mauro always needs more soldiers." Smiling down he then said to Grey "Oh but don't worry we will make your son a true man not the disgusting wretch his father is." The Captain said before kicking Grey one last time and mounting his horse signaling the other guards to do so as he rode off with the still struggling boy. As Grey sat up and reached out to the Citadel that they were taking his son to Simon also reached out crying "Papa!" Before the soldiers rounded the corner and they were lost from each other's sight. Looking hopelessly at the Citadel Grey fell to his knees and began to weep.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Keep of Angels
Angethelon, Last of his Kind

The cow, the rabbit and the pig. A peculiar threesome of animals, seemingly not connected by anything other than the shortness of their names and their abundance on farms. Cows and pigs were welcome there, of course, while rabbits… Somewhat less, we might say. Yet, they formed a powerful bond in the world of the spiritual. A cow could feed a village with her milk and beef. A pig gave life with her tender pork, and a rabbit birthed a thousand descendants in a lifetime. Life, that connected them. They were symbols of life in the old texts of wizards and priests. These books, manuals to the arcane and the devilish, had long been forbidden by the Priests of Mauro, together with everything related in any closeness to dark magic. Even white magic that could, via close inspection, lead to dark magic, was burned all those years ago. Many books had been lost forever, as well as wisdom as old as the universe. The biggest collection of dark magic on the continent was now probably in the hands of an Angel, however paradoxical it may sound.

With a cut as clean as a carrot split with a knife, Angethelon sliced open the neck of the cow in front of him. In one slash, his blade cut every tenant, every thread connecting the rump and the head was severed. The bastard sword of Angelic manufacturing sliced right between two vertebrae, killing the cow in an instant. When the aorta leading to the brain was cut entwine, blood started gushing out, all over the white marble tomb. The red liquid filled up the engraved letters in a second, and whatever blood was left gushed over the sides, splattering on the floor like water from a modest waterfall. The next cut Angethelon made separated the pig from her body, with the same effect. The big head rolled three rolls over the floor, with blood splatting out on both ends. The pig and cow blood mixed perfectly, to an extend that only the Angel’s divine memory could tell which was which. Any other person would be dumbfounded at the question to tell what blood belonged to what animal. The rabbit, lastly, a white one pure as snow, was pierced by the sharp blade. It did not bleed as much. As if it surrendered to its fate, it died instantly. With a wave of the blade, Angethelon threw the white bunny in the pool of blood, right on top of the tomb.

“Astrakhand!”

As the Angel spoke these vile, dark words, his heavenly tongue feeling like he’d just eaten soup too hot to eat, the blood turned dark. The rabbit merged with the black liquid, sinking into it as if it were quicksand, as if the tomb was opened beneath it.

“Umbhar!”

This word, feeling like the Angel had just bit his own tongue, set the dark pool ablaze in a dark-red blackened flame, not anything seen in a natural fire. This fire came straight from the crevices of the underworld, and Angethelon had a purpose for it. It seemed to work: here, below the fortress Angethelon had built for himself, in the deepest cave formations, a white marble tomb of a former compatriot slowly opened. The Angelic heart of the Lone Survivor, for the first time in a thousand years, was filled with a bit of glee, expectation. The tomb was being opened from the inside! Maybe he had succeeded! Oh, imagine… A new Angelic kingdom, led again by Caananite the Great. How wonderful, how awe-inspiring! He could smell the mountain air again, the soft breeze against his spread wings, which had now turned read in the demonic ritual. In a moment’s notice, however, his dreams were shattered.

From the tomb, a hand emerged. Not a friendly hand, which had once held the blade of goodness. No, a dark hand, a skeletal hand. Not white as a normal skeleton would be, picked dry by sun and rodents. This hand was entirely black, with black smoke and green fire emanating from the tomb itself. In a moment, all of Angethelon’s hopes and dreams turned to rage, anger at his own incompetence. For thousands of years, he had been trying to find a way, with no success whatsoever. He was getting better, but with every try he seemed to be getting two steps back. He extended the pal of his hand towards the opening in the tombstone, and with a ray of divine light emanating from his fingers, he sealed the marble shut. The blood and flesh of the animals combusted into normal red and yellow flames, slowly disappearing as the fire went on. Within a minute, everything was as clean as it had ever been. Angethelon returned to his throne room, high above the catacombs, downtrodden and hopeless. Every step he took up the stairs seemed harder, longer, heavier. He couldn’t even spread his wings in these tight corridors. As soon as he was out of the staircase, he trusted his white feather to lift himself above the floor, flying high above the fortress walls and gates, before seating himself on the highest tower, the fortified citadel of his masterpiece. As he looked over the world, it’s tranquillity contrasted sharply with the fear in the old warrior’s heart. A fear of oncoming evils, and with it, hope.

[Yoite]

Balor, the Usurper
Thandlarax Keep

If the Gate Keeper had a face, he would have been frowning. From the souls of the Paladins he had only been able to reforge another twenty Knights, but when counting how many Black Rangers fell to Mauro's blessings they were short by thirteen. They had collected more souls than twenty, but some of them...rejected the process. The Keeper hated the idea of Balor awaking to a diminished fighting force, even if by only the barest of fractions. The Master's state had continued without change since he was unbound from his prison, the Mask of M'Harat had awoken the Black Order but had done nothing else since the tomb was unsealed either. It simply floated over the Master's face, almost as if it could be brushed aside. That was a thought near blasphemous for the Keeper, none had witnessed Balor's true visage since he had done the mask all those centuries ago.

Watchers entered the room quietly, though their silence did not matter to their Maker. The Keeper knew immediately that the last of the fleeing prison guards had been hunted down by Black Rangers, and their souls were sufficient to replenish the lost units should the process work. This pleased him. There were still two Watchers manning the keep. With the distasteful lack of other servants, one Fist of the Black Paladins were being used to make repairs. A second Fist of Black Rangers would be manning posts along the crumbling battlements, and in the watch tower. The ten watchers began taking their places around the tomb once again to begin another focusing ritual, but before they were fully oriented they stopped. The Keeper saw precisely what they saw, a flicker of red light issuing forth from the dark sarcophagus.

The Keeper, curious and hopeful, stepped forward to look down into the darkness. Even as he watched the Mask reasserted itself, descending upon Balor's face once more. The red light came from beneath the mask, and when the Mask sealed itself against the Master's face the glow began emanating from his eyes. A blood sacrifice. Closed off from the world by Mauro's Seals, no cult's sacrifice could have reached Balor in the last era. Now, free as he was once again, the flow of living souls was bringing him back to the living. The Keeper watched with delight as the Usurper began to tremble, a gauntleted hand lifted up and clasped the edge of the sarcophagus, first one and then another. With a rustle of cloth and a whisper of stiffened armor, Balor pulled himself up. Bones which had not moved in the lifetime of a dragon snapped and cracked as he stepped over the edge of the sarcophagus, dropping to the floor with a thud that shook the stones.

"How...long....Athos?" the question came, slowly as his tongue tripped over itself to form words after so long.

"Athos? I have a name?" the Gate Keeper said in astonishment, quickly though he realized he had not answered the question and fell to his knees. "Forgive me Master, though I know not the precise reckoning of time I have estimated it to be over two thousand years, Great One."

"How...was I awakened?" he asked, his voice picking up speed though it still held a considerable rasp. He began looking around, seeing the decay for the first time, then his eyes fell on the Watchers. "Are these them? Has my...Black Order risen?"

"Yes, Master, I have completed them in secret as per your instruction. They have been refined for over a millennium," more than a hint of pride entered Athos' voice, a loving father proud of his creation. "You were brought back by a Blood Sacrifice, your reign still stands firm, Master. None have risen that could supplant you."

"Good, you have done well Athos," Balor hefted his bastard sword from the sarcophagus, strapping it too his back. "[i]Now there is work to be done, forces to be gathered. Come to me, Black Watchers, it is time to send out...The Call," with that he strode from the room, all present following him.

[Great Empire of Gamilus]

Deep Under the Earth, The Fortress of the Keeper...

Keeper watched as the raiding force left the massive black iron gate that was entrance to his fortress, the Cultists with their ramshackle sacrificial blades dripping in blood from prisoners and magical fireball launchers strapped onto their arms glistened black and red as runes hummed whisperingly while Hellhounds ran in the front, these massive intelligent dogs of the underworld cackled as the flames lept from their hides and jaw's as they howled in delight.

Surprisingly he saw Azariath standing back as the Dark Champion Klast marched out the gate, his massive clanking armour of darkness standing 8ft high dwarfing his Black knights by a single ft, a great bear pelt from the north fashioned into a cloak strapped and draped across his back, swinging from side to side with each bellowing step he took. It seemed Azariath had managed to convince Klast to raid for him...

The Black knights rode on their demonic horses, the larger than normal beasts clad in armour as black as their riders hearts and souls, whom of which were 7ft of evil and trained in the arts and forged in war, this raid would leave the town in ruins and a message clear to all who would stand in the path of the Keeper.

As the Keeper turned and made for his throne an itching feeling began to enter his mind, a call... A call of evil...
stopping dead in his tracks the keeper turned slowly and looked to the black iron gates closing, the itching feeling tell him to go that way and pursue whomever sent it.

With a smile and evil cackle the Keeper banished the itching sensation for now, He had time to find the Overlord of these lands so a few hours rest would not hurt.

[Lavan Tiri]

LORD SIMALE RE, THE LIBRARY OF THE DARK SUN.


Simale reclined in his chair, surrounded by ancient tomes, with crackling, leather-bound covers, filled with tales of the Overlord, and his rise and fall. Balor his lord would be pleased when Simale found in one of them the way to resurrect him.

Boom.

Simale looked up, pissed. Who whould make such a noise so near the Library? He'd have to kill them.

BOOM.

Simale jumped as the noise happened again, but louder. "What idiot wants me to cutout his innards with my sword?" He bellowed, flinging open the stone door. Behind it stood..Kredap Sret, a Priest of Balor. "Kredap, I'd have thought you were smarter than this. Now I have to eviscerate you." Simale drew his sword.

" Please...lord...Simale...i have evil....news." panted Kredap. Simale grunted and sheathed his sword. "Talk fast, or I'll cut into pieces so small that your damn mother couldn't recognize you."

"I felt it Happen. I was in the Ocularis, meditating, when I was shaken by a violent wind. I knew at once what had happened. Lord Balor has Arisen once more." Simale gaped at Kredap. "Are you joking? I'll have to kill you if you are. GO GET THE MANTLE!WE RIDE FOR BALOR!" bellowed Simale. "OUR LORD HATH ARISEN!.

[Bearon]

John Grey, Black Lands

After a long time Grey got up from the ground his deformed leg barely able to hold his own weight without the brace that had seemingly fallen off sometime during his confrontation. The crowd that had gathered to watch his confrontation with the Captain had long since dispersed going back to their own wretched lives leaving Grey to wallow in his own pain and misery. Wiping off the dirt off his clothes mechanically Grey eventually stopped dusting himself off a small part of his mind that was still functioning realizing the dirt was stained into his clothing. Wandering off in the general direction of his store house Grey shakily mounted the horse before leaning against the horses neck and riding it off in the general direction of the Black Lands. Grey's eyes were glazed over with anger, pain and sadness and as he passed into the dark forest not even the guards at the gate dared to stop him, such was the look of madness and fire in his eyes as he passed like a wraith into the night. As Grey rode further into the forest it seemed as if the trees bent around him sealing off his exit though if Grey had noticed in that moment he would not have cared as he only sought salvation for his son and himself.

Simon Grey, Harvak

As Simon was taken by the man all he could do was cry out in pain and confusion. Pain at the mans steel grip on his shoulders and confusion as to why he had been taken away from his father and what the man and his father had been talking about. As Simon recalled the conversation between the man and his father a vision of the man that held him now had accused his father of trying to steal something and trying to escape with him. At the time Simon hadn't understood but he thought he did now as he began to sort and piece the scene together. "His father had been packing a horse as he had been playing with his friends, so he must have been planning to leave town before I could become apart of the army of light." Simon realized. "But why? Simon thought, unaware that after joining the army of light he would basically be an indentured servant to the lord he served under. As Simon and the group of soldiers arrived at the Citadel, Simon was thrown from the horse by the man with the steel grip. Slowly getting up Grey realized he had been left alone with only an old priest for company. The man smiled down at the boy pleasantly and gripped his boy's hand to help him Grey to his feet.

[Elerian]

Western Marches
Ramarod the Red

Their blades black and cruel the Orcs marched in loose formation. They had heard the call; from long leagues away the Overlord had sent his request. The Orcs had nearly dropped everything to answer his beckoning call. They yearned for the chance to serve, nay they lusted for the opportunity to serve something so cruel and foul, not even they, in a thousand lifetimes could hope to match. These Orcs marched ahead of a larger host numbering a thousand. Through Destervald and Myron they would reach the coast and pillage, loot, and raze anything they could along the way.

Ramarod breathed deep the stench of horse flesh. All around him were the noises of his Orc host that he had assembled. He remembered fondly the moment he was beckoned. He was in his hall of stone feasting on seasoned man flesh and succulent blood sausages. His kinsmen regaled one another with bawdy jokes and the hall was filled with the sounds and smells of a lively feast. At once that came to an end when the lord of darkness seemed to beckon them to come to him. It was faint but the entire hall quieted in an instant. For so long the Orcs had been waiting for this, generations had passed since someone half so capable had shown themselves. But nothing like this had happened in over a millennium.

Ramarod breathed deeply and let the euphoria pass as he remembered the moment as if it had happened only a moment earlier. Ramarod donned his helm that was in part for his namesake. Ramadod the Red he was named by his kin and enemy alike. In his youth he had painted his armor with the blood of his slain foes and thus his namesake was born. Urging his hulking lizard onward he screamed to no one in particular “pick up the pace you bastards! We don’t want the Overlord to fuck the humans without us do we?” And with that Ramarod and his host of Orcs moved onward to the border of Destervald and Myron.

Dark Lands
Lyra

“Oh gods please no! Just let me go, I beg of you” shrieked the fat man.

“Are you sure you didn't mean to steal anything, hmm?” She asked.

“I swear it by the gods, I didn't!” He squealed. “Just please don’t hurt me.”

She considered for a moment, and then lifted her finger, letting the small bulging fat man go. He was lying, but she wasn't without pity. Almost lightning fast her arm flew out and smashed the man against a wall. A grin crossed her mouth. It was almost worth it just to see his fat jiggle as he squirmed, almost. He had fucked with her, and that was something she didn't allow. For such a fat man, he had somehow gotten past her guards and into her lair. She had keener eyes than those of her guards and had only barely spotted him. Lyra smelled magic but with the fat man dead there was no knowing how he could have gotten in. A pity though, it mattered little. She began to move her way back to her hoard, then a beautiful sound she had only heard once before could faintly be heard yet again, but only for a moment and then it was gone. She turned to one of her Knights a tall man in his armor red and fair. It seemed he had heard it too, the call of Balor the Black Dread. Her Knight looked to her with confusion; he did not know the sweet tune as she did.

“Gather the men and the Trolls as well. We will have need of them soon.”

The Red Knight bowed to Lyra’s massive form. Several of her Knights had not known how giant an adult dragon truly was until they had met her. Lyra was quite old, even for Dragon’s standards. Lyra however was not a usual dragon, instead of having the gift to kill foes with her fiery wraith as others of her kind did. Lyra over time learned the art of shape shifting. She however only chose to change between a human form and a dragon one. Lyra walked out of her lair and looked to each side where one of her trolls was standing sentry. As she walked out into the cool night air she spread her massive wings and leapt off the side of the mountain that was her home. She wished to see Balor herself.

---

Several hours later she found the epicenter of the beckoning. She had time to think on her long journey to meet the Broken Knight. Could it really be Balor? What if a pretender had seized the mask and unknowingly sent out the message near and far? It was unlikely but in this mad world she had seen many maddening things.

Lyra circled the decrepit structure that supposedly housed the Black Dread. On its crumbling walls stood dozens of sentries black of armor and undoubtedly black of heart, it chilled her just to see them all. She swooped down far enough away to be out of sight and landed among the gnarly trees. Once on the ground she changed herself to her human form. She had been called a fair maiden more than once by many a men. With her long black hair swirling in the breeze she swaggered up to the gates of the prison and stopped before their big rusted bars. “I am come to see Balor.” Lyra yelled up to the sentries with a slightly fiercer tone than she intended.

Eledil-Sarvana Border
Logain the Lewd

Logain flashed his gold toothed smile as he often did. He took a swig of ale and whispered a few salacious words to the serving girl on his lap. His lieutenant entered through the door of the inn and for once Logain wasn't smiling. He picked up the girl and placed her in the seat next to his and said he would be back. Logain walked up to his distressed friend and asked with annoyance “what’s so bloody important? You told me an hour ago everything was in order.” His friend Damien could barely look him in the eye.

“The . . . the Sravanese have reorganized, under a new King, a distant cousin by the looks of it or maybe an uncle . . .”

Logain glared at him to continue with the important facts.

“Apologies, we've been given the order to march through the forests of the east to get around the Sarvanese army and in the words of the Eledil commander ‘fuck em where it hurts’ as it were. Though that’s not all they’re queer tales of happenings in them woods to the east. I mislike it Logain.”

“Shit.” Logain swore under his breath. “I don’t need you going craven when I need you most Damien. Tell the serjeants to get the men ready. We move at first light.” Damien nodded and left out the way he came. Logain returned to his seat to see that the girl had wandered off. He sat down and downed the last of his ale. He had nearly a thousand men under his control but not many of them would like going through the Dark Lands. Logain stood and called for another mug of ale, he wanted to get piss drunk before they moved out.

[Great Empire of Gamilus]

A few hundred metres from Harvak...

Champion Klast looked on at the town of Harvak and sneered, if he still had a face he might of pulled off the expression for sneering. It was fairly pitiful compared to the city he had lorded over before turning to darkness, the only thing remarkable about it was the Citadel at its centre but even then the fact that it was remarkable was because it was the centre of this shithole.

Looking behind him Klast saw his raiding party ready to charge, Cultists chanting runic fire spells while his Knights whispered a prayer to the Dark Gods, They all stopped when they noticed the giants stare, and heard his command.

"Charge."

Like that the Cultists took off at a run, their formation a loose cluster to avoid arrow fire for when they got in range, the Hellhounds close behind keeping steady pace, their flame kept low so as to not be spotted, the two black knights and Klast himself would march silently behind the formation.

Looking out of the guard tower a watchmen spotted the advancing cultists, screaming out a warning while ringing the warning bell which sent the town into panic, guards and soldiers rushed to the defence while peasants ran to their homes in hopes of finding safety there, if only. As the Cultists came into range they opened up with their foul magical fire casters, blazing fireballs smashing against the top of the wall, sending the gathering archers to the floor, skin burning and melting as they flailed around and screamed in horror much to the chargrim of their fellows below.

The Hellhound pack gathered around the old rickety wooden gate, the minimal metal supports of the wood would allow hellfire to burn through it in mere seconds of hellish heat but they relented for the second while the guards set up a defensive line, and those on the wall waved spears down to try and threaten the nightmarish dogs off, sadly it would not work as Champion Klast slowly marched forward, arrows from the few archers remaining pinging off his armour harmlessly as his gigantic visage stool a few feet from the gate. Taking his massive cursed blade in both hands the Champion rammed it into the gate, breaking wood into shards and splinters after several cuts until there was nothing but busted hinges and scrap wood.

The town guard on the other side stood bravely as he walked through, the two black knights following slowly and Hellhounds after them, the two sides stared off, the town guard stalwart but fearful, each man looking as if to flee as soon as combat began clearly contrasting to the forces of evil, lead by the gigantic dark champion as Hellhounds swarmed about and Cultists were slowly entering the city.

"Burn them all..." was the lone command of Klast, and with that the fate of the town was sealed.
The dogs of hell charged the line, jaws and fur wreathed in flame as they smashed, pawed and burnt the town guards, the horse sized demon hounds easily crunching through armour and flesh alike while shrugging off most wounds, one squad of guards managed to score a lucky kill on a lone hellhound, managing to stab several spears at once through its skull while it was distracted, the fighting then rolled out into the greater residential area, flames wreaked buildings as Cultists and guards dueled in the streets and hellhounds set all on fire, dragging people out of their homes to be skinned alive and strung up!

One band of Cultists was currently tormenting a family, the two teens forced to watch their mother and father skinned alive, slowly and painfully as the lead cultist chanted heretical words keeping them alive and concious yet feeling all pain inflicted, the mother was screaming out for mercy as her flesh was torn from muscle with a haggard blade, her tears mixing with blood and other fluids where cuts had been lousy.

The Father crying and broken as he was being strung up on a effigy, skinless fingers and limbs bent out of place as two cultists began carving runes into him, intending to burn unholy fires in sacrifice for the Dark Ones! Their teenage children forced to watch on, knowing it would be their turn next, already the young woman had defecated herself and the lad was soon to follow...

Elsewhere over the town other cults dedicated to Balor Overlord had risen up and tried to seize their chance to proclaim themselves owners of this town, while it was to be expected living so close to the lands of evil the Champion would not permit them, slaughtering all regardless with heafty strokes of the blade as he marched towards the citadel, the black knights following quietly behind as each stroke from their blade killed another defender while the city was being ransacked...

About half an hour had passed since the start of the raid and most of the city lay burnt by magical hellfire and slaughtered, the forces of the Keeper had reached the citadel where the captain and his heavily armoured soldiers stood to commit to their final stand, polished equipment and well maintained, these men would pose a bit of a challenge.

Waving back the trio of Hellhounds who were approaching from behind Klast and the two Knights drew swords and slowly walked forward, every motion clam and instinctive as the captain and his thralls charged with a clutter of boots and armour, the first man to get in range had the massive greatsword plyed through his head, splitting it like a grape under a boulder, flicking the remains of that man off he swung the blade wide before bringing it back at about waist height, decapitating a man at about chest height and enough force to send both halves flying several feet while the third got his head slammed into his body when the flat of the blade smashed it in, breaking the spine and making him taste his own stomach acid in his final moments.

The knights were doing good on their own, a half dozen men lay dead and wounded with the finish swings and cuts, each limb cut at critical joints and weak spots for maximum destruction of the body, there was a reason the Black Knights were some of the greatest.

And last stood the captain, who was standing with blade held limp in his hands and a blank stare as he realized his fate, Klast lightly tapped the mans chest plate.

"Tell me Captain, was it worth my time pillaging this pitiful town? Whats the matter, Hellhound got your tongue?"

The captain was unprepared for the booming voice and fumbled with a response, failing to do so before the massive blade pierced his chest, the long blade then was flicked upwards and over the Champion, sending the captain careening into a building's second floor. And with a slight gasp died seconds later...

Dismissing the two Knights to do whatever they wanted Klast stepped into the Citadel, watching as richer peoples and the families of the Guards fled higher into the keep, marching forward he stopped as he spotted an old priest shielding a younger lad. Suddenly Klast remembered, it was conscription day! He remembered that day fondly with hatred...

Walking over to them stabbed his sword into the tiles, the force was enough to start shattering the entire halls tiles within a few seconds.
"Now now, what do we have here? another soldier for the meatgrinder. Tell me priest, what do your scriptures say of the glories of dying on my blade?"

The priest responded with a kind tone.

"Paladin Klast, it has been a long time hasn't it boy?"

Klast snorted, he now recognized the priest.

"Father Michael, It has been a while. Shame we had to meet like this isn't it? especially after what happened..."

The priest reached out to the gauntlet of the gaint man, and spoke in kind tones.
"We warned you it was foolhardy, I don't blame you but it is not too late, you can turn back to the light o..."

"NO, IT IS TOO LATE!"
The Champion Klast swung a mailed fist in anger, the armoured spikes stabbing into the old mans gut, leaving him to choke on his own blood, currently filling his lungs.

"You will see o...one day Klast... y..you will see.e..."
With those dying words the priest sank into death, and moved no more, turning to the child Klast grabbed him by his scrawny neck and held him to head height. "Tell me child what is your name?"

"S..Simon Grey!"
The squirming child managed to gasp out his own name, if just barely.
Klast used the armoured tip of his gauntleted finger to carve a long cut down the side of the boys face, sneering (without the facial expression) as he did.

"I hope you find a glorious fate little Simon, I doubt we will ever meet again."
He then threw the young boy into a woodpile they were sitting next to, knocking him unconscious and continuing to murder the inhabitants...

Over the next couple of hours all citizens of the town would be killed, their bodies strung up on effigies across the town, lining the wall and citadel, their innards gutted and used to create long strands interconnecting buildings all lined with runes and foul magics to replicate the sound of the tortured souls whom they just easily murdered, some people were still half alive for hours on end after being strung up, their tears and other bodily liquids mixing as they fell too the ground to join the filth that was their neighbours...

Only one hellhound and four cultists were lost, their remains were sacrificed to the dark gods in the way that was decreed by the Dark Gods for loyal servants, allowing their spirits to ascend to the dark realm.

Then as quickly as they came the Dark Raiders left, leaving behind a sole survivor, Simon Grey...

[Delmonte]

Myronnis, Myron
Gideon Slovell

Gideon awoke, thrashing in his sheets with sharp pains in his head. It felt like there was a battle in his skull. A dark, malevolent voice whispered to him.

"Come... Come to me, my minions."

Gideon fell out of bed, pulled himself up, and looked into the mirror.

"Wh- What?"

"Come!" The voice was more insistent. Gideon felt the strong urge to obey. He uttered a silent prayer to Mauro to make the voice leave, but Mauro's ears were deaf to his pleas. In desperation, he raised his voice to the god that had always guided him well.

"Father Gandolo, help me!" Slowly, but surely the lust for evil and power that had filled him before was replaced with lust for wealth and prestige. Gandolo showed him all that his wealth, rank, and status could acquire for him, and Gideon wept. He had to inform the priests of Mauro immediately. Perhaps this would redeem him in the eyes of that god.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

That Morning

"This is dire news, indeed... And how were you made aware of this, again?"

"A criminal confessed to me, privately, of the thoughts in his head. And then another, and then another, each begging to make the voices go away. To see a Priest of Mauro. They had never met one another."

"I see..." the aged Priest tapped his chin. "All good men and women must be informed of this. If the Overlord has broken out of his imprisonment, it is very likely that the Island Kingdoms are doomed. But our continent may be able to hold strong if we stand united. If you'll excuse me, I must go now and inform the other Priests of Mauro. Our projections work best during the bright dawn of morning.

Delver Ghant excused himself that he might go to the Solarium and project his message to the similar Solariums in every other Temple of Mauro on the continent.

"What we... have feared for a long while... has come to pass..."

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

That Evening

"Lord Slovell, we are so happy that you decided to honor the Temple of Gandolo with your presence, particularly in this dire time. As everyone has, we have heard of the rising of Balor. We hope that the mustering of additional troops goes well. Keep in mind that mercenaries are smiled upon by Gandolo."

The three High Priests of Gandolo bowed, their coin-purses jangling. Even their jewelry was made out of different currencies; each coin twisted into the next to form diverse necklaces, bracelets, and cuffs.

"I am a devoted follower of Gandolo's. The honor is mine. Have you prepared everything for the ceremony as I requested?"

"Yes, Grand Marshal. Do you have... the relic?" The High Priest looked at the pouch Gideon was carrying with sheer appetite. Gideon nodded and, with a flourish, removed from the pouch a small, ornate box with scrollwork words on its lid and a strong, steel clasp.

The Priests were awed and kneeled before the box as though the five gods were inside it. The High Priest moistened his lips.

"Gandolo's Strongbox... I value it." To a follower of Gandolo, valuing something was an incredibly high compliment.

"How much do you value it?" Haggling and negotiating pleased Gandolo very much. It would have been sacrilegious for these two men to not haggle. The High Priest acted withholding and scooted backward, feigning offense.

"Enough to perform the services you required for free. However, Gandolo might insist that I should charge you."

"Hm." Gideon threw him a bag of coins.

The High Priest nodded and stood up. He led Gideon into a back room. It had the most gold and valuables in it for a room with a Pentagram that Gideon had ever seen. No wonder the Temples of Gandolo acted like banks. They were banks. The High Priest ushered Gideon to put the box in the center of the Pentagram, which already had candles lit around it as well as a stack of golden coins laid at every intersection.

"Now, this is Gandolo. He does not have the imperious nature of Mauro, nor the wild nature of Gora. He is susceptible to reason." The High Priest seemed to be trying to reassure himself. He was sweating at the brow.

"Look..." Gideon said, "This is just a crapshoot. Obviously you've never done this ritual before. If you're uncomfortable, that's fine."

"No, no..." the High Priest wiped his forehead, "Gandolo would be furious if I did not provide a service I had been paid for. I will perform the ritual and everything will be fine. Now, step back. Tavrin, Malres, are you ready?"

The two other High Priests, decrepit though they were, nodded and hoisted two sizable bags of coins. Gideon took another, as he had been instructed would be required of him via letter. The High Priest leading the ritual nodded and held his hands over the strong box in the center as Gideon and the other Priests began shaking the bags of coins in rhythm.

"Oh, Gandolo! Thou art glorious and wise! You lead us in the ways of making and taking; never breaking,
Your Oath; To uphold the rules of prosperity and production,
Enriching us until our Extreme Unction,
Gandolo; Giver of wealth and all that is invested,
I pray thee to show thyself that our faith may be tested!"

The strongbox unclasped and flew open when the incantation was recited.

"What does that mean?" Gideon asked, harshly. The shaking had stopped. The Most High Priest muttered and turned away to consult an enormous tome on a podium.

"I... I don't know!"

"I'll tell you what it means!" one of the wizened High Priests said, "Gandolo requires payment! He is haggling with us!"

"Pay him!" The Most High Priest shrieked. He began pouring coins into the strongbox, but they were immediately repelled. "What's wrong? He's not accepting the payment!"

"It's because you aren't haggling." Gideon said, then went on. "Now, Gandolo, I have been a devout worshiper of yours for a long time now." The candles in the room flickered, conveying almost a haughty pleasure at Gideon's words. "I... As I said, I have worshiped you for most of my life. And I do not expect that to suffice as payment, but I should like it taken into account. Now. I have a precious family heirloom: This locket. It is very dear to me. I offer it to you as collateral and a sign of good will." Gideon dropped it into the box and it vanished within.

A low rumble echoed throughout the small room.

"Good... this pleases me. But I am not yet appeased. You must pay me further, either in wealth or in tales of your deeds that demonstrate your worthiness of my assistance."

"What would demonstrate our worthiness, O Gandolo?" The Most High Priest intoned, cautiously. He had never communicated directly with his God before.

"Demonstrations that you have heeded my teachings; demonstrations of bargaining, good business, and industriousness."

"Father Gandolo, I believe I have such a tale." Gideon began, nervously. He licked his lips. His entire body was shaking at what he was about to say.

"It is written in your texts that having someone take payment that is not worth as much as they believe it to be... constitutes good business and serves to reward those who follow you. I have such a story."

The room purred with pleasure. "Go on." The voice rumbled. It seemed to emanate from the strongbox.

"I..." Gideon swallowed. His entire body was drenched in cold sweat. "I managed to... outmaneuver, as it were..." He must be crazy to do what he was doing, "Outmaneuver someone, in the process of haggling, who was much my better. Perhaps the greatest businessman to ever live."

"Who?" Gandolo inquired, with obvious interest.

"That person..." Gideon said a quick prayer to Vidia in case he die this instant, "Would be you, Father Gandolo. That locket was a worthless trinket that I picked up for two silver and a copper."

Silence. Then a distant rumbling that grew stronger and stronger until the coins in the room began rattling and toppling over. Goblets rolled across the floor. The Priests began praying for mercy.

"YOU DARED TO CHEAT ME?! GANDOLO?!" The rumbling stopped abruptly. Then started quietly again, with a slightly different tone. The lockbox began opening and closing, like a mouth. Then a distinct sound was heard from it. It was low, at first, then it grew louder. Then it became clear what the sound was. From the strongbox, laughter, clear as day could be heard. It started as a snicker, then became a giggle, and then a chuckle, until it was a full-blown, immortal belly-laugh that did not need to pause for breaths. Gandolo laughed for seventy-four seconds straight. Gideon had counted.

"Take my blessing, mortal. And watch yourself in the marketplaces. I will be looking for opportunities to take my loss back from you."

"There it is..." The High Priest said, peering down at the strongbox. "The Avatar of Gandolo."

"Smaller than I thought it would be." Gideon said, to the sound of coins sliding against coins sliding against a strongbox.

[Helcasia]

Ruins of the Temple of Akhala
Na'onakh, Hil'sha

"It's been long enough", Na'onakh thought to himself scratching another line to a vast tally, recording each day he has spent in waiting, on the walls of his temple. The temple, once a glorious monument that towered above the surrounding villages served by a 1000 slaves of Na'onakh, is now a wreck. It has been so for centuries, it's vast towers and minarets demolished, it's statues crushed, it's walls defaced. Many times the Hil'sha had attempted to restore it and his cult, and each time the forces of good had undone his work. But today something seemed different. There were signs that the forces of good were losing their grip on this world. Increasing incidents of crime, war, and godlessness. Bad omens in the haruspices. Animals behaving peculiarly.
Na'onakh left the ruins and walked towards the nearest village. While crossing a field near the outskirts of the village he came across a peasant farmer.
"Onakh sha, khri khel sha!" shouted Na'onakh while walking towards the peasant.
"Excuse me? What did you say?"
"What god do you worship?"
"What sort of question is that?"
"Ha'le khri!" said Na'onakh, raising his hand to the peasant.
"Wha-...!" - the peasant had no time to respond as the light emanating from Na'onakh's gauntlet reaches engulfs him. Though to an outside observer, light was emanating from the gauntlet, the peasant could see only darkness. Nor could the peasant feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, for it had turned to an icy cold. An agonising unimaginable pain then blocked out all other sensations, even a sense of time's passing, but the voice of Na'onakh.
"I am your god now. The father of light is a false god who has forsaken you to death and darkness. I am Na'onakh the Hil'sha. I am a god of death and resurrection who has risen from the flames of the underworld. Through me you will find your salvation. I can make the pain stop, but you must accept me as your true god."
The peasant begged in his mind for an end to pain for what seemed like centuries of agony, and then suddenly the pain was gone. Light and warmth returned. He saw that he was on he knees before Na'onakh, with a golden glow shining on him from Na'onakh's gauntlet. The light of the gauntlet seemed warm, and was comforting. The peasant did not understand why, but he believed this man before him to be his god.
"Behold the bliss of your salvation, my disciple."
"Praise the Hil'sha!"

[Liecthenbourg]

The Golem's Gauntlet, Flotilla of The Iron Legion, The Fervehellen Sea
Davios Iron-Heart.

"Stroke!"

"Stroke!"

"Stroke!"

With each shout from the helmsman did the many oaken oars that propelled the ship forward across the vast expanse of ocean cut into the crystal water beneath it. Several of the knights upon the top deck began pulling ropes to unfurl the sail, revealing the bone white material detailed with a silver clenched fist and its forearm upon the centre. To the left and right of The Golem's Gauntlet the other four ships of the flotilla: The Plunderer, The Hammer of Metallos*, Davios' Fist and Mauro be Scorned unfurled their sales as well with their oars rowing in unison and their forward rams splitting the water infront of each vessel gracefully.

Several gulls flew overhead, squawking as they perched themselves upon a nearby wreckage of a ship. Watching this from the bow of the flotilla's flagship were Davios and Captain Reginald Hearthsfellow, Commander of The Iron Legion's Knight contigent and perhaps the individual Davios trusted the most. Hearthsfellow was a loyal knight, a man Davios encountered in The Desert of Souls. He was dehydrated and wounded, from what Davios later found out was from a bandit attack. The Iron Golem took him to an oasis and since that day, Hearthsfellow was never seen without the emblem of Davios on his person.

"Perhaps a bad omen, milord" the Knight said to break the silence.

"Omens? Bah!" the gigantic Golem replied as he looked down. "Such trivial things are of no concern. There are hundred of wrecks within the seas, this means nothing. The Gods have never cared for me or my fate - I am but a Golem."

"What of Metallos? He and his forges are what birthed your kind. Surely he cares."

"Metallos, blessed be the Forge-Master, is another matter entirely. Have I told you my age?"

"As old as the mountains themselves, milord"

"Correct. I was a child of Metallos for a long time but now I am no child. Understand, Captain?"

"Indeed I do milord."

With that Davios patted the back of his comrade before walking across the deck and towards the wheel of the galley. That was when a faint voice was heard in his mind. Not like the voices of before, for this one was calm, collected and filled with authority. It grew louder and that was when the realisation hit the Golem. He ran across the helm, clasping his hand upon the wheel and turning it rapidly towards the right causing the two ships to the left of The Golem's Gauntlet to do the same rapidly.

Hearthsfellow looked up, removing his helm and shouting at the Golem. "What by Vidia are you doing milord?! You'll get us killed quicker than a peasant in Desterwest!"

"Quiet you fool! I feel it, the presence of Him... All ships sail due west now!" he bellowed. The Centurions aboard the other ships complied without question and the journey across the sea continued.

[Yoite]

Balor, the Fist of Darkness
Thandlarax Keep

Balor stood within the Beacon Chamber at the apex of the Keep's lone tower. Before him was a great altar, the runes and sigils adorning it were also engraved on the pillars encompassing the room. Once again, the priests of Mauro had long since cleansed this place, however, the altar was left mostly intact. This altar was even older than Balor, and even he did not know its true origins. It had been the place where the sorcerer lords of old had created M'Harat the Devourer and his accursed mask so, in a sense, it was Balor's birthplace as well. Now it served as the ritual site for the signal that would pull all darkness to him, he did not call this the Beacon Chamber for nothing. Stuck in the center of the altar was Salvation's Bane, a weapon of greater corruption than any other he knew existed, on it he had cast a simple spell that drew shadows. He could see the aura of darkness rippling around its blade. What the runes did was amplify the spell to the point it was capable of drawing the shadow, primarily the shadow lurking over the hearts of the wicked. Even he could feel the tug of the Overlord, which is probably why he found himself standing in the Beacon Chamber.

"I am come to see Balor!" a hint of curiosity creeping into his posture, the Overlord turned to face the voice. It was feminine, and coming from down below at the Gates. Leaving his sword behind, he stepped out onto the balcony and looked down. She had addressed him with a...familiarity. Had he any female servants that hadn't died in the last war? None that he could recall, and none that could have survived so long. Athos was already marching towards the Gates, he was a Gate Keeper by nature. As he neared them, Balor stepped over the unrailed edge and gently descended the hundred feet to the ground below.

"Who comes before the Overlord?" Athos stated boldly, commanding the Black Paladins to open the gates with a swing of his hand. "State your name, and allegiance Sorceress."

"Calm, Athos, that is no way to welcome a new friend, is it?" he asked, his deep and hollow voice carrying throughout the courtyard. Athos bowed solemnly.

"Apologies, Master, for my rudeness. I beg forgiveness," Balor simply waved him away, and the Gate Keeper withdrew to continue managing his Black Forge. The Overlord, however, stopped in front of the sorceress, leaning forward slightly. Although he made no distinct sound, it almost seemed as if he was tasting the air...like a snake. Yes, it was exactly as he thought. Her darkness tasted of a rich, and familiar flavor. He could not place her name and face, but it was doubtless that she was old and powerful.

"We have...met before? Interesting, tell me your name creature of darkness," Balor was surprised, and pleased, that some of his oldest servants still remained. Whoever this was, she would prove a useful addition to his forces.

[Terintania]

Uninhabited Island
Leroy Talisman
As Leroy wandered the ship, getting used to it's layout, he suddenly got a strange feeling, like something was calling him to it. He didn't know what it was, but he decided that he was going to take his group, and find out. "Get this ship ready to sail. Pack it with supplies, weapons, and anything else we might need," He called to his men, climbing down off the ship. Some of the Rogues glanced at each other with a faint confusion, but said nothing.

Leroy made his way back to the camp, informing everyone that they were going somewhere, and that they were to help get the ship ready. A few hours later, they were ready to set off, and so they did. Leroy didn't even know where they were going, he was just following the strange feeling, and hoping it wasn't leading them in to a trap. Or to just wander the sea aimlessly.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Keep of Angels
Angethelon, King of Angels

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The snow storm thundering down of the Heavenly Citadel was without equal. Never before had such a hard rain of ice and hail come down in these parts of the mountains, which certainly had taken its fair beating, being so high up in the mountains. These hail stones were big as boulders, raining down like meteorites on the wall of the ancient mountain. It came from everywhere. The gusts of wind felt more like shield blows than wind, blowing up trees and big packs of ice, slamming them against the fortress that had stood there for so long. For the first time in millennia, a force powerful enough to do damage assaulted the fort, and it was almost enough, hadn’t it been for a… Guardian Angel.

Indeed, like his proud race had once towered over the battlefield, so did Angethelon tower over his castle. He had taken position up on the drum tower of his keep, the tower overlooking all of his fortress. From there, he took a view of what was to happen. Great stones and thunder rained from above, as if evil itself wanted to besiege it with all her might. Whatever was happening, whether this was natural or caused by some unknown, measures had to be taken. Angethelon looked up, seeing the wind twirl and twist the great blizzard about, in no particular pattern. Everything was chaos, destruction, imminent death. The Angel would have none of it.

With a single motion, he drew his Angelic sword from the sheathe, and pointed it skywards. There was no fear, anger or concentration on his face. Peace and quiet, relaxation, that was all there was. He even smiled a bit, as his hair fluttered about his face like banners of a standing army, ready for an assault. With his blade aimed at the sky, he spread his wings wide, as wide as he could, to maximise his surface area. Right then, a bolt of lightning struck his sword, lighting it up with a powerful, electrified glow. The strike only lasted two seconds, but that seemed enough. The Angel spread his arms wide, and started a display that had not been seen in many hundreds of generations. He started the Heaven’s Dance, a feat of magic not seen since the Last Battle, the battle of Imrathir. There, the lightning kept the hellish hounds at bay long enough for the Angels to keep up their defence. Here, it protected against the pure destruction from above.

Angethelon wielded his blade like a lightning whip. Whenever a great boulder fell down from the skies, he struck it from afar with his sword, causing a bolt of lightning to shoot from the blade and decimate the oncoming danger. With his other hand, the Last Angel diverted the snow and wind over and past the castle, as to spare any damage done to it. Nobody likes cleaning up, after all. For two hours, the Winged Angel struck every stone coming down, saving his fortifications from the terrible harm that could have been done by the blizzard. For two hours, the spread arms kept the evil from decimating his fortress. After those two hours, the clouds opened as soon as they had packed, revealing a glistening sun, bathing the white feathers in the most pure light imaginable.

“Witchcraft…”

These were probably the first human words Angethelon had spoken in a hundred years. It felt hard, this language had seeped from his mind like water evaporating from a pot left too long unattended. It was also a liberation. Dark magic and curses had befouled the speech of this heavenly being for so long that every speech that did not burn his tongue felt like a sip of fruit juice on a hot summer day, in the shadow of the clouds themselves, overlooking the world as it lay before your feet. The white peaks of the mountains ranging far over the horizon, marking the kingdom of Angels… Memories weighed heavy as steel.

With a single jump, Angethelon flew down to the bridge linking his citadel to a forward defence. These two towers were only connected by that bridge, which was easily destroyed by the most basic of arcane magic. It rested on the hard mountain floor with two pillars on every section, a formidable piece of architecture and planning. It looked stunningly beautiful, but there was a reason for the flimsy design. In the forward defence lay the Dark Library, all the books on black and grey magic that Angethelon had collected over the millennia. While the books on white magic lay secure in the keep itself, the Dark Magic was separated. Angethelon feared it, and wished it not to be in the same place as he resided. He walked over the bridge with firm paces, his wings curled up on his back, storing his sword back in the sheathe from whence it came. He dragged his hood over his head, a thing he always did before entering the Dark Place. It was more a traditional thing than an actual precaution. If the darkness had actually manifested itself into a demon of the ancient world, a hood would not protect his head against a fiery whip or a blazing sword.

As he entered, a sight that he could not have expected even if he had been told in advance filled the library. The books, formerly stashed into nice piles and ordered alphabetically, now flew about the room like birds in a flock. A parliament. A… You know, like sparrows. I have no clue what to call them in English, really. A ‘zwerm’ in Dutch. The from like clouds of… Never mind. I was speaking in dramatic monologue. A swarm! Of course. Now, they swarmed around the room like birds seeking an opening to escape. Once Angethelon opened the oaken doors, they charged at him, seeing the open door as a means to escape. Simple magic, indirect spell casting, not as potent as direct magic. Angethelon raised his hand in defiance, as of ordering the books to stop. It worked remarkably well, the books slowed down, stopped, and as soon as the Angel closed the door, they went about their business. One book, though, a heavy one which the Winged Angel recognised as the ‘Everything you would ever need to know about vampires and more, vol. 1’, could not stop in time. It just drifted lazily towards Angethelon, who accepted its arrival with a drawn sword, which he used to cut it in half. He never really liked the book to begin with. Too heavy, to assured of itself, to denigrating. He was older than the person who wrote this by the age of the mountains themselves. He had seen vampires come to be. No need to keep the book.

With the point of his sword, Angethelon opened up one half of the book, now laying silently and unmovably on the ground. A scary scene, had it not been for the sound of a thousand books fluttering about the room, some smaller examples having the ordacity to fly just about his head with their terrible buzzing sound. Ow, how he hated the buzzing… You could not get away from the insectoid sound even so high that normal mortals had trouble breathing. Once the book opened, he noticed that all the letters in the book had been replaced by others. There were no more moon references, no more wooden stakes and axes, no more mention of vampires. One word had replaced all others. One name. Balor, Balor, Balor, Balor, in all capitals, written in the book’s original fond. All the nice hand-drawn pictures had been replaced by the same sketch of the Dark Mask, terrifying in its suppleness. This provided enough proof for the Angel. He had returned, and with it, brought a great knowledge of the Dark Arts. Enough for him to know. He picked up one of the fastest books he could find, and threw it out of the library. As he expected, it took off like an arrow, towards the south-east. He spread his wings, and went into hot pursuit, the white feathers flowing like the snows of December.

The flight took a few days, of course. The distance to travel was huge, and not without adversaries. More than once, a hungry eagle descended on the guiding book, to which Angethelon had to answer with some minor curses, turning the eagle into a deliciously karmatic fish. Five times, he had counted so far. Luckily, the flight was almost at an end, after six days of non-stop flying. There, it came into sight, the possible destination. It seemed like it, because the book was beginning to act as a dive bomber, making its way straight towards it. It looked dark, of course, the typical lair for an evil mastermind of Balor’s grandeur and egocentrism. When the book smashed itself into shreds in the courtyard itself, burying a nice hole for the tears to lie in, the Angel was secure in the knowledge that that was indeed the place he needed to be. Fluttering his wings, he descended on one of the towers of the fortress. He spread his wings wide, and drew his sword, preparing for any hostility coming in his direction. With his white wings spread, he looked quite menacing, even though he had no idea what to expect now. There was only one thing left to say.

“Balor! Bane of all that is holy!”

Hoping he would be flattered…

[Bearon]

As Grey charged into the forest uncaring of all around him he slowed as he saw smoke rising in the distance. "Could this be the help I need to regain my son?" Grey thought to himself as he halted his horse and dismounted crossing stream in front of him and moving stealthily towards what he thought to be a campsite. As he neared the area where he had first seen the smoke rising he crouched down and hid behind a bush silently listening to the conversation taking place in the campsite before him. At first all Grey could hear were mutterings of words or words in a language that sounded strangely guttural though not unlike his own. As he settled into the bushes though eventually one of the figures which Grey guessed to be an orc began to speak in common the other orcs following suit.

"I haven't had a good hunk of man flesh in a while." One snarled loudly. Another grunted in agreement stirring the red and brown substance in his bowl in a forlorn manner. "I hear there's a town not a league from here that is overflowing with juicy morsels." As Grey heard the orcs converse his blood ran cold at the mention of them attack Harvak. His son was still there. What if they captured him during their raid. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts Grey went back to their conversation apparently they had changed the subject while he had been thinking of his son. " - plan to do about the cave?" One of the smaller orcs said. "The largest of the orcs lumbered over to the smaller one who was now trembling and dealt him a blow that sent him flying towards Grey the orc almost landing on him.

Scrambling back in fear of being caught spying on the orcs Grey tried to quietly move backwards so as not to alert the Orc that had been thrown but it turned out that the orc had been impaled on a branch and had died immediately afterward. The orcs continued on as if their had never been an interruption the larger one saying "We will ignore the cave for now, it has strong magic and one of the gods protects it." The large orc grimaced "I do not want to have to face Mauro or another god do you?" He demanded of the other orcs daring one of them to speak out. They all remained quiet before going back to their meal. Grey hearing of the cave and now knowing these orcs to be unfriendly to any humans endeavored to search for the cave and hopefully gain the power to save his son.

Scrambling from his position Grey began to make his way around the campsite to search for the cave. It didn't take him long to see that the orcs were camped in a large valley with a stream coming down from the mountains which fed the forest around them. Making his way towards the mountains Grey spotted the cave and in his excitement was less careful as he began making his way over to it. As he neared the cave Grey stepped on a particularly loud twig which caused one of the orcs on guard to tilt his head in Grey's directions before sniffing the air. Grey froze hoping the orc would pass it off as an animal but the orc continued to sniff before letting out a triumphant orcish yell which summoned his brethren. "What's all this racket about?" The largest one growled menacingly.

"Do you smell that?" The orc yelled triumphantly his features still frozen in an malicious grin. The larger one stopped and sniffed the air before smiling himself and growling "Manflesh. You've done well, after I take my fill tonight you will eat second." Turning to the other orcs he said "Well? Find him!" The orcs began dispersing several heading in John's direction. With a cry of terror Grey began sprinting towards the cave hoping he would find something in it to help him escape the orcs. "There!" An orc pointed at Grey's retreating form before beginning to chase after him the others following in his wake. Grey barely made it into the cave as the orcs slowed to a halt clearly reluctant to enter the cave. As the rest of the orcs gathered around the cave Grey made his way further into the cave.

The largest of the orcs came to the forefront staring long and hard at the cave with the delectable man flesh hiding inside. "Well!" He barked out "What are you waiting for? Follow him!" Kicking one of the smaller orcs and forcing him to enter the cave the chieftain awaited his return. Reluctantly the small orc delved deeper into the cave sniffing out the human that had fled into the cave. As he rounded a corner a large fist slammed into his face knocking him back and before he knew it a heavy weight was pressing down on him keeping him from moving. The orc managed to cry out once before being silenced by a sharp rock which crushed his brain and killed him instantly. Grey standing up and panting heavily from exertion dropped the bloody rock before picking up the orc sword and turning.

After a while the orc chieftain grew grew tired of waiting and said "Draw your swords and be wary." As he entered the cave his fellow orcs followed cautiously behind. The orc chieftain stopped as he came to the entrance of a large hallway. "You!" the orc chieftain said pointing at a random orc "Go into this room." A mid sized orc looked warily at the chieftain before edging his way cautiously into the room. As he stepped into the room and passed over a trip wire a large pile of rocks descended on the orc burying it under a pile of rubble. The chieftain looked on passively chuckling to himself. "Smart human." He muttered. Stepping over the rocks confident that the human had only had time to prepare the one trap the chieftain gestured at his horde to follow along which they did warily.

Grey in the meantime had made his way into a multi-surfaced room with many different tunnels leading into it. Looking around in awe at the shining crystals that glittered above his head Grey brought himself back to the present and the severity of his situation. As Grey settled his eyes on a corner in the back of the room a glimmering light drew his eye and beckoned him to forget his worries and come to it. Holding on tightly to his sword Grey slowly approached the glimmering object, as he drew nearer Grey could make out the object and saw that it was a sparkling black jewel with a black casing of metal similar to the ones that had made up the sword and armor he had crafted all held together by a black string. As he drew near enough to touch it he paused suddenly wary.

As he gazed at the black amulet he thought to himself "What is this thing and why was it been hidden in the corner of an abandoned cave in the Black Lands." Gripping his sword more tightly Grey froze as another thought came to him. "More importantly what can this thing do that made the orcs so afraid. Hesitating over the amulet as it called out to him nudging his soul to reach out and take it Grey's fate was sealed as he heard the voices of orcs getting closer. Reaching out for the amulet his mind was torn asunder as he grasped it and put it around his neck. Writhing in agony as the amulets power overloaded his system Grey could only scream as darkness rolled over him consuming his very being and melding with the man named John Grey to create something completely different.

The orcs entered the multi-surfaced room quickly as they heard the screams of the man they had been tacking. Fanning out the orcs watched as the man wept tears of black fire and the entire area around him was undulating with shadows "What is he?" The chieftain thought to himself fearfully. One of the orcs who had panicked at the terrifying spectacle before him began to run towards the exit only to be sliced in half as the exits to all the tunnel openings were closed abruptly sealing their way out. Trembling in fear the chieftain cried out "Attack!" As his fellows ran toward the figure cloaked in shadows and flame. Still screaming in agony Grey let out one last terrified note before exploding in a shower of fire that killed all of the orcs surrounding him.

The orc chieftain was frozen in fear unable to move or avert his gaze as he watched the man and his fellow orcs explode into showers of blood and flame. When it was over nothing was left but the assorted body parts of his servants and the charred corpse of the man once known as John Grey. The orc chieftain's body was unfrozen at last as if it had been released from some spell and the first thing he did was scream a long echoing cry of pure fear before turning and running out of the cave in terror. Once he had reached the exit of the cave the orcs he had left to guard the campsite greeted him and asked what was wrong. The chieftain could do nothing but tremble and babble about a man with black flames before trailing off into incoherent mutterings and so he remained for the rest of his days.