Zonorhc

CHAPTER THREE: Blades and the Blood War The six barbazu advanced. Thaniel's longsword flickered out of its scabbard, and he stood ready to defend against the bearded devils' saw-toothed glaives. The diffuse glow that served as Acheron's natural lighting was beginning to darken. Vriskath readied himself to swiftly draw his blade with a technique known as iaijutsu, and was dimly aware of the perspiration gathering on the elf's brow. It was undoubtedly his first time in this sort of combat. "Don't worry," whispered Vriskath. "I cannot help but do just that," the elf replied, his blade steady. "We are outnumbered three to one." "I've had worse. Just try not to be hit. Wounds from these devils bleed fer days on end." The nearest barbazu leapt forward with his glaive. Thaniel stepped to the side, and Vriskath easily avoided the lunge. Within the devil's reach already, he took one step closer and his blade flashed out of its scabbard before slipping in again. Vriskath stood between the two halves of the barbazu's corpse, ready once again. The others glanced at each other for a moment. Three barbazu winked out of sight with a small shimmer of light and a faint buzz of sound. The remaining two advanced. "Watch yer back, elf!" called Vriskath. The sound of steel clashing against steel was heard almost instantly, as the three barbazu who had teleported began their attacks on Thaniel. Vriskath found himself swiftly beset upon by the two who remained to fight him, and he stepped nimbly between them, his katana slipping out of its sheath like water and flying for the barbazu to his right. The devil brought its weapon up in time to defend against the deadly attack, and steel rang out against steel once more in the dry air of Avalas. Vriskath felt shock run up his arm as his blade struck the glaive's steel shaft, but he followed through nonetheless. The barbazu leapt back with a bloody gash in its left arm and its weapon split asunder. Vriskath ducked low as he felt the air behind him rush, and he barely avoided the other barbazu's glaive blade. He lashed out with his blade in one hand at the devil as he recovered from the swing, and his katana met infernal flesh, carving a canyon of steaming red meat in the baatezu's side. He spun round again, and struck a two-handed, overhead blow on the first barbazu, who dodged to the side quickly to avoid having his head split open, though he rolled away from the attack with the bloody mess of his left arm several feet away. Vriskath again spun, and this time delivered an upward diagonal strike to the other devil, who nimbly dodged the attack despite his bubbling injury. He did not, however, dodge well enough as Vriskath stepped forward again and with a spinning motion brought his blade up to bring it down upon the devil's head, cleaving through bone and gray matter and causing a significant eruption of blood from the destroyed cranium. He turned again to face the one-armed devil, and sheathed his blade. The barbazu flashed for a moment and would have teleported if not for Vriskath's speed - the tiefling took two quick steps and drew, his katana sliding with ease out of its sheathe once again, tearing through flesh and drawing a stream of caustic blood to splash upon the dust of the cube. He glanced over to Thaniel, and saw that the elf was still dealing with two barbazu. One lay in the dirt against the wall of a ruined house, a gaping hole in its stomach. Vriskath rushed forward, blade still drawn, held backhanded and parallel to the ground. He focused all his energy on his speed, and everything around him blurred as he darted past the combatants, feeling his blade bite into flesh twice. He halted and turned to find only one barbazu lying in blood-soaked mud, and Thaniel crouched against a wall, clutching his side. The other baatezu had escaped. "Let me see that wound," he said as he approached the elf. Thaniel drew his hand back and revealed an oozing wound, shallow but serious enough to be a danger considering the barbazu taint. "Ye'll be bleedin' fer a while. We better kip up here in one o' the houses." "It should not bleed this much." "Lots o' things shouldn't be. Count yerself lucky ye weren't taken in to serve in th' Blood War." "Blood War? Is that what I can hear in the distance?" "A lot o' sods wish it were, believe me. What ye're hearin' is only the fightin' that happens every day here in Acheron. Every cube ye see in this sky is covered by warrin' armies. Th' Blood War is more than that, it's bigger than any war ye'll ever see in yer life. Baatezu and tanar'ri are killin' each other fer the sake of their beliefs that theirs is th' one an' only evil. Th' baatezu reckon that their plots an' politics and discipline are th' true essence o' evil, and th' tanar'ri reckon that their chaos an' selfishness is th' real stuff. Battles o' the fiends cover Avernus, th' first layer of Baator's nine, all four layers o' Gehenna, all three o' the Gray Waste, Orthrys, first layer o' Carceri's six, an' the Plane o' Infinite Portals, first o' the Abyss' infinite number." "What about the good planes? Why do they not stop the war?" "Th' war's th' only thing keepin' th' fiends from stormin' the Upper Planes. If th' celestials interfere, th' fiends'll stop killin' each other fer a moment and kill th' celesials instead. "'Course, ye can't really stop a war on this kind o' scale, though chant goes that th' General o' Gehenna - he's one o' th' yugoloths, th' true evil fiends - in th' Crawling City is th' one who controls th' Blood War fer his own reasons, though the baatezu and tanar'ri hate each other enough not to notice him. Hell, they use th' yugoloths as mercenaries, though th' 'loths are as likely to turn stag and change their colours as not." Thaniel sat in a corner of the half-roofed house they entered, holding a torn piece of cloth to his side. "Did you ever fight in the war?" "Aye, aye I did. Th' fiends take mercenaries o' all sorts, and they pay good jink. Not that it matters, 'cause th' sods who sign up usually end up dyin' and havin' their souls bound to th' fiends they served anyway. The baatezu take it even further than th' tanar'ri, and arrange their contracts to take yer soul before ye even die. Me, I fought with th' yugoloths. Ye can't trust any one o' them, but they ain't interested in yer soul unless they want to sell it to one o' the other fiends. Here's some advice - if ye find yerself being signed up or forced into fightin' in th' Blood War, make yerself scarce real quick-like. Ye might not like what ye'll be doin' fer the rest o' eternity otherwise." "I thank you for the advice. I think I should rest." "Ye should. I'll keep an eye out fer any cubes that come headin' fer us." The elf fell asleep almost immediately, his blood loss fatiguing him greatly. The bleeding had slowed down, though Vriskath knew that with such a wound, it would likely bleed for another day. He stepped out of the ruined, dust-choked house and sat on the worn, dust-choked stones outside. Looking up into the infinity of crashing cubes and listening to the infinity of clashing steel, he sighed. Everywhere in the multiverse, there was some kind of conflict, and in every conflict, there is some sort of war. War never changes.

In any case, your motive for making sigs should NOT be money. That, I feel, cheapens the entire exercise (pardon the pun). You should make art, even in sig form, for the sake of improving yourself and art itself, rather than degrading it to something as base as money - and virtual money, at that.

I remember that sig! It's awesome.

If that seems to be your solution to all your problems, I pity you. I sincerely do. As has been said before, your threads have been locked for a reason. Keep re-posting them and making worthless excuses for threats and I'll be sure to be able to place your age to within a year, judging by your apparent ability, or lack thereof, to process information given to you and show your maturity.

This is an international forum, hence is not covered by the Bill of Rights. Don't like it? Leave.

Here where there is authority, free speech is a privilege, not a right. Don't push it.

Get over it. I rated your damned sig like you wanted. Fight me, please? IQ above room temperature.

I'd love to, but you see, some people prefer to resolve their problems with words and the occasional scathing insult so that the, ah... Less intellectually-blessed can be goaded into acting more like the idiots that they usually are. To avoid the spam, though ratings are usually just that - I'll give it 8/10.

Fix your attitude. If you're going to complain and beg twice for ratings on someone else's work, at least try not to do it while typing like a thrice-damned eight-year-old.

The water's there, it's just really dark. You can see it close to the shore, but you will have to look closely. I think the light reflections near the bottom right corner give it away as well. Anyway, I quite like the dark look to the water.

I'm still trying to improve on surface maps, but I thought this came out nicely, so I touched it up a little... Constructive criticism is welcome.

I'm beginning to be irritated with all the rubbish pixel art that spits in the face of realism. I understand that realism may not be a key concept in a fantasy setting, but if you're going to depict a weapon being used, you had damn well better get it right, or close enough to right that it doesn't stick out like a sore thumb. Tips for any aspiring artists who want to depict bows in use: If the user is right-handed, the bow will be held in their left hand, with the string drawn by the right. Don't trust Runescape on this one. If the bow is a shortbow, that doesn't mean that it can't be bigger than your index finger. You've got four feet of bow to work with. Use it. If the bow is drawn, show more of a curve in the wood. If the string is drawn back so far that it would be loose when idle, there's a problem. Draw length is proportional to bow size. Arrows aren't dart-sized. Arrows are two feet long. This means that they are longer than your forearm. Arrowheads aren't massive triangles. Standard arrowheads are designed to pierce, not bludgeon. My two cents. I won't comment on the actual technique, since I'm not much of a pixel artist myself. Just offering tips for realism.

CHAPTER TWO: Doorways Two hours since leaving the Styx Oarsman, Vriskath had arrived at the Great Bazaar in the market ward, halfway around the city from the Oarsman. The bazaar was abuzz with activity, with merchants of all races hollering to advertise their wares or expose thieves with equal frequency. It was on the other side of this tangle of drab stalls lined with everything from weapons to soul gems that the portal he would take to Avalas lay, a battered doorway leading into a long-collapsed building. The smog was significantly lighter here than in the lower and hive wards, though it was still enough to make many people cough and gasp as the corrosive gas entered their lungs. The stench mingled with the various aromas of the market as well, the many scents of select parts of the anatomies of myriad creatures in varying stages of decay, the sulfuric scent of fiends, the sweet scent of celestials, oily odours of rogue modrons, and others running the gamut from grilled rat meat to the finest Arborean wine. Vriskath strolled casually through the press of merchants and their customers, one hand always on the hilt of his katana. Once or thrice he had to shove his way through a stubborn group, earning him snarls, vituperous curses, or mere stares of disapproval. He had barely made it to the other side when a brilliant light flashed to his left, a blaze of rainbow hues ripping through the gloomy Sigillian air. A stallfront had erupted with opaque light, its owner cursing vehemently at himself for providing a bounded space for one of Sigil's many portals to inhabit. Vriskath stood in mute amusement as a tall elf - that is, barely reaching his shoulder at a height of abour four feet and ten inches - stumbled through the portal, an arrow nocked in his longbow and a sheathed longsword at his side, clothed in simple green clothing with a set of brown-dyed leather armour and a green cloak covering the entire affair. The hood was down, however, and his near-white hair flowed back from his determined face even as it dawned on him that he had suddenly been swept from wherever he had been moments before. He stood in place and lowered his bow, his eyes following the vista of the city stretching ahead and above and around. His knees buckled, and he collapsed with a fit of coughing as the smog found its way into his nostrils. Vriskath could only feel pity for the elf, as he was clearly one of the clueless - first-time visitors to the planes beyond their material worlds. It was rare to find a clueless who would not collapse the first time he gazed upon the ring of Sigil, and it was not uncommon for many of them to hurl themselves at many of the fiends in the city in order to slay them, only to be torn viciously apart in the process. Laughter rang from several onlookers as the elf struggled to his feet, trying to keep his eyes from following the ring again. Vriskath extended a hand and helped him up. "Calm down," he said. The elf looked at him for a moment, from his jackal ears to his yellow eyes and to his fangs. "I am calm. Where am I?" "Ye're in Sigil, City of Doors. That's Sigil, not Sijil, so ye better not get it wrong." "I have not heard of this city. How would I return to Ashbrook?" Vriskath laughed dryly as he escorted the elf out of the bazaar. "Ye can spend th' rest o' yer life lookin' fer the portal back, or ye can square yer shoulders and make do with what ye've got out here on the planes." The elf was silent. "It ain't so bad once ye get used to it. All ye need is a bit o' jink to get ye started. I'd let ye stay in my kip, but I'm headin' out fer a little job. Ye can come along if ye'd like, an' I'll teach ye about the planes as we go along." The elf nodded, shouldering his bow. "I would appreciate that," he said, extending his hand. "I am Thaniel Silverleaf." Vriskath narrowed his eyes. "Th' first thing I'll teach ye is that ye never give yer full name to anyone. Names give people power over ye, and ye don't want that," he said as he took the elf's hand. "That said, I'm Vriskath. Welcome to Sigil." He led the elf to the doorway that housed his portal, and produced the rusty piece of iron that Ulmshans had given him. The air within the doorway buzzed and turned an opaque, shimmering brown and black, and the sounds of steel ringing on steel could be heard beyond. The elf was amazed. "What is this?" he asked, gesturing towards the portal with a slim hand. "This is a portal. Any bounded space, and I mean any, in Sigil is likely to be one. Ye can be reachin' through a window or steppin' through a door, or even just steppin' onto th' wrong flagstone, and ye could be hurled through a portal. Now, don't look so scared. Portals need keys, but th' trouble is findin' the right one. Keys can be anything - a whistled tune, a thought, or some berk carryin' a table ten feet away from th' portal. Sigil's ridden with th' damned things, like holes in its reality. "Ye can usually get an idea o' where a portal leads by th' colour or the sound, or even th' smell. This one here leads us to Acheron, the plane o' strife. Now, there's one thing ye may like to know about the planes, and it's that they have their own personalities. Almost every berk native to a plane will share the same ideology as th' place. 'Course, that's what happens when ye die and ye're reborn to th' plane that fits yer beliefs th' most. Th' hard-workin, good sort end up in Bytopia, and th' traitors and liars end up in Carceri. "There's seventeen o' the outer planes fer ye to deal with, but I won't name 'em now. I'll just tell ye now that Acheron is a plane on th' lawful side o' the Great Ring, an' it's also dippin' a little on th' evil side. Ye'll find cruel discipline an' enforced conformity in there. Any questions?" Thaniel shook his head, maintaining a calm composure. "Ye'll want to stick with me. I've a job to pen some sod in th' dead-book, and we'll do better if we worked t'gether. 'Sides, ye need me if ye want to give the plane the laugh later." "I do not understand some of these terms," said Thaniel. Vriskath shrugged. "Ye'll learn fast enough. Pennin' someone in th' dead-book pretty much means killin' 'em. Th' sayin's taken from th' fact that the Dustmen - that's a faction in Sigil, I'll tell ye more 'bout 'em later - keep a record on every sod who dies anywhere in th' multiverse. I've no idea how they do it, but they do it. Givin' a place th' laugh means that ye get out of it without losin' anything." "I understand. I will have to spend some more time here to learn everything." Vriskath laughed as he moved for the portal. "There's another thing ye might want to learn quickly. Not everythin' has an answer to it, and not everythin' that does have an answer would like ye to find that answer. Some darks're best left untouched, and berks've died from findin' out things they shouldn't. Out here, knowledge really is power, an' that's a dangerous thing. "Follow me closely, now," he said as he stepped through the curtain of light. Thaniel entered a step after. A moment later, they emerged onto a blasted landscape, in the ruins of what would have once been a village. The sounds of metal clashing upon metal rang through the air, and the gloomy infinity of the sky above held a vast amount of cubes gliding through the infinity to crash upon each other. "There is a battle," observed Thaniel. "There is always a battle," said a sharp, gravelly voice from behind, followed by a laugh. They turned to find a group of fiends, all humanoid with lizard-like tails and snaky, living beards, and all bearing saw-toothed glaives. "Barbazu," whispered Vriskath. "Baatezu devils. We fight."

It looks like a quill with a solid red feather. If you wanted to make a scimitar, at least make it look like a weapon.

CHAPTER ONE: The Styx Oarsman The gloomy interior of the Styx Oarsman was lit by a single feeble candle, more for the benefit of mortals who lacked darkvision than for the comfort of the tanar'ri clientele. Hushed, demonic voices rumbled through the establishment as the tanar'ri and tieflings present made their casual dealings and light banter. The few yugoloths who were inside were silent, content to speak through their minds. Several tables were scattered about the room, with several tanar'ri and yugoloths of mixed varieties drinking and dining. The walls bore several large splashes of dried blood, and several sections had been damaged as though struck by heavy metal objects. At one end of the tavern was the bar, where the proprietor, a melancholy old githzerai by the name of Zegonz Vlaric worked the taps and shouted food orders to Comstock, the vaporighu who worked in the kitchen. Zegonz's demented pet, a quasit named Jinhxep, hovered about the bar, a wicked sneer on his vicious little tanar'ri face. The man who had entered searched the room for any other familiar faces among the fiends. The Skiff Table, a large, overturned marraenoloth's boat and what served as the dealing table in the Oarsman was strangely bare, with none of the usual highly-ranked fiends discussing whatever it is they discuss over it. He felt a three-fingered hand take his shoulder. Xaedo, the yugoloth deserter who was one of the two fiends in charge of internal security gave him what passed as a smile on his insectoid face. His two left arms bore his ever-present Oinean steel glaive. "Have-not-seen-you-in-a-while," he said through clicking mandibles, his multifaceted eyes apparently focused on the newcomer. "Where-have-you-been-Vriskath?" "Business, Xaedo," said Vriskath, absently scratching at one ear as the mezzoloth drew back his arm and stood at habitual attention. "Where are they?" he asked, gesturing with his head toward the Skiff. "Will-come-later. When-did-you-return-to-Cage?" "An hour ago. Listen, Xaedo, I'm here fer business." "Would-not-make-much-sense-if-come-here-for-anything-else. What-you-need?" "Jink. Fast." Xaedo's mandibles clicked faster, and a flicker went through his large, bulbous eyes. His antennae twitched a little. "Ulmshans-is-downstairs." "An' why're ye twitchin' so much?" inquired Vriskath off-handedly, noting Xaedo's sudden tension. "Ulmshans-chaos-tainted." "So what?" "He-not-pure. He-also-speak-with-law-tainted-one." Vriskath raised an eyebrow at that. Only one baatezu was tolerated within the Oarsman. "Asperchius the Turncoat? What's he doin' talkin' to Ulmshans?" "Baatezu-is-strange-one. Ask-him. I-will-not." "Ye have ta stop with yer -" Yugoloth elitism? came the mezzoloth's voice in his mind like a lance. "Aye. That." Vriskath's voice dropped to a whisper, and he asked, "Why'd ye stop me from sayin' it?" The one over there, by the two vrocks. Arcanoloth. Been watching you. Say nothing to offend her. She can do nothing to me, but you are different matter. Aloud, Xaedo said, "Ulmshans-downstairs. Ask-the-githzerai." "I'll do that," said Vriskath, heading for the bar. "Watch the Spire, basher." "Watch-Spire-cutter," said the mezzoloth as he began to survey the room once more. Vriskath made his way past a table with two tieflings conversing with a dog-headed, four-armed glabrezu, and another with a pair of skeletal marraenoloths away from their stations on the River Styx, conversing with one another through glowing red eyes in otherwise empty sockets. As he reached the bar, Zegonz looked up, and Jinhxep cackled, spitting a glob of acidic saliva past his head. "Vriskath," said the githzerai with a small nod. "Ye never were one fer th' formal greetin's o' the other 'zerai," observed Vriskath dryly. "What's the point?" Zegonz asked rhetorically with downcast black eyes. "I need ta rattle me bone-box a little with Ulmshans. Business." Zegonz shrugged. "Whatever," he said as he allowed Vriskath behind the bar and opened a door. "I don't see the point in this." "It's because ye're a Bleaker," said Vriskath as he stepped onto the landing just beyond the door. "Lighten up a little," he added as he descended, and Zegonz closed the door. The hot and humid air of the tavern proper gave way to the far colder air of Sigil's underground as he descended, shivering, past smooth, dessicated walls and into a small meeting room behind a heavy wooden door at the bottom. At the table in the middle of the otherwise bare room were Ulmshans, a tall, slim, bat-winged nabassu, and Asperchius, the barbazu deserter. Aspercius' snaky, living beard - the hallmark of his particular species - writhed as he turned to look at Vriskath. His saw-toothed glaive stood in one corner of the room, and his tail tensed slightly. Ulmshans smirked. "A pretty little rule of three we have here," he said in his deep, Abyssal voice. "We have a tanar'ri, a baatezu and a yugoloth-spawn. Wonderful. Where have you been, Vriskath, and why are you here now?" Asperchius stepped back from the table and leaned on the wall, glaring at Vriskath. "I need jink, Ulmshans. I want the highest-payin' contract ye've got." Asperchius grinned. "Very brave," he sneered in his sharp, gravelly voice. Ulmshans' smirk widened. "I've a job for anyone who wants to help some poor sods in Acheron. You up for that, loth'ling?" "'Slong as it ain't in Ocanthus, I wouldn't mind Acheron." A lawful plane of eternal war and harshly enforced order, Acheron was far from the worst on the planes for Mercenaries. Vriskath could not stand its fourth layer, Ocanthus, however, with its freezing temperatures and whirling storms of blade-like shards of black ice. "Avalas," said Ulmshans. Avalas was the first layer, an infinity of gargantuan cubes constantly colliding with each other as armies clashed on their surfaces. Armies could be crushed by colisions, though with the rigid discipline enforced across the plane by each army's generals, such minor setbacks could not halt the conflict. "Done," said Vriskath. "Tell me what to do, where to go, and how to get there." *** Vriskath emerged from the stairwell behind the bar several minutes later, holding a rusted piece of iron, the key to the portal which he would have to take to reach his destination. His contract was simple - search and destroy. Nothing more, nothing less. The tavern however, was abuzz with low-pitched laughter and the occasional hurled insult, for a golden-haired human in shining armour had taken to the Skiff Table, and was speaking, his sword held high. "... and so, I, Tharantus, Paladin and Defender of All That is Good and Just, shall smite all ye fiends and cleanse this tavern - nay, this city - of the evil which is spawned in abominations such as you!" More laughter rumbled through the tavern. Zegonz said to Vriskath, "I don't see what his point is. Not that there is a point to anything, anyway. I guess, on the bright side, the fiends'll have a paladin to eat. They haven't had any for three weeks." Vriskath sighed in disgust and made his way through the now-standing fiends to approach the would-be smiter, who had yet to finish voicing his disapproval and imminent retribution against evil. Picking up a half-full tankard of curdled aasimar blood from its sneering owner, he hurled it with all his might at the paladin, who promptly fell from his perch atop the table and stood up, spluttering as he tried to wipe the blood from his polished armour. "Who dares throw such an impure and fiendish concoction upon this servant of all that is holy?" he bellowed. Vriskath stepped forward from the crowd. "I did. What're ye gonna to about it, berk?" "I shall smite -" "No, ye won't. In case yer little quest for justice an' all has taken yer eyes, ye'd like ta notice that ye're in a tavern full o' bubbed fiends. Now, ye won't be smitin' any evil when ye're in the dead-book, so would ye like ta stop causin' trouble and pike off?" A rumble of laughter, as well as calls of "But I'm still hungry," and "Pen the sod," echoed through the room as the paladin attempted to regain his composure. "How dare you speak to me in such an uncouth manner? Do you realise who I am?" "Aye, ye're just another arrogant meal - I mean, paladin - who waltzed into th' Styx Oarsman wantin' ta cleanse it, or whatever yer lot do. I'd stop rattlin' me bone-box if I were you, berk, 'cos as I've said before and I'll say again, ye're in a tavern full o' fiends. I'd pike it real quick-like if ye don't want to be the next snack fer these bashers. Ye've got 'till th' count o' three before I stop rattlin me own bone-box and jus' walk away like ye weren't here." "I will not be ordered about by some fiend-spawned abomination! You shall feel my righteous fury!" Vriskath said nothing, but turned around and made for the door through the crowd as the fiends closed in on the paladin, who was still voicing his righteousness until the tanar'ri began to tear him apart with their bare hands. Vriskath had just reached the door when the paladin's still-armoured torso, sans arms and legs but still bearing the head, struck the wall three feet from him at such a speed that the stones cracked and blood was splashed in all directions. The last sound he heard as he left the Styx Oarsman was the laughter of Tanar'ri. The yugoloths remained silent.

Marcus swore. Six archers against Aming and himself, and he was injured. Think fast. Talk fast. "What in the hells are you waiting for?" Marcus shouted at the archers. "Can't you see that this woman's about to finish me off?" The two archers in the front rank glanced at each other, obviously confused as to what to do. Aming gave him a shocked look, but composed herself quickly and played along. "Take her to the dungeon, you bumbling idiots! I'll deal with her later." One archer motioned with his bow for Aming to follow them, and she complied without a word. Marcus limped behind, though the wound was fairly shallow. The archers set a slow pace to accomodate his exaggerated leg injury, and he quickly assessed each one of them from what was said in small talk. He leaned close to the archer on his right, whom he had taken to be one of the unquestioningly obedient, gullible type. "Don't say a word, but I have good reason to believe that that one," he pointed to one of the more intelligent archers in the group, "is a Misthalin spy." The archer's eyes widened. "What should I do, sir?" "Do you need to ask me about what to do with a spy?" hissed Marcus. "Well, sir, you did tell us to throw the woman into the dungeon." "I want to torture that one. Spies aren't worth torture, and you know that." "I guess," said the archer with a shrug, nocking an arrow onto his bowstring and sighting down the shaft at the archer Marcus had indicated. With a moment of hesitation, he let fly, the arrow striking true and punching into the back of the other's neck, sending him to the ground in a rapidly growing pool of blood. All the other archers spund around, bows levelled with arrows nocked at the offender. The archer stammered, "He was a-" "This man is a traitor!" shouted Marcus, pointing to the archer and interrupting him. "Kill him!" The other archers let fly, and the one Marcus had spoken to stumbled back and fell, four arrows protruding from his chest. The nearest of the remaining four archers barely had time to utter a cry as Marcus quickly drew a dagger and plunged it into his stomach as soon as he had loosed his arrow. The other three confusedly dropped their weapons and drew their own blades, having seen the bloody dagger in Marcus' hand. Aming smiled as she materialised her sword, and Marcus flipped the dagger to his left hand to draw his rapier with his right. "What is this?" demanded one of the archers. "It's called a deception, you gibbering idiot," replied Marcus, suddenly lunging forward with dexterity belied by his earlier show of limping. The archer parried the rapier just enough to avoid having it lodged in his throat, and jumped back as Marcus followed through, spinning and slashing downward with the dagger. The archer took the offensive, ineptly hacking sideways with his shortsword, and Marcus responded by pinning the blade with his dagger and rapping the man in the face with the pommel of his rapier, sending him backwards with a bloody nose. Aming had taken the offensive as well, and had engaged the other two, ducking and weaving about to avoid being flanked. Marcus swiftly dispatched his stunned opponent and turned to help Aming, only to find that one of her opponents had disengaged her and was already swinging his blade at him. He ducked mere inches under the sword to avoid decapitation, and tumbled backward and onto his feet, ready for his opponent's next move. The archer feinted right and left before striking down the middle, but Marcus easily saw through the poorly-executed attack. He caught the blade between his rapier and the fort̮̩̉̉ of his dagger, twisting hard and wrenching it out of his opponent's grip. The man fumbled to catch his blade as it flew out of his hand, and collapsed gurgling to the ground as Marcus' sword point found its way into his larynx. Aming finished off her own opponent, and they headed for the front doors. The entry chamber was heavily fortified when they arrived, the black knights having barred the doors and set up in defensive positions. From their position in the dark corridor, they assessed the situation. "I can destroy the bar," whispered Aming, "but I don't see how we can take on all those men. I won't have enough energy left to cast any more spells." "I mark fourteen men there, possibly more," said Marcus. "Destroy the barricades and I'll try to find a way to get us both out of here." Aming nodded and intoned a spell, and the heavy wooden beam exploded with a burst of high-pitched sound. "Go, Kiran." Marcus darted in, silently killing two of the men in the rear of the chamber as the others were stunned and slightly deafened by the residual noise of the shattering spell. The other knights recovered quickly and saw the threat, and closed in on Marcus, who stood by one of the tall columns in the chamber. They had not appeared to have noticed Aming. He was suddenly parrying and dodging attacks with great speed as the black knights surrounded him, and he barely had time to notice Aming slipping past the m̮̻̉̉l̮̩̉̉e and pusing the doors slightly open. He tumbled out of the press of enemies, but found himself on the opposite side of the knights rather than where he had intended to be. Cursing, he retreated back to the corner of the room as they closed in once more. His boot struck wood as he neared the wall, and he was suddenly aware of a wholly unpleasant odour in his nose. He struggled for a moment to place the scent as the knights closed the distance and Aming watched from the doorway, appearing exhausted beyond spellcasting ability. The horror of realising what it was he could smell suddenly dawned on him. Naptha. Barrels upon barrels of the incredibly flammable liquid lining the walls. You won't be able to escape, anyway. Might as well take the rest of this place down with you. Plunging his dagger into the lid of the nearest barrel and releasing an invisible cloud of flammable vapours, he shouted, "Aming, get out of here as fast as you can! Don't worry about me - Go!" She nodded and complied, dashing out of the doors as several black knights glanced toward where she had been. The others were nearly upon Marcus, almost seeming to enjoy their slow, mocking pace as they closed on their outnumbered opponent. Marcus grinned manically even as his heart beat faster and his breathing became shallow from the fumes. With a finally wink at his opponents, he spun around quickly and struck his rapier across the dagger with all his might, sending sparks flying as he laughed carelessly. One spark. Two. The air was suddenly a rapidly wavering shimmer of oranges and reds, and the sudden eruption of flames stunned the black knights. For a brief moment which seemed to last forever, frozen in time, nothing happened - then the tongues of burning air licked at the barrels, and the entire chamber erupted in a violent roar of flames and flying splinters mingled with the horrified shouts of men being roasted alive in their armour. The doors, the walls, the ceiling - all burst outward from the sudden pressure of the consuming flames inside the chamber, and the noise became unbearable to those outside. Soon, the heat washed over onlookers as well, though not as intensely as it had in the chamber. Above all the cacophony was the manic laughter of one man.

Adobe Photoshop 7, Terragen, World Machine, a pencil and some paper.

Thanks for the comments. I quite liked the flare myself. :? I felt that the blur was needed, since I don't like how Terragen makes the terrain edges incredibly hard against the atmosphere. To TrippDrop: I'm not quite sure about how you could back up what you say. I've never used Bryce myself, but I could just take your attitude and say that anyone can create a landscape with it. That said, I won't take your attitude, but I'd just like to say that you should form some sort of basis for your, ah... educated opinions. Personally, I think that every post you make with regard to Terragen makes you sound like an overly opinionated, self-indulgent fool.

Eep, fixed the link.

I made this recently, and I'm using it as my desktop background now. I still think I could use some constructive criticism, though. I know the surface map has been improving since the first time I started working with Terragen - in retrospect, those were absolutely horrible. I could still use some more tips for surface maps and such, though. >EDIT: Gah, fixed the link.

PROLOGUE: Homecoming An empty alcove. Seven feet high, three feet wide and two feet deep, with an exotic design carved above it. A serene female mask crowned with blades, obsidians set into the eye sockets. A bounded space. A portal. The obsidian eyes of the carved face flickered with black light for a moment, and the hazy air within the alcove shimmered with an iridescent glow, gradually increasing in opacity until the space was filled with a scintillating curtain of colours. A brief moment passed, and a grey-robed figure stepped through, a small chest tucked under his left arm. A sheathed blade - a katana - was slung over his back. Long, dark hair partly covered a pair of jackal ears and framed an angular face set with mustard-yellow eyes and a mouth set in a slight smile, showing fanged teeth. The man held the spot for a moment, taking in the sight around him. Buildings all around, all sharing the same imposing, bladed architecture and dressed in razor-edged vines. The towering chimneys of a great foundry rising above much of the ward and belching smoke into the infinity of what passed as the sky. The streets stretching far ahead and above, arching high overhead through the rest of the city before continuing its great circle. Dim light illuminating the hazy surroundings through the entire ring. Small, twinkling flickers of light far above from the other side of the city. It was home. Sigil, City of Doors. A low buzzing sound from behind him heralded the closing of the portal he had stepped through. Shouts both mortal and immortal echoed through the streets, all sounds of mirth, anger, sorrow or death. He navigated his way through a tangle of streets to reach his home, ignoring and being ignored by the denizens of the ward. An uncaring place to those who had nothing to offer to the filthy beggars and petty thugs of the streets, and a dangerous place for those who did. His abode was a small, razorvine-covered house wedged between two others of similar appearance, though having the obvious signs of a prolonged lack of occupants. The lock on the door was still intact - always something to be thankful for in the otherwise bleak neighbourhood. Inside, it was pitch-black, though he could see perfectly, albeit with the absence of colour. Colour unappealing at best, either way. The denizens of the ward had other matters to be concerned about, and pleasing colours were luxuries that many could not afford. Those that could afford it would only find that it would only remain in their possession for several days at the most, so most ignored the rather trivial matters of aesthetics. Setting the chest down on the dusty floor of his bedroom, he removed his boots and laid back on his creaky old bed, gazing at the ceiling. It was the lot of mercenaries, such as himself, to find fortune at the risk of their lives. Often, it was not fair, but one had to learn to persevere. He had found his fortune, and he would use it to take himself out of this dingy neighbourhood. He had decided this the moment he received his due payment, and he would make good on that promise to himself. That, however, was a task for later. Though he was wealthy enough to relocate to a better portion of the city, he knew his funds would not last long after that, and what use would a better home be if he did not have the money to feed himself? No, he would quickly find a short-term contract and boost his funds before settling down. He knew just where to find such a contract. It would be dirty, bloody work - though that was his field of expertise. He was weary of all the killing and would rather settle down, but he would have to have some measure of financial security. He gathered up a few copper coins and slipped them into his coin purse, careful not to touch the contents of the chest lest he reveal his wealth. He secured his weapon to his side, and slipped out of the house. The streets, though gradually brightening as the ambient light radiating from the air itself strengthened, were still dark from the ever-present haze. More of the ward's denizens were out and about, heading to places of business or returning home from late-night work. A miserable assortment of faces these were - filthy humans coughing from the acrid haze; tall, yellow-skinned githzerai still walking proud and erect with their black, pupil-less eyes and drooping, pointed ears though they were clearly as impoverished as the next person; tieflings such as himself sulking through the streets, their shared lower-planar heritage allowing them a higher tolerance for the choking smoke; and a variety of other folk of plane-touched races - goat-horned, centaur-like bariaur, celestial-bred aasimar, and elemental-blooded genasi, among others. And fiends. Baatezu, tanar'ri and yugoloths walked the streets, the former two carefully avoiding each other as only mortal enemies could, and the latter ambling casually with an air of perverted nobility. Lawful baatezu would not, under any circumstances, associate with the chaotic tanar'ri beyond the killing fields of Gehenna, the Gray Waste, and the other lower planar battlegrounds. Floating several inches off the streets were the dabus, the caretakers of Sigil, and the servants of its enigmatic, bladed ruler, the Lady of Pain. He finally closed in on his destination, a small square connecting the bend in Brandy Lane to the thoroughfare of Ironmonger Street. At a dim edge lurked the Styx Oarsman, a seedy tavern frequented by fiends and tieflings, and the source of many a mercenary contract. He ventured one last look at the streets and the city curving high above as Jarkman Vries, the foul-tempered, arquebus-toting tiefling doorman allowed him in. It was a miserable place for the most part, but it was home. And he would not wish to live anywhere else.

Quick sketch, for the futuristic topic:

EPILOGUE: To the Winds The palace's great hall was quiet as Farcin, his various operatives and a select few nobles watched the Master of Ceremonies, Duke Asran, take the floor. The powerfully-built man in his late fifties bore his staff of office as a seasoned veteran would hold a pole-arm during an inspection parade, his silver-grey hair flowing well below his green-mantled shoulders. Asran crossed to the base of the dais upon which King Roald sat on his throne, and struck the floor once with his staff, the sound reverberating around the chamber for a few moments before he spoke. "Let it be known to all who are present," he began, reciting from memory, "that our fair city of Varrock has nearly been torn asunder by the continual battle of the Phoenix and Black Arm guilds. This fighting, as many here now know, was instigated by a guild known as the Ravens' Cabal. It is safe to say that following the elimination of this Cabal, the two Guilds' warfare has all but ceased. To credit for the removal of the Cabal threat, here present are the Spymaster of Varrock, Lord Farcin dy'Tansi and his agents. His Highness bids Lord dy'Tansi step forth." Farcin complied with what Brax saw as court-bred dignity and confidence. He took a position exactly five feet from Duke Asran, and bowed. "Farcin dy'Tansi, for your dedication and service to our fair city, His Highness, Roald ar'Seldin, eighth of that line and ruler of Misthalin names you a Baron of the kingdom. You are presented with the lands between the duchy of Lumbridge and the river Lum as your own to rule as a vassal of Misthalin. You are aware of the privileges and responsibilities of this station. Do you accept this boon?" "I do so accept," intoned Farcin in a practised, formal tone. Asran struck the floor again with his staff. "Let it be known that henceforth, Baron Farcin dy'Tansi rules the aforementioned lands under the rulership of His Highness, King Roald," he said as Farcin stepped back. He struck the floor once more. "His Highness bids the man known as Brax step forth." Brax complied, taking the same position as Farcin had, and bowed stiffly, unused to the traditions of the Misthalin court. He wore a simple black overjacket sewn with pearls over a white tunic and black trousers tucked into knee-high boots. His shortsword hung on his side. "Brax of Sigil, for your outstanding contribution and dedication to the defeat of the Ravens' Cabal, His Highness, Roald ar'Seldin, eighth of that line and ruler of Misthalin names you a Squire of Misthalin. You are presented on request of Baron dy'Tansi with the office of Spymaster. You are aware of the privileges and responsibilities of these stations. Do you accept this boon?" Brax was stunned. A rank and office were well outisde his comfort zone, though he sensed that Farcin had really wanted him to take the position. Duty first. "I do so accept," he said after a moment's hesitation. The staff struck the floor once more. "Let it be known that henceforth, Squire Brax of Varrock serves as Spymaster and vassal of Misthalin, under the rulership of His Highness, King Roald. His Highness bids Ferdan di'Ramnas step forth." Brax retreated to his position beside Karen, and she took his hand as Duke Asran presented further rewards to men who had been involved. To have risen from his position in the Cabal to being Spymaster of Varrock... He ran the thought through his head a few more times, and made a mental note to establish an intelligence network through the Cabal cells in the other kingdoms. Alliances would be formed, and he would still be able to perform his duties as a Mercykiller. It would do well to keep further corruption out of the Cabal in future as well, he thought. The now-familiar sound of iron-shod wood striking marble echoed in the chamber once more. "His Highness bids Vriskath of Sigil step forth." Brax suppressed his thoughts for the moment while Vriskath stepped forward, his katana hanging by his grey-robed side. His ears were upright with tension, and Brax could sense that he, too, was uneasy in such a formal situation. "Vriskath of Sigil, for your commendable contribution to the defeat of the Ravens' Cabal, His Highness, Roald ar'Seldin, eighth of that line and ruler of Misthalin, presents you with this reward by the request of Baron dy'Tansi," he struck the floor twice, and two pages entered bearing a small oaken chest. From the sound of the chest as the pages set it down, Brax could safely assume that it was full of gold and gems, or both. "You are henceforth to be considered as a friend of Misthalin, and we shall welcome your services in the future. "The court is dismissed," said Asran, striking the floor one last time and walked ahead of King Roald as they and their retinues exited the hall. The other nobles and staff present likewise removed themselves from the hall after the king had departed. *** "I guess ye won't be comin' back to Sigil fer a while," said Vriskath as he mounted his horse. "Soddin' pity, though. Guess ye've got it made fer yerself in this burg now. Ye're a high-up blood, ye're well-lanned if the chant's to be believed, and ye've got yer woman..." "It'll be fine, Vriskath. You can come and visit any time you want. There's plenty of work around here for bashers like you." "Aye, that's sure as Sigil. Speakin' o' which, are ye plannin' on visittin' my kip any time soon? Gets damned lonely with nothin' but cranium rats and razorvine to keep ye company. 'Spect I'll be buyin' a new kip in the Lady's Ward with all this jink, at any rate. It'll be better fer me if I had cutters with more jink than me around that havin' sods who want my jink." "I doubt I'd be able to pull myself away from my duties for long enough to visit Sigil again. I miss the place too, you know." "I could see that," said Vriskath, scratching at his ear. "It's hard to get used to seein' stars above after spendin' cycle after cycle with nothin' but the rest o' the city overhead. The other planes ain't got much to offer, neither. Hard to look up at the sky at night when all a body'd get is infinity staring down at 'im. "Well, time fer me to give this place the laugh, I s'pose," he added, urging his mount out of the palace gates. Brax nodded at him as he looked back. "Watch the Spire, blood." "Aye. Watch the Spire, cutter." ~ Fin.

CHAPTER NINE: Final Flight Farcin paced back and forth. "That Hardom di'Trasi you described hasn't been seen leaving the city, Brax. Assuming that my other agents do know every entrance and exit to the city as is expected of the Spymaster's men that they are, that man has practically all of Varrock outside the palace to hide." "It shouldn't be too hard to find him," Brax calmly said. "In any case, I have made certain arrangements to ensure that even if he does escape the city, he won't be alive for very long." Farcin sat on the edge of his desk. "I heard about a message being sent by swift dispatch along the Falador and Lumbridge roads this morning. Does that have anything to do with your arrangements?" Brax nodded. "The greater Cabal would be most interested in knowing that the Varrock cell has defected and now has eight of its remaining members in prison, with all the leaders but one dead." Farcin narrowed his eyes. "You trust that they will be of assistance to us?" "I would like to point out that Duke Horacio is very pleased with the rapid decline in the crime rate in Lumbridge recently. Likewise, our emissaries report that the Asgarnian and Kandarian administrations are pleased about the continuing decline in corruption and larceny in general." Vriskath, who had been quiet for the better part of the afternoon, spoke up. "I make the situation in Lumbridge out to be fine, since the last time I was there. I've got a mind that the Cabal ain't so bad, and the sods in this burg just give 'em a bad image. As for that berk Hardom, I could probably pen him in the dead-book for ye, if ye put some extra jink in my pay when the time comes fer it." "That will be all, gentlemen," said Farcin, turning to look out the window at the darkening sky. Brax and Vriskath exited and made for their chambers. "How much longer will you stay here," asked Brax, "on this plane, I mean." "Not much longer, I'd expect, dependin' on how much yer boss decides to pay," replied Vriskath, absently scratching at one ear. "Why d'ye ask, anyway?" "No particular reason, really. It's just that it's almost winter, and I don't think the cold will agree with your Yugoloth blood." "Aye, that's true. Never had much stomach fer the cold, I didn't. Even dragged myself out of a high-payin' contract soon as I heard chant that it'd have me hopping down to Cania. Nah, this won't be my kind o' place after the snows set in. 'Sides, I've seen so much jink being thrown around here to expect enough from Farcin to be able to live on fer the next few centuries. That, and I kinda miss the weather in Sigil." "I never thought much of it." "'Course ya didn't. Ye've seen the sods livin' in the Lower Ward. Ye know what the smog does to most non-fiends. Rots their lungs, it does. Chant goes that elves die faster since they're so used to cleaner air. Even the Gith can't stand the air fer too long. 'Course, the 'yanki wouldn't ever admit that to the 'zerai. Here," he said, as they reached the connecting hallway which led to their separate quarters. "We'll try and sort out this di'Trasi berk tomorrow." Brax nodded, and both proceeded down their respective passages. "Out to kill again?" called Karen as he passed her door. He stepped into the doorway and said, "This will be the last one." Karen walked towards him, slowly enough to accentuate her natural grace, and the slight swaying of her hips. She lightly kissed him. "Of course," she said, before dragging him into her chamber by the collar. "This won't." *** Vriskath kicked the door open. It was a small house in the slums that they had tracked Hardom to, nearly inaccessible due to its position within the maze of tight alleys. Garbage littered the gloomy spaces between looming buildings here, both of the waste and human varieties. This neighbourhood, however, had not yet been subjected to the destruction of the slowly dissipating gang warfare. Brax stepped into the dim house behind Vriskath, kicking away bits of splintered wood from the doorway. The house was completely bare save for a pair of chairs set about a small table, and the flimsy-looking stairwell leading up. Upstairs, it was not much better. The landing was occupied by a small desk with a brass candelabra holding a pathetic stump of mostly-melted wax. A single door stood between them and the bedroom, and was likewise forced open by the tiefling. The room contained a stool adjacent to a low desk, and a flimsy excuse for a bed, little more than a traveller's bedroll laying atop an assortment of tattered clothing. "Should've been a little quieter," muttered Vriskath as a dim shape jumped out of the window as they entered. "Save it for later," said Brax, hurriedly following the shape, landing expertly on the pavement below, followed by Vriskath, who was a little less adept at jumping from heights. Brax sprinted after the escaping figure, darting this way and that through the labyrinth of alleys, dodging discarded timbers and assorted filth as he pursued the fugitive. He smiled to himself as his quarry took a left, which would take him to a dead end from which the only escape would be up and over the city wall, which would be a nearly-vertical climb lacking footholds or handholds. Hardom di'Trasi turned slowly as he realised his predicament. Vriskath stood at the mouth of the alley, leaving Brax to deal with the former Guildmaster, who stood ready, blade drawn. Brax readied himself as well. "Within three days, the Ardougne Cabal would have been informed of your defection. By now, the Falador and Lumbridge Cabals are already on high alert should you somehow escape this city. You will find only death wherever you go." Nothing more was said as Hardom pressed the attack, feinting left then high before striking left again. Brax easily dodged the attack, countering with his own series of attacks, which Hardom successfully defended against. Brax parried a counter-thrust, riposting and lightly cutting Hardom on the thigh. Hardom thrust again, determined to puncture Brax's throat, though the latter easily dodged aside, pinning the blade with his own and bull-rushing the former Guildmaster. Brax followed through with a swift kick to the forearm as Hardom reeled back, forcing him to drop his blade. "You cannot match a Raven without a talon of your own," said Brax. Hardom looked up, gauging the distance between the ground and the top of the wall. Turning back to Brax, he said, "You are no Raven. You betrayed us." With that, he swiftly produced a rope and a grappling hook from within his cloak, hurling it up to the roof of a house adjacent to the wall and climbing up swiftly, pulling the rope up behind him. He repeated the process again to gain the top of the wall. Brax could not give chase. "Damnit," Vriskath hissed as he ran to Brax's side. Brax narrowed his eyes. "A message arrived before we left the palace tihs morning. There is a Cabal crossbowman lurking beyond the wall, at a great enough distance not to be spotted, and close enough to be accurate." True to Brax's words, Hardom had no sooner crested the wall that he was suddenly lifted off his feet and thrown back down, falling eighty feet and striking the filthy pavement before Brax with a sickening thud. A black-feathered crossbow bolt had been driven up through his bottom jaw and into his skull. The last corrupt Guildmaster of the Ravens' Cabal was dead. Brax looked down contemptuously at the still form of di'Trasi, and beckoned for Vriskath to take him to the palace. "I betrayed the Cabal?" he spat. "You betrayed yourself."

It, uh, doesn't look professional at all.