Blood Warrior - Finale

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.

A new story huh, lets see if it can match up to the Raven's Cabal. It had really vivid details and was well written. Kinda confused about some things, but it is a prolouge.... I'll be sue to read the next part.

As good as always, especially liked the description, do some more. :D

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.

Hmm, that's very intresting. It has kind of a Staw Wars feel to it..... I just get that picture in my head. The names sound similar and the descriptions just put me in that mind set. Not sure if that was what you were goin' for but that's how it feels to me.

I really admire your ability to create these names and various characters. I usually draw a blank on such occasions, but you can rally bring numerous characters to 'life'. You have excellent description in your writing, and a style that sometimes makes me read a sentence twice to catch its meaning.

It seems to be a good story so far, I'll be looking forward to chapter 2.

:shock: Wow, that is amazing.

You put in quite a bit of gore, descriptive but great to read.

I'm waiting for the next one too.

i also like it however i fell that it is talking to much of a star wars feel (which i dis-like) thats the only thing puting me off it. other wise its really good, good descpiption, gore (a bit), and you can almost make us feel the character. im looking forwars to the next chapter just try and get rid of the 'star warsy' feel

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."

Once again, nice. Just realized this is the same character from the Raven's cabal. Descriptions are still amazing. Lost some of the Star Wars feel and got a bit of its own style, still feels relatively the same. I enjoy the way you write the dialouge for Vriskath, gives him a personality of his own. I'll be lookin' forward to ye next part, maybe a battle scene.

i like it, it has lost the 'star warsy' feel and its looking good. well done =)

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.

CHAPTER FOUR: Old Blood

Vriskath cast his gaze over the cube's field of dust, watching for anything that may approach. The dead baatezu he had heaped into the far corner of the ruined village, and nothing marked their passing but scattered patches of dried blood, black burns in the dust and stones. The fields were still.

He sat down on the stones outside the house Thaniel rested in, and gazed up at the infinity above once more. Steel rang like the cries of vicious birds, and shouts echoed through the void. Two cubes approached each other, and their faces met.

One battle on Avalas ceased its cacophonic accompaniment to the plane's terrible music.

Vriskath held his sheathed blade at his chest, and closed his eyes as the battles raged. There had been other battles.

He stared into the cold, hard eyes of a nycaloth, the yugoloth smiling gently as he offered the pen to the tiefling. Vriskath's hand closed around the steel tube, and brought the tip down to the sheet of parchment before him. He needed the money, as did the others who queued behind him. He signed on the indicated line, and the gargoyle-like yugoloth took the contract and placed it amid the piles of similar parchment gathering behind him. Special provision, it had said, that the client's soul would not be the property of the yugoloths should he fall in battle.

Vriskath had only taken the money when he was certain he had not damned himself for eternity. The following years as a sponsored mercenary were more than he had bargained for.

He crouched low behind the wreckage of a baatezu catapult as arcane fire streaked overhead to explode amid ranks of other mercenaries, followed by arrows and ballista bolts. The two humans who were with him visibly quaked everytime a bolt struck and shook their cover. The githzerai maintained his calm composure, though he, too, was afraid; Vriskath could see it in his eyes. The other tiefling lay in pieces thirty feet away, torn asunder by ballista fire as he ran from the cover of the wrecked catapult.

Vriskath held his katana close to his chest. The underfoot soil of the Field of Nettles was black from countless millenia of bloodshed. He raised his face to the grey sky and closed his eyes as the winds of Oinos, first layer of the Gray Waste blew. The stench of carrion was borne upon them, and Vriskath had fought in the Blood War for enough years to know that among the mortals who had died wherever that wind had blown from, there were countless fiends slain as well.

It was a strange comfort.

"That's horrible," said one of the humans, a nineteen-year old, brown-haired, brown-eyed Sigillian named Brax.

"Ye'll get used ta it," replied Vriskath.

"It won't matter, anyway," said the other human with downcast eyes, the one whose name Vriskath never knew. He was already succumbing to the wasting despair of the plane, and would soon lapse into increasing apathy and eventually lose all sense of self. Vriskath had resisted the Waste's effects for long enough to ignore them, as had the githzerai, whom he knew as Ar'k'lith.

"I'm only serving for two cycles," said Brax, "and I'll go back to Sigil when I'm done. I might join the Mercykillers."

Ar'k'lith snorted in derision, but said nothing. Vriskath kept his eyes closed, and could hear Brax sigh as he sat with his back to the catapult's wreckage.

It was one cycle later that he, Brax and Ar'k'lith waited in ambush with a small group of other mercenaries and a troop of barbazu. They were still upon Oinos, though their superiors had ordered them to work to disrupt tanar'ri supply lines outside the Field of Nettles. Vriskath knew that Brax and the githzerai were grateful for leaving the main battlefield, though the human had become more sullen and was beginning to lose his emotions.

"Here it comes," whispered one of the human scouts as he returned.

"Where is the other?" asked the barbazu officer in command.

"Dead," replied the scout. "Couldn't take it anymore and killed himself."

The barbazu smiled his demented, fiendish smile, and ordered the company to move for the pass.

Vriskath loosened his blade in its scabbard, and Ar'k'lith closed his eyes for a moment, relaxing his mind, as he had told the tiefling. Brax calmly loaded his crossbow.

The grays of Oinos seemed to become duller for those few more minutes spent waiting. Dead black trees clawed at the wind that reeked of death, and several mercenaries took on a glassy-eyed expression, dropping their weapons before trudging off into the colourless plains. The baatezu cared not at all. Their souls were already forfeit.

The caravan came into sight, and the company rushed forward like a silent wave to crash with the dull clang of steel upon their enemies. Men fell silently in that first strike, and the company withdrew, forming into a line before rushing forward again. The barbazu officer gave no orders, as he had spoken enough for his subordinates to know their duties. Again men fell, only a gurgling scream or three puncturing the heavy silence.

A bolt of wicked blue lightning arced overhead, its colour blinding in the bleak gray of Oinos, and its sizzling report deafening in the oppressive silence. A line of dead men cut through the disorganized tanar'ri force, charred skeletons stripped of their flesh by the arcane energy. Ar'k'lith's voice rang out once more as he intoned another spell, and the tanar'ri forces charged forward to meet the baatezu troops' next assault.

Men fell once more, arcing jets of blood splashing the monotonous soil with colour. Emotions had been drained from many of these men already, and they fought and fell with blank looks upon their faces, no anger or malice, no fear or hatred. Only the fiends seemed to relish the brutal combat. The barbazu clashed in primal hatred with the tanar'ri babaus. The disgusting, skinless humanoid demons tore and were torn apart by the raggedly-clothed, snaky-bearded devils and their glaives. The revolting, mobile blobs of molten flesh which were the baatezu's lemures surged forward to butcher and be butchered by the tanar'ri's pathetic, bloated humanoid dretches.

Amid the fiendish slaughter were mortals killing mortals in cold, uncaring blood.

Vriskath's blade danced, arcing upwards, sweeping downwards, slashing through and rending flesh as he himself pushed through the ranks and into the horde. Blood covered his face and hands and stained his robe, and he was lost in his inborn primal revelry in the slaughter.

He closed his eyes and raised his face to the gray sky as warm liquid splashed over his hands and washed his face, driving the growing chill of Oinos away. Flesh yielded to his steel and flesh fell to the gray soil.

He heard it. Heard the gurgle of blood in mortal throats, heard the warbling screams of fiends, heard the steel kissing the steel.

He smelled it. Smelled the flesh, smelled the faeces of those who retained their emotional faculties, smelled the stench of carrion in the wind of Oinos.

He tasted it. Tasted the blood on his lips, tasted the fear around him, tasted the acrid air.

He felt it. Felt the plane without feeling. Felt the gaze of the silent arcanoloth who watched from the ridge.

He opened his eyes to the infinity of Avalas, and found that he was fatigued. Memories raced through his mind and drained him of his energy. The diffuse glow of Avalas had begun to brighten as the new day dawned.

Feeling that he could not sleep, he rose and entered the house to check Thaniel's condition.

Blood had stained the rag over the wound completely red, and was still oozing onto the dusty floor. Thaniel's eyes were still open as though he still meditated and walked the paths of elven dreams, and his chest was still, his breathing nonexistent.

Vriskath gave a sigh of disgust, and closed the dead elf's eyes. He took the bow and quiver from the corpse and stepped outside with only a casual nod to Thaniel as he started his trek through the dust and to his mission.

CHAPTER FIVE: Reception

Relief flowed into Vriskath like a river as he finally cast his eyes on his destination, the fort-city of Ar'sith'kla, the black jewel dominating this cube of Avalas. It had been five days since he had left Thaniel's side, and his weary feet dragged along the dirt as he trudged through the final stretch of wasteland.

Ar'sith'kla was a rambling affair of high walls and great towers bearing the many scars of battle. A glistening black keep of iron and stone rose from the centre of the city, above which flew many worn banners and standards. Red eyes of light shone in the face of the structure from its many windows and arrow-slits. The city below the keep was hidden from view by the walls, rising progressively taller in three layers around the keep. The foulburgh outside the walls was, as far as Vriskath was concerned, the most inviting section of the city.

As he approached, the dim noise of battle from the rest of the plane were muffled out by more civillian sounds - merchants hawking wares, idle chatter, and the like - though there was still a disciplined, ordered tone to everything. Guardsmen marched through the streets in orderly ranks, buildings all shared the same architecture, and even the common people kept to the same drab styles of dress.

There was a definite military atmosphere in the city. Most of the wares being sold by street vendors were weaponry and survival gear, and the only types of food sold were three or four varieties of iron rations. Many of the taverns and inns Vriskath passed by on his way to the outer gate appeared to be barracks more than anything else. A sign made of magical lights close to the gate proclaimed that it had been seven weeks since the last collision, three since the last battle, and twelve since the last siege. Numbers of casualties from each event were also listed, though Vriskath ignored them for lack of interest.

Arriving at the gate, a sign informed him that it would not be opened until the next day for reasons denied to the public. Somewhat relieved that he would have time to rest before carrying out his mission, Vriskath took the time to examine the walls should he have to make a quick escape.

The black-painted, iron-bound stone walls loomed sixty feet into the hazy air, sloping outwards at the plinth and bearing odd, curved segmentations at regular intervals of five feet. The iron gates bore these as well. The battlements appeared to be edged with blades to deter climbers, and Vriskath saw small, serrated edges along the outer rim, connected to what appeared to be a chain running through the outside of the wall. The towers rose only ten feet or so above the wall, and were similarly equipped with bladed battlements and the odd chains. It was impossible to see from the base of the wall, but Vriskath assumed that there would be siege engines atop the towers.

Having seen enough of the defenses, Vriskath walked away and retraced his steps, finding his way back to the square where the sign of lights stood, and where he remembered seeing an inn. With a passing glance to the rather morbid sign, he entered the establishment, whose own sign proclaimed it to be the Rusted Blade.

Entering the rather drab and musty common room, he noted only four patrons: a pair of humans at a table, mercenaries by their dress and weaponry; a tiefling girl with small horns and goat legs sitting at the bar, with the appearance of a traveller more than anything else, and a one-eyed dwarf in a corner, quietly eating his meal and drinking his ale.

"Greetin's, cutter, and welcome ta the Rusted Blade," a grinning, well-muscled human man called from behind the bar. "Hopin' ya enjoy your stay, and that ya ain't a bloomin' tanar'ling or any of them chaotic berks."

The tiefling had turned as he entered, and regarded him for a moment with fiery red eyes before saying, "Nay, master Rinnis, he be a loth'ling. 'Sbad as the chaos-spawn, I say."

"Not a problem," said the barman, "at least the loth-spawn don't go out of their way to cause trouble, now, do ye?"

As he approached the bar, Vriskath heard the girl mumble, "Aye, but they cause trouble all th' same."

Ignoring the remark, Vriskath dropped a pair of silver coins on the bar. "A meal an' a room fer one night," he said, "and don't ye complain bout th' silver 'cause ye ain't a baatezu. This chit might, but watch me care."

The barman nodded with a grin, and the tiefling girl glared at him as he took a seat a few feet away from her. The food arrived, and Vriskath for his hunger could not complain, though it was barely more than standard iron rations presented on a plate with a slice of unidentifiable meat. Though not quite the best he had ever had, it was somewhat better than the rations he had been consuming for the past few days.

"Where would I be able to find a man called Liross?" asked Vriskath as he finished his meal. "Business reasons," he added.

"Liross the weapon trader or Liross the mercenary broker?" asked the barman.

"One an' the same," mumbled the tiefling girl.

"Ah, yes, Liross," said the barman with another grin. "Ya can find him just past the first gate. If ya want, I'll have a guide for ya waitin' in the mornin'. Ya lookin' for work? Ya don't look like a weapon dealer, 'cause ya only got one sword."

"It's to do with work," replied Vriskath as he stood and made for the stairs.

"Then ya be careful," called the barman. "Chant goes that he's got links with the tanar'ri."

I know, thought Vriskath. That's why I'm here.

* * *

The murky twilight of the Avalas dawn saw a jackal-eared tiefling slip through the first gate of Ar'sith'kla, making his way through the sleepy shadows to his quarry's residence. Battlecries and clashing steel rang steadily louder as a cube loomed closer overhead, and the residents of Ar'sith'kla's foulburgh were streaming into the fortress proper, and the low humming from within the walls increased in volume as well. Several glowing signs with changing numbers counted down to the imminent collision, hovering over the throngs of life pouring into the city.

The iron keep, to Vriskath's amazement, had begun to move several minutes ago, smoke, steam and dust rising from beneath it as it gradually descended to the level of the walls, a rumbling beneath the ground seemingly indicating that it had buried itself. The walls themselves began to move, extending upward and arcing in a dome over their respective circles of protection, the middlemost being sealed first. The second wall had begun to rise and curve with metallic groans as Vriskath reached the house of Liross, in a part of the city away from the crowds.

Dim lights in the small, grimy windows indicated that the inhabitant or inhabitants of the house were awake, removing the possibility of a quick assassination. Vriskath waited outside, unable to listen for any sounds inside for all the noise around him. He could hear the second wall producing shorter and shorter groaning notes, until a final screech announced the completion of the dome. The outer wall began its ascent, and the cube above loomed even closer. Vriskath did not want to be outside when the cubes collided, regardless of the protection offered by the dome.

He knocked on the iron-bound wooden door of Liross' home.

Silence.

He knocked again.

The door was opened by a strikingly beautiful young human woman of about nineteen with raven hair and green eyes. Vriskath was taken slightly aback, though he composed himself quickly.

"What is it?" the young woman asked. "Are you a friend of father's?"

"Nah, I ain't, but -"

"Come in, anyway," she said, cutting him off and ushering him into a small entry room. "It's not going to be safe out there once the cube hits."

"Who is it, Em?" called a man's voice from the next room.

"A visitor, father. A tiefling. I let him in so he won't be hit by debris outside." She led Vriskath into a slightly larger dining room.

The portly man at the table, sipping some sort of hot liquid from a chipped mug looked up as Vriskath entered the room. "I don't recognise you," he said, "but that doesn't matter right now. Good that you're inside rather than out there."

"Ye're Liross, the trader?" asked Vriskath, with a note of confusion in his voice. This man and his daughter seemed to be a little too friendly for residents of Acheron.

"Aye, I am. Business, I presume? That can wait 'till later, after the collision. That one there," he nodded at the girl, "is Emma, my daugher. Em for short."

Emma giggled. "He's confused."

Liross smiled. "Look at that, ye are! Aye, we don't really belong in Acheron, but I'm stuck here since I signed a contract with some berk who turned out to be a baatezu in disguise."

"You work with the tanar'ri?" asked Vriskath, his sword-hand quivering a little. He was reluctant to kill this man before his daughter, no matter how easily he could have done it by now.

Liross grimaced. "Vicious rumour, that! I'd never work with a fiend, or any other lower planar creature - begging your pardon, sir. We're originally from Sylvania."

"Arborea's gate-town?" asked Vriskath with a little disbelief. "That's on th' other side o' the Great Wheel!"

"Quite literally," added Emma. "We're stuck here 'till the contract's fulfilled. I've never been to Sylvania."

"Poor lass was born here," said Liross. "Her mother died about five cycles ago, hit by debris during a collision. She's got a heart o' gold, Em does, and I'd like for her to see Sylvania or even Arborea. She can't leave 'till I'm dead, of course."

Vriskath was silent. This was wholly unexpected, and there were no grounds for him to kill this man beyond his agreement with Ulmshans. He'd side with the human over the fiend, given the choice.

"Would you like a drink?" asked Emma as she walked to the pantry. "If you want one, you'd better speak up now. There's going to be a lot of shaking really soon. Take a seat."

"I'll be fine," said Vriskath, taking the seat and dismissing the idea of killing Liross. His sword-hand trembled a little. "Thank ye fer yer hospitality," he said to Liross. "I don't know many humans who'll take a tiefer in, 'specially here in Acheron."

"You're not from around here?" asked Liross.

"I'm from Sigil. Came here fer business reasons. That's done now, but I've a mind ta have a jaunt 'round the Ring before headin' back." Vriskath knew that if he returned to Sigil without proof of having killed Liross, he would be hunted down.

"Must be nice," said Emma as she took a seat at the table, sipping a mug of some hot liquid. "I've never been anywhere but this city. It's a little dull compared to what I've heard about the other planes."

Vriskath gave a dry laugh. "Ye're missin' out on a lot, an' at th' same time, ye ain't missin' out on anythin'."

CHAPTER SIX: Escape

Vriskath's hand lashed out against the floor as his chair toppled. Ar'sith'kla trembled, bits of debris clattering on the street outside. Jets of powdered mortar streamed down from the ceiling. The sound of crumbling stone could be heard, and the steel shell of the city groaned. Screams pierced the terrible noise.

"It'll be over in a minute," said Liross. "The real trouble will come when the other cube's armies cross over and start pounding on the walls."

"This city hasn't fallen yet, father," Emma reassured him. "We'll move on like we always have."

Vriskath pulled himself up using the edge of the table, and crossed the room to the door, readjusting the position of his katana's sheath. "Armies attack after collisions?"

"They do, because that's when the city's more vulnerable," said Liross. "Outside, there are throngs of refugees. Defenders won't be able to fight effectively through those crowds if the walls are breached. Ar'sith'kla may be one of the most advanced fortresses on Avalas, and also one of the best defended, but that isn't a reason not to besiege it. Not here on Acheron."

"What about th' civilians? What'd happen if an army managed to breach th' walls?" Vriskath looked back at the table, locking eyes with Liross.

Liross stared back, a dark look on his face. No words were needed.

Emma said, "This is Acheron."

"On all th' Lower Planes, then," said Vriskath, turning back to the window by the front door, watching the scene outside. Streams of gray mortar trailed behind falling pieces of chipped stone, which burst into many fragments as they struck the street. Every now and then, a straggler caught outside without shelter would run by, swerving madly to avoid falling debris only to be struck and killed. A cloud of dust fell like a bank of fog, brown dirt hanging in the air.

The shaking stopped, and the battle-sounds of Avalas returned. A low roar was heard in the distance, followed by screams and shouted battle orders. Vriskath glanced at Liross, who stood quickly.

"Breach," said Liross. "This is bad. Emma - you know what to do. Vriskath, sir, if you would please, give us a minute to prepare. We will leave together."

Vriskath nodded as Liross rushed upstairs with his daughter in tow. Doors and drawers opened and shut, and the clash of steel could be heard in the distance. A moment passed, and Liross and Emma were hurryng down the stairs, small travelling packs on their backs, Liross carrying a crossbow, Emma a quarterstaff. Liross gave Vriskath a nod.

The tiefling rushed out of the house and into the debris-ridden street, Emma and her father following him. He shot a questioning look at Liross.

"There's a portal to Avernus, first layer of Baator in a warehouse five blocks away," said Liross. "Take Emma and make sure she's safe."

"And ye?"

"I can't leave Acheron, but I'll go with you 'till we reach the portal."

"Any alternatives, man? The Nine Hells ain't my place."

"It's the only portal I know that leads away from here," Liross replied as they moved. "I'd rather Emma didn't have to go to the Hells, either, but it's the only chance we have."

"Father," breathed Emma, "what will we do?"

"He'll take you to Arborea," replied the father, looking at Vriskath, who nodded.

"Hold," said Vriskath as steel clashed close by. "We'll have to fight if ye're serious 'bout takin' this route."

"I'll hold them in place - you take Em." Liross drew the string of his crossbow and set a bolt in the groove. "Take care, Em. Maybe we'll see each other when I'm an Arborean petitioner."

Emma sobbed, embraced her father. Her staff clattered on the flagstones.

"You're a strong girl. Go with the tiefling."

She pulled away, tears in her eyes, and gave her father a nod. She picked up her staff and looked at Vriskath. "Let's go," she choked.

Vriskath nodded his acknowledgement, grabbed her hand and led her to the next street corner as Liross took the opposite side of the road, his crossbow trained on some unseen target. "Ye'll have ta guide the two of us," he said as a bolt flew from Liross' crossbow, followed by a gurgling shriek. "I ain't sure where this portal is, but when we're close, I'll know. Once we're out o' here, I'll take ye to yer home."

She nodded, and pointed down the next street. Vriskath led the way, one hand on the hilt of his blade and the other holding onto the girl. So much for an easy job. They broke into a run, Emma gasping directions as they went. Smoke blew in from a distant fire and stung their eyes, clouding their vision with acrid tears.

Liross screamed in the distance. Emma choked back tears, stumbled. Vriskath grabbed her as she fell, carried her.

Taking the turn in the road as he had been directed, Vriskath was faced with a trio of men, bloody swords drawn and surrounded by inert bodies, some armed, most not. Letting Emma take her feet, he readied himself.

"Friend or foe?" called one of the men, trying to peer through the smoke.

"What does it matter to ye?" Vriskath called back as he dashed towards them, his blade loosening in the sheathe. He felt Emma's gaze fixed on him as his blade slipped outward. One man fell, two halves bathing the flagstones in their blood. He pulled out of the iaijutsu stance, led with his right foot once more and took the next man across the chest as he stepped forward, bringing his blade left to grip it in two hands. Vriskath twisted and stepped with his left, his blade flying overhead and downwards, striking the last man from the shoulder to the hip. He beckoned to Emma, who came with burning anger in her eyes for the fallen men.

They killed her father, thought Vriskath as he took the girl's arm and led her down snaking, gloomy streets. I was to kill her father, his mind added with a note of irony.

A low rumble shook window panes they passed by, and a cloud of dust rose up to their left, pieces of the dome above hurtling toward the city below as invaders blasted their way through to rapel down. Steel continued to ring against steel and bite flesh. Vriskath would slow his pace every now and then to allow Emma to catch up, still sobbing with tears running clear streaks through the soot on her face. Soot - there were fires in the city, more now as more holes were blasted through the shielding dome and torch-bearing invaders dropped in.

"So this is how Ar'sith'kla falls," said Emma in a hoarse whisper as they ducked into the alley between two looming warehouses. "I never thought I'd have to leave this place, you know?"

"I said I'd get ye out, din'I?"

"I suppose - that way," she said, pointing to an alcove littered with refuse.

Vriskath looked over the arch of the alcove. So much danger in that two-foot deep indentation in the wall of a simple warehouse. He shut his eyes for a moment, remembering. Avernus - endless red-brown wastelands, red skies and black clouds. Searing balls of flame streaking downwards like rain. Wreckage from past battles, charred husks of long-dead fiends and rusting weapons. There was a face there - terrible, burning green eyes in a horned skull, bony [bleep]es in imitation of a beard and dagger-long fangs dripping acidic saliva. Bat wings. Pit fiend.

Bel.

He shuddered, and brought his consciousness back to the alcove.

"A problem?" asked Emma. "This isn't the best time for a problem."

A hunk of iron-braced stone crashed into the warehouse behind them, rocking them almost to the ground. Long ropes fell from the hole above as dust rose.

"The dust'll screen us fer a moment. What's th' key?"

He didn't see her, but heard her curse. "Yugoloth blood. Forgot to ask -"

"Don't ye worry," he said, interrupting her before she mentioned her father once more. Wouldn't do her any good. "Got enough o' that here." He bit himself lightly on the forearm, flicking some of the drawn blood into the alcove. Metallic sizzling filled his ears.

Emma said nothing, but he felt the tension.

"Ready?" he asked. Emma grabbed his arm, and they stepped through, leaving the doomed city behind.

is that it...

cos it was cool, i liked the part when they left the doomed city

CHAPTER SEVEN: The Styx Oarsman of Avernus

Vriskath's eyes lazily followed the blazing fireball that streaked down from Avernus' blood-red sky. He knew Emma behind him was doing likewise. They had plodded through the furnace-hot wastelands of Baator's first layer for several days - exactly how many was hard to tell for lack of day and night. A bearing taken from an enormous iron fortress on the horizon to their right gave them a general direction in which to head.

The fireball's rumbling report rolled towards them from several miles ahead. "That way," said Vriskath with a small inclining of his head. It would be safe in that direction, as anything hostile would have been obliterated by the fire.

Vriskath never looked behind him, but he knew Emma was there. She had been quiet since leaving Acheron, and the tense silence between them was punctured only by his duosyllabilic directions. Hunger had been ignored since leaving Avalas, for stopping to refresh themselves would risk being chanced upon by a Baatezu patrol.

Vriskath's mind burned with a sensation that had grown stronger since arriving in Avernus. The bat-winged devil's wicked skull seemed to drip its acidic saliva continually into his consciousness like a poison. He knew that they would be found soon if they did not leave the plane. The dead silence continued between the pair.

They arrived at their short-term destination after some time. Charred husks and smouldering globs of flesh alongside broken weapons littered the seared dirt, evidence that the fireball had struck the fringes of a running battle. The brimstone scent of Baatezu still lingered in the air, though from the corpses and equipment on the ground, it was obvious that the Tanar'ri had been winning this skirmish.

Vriskath waved lazily at a fallen dagger as he passed it, a metallic scraping on dirt telling him that Emma picked it up. "It's hot," she said hurriedly, a rustling of cloth telling him she wrapped it in loose fabric to better handle it.

"It'll cool. Ye'll need it."

He nodded in the direction of another fireball hurtling for the ground, and they changed their course slightly to head to the site, ensuring that the iron fortress was still more or less to their right, with that ominous mountain of black rock looming over it.

They trudged on towards the distant rumble, still silent.

Reaching the top of a low rise overlooking the site, Vriskath gestured vaguely to his left. A rain of small flaming darts cascaded to the blasted ground in the distance like a veil of molten glass. He followed a cut track that led down into the bowl.

"That was beautiful," whispered Emma as she caught up with him.

"That's why this is still th' first layer."

"What does that mean?"

"That's th' only beautiful thing ye'll ever see in this place. Mark that tower," he added as they climbed the other side of the bowl, waving at a glimmering pillar that soared into the crimson sky near the iron fortress, before obscured by the huge mountain.

"What is that?"

Vriskath was silent as they continued on.

A time passed, and the iron fortress was now behind them, still on the horizon to the right. The strange pillar had also dropped behind. Smoke came in from the distance, blown in by a hot gust from ahead. It came with a putrid odour of rotten flesh and all manner of unpleasant things Vriskath felt best not to think about.

He heard Emma gag behind him. "What's that smell?"

"The Styx," he said as he nodded in the direction of the smoke.

Some time later, they climbed another low rise, this time overlooking a small valley, harbouring what could be called vegetation. Blackened soil stretched down, marked here and there by stands of sickly blue-green plants, towards a river flowing from a cave to another similar hole in the rock. The water's passage was like a death march, silently mocking but possessing an audible rhythm that was morbid and thoroughly abhorrent. A small battle raged along one stretch of the riverbank, clearly between a Tanar'ri landing party and Baatezu defenders.

They waited in the shadow of a rocky outcropping for the fiends to finish each other. Emma's face was dirty - he assumed he looked much the same; the hot air of Avernus carried soot which built up over time. Her eyes still sparkled, though.

"Will I have to use that?" she asked, indicating the dagger, sitting on top of her travelling pack at her feet.

"Hopefully not."

"That's good."

"Not really. Hope doesn't really exist down here."

"Well, we're here," she said defiantly. "And we'll get out, no matter what."

He smiled. "Determination ain't hope. Still, as long as we stay clear o' th' Waste, we're more or less fine."

"Do you have a plan?"

"I'm thinkin' any of those fiends down there who survive'll head out o' here to fight more. Th' marraenoloths'll stick to their skiffs and sit tight 'till a body comes to hand over jink in exchange fer a safe passage down the Styx. If it all goes well, we'll be off th' Styx when it reaches Pandemonium, and we'll make our way to a Bleaker stronghold, th' Madhouse.

"'Course, these're th' lower planes, so don't rely too much on a plan."

Emma seemed relieved when they finally moved from the shadows towards the water, though she still suppressed gagging at the smell.

The battling fiends had gone, and the two marraenoloths stood astride their skiffs staring off into the distance with red pinpoints of light in their skulls. One turned to the other, who pushed away from the bank with his pole, his skiff gliding down the filthy river and out of sight.

Vriskath approached the bank cautiously, a bag of coins in his hand. He offered the bag to the marraenoloth's outstretched, skeletal hand, and boarded the boat with Emma. The silence had returned between them, and Emma was clearly intent on fixing her gaze on something in the skiff, rather than look out into the water where ghostly images of mortals clawed at the passing skiff, as if to capsize it and steal the memories of those within.

"No dodgy business, 'loth," said Vriskath as the marraenoloth poled away from the shore.

"Of course not, Vriskath," it said in its hoarse, airy voice. "The other one was the one you would have watched out for."

"A friend of yours?" asked Emma with a raised eyebrow.

The skeletal figure emitted what could have been called a laugh; a wheezing cough-like sound came from its bony skull and it said, "No, though I know him well, old blood warrior he is. He saved this skiff you ride now from a battalion of Tanar'ri on Gehenna. I was -"

"- Lying face-down in th' boat, with a Tanar'ri axe in his back," finished Vriskath. "Why were ye helpin' th' Tanar'ri get to Avernus, then?"

"You know the trade, Vriskath," said the marraenoloth throatily. "I work for the highest bidder. It's how we Yugoloths do things. You should know that by now."

"Didn't seem that way when ye deserted yer post with Graekvar's battallion to pick our squad up."

The marraenoloth momentarily paused his slow guidance of the skiff through the Styx to give Vriskath what could have been a glare. "You must know, boy, that not all fiends are spawned from the mindless petitioner larvae that the hags of the Waste sell to the Tanar'ri and Baatezu. I have existed for a hundred centuries and more, and I have had the time to ponder my place.

"I may have died once or twice, but always when I emerge from the ashes of Oinos, I take up the marraenoloth's robe and pole. I am a man of the Styx, as much as that would mean to me.

"I left Graekvar's Baatezu because they fought a losing battle, and I had not been paid to save them."

"Ye weren't paid to save - Vaethis! It was Vaethis, wasn't it? The one Arcanoloth posted with us. Ye came to save her."

The marraenoloth became silent.

For a time, the only sound was the marraenoloth's pole slipping in and out of the oily water, and the persistent whisperings of damned souls. Every now and then, something along the bank would move, and red eyes would regard them for a long moment before disappearing.

At last, the marraenoloth spoke. "I was once an Arcanoloth. It was a cold day on Oinos. She came to me, battered and indignant. Her patrol had run into a Tanar'ri warband, and she was the only survivor. I was younger, then. It was no matter, I told her. Those who were with her would be reborn once more. She said that she did not care about those, but about her own safety, for the Ultroloths did not tolerate failure.

"As I have said it before, I was younger then. She was under my command, and thus the duty of punishment was on my shoulders. I told her that it would be fine, and she could consider herself punished for the failure. I loved her then. She was older than I. At that sign of weakness from me, the masters were informed immediately and I was cast down from that position, never to rise high in Yugoloth ranks for the rest of eternity. She was then given a higher rank for her efforts.

"I did not see it as weakness then, and resented being given the station of marraenoloth. Over time, however, I understood the mentality of my own kind and knew why she had betrayed me though I had saved her. I had always been a slow learner and deviant among the other Yugoloths, though I was powerful. Over time, I accepted my station as marraenoloth, though I could have risen to Nycaloth.

"That day on Gehenna, I knew that Vaethis was fighting once more. Though her grasp of diplomacy and politics rivalled that of the Baatezu, her mind was not made for tactics and strategy. Though she had betrayed me in the past, I did not wish her to be punished for her failure, so I came to rescue your squad. I tell you this now because you allowed me to save her. Had you not been there to pilot this very skiff, she would have been lost. It is a strange thing, for a fiend to develop as I have, though stranger things are not unheard of out here on the planes.

"The day will come when I will drown myself in the Styx and be reborn without memories, though that time has not yet come."

The silence returned soon after as the marraenoloth guided his boat through the waters, several times avoiding treacherous water only through his innate ability to sense subtle changes in the currents. The landscape was already phasing quickly from Gehenna's volcanic rocks to Oinos' muted grey expanses. Avernus had been left far behind, and the devil no longer grinned in Vriskath's mind.

As the skiff plied its way through rougher waters as it entered Oinos through that mysterious boundary broken by the Styx as it flowed from infinity to infinity, Emma leaned over to him when she thought the marraenoloth could not hear. She whispered, "Fiends can love?" with a note of awe in her voice.

Vriskath whispered back, "What I said before about th' firestorm on Avernus being the one thing of beauty that existed down in these planes, forget that. This makes two."

i don't get the title

I haven't gotten to read that much but so far its really good. btw do you play D&D? (alot of your discriptions seem to be similar to some from duengeons and dragons)

I love paladins (they make good meals)

one thing that I'm a bit confused about is that the elf is so quick to trust a tiefling... I mean who in their right mind trusts a tiefling?!?!

Any clueless sod who knows what's good for them, that's who. :P

Yes, I'm a D&Der and I love Planescape.

well... I guess tieflings are better than balors

I don't know much about planescape I play Forgotten Realms.

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Shore of Madness

Vriskath nodded to starboard. "We're bein' followed."

The marraenoloth's skull turned slowly to cast its red gaze to where the tiefling pointed. Its hood rustled slightly in the chill air as it turned back to Vriskath. "Yes. They have pursued us for a while now."

Vriskath sat back into the stern of the skiff, conscious of Emma dozing beside him. He did not know any reason for him to be hunted by anything along this stretch of the Lower Planes, much less the Styx. Granted, they may only be predatory fiends or whatever else stalks the banks for food, but they would have abandoned their pursuit long ago if that was the case. He had not noticed them earlier, as the low mist over the river had concealed them for some time - he had found it useless to try and keep track of days and nights, for there was a perpetual gloom along the infernal river. They were still surrounded by Oinos' muted greys, however, and he judged that they would soon shift into Carceri, then the Abyss before reaching their destination of Pandemonium.

"Why are you doing this, Vriskath?" asked the marraenoloth, indicating Emma with a nod of his skull. His hollow, echoing voice was muffled slightly by the opressive greenish mist.

Vriskath shrugged. "I don't know. Why'd ye ask?"

"Because it is not your nature to perform any services without an expected reward. It is doubtful that this one would render any coin to you at the end of your journey."

"I was hired ta kill her father," replied Vriskath, turning his gaze back to the riverbank, his eyes uselessly trying to pierce the mist. "I would'a done it, ye know. Only if I didn't find out he wasn't guilty o' any o' th' things I was gonna kill him for, or that he had a daughter who deserved to be in a better place than Avalas."

The marraenoloth turned to follow his gaze with a soft, muted rustle of cloth. He was silent for a moment, then, "I see."

"What?"

"It is of no matter now," said the fiend, shaking his head as if to wave away the question as he poled the skiff further down the river. "It only occured to me that you may have risen a little further from your mercenary ways. Mercy, is it? Beware, Vriskath. Mercy can be a dangerous thing, so speaks one who knows."

"I don't doubt that. Why bring it up?"

"I raise the issue because you are already in somewhat of a situation as a result of your mercy. I do not believe that I need to remind you that you are sitting in a marraenoloth's skiff, floating down the Styx and being pursued by fiends for a reason you are unaware of, all for the sake of taking a young human from one side of the Great Wheel to the other."

Vriskath glanced at Emma, then back at the shrouded banks. "Well, maybe I'm doin' it to stay out o' Sigil fer a while. Ulmshans'll have me penned into th' dead-book if I come back anytime soon."

If the marraenoloth though that answer inadequate, he hid it well. He was silent for a while as he tirelessly raised and lowered his pole, the skiff gliding silently through the foul water of the Styx. The mist gradually thinned out, becoming lighter as the terrain shifted from Oinos to Orthrys, Carceri's first. A spot of green here and there, then suddenly a mass of muted browns and greens as they entered the buzzing swamplands of Orthrys. Shadowy shapes still moved along the bank, undoubtedly in patient pursuit of the skiff. Orthrys' ambient red glow covered the entire scene like a film, and the thin mist did little to mute it.

Emma had risen, surprised at first at the change of scenery but remaining quiet. She looked to port for a while, though Vriskath noticed her glance at him from time to time. She did not bear the blank, ashen expression of those affected by the Waste's despair, which Vriskath took to be a stroke of luck. Most humans would have entered a suicidal depression long ago.

The marraenoloth gave her a passing glance as she watched the brackish water. He turned his attention to the shadows on the bank. "Why do you suppose they are pursuing you?" he asked Vriskath, who shrugged.

"Wouldn't know, and wouldn't care ta find out. Fiends're fiends."

The skeletal boatman seemed to ignore his answer. "Orthrys passes quickly this time. The First of the Abyss draws near."

Emma peered into the mists ahead, but could see nothing that indicated a planar shift. "Don't look ahead," Vriskath told her. "It's not s'posed to be seen. Just wait fer th' land to change around ye." Emma nodded.

* * *

The marraenoloth pulled in to shore barely an hour after the reds and browns of the Abyss' First shifted to the echoing, windswept tunnels of Pandesmos, Pandemonium's First. It was pitch black in the small cavern, and Vriskath led Emma off the marraenoloth's skiff. She would not be able to see in the dark, he knew, so it fell to him to lead the way. He drew out two sets of earplugs and put them on himself and Emma, so that neither would be permanently deafened by the screaming wind. Their clothes whipped around them as the gales swept through the cavern. The marraenoloth remained on his skiff.

Make for the Madhouse, he said in Vriskath's mind. The Bleak Cabal still maintain it, and their doors reach across the Planes. Your pursuers lag behind, but they will breach the planar boundary very soon. Remove your plugs from time to time, and follow the voices in the winds. Use the small tunnels whenever you can, and remember that down is towards the nearest surface.

"Thanks," Vriskath shouted back to the boatman as he adjusted his katana on his belt. "Watch the Spire, cutter."

The marraenoloth bowed as far as its bones and the wind would allow it. Watch the- its thought flickered out as it was thrown from its boat onto the smooth cavern floor, its pole dropping into the murky Styx.

Malice erupted in a palpable wave from the other side of the river, now little more than a trickle of water as it ended in Pandesmos. The thought of the thing pushed against them like a gigantic fist, and they were thrown back against the wind. The marraenoloth struggled to his feet. They come. Run.

"No!" shouted Vriskath, drawing his sword. Emma gripped his left hand harder.

The marraenoloth stepped towards the unseen enemy and planted his feet. Run, Vriskath. Keep your charge safe.

Vriskath advanced a step, steadying himself against the wind. He held his sword at the ready.

On your honour, Vriskath! the marraenoloth's thought lanced into his mind. The skeletal fiend sounded almost frantic.

The tiefling gave the boatman a despairing look, and he answered with a bleak dimming of his eyes. That's it, Vriskath thought. He had to keep Emma safe. Sheathing his sword, he turned and ran with the girl into the windswept depths of Pandesmos.

* * *

Kalhazar the Vile, scourge of mortals, bane of life and harbinger of destruction among his many titles, sneered at the skeletal form of the marraenoloth before him. His sword was lighter in his hand than ever, and only vaguely did he note the passage of his nycaloth subordinates from the opposite bank of the Styx. The ones who were snared and dragged into the depths of the infernal river by whatever it was that dwelt beneath the waters, those were the useless ones he did not care to have under his command. The cold, howling winds of Pandesmos tore at his robes, but Kalhazar did not care. He fixed his glowing, opalescent stare on the defiant boat fiend before him, and his disdainful laugh tore through the gales.

"Why stand, O infernal boatman? Why defy the will of one who is thy superior? Why shame thyself in defence of mortals?" He spat the word, his voice splitting the wind.

Why waste your breath when you can use your mind, glorious ultroloth? Did you expend yourself in that one thrust?

Insolence! The marraenoloth dared speak to him as such. Him! Kalhazar the Vile, reaper of countless souls, commander of still more, whose name brought fear into the hearts of demons! His eyes narrowed into flaming slits.

"Address me as such, wilt thou, boatman?" demanded Kalhazar, rending the shrieking zephyrs asunder. "Thy mind shall suffer!"

The marraenoloth crumpled to his knees, steadied himself and rose again, cold defiance in the burning red pits of his eyes. You are yet young, ultroloth.

"Young as the planes themselves! Thy will be shattered, nameless one! May thy next form know its place!"

Again the marraenoloth fell and rose, the light of his eyes now searing through the wind-battered darkness. I am far older than you, ultroloth. I know of things that would drive you mad. I care not for your petty tricks of the mind, for age has brought upon me wisdom enough to manifest my will, and it is my will that you do not pursue those mortals.

"Nameless! Thy will is nothing to me! See how thy body falls, nameless one!"

But the marraenoloth did not fall. The nycaloths shrank back into their wings as the skeletal boatman's eyes blazed. Nameless? I am Zalsharkhan the Twice-Betrayed, yet here I stand, and here I scorn thy name, ultroloth! His thought shrieked above the winds, and Kalhazar's black heart writhed for but a moment.

"Thy defiance brings thy destruction, filth!"

Their minds clashed then, the dreadful power of young Kalhazar's and the tempered steel of Zalsharkhan's. The cavern shrieked even as the wind stopped. Kalhazar buckled under the measured strength of the marraenoloth. This could not be! An ultroloth could never be bested by a marraenoloth! Kalhazar disengaged his mind and rushed forward with his sword. Age does not temper flesh, he knew.

Zalsharkhan blasted at the ultroloth's path, rending great gashes into the rock with the force of his will alone. Kalhazar leapt over each blast, speeding for the skeletal daemon through the air of Pandesmos, which seemed to be still only for the sake of one battle. He lunged, and his blade slipped easily into the marraenoloth's robe. It ground to a halt. His iridescent glare met with the taller marraenoloth's, whose eyes burned in the emotionless skull of his face as he wrenched the blade aside with one hand, the other thrusting upwards to strike Kalhazar.

The ultroloth leaped to the side to avoid the blow, and caught his sword as he skidded to a halt before leaping at the marraenoloth once more. The boatman took his sword in hand once more, and again flung both weapon and wielder towards the Styx, where terrified nycaloths huddled in their wings like grotesque gargoyles on the shore.

Once more did Kalhazar lunge at Zalsharkhan, and the attack was swift. The blade struck home into the flesh that no longer existed, and the skeletal daemon trapped him close, forcing their eyes to meet as he stumbled backwards into the Styx.

Zalsharkhan's mind tore at Kalhazar's, and the older daemon forced all his power as a lance into the ultroloth, boring into the seething mass of power with a [bleep]e of unspeakable knowledge and memories. Kalhazar's mind howled in pain as it was ripped asunder, lashing out like a wild beast at the nycaloths, who were slain by that single outburst of power from their commander.

The blaze banked in Zalsharkhan's eyes as his arms relaxed and he slid from the ultroloth's sword into the river. The last embers in his sockets were glad as he sank into the memory-draining waters of the Styx. For him, it had been a long eternity, and it was time to begin anew.

For Kalhazar on the bank, it was victory. He did not realise the price until the shrieking winds of madness returned. His mind cleared, and nothing was left in the marraenoloth's wake but tatters. He sank to his knees, his sword clattering out of his hand onto the rocky cavern floor. Nothing in his mind but shreds of sanity, nothing to hold them together. The fire of power rekindled once more, and those shreds were burned away.

Kalhazar took his sword and stood, opal eyes gleaming with madness. He did not even notice the bodies of the nycaloths about him as he thre his head back in laughter. His laughter clawed through the wind.

* * *

Vriskath ran on.

This is a very good story.

I think i'll read this through to the end :D

CHAPTER NINE: Insanity's End

The Madhouse was one of the few places in the infinite caverns of Pandemonium where the shrieking winds that tore through the plane could be avoided. Vriskath had taken the plugs out of his ears, and Emma had done likewise as they entered the sprawling city, built within a huge spherical cavern and lining all its walls, floors and ceilings - which were all the same thing; the usage of the terms were more for comfort and were wholly dependent on individual perspective, though naming one side of the city the "ceiling" when mere minutes ago it was the "floor" only lessened the confusion about the design of the place. It had taken both of them a while to become used to Pandemonium's gravity, which treated the nearest surface as the floor, and once they had accustomed themselves, they had found travel much easier as they were no longer as disoriented when gales would send them reeling to the walls which would then become the floor. Smaller tunnels became their highways, allowing them to use the tiny space which nullified the walls' gravity to shoot through at incredible speeds. They had reached the Madhouse sooner than Vriskath had expected to, though time was not much of a certainty in the dark caverns.

Emma had been relieved at entering the Bleaker city, having light again to see by and having full use of her voice and hearing, all things denied her by the pitch-black, shrieking tunnels. Now, too, there was the hope of finding the portal that would take them away from this awful place.

Vriskath accompanied her through dim, quiet streets, led by a withered old githzerai Bleaker who had been assigned to guide them through the city to their portal. The old, sallow-skinned man at first reminded Vriskath of Zegonz from the Styx Oarsman in Sigil, though a few minutes of walking behind him dispelled that resemblance. He had not even introduced himself, being silent for the entire trip. The only sounds Vriskath could hear were soft, muffled sobs from within some of the windows of the buildings they passed, and the distant howl of Pandemonium's winds.

"Why are they crying?" Emma asked as they passed another building whose occupant was weeping.

Vriskath shrugged. "They're Bleakers. It's what they do." Seeing that the answer was inadequate for her, he added, "Well, their faction's screed revolves around this idea that there's no point to anything. A lot of 'em spend their lives caring for other people 'cause it gives 'em a purpose. Attendin' to other people's needs, more like, 'cause they ain't supposed ta care about anythin'. After a while, they slip into somethin' like depression, and they shut 'emselves away. Next thing ye know, they've gone barmy and start talkin' all sorts o' things, and then they get locked away by their fellow Bleakers into an asylum, usually th' Gatehouse in Sigil, but here as well. Then th' younger 'uns look after th' ones who've lost their minds, and th' cycle continues."

Emma said nothing but frowned.

"It is sad, I know," said a raspy voice ahead of them. It was the old githzerai. "But there is no point to our own lives anyway, so we try to lessen the pain of others who do not know or no longer know that their existence is meaningless."

"That's not a very good way of looking at things," said Emma. "They're still sad, you know. Listen to them. They're crying."

"They are no longer sad or unhappy. They just are."

"They're sad. I can feel it. How can you be sure that they aren't?"

"Because it is what we believe," replied the Bleaker before becoming silent once more.

"Leave 'em be," said Vriskath. "They believe what they believe, and ye believe what ye believe. An' they do take care o' the others, 'cause no-one else'll take 'em in. They don't even get any thanks fer their effort, but they do it anyway until it's their turn ta sit in a cell and waste away, 'cause it ain't like there's any point ta doin' anythin' else."

Emma bit her lip, and was quiet as she ran the ideas through her mind. The streets of the Madhouse were quiet, and the wind sighed through them like the ghost of something which was mighty once before. They took a turn, and Emma turned to Vriskath once more. "You were supposed to kill my father, weren't you?" Her tone was even, and her eyes did not show any anger.

Vriskath was taken aback by the directness as well as the fact that she knew. "Who told ye? Or how'd ye find out?"

"I... heard it. From you. Well, your thoughts."

Damn. "Ye read minds? Ye never told me that before. Why'd ye hide it?"

"We lived in Acheron, remember," she said, "and it isn't a good thing to be different. As for not telling you, well, I didn't think you needed to know. I needed time to think things over as well, especially after I found out why you came to us in the first place. Don't worry about explaining, I know your reasons."

Vriskath bit his lip.

"Don't feel guilty. You wouldn't do it for one reason or another, and I'm thankful for that. It's very noble."

"Don't worry about it, I guess," he said finally. "Just... I'm not comfortable about anyone lookin' into my head, so can ye tell me when ye're doin' it? So I know, I mean."

Emma laughed, such an alien sound to this place that it echoed through the entire cavern in crisp, sweet notes. "Of course not, Vriskath! That would take the fun out of it! By the way, some of your thoughts are very flattering."

Vriskath blushed. Their guide was silent.

* * *

The Arborean portal was a door on one side of a large, gloomy plaza. It was a simple wooden affair, with a pitted stone archway carved with simple floral designs. An elf used to live there, said their guide, but he disappeared one day without anyone ever finding out where he went. Shortly after, the attendants of the Madhouse discovered that the door was a portal, with the key being a single joyful thought. For obvious reasons, nobody had activated it for a long time. The attendants gave the door a wide berth most of the time, seeing as there was no point in going there.

There was, however, a robed and hooded figure in the doorway, watching them approach. For one reason or another, whoever or whatever it was made Vriskath very uneasy. His skin [puncture]ed uncomfortably, and he found his hand going to the hilt of his sword without even knowing why. Emma next to him seemed to tense as well, though their guide was the same as ever, stooped and silent.

The figure in the robe laughed, a manic cackle that tore into Vriskath's mind and left harsh echoes hanging in the air. It was suddenly becoming very cold, though there was no trace of a wind. Emma gripped his arm, and her hand felt clammy. Their guide stopped before the figure.

"These people wish to pass through," said their guide in his raspy voice. "Please step out of the doorway so they can use it."

The figure laughed in reply. A chill passed through Vriskath's spine, and Emma's grip tightened. "No," said a voice from within the hood. The figure laughed again.

"I insist," said their guide, "please allow them to pass."

The robed figure giggled, and suddenly Vriskath found himself pushing Emma aside and to the flagstones as a wave of force tore through the air from the thing within the hood. He looked up to see their guide slump to the ground in a heap, his withered old head crushed to a pulp. Emma screamed and scrambled away. Vriskath leapt to his feet and readied himself as the robed figure drew a sword from within the folds of his garment. The thing laughed again as it stepped over the dead githzerai.

"Who are ye? What are ye?" Vriskath demanded. "Why're ye doin' this?"

The thing replied with a deeper laugh. "I am Kalhazar. Thy friend the boatman is dead. Thy friend the boatman is dead. This woman's mind, I shall feast upon. Feast upon." He lowered his hood.

Ultroloth. Damn. "Ye won't get her. She'll get ta where she's goin' no matter what."

"On the contrary!" giggled Kalhazar, advancing. "Contrary!"

The ultroloth pounced, and Vriskath stepped left, slipping his blade out of its sheathe as Kalhazar passed him. The yugoloth dodged with alarming speed, stopping mid stride and flipping over Vriskath's head with a rustle of robes. The tiefling spun, drawing up his blade and barely blocking a cut that would have severed his leg. He disengaged and stepped back, blade at the ready. The yugoloth pressed the attack once more, lunging at his abdomen. He parried it upwards and riposted with both hands on the hilt. The daemon snapped his sword back, forcing Vriskath's blade down before sliding along the fort̮̩̉̉ with a thrust at the tiefling's right shoulder. Vriskath ducked and leaned left as the sword flicked sideways to take his head off, and sent the ultroloth reeling with a snap kick to the chest. He leapt to his feet and readied himself again. Emma was standing beside the doorway.

"Get yerself outta here!" he called to her. "I'll follow ye if I can - ye know th' key, go!"

"But," she stammered, "I can't leave you here!"

"Go! I'll follow ye!"

"No!"

Vriskath's reply was cut off by the ultroloth's renewed offensive, forcing him to parry and disengage. Suddenly, a blast of force slammed into him, sending him sprawling across the flagstones, his sword clattering to a halt beside him. Grabbing the hilt and rolling to his feet, he shouted, "Do it! Now!" before leaping aside and attempting a slash at the ultroloth, who ducked under his blade and lunged. He sidestepped a beat too late, and the daemon's blade drew a burning line of pain along his side. He stumbled backwards, drawing in a hissed breath as blood seeped out of the cut. A green light flashed behind him for a moment, and he smiled. The girl had gone.

"How dare you deny me?" shrieked the ultroloth, opal eyes blazing. "Deny me my prize!"

Vriskath grimaced with pain and sheathed his blade. He readied himself as the ultroloth advanced, then lashed out, his blade sliding out of its scabbard with ease and whistling through the air towards Kalhazar. The daemon ducked under the attack once more, and Vriskath spun with his blade, catching the ultroloth in the face with a boot before facing him once more and advancing with a lunge, forcing the grounded yugoloth to roll to the side before leaping to his feet and making a counterattack. Vriskath dodged the blow with ease and flicked his blade upwards and to the right, rending flesh from the ultroloth's chest. He stepped back and took his blade left, parrying a clumsy attack and riposting, taking the yugoloth in the arm before being hurled backward by another blast of force.

"Surrender, mortal!" cackled Kalhazar. "Surrender!" His eyes blazed.

Vriskath said nothing and attacked once more, feinting with a thrust left and disengaging as Kalhazar moved to parry, then slashing at the exposed arm. The daemon shrieked in pain and his eyes burned with rage as his arm fell to the flagstones and his sword clattered away. His black blood oozed out of the stump and hissed on the stones, erupting in puffs of smoke as it struck the cold ground.

Vriskath pressed his advantage as the daemon's eyes blazed with painful intensity, striking home from right shoulder to left hip, taking the ultroloth apart as it unleashed its entire mind on him. The tiefling's vision burned red and his ears were filled with the sound of a thousand mouths crying in pain. His mind burned with the heat of a Baatezu furnace, and he barely registered striking the cold flagstones as he slipped into unconsciousness.

EPILOGUE: Closing Words

That was nine cycles ago. I have had a lot of time since to travel and learn about the things that had led to the present. Arborea is a pleasant place as my father had promised, though it did, by its very nature, instill a wanderlust and a desire to experience everything that life has to offer. It only made sense to join the Society of Sensation. The Sensates provided all of its members with access to all the knowledge the faction had ever shared within itself - four centuries of stories and experiences from across the planes. They had been forced to relocate to Arborea after the Faction War in Sigil two cycles ago, and while organisation was still mostly improvised since the death of Erin Montgomery Darkflame, the Sensates nevertheless retained their love of life. I did, too.

Ar'sith'kla was the first memory I shared with the faction. It was where I had grown up and where I had lived until the day he bore me away from it. I still remembered the smell and sound of the place, with its forges constantly at work and battles ringing in the distance. It was disciplined, tyrannical and constantly at war - everything that Arborea wasn't. It was also home. It would always be home to me, no matter how much I favour the glades of the Eladrin's realms.

Avernus, I could barely remember. I had been tired through our entire journey, and he always kept my attention focused on our next destination. The most distinct memory I had of Baator's first was that fire storm that he had shown to me before we left. It was beautiful in the way that rain or fire are beautiful, though it was both and neither at the same time. Then we had hidden under the ridge by the Styx as we waited for the fiends to pass.

And then there was the journey on boat. The oarsman I knew could hear my thoughts as easily as I heard its, and we spoke at length without him ever noticing. I listened to his thoughts as well. I could not have said at that time for certain what I thought about him, what he was doing or his motives. I was quiet for that entire trip, though Zalsharkhan and I spoke regularly. The marraenoloth did have uncharacteristic emotion, and most of it was from regret or disappointment at its fall from grace. It had aspired for greatness as all of its kind does, though its nature was tempered by something else - some aspect of its id which struggled against the ego, telling it that there was more to the planes than just power, and over time it had shaped the daemon's psyche as a blacksmith tempers the edges on a blade. The marraenoloth's mind was far different to the other one's - Kalhazar.

The ultroloth I had not fully encountered until we had met it as it barred the Arborean gate. Even before that, though, I had forgiven him for what he did, for in the ultroloth's mind I had seen it all. My father had signed a deal with the Baatezu for my protection, even though he knew that it would mean exile to Avalas. He had settled in Ar'sith'kla for that same reason. Mother had agreed with him, though reluctantly even as she was the one who had told him of her vision. She had known that Kalhazar would come for me, and only under the Baatezu's contract would we be safe from the ultroloth. She knew that the greatest danger to me would be a yugoloth, and my final salvation would be at the hands of another fiend. She had thought that this meant the Baatezu, and while incorrect, she was not far off the mark. The demon nabassu, Ulmshans, delivered. My father was to die under his orders, for he had struck a deal with Kalhazar, what deal it was I would never know. In a loophole in the Baatezu contract, it would only apply with certainty for as long as a part of the signatory party lived, and mother had died already in a collision. If father had been removed, then the Baatezu were only obligated to protect me in word. As I knew, Ulmshans delivered, in the form of him. In a way, I had already been saved by fiends, firstly the Baatezu, then nabassu, followed by the marraenoloth, and lastly, him. Kalhazar would have gained power from me; how, I would not know. All I know is that he had prevented the ultroloth from doing so.

Belief shapes the planes. He told me that in the Madhouse, and Zalsharkhan had mentioned it in passing. The marraenoloth believed that it could remove itself from the chains of its yugoloth nature, and it had succeeded. It sank into the Styx as its final deed, and I do not doubt that it would take countless millenia before it would once again reach the same height of power it had had, if it yet retained the id which had shaped it. I had heard the diminuendo scream of its mind as it burst through Kalhazar's, and the ultroloth's memories were not denied for me as they had been for itself. It had believed that its greatest strength was in its raw, unbridled power, and that was true. Out on the planes, belief shapes reality if it is strong enough. My father had believed that I would be protected even with the Baatezu's loophole. He made sure of that, and made my father's belief truth.

I knew him better than he knew himself. He would claim to be a mercenary with a convoluted sense of honour and duty, though in truth he was a simple man with a good heart. He never once thought of a reward for helping me, and in his memories he had never cared about wealth so long as he could help someone. That was the reward in itself, his id told his ego. He never admitted it, though he never denied it. It was probably the reason why he avoided the wasting sickness. It could not play on his desires and fears to pull him into its despairing embrace, because his id fought it while the ego remained silent. He would only claim that he had simply served in the War for far too long. He knew that once he had served, he would always fight on one side or the other of the War, and nothing could change that. Yet he still wished for redemption. He knew that he had done a lot of things that he could not forgive himself for. I could hear him praying quietly in the back of his mind to whatever powers would listen, almost constantly. He did not want to die with the guilt he bore, alone in the dark when his time came. He always wanted that one thing - forgiveness. Nothing ever had the power to give it to him but himself, and the idea never once crossed his mind. Always looking outwards, to someone else for help, because he did not believe that he had any power over what he had done. I wished that I could give it to him.

I journeyed to Sigil, City of Doors a few cycles ago, and found my way to his house. He had wanted me to have something inside, a dusty old box filled with his wealth. He knew that it would not buy him forgiveness. He told himself that it would afford him a better house, and that his only reason for seeking out Ulmshans was to secure more wealth for himself. He did not need that. What he needed was an excuse to wander the planes for a while longer, to justify to himself why he was leaving all his wealth behind. He never cared for the wealth. What he wanted were answers to questions that he would not ask. So he helped me, and I never once thanked him for it. I thanked him once for sparing my father's life, but never for helping me to where I am today.

I found his sword in the Madhouse last cycle. It was in the square where the portal was, and I was guided there by another Bleaker, a human this time. The Madhouse never changed its routine. Still caring for the ones who had cared for the ones before them, then lapsing into their melancholy for the next generation to care for them. The square had not changed, either. The sword was there. He wasn't. Nobody whom I had aksed ever knew what happened to him.

I know you're out there, somewhere. You still want to find answers to your questions, and you still want to find forgiveness. You will keep searching, but you will never find them until you look inside yourself and believe that you can help yourself. Belief shapes reality out here - you told me that yourself.

When you've done that... come back to me. I will care for you.

- Emma

The tiefling slipped the page back into the blank book. He had found it in atop a small table in a house in the Lower Ward. He sat in the quiet cavern in Pandesmos, one with the stone floor torn as if by some immense plough and on the banks of the Styx.

That was where it all began, wasn't it? That house... No. He didn't know. But the house had seemed so familiar, and that note, that letter... whatever it was. It was all so familiar, but he could not place it.

He scratched a jackal ear. The wind didn't blow in this cavern anymore. That was strange, the Bleakers said, and they did not see the point of it. The wind had stopped once before in this cavern, then returned for only a few minutes before dying away entirely. They said that that was thirty cycles ago. Something had happened here. It was all so familiar.

She cared, didn't she? Told you she wouldn't leave you... No. Who was she, exactly? She wrote that letter or message, but who was she? He only knew her name. Was it even meant for him? He didn't know.

The Styx rippled. A skull grinned up at him.

Look, he's smiling. He finally did it, huh? You thought the old 'loth would never do it. 'Loth? He didn't know any yugoloths. He scratched absently at a jackal ear and licked his fangs. He didn't recognise the skull at all as it peered up from the murky depths. It used to have red light in its eyes. He didn't know that.

Maybe you should find her. She might have meant for you to find it, after all. You'll know where to go. No he didn't. He didn't even know if the girl even existed. He glanced at the empty scabbard on the ground beside him. Why did he have that? He didn't remember ever having a weapon of any kind.

The Styx rippled.

Or, you know, you could just sink yourself in there. You're almost two centuries old. Your time's up anyway. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe he wasn't supposed to die yet. That was strange. He barely remembered the past few years, let alone his entire life.

He looked over the page once more, flipped it over. Watch the Spire, cutter. Strange he hadn't noticed that. It was written in larger letters, too. Spire? What did that have to do with the message? Spire? Spine? Spine... the empty book? He turned it over and read the spine.

Blood Warrior

Strange. The book was empty. Probably one of those things that weren't supposed to be read, or just weren't written at all. Maybe it was a story that was yet to be written, reserving itself a spot in reality just in case. Yes, that made a little more sense. Whatever.

He sighed, and threw the book into the water. It sank heavily. He folded the message, and threw it in as well. It floated for a while, then disappeared under the water. The empty scabbard? Useless. Toss it in. Absently, he scratched an ear. You know, it might not be too bad of an idea to die now. It has been almost two centuries. Too much time to keep track of. He couldn't remember a damn thing, anyway.

Presently, a jackal-eared tiefling sank into the depths of the Styx in a windless cavern in Pandesmos.

Well, you know she was always there for you, even in spirit.

Who?

You know... her...

I can't remember.

That usually happens when you take a dip into the Styx.

Hey, a question before I go?

Yeah, alright. One.

Who am I?

A Blood Warrior.

Another question?

Alright.

What's that?

Damned if I know. You never wrote the book.

~ Fin.