09-29-2017, 02:10 PM
Two weeks had passed in the foul depths.
In that time, the man had started to feel some of his old strength returning to him. His bones had less aches, and his muscles no longer felt permanently strained and sore. His saviors were not the purest people he had ever met, despite their almost celestial appearance. Escapees from one of the pits on the Central Hellscape, they had taken to guising themselves as angels to strike terror into their adversaries.
Far from warriors of the Light, the tales they had accounted to the paladin in his time with them were more akin to guerilla war. They would strike out fast and quick—murdering who they could and stealing what they could carry before they encountered stronger resistance. When he asked why they had been banished to this place, none of them would look him in the eye and offer him a solid explanation. Knowing that he owed them his freedom, the paladin didn’t push the issue, but it simmered at the back of his mind with every step he took with the small group.
Had this all taken place in the world ‘up above’ or the world from which he had been stolen, Argento would have labeled them vagrants and highwaymen. Down here in the Underverse, they were slaughtering demons and devils and turning their own weapons and possession against them. More importantly, they claimed to have connections to Tyrael.
His time in the Omniverse had started long after the sacrifice that Tyrael had made to seal this wretched realm off from the burgeoning societies of the surface. For that, Tyrael was quite possibly the only individual in the entire Omniverse who came close to deification. Who else would make that ultimate sacrifice? King Aragorn had been all-too willing to let Tyrael go it alone in this realm, and the society of Coruscant operated at the behest of one man and one man alone.
Of course, Argento’s priority upon realizing the affiliation of these glorified highwaymen was to find Tyrael. The paladin knew from his time in the gladiator arenas that—angel or no angel—Tyrael knew secrets about the Underverse. Could the living legend of Camelot have a backdoor from the Underverse?
Perhaps a backdoor out of the entire Omniverse? Argento doubted that the mysterious entity had that much power, but at this point, he would cling to any dreams.
After all, his real dreams were little more than nightmarish visions of the world he had left behind upon entering the Omniverse. He tried to rest, but the images came to him anytime he closed his eyes. Mostly in fragments and shadows, but sometimes, they were as clear to him as if he was reliving them.
***
For now, it seemed as if they were finally near the end of their mission.
After dealing with Darius, the trio had managed to make the final steep climb. Just as the tracker had told them, the journey was less arduous from that point forward. After a small plateau and a somewhat cramped passage through a gully, they emerged on another flat stretch.
With a smile, Argento clasped a hand around the religious icon that hung from his neck. Very soon, he would be able to deliver swift and furious justice upon the blackguards and monsters who had been kidnapping and murdering people. Once they had slain these vile creatures and the villain who led them, the paladin would be able to return to what remained of his family. Sweet, beautiful Saury would have to be the center of his world now—her and the church he held so dear to his heart.
“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” Ravik muttered as the trio turned to face yet another tunnel entrance.
“Aye,” Tordeck spat as he shuffled forward and glanced into the tunnel. “You can’t smell ‘em in there?” He asked as he glanced to the paler of his two human companions. When Ravik shrugged his shoulders, the dwarf let out a chuckle and smacked the crossbowman on the back. “Well I do! They’re stinky bastards, the lot of them…”
“Like you’re one to talk.”
Although Argento wasn’t sure he sensed much humor in Ravik’s tone, Tordeck must have, because the stout barbarian let out a heavy laugh and gave his companion another jarring thwack on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, lad! Let’s kill us some fucking orcs!”
Before the trio could progress into the tunnel, the paladin and the cloaked man heard a rustling of stone behind them. Both spun on their heels to see another triumvirate emerging onto the open plateau from the same tunnel they’d exited. While the two elven warriors—one wrapped in heavy plate and the other in a mixture of cloth and leathers—didn’t perturb Argento, the giant-sized orc behind them caused him to reach for his hammer. Before he could draw the weapon, the lightly armored elf lifted his hands and took a few steps forward.
“We’re not here to fight,” he said with a voice that sounded strange by elven standards. “We seek only the rogue orcs and the slaver they follow.” Yes, the elf definitely had a bizarre accent that the paladin had never heard during his sparse dealings with the reclusive species. Despite the elf’s remarks, the orc who stood behind him wasn’t just some random outcast warrior. The seven-foot mountain of corded green muscles had all the trappings and ceremonial marks of a Tribal Champion.
“Beg pardon,” Argento muttered, his gauntleted fist still clenched around the handle of the hammer. “The last Orc Champion we encountered tried to tear our innards out before we put an end to his tyranny.”
*
At the man’s remarks, Damien turned and glanced at Dengar, who seemed unaffected by the news. Instead, the orc pushed passed the monk and glanced down into the eyes of the knight.
“You did my people a great service by killing that traitor.” Dengar declared, his eyes never moving from the gaze of the human. “While I would have wished to kill my betrayer personally, I am glad that he has met the fate he deserved.”
That news made the armored man relax a little. His grip dropped from his hammer as he glanced back at Damien and Quarion. “You have the same goals as us?”
“We’re here to put an end to Solomon,” Damien spoke as he walked forward to stand next to Dengar. For his part, Quarion remained in the backdrop—always the observer, never part of the scene. It was the role the soft-spoken elven cleric preferred in the majority of social interactions. “He tore apart Dengar’s tribe.”
At that moment, the smaller of the two humans spoke up. “Why are you here?”
There was something in the cloaked man’s voice that Damien didn’t appreciate. Distrust? “He kidnapped a family friend,” Damien said with a scowl. “I knew nothing of the man or orchish tribal politics, but when he took the child, he made this personal.” While he was playing up his frustration for effect, the remark wasn’t far from the truth. He hadn’t known his younger sibling, but that didn’t stop Damien from being frustrated that someone would attack an isolated swamp tribe.
“And the other elf?” The cloaked man asked. Before Damien could respond, he received something that gave some credence to the other group’s mildly mistrusting attitude. “You must beg our pardon, but the last person we ran into tried to drop us off the side of a cliff.” The remark made the stout dwarf, otherwise a silent participant in the conversation, let out a series of guttural laughs and clutch at his armor-encased stomach.
“And we sure showed that twat!” The dwarf cackled before smacking the pale-faced human on the back, much to the man’s clear irritation.
It was obvious to Damien that the trio before him was woven together through necessity, rather than the tight bonds of fellowship. “That is Quarion, my best friend. You must excuse him, he’s not very talkative.”
To prove that he wasn’t a mute, the cleric stepped forward and lifted a hand. In the process, he brushed away the cloth that covered the elvish religious iconography that adorned his pauldrons. To anyone but Damien, it would have seemed like nothing, but the cleric’s friend knew it as a carefully practiced motion. Quarion only displayed the emblems and insignias when he needed to ‘prove’ that he was an elven cleric to strangers. Much like the false face that Damien wore, the armor of his long-time friend was a carefully manufactured facade. “Hello.”
“An elven holy man?” The tall armored man replied, his eyes seeming to light up as he reached for something beneath his chestplate. He pulled out an ornamental piece at the end of his necklace—a logo of Saint Aureus, the human’s patron saint of righteousness, chivalry, and judgment. “It’s been too long since I’ve met someone who walks the ascetic path.” His attention turned to Damien. “What does this make you?”
Knowing that was his cue, Damien retrieved a small statuette from one of his pouches. It was an icon of the same god whose colors and elbems were emblazoned on Quarion’s usually concealed shoulder plates. “I am Damien, and I am but a humble monk,” Damien replied after returning the tiny piece of art to his pouch. Anytime he had to touch the little piece of bronze and recite that lie, he felt a little dirty, but he knew that his true god would understand.
The paladin smiled and smacked a hand against his chest. “I am Argento Camarinos, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I travel with the dwarf Tordeck and Ravik, our resident crossbowman.”
Damien glanced over at the cloaked man and wondered if ‘crossbowman’ was some sort of code. The monk had met many ranged experts in his days, and there weren’t many of them who wore heavy, concealing cloaks and hide their weapons where no one could see them before it was too late.
“Does the orc have a name?” Argento inquired, his attention moving back to Dengar, who continued to stare holes through him.
“Dengar.” The Orc Champion responded. “We must move quickly if we are to have the element of surprise against the stronghold.”
“Have you been up to these caves before?” Ravik interjected.
The orc grunted. “Aye. Solomon seized one of our ceremonial strongholds up in these peaks. It is from there that he tainted my tribe.”
Argento scowled heavily and drew his hammer. “We must move quickly, then.”
Before the man could leave them behind, Damien took a step forward and set a hand on his shoulder. “Wait… I have an idea.”
*
Solomon marched down the central aisle of the chapel. To his left and right, the pews were filled with his orcish thralls. They sat in silence, giving their prayers to the good work of the warlock who stood on the elevated platform at the head of the beautifully crafted chamber. Some of the orcs had mentioned this placed having been crafted by dwarves a few decades ago. Based on the skeletal remains the slaves had unearthed recently, the man believed the accounts.
Although he loathed all things, Solomon had to give the gruff, ground-dwellers a little credit for their skill with stone. Instead of the stain glass usually found in human houses of worship, the side walls of the chapel had large, ornate columns carved from the chamber walls. At the top of the columns were little ledges adorned with tiny guardrails and the remains of old sconces. Whatever use they’d served for the dwarves, the orcs didn’t understand.
The warrior paused a few yards from the front of the chapel. Aside from the warlock, the only other orc who wasn’t seated in prayer was his new second. Although Gark wasn’t that smart and lacked the powers of a true, christened Tribal Champion, he was strong and bullheaded. “How are preparations?” Solomon demanded before glancing down at the eyes embedded into Bauru’s blade. The sword knew that the time was almost here. Solomon could feel how eager and excited it was to see its plans realized before its very eyes.
“Good,” Gark responded after glancing at the warlock, who was deep into a series of incantations. “He start ceremony a few minutes ago… won’t be much longer.”
All of a sudden, a thunderous crash reverberated from the front of the complex. Aside from the chapel, the stronghold had about a dozen other chambers that provided space for sleeping, eating, storage, and relaxation for whoever was garrisoned. There was also a large library filled with old books in dead languages. While they did have a handful of slaves shackled inside one of the barracks, the noise had come from the entrance of the stronghold, not from off to the left. The clamor shook a few of the orcish members of the laity out of their prayers. A handful of them turned and glanced at Solomon with confusion on their faces.
At once, the man felt frustration and anxiety from Bauru.
Interlopers? They wouldn’t dare defy us.
In all his rage, Solomon wasn’t certain if the thought in his head was entirely his own, but he knew that the rage he felt was certainly born from his heart. Turning to Gark, he growled a command. “Take a handful of the warriors and figure out what that was. The ceremony mustn’t be interrupted. Go now!”
***
Solomon.
Argento had been chasing him for weeks by the time they had reached the summit of that mountain and discovered his lair. The others he had partnered with likewise sought the swordsman for their own reasons, and while the paladin had doubted the valor of Ravik and the two shifty-eyed elves, he had found a friend in the vulgar yet warmhearted dwarf Tordeck. Despite their flaws, they had been his companions on what had seemed as little more than a suicide mission.
The weary-eyed paladin had recounted much of the story to his new ‘traveling partners’—the false angels. From what he could gather about them, the oldest was his junior by at least a decade. Despite the tribulations they had endured, they still had that look in their eyes. A look that said ‘I can conquer the world.’ The paladin didn’t have the heart to tell them that they had experienced nothing of the Underverse. He found out within a week that all five of them had been rescued from the Hellscape within their first fortnight.
They know nothing of Hell.
Even so, they were his way to reach Tyrael. Only through gaining their trust could he acquire an audience with their patron.
Thus, Argento became a guerilla. His normal armor—a blend of plate and chainmail—became burden in quick fashion, and within the first few engagements, he found himself opting simply for the chain and a handful of lighter metal pieces covered regions that wouldn’t inhibit his movement or dexterity. Plate boots gave way for something like sandals, and the heavy gauntlets he so enjoyed were replaced by leathers. In a sense, he felt less like a warrior of the Sun and more like a hunter.
He never gave up the hammer, though. The Day’Suis, once he could properly wield the weapon again, continued as his instrument of justice. They offered their gladii and small, metal-adorned cudgels. At every turn, the paladin denied them. Just because the hammer looked heavy and unweighty to them did not make it so. After he started to feel less like a shadow of his former self, the Day’Suis was light in his hands.
There was no sunshine in Hell, but that didn’t mean Argento couldn’t shine bright.
In that time, the man had started to feel some of his old strength returning to him. His bones had less aches, and his muscles no longer felt permanently strained and sore. His saviors were not the purest people he had ever met, despite their almost celestial appearance. Escapees from one of the pits on the Central Hellscape, they had taken to guising themselves as angels to strike terror into their adversaries.
Far from warriors of the Light, the tales they had accounted to the paladin in his time with them were more akin to guerilla war. They would strike out fast and quick—murdering who they could and stealing what they could carry before they encountered stronger resistance. When he asked why they had been banished to this place, none of them would look him in the eye and offer him a solid explanation. Knowing that he owed them his freedom, the paladin didn’t push the issue, but it simmered at the back of his mind with every step he took with the small group.
Had this all taken place in the world ‘up above’ or the world from which he had been stolen, Argento would have labeled them vagrants and highwaymen. Down here in the Underverse, they were slaughtering demons and devils and turning their own weapons and possession against them. More importantly, they claimed to have connections to Tyrael.
His time in the Omniverse had started long after the sacrifice that Tyrael had made to seal this wretched realm off from the burgeoning societies of the surface. For that, Tyrael was quite possibly the only individual in the entire Omniverse who came close to deification. Who else would make that ultimate sacrifice? King Aragorn had been all-too willing to let Tyrael go it alone in this realm, and the society of Coruscant operated at the behest of one man and one man alone.
Of course, Argento’s priority upon realizing the affiliation of these glorified highwaymen was to find Tyrael. The paladin knew from his time in the gladiator arenas that—angel or no angel—Tyrael knew secrets about the Underverse. Could the living legend of Camelot have a backdoor from the Underverse?
Perhaps a backdoor out of the entire Omniverse? Argento doubted that the mysterious entity had that much power, but at this point, he would cling to any dreams.
After all, his real dreams were little more than nightmarish visions of the world he had left behind upon entering the Omniverse. He tried to rest, but the images came to him anytime he closed his eyes. Mostly in fragments and shadows, but sometimes, they were as clear to him as if he was reliving them.
***
For now, it seemed as if they were finally near the end of their mission.
After dealing with Darius, the trio had managed to make the final steep climb. Just as the tracker had told them, the journey was less arduous from that point forward. After a small plateau and a somewhat cramped passage through a gully, they emerged on another flat stretch.
With a smile, Argento clasped a hand around the religious icon that hung from his neck. Very soon, he would be able to deliver swift and furious justice upon the blackguards and monsters who had been kidnapping and murdering people. Once they had slain these vile creatures and the villain who led them, the paladin would be able to return to what remained of his family. Sweet, beautiful Saury would have to be the center of his world now—her and the church he held so dear to his heart.
“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” Ravik muttered as the trio turned to face yet another tunnel entrance.
“Aye,” Tordeck spat as he shuffled forward and glanced into the tunnel. “You can’t smell ‘em in there?” He asked as he glanced to the paler of his two human companions. When Ravik shrugged his shoulders, the dwarf let out a chuckle and smacked the crossbowman on the back. “Well I do! They’re stinky bastards, the lot of them…”
“Like you’re one to talk.”
Although Argento wasn’t sure he sensed much humor in Ravik’s tone, Tordeck must have, because the stout barbarian let out a heavy laugh and gave his companion another jarring thwack on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, lad! Let’s kill us some fucking orcs!”
Before the trio could progress into the tunnel, the paladin and the cloaked man heard a rustling of stone behind them. Both spun on their heels to see another triumvirate emerging onto the open plateau from the same tunnel they’d exited. While the two elven warriors—one wrapped in heavy plate and the other in a mixture of cloth and leathers—didn’t perturb Argento, the giant-sized orc behind them caused him to reach for his hammer. Before he could draw the weapon, the lightly armored elf lifted his hands and took a few steps forward.
“We’re not here to fight,” he said with a voice that sounded strange by elven standards. “We seek only the rogue orcs and the slaver they follow.” Yes, the elf definitely had a bizarre accent that the paladin had never heard during his sparse dealings with the reclusive species. Despite the elf’s remarks, the orc who stood behind him wasn’t just some random outcast warrior. The seven-foot mountain of corded green muscles had all the trappings and ceremonial marks of a Tribal Champion.
“Beg pardon,” Argento muttered, his gauntleted fist still clenched around the handle of the hammer. “The last Orc Champion we encountered tried to tear our innards out before we put an end to his tyranny.”
*
At the man’s remarks, Damien turned and glanced at Dengar, who seemed unaffected by the news. Instead, the orc pushed passed the monk and glanced down into the eyes of the knight.
“You did my people a great service by killing that traitor.” Dengar declared, his eyes never moving from the gaze of the human. “While I would have wished to kill my betrayer personally, I am glad that he has met the fate he deserved.”
That news made the armored man relax a little. His grip dropped from his hammer as he glanced back at Damien and Quarion. “You have the same goals as us?”
“We’re here to put an end to Solomon,” Damien spoke as he walked forward to stand next to Dengar. For his part, Quarion remained in the backdrop—always the observer, never part of the scene. It was the role the soft-spoken elven cleric preferred in the majority of social interactions. “He tore apart Dengar’s tribe.”
At that moment, the smaller of the two humans spoke up. “Why are you here?”
There was something in the cloaked man’s voice that Damien didn’t appreciate. Distrust? “He kidnapped a family friend,” Damien said with a scowl. “I knew nothing of the man or orchish tribal politics, but when he took the child, he made this personal.” While he was playing up his frustration for effect, the remark wasn’t far from the truth. He hadn’t known his younger sibling, but that didn’t stop Damien from being frustrated that someone would attack an isolated swamp tribe.
“And the other elf?” The cloaked man asked. Before Damien could respond, he received something that gave some credence to the other group’s mildly mistrusting attitude. “You must beg our pardon, but the last person we ran into tried to drop us off the side of a cliff.” The remark made the stout dwarf, otherwise a silent participant in the conversation, let out a series of guttural laughs and clutch at his armor-encased stomach.
“And we sure showed that twat!” The dwarf cackled before smacking the pale-faced human on the back, much to the man’s clear irritation.
It was obvious to Damien that the trio before him was woven together through necessity, rather than the tight bonds of fellowship. “That is Quarion, my best friend. You must excuse him, he’s not very talkative.”
To prove that he wasn’t a mute, the cleric stepped forward and lifted a hand. In the process, he brushed away the cloth that covered the elvish religious iconography that adorned his pauldrons. To anyone but Damien, it would have seemed like nothing, but the cleric’s friend knew it as a carefully practiced motion. Quarion only displayed the emblems and insignias when he needed to ‘prove’ that he was an elven cleric to strangers. Much like the false face that Damien wore, the armor of his long-time friend was a carefully manufactured facade. “Hello.”
“An elven holy man?” The tall armored man replied, his eyes seeming to light up as he reached for something beneath his chestplate. He pulled out an ornamental piece at the end of his necklace—a logo of Saint Aureus, the human’s patron saint of righteousness, chivalry, and judgment. “It’s been too long since I’ve met someone who walks the ascetic path.” His attention turned to Damien. “What does this make you?”
Knowing that was his cue, Damien retrieved a small statuette from one of his pouches. It was an icon of the same god whose colors and elbems were emblazoned on Quarion’s usually concealed shoulder plates. “I am Damien, and I am but a humble monk,” Damien replied after returning the tiny piece of art to his pouch. Anytime he had to touch the little piece of bronze and recite that lie, he felt a little dirty, but he knew that his true god would understand.
The paladin smiled and smacked a hand against his chest. “I am Argento Camarinos, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I travel with the dwarf Tordeck and Ravik, our resident crossbowman.”
Damien glanced over at the cloaked man and wondered if ‘crossbowman’ was some sort of code. The monk had met many ranged experts in his days, and there weren’t many of them who wore heavy, concealing cloaks and hide their weapons where no one could see them before it was too late.
“Does the orc have a name?” Argento inquired, his attention moving back to Dengar, who continued to stare holes through him.
“Dengar.” The Orc Champion responded. “We must move quickly if we are to have the element of surprise against the stronghold.”
“Have you been up to these caves before?” Ravik interjected.
The orc grunted. “Aye. Solomon seized one of our ceremonial strongholds up in these peaks. It is from there that he tainted my tribe.”
Argento scowled heavily and drew his hammer. “We must move quickly, then.”
Before the man could leave them behind, Damien took a step forward and set a hand on his shoulder. “Wait… I have an idea.”
*
Solomon marched down the central aisle of the chapel. To his left and right, the pews were filled with his orcish thralls. They sat in silence, giving their prayers to the good work of the warlock who stood on the elevated platform at the head of the beautifully crafted chamber. Some of the orcs had mentioned this placed having been crafted by dwarves a few decades ago. Based on the skeletal remains the slaves had unearthed recently, the man believed the accounts.
Although he loathed all things, Solomon had to give the gruff, ground-dwellers a little credit for their skill with stone. Instead of the stain glass usually found in human houses of worship, the side walls of the chapel had large, ornate columns carved from the chamber walls. At the top of the columns were little ledges adorned with tiny guardrails and the remains of old sconces. Whatever use they’d served for the dwarves, the orcs didn’t understand.
The warrior paused a few yards from the front of the chapel. Aside from the warlock, the only other orc who wasn’t seated in prayer was his new second. Although Gark wasn’t that smart and lacked the powers of a true, christened Tribal Champion, he was strong and bullheaded. “How are preparations?” Solomon demanded before glancing down at the eyes embedded into Bauru’s blade. The sword knew that the time was almost here. Solomon could feel how eager and excited it was to see its plans realized before its very eyes.
“Good,” Gark responded after glancing at the warlock, who was deep into a series of incantations. “He start ceremony a few minutes ago… won’t be much longer.”
All of a sudden, a thunderous crash reverberated from the front of the complex. Aside from the chapel, the stronghold had about a dozen other chambers that provided space for sleeping, eating, storage, and relaxation for whoever was garrisoned. There was also a large library filled with old books in dead languages. While they did have a handful of slaves shackled inside one of the barracks, the noise had come from the entrance of the stronghold, not from off to the left. The clamor shook a few of the orcish members of the laity out of their prayers. A handful of them turned and glanced at Solomon with confusion on their faces.
At once, the man felt frustration and anxiety from Bauru.
Interlopers? They wouldn’t dare defy us.
In all his rage, Solomon wasn’t certain if the thought in his head was entirely his own, but he knew that the rage he felt was certainly born from his heart. Turning to Gark, he growled a command. “Take a handful of the warriors and figure out what that was. The ceremony mustn’t be interrupted. Go now!”
***
Solomon.
Argento had been chasing him for weeks by the time they had reached the summit of that mountain and discovered his lair. The others he had partnered with likewise sought the swordsman for their own reasons, and while the paladin had doubted the valor of Ravik and the two shifty-eyed elves, he had found a friend in the vulgar yet warmhearted dwarf Tordeck. Despite their flaws, they had been his companions on what had seemed as little more than a suicide mission.
The weary-eyed paladin had recounted much of the story to his new ‘traveling partners’—the false angels. From what he could gather about them, the oldest was his junior by at least a decade. Despite the tribulations they had endured, they still had that look in their eyes. A look that said ‘I can conquer the world.’ The paladin didn’t have the heart to tell them that they had experienced nothing of the Underverse. He found out within a week that all five of them had been rescued from the Hellscape within their first fortnight.
They know nothing of Hell.
Even so, they were his way to reach Tyrael. Only through gaining their trust could he acquire an audience with their patron.
Thus, Argento became a guerilla. His normal armor—a blend of plate and chainmail—became burden in quick fashion, and within the first few engagements, he found himself opting simply for the chain and a handful of lighter metal pieces covered regions that wouldn’t inhibit his movement or dexterity. Plate boots gave way for something like sandals, and the heavy gauntlets he so enjoyed were replaced by leathers. In a sense, he felt less like a warrior of the Sun and more like a hunter.
He never gave up the hammer, though. The Day’Suis, once he could properly wield the weapon again, continued as his instrument of justice. They offered their gladii and small, metal-adorned cudgels. At every turn, the paladin denied them. Just because the hammer looked heavy and unweighty to them did not make it so. After he started to feel less like a shadow of his former self, the Day’Suis was light in his hands.
There was no sunshine in Hell, but that didn’t mean Argento couldn’t shine bright.