07-13-2017, 09:17 AM
The memories faded as a bucket of blood and viscera was dumped over the man’s head, cascading over his grimy form and soaking into the sand beneath him.
“Get up, you dog.”
A long time ago, the paladin had lived a beautiful life. A wife. Two beautiful young daughters. A church that he loved as much as his family. The world he found himself in was a culmination of the darkness which had permeated the last few weeks of his life.
Yes, he was dead. Although his blood pumped and his lungs worked, Argento knew that the Omniverse was a realm of the fallen. And this – the Underverse – was the ultimate penance for those who had truly fallen from grace.
Argento had barely clambered to his feet when the collar clamped around his neck. A moment later, he was being dragged on his hands and knees across the rough sand floor of the bloodworks and up the ramp. Fresh blood trickled from his body as the unrepaired surfaces tore apart his flesh. As the gate creaked open, he was thrown forward, his form rolling like a desiccated log beneath the rampart and into the loud, harsh realm of the pit. The noises that had wafted down from the tunnel ramp now assailed his senses—a horde of demons shrieking for his blood.
They would receive it. May not on this day, but their nigh-orgasmic joy at seeing his collapse would be within the week. They had pushed Argento hard since ‘recollecting’ him from the hellscape. This was his fourth match in the span of two days.
His left foot had swollen, but the paladin managed to get it underneath his body. Pushing up from the ground, he held out his hands and cleared his thoughts. The Sun had left him, and the residual powers he had were on the wane. Yet, he still had enough power to summon the Day’suis, and in a frail blink of light, the warhammer manifested in his mangled fists.
It was heavy, but the muscle memory remained. He held it to his chest—a dying link to a man he had once been.
On the other side of the colosseum pit, a black-skinned elf snickered. The drow saw weakness in this unshaven human who looked as if he had been pulled off the streets of Darkshire, Minas Tirith, or some other hovel of humanity. Discarding its racial disposition toward subterfuge and chicanery, the drow marched across the pits to the delight of the slobbering crowd of sociopaths and fel beasts. Reaching to its belt, it plucked out a dagger and sent it spinning toward the disheveled paladin.
Eying the projectile, Argento feigned a stagger and collapsed. The knife soared over his head, but the moment was seized upon as weakness by the drow. The dark elf rushed forward, clenching a curved dagger in its hand. It went so far as to leap into the air, hoping to dispatch the human in a spectacle that brought some in the crowd to their feet, hoping to watch the splash of gore as the blade plunged down into Argento’s spine.
Instead, the paladin—body numbed by adrenaline—sprung to his feet and swung the hammer like a forty-pound baseball bat. The head of the hammer struck the drow in the ribcage and sent it flailing like a ragdoll to the far wall of the pit, nearly twenty yards from its initial position.
The creature was dead. Perhaps it had died instantly. Perhaps the impact against the stone wall had been the final nail.
Either way, Argento could momentarily wallow in the ire and rage of the crowd.
Was that a smile he felt on his face?
A hammer blow crashed against the back of his skull, and after a moment of blackness, he found himself in a daze as yet more memories of the before time bled into his subconscious.
*
Argento had ridden for a few days when he reached the small hamlet. If the last town had pointed him in the right direction, the collection of old buildings should be a place called 'Barrow Hills.'
The small mountains that rose up behind the settlement led him to believe that he was on the right track. That meant the Plains of Bone—a scorched, barely hospitable wasteland—would await him on the other side. Aside from bleached carcasses, the region was host to various orc tribes.
After dismounting from Maximus, Argento retrieved his coat from the saddlebag and placed a hand on the beast's snout. "Don't wander too far, my friend. I may require your help down the road."
The horse let out a snort and darted off toward one of the small patches of green that dotted the prairie-like landscape.
From the look of things, the old town seemed well-off despite the prevalence of raids in the lands bordering the Plains of Bone. With his holy icon—a plain silver emblem of the Glorious Sun—clenched in his gauntleted fist, Argento made his way into the quiet town. His first goal was to locate the tavern. While he rarely indulged in mead or fermented beverages, the paladin knew that ‘public houses’ were the best locations to find information in a hurry.
On the other side of the swinging doors, the interior of the building was just as plain as the facade. Only a sheepish-looking bartender was visible. Upon seeing the armored warrior, the man grabbed a nearby mug and started to wipe it with a cloth.
The paladin made eye contact and flashed the man a warm smile. "This is a quiet town."
With a nod, the bartender watched from the corner of his eye as Argento strode across the floor and sat a wooden stool at the counter. After taking note of the religious icon, the man set down the mug. "Can I get you a drink, holy man?"
"Water." As the bartender shuffled to the backroom, Argento leaned and rested his forearms on the counter. "Do you know the easiest way to get over that mountain range?"
A response came from the backroom amidst a great deal of rattling bottles. "Why do you want to go that way? Doesn't seem like the place for a roaming priest."
"I'm not roaming." The barkeep returned with a corked bottle of water and set it on the counter. The layer of dusty grim told Argento that the town liked its spirits. “Thank you,” he interjected as he handed over some coins. "I have some business with one of the orc tribes in the Plains."
Upon hearing the explanation, the man shied away from his customer, who had taken a small sip of water. After glancing around the clearly empty room, he leaned across the counter. "We have a very tenuous deal with the orcs… if you plan to antagonize them; I'm going to have to ask you to vacate our town."
The remark elicited a frown from the paladin, who took a long swig from the warm bottle of water. "Don't worry; I won't hamper whatever blood-deal you made with those cut-throats.” Argento rose from his stool and stared the man dead in the eyes. “I intend to tear it to pieces when I bring those killers and slavers to justice." With his peace spoken, Argento departed the tavern.
If he would receive no aid from the town, he would simply have to forge his own path over the mountains. This certainly was not the first time he had to do so, and he doubted it would be the last.
*
When he regained his senses, Argento found himself in blackness of a different kind.
The noises of the colosseum were gone.
“Solitary.”
Did they not understand their folly? The dark room, barely larger than Argento, was designed as a psychological trick. The demons and devils used it to ‘break’ people. In the months that he’d been forced to live and die in the colosseum, they had tried this on Argento many times. While his body had deteriorated and his faith wavered, this type of intended torture never worked.
When you’ve lived the blackest darkness, and suffered as much as the paladin had, nothing that the material or fel world threw at you had the effect they intended. If anything, the solitary chamber gave him some time to focus his mind and work to restore some of the damage to his body.
“Get up, you dog.”
A long time ago, the paladin had lived a beautiful life. A wife. Two beautiful young daughters. A church that he loved as much as his family. The world he found himself in was a culmination of the darkness which had permeated the last few weeks of his life.
Yes, he was dead. Although his blood pumped and his lungs worked, Argento knew that the Omniverse was a realm of the fallen. And this – the Underverse – was the ultimate penance for those who had truly fallen from grace.
Argento had barely clambered to his feet when the collar clamped around his neck. A moment later, he was being dragged on his hands and knees across the rough sand floor of the bloodworks and up the ramp. Fresh blood trickled from his body as the unrepaired surfaces tore apart his flesh. As the gate creaked open, he was thrown forward, his form rolling like a desiccated log beneath the rampart and into the loud, harsh realm of the pit. The noises that had wafted down from the tunnel ramp now assailed his senses—a horde of demons shrieking for his blood.
They would receive it. May not on this day, but their nigh-orgasmic joy at seeing his collapse would be within the week. They had pushed Argento hard since ‘recollecting’ him from the hellscape. This was his fourth match in the span of two days.
His left foot had swollen, but the paladin managed to get it underneath his body. Pushing up from the ground, he held out his hands and cleared his thoughts. The Sun had left him, and the residual powers he had were on the wane. Yet, he still had enough power to summon the Day’suis, and in a frail blink of light, the warhammer manifested in his mangled fists.
It was heavy, but the muscle memory remained. He held it to his chest—a dying link to a man he had once been.
On the other side of the colosseum pit, a black-skinned elf snickered. The drow saw weakness in this unshaven human who looked as if he had been pulled off the streets of Darkshire, Minas Tirith, or some other hovel of humanity. Discarding its racial disposition toward subterfuge and chicanery, the drow marched across the pits to the delight of the slobbering crowd of sociopaths and fel beasts. Reaching to its belt, it plucked out a dagger and sent it spinning toward the disheveled paladin.
Eying the projectile, Argento feigned a stagger and collapsed. The knife soared over his head, but the moment was seized upon as weakness by the drow. The dark elf rushed forward, clenching a curved dagger in its hand. It went so far as to leap into the air, hoping to dispatch the human in a spectacle that brought some in the crowd to their feet, hoping to watch the splash of gore as the blade plunged down into Argento’s spine.
Instead, the paladin—body numbed by adrenaline—sprung to his feet and swung the hammer like a forty-pound baseball bat. The head of the hammer struck the drow in the ribcage and sent it flailing like a ragdoll to the far wall of the pit, nearly twenty yards from its initial position.
The creature was dead. Perhaps it had died instantly. Perhaps the impact against the stone wall had been the final nail.
Either way, Argento could momentarily wallow in the ire and rage of the crowd.
Was that a smile he felt on his face?
A hammer blow crashed against the back of his skull, and after a moment of blackness, he found himself in a daze as yet more memories of the before time bled into his subconscious.
*
Argento had ridden for a few days when he reached the small hamlet. If the last town had pointed him in the right direction, the collection of old buildings should be a place called 'Barrow Hills.'
The small mountains that rose up behind the settlement led him to believe that he was on the right track. That meant the Plains of Bone—a scorched, barely hospitable wasteland—would await him on the other side. Aside from bleached carcasses, the region was host to various orc tribes.
After dismounting from Maximus, Argento retrieved his coat from the saddlebag and placed a hand on the beast's snout. "Don't wander too far, my friend. I may require your help down the road."
The horse let out a snort and darted off toward one of the small patches of green that dotted the prairie-like landscape.
From the look of things, the old town seemed well-off despite the prevalence of raids in the lands bordering the Plains of Bone. With his holy icon—a plain silver emblem of the Glorious Sun—clenched in his gauntleted fist, Argento made his way into the quiet town. His first goal was to locate the tavern. While he rarely indulged in mead or fermented beverages, the paladin knew that ‘public houses’ were the best locations to find information in a hurry.
On the other side of the swinging doors, the interior of the building was just as plain as the facade. Only a sheepish-looking bartender was visible. Upon seeing the armored warrior, the man grabbed a nearby mug and started to wipe it with a cloth.
The paladin made eye contact and flashed the man a warm smile. "This is a quiet town."
With a nod, the bartender watched from the corner of his eye as Argento strode across the floor and sat a wooden stool at the counter. After taking note of the religious icon, the man set down the mug. "Can I get you a drink, holy man?"
"Water." As the bartender shuffled to the backroom, Argento leaned and rested his forearms on the counter. "Do you know the easiest way to get over that mountain range?"
A response came from the backroom amidst a great deal of rattling bottles. "Why do you want to go that way? Doesn't seem like the place for a roaming priest."
"I'm not roaming." The barkeep returned with a corked bottle of water and set it on the counter. The layer of dusty grim told Argento that the town liked its spirits. “Thank you,” he interjected as he handed over some coins. "I have some business with one of the orc tribes in the Plains."
Upon hearing the explanation, the man shied away from his customer, who had taken a small sip of water. After glancing around the clearly empty room, he leaned across the counter. "We have a very tenuous deal with the orcs… if you plan to antagonize them; I'm going to have to ask you to vacate our town."
The remark elicited a frown from the paladin, who took a long swig from the warm bottle of water. "Don't worry; I won't hamper whatever blood-deal you made with those cut-throats.” Argento rose from his stool and stared the man dead in the eyes. “I intend to tear it to pieces when I bring those killers and slavers to justice." With his peace spoken, Argento departed the tavern.
If he would receive no aid from the town, he would simply have to forge his own path over the mountains. This certainly was not the first time he had to do so, and he doubted it would be the last.
*
When he regained his senses, Argento found himself in blackness of a different kind.
The noises of the colosseum were gone.
“Solitary.”
Did they not understand their folly? The dark room, barely larger than Argento, was designed as a psychological trick. The demons and devils used it to ‘break’ people. In the months that he’d been forced to live and die in the colosseum, they had tried this on Argento many times. While his body had deteriorated and his faith wavered, this type of intended torture never worked.
When you’ve lived the blackest darkness, and suffered as much as the paladin had, nothing that the material or fel world threw at you had the effect they intended. If anything, the solitary chamber gave him some time to focus his mind and work to restore some of the damage to his body.
![[Image: Shang.jpg]](http://www.omniverse-rpg.com/images/Shang.jpg)