02-19-2018, 09:18 AM
“You ask me to do what?” Argento demanded.
Tyrael’s expression remained unchanged. “I ask you to return to this place.” He responded as he rested a hand above the model of the colosseum. “This place where you experienced great heartache and discomfort.”
The paladin felt his blood start the boil in his veins. “Heartache and discomfort? They tried to break me. Every day for who knows how many years, they wore me down, killed me, and dragged me back when my accursed, immortal body was reborn. Do you mock me with your words, Tyrael?”
The bald figure shook his head. “The truth, Argento? A member of my network was recently… kidnapped by the demonic forces that run the bloodworks and the colosseum. I fear that once they understand this individual’s past, they may do much worse to them than death, especially if this person lacks your resolve. If Melthor is discovered, tortured, and broken by the demonic patrons of the arenas, the information he possesses could set us back years.”
“You want me to risk everything to save one of your moles?”
Tyrael at last seemed a little ruffled. “Do you want to escape, Argento? Do you want out of this place or would you prefer to live your immortal life without the rays of the sun?”
Argento bit his tongue. He was still a paladin, and he would not speak the words he felt in his heart.
“When I do this for you, Tyrael, you will set me free from this place.”
The warrior extended his hand.
“You have my word, Argento Camarinos.”
[center]***[/center]
A day later, Argento found himself in the back of a wagon heading toward the Central Hellscape. As he drifted in and out of sleep, his mind reflected upon the life he had known…
[center]***[/center]
“Taste justice, murderers!”
Argento rushed forward and swung the massive hammer as if it weighed less than a plank of a wood. The glinting hammerhead crashed into the chest of a slobbering orc, knocking the creature from its feet and launching it back the rear of the room. Next to Argento, Dengar let out a roar and swung his axe down through the shoulder and ribcage of one of his former tribesmen. With a swift, fluid motion, he wrenched the double-ax free from the corpse and moved onto his next victim.
“This is what I call fun!” Tordeck shouted as he barreled forward. The barbarian slammed into an orc and kept running. With the orc half-draped over his shoulder, he made a beeline toward the nearest stone wall.
A beat later, there was a sickening wet sound as the unarmored orc found himself smashed between a stone wall and the metal-encased dwarf. As Tordeck backed away and drew his axe, his opponent slumped down the wall, leaving behind a glistening wet trail. For good measure, the dwarf loped off the orc’s head before turning to defend himself against a pair of smaller axes.
“Size matters!” He cackled as he shoved them both backwards and rushed ahead, axe leading the way.
As the three warriors hacked and smashed their way through the guards, Quarion stood his ground. The cleric’s eyes danced as he followed the actions of his allies. Although his mace was ready at his side, he was in his preferred role in combat.
When two orcs exploded through the side door and tried to rush the paladin, Quarion performed a quick incantation that sent a lance of energy crashing through the pair, killing them mid-step as they raised their weapons.
Hearing the thud of bodies behind him, Argento craned his neck, noting first the corpses and then the smoldering hands of the cleric. He gave a brief nod before turning to smack away another frantic ax-wielding warrior.
The other thing that Quarion was good for?
With a smile, the cleric whispered a short incantation beneath his breath and gestured toward his allies. There was a gentle hum in the air before the armor of the three warriors began to glow with warm, translucent white flames.
The handful of remaining orcs let out growls and shouts as they backed off from the trio. Before the orcs could realize what they were looking at, the heavily armored attackers moved in to slaughter them.
From the front of the room, the large double-doors flung open, and a sea of crudely armed orcs rushed toward the quartet. Before the doors slammed shut once again, Argento caught a harrowing sight—a robed warlock wreathed in arcane magicks. Whatever was going on, it was bigger than just their grudge with the slaver.
“Fight onward, my friends!” The paladin bellowed as he tapped a finger to the spot on his armor above his religious icon. With any luck, the elf’s plot would turn the tide in their favor.
*
Damien shuffled awkwardly down the side passage. He had to clutch his hands a little tighter around the chain in his hands to prevent him from scratching at the thick layer of makeup and crude cloth prosthetics on his face.
Normally, he could have easily masked himself to look like an authentic orc if given enough time and the removal of his elven visage. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the luxury of being able to remove his second face before applying the disguise he now wore.
“Are we sure this will work?” Ravik whispered as the pair walked down the tunnel. Dengar had informed them that the stronghold had two hidden side entrances.
The knowledge would be known only to orcs, so the doors would only be partially guarded. With the human as a captured slave, Damien had disguised himself to look like an orc. It wasn’t his best job, but all he had to have was a believable face and accent. Once he had the door unlocked, he’d be free to unburden himself of the tertiary countenance and commence with the removal of Solomon from the material plane.
“We’ll make it work,” Damien replied, his voice a bit slurred through the fake fangs that filled his mouth. The human scowled, but despite his usual confidence, the monk knew this wasn’t going to be pretty. With any luck, the person guarding this door would be a little more dimwitted than most orcs.
If they couldn’t force the door (and Dengar had mentioned the doors could be sealed with heavy bars), they’d have to double back around and join the others who would be fighting the bulk of whoever and whatever was inside the mountain stronghold.
The time that took would almost certainly leave the others to face some rather terrible odds, especially if the place was fortified with anything worse than orcs.
“Then let’s get this over with,” Ravik rasped as Damien rounded the last turn and approached the wooden door.
From this side, it looked like a nondescript entrance made of planks, but the other side was apparently reinforced with steel bracers that could be slid into the stone walls around them. Nothing short of an explosion or a great deal of corrosive fluids would open the door once it was locked into place.
Damien approached the door and gave it two solid raps near the center. After a short pause, he knocked once on each corner—it was some type of orcish code that informed the guardsman that he was dealing with one of his tribe.
A small view slit in the center of the wooden door opened up to reveal the gruff visage of an orc. Although the creature was obviously surprised to see orc-Damien standing outside the door, he also seemed a little nervous in general. “What?”
“I come with slaves for Solomon,” Damien spoke, his lips and tongue working overtime to try and emulate the gruff language of the greenskins.
The doorman’s face twisted up as he stared a hole through the disguised monk’s synthetic faces. A beat later, Damien heard the orc start to fumble with the door’s mechanism. “You are out kidnapping humans while we are being attacked? You’re an idiot!”
When the door swung inward, Damien dropped the chain and rushed forward. The doorman opened his mouth to say something but was silenced by a swift palm to the jaw. Whatever additional insults the orc had prepared were drowned out by a roar of frustration as he turned to attack the invader. Before he had a chance, there was a soft noise like someone trying to whistle but finding no sound. A second, gurgling scream escaped the orc as the crossbow quarrel buried itself into his throat.
The doorman collapsed to the ground and clasped at the projectile as blood began to sputter out from his wounds.
“Thanks,” Damien rasped as he stepped forward and brought the heel of his boot down onto the orc’s forehead, caving the creature’s skull into its brain.
Behind the monk, Ravik quickly discarded the unlocked manacles and slipped into the room. The man, who had a very interesting skill set, swooped down toward the dead orc and tore out his quarrel with surgical precision.
Damien watched the young man pull up a pantleg to reveal a small, hard leather case strapped to his right ankle. After placing the bloodstained projectile inside, he smoothed out his trousers and rose back up to a standing position.
“I don’t like to waste the ammunition,” Ravik muttered.
“Let’s move,” Damien muttered, unconcerned with whatever reasons his new associate had for what he did.
Leading the way, the monk followed that path that Dengar had told him to use. The side entrance connected to a short hallway, and the last room on the right led them into a small library.
From the large room, they could hear the distant clamor of combat, but beneath the faraway crash of steel and stone, they also heard what sounded like chanting of some sort.
A ritual? The thought made Damien scowl as he reached into the small red bag on his waist. He fished out two red vials and handed them to Ravik. “You don’t need to uncork them but make sure you’re not standing nearby.”
“I understand how ever-fire works,” Ravik muttered as he gracefully whipped the vial toward one end of the room. When it struck the stone shelves, the vial shattered, letting the volatile chemicals within feast upon the oxygen around them. A heartbeat later, there was a flash as a blanket of flames spewed out from the initial point of impact. The foul, pungent flames immediately devoured the old books on the shelves and belched out thick, dark smog.
Eying their exit, Damien turned and hurtled his vial at the only other door into the room. Flames spewed outward as the nearby door shot open to reveal a handful of confused orcs. Seeing the fire and the two attackers, they reached for weapons, but Ravik chucked his remaining container of ever-fire at them.
The orcs shrieked by spooked farm animals as the hungry flames quickly ate away at their clothes and flesh.
In a matter of minutes, the burning library was filled with the stench of burnt flesh, something that Damien had become too accustomed to over the years.
Why did all living things, regardless of their species, have that same, acrid scent when their bodies were wrought with fire?
“We should keep moving,” Ravik whispered as Damien pocketed the fourth container of ever-fire. At the rate the room was crumbling into ash, there was no reason to overdo it. They wanted to create a distraction and deterrent… not an inferno that would just as readily consume them.
Dashing forward, the pair entered a small chamber with only one door that lead into the central chamber. From this location, they could hear the choir-like chanting in the next room. Both knew they were adjacent to what Dengar described as a ‘churchy-looking room’ at the epicenter of the stronghold.
The small room that the monk and his new ally stood in was probably some sort of storage or relaxation area for whatever priest or holy person had once used the mountain as his church.
“What do you think all that noise is about?” Ravik asked as the pair stalked toward the plain wooden door that led to the chapel. “Sure doesn’t sound like what you’d expect in a slaver’s little mountain castle.”
“Quite true,” Damien whispered as he punched at the hinges that connected the door to the stone wall. The wooden clasps broke away beneath his bandaged fist without offering much resistance, and with the help of the human, he slid the door away to give them a glimpse into the chapel even as the smoke from the library fire started to waft in behind them.
Damien had never seen Solomon before, but he immediately noticed the man standing before an elevated platform at the head of the church.
Garbed in full plate, the human was staring down at the weapon in his hands. He seemed almost mesmerized by the sword, but his mouth was moving, whispering words that the monk couldn’t hear over the hymnal of the orcish congregation spread throughout the half-occupied pews.
More harrowing than Solomon, however, was the robed individual who stood on the raised platform behind the man. Whoever the figure was, he or she was reading from a large tome that lie upon the altar at the head of the church. All around the reader, the air seemed thick and heavy, as if the cloaked figure was radiating heat like a furnace.
“What is going on?” Ravik muttered as he checked his single-handed crossbow. “Some sort of summoning ritual?”
“I don’t know.” That much was true. The dialect was orchish, but it was some sort of archaic version. Half of it was gibberish in Damien’s ears. “We’ve got to stop it, whatever it is.” The last thing Damien wanted to do was deal with some sort of extra-planar monster or ritual magicks. “Can you take one of them out from here?”
“Possibly,” Ravik replied as he lifted his crossbow and alternated between his two targets. After a few moments, he settled on Solomon and loosed a quarrel at the armored man. Much to the pair’s frustration, their adversary spun and used the sword to deflect the bolt.
In the process, Damien noticed the trio of unnerving, life-like eyes embedded into the surface of the blade.
That’s no simple sword…
Before Solomon could move to deal with them, the large double doors at the head of the church rattled enough to be heard over the clamor of the congregation. An unnaturally shiny, blood-marred axe head tore through whatever braced the doors shut. A moment later, three dull blows threw open the entrance, despite the five orcs piled against it. In a flurry of steel and armor, Damien and Ravik’s newfound allies pressed forward their attack.
“Do something, Mal’goul!” Solomon barked after turning his focus to the figure huddled over the book.
Instead of an affirmation, the cloaked figure threw its hands toward the ceiling and screamed something in a language that even Damien’s collection of fluencies couldn’t decipher.
In a flash of light, the platform at the head of the chapel shuddered before splitting open in various locations. Hammers and maces punched up through the floor and nearby walls, and in their wake, several long-dead dwarves pulled their dessicated and mostly decayed corpses out from their stone crypts.
“Damn it,” Damien muttered. “I’ll deal with this. You go put your talents to use.”
Tyrael’s expression remained unchanged. “I ask you to return to this place.” He responded as he rested a hand above the model of the colosseum. “This place where you experienced great heartache and discomfort.”
The paladin felt his blood start the boil in his veins. “Heartache and discomfort? They tried to break me. Every day for who knows how many years, they wore me down, killed me, and dragged me back when my accursed, immortal body was reborn. Do you mock me with your words, Tyrael?”
The bald figure shook his head. “The truth, Argento? A member of my network was recently… kidnapped by the demonic forces that run the bloodworks and the colosseum. I fear that once they understand this individual’s past, they may do much worse to them than death, especially if this person lacks your resolve. If Melthor is discovered, tortured, and broken by the demonic patrons of the arenas, the information he possesses could set us back years.”
“You want me to risk everything to save one of your moles?”
Tyrael at last seemed a little ruffled. “Do you want to escape, Argento? Do you want out of this place or would you prefer to live your immortal life without the rays of the sun?”
Argento bit his tongue. He was still a paladin, and he would not speak the words he felt in his heart.
“When I do this for you, Tyrael, you will set me free from this place.”
The warrior extended his hand.
“You have my word, Argento Camarinos.”
[center]***[/center]
A day later, Argento found himself in the back of a wagon heading toward the Central Hellscape. As he drifted in and out of sleep, his mind reflected upon the life he had known…
[center]***[/center]
“Taste justice, murderers!”
Argento rushed forward and swung the massive hammer as if it weighed less than a plank of a wood. The glinting hammerhead crashed into the chest of a slobbering orc, knocking the creature from its feet and launching it back the rear of the room. Next to Argento, Dengar let out a roar and swung his axe down through the shoulder and ribcage of one of his former tribesmen. With a swift, fluid motion, he wrenched the double-ax free from the corpse and moved onto his next victim.
“This is what I call fun!” Tordeck shouted as he barreled forward. The barbarian slammed into an orc and kept running. With the orc half-draped over his shoulder, he made a beeline toward the nearest stone wall.
A beat later, there was a sickening wet sound as the unarmored orc found himself smashed between a stone wall and the metal-encased dwarf. As Tordeck backed away and drew his axe, his opponent slumped down the wall, leaving behind a glistening wet trail. For good measure, the dwarf loped off the orc’s head before turning to defend himself against a pair of smaller axes.
“Size matters!” He cackled as he shoved them both backwards and rushed ahead, axe leading the way.
As the three warriors hacked and smashed their way through the guards, Quarion stood his ground. The cleric’s eyes danced as he followed the actions of his allies. Although his mace was ready at his side, he was in his preferred role in combat.
When two orcs exploded through the side door and tried to rush the paladin, Quarion performed a quick incantation that sent a lance of energy crashing through the pair, killing them mid-step as they raised their weapons.
Hearing the thud of bodies behind him, Argento craned his neck, noting first the corpses and then the smoldering hands of the cleric. He gave a brief nod before turning to smack away another frantic ax-wielding warrior.
The other thing that Quarion was good for?
With a smile, the cleric whispered a short incantation beneath his breath and gestured toward his allies. There was a gentle hum in the air before the armor of the three warriors began to glow with warm, translucent white flames.
The handful of remaining orcs let out growls and shouts as they backed off from the trio. Before the orcs could realize what they were looking at, the heavily armored attackers moved in to slaughter them.
From the front of the room, the large double-doors flung open, and a sea of crudely armed orcs rushed toward the quartet. Before the doors slammed shut once again, Argento caught a harrowing sight—a robed warlock wreathed in arcane magicks. Whatever was going on, it was bigger than just their grudge with the slaver.
“Fight onward, my friends!” The paladin bellowed as he tapped a finger to the spot on his armor above his religious icon. With any luck, the elf’s plot would turn the tide in their favor.
*
Damien shuffled awkwardly down the side passage. He had to clutch his hands a little tighter around the chain in his hands to prevent him from scratching at the thick layer of makeup and crude cloth prosthetics on his face.
Normally, he could have easily masked himself to look like an authentic orc if given enough time and the removal of his elven visage. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the luxury of being able to remove his second face before applying the disguise he now wore.
“Are we sure this will work?” Ravik whispered as the pair walked down the tunnel. Dengar had informed them that the stronghold had two hidden side entrances.
The knowledge would be known only to orcs, so the doors would only be partially guarded. With the human as a captured slave, Damien had disguised himself to look like an orc. It wasn’t his best job, but all he had to have was a believable face and accent. Once he had the door unlocked, he’d be free to unburden himself of the tertiary countenance and commence with the removal of Solomon from the material plane.
“We’ll make it work,” Damien replied, his voice a bit slurred through the fake fangs that filled his mouth. The human scowled, but despite his usual confidence, the monk knew this wasn’t going to be pretty. With any luck, the person guarding this door would be a little more dimwitted than most orcs.
If they couldn’t force the door (and Dengar had mentioned the doors could be sealed with heavy bars), they’d have to double back around and join the others who would be fighting the bulk of whoever and whatever was inside the mountain stronghold.
The time that took would almost certainly leave the others to face some rather terrible odds, especially if the place was fortified with anything worse than orcs.
“Then let’s get this over with,” Ravik rasped as Damien rounded the last turn and approached the wooden door.
From this side, it looked like a nondescript entrance made of planks, but the other side was apparently reinforced with steel bracers that could be slid into the stone walls around them. Nothing short of an explosion or a great deal of corrosive fluids would open the door once it was locked into place.
Damien approached the door and gave it two solid raps near the center. After a short pause, he knocked once on each corner—it was some type of orcish code that informed the guardsman that he was dealing with one of his tribe.
A small view slit in the center of the wooden door opened up to reveal the gruff visage of an orc. Although the creature was obviously surprised to see orc-Damien standing outside the door, he also seemed a little nervous in general. “What?”
“I come with slaves for Solomon,” Damien spoke, his lips and tongue working overtime to try and emulate the gruff language of the greenskins.
The doorman’s face twisted up as he stared a hole through the disguised monk’s synthetic faces. A beat later, Damien heard the orc start to fumble with the door’s mechanism. “You are out kidnapping humans while we are being attacked? You’re an idiot!”
When the door swung inward, Damien dropped the chain and rushed forward. The doorman opened his mouth to say something but was silenced by a swift palm to the jaw. Whatever additional insults the orc had prepared were drowned out by a roar of frustration as he turned to attack the invader. Before he had a chance, there was a soft noise like someone trying to whistle but finding no sound. A second, gurgling scream escaped the orc as the crossbow quarrel buried itself into his throat.
The doorman collapsed to the ground and clasped at the projectile as blood began to sputter out from his wounds.
“Thanks,” Damien rasped as he stepped forward and brought the heel of his boot down onto the orc’s forehead, caving the creature’s skull into its brain.
Behind the monk, Ravik quickly discarded the unlocked manacles and slipped into the room. The man, who had a very interesting skill set, swooped down toward the dead orc and tore out his quarrel with surgical precision.
Damien watched the young man pull up a pantleg to reveal a small, hard leather case strapped to his right ankle. After placing the bloodstained projectile inside, he smoothed out his trousers and rose back up to a standing position.
“I don’t like to waste the ammunition,” Ravik muttered.
“Let’s move,” Damien muttered, unconcerned with whatever reasons his new associate had for what he did.
Leading the way, the monk followed that path that Dengar had told him to use. The side entrance connected to a short hallway, and the last room on the right led them into a small library.
From the large room, they could hear the distant clamor of combat, but beneath the faraway crash of steel and stone, they also heard what sounded like chanting of some sort.
A ritual? The thought made Damien scowl as he reached into the small red bag on his waist. He fished out two red vials and handed them to Ravik. “You don’t need to uncork them but make sure you’re not standing nearby.”
“I understand how ever-fire works,” Ravik muttered as he gracefully whipped the vial toward one end of the room. When it struck the stone shelves, the vial shattered, letting the volatile chemicals within feast upon the oxygen around them. A heartbeat later, there was a flash as a blanket of flames spewed out from the initial point of impact. The foul, pungent flames immediately devoured the old books on the shelves and belched out thick, dark smog.
Eying their exit, Damien turned and hurtled his vial at the only other door into the room. Flames spewed outward as the nearby door shot open to reveal a handful of confused orcs. Seeing the fire and the two attackers, they reached for weapons, but Ravik chucked his remaining container of ever-fire at them.
The orcs shrieked by spooked farm animals as the hungry flames quickly ate away at their clothes and flesh.
In a matter of minutes, the burning library was filled with the stench of burnt flesh, something that Damien had become too accustomed to over the years.
Why did all living things, regardless of their species, have that same, acrid scent when their bodies were wrought with fire?
“We should keep moving,” Ravik whispered as Damien pocketed the fourth container of ever-fire. At the rate the room was crumbling into ash, there was no reason to overdo it. They wanted to create a distraction and deterrent… not an inferno that would just as readily consume them.
Dashing forward, the pair entered a small chamber with only one door that lead into the central chamber. From this location, they could hear the choir-like chanting in the next room. Both knew they were adjacent to what Dengar described as a ‘churchy-looking room’ at the epicenter of the stronghold.
The small room that the monk and his new ally stood in was probably some sort of storage or relaxation area for whatever priest or holy person had once used the mountain as his church.
“What do you think all that noise is about?” Ravik asked as the pair stalked toward the plain wooden door that led to the chapel. “Sure doesn’t sound like what you’d expect in a slaver’s little mountain castle.”
“Quite true,” Damien whispered as he punched at the hinges that connected the door to the stone wall. The wooden clasps broke away beneath his bandaged fist without offering much resistance, and with the help of the human, he slid the door away to give them a glimpse into the chapel even as the smoke from the library fire started to waft in behind them.
Damien had never seen Solomon before, but he immediately noticed the man standing before an elevated platform at the head of the church.
Garbed in full plate, the human was staring down at the weapon in his hands. He seemed almost mesmerized by the sword, but his mouth was moving, whispering words that the monk couldn’t hear over the hymnal of the orcish congregation spread throughout the half-occupied pews.
More harrowing than Solomon, however, was the robed individual who stood on the raised platform behind the man. Whoever the figure was, he or she was reading from a large tome that lie upon the altar at the head of the church. All around the reader, the air seemed thick and heavy, as if the cloaked figure was radiating heat like a furnace.
“What is going on?” Ravik muttered as he checked his single-handed crossbow. “Some sort of summoning ritual?”
“I don’t know.” That much was true. The dialect was orchish, but it was some sort of archaic version. Half of it was gibberish in Damien’s ears. “We’ve got to stop it, whatever it is.” The last thing Damien wanted to do was deal with some sort of extra-planar monster or ritual magicks. “Can you take one of them out from here?”
“Possibly,” Ravik replied as he lifted his crossbow and alternated between his two targets. After a few moments, he settled on Solomon and loosed a quarrel at the armored man. Much to the pair’s frustration, their adversary spun and used the sword to deflect the bolt.
In the process, Damien noticed the trio of unnerving, life-like eyes embedded into the surface of the blade.
That’s no simple sword…
Before Solomon could move to deal with them, the large double doors at the head of the church rattled enough to be heard over the clamor of the congregation. An unnaturally shiny, blood-marred axe head tore through whatever braced the doors shut. A moment later, three dull blows threw open the entrance, despite the five orcs piled against it. In a flurry of steel and armor, Damien and Ravik’s newfound allies pressed forward their attack.
“Do something, Mal’goul!” Solomon barked after turning his focus to the figure huddled over the book.
Instead of an affirmation, the cloaked figure threw its hands toward the ceiling and screamed something in a language that even Damien’s collection of fluencies couldn’t decipher.
In a flash of light, the platform at the head of the chapel shuddered before splitting open in various locations. Hammers and maces punched up through the floor and nearby walls, and in their wake, several long-dead dwarves pulled their dessicated and mostly decayed corpses out from their stone crypts.
“Damn it,” Damien muttered. “I’ll deal with this. You go put your talents to use.”
![[Image: Shang.jpg]](http://www.omniverse-rpg.com/images/Shang.jpg)