P1
The wails of the damned echoed peevishly through the physically empty halls of the Underworld. It passed like a hauntingly cold breeze of wind whispering by the stone ears of the blackened chasms. With each wail, a crimson glow would emit from behind loose flakes of cracked structure. The cries all came from the same place: the styx, a maelstrom of infinite torture; a prison for the damned; the core of endless endings. The souls of the wicked dead revolved in the cesspit, trapped in their bottomless prison, but unable to move up due to contract of natural law that shielded the glowing green pool with the darkest of ancient black magicks. Only their cries could escape in the form of a noxious green steam that always made its way to the lord of the dead: Hades himself, who found recreation in listening to the cries for so many centuries. Tall, slender, vile, and blue—the lord of the dead sat at his charred throne while the wisp of his blue flaming hair trickled against his veiny skull. There wasn't much to draw his attention away from his lonesome duties. His brother Zeus-not fond of Hades-barred the god from ever leaving the Underworld. And so Hades found little comfort in never being able to personally cause malicious problems and conflict for the mortals on Earth—only being able to send forth others to do his own bidding. His company consisted of three blind sisters of fate who often fought over the eye of time: Clotho, the decider of timeline, Lachesis, the thread spinner, and Atropos, the cut of fate. They held many secrets but often kept score of how many souls they'd banish to the nether day-by-day. However, it was foreseen something epic was about to tangle their threads.
P2
"Stop! Thief!"
Three guards give chase through a busy sand-coated bazaar. While merchants stay in place to shout at slow moving potential customers, a man and his pet monkey skip through the obstacle course, leaping over kiosk and ruined architectural debris on the city streets. The guards stay in pursuit, their curved sandals lifting through small dunes of sand as they tread carefully through the nonchalant busy afternoon crowd. Though it's clear who has the upper hand. The proclaimed, "Street rat!" and his monkey have years of acrobatic tricks that take advantage of the city layout. Prize in hand, the pair have no trouble climbing walls of blistering hot mud and rough clay to ease their way out of sight. Aware, the guards ease off their hunt frustrated and tired out by the hot Arabian sun.
Perched against a stock of barrels behind a makeshift tent clouding the sun's streaming beams, the man tugged at his prize: a fresh loaf of bread stolen previously from a royal baker in the palace. He offered half to his tiny companion who aggressively snatched it away with the curl of his tail. "You know Abu, I'm tired. Every day we have to evade the guards and make due with what we have even when all we've got is nothing. This "adventure" of stealing from the rich and evading authorities isn't really so glamorous anymore." The male was too distraught to even eat his half of the bread. He placed it down next to Abu and sluggishly made his way across the alley to scale the walls of a poor abode. Crawling into an open balcony shielded by thin scraps of purple sheets, the male made himself comfortable in a position to watch the hot desert sun set below the distant wavy horizon. Abu shortly joined, taking a seat on the man's knee while continuing to eat bread. "I don't know what to do, Abu. There's nothing but heat, death, and sand outside of the city. And there's nothing here for us but poverty, heat, death, and sand. Either way you look at it, we're pretty much stuck." The male sighed diligently whilst leaning back to rest his head against a pile of dust-coated tattered sheets. Abu positioned himself to rest on the male's bare torso.
There was only a short moment of silence before interruption took place out in the city below. An explosion, billowing clouds of blackened smoke, a gathering of guards—a grand commotion was unfolding at the palace gates. The rabble of guards readied their spears and curved scimitars in a defense stance outside of the large doors leading into the main chamber of the palace.
Abu slapped the palms of his tiny hands against the male's stomach and in his own defense, the man shrugged Abu away while groggily slouching forward. "What…" he mumbled. There was another explosion outside. The left tower at the palace was sinking steadily while the guards continued to hold their slightly panicked/slightly calm composure to pry the doors open.
"Aladdin! It is not safe! You must flee!" a robed child cried out from the street. Folks ran past the boy in an attempt to make it towards the city gates. "What happened?" Aladdin called out while gazing over the balcony edge. But the boy was already gone with the crowd. "Guess we better flee as well..." Abu leaped onto Aladdin's shoulder as the pair jumped down from the balcony onto a market tarp. But curiosity kicked in. After all, he WAS just complaining about wanting something new and exciting. It was clear what Aladdin had in mind as Abu was tugging at his hair. But Aladdin shrugged it off and made his way opposite of the folks who tried to flee the city.
At the palace, a crowd of guards still struggled to pry the main doors open but some felt distracted by the sight of two warriors fighting in the courtyard—both foreign in appearance though only one was familiar. Mozenrath, ruler of the Black Sands, battled in impossible vain his black magicks against a warrior and her sword. She cut through his defenses and continued to push him back against the courtyard ponds as cold steel clashed against waves of black sand. Standing tall with short radiant brown hair, furious green eyes, and a powerful physic of sturdy hips and great arm strength covered by chrome-plated armor, the warrior slashed her blade back and fourth tirelessly. It was clear Mozenrath was becoming tired himself, however. Not one to lose, he sent his eel: Xerxes to interfere and distract the warrior long enough to disappear himself within a turbine of coal-black sand. Xerxes joined just before the sorcerer disappeared. Feeling slightly distraught; slightly accomplished, the woman sheathed her sword, the battle was finished. The guards at the door stopped their commotion at the sight. But from behind the pile of muscular guards, a short elderly bearded sultan appeared, excited with both the battle and the results. He ducked under a crack in the damaged door to run towards the warrior who stood ready for confrontation. "Who… Who are you?" the short feebish sultan asked while keeping his clouded white turban from sinking past his forehead. "Lady Holly, Templar of the Chantry." She replied, her tone both strong yet womanly.