‡ Essence of Evil ‡
By: Matt and Philip
Chapter One
By: Matt
It was everywhere, the blood; pooling within the fractured stone of the lichen-plagued floor, it bubbled where the steaming breath of the countless denizens of Hell rose from those inmate's scorching prison. The inert body of a man's friend long passed floated down that crimson river, an uncanny smirk flashing upon blushed but lifeless lips.
However it was merely a vision, a dream; something to be cast aside by some as nonsense, and to be vexed about by the few whom believed that such apparitions held truth within them. Alexander was one of those few. Educated as a Paladin of the Holy Order since boyhood, this righteous man believed dreams were the work of the Almighty – or, of the advocates of Evil.
Ever so slowly, sweat ran the length of his gently sloped forehead – beads of respite, no less. A bare forearm lifted to wipe those droplets away as Alexander sat upon the unforgiving earth, breathless, upper body propped up by his free arm.
For nearly a month now, the young man had traveled with a caravan of people: the caravan leader, himself a relatively boisterous – and irritable – old fellow, and another man and woman, twins. They had all been introduced, as was only customary, yet seldom did any of them seem to remember Alexander's name. At least, that's what impression he gathered. "Al," or, "Alex," they would call him. It left him quite infuriated, after the fourth or fifth time. "Alexander," he would correct them, with a smile that reflected only the utmost civility, yet at the same time the palms of his battle-worn hands rested upon his waist to display evident agitation.
"Ah, yer finally awake, Al," the caravan leader declared as he flashed a wide, tooth-deficient grin to the Paladin. The thought of correcting him was flattened as Alex leaned back onto the ground with an exasperated groan, drawing in sleep-dazed hands to cover his face.
Alexander was barely permitted a chance to rouse himself from such a disturbed sleep before the party once more began their journey. Dressed in robes of wool and leather they all were, abandoning what armor they had to the alleged safety of the caravan leader's cart, currently being towed ahead of them by a single donkey. Yet rid themselves of their weapons they did not; attacks by thieves and monsters alike were not uncommon during such days as had passed of late, those when many had lost faith in their Gods. The Paladins made up only a fraction of the few left who could attest to the Higher Power - the great influence wielded by those men, formerly of the Zakarum, could not be obtained without such a power.
The cold-weathered country in which the caravan traveled through consisted of forests of maple and pine, covering ostensibly never-ending, gently rolling hillsides. Small rivers and creeks flowed about the bases of such hills, their Fall waters clouded with fish-troubled sludge. Browned needles of pine covered the ground far and wide, along with scores of colors of maple leaves. Each caravan member's final destination was to be the city of Harrogath – news of Evil's arrival to the lands of the Barbarians had spread like wildfire. A thin eyebrow arched atop eyes of clear blue as Alexander speculated as to what business the twins, or even the caravan leader himself, had in such a forsaken place. On the other hand, there was no doubt in his mind as to why he wanted to be in Harrogath; he, of course, wanted the Lord of Destruction – he wanted Baal.
By: Matt and Philip
Chapter One
By: Matt
It was everywhere, the blood; pooling within the fractured stone of the lichen-plagued floor, it bubbled where the steaming breath of the countless denizens of Hell rose from those inmate's scorching prison. The inert body of a man's friend long passed floated down that crimson river, an uncanny smirk flashing upon blushed but lifeless lips.
However it was merely a vision, a dream; something to be cast aside by some as nonsense, and to be vexed about by the few whom believed that such apparitions held truth within them. Alexander was one of those few. Educated as a Paladin of the Holy Order since boyhood, this righteous man believed dreams were the work of the Almighty – or, of the advocates of Evil.
Ever so slowly, sweat ran the length of his gently sloped forehead – beads of respite, no less. A bare forearm lifted to wipe those droplets away as Alexander sat upon the unforgiving earth, breathless, upper body propped up by his free arm.
For nearly a month now, the young man had traveled with a caravan of people: the caravan leader, himself a relatively boisterous – and irritable – old fellow, and another man and woman, twins. They had all been introduced, as was only customary, yet seldom did any of them seem to remember Alexander's name. At least, that's what impression he gathered. "Al," or, "Alex," they would call him. It left him quite infuriated, after the fourth or fifth time. "Alexander," he would correct them, with a smile that reflected only the utmost civility, yet at the same time the palms of his battle-worn hands rested upon his waist to display evident agitation.
"Ah, yer finally awake, Al," the caravan leader declared as he flashed a wide, tooth-deficient grin to the Paladin. The thought of correcting him was flattened as Alex leaned back onto the ground with an exasperated groan, drawing in sleep-dazed hands to cover his face.
Alexander was barely permitted a chance to rouse himself from such a disturbed sleep before the party once more began their journey. Dressed in robes of wool and leather they all were, abandoning what armor they had to the alleged safety of the caravan leader's cart, currently being towed ahead of them by a single donkey. Yet rid themselves of their weapons they did not; attacks by thieves and monsters alike were not uncommon during such days as had passed of late, those when many had lost faith in their Gods. The Paladins made up only a fraction of the few left who could attest to the Higher Power - the great influence wielded by those men, formerly of the Zakarum, could not be obtained without such a power.
The cold-weathered country in which the caravan traveled through consisted of forests of maple and pine, covering ostensibly never-ending, gently rolling hillsides. Small rivers and creeks flowed about the bases of such hills, their Fall waters clouded with fish-troubled sludge. Browned needles of pine covered the ground far and wide, along with scores of colors of maple leaves. Each caravan member's final destination was to be the city of Harrogath – news of Evil's arrival to the lands of the Barbarians had spread like wildfire. A thin eyebrow arched atop eyes of clear blue as Alexander speculated as to what business the twins, or even the caravan leader himself, had in such a forsaken place. On the other hand, there was no doubt in his mind as to why he wanted to be in Harrogath; he, of course, wanted the Lord of Destruction – he wanted Baal.