The Curse Of Pluto’s Manifesto

Chapter I Of Sperlōc's Saga

The smoke from the western slope of the fortress had started to be carried by the wind towards the walls. Stench of charred death made the less tolerant defenders vomit, as the more sturdy stomached fighters kept to their posts. 

In the haze of hellfire, fumes from the nearby mire, and heavy fog from the hills, the grotesque view of the battlefield was obscured—so were the invaders. 

The silhouettes of the savage conquerors moved about in the gray density, one archer on the walls took aim, and fired an arrow at one shadow. An alarming scream from below soon after, and the cruel archer laughed, as he sat on his perch on the battlements, pointing at the misfortune soul. 

“You were never a decent one, Pote.” said a mercenary of the same company who watched the devilish glee he got from the pain he’d inflict on friend and foe alike. 

“I am perfectly decent.” the archer sneered, sounding as if he was almost offended, but knew the accusation was true. “If I am putting one of my arrows into the hearts of the enemy, and not a comrade, then what should it matter?” 

Obscuring the motivation for his malicious deed did not fool any of the other men paid to protect the fortress from an upcoming attack. 

“I’ll leave that between you and God.” the nameless mercenary spoke with finality in his voice, as he walked away from the archer to stand watch at another section of the wall. 

The Lord of the realm had hired two mercenary companies to guard the Fortress, Tel Caer, from the Cullnøvian invaders. War parties have broken from the main force, and have begun pillaging the out of the way parishes for lucre and provisions. 

Acting little more than brigands, despite their numbers in the thousands, the blue skinned Cullnøvian’s were without a tactical mind. Without the Devour Lords, they were as a race lacking the attributes that made the Dryalidis demi-gods among mortals. Despite their low numbers, the divine elfan race had overseen the cultivation of the Green Lands for eons. Sculpting a lush, idyllic civilization from the muck and ruin caused by the Great Deluge. 

Mankind and his cousins were easily conquered by their betters, but in making the Dryalidis their Lords and King, they have inherited the enemies of their masters. 

The Devour Lords were one of many who chose the time to attack at the Southern Border Lands, in order to push into foreign land till they could lay siege to the Capital of Gallia. 

Trittʉm was still miles away, and the invasion had yet to bear the fruit of a succulent victory for the Devour Lords. Despite being powerful magicians with culpability for great intellect, have been known to be at the sway of their pride. Losing hundreds of men every miles they cover, by the time they even see the silver walls of Trittʉm in the distance, they would’ve lost the considerable majority of their forces. 

Not to mention the detours to pillage the vaults of Lords of the countryside for treasures to no doubt take back with them, as the invasion has steadily turned into a fighting retreat. Looting and murder were the tactics, and despite pressing the line forward, many on the front lines could see which way the wind was blowing. 

Smoke had darkened as the fires lit to burn the dead had begun to rise. 

“Orc savages!” barked one of the men working for the Carrion Blade Mercenary Company. Up on the battlements, his vehement loathing had got like a disease among the men, causing a chorus of rude limericks, and  insults focusing on the race of the invaders. 

Cullnøvians were not a popular people. Despite being recognized by the scholars of the Church as human cousins, they were unmistakably related also to orcs and trolls. Two of the most hated of the devil races of the past, where the saints had led a slaughter to exterminate the heathen people from the face of the Earth. 

Anything with blue or green blood were ostracized, and driven out with savage violence. 

Everyone in the Carrion Blades despised cross breed human races, since the majority of their ranks were made up of Zealians, they were raised in the dogma of the Church Of Christ. Teachings of the churches priests proclaim that those of blue and green skin carry the mark of “Judas.” for their part in betraying mankind to the hands of the demons during the great flood. 

Those outside Zealians don’t take such doctrine in certain books of the holy scriptures as part of their own faith. 

The other mercenary group, the West Marsh Regulators, have a divergence of many who fight under their banner. Since the marshes of west Gallia cover many different kingdoms and realms of the Abyssal Expanse, the Regulators recruit many non-human warriors into their service. 

Most sent to defend Tel Caer were the crimson-ebony flesh toned warriors of the Frigid Marsh, Zøl Keszha. Others were natives to Gallia, cut throats seeking a pardon through service to the lord, or inexperienced hooligans wanting a shortcut into manhood. Only one amongst them was a Cullnøvian, a rare green skinned one, whose shadow enshrouded helmet made him appear as a Keszhanite with far darker skin. 

However when the sun filtered through the stony clouds at the right angle you could see his crimson whiskers sticking out of his chin, as if they were strands of hay poking through a dark green sack. Sperlōc was what he was called, and he listened to Pote’s hatred for his race with the apathy of a God of the Ripened City.

Cold orange eyes without the betraying pupil seemed focused on the archer, but he was instead looking into the fog, seeing through the murky veil. 

“What do you see Sperlōc?” the Unit Commander Fusco asked, as he had come to learn to heed Sperlōc's supernatural sight. 

“...Asmotep.'' The name spread throughout the defenders ranks as fire does to dry tinder. Panic started, and questions wondering where the name originated, and how would they see the legendary evil in such blinding fog. “He is…having a hole dug…he’s filling it with water of terrible colors…it's coming…the smoke…it's coming! Run for the catacombs! It's our only chance!” 

Spurned by Sperlōc’s warnings the Regulators started to pour into the courtyard of the fortress, all heading into the open stairway leading into the cavernous innards of the keep. Many of the Carrion Blades were nervous seeing the other sellsword company start to retreat into cover, but enough boisterous members of their company had them stay out of fear of being called cowardly. 

Especially Pote, who pointed and mocked them for their haste to believe the Cullnøvian’s words. “How can he see in this fog?! Such blatant lies from those primitive trogs.” Then as the Regulators were fully secluded in the catacombs, there came a flash of light within the fog. 

As silhouettes displayed the choreography of ritualistic dancing of some heathen rite, the slender form of a figure came into view from the battlements of the fortress. Parting from his form, the mystical humanoid seemed both shrouded in light, yet concealed in a form fitting shade of death. Lifting his arms out as if to orchestrate an opera, he flapped his twisted arms towards Tel Caer. 

From behind came a swirl of colors, some were sparkling, others were more muted, and melded in and out of the gray fog. Specters of skeletal and rotting visages that were formed by the grim, dark colors of the miasma, flowed up to the walls of the fortress. 

Pote and those on the wall watched in hesitant horror as the misty specters began to climb the walls, carrying with them the stench of musky death. 

Leaping from his perch, Pote and many others of the Carrion Blades rushed to follow the Regulators to the catacombs. One of the dim witted of their number was still left behind, confused about the danger. Slow to realize his danger, he looked to see his comrades run, and turned back to an outstretch of clawed vaporous hands grab hold of him, and then came a terrible horking sound. 

A mix of fright and sudden, deathly pain overtook him, and as he breathed in the poison into him, he felt his skin burn and tremble with new agonizing sensations. Large crimson pustules formed on his yellowing skin, as his eyes turned red from blood filling his eyes. Unable to breathe, and driven mad by the mind vexing poison, he tore at his throat, till he rendered flesh and ripped parts of his insides out of his body. 

Purpling blood poured from the opened wound and he fell over, paralyzed but not given the release of death. Not till time completely erodes his body to a retarded rot, that would take centuries to happen, without direct intervention. From his bubbling flesh came crimson head mushrooms, which took root under his flesh, and suckled the fluids from his body, growing larger in a short amount of time. 

Those caught in the grasp of the miasma suffered the same fate, but most of the mercenaries made it to the underground refuge. Natural cave rock went far enough to be safe from the miasma, as it was carried by the air, and for those familiar with such types of warfare, that particular element rises gasses. 

Despite overflowing into the courtyard, the dank stagnant air in the catacombs formed a natural barrier that the miasma couldn’t trespass. 

However this was as Asmotep foresaw, he wanted the walls cleared, as for what he was concerned the fortress was ripe to be taken. Those under his command had taken into them the potions needed to be immune to his ghastly miasma. 

With siege ladders, his blue skinned horde charged towards the walls. Some fell to concealed pitfalls in the ground, and were skewered on spikes at the bottom. Most however came to the wall, and took to ascending their flimsy ladders, just one needed to get through the cut the chain that kept the drawbridge shut. 

One large warrior of the rank managed with ape-like acrobatics to climb the ladder, where others fell from the poorly built equipment. Then rushing across the stone battlements, through the haze of miasma to the gatehouse. Standing on top of the stone and mortar building, his eyes were drawn to the polished iron of the chains, bound tightly around a wince. 

Hacking the chains with his gigantic broadsword, he managed to break the links in less than five strokes of his blade. From the rattling chains, came a terrible snap that undid the tightly bound cord of chain, and as the chains ran up to a grove in the stone, it then fell downward, into an opening in the stone. 

Then came a heavy sound of wood falling, as the drawbridge slowly began to tilt forward. 

Waiting in anticipation the rest of the invasion force waited at the gates for the bridge to fall. There was a gap between the road leading to the fortress, and the gates, some of the invaders stood too close to the edge, and as the bridge fell realized too late they would be crushed. In an earth shaking impact, came the bursting sounds of ruptured organs and crushing bones. One of the Cullnøvians crushed was still alive, as he reached out for help, but his lower torso was pinned under a ton of wood. 

Unfortunately his comrades charged into the Tel Caer, stomping on the pinned one, who was trampled to death, before the last of the warband had entered the fortress. 

Surrounded by his horde, Asmotep seemed to hover above the ground, as he floated above the miasma that covered the ground. Moving about the halls of the conquered Tel Caer he stopped to look when passing by the mushrooms that grew from the bodies of his still living victims. 

Looking interested in how they grow much more rapidly in foreign blood, he was tempted to take samples, but he knew there was time for that later. Moving across the thick battlements, he crossed the bridge leading to the inner keep that had been abandoned by its Lord. Placing it in charge of reprobates from the west, he didn’t expect his elfan rivals to become so complacent in the passing eons. 

Without even a gesture the doors of the keep swung open with such force it shattered the locks put in place to keep out all trespassers. Not even the mercenaries in charge of the fortress were allowed into its inner sanctum. 

The entirety of the keep was one large chamber, lining the walls were tapestries of Dryalidis history, telling of their triumph in the distant past, when the Earth was embroiled in chaotic savagery. This however was of no interest to the Devour Lord, as he examined the apparatuses left to gather dust on the work tables, he saw no sign of his prize. 

Checking all hidden places, he couldn’t even feel the vibrations the prize he sought was there, but he remained of an experiment that Elfan Lord was performing. Obviously taken from the object of his desire, the vials showed evidence of the necromantic regent that for ages passed have been used to bring the dead back to life. 

As he held up the beaker containing the still luminous green liquid, his passive grimace turned sour in annoyance. Obviously the Lord could not comprehend the nature of the elixir, instead creating a bastardization of the original formula. Tossing it in anger out of the open door way, he didn’t realize his strength, and unintentionally shattered the beaker upon the body of a victim of his miasma. 

The liquid consumed the mushrooms and the still living body it feasted upon, agony of the mercenary was transcended into a Hellish pleasurable euphoria. Tasting his own blood, the entity felt his form becoming melted into that of the fungus. Bones became elongated, and stretchy flesh became soft, yet unflinchingly durable. All human distinctions were melted into the growing fungus form, and all that remained were skeletal arms, covered in mushroom flesh, and a skeletal face formed into its abdomen. 

Asmotep watched the transformation as he left the laboratory in disappointment, only to find he had inadvertently created a new life, a monster of a new breed. 

A Mushroom Golem, an animated being of flesh and organic tissue that the Devour Lord marvelled at its brutality to other living things. As the superstitious Cullnøvians neared it, the golem lashed out, with its long, tendril arms, that slashed, and tore at their skin with little effort. 

Their primitive minds couldn’t comprehend such a terror, so they backed away, attempting to harm it with rocks and spears. Nothing could cut its fungus flesh. Enraged by the aggression and at the mind deteriorating madness induced by its rebirth, the Golem charged at its attackers. Crushing some under its massive weight, or tearing them apart with its stretching limbs, and as blood touched its body, the crimson liquid was absorbed in its form. 

Realizing its sustenance was inside the bodies of men, it hungrily hunted down its prey, snatching up any flailing bodies, and wringing them out of all their vital fluids. 

Before it could feast more it was commanded by a pulse that ran through its body to cease its feasting. Asmotep was standing above the golem on the wall, commanding it to go where he could not. In the moment of epiphany in realizing where his prize was kept, he also realized he could not tread where it was hidden for it was hallowed ground. 

The catacombs, blessed to give the spirits of the dead, eternal rest, is where it is kept, and he intends to send the golem in to retrieve it, along with his underlings. 

Silently he commanded his Cullnøvians to his side, the blue skinned primitives grunted, and gawked between their master and the monster he controlled. 

“Go with it into the catacombs, and don’t return with the book.”

There was some protest among them, as they feared being killed by the golem, but Asmotep in a cruel act of sorcery, dismantled one of the descending voices as a lesson to the others. As the blood dripped from the mushy remains of the recently mutilated Cullnøvian, the Mushroom Golem went to where the blood was dripping to drink up the crimson feast. 

“Go, and do not delay further.” At those words, the warband went down the stairs, careful not to get too close to their monstrous companion. 

***

The West Marsh Regulators and the Carrion Blade Mercenary Company had sealed themselves into the vaults. Bolting them with ancient mechanisms of elfan design, they were protected behind thick iron doors. 

Brick and mortar, and natural granite gave them security at defending the dark underground complex. Shadows shifted in the light of their lanterns, and their torches were dimmed by the stagnant air. Despite finding a cache of oil and other supplies, there was doubt they could sustain a siege in the underground. 

Some wondered if they would even get paid, considering they did lose the fortress, and had retreated under the fortress. 

“Cowards, run for the first chance.” Pote was irritated and was itching to pick a fight with the Regulators. Despite some showing interest in punching his arrogant face, the Commander of their outfit forbade any violence between them, a sentiment soon joined by the Commander of the Carrion Blades. 

“Don’t be a fool Pote!” his Commander slapped him hard on the back. “If it weren't for these fellow men over there, we’d have all been dead.” 

Attention was drawn to Sperlōc who was keeping busy with building a wall made up of loose rock and brick, in order to act as a barricade in case the vault door is breached. 

“See men, Sperlōc has the right idea. Everyone builds up our fortifications. Archers should take the stairs to the upper levels of the crypt—” commands were given, and within a relatively short time, defenses were made and manned in the underground vault. 

Leaving the caskets of the dead undisturbed, the mercenaries were focused on carving out spots of comfort, behind the fortifications they built. Despite air being burdened by dust, and no ready fresh source, some mercenaries began to smoke from their pipes. Suffocating the air further caused complaints, and the commanders ordered all smokers to make a place in the back of the vault. There was a fissure in the rock, not made by natural degradation but by intentional, yet hasty effort by an artisan. 

Polished and widened, the fissure birthed into a narrow passage, which ended into a dreary chamber, which had a scorch on the wall, that the smokers lit to give them some light. Huddled together, they stoked their pipes, and swapped their various tobacco flavors. Smoke rose to the ceiling quickly, and the more observant of them noticed Mason Runes, the secret lettering of the Stone Workers Guild. 

Something of great importance was hidden in the letters on the wall, but despite some being able to recognize the runes, none could decipher it fully—none except Sperlōc. Serving as a slave to the artisans, he was privileged to some of their secrets, one was being able to read their runes, something his old master would regret. 

When the Regulators purchased his contract, he kept silent of this skill, and forsake his talents in craftsmanship and study for the science of combat and warfare. Even after his contract expired and he earned his freedom, Sperlōc found mercenary work to his liking, so he kept doing it as a freeman, with regular pay and benefits. 

Sitting amongst the other pipe smokers, he looked at the letters, reading it, while pretending not to show interest in them. 

From the start at the fissure, he slowly, moved his head in nonchalant movements to read the message—

‘Cørsans beware, man and demon forbid entrance here.

Thee be in presence of Godly knowledge, and a prison of taboo—’

“Green-face!” a loud voice spat out an insult at Sperlōc, interrupting his translation of the runes. Turning towards the abusive speaker, he saw it was the archer who instigated the racial hatred towards the invaders, Pote. “Give me a match.” 

The archer wasn’t asking, he was demanding, showing nothing but obliging apathy, he reached into his tunic taking out his box of match sticks. Before he could fully extend his arm, the archer snatched it from his hand, and took full possession of the box, without giving thanks. 

Other Regulators wanted to intercede against such disrespect, but Sperlōc waved off any interference. There was no good for both mercenary companies to be at each others throats, with an invasion force above their heads. 

“A bit of a coward for a green skin aren’t you?” Pote’s words made the Regulators there growl in anger, but they kept their weapons in their holsters, and their tongues imprisoned behind gritted teeth. 

Pote lit his pipe with the matches he practically stole, and began inhaling the soothing fumes of his glade grown tobacco. Blowing the smoke into Sperlōc’s face, it was clear the archer wanted to instigate a fight, having his ego bruised before, and wanting to regain some sense of superiority. 

Rising up, Sperlōc planned to leave the cave, despite wanting to finish reading the runes, but Pote blocked his way out. Despite being several feet shorter, the archer had a nasty sneer on his face, with his hand on the grip of his dagger, still tucked in its sheath.
“Where are you going?” The archer had a wickedness in his mind, that Sperlōc could see as clearly as sunlight in a dark cave. 

“I am done smoking, and wish to man my post.” The excuse was rejected on the merit that it would deprive Pote of his sadistic sport. 

Pulling out his dagger, he poised the tip of the blade between the gaps of Sperlōc’s chainmail, under his tunic. 

“Stop this!” one of the Regulators stood up, drawing his sword, which made the Carrion Blades do so, out of reflex and loyalty to their side. “I will speak with my Commander and he’ll demand heads roll for this!” 

“Pote—” of the Carrion Blades tried to reason with his comrade. “—this is going too far, you’ll hang on to this if you push it any further.” Despite showing hesitance, the man still held his sword out, ready for a fight. 

“Hang? For this traitor…no, I know he is hiding something, these Cullnøvian can’t be trusted, they’re not like us." Whatever prejudice the other Blades had was not enough to get them to follow Pote’s violent scheme. 

“If you want to fight them—” one of Pote’s comrades sheathed his sword, “—then you do it yourself, and you pay the consequences by yourself.” 

One by one, the other mercenaries abandoned Pote, as they left through the passage back to the main chamber. Leaving the archer to realize he was alone with a hostile group, who could easily stick him through, and no one would be there to witness the crime. 

Before they got too far ahead, Pote withdrew, and rushed after them, appearing as skittish as a mouse being cornered by a room full of cats. 

“We’ll be off then too.” one of the Regulators suggested, as he put out his pipe, somehow losing his taste for a good smoke. 

“I’ll follow soon.” Sperlōc noticed wary looks from his fellows as they left the cave, wondering what he wanted to lag behind. None bothered to ask, as he was always a strange one, a trusted sword but was very odd, none-the-less. 

Studying the runes, he continued to read it out in his mind. 

‘—...and a prison of taboo sciences, all are forbidden from unlocking this seal, except those granted this sacred knowledge of stone and script.’

Placing his fingers on an obscure insignia hidden in the rock, he had unintentionally undid the lock, as he had much practice doing so under his old master. Nervously he backed away as the mechanisms in the stone began to turn, and something inside of the vault began to shift. 

Leaving the cave through the passage, he emerged through the fissure, and noticed the chamber they were inside was expanding. 

The far wall was shifting along treads hidden underground, spooking all the men there, who watched in awe and fear the displacement of elfan engineering. Once the wall pulled back another, the shelves that contained the coffins of the dead were shifted away, as the walls swung open revealing a bizarre light. 

Alien in look, it looked as if a sun was hiding beyond the wall, instead of being hot to the touch, the light spread a comforting coolness, as if they were being bathed in rare stream water. 

Shielding their eyes enough to not be fully blinded by it, they managed to see through the gaps of their fingers Sperlōc was slowly approaching the light. His green skin seemed to glow at the touch of the illumination, and everyone watched in wonder and anxiety as he seemed to be enveloped by the light. 

***

“Come child of the snake, come and know me.” the soft, feminine voice called, and obediently he came, unable to disobey the voices hypnotic tempo. “You, who has broken the seal, you must be held to account.”

The light dimmed, and before him, on a elevation of metal and precious stone of blue colors, sat the avatar of a being he thought was a myth; the legendary God Parthɇøn, appearing as a being with the upper torso of a man with snake features, and whose lower body is a long snakes body and tail. 

Clothed in the emerald vestments of those who worship him, the Snake God’s continuously hummed a hypnotic tune that compelled service without debate or question. 

“You have revealed this place, therefore you are bound to the safekeeping of this object of great power. May you safeguard it till its influence claims you, or to the world it is unmade.” 

Unfolding his arms, the Deity presented a profane object, a book whose covers were of heavy stone, and whose pages leaked with the mucus of freshly skinned flesh. 

Sperlōc with a will not his own, walked towards the tome, and before he could understand the burden he was subjected to, he grasped it in his hands, and everything went black. 

***

Manmade light returned to the vault, and the mystical illumination was gone, all that was left was a darkened dead end, and Sperlōc standing there, holding something in his hands. 

Turning around he walked towards the others, his eyes regaining some sense of life, beyond the mindless slave he had become before. 

“Sperlōc—” his Commander spoke to him in a mortified voice that trembled at the sight of what he had witnessed. “—what is it that you hold?” he wanted to ask about what happened, but his eyes were drawn to the hateful tome that his subordinate held. 

Sperlōc said nothing, he just looked at the object he was entrusted with, and immediately he felt a nauseous feeling in his eyes, as he wanted to throw the book as far away from him as possible. Yet it clung to him, as if it were glued to his hands by some unworldly adhesive, he couldn’t bear to remove it from his possession. 

“What is it?” the Commander asked again, his voice more angry than concerned. 

“The—” Sperlōc wanted to tell them the truth, but his mind was frazzled with the unreality he had just undergone. “—this is the book I was told to safekeep.” The explanation only made the other mercenaries perplexed, it showed on their faces. 

“By whom?” the Commander queried as he looked onto the terrible images etched into the stone coverings of the book. 

“By…God.” was all he could muster, it was a mistruth, something that may be factual, but not at all honest. 

“The Almighty?!” Those words were cried out by several other men, as there were many faithful of the Church among their numbers. The more devout were swayed to believe in such miracles, those skeptical couldn’t deny the supernatural occurrence they just witnessed. 

Pote witnessing this, crawled between the folds of his comrades, and with swiftness, and surprise snatched the book from Sperlōc’s hands.

“So what is it that Green-Face was given? A book of nursery rhymes.” The archer’s mockeries drew ire from both mercenary groups. 

“Pote! Return that book, or I’ll have you flogged!” The Commander was an adamant believer, and didn’t care for such violation of the trust given to Sperlōc.

“I will, but I want to see what is in this book.” Pote smirked mischievously as he opened the cover, and began to examine the moist pages. 

“You can’t read!” Shouted the Commander who had enough of Pote’s insubordination. “Turn over the book, or I’ll have you whipped till you’re dead.” The threat was unheeded, as Pote continued to examine the pages, seemingly absorbed with its contents. His back was to the others, and despite acting as if he didn’t hear that order, his Commander made good on his threat, and gestured some men to pry the book from the belligerent archer. 

“Give it up Pote, maybe if you apologize, the boss’ll—” placing a hand on the shoulder of the archer, the man sent to retrieve let out a chamber rattling scream, as a pair of jaws snapped at him and tore off his hand. Clutching his bleeding appendage, the other man sent to apprehend drew his sword, and was going to bring it down, but claws eviscerated his torso, exposing his organs, in a torrent of crimson. 

Gasping and crying out in terror, the mercenaries saw that Pote was no longer the devilish troublemaker, but had contorted to a monster, of stretched flesh, procreating eyeballs, and a long, narrow beak-like maw that was soaked with blood. 

Lifting his winged arms, he bore a line of talons that lined his webbed wings, as the creature seemed to grow several feet in size. Snarling and giving out a shrill eagle cry, the monster was somehow mutated from the archer, whose face was stretched out on the creature’s abdomen. 

“I have witnessed the infinite.” Pote’s face said, in a voice so hideously alien, it made the men who knew him cringe in terror at what he had become. 

“Archers fire!” cried out the Commander of the Carrion Blades, whose archers were slow on the draw, but managed to notch their arrows, and fire in close unison. 

Upon letting loose the arrows flew in the air, in an arch, and failed to puncture the dense hide of the winged beast. Snapping its jaws, the creature managed to snag a mercenary in its maw, and quickly drew him into its fangs, shredding the poor soul as it swallowed his bloodied body. 

They saw as their comrade went down the throat as a large, writhing lump, before being buried deep in the creature’s stomach, where a human face tried to force its way out of its stomach. However before long the human face melted to that of an agonized skeleton, before it fell back into its deadly bath of stomach acids. 

“He was unprepared for the word of Pluto.” Pote’s voice said, as the monster that controlled his shifted body crowed venomously. 

“To Blazes with you!” cried the Commander of the Carrion Blades, who charged forward, along with other brave men, hacking at the monster’s limbs with axes and blades. Despite showing a brave show of force, their weapon couldn’t slice through the accursed beast’s hide, as it had taken the mythical powers of an ancient demon in scriptures. 

All about it were the mists of ghosts of long resting dead, disturbed into haunted life by the use of such bewitching powers. 

Shifting through the barriers between realities, the demon bird had begun to distort the perception of the mercenaries, drawing blood to their eyes, as they couldn’t withstand the pressure being placed on their psyches. 

Sperlōc however could see clearly through the shifting of realities, for him it was as if someone turned the light off, and he saw a world of a black rainbow. Displaying shades of shadows, and unreal figments as if they existed in the world of mortals. 

Taking his axe in hand, his vision was drawn to the book that was held in an indentation of flesh on the abdomen of the bird beast. 

Charging forward, he deftly evaded the beast’s jaws, and wings, hacking back as he could, finding somehow the edge of his axe could slice through the demon’s flesh. Drawing purplish blood from the fiend.

Leaping upward towards the abdomen of the beast, he planted his axe right where the flesh met the book, and swiftly sliced at the seamed to free the book. Despite the howling of the bird demon, he kept his hold, and as sharp talons sliced at his durable chainmail, he managed to free the book, ripping it out as if it were a tick on a dog. 

Blood gushed from the empty orifice where the book once was, which propelled Sperlōc across the fault, landing hard on his back, as he watched the demonic bird deflate, as the blood drained from its form. 

Leaking mushy pale gore, and leaking putrid yellow slime, the demon let out a final screeching cry, as if someone dragged the tip of a knife across a metal, table top. Ending in a quiet, defeated whimper, the demon had shrank into a stretched patch of flesh, where Pote’s face, lifeless still was, completely drained of all essence. 

Holding the book in his hold, Sperlōc now began to realize the role placed upon him by the Snake God, and the dire consequences of any lapse in his duty. 

Regaining their senses, the mercenaries looked at him with fear in their eyes, they didn’t want to go near him, unless the accursed tome he held possessed them with some evil spirit. 

Before anyone could speak, there came a bombastic quake that shook them all and the chamber. Something was beating at the heavy doors to the vault, sounding as if it were a battering ram, the Carrion Blades, and Marsh Regulators took their defensive positions. 

Forgetting the terrors of the book for that moment, they had to repel the invaders before they gave in to the fear of demons. 

Whatever tried to beat in the door, had enough strength to let indentations in the heavy metal of the door, and cause growing cracks on the stonework of the doorway. Archers prepared their bows, the spearmen were behind the barrier, and sword and axemen waited at the flanks to deal with the inflow of Cullnøvian warriors. 

Tension knotted up the fighters of both mercenary factions, and as the seamed of the vault door widened to reveal the bulking horror on the other side, they were tightly round to face anything. 

The door went flying from its hinges, along with chunks of stone from the doorway, as it landed on the floor in an echoing crash. Vibrations of the destructive force continued as a monstrosity entered the vault. 

At first they didn’t know what to make of it, in the torchlight it seemed to be a mushroom, but it moved with the intentions of a man driven into an insane rage. Lashing out at the barricade, the Mushroom Golem tried to force its way through the stone, grabbing at the spearmen, trying to squeeze out their life juices. 

Arrows flew, and imbedded in the fungi flesh of the Golem, but it didn’t show signs of harming the abominable creature. Grabbing one of the mercenaries, the other men watched as it lifted the man into the air, and with both hands, squeezed out his innards from his mouth, and burst from his eye sockets. 

Absorbing the crimson fluids into its skin, the Golem tried to do so again, till it went still and twitched. It had been alerted to something, as it turned, it was soon clear it was drawn to Sperlōc, and the book he held in his arm. 

Reaching towards the evolved Cullnøvian and as most believed the its real goal, the possession of the accursed tome. Before the tips of the Golem’s finger’s could touch the stone covers, Sperlōc’s axe hewed off a finger, which blackened as it rapidly rotted into dust. 

Inspired by his ability to harm the golem, the other mercenaries charge forth, despite their weapons proving useless to the resilient creature, they were steeled by surviving the horror of e bird demon. Lashing out at the mercenaries, the Golem brutally killed half a dozen of them, before one archer had an idea.

Dipping the tip of his arrow in lamp oil, he lit it, and fired it at the fungus beast. Digging into the flesh of the Golem, the fire ate away at its body, as if it were a lump of fat on a heated skillet. 

Pouring oil on their blades, the swordsmen of both companies, set their swords aflame, and despite feeling the heat burn at their hands, sliced at the horror with burning vengeance for those that had fallen. As fire engulfed the behemoth of fungus and distorted flesh, Sperlōc leapt at the Golem, furiously hacking off parts of its body. 

One limb was severed leaving it in a tempest of confusion and growing hysteria at its own demise. Above the orders instilled in it by the Devour Lord, and the need to drink human blood, the Mushroom Golem was compelled into flight for its need to preserve its own life. Charging out of the doorway it busted in, it trampled over blue skinned Cullnøvians who crowded the doorway, waiting for an opportunity to attack. 

However they were dismayed to be under attack by the creature they believed their master had successfully enthralled to their side. Giving into flight, the savage invaders ran from the catacombs, with the half-burnt Golem inadvertently crushing them under its weight during its own flight. 

The mercenaries, emboldened by their success, gave chase, killing any stranglers in their wake, but stopping short as the catacombs ended to the stairs leading to the still miasma-covered courtyard.

***

As he overlooked the entrance to the catacombs, Asmotep felt the surge of unearthly energies start to vibrate under the keep. Something had been disturbed, and soon his slaves would fetch him the source of all magical power, and with it rule the mortal realm. 

Chaotic, unfathomable powers of eldritch masterworks, all bound in a grimoire, written by the Father Of All Chaos, Pluto. Pluto’s Manifesto, coveted among the trinity of books of arcane knowledge of blasphemous darkness. 

Devour Lords seek out their holy book, to reclaim reality as a domain of their patron Gods of all consuming, forever changing chaos. Constant evolution (evil evolution) in exchange of stability, and stagnant life. 

Just as he heard his slaves coming to the surface, Asmotep heard something, a distant sound of pleasant calls of nature. Birds, song birds, who bring with their voice the end of the miserable fog that envelopes the land, as the clouds parted overhead, a brilliant ray of sunlight shone down on the world. 

In the distance came the eruption of horns of an incoming army, as if they materialized with the sudden daybreak. Sunlight beamed down on the formerly miserably dreary landscape, showing the Lord of the Fortress has returned, a Dryalidis of formidable might—Nosfradomis. 

Alongside him was a host nearing a thousand, with far better equipment than his own legions had, he had little hope to sustain his possession of Tel Caer. All he needed to destroy them was the book, if he had his prize he could conjure such horrors as to strike even the great Nosfradomis from the world. 

Sounds neared the surface, as the miasma cleared in the enchanted sunlight, Asmotep watched as his warriors returned—empty handed. 

“Where is the book!?” he cried out in demand of answers, but the Cullnøvians were driven into a flight by something that gave them chase. Running for cover, a bloodied, and smoldering Mushroom Golem emerged from the catacombs, and as soon as it was touched by sunlight began to melt away. 

Rapidly, and with no hope, the Golem’s fungus form turned into viscous soup that bubbled and evaporated into non-existence. So did the other fungi, caused by the miasma, they evaporated leaving the remains of their victims behind. 

Rage broke through his apathetic mindset, and the Devour Lord in an act of vindictive vengeance cursed his warriors. Lifting his arms he spoke the three bewitching words of Dative, the Devour God of Change. 

“SȀൔᚻ∐ȩᆔⓧ☒Ƀઌᆙᚵ⒣Ꞇǔ㎲” the words upon utterance spirited away those who owed their very souls to the Devour Lord, and before any of them realized their penultimate peril they vanished from existence. 

Sentenced for their failure to a infinite dreamscape of muddling, hellish torment that goes beyond description. The closet once can describe it, is a Hell that even demons fear to be sent. 

Asmotep upon his defeat, vowed retribution at those who denied his prize, and before he was in range of Nosfradomis’s power he vanished from reality, leaving no trace of his presence. 

***

The Elfan Lord was met at the gates of his fortress by the Commander of the Marsh Regulators, and what remained of his and the Carrion Blade’s men. 

Looking about, Nosfradomis had a somewhat distant aimlessness trapped in his eyes, as if he could see multiple layers of realities, in his gleaming gold and silver eyes. 

“The Devour Lords are truly a menace upon these lands, I thank you for your efforts, and trust West Marsh Regulators, and those of the Carrion Blade Mercenary Company, you shall be justly compensated. The dead shall be buried with honors, and their family given enough to survive for their sacrifice—” then those eyes of foresight focused on Sperlōc who tried to hide among a cluster of men. A restrained, dignified anger flashed on the elfan’s face. “—you.” He lifted his finger to point out the green skinned Cullnøvian. 

The men around Sperlōc scattered, revealing the solitary figure, clutching to the unholy tome to his chest. 

“You have violated the taboo…” a shadow came upon the Elfan Lord’s face, he was as incensed as a race with muted emotions was capable of, “...give me the book.” 

Swayed by Nosfradomis’s power he approached the Elfan Lord, who sat atop his horse as if he were a returning champion of some great conflict, and Sperlōc was a humbled squire of little worth. 

Lifting the wicked tome, it was seized with the large hands and held as if it were a trophy not meant to be sullied by the grasp of those lesser. 

“You broke the seal, you violated my trust, for this you must be put to death. Captain!—” his voice brought an angelic looking knight, atop of a winged Pegasus from his ranks. “—Captain Luciczar, take him to be crucified in the wastes of Djinn.” 

The ivory haired half-elfan smiled, a calm, pleasant grin, as if he was invited to a picnic. 

“Yes, my Lord.” with that the mercenaries watched as one of their own was taken away in chains, to his gruesome death in the dark lands of Djinn. 

The Commander of the Regulators wanted to speak up, but his gaze was met with the emotionless glare of Nosfradomis, who aborted all voices of defense for the condemned Cullnøvian. Instead they took off their helmets and hats, to give homage to a soon to be fallen comrade, who they knew meant no malice in his deeds, but couldn’t argue with the will of their masters. 

***

Luciczar with his entourage of Knights traveled night and day, till one the fifth dawn on a gloomy, brown skied day, they reached the hill in the lands of Djinn known as Maltrocia (Sinners Rest). 

A lump of solid rock, where many of the worst criminals were led to the top, and crucified, and left to rot on the lonesome peak, to overlook the desolate wastes of stone and death. Wordlessly he commanded his men, as he demanded silence as the criminal was sentenced to death.

Stripped of his attire, and possessions, he was forced to the ground, and lay upon a cross they brought with them, made of solid oak. Then the knights under the gaze of the sky blue eyed Luciczar, his wrists, and feet nailed to the cross. 

Sperlōc cried out as the first icy cold nail was driven into his flesh, and as he pulled at his impaled arm, his mind breaking from the supreme agony, cried again as his other arm was nailed into the wooden cross. 

Feet were the worst, as they were placed on top of one another, and a long, sharp pointed nail was driven into his body in several hard strikes of a hammer. 

Raised from the ground, and made to stand upright, the crucified mercenary let our mournful cry of despair and pain, as he struggled to lift himself to breathe against his excruciating restraints. 

“God…help me!” he cried out, as the darkness deepened, and the Knights having done their duty climbed upon their horses and prepared to leave the criminal to his fate. 

“God has nothing but contempt for you miserable man-apes. Die as slowly as you can, and may your flesh off your bones, and may your bones be dust that is blown away by the wind.” Luciczar’s face contorted with devilish glee, as the shadows deepened around the edges of his sinister sneer. 

Riding off, his Pegasus took flight, overseeing his ground bound knights, as they returned back to their master’s side, leaving Sperlōc to a slow demise, in a land of stone and darkness.