Finding The Nullstone

Night of Exile

“And so the flock exiles the shepherd, willfully – woefully - ignorant his identity. The hubris.”

The current High Priest of “Hell” gurgled an obscenity as the monologue came to an end, his words garbled under the choking duress of the hand tightly clasping his throat. Hoisted into the air and well above his captor's head, his was a prime view of the scene of rampage that lie on display.

His desk had been hewn in half, its black stone fractured into slabs. The items resting atop it just a short time ago were strewn about the office, scattered by the force. Those lavish decorations and antiques lining the path to it were likewise vandalized if not outright destroyed.

Streaks of blood marred the portrait behind him – that of his immediate predecessor - but it was otherwise intact. Soon, perhaps, his likeliness would be painted there, balefully watching over his successor.

Yet when the thrashing had ceased, the High Priest turned a blind eye to all the carnage. He hadn't time to lament the mayhem, for once his eyes settled they were met with a familiar gaze. The Human eyes from whence it came did little to hide the nature of the beast behind them. Though it was the hand of a man which grasped him so, before the High Priest's heightened vision was projected the terrible countenance of the demon's true form.

“Xaran'xaxes...”

The name was uttered as one would hiss a profanity, guttural and familiarly full of contempt. No word or gesture of acknowledgment came from the ruinous visitor. Instead, the High Priest was answered with a bellowing command.

“SURRENDER IT.”

The archfiend felt the flesh of de Vere's palm reverberate from the malicious and guttural, yet impotent, growl rumbling in the lesser devil's throat. Nonetheless, a lustrous black stone came produced from the High Priest's person and was willfully – woefully – exchanged for his relative freedom.  Following a release none too gentle, the High Priest sat back against a slab of his former desk and heaved a sigh of relief.

“Why didn't you just kill me?” The denizen of Hell sneered, dusting debris from his robe. His next sigh was one of grim realization. “Now I have to take you to court.” The punishment for his cowardice, it seemed, would be met with a fate worse than “death.”

The comment spurned a snicker from the greater demon, whose attentions were focused on the hellish rock in his hand. Rolling it between leather sheathed fingers, he could not help but to discern the similarities between this stone and the one he had ultimately prized. His musings would have to wait, for this flesh-bound form required asylum and the sun would soon rise over the Arkanian continent.

“Spare us both. I plead guilty to all charges.”

The humor came as dryly as the arcane words which followed. In an instant the hellstone flared brightly and vanished, giving way to a shimmering portal. Through it the storm had gone. The High Priest sat unmoved, now free to take in the destruction wrought from his initial stubbornness and aggression.

During the lightless hours preceding dawn within the Verminasian capitol, beneath the ruined bridge south of Sabre Street, the vagrant which called this “shelter” home prepared to sleep after a long day of panhandling and inebriation.  His pre-bedtime routine was simple, but held in great esteem. It wouldn't be a proper day's end without a final swig of life's few pleasures.

Suddenly the peaceful dark of night was pierced by a hellish glow. All matter of rubbish tumbled down their mound of filth as a nexus to some fiery place rose from the riverside trash heap. Frozen in place with bottle in hand and jaw agape, the bum looked on as the swirling gateway produced... a man?

The two exchanged stares for a moment before the new arrival nodded, greeted the squatter with a nonchalant “good evening”, and just as casually disappeared into a cluster of shadow cast by the lunar light. As promptly as it appeared, the portal closed shut behind him.  Left again in solitude, the hobo turned a quizzical look to his bottle for answers. With none to be found, he abated his curiosities with a shrug and proceeded the nightly task of drinking himself to sleep.

Pub Crawl

The archfiend did not spend his time in exile idly.

From the dawn of his return to Verminasia, he would spend the day's entirety haunting one of the capitol's more popular establishments.  There he would provoke discussions pertaining to merchants, rare finds and oddities, upcoming auctions, and other such trade talk.

Though the banter would shift to accommodate the diversity of the target audience, no conversation was absent mention of a carved black stone entwined in precious metals.

As the last crimson rays of sunlight sank below the horizon, the demon gathered the puzzle pieces he had accrued throughout the day and departed under cover of darkness. Following a scattered, incongruent trail of rumor and hearsay, Xaran'xaxes only took pause from his pursuit to regain the scent or upon the imminent threat of daybreak.

The cycle of day and night, discovery and pursuit, would continue for weeks without relent. The archfiend had first cast a wide net for his prey. As he meticulously meandered the Arkanian continent, combing through many a brothel, tavern, and inn, the snare tightened. Eventually, the name “Mucky” Jobte Rentser came to the surface, a lucid gemstone among the silt and debris.

Though he was of course present for it, it was not the demon who had initiated relations with this mortal maker and shaper of glass, but Vincent, the erstwhile co-inhabitant of this Human form.

Early in his stewardship over the Verminasian Death Marshes, the Baron had hired Rentser to help restore the once abandoned acropolis that would become Castle de Vere. Born within the province and fiercely proud of his home, Jobte had eagerly agreed to ply his craft  for the spirit of patriotism – in addition to a generous sum of gold.

The two held no more than a professional relationship, their business concluded once the work was done, so it was with some surprise that Mucky Jobte greeted the unexpected return of his former employer.

De Vere's questions were pointed, lacked the fluff of social courtesies, and were as atypical as his sudden arrival. For the glass merchant, how the Baron knew of something so minuscule and fleeting as a wager placed on some pretty rock - stranger still why he even cared about such a thing - were curiosities easily satisfied by coin. Jobte spoke freely at its offer.

The stone's description was too identical to his prize to be coincidence. A carved black stone, encircled by strands of copper, silver, and gold held in place by an engraved brass bead. That it was carried – and wagered  in a card game – by a Half-Elven, apprentice herbalist came as surprise. Did the child even know what it was he had? It was all the better if he did not.

Despite it's bearer's evidently innocent nature, the nullstone and he who carried it proved difficult to find. The number of young Half-Elves on Arkania alone were too many to count. Those that could be mistakenly identified as either of their parents' lineage numbered greater still. Though finite, the material plane of Algoron was still vast.

Without his scrying orb, the search for a metaphorical needle amidst a continent sized hay field was an undertaking that would require more than his eyes and ears alone. So it was upon his return to Storm Keep that the fiend enlisted the aid of the Crimson Rose. Even then, bolstered by their numbers and considerable reach, the quest to locate one half-breed among tens upon tens of thousands proved an exercise in futility.

Perhaps later than it should have, the ineffectiveness of searching through traditional means became evident. Much like the water of a river's current, Xaran'xaxes began to plot a course around this obstacle born of limitations. He was a creature of predatory nature and relentless ambition. Necrucifer's reign would not be stopped by so paltry a thing as an elusive rock.

In his growing desperation, the archfiend looked to an Abyssal ritual of sight for a solution. It had successfully led the hunter to his prey many a time within the Infernal Planes, but to his knowledge it had not been tested within this realm.

Would it work? Would “he” survive it?  

For his conviction, guile, and expertise, Xaran'xaxes called upon the shadow mage Ithelim Nyiodail to conduct the ritual. Dutifully in agreement, the Master of the Rose needn't have been distracted by such questions or burdened by the possibility of disastrous failure.  At this point, what else was there to do but try?

Training and preparation required, the duo set to task.

Ritual of Sight

The Demon's Deal

As he departed the sheltered warmth of Nordmaar's Viking's Tavern, Dorgal could predict what would happen when he raised his hand in farewell to his “blood kin” Marron Trent.

He could predict that his gesture would signal his lieutenant Borislav to would slit the Half-Elf's throat in cold blood and pilfer the stone from his satchel. He could predict the patrons, many whose faces and families he was familiar with, would pay little mind to and speak nothing of the boy's all too casual assassination. He could predict his gold, which was given to the tavern keep in advance, would pay for the clean-up of their mess and disposal of Trent's remains.

Most, if not all, of Dorgal's predictions came true.

Borislav met Dorgal and the rest of the Company within their rented stables later that day. Here in respite from the biting cold, the Avalanche was presented his prize. For the first time, Dorgal was able to truly inspect the stone. It fit snugly into his large palm and though it had weight to it the stone wasn't overly heavy. Like most large, solid objects it would certainly hurt to be hit with, but beyond its reflective, blue sheen it was just as plain as any other rock.

Though it appeared to be quartz, to Dorgal it more resembled the black, volcanic stones found along the coast. Even the threaded precious metals banding it weren't worth what the Company was promised for it. More silver and gold clinked around in Dorgal's pocket than the amount used in the circlet's creation.  The Avalanche again doubted the contract's validity.

Dorgal enjoyed being punctual in his work and with his clients but he knew better than to test the fury of Icewall's storms. The job nearly finished, they would set out once the inclement weather had passed. The Company's roots and connections would see them sheltered and safe while the men enjoyed a moment of respite.

For almost two days straight, Turpa's wrathful spirit pummeled the territory without relent. The weather abated early into the second evening of the Company's stay, the fallen goddess placated for a time. Preparations, checks, and re-checks for a distance so far and remote would require several hours at least and Dorgal wished to leave at sunrise.

The Company numbered 16 strong, 17 including The Avalanche himself. Amidst their wagons and sleighs, caribou, and musk oxen they gathered within their stables. They spent the remainder of the long winter night making ready for the arduous return trip, sleeping in shifts and rebutting the cold in the solace of their pack animals' radiant warmth. For them it was a night like any other.

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Night's grasp weakened in the early morning hours preceding dawn. A hundred some paces away from the party's stables Dorgal sat atop a fallen pine, alone save for the warm company of a small, crackling campfire.  He enjoyed the quiet of this solitude, a time of day oft all too quick to pass.

The skies had cleared following the storm, bathing the snow covered land in the twin moons' red and white glow. Dorgal could even point out the shadowed black moon, a rounded void amidst the starry backdrop across which an aurora danced. Icy sheets had formed atop the snow drifts, causing the light to reflect and refract in a display of natural allure.

The crisp air was still save for the occasional stray and gentle eddy. The campfire and mug of spruce tea Dorgal nursed in his large, calloused hands repelled the cold to his satisfaction. His head bowed forward, basking his scarred face in the crisply sweet steam rising from his cup. The comfortable silence lulled him to rest his eyes and briefly doze as he habitually did throughout the day in place of true sleep.

A gust of cold wind caused Dorgal to wake from his nap prematurely. It was not the breeze itself, for he was no stranger to either the cold or the wind, but the whistling it produced. He thought he had heard whispers upon it, in what language he couldn't make out. The Avalanche quickly surveyed his surroundings for potential assailants and, upon seeing nothing and no one, shook his head in dismissal of the thought. It must have been his dreaming subconscious.

He lowered his face to take a long sip of tea and bring his mind back to the waking present. No more than two seconds had passed, but when Dorgal looked up he found a pair of unfamiliar eyes staring back at him.

Seated on a log across from him in a pose mirroring his own was now a raven haired man garbed in worn chain mail. The tabard covering his torso was old and slightly tattered, as was the dark cloak wrapped loosely around his person. The leather of his boots and gloves had sustained the test of time, but time had left its mark. His eyes were starkly blue and glassy such that the flames before him seemed to dance across their mirrored surfaces.

Despite the man's strange and sudden appearance, Dorgal felt no alarm. There were few things to fear here surrounded by his men and in the heartland of his native country.

“Y'lost?”, the Avalanche inquired. His tone implied the man was where he shouldn't be.

The stranger did not reply immediately, but kept his wordless gaze fixed upon Dorgal. When he did finally speak, it was not the answer Dorgal expected.

“Dorgal “The Avalanche” Vendrickson, founder and leader of the Avalanche Mercenary Company.”  The man's voice was deep and pointed, clear but quiet enough for civilized conversation.

“Y'found mae,” Dorgal loosed a raspy chuckle. “State yer bus'ness or clear mah camp.”

“You recently took something from a Half-Elf named Marron Trent,” the man accused with unfailing confidence. “A stone, black as the starless sky and bound in threads of copper and precious metals.”

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“Ah'll boite,” Dorgal replied with a hoarse chuckle. The conversation, while not loud was neither hushed, had stirred the attention of some of his men. They kept watch at an inconspicuous distance, most camouflaged against or within the stables' structure. It was only a matter of minutes before Higgsly “The Hawk” Ghydsotch, one of his foremost veterans, would return from his predeparture scouting trip.  

“Wot abou' et?”

A small smile tugged his lips upward, at what Dorgal could not tell. The gesture only fed the flames of Dorgal's irritation. His ambiguous answer was near enough to bring it to an inferno.

“Let's make a deal, Vendrickson.” 

The cadence of the man's speech never wavered and save that single, fleeting smile, it remained cast as a statue. Only the brave or the foolish would appear so untroubled, so at rest, in his present situation.  Dorgal scoffed and grinned ear to ear. How could this be anything but a joke?

“Yae loike makin' deals, eh?” Dorgal snickered again before all amusement faded from his face, giving way to flesh of thunder and stone. “Ah've go' ah deal fer ye then.”

The Avalanche put down his cup and rose to his full height. He stood just over seven feet with a colossal build to match. His attire of leathers, furs, and the odd plate decorated with trinkets of metal and bone only seemed to make him all the larger and fierce. It was easy to imagine why Dorgal received his moniker, for few but Half-Ogres or “Half-Men” regularly reached such size. The man who remained seated, while perhaps a foot shorter than Dorgal but still tall for a Human, looked like a mere adolescent by comparison.

“First: Ye goin' t'tell mae why tha 'ell et es that tha rock wants fer such attention. Then: Ye goin' t'convince mae why Ah shouldn'ave 'Iggsly o'er there warm up on yer peachae Sou'ern arse fer target practice.”

Dorgal jerked his head towards the forested border of the compound, alluding to the marksman that lie hidden within.

“Yer en ah bad place, lad.”

The man rose to his feet then as well and turned his gaze to the shadowed treeline. He mimicked Dorgal's nod.

 “That “Higgsly” over there?”

“Aye. Tha' Higgsly thar. Quit stallin', boy. Ye got till sunrise t' make yerself straight... Ah figure tha ain't too far off now.”

The smaller man's eyes returned to meet the Avalanche's brooding gaze. Now that the man stood upright, Dorgal could make out the crest of Verminasia woven into his frayed, abyssal tabard. A suit of chain mail covered what parts of his person that cloth and leather did not. His armor, though worn, in addition to the weapons and jewelry Dorgal now spied, were certainly valuable. All the less reason to keep the fool intruder alive, never mind entertained.

“More than you know,” the man scoffed in response.

“The offer is this, Dorgal Vendrickson: Take me with you on your return to the one who provided this contract. Whatever reward you're due is yours to keep. I've no interest in the stone you carry.

I will provide myself sustenance and, as a courtesy, will unfailingly protect anything within six feet of my person. My word is bond.

My only other demand is to ride within one of your covered sleighs, I care not which or what with. The burden of my presence is so light as to go unnoticed.”

Another grin broke through the storm clouds of Dorgal's face, but it lacked the jovial vibrancy of its predecessor. This grin was dark, even malevolent, for it precluded a sadistic act which would satisfy its wearer's ire. It met a steel wall, for still this man appeared unafraid and wholly serious.

Dorgal rose one massive hand into the air, stationing to signal for the meddler's execution by crossbow.

“Best hope wha'ever yer offerin' bae worth mah weight en diamon's, lad. Yer teeterin' on tha' edge now.”

“That {_is{x the offer,” the stranger nearly erupted. “Refuse or betray me and I slaughter you all – every man, every beast, except for you. You I will dismember and carry in tow, strapped still living to a sled of your own rotting limbs as I ravage everything that has ever brought you comfort or joy.”

Thunder and lightning cracked across Dorgal's visage as he clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. His raised arm quaked with anger begging for the tension to be released. A strange notion scratched from the back of his mind restraining his rage enough to let the man finish.

“Do we have a deal?”

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“Worst an' last mistake o' yer life, ye daft 'oreson.”

The man's words plucked a familiar string in the back of Dorgal's mind, though it was buried beneath the cacophony of anger swelling in his head. In a swift downward motion Dorgal released the tension in his arm, flagging Higgsly to loose his bolt.

Nothing.

Heavy were the few seconds which followed as they trudged past with uneasy quiet. For the first time in decades, his gesticulation went without a hair-trigger response. The man before him stood intact, unmoved, and appeared as if still awaiting an answer to his “offer.” Then came the screaming.

Wailing cries of agony, more beast-like than man, pierced the forested treeline from where Higgsly's shot should have launched. Higgsly stumbled forward and into view from his ambush spot, arms clenched tightly over his torso. Behind him trailed a spattered line of dark crimson streaks and blotches, staining the once pristine snow. The pale skin of his face was unrecognizable under the mask of blood he now wore, his own that covered his hands and soaked through the cloths clinging to his convulsing person.

The Hawk's screams paused only long enough for him to replenish his breath and resume again. Even then they were sometimes stifled by the pain, causing Higgsly to choke and sputter before continuing his tortured song. The marksman collapsed no more than three yards from where Dorgal and the stranger stood, his screams falling with him into silence.

Intent on skewering the man before him, Dorgal reached down to clasp the hilt of his short sword. In the time it had taken him to blink, he now found both his weapon and hand stuck fast under the stranger's crushing grip. Dominant hand folded over his waist, no matter how hard he struggled Dorgal could not wrest himself from this awkward position without further disadvantaging . Despite the bewilderment rampaging through his mind, the Avalanche soon realized he was at the mercy of this smaller man.

“Unwise, Vendrickson,” the stranger placidly remarked.  It was only now that he stood face to face with the man that Dorgal noted his words came unaccompanied by the fog of warm breath. His eyes appeared hollow as if vacant life and yet some manner of “life” stared back from behind them, inexplicably terrifying and inhuman at best.

“Accept or suffer further losses, mercenary. As you said, we've until sunrise to reach an agreement.”

“... Foine, devil. Ah accept yer 'deal.'”, Dorgal seethed with stubborn acquiescence and a wounded ego. The Avalanche maintained his glare but offered no further resistance.

“Excellent... I'm going to release you now and see myself to the stables. I would go tend to your Higgsly before he bleeds out on the ice. Are we understood?”

“Aye, we're un'erstood,” the mercenary agreed with a grim nod. The man released Dorgal's wrist as promised and started towards the cover of the stables.

Dorgal whistled and signaled for his men to collect Higgsly. A pair jogged forward, wading into the untouched drifts to attend their comrade. They were flanked by crossbowmen on either side who kept their eyes on the treeline in search of Higgsly's unseen assailant.

One Door Shuts

Xaran'xaxes had pilfered the nullstone from Dorgal's possessions and replaced it with a fake just before confronting the man himself. No commotion was made then or after, and so he presumed none would come. The ruse was working.

The shadow mage Ithelim had carved two convincing duplicates from memory, a remarkable feat given the memory was not quite his own. To they not attuned to such things, the counterfeits were hard to differentiate from the real thing. To those with a sense for the arcane the magical void was readily apparent to the touch. Against the weight of Creation, the fiend felt as if though he cradled a hole of nothingness, empty and wanting, in de Vere's palm. This was surely it, though testing the extents of the legend would need to wait.

The archfiend could have left with his treasure there and then and, as they would soon find out, the Avalanche Company would have been much better off for it. But the question clawed at the demon's meticulous thoughts from the moment he discovered others were hired to procure the stone as well: who? 

Who had discovered the stone's existence besides himself? Who else sought it and for what purpose? Few mortals saw past de Vere's hollow eyes to glimpse the demon within. Even less considered his schemes to hold any breadth of sanity. Who had he told beyond the walls of Storm Keep? Who else would mobilize their efforts so quickly?

A few at first came to mind. Was it Fatale's Deathscythe, whose ambition rivaled his own? Had Lord Dragoth's Vershae finally extended his creeping arm? Even were it any number of mortal faces or factions, who oft presented a lesser threat than his kith and kin, the loose thread tugged relentlessly at the fiend's mental fabric. He would see it either woven back into place or cut from his designs completely.

The return to the cave where this unknown employer resided consisted of two days of travel and two nights of refuge and rest, with intention to spend the third morning finalizing the exchange. The first of these passed with relative quiet, though they were far from silent. Amidst the crunch of snow under all hoof, foot, and sleigh rail, between inhales of sharp, piercing cold, and exhaled on the hushed breath of Dorgal's men, words and whispers spread growing malcontent among the party.

The “official” story was that Higgsly had “fallen prey to a beast” and that the “envoy” they were now transporting had “come to see them back” to their employer, for worry that the Company abandoned its contract. Only Higgsly, as the men well knew, was a seasoned woodsman – a hunter, never the hunted – and his wounds did not appear rent by tooth, horn, or claw. The man “de Vere” bore Verminasian paraphernalia that, while perhaps telling, spoke nothing of some ogre camped in the Northern Wilds. The Hawk was in no state to recount his experience and the Avalanche had little desire to speak of his own. Neither of the claims were backed by hard evidence and all of the men agreed that they defied logic. Ideas of murder, and some even of mutiny, had rolled within their heads and past their lips.

Secure from the burning light of day, the flesh-bound fiend sat nestled among fowl and their feed within a covered wagon. There he quietly picked apart their conversations, gathering information and musing over their fears. Those who guessed “vampire” were on the right track, but still far off the course, for while he did sup upon blood and burn under sunlight it was for very different reasons than those lords of undeath.

Owing to a fear of the unknown, for the mercenaries the distinction mattered not. As the sun fell heralding the first night of their journey, their tensions had nearly swelled to burst. The chance to rest and stew in their trepidation would only fan the flames.

Absent their leader's knowledge, the Company had devised a plan to kill and dispose of the menace they ferried abroad. Gurgin, a newer addition, volunteered to fill the role of executioner. They would wait until the sun reached its zenith, then they would open the wagon's flap and Gurgin would send a bolt through the devil's chest. If that failed to kill it, they would cut open the cover and let the sun finish the job for them.

They rode on until midday, Gurgin and a group of four hovering close behind the livestock wagon. With a curt exchange of nods, a certain signal, and to Dorgal's bewilderment, the caravan abruptly slowed, crawling to a stop upon the open ice and snow. No words were spoken as a man peeled back one of the flaps and Gurgin slipped into the wagon, crossbow at the ready.

They heard the twang of the weapon's fire. They heard the bolt hit its mark with a squishy thud and a raspy groan. Then they heard screams - they knew they were Gurgin's. Then they heard more squishy thuds and saw splattered blood seeping into the wagon's beige tarp. Then they saw Gurgin's disembodied hand and forearm ejected from the flap. This was followed by his crossbow which cracked the flap-holder square between the eyes, sending him toppling backwards.

Then they felt sheer terror, one such that it drove most to their knees and locked the rest in their tracks. For before them now was not snow, or mountain ranges, or pine forests. Abyssal nightmares clouded their vision, their bravado felled and consumed before vivid images of infernal terrors and dread expanses. Suddenly and explicitly, they had all found a hell unique and individual unto themselves.

“HENDRICKSON,” roared an unearthly voice from within the wagon. The boom of the summons was enough to pierce through the haze and break them from their spell. The terrors receded as briskly as they had come and once more beloved Algoron stood underfoot, cradling them in her cold bosom. Still the fear lingered, such that they dared not lift another hand with thought of provocation.

Like a trained dog, Dorgal made his way to the back of the wagon where the commotion had erupted. He cast a baleful glare over his men, equal amounts of fear and anger roiling within his heart. They should have trusted him. They always had before. But then, such was the nature of trust: built over a life time and lost in an instant. He had overestimated the nature of his fellow man.

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As Dorgal looked up at de Vere, whose stare bored down back at him from atop the wagon's platform and under the shade of the canopy flap held in his outstretched arm, he found himself wondering if he'd live long enough to learn from the mistake. Blood stained the Verminasian's mouth and chin, trailing down the links of his tarnished mail and into his tabard, but it was clearly not his own. The shaft of Gurgin's crossbow bolt protruded from his ribcage, stuck fast between layers of flesh, cloth, and failed armor. He appeared unfazed, even though the bolt had visibly wounded him.

In his free hand, de Vere held Gurgin's freshly mutilated corpse. He tossed it to the ground before Dorgal, bereft of arm and chunks of flesh, as though it were a lightweight sack. Dorgal regarded the gesture with but a passing glance, staunchly maintaining eye contact with the beast before him. In lieu of any other positive lights, at least the Avalanche was accustomed to dead bodies of all varieties.

“One more chance,” the demon spoke as if bestowing a gift whilst repressing a smirk from emerging through his scowl.

Xaran'xaxes liked this one and though punishing him – punishing them all – would bring greater joy, they still had a purpose to fulfill. He could not rebuke them yet. Yanking the bolt free from his host's form, the archfiend reminded Dorgal of the gruesome fate that awaited beyond the demon's wrath. He commanded the journey to resume before disappearing behind the flap and back into the wagon's confines.

That night none spoke of what had transpired earlier in the day. None spoke at all in fact, save for the sparse relay of necessary commands. What few looks they exchanged were brief, fear and the shame it had caused them apparent in their eyes. Each felt similar lamentations and all knew the collective shared in it. 

They reached their employer's cave on schedule, arriving at its mouth in the early hours of dawn. The Company assembled in the entryway, their spirits hoisted by the promise of payment now mere moments away. Dorgal took pause to consider if it was worth the loss of two men and, more considerably, his reputation before clasping the troublesome stone in hand. The Avalanche breathed a sigh of relief and announced, “We're here.”

With de Vere at their back, the party trod through the narrow, stony passageway leading to the main cavern. At the path's end opened a large chamber, the place in which Dorgal had accepted this accursed contract. In its center towered the Ogre, clad in robes of black, a large iron bound chest at his feet. They had reached their destination at last.

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“Aaaaah, Xa-ren-xax-es,” the Ogre bellowed as the group finished assembling before him. The boisterous voice echoed off the cavern walls, fading into the dark. They looked to each other in confusion, the word foreign to their ears but each syllable spoken with palpable spite.

Vincent waded through the small crowd until he stood at its front, keeping a length of several spears between the Ogre and he. Two apex predators then locked eyes, the smaller ascertaining his recognition of the larger which had clearly identified him already. The former's brow twisted with anger while the latter's mouth parted in a mirthful grin.

“Part of me hoped you would come,” the Ogre continued. Dorgal recognized the tongue of ogrekin, but could not place the archaic dialect in which the Ogre spoke it.

“The failed progeny of a dead god,” the Ogre taunted with a hoarse scoff. “Come. Once I am finished with these mortals, we shall return you to the Abyss... I am eager to see you fall again. Many more crave to see you despair.”

“Gorsythe,” Xaran'xaxes hissed from the lips of de Vere.

The rival archfiend of Drakkara had betrayed him and usurped the demon lord's claim shortly after their successful, if short lived, conquest over the fifth layer of Hell. The treachery was admirable and, though centuries past, still lingered within the fiend's mind. Conspiring alongside his former mistress, the Devionite Taizavzel, Gorsythe had cast Xaran'xaxes into the Wells of Darkness where he remained imprisoned for decades more.

Gorsythe again pulled the ogre's lips back to bare a tusk laden grin. His dark and sunken eyes shifted to Dorgal and a massive hand reached out from his side. Once more he spoke in the common tongue, “You have the stone, mercenary. You'd not have come without and neither would he. Give it here and take your payment... I will see to it that my kith interferes no longer.”

Dorgal looked to the stone in his palm, then at the possessed corpses standing before him. Only then did he realize the ogre's meaning of  “one other like myself.” Had he known in advance, no amount of coin could have persuaded him to entertain deals with demons. Still, the damage was done. He would not walk away empty handed.

Dorgal stepped forward past de Vere and towards the Ogre, surrendering the stone into his waiting palm. This larger demon was noticeably pleased. The one within the human stood silent. From behind the ogre's lifeless eyes Gorsythe marveled over his new possession, but one more added to the troves already seized from this “almighty archfiend of Necrucifer”, “servant of the Master.”

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“Take your money and begone. Go,” Gorsythe commanded the mortals.

He continued to gloat while several of the men strode forward to help haul away the wealth-heavy chest. Though wary of the threats that loomed before and behind them, to their relief neither creature did more than speak at this juncture. Now the conversation continued in the tongue of man.

“Servant of the Master indeed,” the Ogre ridiculed, repeating the thought aloud, “Or should I say the Mistress. You've done well leading me to this... Once more the path to my triumph is paved upon your failure. How gracious you are, kin, for all your gifts.”

De Vere's right hand clenched into a fist at the words, the left disappearing behind his back. Gorsythe rolled the carved and decorated stone about the ogre's palm, scrutinizing its features. After a time he seemed skeptical, even unimpressed.

“This is it then, is it? You think {_this{x is the key,” Gorsythe contemplated, “I've heard your plans, Xaran'xaxes. I've watched you make them. Would that the eye could also peer through the Abyss, but ah- here you have been. How fortunate.”

It explained everything. The bastard must have found the scrying orb Xaran'xaxes was forced to leave behind. With a sudden jerk of the ogre's wrist Gorsythe flung the fraudulent stone to the ground, shattering it against the cavern floor. Dorgal and the few men who'd not yet departed stared wordlessly, eyes wide and jaws agape.

“Fool. Did you think me so daft as to be deceived by this farce?” 

De Vere's hand returned from behind his back, producing the second counterfeit. His first bluff had been called.

“Let's make a deal,” propositioned the fiend-driven ogre, “Give me the stone. The real one. Help me see this scheme to fruition. Assist in the commencement of Her Reign Eternal and I swear you shan't be cast back into the pits.”

“No,” came the retort, abrupt and staunchly stated.

“No?” Gorsythe roared a cackle, “Necrucifer is dead, Xaran'xaxes. I have seized your realm and all within it. You will find no restitution in serving a fallen god. None shall rally to your crusade. By what lunacy do you refute so generous an offer?”

“Spite,” countered the smaller creature. He hoisted the stone into the air with evident intent to smash it, too, upon the ground.  “I would sooner destroy it than see to your continued success.”

“Hubris,” the ogre scowled, “It would not be the first time it led to your downfall, but it will be the last. Give the stone to me. NOW!” 

The hellish rasp of his voice scraped and rebounded against the cavern walls. With a wry smirk, Xaran'xaxes replied, “Come and take it, worm.”

“Fine! I shall pluck it from your meat-suit's ashes,” Gorsythe snarled. A word of the arcane tongue followed past the ogre's lips and between his hands a mote of power swelled into a raging ball of flame.

===+===+===+===+===+===

The ogre clenched his massive fist and lobbed the roaring fireball forward, its velocity too quick to avoid at so short a range. At this point, Dorgal and the remainder of the Company had secured their cache and lingered in the passage nearby to ensure they'd not be followed out. In the blink of an eye the fireball reached its intended target, but to the astonishment of most it did not reap the expected result.

The sorcerous flame first stretched out then dispersed around the Verminasian's body, as if breaking against an invisible wall. De Vere stood unmoved and undamaged, clutching the counterfeit stone fast before him. The real nullstone hung from his belt inside a cured leather pouch, obscured by his garb and effects and secured within an arcanium casing.  It worked.

Gorsythe assumed it would. From the ogre's robes he produced a massive kanabo, the studded, blackened club suited to his host's natural strength. With speed no ogre should be able to achieve, Gorsythe pressed forward to crush his rival. He missed narrowly, his weapon's pulverizing force shattering one of the chamber's natural stone pillars. The cave shook in response, bits of loose rock and stalactite crumbling off of the ceiling.

Xaran'xaxes had always been the more nimble of the two, owing as much to their allegiances as it did their “natural” forms and gifts, and now upon the Material Plane their hosts behaved much the same. De Vere bowled the fake stone across the chamber as the ogre approached and drew a notched parrying dagger from his sword belt. With predatory ferocity, he mounted the ogre as it passed and began stabbing and slashing the much larger host, first to find purchase and then with intent to behead it.

The ogre reached back grasping for his attacker and, after several dodged attempts, succeeding in grabbing de Vere by his tunic. His host now bleeding profusely, Gorsythe grabbed his rival and slammed him to the ground with earth quaking force. The man's ribs surely fractured, Xaran'xaxes pressed on. He rolled past a head-bursting stomp and then over another ground-rumbling impact of the ogre's club, the mountain hollow losing integrity with each devastating blow. Once more, the ogre found purchase on the Verminasian and threw him clear across the room. 

A mist of blood sprayed from de Vere's mouth and nose as he impacted the far stone wall and crumpled to the floor. The Avalanche Company in view of the battle watched in awe as the Verminasian rose and the fight continued. During the brief pause, Gorsythe had made strides towards the rolled nullstone, intent on claiming his bounty.

In a feat of inhuman strength, de Vere prized a large stalagmite free from its thick base and hurled it at the ogre. As Gorysthe reached down to grab the stone, the makeshift spear shot through his host's chest and shoulder, causing him to stumble and fall to a knee. Try as he might, the stalagmite stuck fast. In a brief panic at the sound of approaching footsteps and drawn steel, he clasped at and grabbed the stone before looking up at de Vere with a crimson grin.

Xaran'xaxes, his host equally battered, stood at sword's length from the ogre and paused, blade pointed at its throat. Though maimed beyond the ability to continue battling in earnest, the ogre firmly squeezed the false nullstone in the hand of his disabled arm. Choking on blood and supplied now by a single lung, Gorsythe erupted with guttural laughter as an Abyssal gateway began to churn open behind him.

“Nothing to shield you now,” Gorysthe spat, each sentence laborious, as another fiery orb began to take shape in the ogre's free hand, “See you on the other side, “brother.” Sooner rather than later.”

The archfiend of Drakkara whipped the fireball forward with intent to smite, only to find his magic neutralized once more. With a puzzled countenance, Gorsythe tossed the counterfeit stone into the swirling portal behind him for insurance against his kindred's threat to destroy it. When next the two demons met eyes, de Vere's sword was now poised to strike.

“Be careful what you wish for, Gorsythe... I've been simply itching to return home and now you've just given me a reason.” 

A decapitating stroke followed Xaran'xaxes' words, severing the ogre's head from his body. The demon's soul harbored within flooded out, screeching at its release. The dark, crackling mass surged into the gateway which then itself imploded, momentarily warping the fabric of the material plane.

===+===+===+===+===+===

The Avalanche Company, by way of their trade, had seen worse carnage during their tenure and the duel, while impressive, still paled before their recent glimpse into the Infernal Realms. Most, Dorgal included, stayed behind to watch the spectacle from the safety of the cave's passageway. Pleased that they had, their chief antagonist now appeared vulnerable.

Xaran'xaxes turned to face the men, his host broken and bleeding. Slowly, warily, they encircled de Vere like a pack of wolves closing in on wounded prey. Their appetite for revenge was ravenous, their anger near tactile.

Spears, swords, axes, and crossbows were brandished in the monster's direction, eager for the frenzy to begin. Though some measure of divine constitution had already begun to mend the host's body, the archfiend knew his vigor was drained. By the way he clutched himself, attempting to stem the flow of life force from still open wounds, the men knew it too. Still, a beast posed no greater danger than when injured and cornered.

“Our deal is still in affect, Dorgal Vendrickson, and you and yours dance once more on the brink of betrayal... I spared you last time. All of you have seen what awaits your black and twisted souls... Though wounded I may be, one drink is all I need to send the lot of you there ahead of schedule... Go with your money and your lives.”

De Vere's eyes glowed against the cavern's darkness, unblinking, cast upon none in particular but at all who dared meet them. The men glanced at one another, the rigidity of their stance falling way to apprehension. Dorgal, too, broke his vehement gaze for a split second to visually appraise the eagerness of his men. Most appeared to be heavily weighing their options.

Dorgal considered the demon's words. He had lost enough already. Slaying the fiend would bring closure to those losses and, perhaps, restore the Company's confidence in him. Walking away would ensure the lives of his men, but at what further cost to himself?  They were like to mutiny him or worse for the troubles wrought upon them by his decision to take along this unholy passenger.

“...Boris?” Dorgal asked his second, his sights unwavering from the creature before them.

“N'shame en livin' t' foight ano'er day, chief,” Borislav replied. He spoke for himself and the men on this. They had their ample payment. Their contract was fulfilled. All wanted to live to see it spent and none questioned the creature's lethality nor veracity of his word. He had not attacked them without provocation.

“Vampyre?” Borislav asked the Verminasian, attempting to steer the interaction from violence.

“Worse,” de Vere replied. Borislav nodded in concession and looked to his leader for extrication. Dorgal broke his stare to look back with a nod of agreement.

“Aye... N' shame en that,” Dorgal intoned, looking over the mercenaries for any sense of dissent. There was none. Only relief passed over their pale faces. The Avalanche nodded once more and signaled his Company to depart.

Leaving behind the rest, Dorgal craned his head to look back at the demon bound in flesh one last time. Alas, in the blink of an eye it had vanished. In the empty cavern before him now there was naught but darkness and shadow.