Shadows and shapes moved throughout the WestEnd that night. Something big was happening, and locals closed their windows and doors to hide away from the terrible things that prowled the streets. Incorporeal beings of pure darkness and strangely grotesque creatures that should not be alive took various positions among an erratic perimeter that only the insane could possibly devise and understand.

Outside the abandoned IronHelm Flats, a small group of humanoid beings silently approached the eerie building. One was a stunning beauty, blonde and pale skinned wearing a long gown with a red bodice and black net skirt, the steps of her barely visible high heels making not a sound. She pushed ahead of herself another woman, a solid hood pulled down and tied securely over her head, and her belly well over eight months pregnant. Behind her, her wrists were bound together, restraining this young woman's movements as her captor continued guiding her to places she could not see.

Accompanying the prisoner and captor were two misshapen mockeries of humanity, terrifying to behold but their eyes giving way to keen intelligence. Ravenous ghouls, the both of them, freshly fed from the corpse of the husband of this poor pregnant woman that their mistress had easily abducted from her home. How these ghouls had reveled in her horrified screams while their mistress forced her to watch them chew down the man's flesh.

"Wait out here, my pets," said the blonde beauty to the ghouls as she roughly shoved the pregnant woman into the IronHelm's entrance. Obediently, the two savage undead beasts took their positions of guarding the entrance from any who did not belong at this macabre meeting.

Down through the winding corridors and steps to the lower levels of this fell community of abandoned homes turned dungeon, the undead blonde beauty pushed her pregnant captive. Dracina's wicked expression was dry and emotionless as she guided the poor helpless woman, who could not see, to where they were going through the dark fabric of the hood.

Eventually they arrived in a dimly lit chamber where another person, clad in crimson, stood in wait. The pale-skinned blonde gave her captive mother-to-be another harsh shove, nearly causing her to fall to the floor. Finally a smile crossed the red painted lips of the blonde as her blue eyes, with the eerie red glow of her pupils, settled on the shapely figure of Nocent.

"I've brought someone who is expecting, just as you requested," Dracina Hemdagg said in that ever so calm tone of hers. "I'm afraid I may have already traumatized her beyond the breaking point."

As if in response, the captive whimpered and sobbed through that thick hood which encased her head and shoulders. Dracina merely chuckled, leaning down beside the woman, and gently rubbed her back.

"Trust me, girl, I did you a favor," she said with an insidious grin. "It wouldn't have worked out anyway. All marriages end in heartache..."

The rhythmic throbbing of the drums nearly vibrated Krysira's very core. Her long, lanky legs were standing towards the entrance to the room where Nocent was preparing for her ordeal. The bowels of the IronHelm Flats would be full tonight; Hell was being summoned. Deep beneath the concrete that made up the foundation of the city, Nocent had called upon her powerful allies. For exactly what? No one was supremely sure. Still, when Nocent beckoned, one usually came. It was as simple as that.

Nocent had not spoken much as of late; and that was probably a bad thing. Krysira, however, couldn't be bothered. Ever since she had come into her new wealth, the former street rat, former guild member, former thief from Guller's Creek was taking it for the full ride it was worth. She had donned new clothes, purchased new property (not excluding the IronHelm Flats) and had become something of a general pain in the ass.

There was nothing that she enjoyed more than frequenting that sickening little hole in the wall pub and bashing on the Scathachian bitches. They were so jittery as of late, so easy to rile up; it was too easy really. Krysira smirked as she stood obediently near the door; if those "Sisters" really knew what was coming their way, they would know that they had good reason to be skittish.

Krysira's form was decked out for the festivities tonight: a royal blue surcoat with a high collar, black leather pants and high boots that she had seen earlier in the week. Her lean fingers tumbled over Alea Fatum, safely hidden away in her coat pocket. She had become obsessed with the evil gift from Nocent; she went nowhere without those dice. She played with them incessantly until they grew almost too hot to the touch. As the former thief pondered on the heat in her hand, she began to realize that with each beat of the drum, her hip throbbed. Krysira rubbed absently at her hip, knowing that the unholy mark of Bhaal was smoldering beneath; it filled her with a warmth and an anticipation she had not known before. Soon, her whole body was rocking with the percussions, she found herself longing for the others, longing to get started, longing for blood.

Her breath caught in her throat, she watched Nocent with a lust in her eyes. Indeed, she looked like a Goddess, standing before a candlelit altar, majestic helm atop her head. At that moment, had Nocent asked, Krysira would have willingly done anything for her. So seductive and inspiring was she, that Krysira would have given her own life for the Anti-Scathachian in that hour. As she watched Nocent prepare, the arrivals began. First the vampiress Dracina had entered, then it was the magic user, Isabella (whom Krysira owed a dire thank you). Good, Nocent's allies were coming. It wouldn't be long now, Lord Bhaal's bride had summoned her union.

The Ace of Diamonds leaned with one foot propped up against the wall, the others would be here soon.

All around the mulberry bush The monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought 'twas all in fun. Pop! goes the weasel.

Her defined face was painted completely alabaster white. It eerily shined in the bathing light of the haunting moon. Those lips were dramatically highlighted in scarlet and extended upwards into a twisted clown like grin. Heavy black diamond shapes were designed around those macabre eyes. Crimson and ebony patterns decorated the fiend's cheeks and forehead. A shocking wig of pink sat atop her head and was so elegantly styled for a completely chaotic encounter. Black leather armor, loaded gauntlets, and heavy bladed boots rounded out her "carnival" attire. Oh yeah, and naturally, she was packing an overabundance of sharp weapons and madcap "toys". Not the least of which was her newfound cursed blade, Vamorag. It's SSSSSSSSSSSSHOWTIME!

The time for waiting was finally over. Lady Nocent had sent summons for the insane assassin, and Carnal would not disappoint Bhaal's tyrannical Priestess.

Before midnight, the congregation would gather in some diabolical array deep within the labyrinths of the IronHelm Flats. That place was crawling with darkness, ill deeds, bad omens, and death. Sounded like a truly magnificent funhouse!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

It was requested of Carnal, however, to make a small stop prior to joining the fellowship: The Heaven's Heart Orphanage in the Northside. That putrid outhouse of salvation where oh so many snot-nosed little bastards were dumped off when no one wanted their sorry insignificant asses anymore. The same miserable sh*thole that she prayed god would smote to ash not more than four days ago...well she was going to get her dandy, dandy wish alright! Burn! Burn! Burn, Bitch, Burn!!

A penny for a spool of thread, A penny for a needle. That's the way the money goes. Pop! goes the weasel.

Lady Nocent herself requested that she torch the place an hour before rendezvousing with the other Hell sent "Cards". And torch it she did! She had a blast!

In fact, just as Carnal finished igniting the carefully laid stream of thick oil which now surrounded and coated the large building, she noticed that she had an uninvited guest with her. The flames quickly began to roar to life. But look at this! A muscular night watchman had been blessed with the almighty "Hero Stick", and therefore tried to apprehend the Clown Princess of Rhydin. HAHAHAHA! Opppppps!

The strapping patrolman, golden wedding band on his finger and all, actually laughed when the killer clown pulled out her trusty bop gun and aimed it at him.

After assessing the grave situation, he sternly ordered her to drop her weapons and face the wall. Then, yet again, he smugly laughed when she told him that he was never going to see his little pissant family ever again.

Why, that long arm of the law even continued to chuckle when she pulled the trigger and a long rod poked forth from the barrel only to unravel a neat cloth sign which, in bright red letters, read "BANG!"

BUT, when the zany assassin pulled the trigger again....that happy, happy, happy "BANG sign" forcefully fired from the barrel and its razor-sharp steel tip pierced through his skull, burying itself deeply into his brain matter. The f-cker wasn't laughing anymore.

The guard fell like a stone as the orphanage burst into flames around him. Children and concerned staff members soon began screaming and hollering. The fire was spreading like it had purpose; like it could taste their harmless, supple flesh already. Oh my!!! The main door was mysteriously barred!!!! Who would do such a thing??!! Boooooo hooooo! So many little ones attempted to flee; while others simply suffocated in the smoke or roasted in their beds. Firelight can be so romantic! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Up and down the City Road, In and out of the Eagle, That's the way the money goes. Pop! goes the weasel.

She had blindly obeyed Lady Nocent's request. It was done. Now she was here. Here at The IronHelm Flats. This citadel of Damnation.

The drums which beat with vehemence, drove her into a frenzy. This homicidal clown wanted blood, blood, blood, and more blood!! She instantly began to crave immediate murder and savage death. The yearning to inflict untold horrors on others and to bring sheer pain to the masses was far beyond erotic and bordering on pure orgasmic. Those untamed drums summoned her very soul, and its message was far from peaceful and sanguine.

After she had cheerfully made her way down the many steep stairs and slithered through the twisting hallways, the deadly assassin finally entered the room where some of the other members of this demonic cabal were waiting. Glorious! Glorious! Glorious fate!!! What luck!!! When she noticed that the gorgeous undead queen, Dracina Hemdagg, was amongst those gathered, Carnal's nefarious heart quickly sprung into back flips like the most deranged of circus performers. She had instantly remembered the sexy kindred from that special night in the cemetery a few months back. This magnificent vampiress was smothered in an aura of both supernatural hypnosis and pure strength. Raw death she was. Dracina had left without saying goodbye that fateful eve. Carnal was quite delighted to say "hello" once again.

Lady Nocent. Indeed, this woman was a picture of magnificent evil incarnate. She was all that was truly loathsome and nightmarish in humanity. The talented assassin was pleased to be in league with such a colossus of slaughter and devastation. If she herself was the star clown, then this Duchess of Death was surely the flamboyant ringmaster!

Ms. Krysira Clayborne. A lethal combination of style and pizzazz! Whooooo Hoooooo!!! This bitch had class and a killer, killer attitude to match. No doubt, that this one was deeeeeep into Hell's pits. Carnal was feverishly impressed with the toxic confidence that Krysira oozed.

Now, the exotic Unseelie wizardress was eye-catching to this insane Baroness to say the very least. Yes, she definitely radiated both might and unadulterated sin. Carnal felt her mouth pool with hungry saliva at the first sight of lovely Isabella. Salvia, and her own coppery blood from nipping at her wet tongue. Yum, yum, yum.

Finally, she gazed at this man Agarithil. He appeared to be a very striking looking gent of elven heritage. Indeed, he was genuinely a statement maker. His wonderful yo-yos composed of chains and severed heads were breathtaking. Spectacular! To die for!!!! A devilishly smooth bastard.

Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the GREATEST Show On Earth! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

The Baroness knew for certain that here in this dank basement of the ghostly IronHelm Flats, far beyond the sight of the common populace of mere cattle, she was amongst dreadful greatness. Divine butchery was hers to witness.

After nodding to each of these unholy warriors in due turn, that hideous clown-grin dripping red on her perfectly painted alabaster face, Carnal's insatiable pupils once again settled on Lady Nocent. The makeshift altar before her was duly noted, and those phantasmal drums continued to incite Kya's homicidal passions.

And look at this! A pregnant, little, whimpering bitch with a sack over her head!! Oh this should be just wonderful, she thought. Lalalalalalala!

If there were heinous sacrifices and savage murders to be done, The Joker Card was not going to be left out of the wild blood-spattered fun!!! No way! No how!!!

Half a pound of tuppenny rice, Half a pound of treacle. Mix it up and make it nice, Pop! goes the weasel.

BOO!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

The rhythmic pulsations had attracted those of darkness, perhaps none darker than the Drow warrior-sorceress, Micar'shalee. The Drow watched ahead of her as Pharagos' ferocious pack of Seraphs disappeared from the pitch black of the WestEnd streets into the ominous darkness of the monstrous IronHelm Flats.

The one called "Poison Gaze" by those who feared her, had come to respect and admire this creature whose sheer muscle mass was rivaled only by his command of pure malevolence. Since the brutal slayings of both the prostitute Cass Goodman and the young Fae girl Leslie, Micar'shalee had thoroughly enjoyed the companions which she had been joined with through Nocent.

Each figure was more delicious and more wicked in turn than the other. An evil brood of true kinship, there could be none other who would fit together so perfectly. Nocent, this powerful bride of Bhaal, was summoning a potent army, a force to raise the very fires of Hell to the worn cobblestones of Rhydin. And each one of them could sense it, could taste it, could ravish it as the sinister rhythm of the drums in turn ravished each of them. A nefarious meeting was being called to order. At last, it was time.

As she menacingly skulked towards the venomous fortress, Micar'shalee lowly hissed: "L'zotreth d'uoi'nota lar l'renor d'l'quortek. Usstan zhal flohlu l'stylad ulu l'unl'r d'ussta tangin, verin zhal zhaun ussta kaas nindol isto."*

The black-skinned warrior of the night was one of the last to arrive, her shock of white hair glistened only for a moment as she pulled her deep hood back for a split second before vanishing into the awaiting arms of the IronHelm Flat's menacing doorway. Down, down, down to the basement, through the maze-like catacombs, the Drow ventured.

Drip, drip, drip...was ominously heard as the percussion shook the very foundation of the evil hub. Thump, thump, thump... went Micar'shalee's accursed pulse as she neared her malicious allies. Both driven on and sucked in by Nocent's rhythm and charm, the beckoning was nearly complete; the circle was nearly closed. Micar'shalee, The Queen of Hearts, had arrived.

* "The drums of Hell shall summon the blackness of the soul. I shall follow the pulse to the ends of my days, evil shall know my name this night."*

The drums.

Not unlike the thunderous pounding of a dying man's heart.......its desperate plea to the throne of the gods for clemency and grace. A plea unheard.......or simply ignored.

The drums.

The rallying call to the hordes of darkness....spawned of both Hell's fury and Heaven's sanctified woe.

The drums continued.........the drums persisted.

Giminicka, that implacable bitch drenched in Lord Bhaal's bloody legacy, stood before this assembled court. Each one called by name......each possessing destructive, demonic gifts to herald their entry. An entry which radiated the purest of evils and threatened even to shepherd forth the very keys which would let loose a nightmarish cabal that hungrily salivated beyond the obscure force of the spiritual gates. Their need to feed was insatiable. Their loathing was unparalleled.

Now, standing before the Anti-Scathachian, the grim faces of Hell's apocalyptic deck were present. Their iniquitous 'suit' seemingly hovering above each of their auras in a ghostly blaze of monstrous ferocity. The Fangs of Bhaal were at last unified in the sinister black underdark of The IronHelm Flats.

Nocent's emerald green eyes swept over each of them in turn: The Queen of Spades.....Dracina Hemdagg. The Jack of Spades.......Agarithil The Jack of Hearts.....Hanzo Hattori. The Queen of Hearts.......Micar'shalee Barri?und The Queen of Diamonds......Isabella Dawnshadow The Ace of Diamonds.........Krysira Clayborne. The Joker........Carnal. The King of Clubs.......Pharagos.

Giminicka, herself, being The Queen of Clubs.......and yet there were still others. Those last elusive faces..........more unearthly banes of the Scathachian whores and their pitiful allies lay in silent, ravenous wait.

One of these warlords in particular was ablaze with unparalleled hatred and hunger for deadly slaughter. Behind that unseen veil, The King of Spades glared with an unmatched sadistic thirst into this frail world. And woe to the meek as he stared outwards with malicious, unpitying eyes that were glazed with murderous hate and unbridled rage...........his very palate screaming out for fresh blood, shredded muscle, and cracked bone. At long last....it was his time.

Nocent, clad in the unholy armor of her god, addressed the grim sect of warriors assembled here in this cursed fortress. Her helmed head, framed by the Beast's horns, tipped in the smoothest of nods to acknowledge the outspoken impatience of The Jack of Hearts......his youthful temper and corrupted energy were felt strongly here. Hanzo's desperate need to murder innocents and to steal the lives of countless others, in order to drive the ever-dominant thought of that elusive harlot Charna from his immediate thoughts, was a potent influence indeed. It had not taken long for the seeds of evil to fester and mature in the dark assassin's envious heart. How simply wonderful.

The Priestess of Bhaal's voice oozed with a callous vivacity as those lips slowly pulled into a tightly-woven smirk behind her helm's veil of blacked chain mail, "My Lord bids all of you great welcome.......a welcome to this unmatched inauguration of our campaign. A campaign, which I have promised you can end in only one way.........chaos.......death.....and an era of undaunted slaughter. It is thus time to reclaim the glory of our calling.......the bloody inheritance of our ultimate destiny. Too long have our divided efforts been pushed back into shadow by the bastardized hands of those who would serve as puppets for unfounded piety. This ends tonight. This ends tonight........."

Nocent extended her crimson gauntlet towards the captive woman whom the magnificent vampiress had so charitably brought to the ceremony. Raw fear radiated from the prisoner even as the black hood covered her terrified face.

Nocent spoke yet again, "Dracina....my eternal...undying love. Please.....pleasure us all with the bountiful fruits of your generous gift. This young offering....is so ripe and so full.......overflowing with both purity and precious, growing life in her pregnant belly. Present your grand offering to the gathered hearts of malice."

The colossal warrior then leisurely placed a lone silver chalice upon the left side of the red and ivory flag of The Sisters. This bloodstained Scathachian banner still laid in wait on the cold stone floor.......and this makeshift altar to Hell stood ominously alone. The poignant scales of justice were boldly displayed for all to see. Irony and its implications knew no bounds.

As the thunderstorm loudly raged outside, the hour of night was now at hand.

The drums rallied on.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall......

Who is the craziest of them all?

Please don't bore us with just any other,

Answer ME, or I'll decapitate your mother!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

The Clown Princess watched as more of this sinister union emerged from the darkness and entered into this specified chamber, deep within the basement of the mammoth IronHelm Flats. This twisted union of cards was unlike any other. For surely, the levels of unadulterated evil, sin, and depravity gathered here were more than worthy to stand in any court of Hell.

The insane assassin watched with erotic malice as her favorite "Dead Chick" brutally shoved the scared pregant bitch forward towards the altar. An even more homicidal grin widely spread across her bloody red lips as Dracina sexily blew the Baroness a wet kiss!!!!!! WOW!! A KISS JUST FOR ME!!! LALALALALALALALALALALA!!!!

It was set. Carnal's gruesome, alabaster clown makeup was fixed just right, and a crown of wild hot pink tresses decorated her happy little head. All of this AND her macabre, black carnival attire made this sick c-nt one hell of a party pleaser! With cursed weapons, deadly toys, and some cotton candy hidden all over her person, Carnal was now ready to receive her new Lord's calling.

Make no bones about it, this devilish executioner wanted more blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Yes...Blood. She could taste its luscious coppery tang on her excited tongue even before it was spilt. It made her want to wildly POP up like a deranged Jack-In-The-Box!! BOO!!!

She was certain that marvelous Lady Nocent was going to do something OH SO LOVELY to this pregnant specimen of bitchhood. As the evil Scathachian spoke, the crazed Baroness's mind became captivated with the promises of unlimited gore and brutal chaos. All the while, those insane drums kept rumbling throughout the building like thunder, as the real thunder itself bellowed outside of these haunted walls.

But it was those drums that were more real to her; somehow frenzying Carnal and stirring her to a near bloodlust. Every madcap voice in her head was screaming out for carnage while her anticipation of the slaughter to come made her salivate. The Joker Card was ready for open war.

The Clown Princess's wild eyes coldly fixated on the captive as she was forced down by the vampiress onto the Scathachian flag which covered a section of the floor. Soon now. VERY soon.

As she stood between the wicked Lady Dawnshadow and the lethal drow Micar'shalee, Carnal watched the unholy scene unfold with the inflexible attention of a homicidal child who was about to slit the throats of her own parents as they peacefully slept.

Wow! Parties can be so much fun!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Quite a fan of the shadows she was as of late. It was only after the hooded "gift" was brought forward that Krysira felt herself pulled into the meager light of the wicked gathering.

The crafty thief from Guller's Creek soon found herself up against the grizzled fur of Pharagos. Ever since the night that he had swooped in and stood between her and the trio of Scathachians, she had felt gratitude toward the powerful beast. He was something of a protector to this Ace of Diamonds, and she would always keep that in the back of her devious mind.

One hand was kept in her pocket, fumbling the cursed dice that lay quite contented there. Krysira could feel them start to warm on her fingers. As the pregnant woman struggled and sobbed, the dice vibrated to her pleas. It brought a smile to her lips; she was fully entranced now.

The sight of Nocent, Dracina, and the rest of the cabal was quite hypnotic. Whereas a few months ago, Krysira might not have been present, but content to only do the business or errand work for Nocent; she was now part of this unholy communion and she felt highly energized by it. Krysira could literally feel her blood flowing more quickly; her senses were sharpened and her mind fired with scissored precision.

Almost salivating, the dice turning in her pocket, she leaned forward in her stance to get a better look at Dracina's offering. One hand cemented around Alea Fatum, the other nearly hanging off of Pharagos's massive, furry arm. Her voice was breathless and she felt as if she had been running for miles as she whispered, "Do it...do it." Krysira had no idea of what was truly to be done, she only knew that she craved to be a direct part of it somehow.

The spectral knight slowly emerged from the shadows which hovered outside of the ritual chamber.

He had come to this world as a harbinger of death and as a guardian over the chosen wicked. When the cursed dice "Alea Fatum" were summoned for the murderous thief Krysira Clayborne, he too had pushed his way into the mortal-infested Prime Material Plane.

Laviacus was given four unambiguous commands from his master who dwelt uncontested in his dark pits of Hell. The commands were as ruthless as they were clear-cut. First and foremost, the death knight was to protect and enforce the station of the vile High Priestess Nocent who had been chosen as the imposing transmitter of this unholy campaign. The second command was to keep watch over the fortunate holder of Alea Fatum; forever guarding the unseen seeds of evil which had been planted in the soul of this young woman. Thirdly, to slaughter as many of the bold and irreverent warriors of Scathach's infuriating sect as possible. And along with these Daughters of Justice, he was to slay those individuals foolish enough to ally with these "Sisters" against the impending onslaught of U'danelathu. Finally, the gargantuan Laviacus was instructed to wage outright chaotic war in the name of Bhaal.

Here in the dank bowels of the cursed IronHelm Flats, the undead monster dwelt; eagerly awaiting Nocent's order to unleash hell on their noble hearted enemies. That bloody time was drawing near.

The demented praise belonged to the skeletal ram. It was all apparent and without flaw. The sacrilegious symbols of Bhaal, which adorned the warlord's iron shell, seemed to take on new grim expressions of their own with each fresh, looming kill. The eyes of his god were quite aware and this stormy hour was his beyond doubt.

Laviacus saw that the commanding Priestess was about to commence with the awaited ritual. Nocent's resourceful plan was progressing very smoothly. As the truly blasphemous form of Lord Agarithil was revealed in all of its demonic glory, it was unmistakable that the next chapter of the impious rite was about to commence. The crimson ram, ruling unchallenged in the blood pits, would assuredly be pleased.

Methodically, the black knight turned his broad, armored back to this inner chamber of gathered evil in order to face outwards into the cloying darkness of the IronHelm Flats. There, directly in front of the unhallowed doorway, the undead warlord stood in an eerily silent vigil...daring any foe of the god of murder to interrupt or attempt to thwart the imminent sacrament.

As Nocent and the others continued forth within the chamber, The Jack of Clubs stood guard over this room which housed the impressive "Fangs of Bhaal". Laviacus, as a summoned member of this twisted deck of cards, could literally smell and taste the tainted screams of the pregnant prize within. The unhallowed drums continued in their thunderous rally, as the cold rain poured down outside in the streets

Death's hand was soon coming.

As she watched with sheer ecstasy, lovely Agarithil revealed his true form in all of its unholy glory and drew the first blood of this sacrifice. Her little painted nose happily twitched with glee. Demons are very, very, very inspirational.

As she caught sight of the looming knight of darkness Laviacus, who emerged just outside of their ritualistic chamber, her little pink-haired head tilted back and forth with volatility. Undead monsters can make a badgirl swoon.

WOW!!! As she gazed at the muscular, black elf Micar hammer f-cken spikes through the little pregnant bitch's forearms, her mental "Jack In The Box" sprung out and screamed "HELLO BITCHES!!" in vile heresy.

Carnal knew that this little delightful orgy was going to be simply magnificent. The more the whimpering whore begged and shrieked, the more the insane assassin wanted to cave her head in with the blunt end of an axe.

It was downright hilarious that this pregnant harlot was getting her a-s handed to her while laying on a farcical Scathachian flag. Looks like Lord Bhaal would be getting to feast on the white flesh of a fat f-cken bitch tonight! Poor little baby!!! Hail great Scathach...Justice is served.

NOT! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Oh Oh Oh Oh!!!! Her attention refocused immediately. There was Lady Nocent! Nocent in the red armor. Nocent in the red cloak. Nocent with a nasty horned helmet on her little red head. Nocent...Nocent...Nocent!!! Soooooo prrreeeeeettttyyyyy!! Lalalalalalalalalalalalala!

Carnal's gloved fists clenched tightly as she resisted the innate urge to tear the captive's tear-filled eyeballs out of her pathetic skull. Soon now. Very soon!!! Soon, soon soon!!! She could feel it with each reverberation of those sickening drums!!! Hell was marching on in with the whole bloody carnival on its gore spattered heels.

And you all know that Rhydin's Clown Princess never, never, never, never, ever, ever missed a carnival! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

< Reminder from the first entry of this thread: MATURE CONTENT>

"Mankind never performs deeds of evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do them from fanatical religious conviction..." ~Dr. Blaise Pascal (circa 1660)

"Hallowed are the drums that shall roll; hallowed are the drums of the soul. Hear them whisper, hear them roar; you beg them to stop yet your soul craves more."

The old poetic verse kept running through the chaotic, uncultivated thoughts of this helpless, captive woman. Her belly ripe with unborn child and her eyes brimming with the raw dread of a wounded, caged beast......Lana Alford, not more than twenty four years of age, had never felt more isolated and entirely alone than she felt right at this present moment in time.

Time.....

Unable to draw a complete breath out of sheer terror and blind trepidation........there Lana lay upon the blood-stained flag of the sanctified Scathachian Sisterhood. The young woman immediately recognized the banner.......she had seen it fly from their impressive Sanctuary. Furthermore, young Lana was quite aware of these vengeful females of the cloth, and of their whispered intensity.

Something, however, was not definitely not right with this twisted Picasso. For Scathachians, she had once thought, were driven to embrace the lingering goodness of the world......to embrace it and channel it towards destroying those who would subjugate and brutally terrorize the weak.

The "weak".............the "weak".......like her.

Why then........why was this affair of torment unfolding" Why was she, Lana Alford, here in this rotting slaughterhouse.....alone.....amongst the unadulterated stuff of nightmares.......alone.......facing the many hungry visages of Hell....

And by the all-encompassing breath of whatever god was listening to her doleful lament .....those drums......those abominable drums beating with untamed rhythm......why won't they cease in their unrelenting stroke" That ghastly tempo which is even now causing her fretful unborn to anxiously stir in the faux safety of its mother's womb.

As the demon prince Agarithil revealed unto all of those gathered his rancorous and sacrilegious form......the true countenance of a vile darkness now woefully unchained...........the passive, innocent world of Lana Alford came crashing down in a great schism of horrendous reality and imminent death. Hell now had a face.....Hell now had a definite and real sulfurous tang to its scent......Hell now pulsed with a grisly profusion of bleeding fury.......Hell itself was now wholly ravenous.

The violent storm outside roared either its ominous pleasure or enraged malcontent at the appalling ritual which was being so boldly conducted on the sanctified banner of the stern goddess of war. In any event, the whipping winds and rains themselves sang a loud song of celebrated misery and a dirge of pitiful bereavement.

As the storm seethed on, those out wandering in the gloomy depths of the West End could clearly see that this particular area of the city was seemingly under attack by celestial ghosts. Far above them, in the blackened maw that was in fact the sky itself, shimmering folds of light lunged and withdrew, not unlike the ethereal arms of aggressive but ultimately uncertain specters.

Ectoplasmic skeletal fingers extended towards many of the hulking buildings near The IronHelm Flats, open, prepared to grasp, only to suddenly pull away and drastically widen their radius throughout the entire West End. Soon, these vaporous "fingers" were clawing at nearly everything out there........clawing but not touching. It was an utterly terrifying and maddening sight for anyone to truly behold in all of its evil, catastrophic splendor.

It was at long last time.....The Hells be praised.

The damnable Priestess of Bhaal loomed over Dracina's pregnant "gift" and leered down at her through the chain of her cursed, horned helm.....a mantle of iron which boldly displayed the emblazoned symbol of The Lord of Murder. Lana Alford could perceptibly feel it now, even over the waterfalls of pain, stoically inflicted by the Drowish Queen of Hearts, which cascaded over her wounded, bloody arms.

This young woman knew, without any misgiving, that death itself was gazing into her very soul. The frightened captive found herself steadily whimpering now......the icy fingers of shock preventing a full bodied scream into the dark abyss of The Iron Helm Flats.

Nocent allowed her own eyes to flutter closed as she audibly hissed in the black speech of her vile, abominable sect..........with each reverberation of her contemptible tongue, the Beast spat forth the incantations and summonings of The Forgotten Ones of old.......those stygian monstrosities whose horrific countenances and mere names continue to spawn all of mankind's modern day irrational fears and dreaded waking nightmares.

The dark energy was irrefutably here and the repugnant altar was set. As mighty Pharagos and his fanatical Pack howled forth a cacophonous opus to Hell's brides......angelic hordes wept. The thick, coppery taste of murder was ripe and bubbling forth in the oral cavities of all those gathered together in the name of his majesty, Lord Bhaal.

And more would soon come......

Nocent slowly genuflected upon one armored knee and procured a rather cruel looking dagger from her ornate weapon's belt: An unholy knife with a glossy obsidian hilt and a distinctly curved blade........a blade whose steel was truly as black as Agarathil's malice-filled orbs. Also etched into this blackened steel with honed precision, was the appalling insignia of the abhorrent skeletal ram.....grinning wickedly at the hint of sheer calamity while keenly awaiting a substantial taste of fresh blood and bone.

While the contemptible speech still ebbed forth from her moving lips.....smoothly carried to earshot on a velvety voice as if on the scaled back of a rogue serpent........Giminicka gripped Lana's hair with one gauntlet and vehemently pulled her head backwards to expose the soft flesh of her long throat. One could swear that a silk-fine, ebony mist was steadily creeping out of Nocent's mouth with each word of the unholy prayer she uttered.

Then, with the manual grace of a focused conductor in mid-symphony, The Anti Scathachian vituperatively slashed the young woman's throat. The ebony blade easily separated the skin of her throat as it hungrily gorged into Lana's bare neck.

Cutting deeper.....deeper.....deeper.........and then finally, when its downward motion suddenly ceased after having reached the more resilient cartilaginous rings of her stiff trachea......it continued forth on its relentless offensive and slashed through that rigid structure as well. A sickening popping noise was distinctly heard in the chamber as a literal well of blood forcefully gushed forth from the deep wound in the most unfortunate neck of young Lana Alford.

Her dying mouth harshly opened to scream.....she gagged.........sputtered.....and writhed. Her oral cavity quickly pooled with her own blood.......faster now......it even began to overflow past her wriggling tongue and out onto her cheeks. Several moments later, some of it was even passively spat onto Nocent's war-veil of woven chain, as it flew forth from between Lana's crimson drenched lips.

The carotid artery of the dying mother-to-be would of course not be outdone in this arena, as it vigorously sprayed its bloody reserve into the air and all over the Scathachian banner laying beneath the cabal's slaughtered victim. As the sharp shower of warm blood decorated Lana, Nocent, and anyone in the room who was close enough to reap the sacrificial benefits of such a balmy burst of crimson vitae....the swell of evil's supremacy could be tangibly felt in this dim room. The scales were now grossly tipping in favor of the Night......and this could be sensed and utterly consumed by the ravenous malevolence gathered here in unison.

Nocent continued in her devilish incantation.....her voice rising and falling with the beat of the dreadful drums.......the drums.....the drums. When the final burst of hearty blood poured forth from Lana Alford's gaping mouth like a literal gastric flood of regurgitated stomach contents......Nocent raised the dripping knife over her head and called forth his gruesome name in the common tongue......"MOLOTOCH".

As the final syllable left her accursed tongue, the powerful Fallen Sister brought down the gory blade with the force of a demonic titan of The Blood Pits...........slammed it downwards with savage fury and unbridled hatred into the bulging belly of the pregnant woman. The Hell forged weapon fluently pierced Lana's tight abdominal wall and drove deeply into the unprotected flesh of the woman's unborn child.

Lana's back suddenly arched as in this moment, she erratically succumbed to this ignominious death in pure agony. The shriek of the dying child could be heard like the untamed screech of a frenzied banshee on the roaring wind. In the skies outside this atrocity, thunder exploded that rivaled even Zeus's destructive anger......fierce lightning flashed with a renewed fury as the cold rains increased notably in their outraged intensity.

The savage drums instantaneously stopped.

Nocent reverently bowed her head as her immediate part of this wicked ritual had come to a gruesome, bloody end.......she remained on one knee before the massacred body of the late Lana Alford....and within Lana, the punctured and skewed body of her unborn son, Nathan.

The enchanted dagger remained in place within the pregnant swell of the murdered woman's corpse......its disturbing silhouette on the wall looking like a twisted, demented version of Excalibur itself, tightly embedded in the housing of "the sacred stone?.

Unsettling silence.

Finally................finally........one heavy drop.....then another....another......another......and several, several more. Globules were falling quite freely now.......flowing.......rapidly tumbling downwards in plump drops. By the unholy eyes of Night.....it was now beginning to rain in this monstrous chamber.

Rain.......rain.......rain.......

The assemblage was invigorated......for this was no leaky roof......nor was it a large, unattended tub on the floor above them left to run over........

In contrast to the raging storm outside of The IronHelm Flats....this room itself was raining blood. Indeed....the very gruesome shower of massacre's tears was upon them all.

The Hells be praised....

The first scream of the dying mother was as the rebellious cry from the barely standing, wounded knights who dutifully manned their crumbling keep against the rabid hordes of ruthless invaders. In fact, the final battle roar of defiance in the wake of martyred annihilation.

The second shriek, however, was unparalleled in its lasting anguish. For this blasphemous screech rivaled even the woe of the Roman heroine Lucretia herself, as her supple body was ravaged and raped by the immoral Etruscan nobles. It was inhuman. It was otherworldly. Be not deceived, many of the universe's unseen deities lamented with loud, unsettling wails while several others laughed in mocking insolence at the raw murder of the unborn child, Nathan Alford. This event was not without notice by both the good and the evil throughout the concealed spiritual realms.

Laviacus, The Jack of Clubs, was not lamenting.

The towering armored colossus had his broad back to the sacrificial chamber as he kept his ghostlike vigil over the room and its esteemed occupants. Crimson orbs stared forward with utter hatred and malice towards most everything as the supernatural haunting of The IronHelm Flats seemed to empower him. The creature's station was quite clear: He was a chosen undead knight of The Blood Pits. His god and master was Lord Bhaal, himself. His mandate was to slaughter all who opposed the order of the skeletal ram and to obliterate, at the whim of his prodigious High Priestess Nocent, any would-be heroes of the Light.

You shall make cemeteries your cathedrals, and tombs their cities. Preserve the black cabal until the End of Days. Lay waste to their hopes and dreams through overwhelming force and vile atrocities.

And do that he would. Laviacus candidly hungered for war. War and the bountiful amounts of unbridled killing which accompanied such a theatre.

The pounding drums abruptly ceased in their rallying cadence as if considering the call of the Priestess. The wild howling of Pharagos and his hungry beasts filled the room with a renewed surge. The screech of the dying baby had torn ostensibly through the fabric of The Prime Material Plane itself. Yes, most honored congratulations were justly due. Laviacus solemnly knew that their Lord Bhaal would be exceedingly pleased with this sacrifice and with this gathering. Pleased enough to grant the dark wish of great Nocent...pleased enough to send unto their union one of his most favored servants. It would not be long now.

With his massive, serrated war shield gripped in front of his person, the Death Knight could feel the unworldly scales tilt towards evil's summoning bosom. The violent thunderstorm unmercifully raged outside. And now, a fierce storm of bloody baptism raged inside The IronHelm Flats as well.

There was no denying that the ruinous hour of darkness was swiftly mounting. The stoic and imposing Laviacus could barely contain himself.

Within the recesses of darkness, Hanzo watched the unholy ritual from afar. His mind was racing, fueled on adrenaline. What would be the ultimatum of this ceremony' How would it effect him and his new found allies" Only time could tell. Iyukimo's Bane was clutched in his right hand, leaving his trademark ninja mask to obscure his gaping mouth.

His eyes widened as the dark Titan known as Laviacus emerged. He'd never seen something so' abysmal and "huge" before. His heart outpaced the wicked cadence of the beating drums, and probably was on the same tier as the heart of the pregnant sacrifice. But his heart didn't beat in fear, however, it was propelled on pure anticipation.

The ninja's sharp eyes followed each movement of the Drow, spying the hefty mallet in her hand. A curious, almost innocent tilt of the head, almost if to ponder the next event, but even the most simplest of creatures knew a blow was imminent. Splash. Two fingers smudged a drop of blood across his cheek, soon to meet his now exposed mouth. A long almost inhuman seeming tongue sampled the crimson liquid. A nod in satisfaction at the taste, and to his pleasure, he was soon covered in plenty more.

'Poor girl...' Hanzo thought. The remains of his compassionate heart tried hard to emerge, albeit his dark surroundings. But it was far too late for him to feel any true sympathy; the malice and corruption spread throughout his soul, leaving little space for him to emotionally care for anyone or anything. A sly smirk at that, he finally rid himself of a plaguing weakness. Satisfied in his newly revived stoicism, his attention flickered briefly to all the evil inhabitants within the room, peering at their individual faces and reactions.

A soft whisper came forth that was easily lost drowned out in the wailing of the dying girl. "This is where everything in Rhy"Din changes...even for those to mind their own business. Anarchy will blossom, only to be cut short in the reign of Bhaal. Cower in fear, Scathachians and heroic allies alike, I will bring unto you the scythe of the Grim Reaper, in the name of Lord Bhaal, for your very heads. Say farewell to everything you thought you knew."

Hanzo himself had problems with the very words he had just spoken. What will become of the beloved/accursed Charna" Or his friends that he met when he first came to this realm' A quick shake of his head, he simply didn't care anymore. He entrusted his fate within his new friends and within the Skeletal Ram. He tossed his head back and welcomed the deluge of blood, as he placed the silver mask over his face. A telepathic message was dispatched for all the mislead who believed that good will always come out on top; "Even the almighty Light cannot escape the pull of a black hole, and that is what this covenant represents. Your beloved Scathachians will be engulfed in darkness.?

There she stood, blood mist staining her dark ebon skin, relishing in the sacrificial rite that Nocent was leading them all. As the red haired Bride of Bhaal uttered her words of invocation, there was a rumbling deep within the thighs of this Drow. The very pit of her stomach, her spine shook as though the very maw of hell were devouring her with the lust of a thousand ecstasies. The glossy white pearls of her eyes lusciously rolled back as she tipped her head to the ceiling.

Then, like a lover spent from ravaging, Micar'Shalee felt the droplets of warm blood raining down upon her skin. Her purplish-black tongue shadowed her lips as she licked the blood away with a hungry flick. Never in her life, had Micar'Shalee held the least inkling of pity for surface dwellers. She viewed them like opulent vermin, soft and weak, never even bothering to better themselves or come close to reaching their potential. If the Drow of the Underdark weren't so busy fighting amongst themselves over power and clans, they would have surely wiped the surface clean of the pests. They were nothing more than breeders, which the now dead woman on the floor illustrated. "Rul'selozan slanos,"* she sneered.

The keen perception of Micar'Shalee did, however, sharpen as she noticed something perhaps others might not. After the blood was spilt from the sacrificial surface dweller, it spread upon the floor like a slick silk blanket. Common. What was not common was the way the blood wave stopped. Nocent had etched symbols upon her altar like any devoted priestess would want to do. Micar'Shalee herself had drawn, traced, carved, and etched many symbols and runic caricatures during her intense study of demonic sorcery and necromancy. The symbols that Nocent had so carefully drawn out before the gathering had commenced, however, seemed no different, yet now they seemed to be very special indeed.

The blood leaving the dead mother's body reached far and wide, yet it stayed clearly away from the outer perimeter of the circle that Nocent had calibrated. It was as if she had created some field of force to pool the blood and not let it stray too far. The woman, still harpooned to the floor through her pregnant belly, was swimming in a perfectly circular thin layer of her own fluids.

The second marvel that the poisoned gaze beheld was that the blood sprinkling down from the ceiling refused to mix with the woman's blood within the altar's circle. It was as if the markings laid down by Nocent proved an indestructible invisible barrier. She was pondering this phenomenon when the mighty Pharagos erupted in a great howl. The glint of red in her eyes helped to reflect the baptism of blood to her new compatriots.

She could feel within her bones that their circle was nearly complete.



*"Disgusting creatures."

"Long and hard is the way, that out of Hell leads up to the light."

~John Milton, Paradise Lost



Audacious were these gathered followers of the great god of murder who reigned supreme in his unassailable fortress of U'danelathu.

Bold they were in their compelling calling.

Successful they were in their summons.

Through the unspeakable actions of Nocent and those other superior maleficent beings gathered here this night in the name of unadulterated evil, destiny had truly been altered. The formidable shroud of vast darkness was raucously being drawn back with all of the excruciating precision directed upon a tormented man of consequence, tightly restrained upon the limb stretching rack. With each new creak of sinew and muscle, the unholy words were being spoken; each syllable escaping from his summoner's full lips like a radiant stream of black smoke. Save that this smoke did not rise, but rather plunged deeply into the ground and lunged hungrily towards the very Gates of Hell itself.

Recant yourselves to the temptations of the flesh. Submit thine eyes to the unspeakable horrors of The Blood Pits and their ilk. He could feel the effervescent pulsations and the very warmth of simply being what one calls "alive". Closer now. Closer. And yet even closer.

That scorching taste of the very air was exhaustively besieged with the ripened bouquet of guiltless pulp, feeble prey, and sin tainted memory. Souls wailed out in the very embodiment of anguish as the malicious fiend rallied against the unseen scales of justice.

As the spilt blood pooled about the slaughtered mother in a perfect sphere, its aqueous consistency changed. It first began to bubble; then violently sizzle and sputter as if being heated upon a flamed slab of iron. On the floor, just to the right side of the pregnant corpse, one massive clawed hand vehemently burst through the blood soaked banner of the proud Scathachian sect. Its twisted hues were rendered of deep crimson and lifeless ebony; its consistency marble-smooth, twisted muscle, and raw power. A power, divine in nature, which bountifully exuded the vigor of the most ancient of evils. The unforgiving black claws, like a myriad of unholy daggers, were instantly coated in the bountiful bales of gore which now literally peeled from the very ceiling itself.

At the site of this altar in the chamber's center, the thin air grew radically cold as though the skeletal hands of Hades himself had carefully circumscribed the flicker of life's precious candle and then abruptly extinguished it, in favor of the desolate regime of stygian darkness.

As if confined to some surreal portrait in a madman's most vivid nightmare, the second monstrous hand effortlessly burst through the cluttered floor. Its long, dark fingers avariciously outstretched towards the "rain storm" of blood pouring down from within The IronHelm Flats. The summons of the High Priestess with those others gathered in the blasphemous name of the skeletal ram, as well as the earlier dissonance of the thundering drums led his way through the torturous spiritual labyrinth. Many circles and twists, pockets and traps had laid before him. Even brazen forces of The Light nobly tried in vain to keep the monstrous warlord from answering the call of the abhorrently faithful here in the bowels of this ghostly ruin. Fools.

As though the blood drenched floor was giving a twisted and unnatural birth to the Hell spawn which erupted from it, the immense head and shoulders of the Shade Demon erupted forth into the dim world of mortals with a deafening roar, the very likes of which was echoed by the earsplitting crashing of great Zeus's thunderbolts outside.

A true countenance of abominable evil was now amongst the gathered. The lustrous eyes of the great creature were glazed with smoldering fury, unbridled rage, and a vastly insatiable hunger. Those immeasurably intelligent eyes blazed with the very fires of U'danelathu, and with the innate drive to brutally annihilate all foes of his unappeasable deity. Both massive hands pushed against the heavy floor, lifting more and more of himself out from tentacles of The Void and into the bosom of the Prime Material plane. The sodden floor of the invariable slaughterhouse beneath him, sizzled and squished under his weight and touch like some scalded, putrid afterbirth.

At long last, the black Lord of Nykan'Uztax was completely through the oozing rift. As he did so, the phantasmal drums began their dreaded symphony anew...vigorously echoing throughout the nefarious web of The IronHelm Flats. On one knee the massive warlord remained for several moments as his thoughts, faculties and unholy powers of supernatural design were gathered closely to him. The tireless drive for the ravenous feeding must be answered, and the presented sacrifice was pleasing to his loathsome heart.

Without admonition, his powerful maw opened and the many layers of long, razored teeth sank deeply into the pregnant belly of the sacrificed woman, Lana Alford. With scores of sickening, flesh-tearing sounds and freshly spattered pints of jettisoned blood, the Shade Demon impatiently feasted upon the lifeless unborn in Lana's womb.

As the creature tore through the several layers of viscera and uterus to reach his accolade, he became more invigorated with the vengeful frenzy which now utterly consumed him. The frightful drums rallied his repugnant actions with their chaotic cadence and melodic blessing. When the final portion of the unsullied Nathan Alford was engulfed by the nightmarish Shade Demon, the hellish warlord slowly ascended to his full colossal height.

The cursed armor, savagely covered with Bhaalite runes, and the cruel weaponry which adorned his sacrilegious form, seemed to literally pulse with the calamitous spellcraft of an age long sealed away from the ignorant eyes of man. Nearly as tall as the high ceiling of this chamber, the beast cast a terribly impious shadow over the entire congregation of Hell's chosen "deck". His unnerving gaze surveyed the gathered, and he knew that more wicked faces were soon forthcoming.

With a sharp rearing back of his horned head, the monstrous titan roared aloud once again, this time overpoweringly speaking in the foul black speech of the cursed ancients...in these black tongues of Hell's most horrific outcasts. Angels of both guidance and warfare, who kept vigilant eyes over those noble heroes fighting valiantly in the streets outside for some last shreds of sanity and for those who could not defend themselves, wept crystal tears of mournful woe and eternal dread.

Molotoch, The Devourer, had arisen.

A god was born! A god was born! A god was born!!!!

Open up your blessed hearts! A god was born amongst us!!!!!!!!!!

The dark thrill in the air was beyond any "murder high" she had ever experienced in her entire homidical life. The Clown Princess was here and so ever alive!!!! Blood boiled in her cursed veins and the piquant taste of raw carnage was dripping from her very uvula!

Firsthand, The Joker Card had seen religious dogma preached, prophesized, invoked and now manifested!!!!! From the cool dankness of the blood soaked floor rose the implicit visage of fear and the feral temperament of consummate abhorrence. The amiable black and crimson face of a new F-CKING Rhydin!!!!

Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhh yes!!!!! A loooooving face, freeeeeeeeee from the omnipotent, congenial "Samaritans" of every salvation-oriented cult, and its self righteous, blind whelps whose sole purpose in life was to take the carnival down. Take it down" TAKE IT DOWN??"!!! We are now freeeeeeeeeee from taking it down!!! Massacre the whole damn city if you have to!!! BUT THE SHOW MUST GO ON!

SEND IN THE CLOWNS!!!! SEND IN THE CLOWNS!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOO WHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Born from the floor! Born from the blood! Born in The IronHelm Flats! Lady Nocent, the ringmaster in candy apple red, had called him. Called him out to us with a melodic whisper, a demonstrative smile, and with a fine slice of sweetly ripened meat; she indeed called to him as such. The Ram's Head Priestess appealed to him with all of us present!!!! Asked him over for dinner!! Welcomed him home!!! And we, the chosen guardians of the slaughterhouse, are all invited to his Birthday Party!!!! So many face cards invited here to celebrate his birthday!!

SO F-CKEN LUCKY!!!! Happy birthday to...MOLOTOCH!!!

The diabolical Clown Princess knew it all too well. This "god", as she so called him, was a genuine symbol of more than just her warped vision of fun, love, and benevolence. He was REBIRTH!!!! He was a colossal harbinger of majesty who came FIRST!!! YES! He was surely here to ensure that the colorful Big Top tents were all neatly set up, that the wild animals were ready for their starring moments to shine, that the comical carnival games were fit to be played, that the f-cking funhouse was scccccaaaaarrry enough for all the little drooling kiddies, AND, of course, that the loveable CLOWNS were all giddily LAUGHING!!!!!!

Laughing! Laughing! Laughing!! Laughing!!!

Oh, tickle me this way and that, with ever-sharp razors and awful thin wires of deadly steel!! Embrace my flesh tenderly with shards of shattered glass as I roll my painted face and toned, naked body through innumerable beds of rusty nails and large, ravenous rodents!!! Look at that massive, fanged tower of divine celestial beauty! That wonderfully loving face, which had come here through the many hazes of Hell tonight, was a happy little picture of happy little endings and happy little fairytale wishes for one and all who still believed!!!! B-E-L-I-E-V-E! Oh, god help them all! You must believe!!!!

Mark this! If you beeeeeelieve in nothing else this night...then BELIEVE without doubtful hesitation or any misgiving that very soon, ALL OF YOU WHO PEACEFULLY PRAY FOR A NEW DAWN WILL BE F-CKING DEAD!!!!

DEAD! DEAD!! DEAD!!!

VANGLORIOUS!!!!!!!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!!!

WOOOOOOOOOO WHHHHHHHOOOO!!!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

The tall assassin silently took a knee before the countenance of her utter salvation.

It was amazing. It was unbelievable. It was coming right out of the floor! Through the blood and from within the slaughtered womb of the would-be mother, the beast breached the worlds and howled into existence.

His horns. His jaws. His very skin was the color of hell.

Krysira stood frozen to the spot. Fear. She could feel her insides quiver though her feet wouldn't budge. Her body wavered; was she falling backwards" Did everyone around her just step forward" She wasn't sure until her back hit the wall. A ruffle interrupted the connection of her spine and the wall. She saw the Drow, Kya, and the gorgeous Vampiress move forward. The others were positively riveted by the beast's arrival.

The stench of the room was coppery and slick. Blood was everywhere, darkening the room save for one place: Nocent. There was an odd light shining on her. Perhaps it was a reflection of the blood on her armor. Krysira couldn't be sure. All she could be sure of in this instant was that Nocent was a beacon for her. She heard a voice as clear as day in her ear: "Stay close to her. She will see you through." The agile thief from Guller's Creek blinked and stared at Nocent, she was like the sliver of sunlight pushing away from the eastern hills on a dawning morning.

Krysira was nudged out of her reverie by a pain burrowing against her thigh. Her fingers dipped down her hip and onto her leg. Her brand, the crimson mark of Bhaal, was burning. The demonic warlord's arrival had started the reaction, and Krysira knew that this was the reason. She knew they were connected. It was exhilarating. She knew this was destiny.

The Scathachians and their friends were living on numbered days.

"You feel the last bit of breath leaving their body. You're looking into their eyes. A person in that situation is God!" —Ted Bundy (on the joy of murder)

The night was filled with the sounds of Hell's own rage; crashing thunder, static cracks of lightning striking land, the slicing cold rain, and the murderous call of drums. Samara had come upon it suddenly, a violence that could only hail true evil. It was the thrumming of malevolent power however that drew her forward, inexorably towards its epicenter. It was there she knew she would find her current quarry. Samara moved like a predator, silent and deadly, alert. She was a Huntress, a proud disciple of the Al"Kacht Order of the Temple of Bhaal, and she was here on an important mission. It resided in a pouch that was tucked against her side, under her armor, close enough that the constant press of its cursed contents was felt; a cherished relic sent as a gift for the Warrior Priestess, at this time of great destiny. Samara felt the eagerness rise with the seductive malevolent power and knew she was nearing the end of her quest. She had traveled long and hard, nonstop to arrive as quickly as she could. Samara knew that time was growing short.

Moving through the vicious storm, she came upon an unfamiliar township. She assumed it must be Rhy"Din for that was what she'd read on the map. She stayed on the outskirts as much as she could, as long as it didn't cause her to stray too far from her path. She continued to follow that pulsating power and the deep thud of drums. Sounds of battle echoed on the lashing wind, outcries of pain, the stench of death, the feel of evil gloriously unleashed; it called, no screamed to her from the west side of town. Armed for confrontation and holding a homicidal heart, Samara had to fight to restrain herself. Trained in death, her body was sculpted like a weapon; lean, lithe and strong. Her mind sharp but always hungry. She fed on murder; it energized her, made her feel powerful. The bloodlust inside became palatable; it rose up stealing away her breath. Her head filled with visions of blood cascading over her in a gory baptism of brutality. She had to stop just for a moment and fight to gather her wits. She knelt behind heavy brush, lost from sight, merely a deeper shadow, a darker patch in the weather battered landscape. Dark brown skin glistened slick and wet from the rain, pearls of water shimmered like tiny diamonds in tight black curls, as she trembled, fighting down her urges. She knew without need of understanding that members of the Scathachian Sisterhood were near. They too tainted the textures of the harsh blustery conditions. They too enticed Samara to depart her duty. To kill a Scathach bitch was ecstasy, a moment of paradise to be thoroughly appreciated. Sam held no love for the Sisterhood; in fact her order had vowed to see them utterly destroyed. Such temptation, so close and yet she could not avail herself. Pity and a shame!

But neither the call of her murderous compulsions or the raging storm was allowed to slow her progress; she kept focused, constantly on the move, allowing for no distraction. Hunters need to move quickly, strike fast and Sam was renowned in her skill, an expert in her class. She was outfitted as much for speed as safety. She was quick and soundless; nothing more than a shadow lost in darkness. She knew well enough to keep to her mission and let nothing, including her selfish desires, get in her way. It was difficult for the night was alive with many potential victims, souls that cried out to be given over to her God. She managed to bypass them all albeit with heavy heart and great reluctance. She promised herself that later she would go out and play. Intently, she kept her feet ever moving, drawing her closer and closer still to the demanding call of the drums and that delicious throbbing power.

It was as if the ground reverberated with a heartbeat. It was a herald of mythical birth tainted by dark promises of blood and destruction. It was heady, it was persistent and thick, and Samara couldn't have missed it were she trying. It was alive and running like water through her veins, slick and fast. Underneath that power she sensed her, but it only heightened the rush, spiked the adrenaline and drove Samara harder and quicker. Memories shimmered on the edge of her consciousness, tidbits of a fervent past. Sam was finding it hard not to think of what was ahead. Anticipation tickled at the pit of her stomach, fed energy to quicken her pace. She couldn't get Nocent out of her mind. She could barely wait to bask in the presence of the Warrior Priestess anew. But times, like all things, had changed. No longer were they the youths of their pasts, they had been honed, hardened, made stronger, more lethal. Each had become Weapons of the God of Murder. However, sometimes emotions don't change; ties and bonds remain steadfast, unbroken, tested but true. So it was for Sam. Her intense feelings towards Nocent had remained unchanged through the passage of time and experiences. She could not deny her excitement at the prospect of seeing the Priestess again, nor the attraction.

The malevolent power led her to a labyrinth. Briefly Samara paused, kneeling to inspect the ground, lifting her head to smell, to taste the wild night air. So many delectable scents, mingled and merged, Sam allowed for a moment of pure appreciation. Unfamiliar as most of them were, the strong scent of corruption they carried made them feel nearly like family. Samara rose with new purpose, letting her senses guide her through the passageways. With her affiliations proudly on display, etched in bold red across her breastplate, there would be no question where her loyalties lie; the insignia of Bhaal screamed rather loudly. She didn't bother to move with stealth here, not in this place, she had no need. Here, wherever it was, were only those like her. And Nocent was somewhere nearby, Sam could already taste her.

Winding her way through the massive, abandoned IronHelm Flats, Sam had only the drums and that power to guide her. The place was huge, desolate, seemingly given over to entropy, a good place for dark deeds. Sam walked through the maze of rooms and hallways, following the thudding call of the drums, closing in on the malevolent power. It pulled her down. Down into a subbasement, through winding corridors that seemed to have no end, until at last the smell of freshly spilt blood hit her. Yes, she knew she was close now. A chamber up ahead shed an unholy light and the influence had grown so thick it made her feel drunk. A monstrously large figure blocked the entrance, standing just inside the room from where the power poured with his back to Sam. But with nary a sound or step from the Huntress, the Colossal figure turned.

Samara came to a stop before the behemoth of a Death Knight, an intimidating sentry to say the least, but she wasn't daunted, he was on her side. She stood tall before the menacing giant, dressed in light combat armor with the insignia of a shared God in prominent display. Eyes as black and deep as any pit in Hell looked up into the frightening fa"ade of the Death Knight's chosen helm unflinchingly. A gesture of peace in the lifting of empty hands, she had not drawn weapons. She spoke loudly over the fierceness of the elements, to be easily and clearly heard. "I'm Samara, Huntress of the Al"Kacht Order of the Temple of Bhaal. I am a messenger sent from the cursed tabernacle of the Temple of Letum, the home of those most honored acolytes of Bhaal. I carry a relic of great power, a token of reverence for the High Priestess Nocent; a gift from the highest of orders to commemorate this moment of our destiny."

The Death Knight might have felt the mental push, a light probing of psychic inquisition. A test really, to discern what talents the sentry might hold. And perhaps, if possible, persuade him to do her bidding quicker.

"I must see Nocent immediately!" Sam said with authority.

The eyes of the Elite Dae Rauko"Quessar became as lucid as a flawless cinnamon-yellow jacinth, and despite the fact that his mind was currently operating at the Theta state, his mind overlapped into the Beta state simultaneously. With his force of will, and the combined energy of those ritual participants surrounding the altar, he had forcibly penetrated the veil which reacted as an unseen barrier between this plane and the Abyss by assisting the incantations of the Anti-Scathachian Clerical Warlord, Nocent.

The Unhallowed One sneered fiercely as a surge of energy penetrated into the inner sanctum from the corridor leading into the Labyrinth of Death beyond. Supersensitive awareness was dampened to only a narrow degree of focus, for distracting sounds, scents, tastes, sights, and physical sensations could threaten the precise intensity of focus required to hold control over the gate through which the malicious Demon Prince Molotoch traversed. The 'sixth sense," however, was finely attuned to psychic abilities due to the fact that he was currently as open in awareness as he was due to the demands of the rite that had previously transpired.

The timing of the newest arrival was impeccable, in every sense of the word, for a moment sooner and the ritual could have gone awry like so many had before " a most disturbing thought to entertain for many who gathered who might not (or just narrowly) survive the onslaught or a Demon Prince. Fortunately, the ritual was complete; the threat of a massacre was no longer at hand, for those of Bhaal's sect, anyway. This did little to soothe the rising ire of the "Jack of Spades," who took the untimely intrusion as more of a personal insult than most within might.

The large monstrous shadow broke from his place at the circle of Bhaal's faithful as the Lord Molotoch entered the realm and feasted, inky clawed fingers procuring what appeared to be a skull carved entirely of crystal from some extra-dimensional space. The great shadowy wings folded behind his shoulders while deadly chains dragged the floor behind, raking up sparks in the wake of weightless step, his figure flitting swiftly across the expanse of floor between the altar and the doorway where the Death Knight stood sentinel.

"Halt, insolent female, for you are about to enter the presence of his royal highness, Prince Molotoch of Nykan Uztax, and the Priestess Most High of our great God, Bhaal, the Lady Nocent. You have yet to be judged, and may be found wanting. The price for dismissal is an eternity of soul-shattering pain. Submit, kneel, and be judged, or become an added sacrifice for our Great Lord, Bhaal. Do you submit?" The guttural voice of the demonic "Jack" reverberated throughout the great temple, soul jarring, callous, and misleadingly nonchalant.

The shadow's wings flickered and shifted; hook-laden, bladed chains swung threateningly, two and fro, like some macabre pendulum in the Cambion's left hand as the cursed crystal skull flared with pale light in his right. At the speed of thought, unseen tendrils saught a connection with her own " abyssal power amplified further by the artifact ? saught her mind with the weight and force of a coming tsunami. A second and third link of psychic power sought (less agressively) the minds of Lady Nocent and Lord Molotoch who waited in the vile chamber behind. Though insubstantial, the beast of shadow seemed intent on barring Samara's way further until his demands were met.

"Stand aside, servant, I demand passage. I am messenger sent from the halls of Letum, come to honor the arrival of our Great Prince and to pay homage to the High Priestess Nocent for her accomplishments. I carry with me a great token of power, a gift from the most revered acolytes. Do not dare impede my passage or hinder my duty!" the huntress curtly retorted.

The chains flared to life, exuding a surge of unholy energy and the distant sounds of flitting whispers like that of a hundred-hundred leathery wings beating in frantic flight. The maw of the beast opened in a visible sneer " or perhaps it would be better defined as a leering, nefarious smile of twisted humor " there was really no telling.

"Oh' Servant, indeed!" the fiend echoed. "Though, I am THE servant of Bhaal, first and foremost, all other authorities are temporary if not inconsequential. Now, insolent worm, silence your wagging tongue and save me the necessity of having to chew it free of that foul hole you call a mouth. Know this, mortal, and treamble in the knowledge of having been in the presence of Agarithil Dae"Vanin; I am "The Unhallowed Shadow of U"Danelathu," First of the Ordo Animus Messor to Lord Bhaal. Witness, acolyte, so you may know my mind and feel my power ...! By Bhaal's will, you will be judged!"

The mental wall gave, yielding with far too swift an ease to be anything but inviting. It was like a telekinetic force siphoning from the crown and third-eye Chakras. He did not beckon her to enter his mind, this beast of the Abyssal planes, but snatched at her mind with the combined might of his demonic will and the amplifying properties of the Skull of Mobalaul, the dark relic gifted to him by the High Priestess Nocent upon stepping forth from the Abyss to aid this Dark Court in its time of fell glory.

Image after image flooded forth like a great deluge, taking her to the place of his memories, a place of horror beyond mortal reckoning. The visions, surreal at first, then acutely vivid " if not painfully so " allowed her the glimpse of the prowess she stood against, the danger she skirted with every breath spoken to forestall his deliverance of her mortal spirit to the soul-pits of U"Danelathu for her blatant disregard of his authority.

The weight of displeasure was a burden shouldered, and the irritancies of a Dark God called from his machinations became a tangible reverberation " an echo ? in the temple chamber in which they stood. The links forged by the relic had transcended time and space, meta-space and the paths between. For Samara, it was the eyes of her very own Dark God that deigned to turn and spare this mortal an instant of his divine notice, for through the channels woven by the Unhallowed One's mind, Bhaal looked into, and passed his judgment upon her.

"I was born with the devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing" I was born with the evil one standing as my sponsor beside the bed where I was ushered into the world, and he has been with me since." —Dr H.H. Holmes

Samara's mother had been a prostitute. The woman had no other choices; it was all that was left for half-breeds like herself if she wanted to survive. Being with child had ruined her ability to earn an income; it had stolen her beauty, it had made her less appealing than the ugliest of the women on the streets. In a land falling into ruin, civilization on the brink of destruction, it had been living hell for many. In Samara's mother's eyes the child was a demon-seed from inception. From the moment Samara could remember she was told what a curse she'd been, how her mere creation had doomed them both; mother and daughter. Sam had been born in hell with evil at her mother's bedside, shepherding her in. It came as no surprise that in the moment of confrontation with the Shadow Demon, Sam faced it without fear, remorse or an outcry for mercy or pity. Evil never flinched in the face of adversity, it laughed! It overcame and conquered or died trying.

Whatever the reason, be it the Eye of Bhaal, the sheer force of the Shadow Demon or a combination of the two, Samara had visions; intense, overpowering and thoroughly immersing. Visions which accomplished what Agarithil wanted, Sam on her knees, but not with the intent of supplication or surrender to him. No, this was far more intense. With the flood of memories that came at such a rapid pace, her brain could no longer function normally. It fought to absorb the overwhelming avalanche of information that came crashing in, but the struggle sapped the resources for trivial things like standing or blinking. For all seeming purposes Samara no longer perceived the unholy chamber and its myriad of occupants. She was lost to another place and time, living another's life.

And it happened in a blink of an eye.

Agarithil had commanded she quiver; and quiver she did, in exaltation. It was a glorious moment, of unholy majesty, coming face to face with her God. Later, Sam will recall this as her most profound religious experience, reaffirming her faith and inspiring her to greater depravity. To be granted even a moment of attention, to be a thought, passing or trivial, in the eyes of her God was indeed a miracle! She had been granted recognition by Bhaal, through the visions of another's life.

Yet what Sam perceived was not Agarithil's to own, but hers. It was her life now, her experiences. He was merely the vehicle in which she'd hitched a ride. Whatever the Shadow Demon's purpose had been, the outcome was perceived by Samara as a spiritual transcendence. It was the best her poor mortal brain could do. Sam believed, and quite zealously too, that she had been granted personal, individual recognition by Bhaal. She was reborn God-touched!

Her lips twisted into a smile as glazed black eyes begun to clear. She recognized the name, Agarithil Dae"Vanin. Assumed a mythical creation, Samara found the reality awe-inspiring if also somewhat amusing. Obviously he did exist, and more than likely what was written about him was true. Indeed a power to be reckoned with, but a power that she presumed was on her side, seeking the same goals as he; seeking to serve Bhaal. And now" She considered them on even footing, having "grown up" together as they have.

Samara's brutal code dictates that surrendering to anyone without fulfilling one's duty should be rewarded with pain and death. To her, it was a breach of conduct; one did their duty or one failed. Sam had no intention of failing, she'd rather die trying. At least her death could then be counted as an honor, being killed by a legend must hold some prestige after all"

Vaire's arrival was lost on Samara as she was focused on the Shadow Demon and although likely as insane as Vaire, Sam didn't hear any music; gospel or otherwise. Ignoring everything save the Shadow Demon, she rose to her feet with firm determination, unveiling the emerald as she moved. Blood dripped from her knees and lower legs, the floor seemed covered in it. Sam didn't mind, it calmed her. Flippantly she tossed the pouch aside. She no longer had any use for it and it stank from riding so close to her skin over such a long distance. She didn't look away from the fiend, no, she kept her eyes steady on him as she held the relic out before her, not offering it to him, showing it.

"I am Samara, Huntress of the Al"Kacht Order of the Temple of Bhaal. I am a messenger sent from the cursed tabernacle of the Temple of Letum, the home of those most honored acolytes of Bhaal. I carry a relic of great power, a token of reverence worthy of the infamous High Priestess Nocent; a gift from the highest of orders to commemorate this glorious event. I am God touched, by your own vile Grace. I have passed your test, so I ask you to stand aside so that I may pay appropriate homage!?

Samara hadn't been curbed. She was going to see her duty done! If Agarithil wanted to stop her so be it! She took a step forward, intent on passing by him, to offer the relic to the one to which it had been sent; Nocent.

Contemplating the darkness to be spread with Molotoch, Dracina had begun to lose track of her surroundings again. She chuckled manically to herself, softly echoing Carnal's own insane laughter which rose much higher than her own. Movement at the corner of her eyes drew her attention from Molotoch's awesome bulk to the entrance of the chamber.

There she observed the brief confrontation between the dark-skinned beauty and the shadowy mass of the transformed Agarithil. Challenges were issued between the two on what seemed to be a match of wits that extended into even the mind and soul. She began to anticipate a breakout of bloodshed between the two and hoped for the chance to join in.

Sadly, such a conflict did not come to pass. The woman, Samara, was meant to be here, lest not even the twin ghouls she had posted at the entrance of the IronHelm Flats would have let her pass. This was a messenger of Bhaal's temple who had come to carry word to Nocent. As Agarathil let the psion pass, the elven vampiress merely offered a brief nod of greeting to her.

But there was even yet another arrival outside the chamber. Dracina managed to glean a partial view of the second arrival and found his distinguished, gentlemanly appearance a stark contrast to the bloodsoaked crowd that filled the room. Clearly there was more here that met the eye, and the large Death Knight who blocked most of the way would be the judge of the man's passage.

"That is my ambition, to have killed more people-more helpless people-than any man or woman who has ever lived." —Jane Toppan

Samara was full, satiated by her unexpected enlightenment, yet determination drove her to see her duty done. When she moved to step around the Shadow Demon, she found herself suddenly engulfed inside him. As the biting cold embraced her Samara knew no fear, for in her mind she was God-touched. She was protected in ways that only a devout zealot could fully understand; by faith. Yet again, Agarithil fed her, appealing to all the aspects she most enjoyed about herself. The circumstance merely enhanced her belief that in some miraculous way she had become one of Bhaal's chosen.

Her trouble began when she stepped free of that cold, frigid embrace. Sam felt dizzy as Hell fires ignited inside her gut. Bloodlust rose overwhelming her, and each sin was suddenly demanding to be fed, to be paid appropriate reverence. Sam was grateful for Agarithil's dramatics, for it bought her much needed time to recollect her senses, to focus from the internal rage of lust and desire outwards, to the task at hand. Yet the sensations" lingered, seething just beneath the surface. She kept them under control with dark promises of bloody slaughter later once she'd accomplished her mission.

It was then she spied Him, the new born Prince, the Devourer, Molotoch. To her credit she didn't freeze or gape in astonishment at the malevolent majesty, but her internal bloodlust, already higher than usual, spiked and she had the desire to join in on the insanely laughing clown. Instead, she remained intent on reaching the altar, intent on paying homage not only to the Darkborn Prince, but to Nocent, to whom this glorious accomplishment was credited.

Across the gore splattered floor Samara stepped. She took time to study the others present as she passed by them. A pack of beasts that Sam isn't sure what they were howled in crescendo, staying close in their tight knit grouping. The elves and humans were scattered over the rest of the chamber, as if in universes of their own. Each diverse from the other, each with their own twisted sense of tribute proudly on display. All of them covered in blood. Dracina's nod attracted her direct attention, she met the beautiful blonde's eyes with respect but she didn't nod back. Sam kept her pace. The dimly lit cavern stank of vitae. Of ripe foulness as if the earth had ruptured and vial corruption flowed free from the gaping wound. And everywhere Samara looked was stained in the red rivers of life spilt.

At last Sam was climbing the shallow steps that led up to the altar. Nocent was haloed from behind by a dark red pulsating light; an unholy angel. She seemed cloaked in that light like a mystery begging to be examined. Sam couldn't make out her features yet. Nocent was so near and yet, by her very actions tonight, the High Priestess had become distant; a force to be revered, worshipped. It was at this precise moment that Agarithil moved in seductively behind Nocent and began whispering in her ear.

Sam was close to completing her mission, she tasted victory, pride on her lips. All overshadowed by the interference, yet again, of the legendary Shadow Demon; a demon whom she was beginning to hate, no matter that he was her vehicle to enlightenment. She did her best to ignore Agarithil and his intimacies with Nocent but by the very nature of his manipulations, Sam's jealousy mingled with growing rage and murderous intent. She cast her gaze to the floor going gracefully down on her knees before Nocent. A dance of strong muscles and tendons, Sam played up her most attractive aspects with the sheer goal of tempting the Priestess. She had no intentions of giving up that easily, Agarithil be damned! Bronzed arms lifted the gem stone high over her head, extending it forward for the High Priestess to take. An emerald of deep forest green, hefty in size and weight, it throbbed in evil, malicious waves.

When Sam spoke her voice was firm, authoritatively, she could easily have been heard over the celebration. "High Priestess Nocent, I hail from the Temple of Letum. I am messenger sent to pay honor and respects to you. I bear a gift of unholy reverence. The honored acolytes of Letum are pleased. They have recognized your contributions to our cause, to the Unholy Father and bequeath this relic to your most capable and reverent of hands. They have sent me also as tribute, to worship and follow you; may I serve you as loyally as I have our Unholy Father!?

Upon completing her speech, Sam remained kneeling and submissive, her gaze on the bloody floor, the Eye of Bhaal held high, waiting for Nocent to lay claim to it.

http://www.evilplottersink.com/Scath/images/eye_of_bhaal_01.jpg

"The churchbell tolls, the thirteenth death knell has been rung!" the madman declared to no one in particular as he entered the chamber past the Death Knight. The Amulet of Kavagor swung freely from his dark cane; everything about him suggesting his twisted mind could somehow make light of all this, and that it was to him just another night on the town!

At least until he finally saw Molotoch, and then his lips parted to form an oblong 'o.' His cane stopped abruptly, and the chain straightened to one side, leaving the stolen amulet to dangle just a few beats more.

His head jerked suddenly towards his shoulder, and his neck let out a pop as if it had just been broken. He let it loll there, rolling back and forth like a rocking chair as he swayed slightly on his feet, and his eyes remained glued upon this, the "newborn". This, the Dark Messiah.

Vaire snapped his head upright again with another crack, and held his jaw to push to one side, then the other. At last he murmured, "Mercy me....I do declare, I lost my composure. Why, I nearly had me a fit of the vapors." His accent was a clear, precise mockery of a fine Southern lady from Earth, but no smile cracked his lips.

There was too much power in the room for him to smile. It was joyous and overwhelming, that he could be crushed so easily, but instead he would join them to crush the whole wide world instead. His mood was tumultuous, precarious....and then took a rapid descent.

He was doing it. He was actually doing it - bringing on the Apocalypse with the most powerful killers that all the worlds which converged here had to offer. Years of senseless bloody murders, of houses burnt to the ground with families locked within, of corpses made to dance like marionettes with the power of his mind in front of their still-breathing and seeing, brutally maimed loved ones....finally made sense.

He grinned....and bowed his head. He approached the altar in this deferential pose, and knelt a good space away from Samara.

"High Priestess Nocent," he said, knowing her proper title only by way of the evil woman beside him. "There is no titled temple I hail from, only the Temple of Bha'al which I now swear my allegiance to. As a gesture of goodwill and a sign of my dedication, I bring a gift, an item stolen long ago by the short-sighted Perverts of Justice. The Amulet of Kavagor will be a great aid to our cause, and I hope a fitting gift to the Newly Arisen. And I pray that you allow me, for my part, to break the fragile virgin minds of the enemies of Bha'al...and when they stutter with madness, soak my cursed blade in their blood!" The cane was then extended, the Amulet once more offered.

"I....Nocent....loyal and committed servant of the Crimson Ram.....bid you earnest welcome to our humble world, mighty Lord of Nykan'Uztax. This distinctive cabal has gathered in the most consecrated name of our lord......for a purpose long whispered in our Temple's impregnable walls. I have obediently brought these of the chosen assemblage together.......their deadly attributes are without measure. Indeed....they have come to help us pave the very streets with ripe flesh and fill the thriving rivers with sacrificed blood. There shall be no cessation in our relentless onslaught until our brazen enemies have been unequivocally crushed and the angelic unions in Heaven weep with culpability and woe over the passing of this feeble age. And more faithful warriors......as you can assuredly sense, Prince Molotoch.....are rapidly en route to this, our malevolent commemoration. More face cards to be added....to this impressive deck of inexorable ruin. Soon the coalition of U'danelathu shall be complete.....complete and unwaveringly ready. Hail the great Purveyor of Death.....Hail The Crimson Ram......Hail our invincible master, Lord Bhaal!"

Accordingly, thus spoke the High Priestess of The Crimson Ram.

The feral growl of the demon echoed in this abandoned hull of a building. His appetite was now steadily growing. The greedily eaten infant was only the stark beginning.

The unearthly warlord's vision was literally smeared within a yawning, scarlet trench. As hate filled eyes passed over each of the gathered warriors in turn, his craving for raw flesh and his thirst for slaughter grew beyond any mortal limitations. From the appalling, agony-ridden Blood Pits of U'danelathu this baleful one, Molotoch The Devourer, was selected; unto this world of men he was soundly dispatched.

To what end and for what cause did such an atrocity transpire" Such knowledge was easily derived without the palpable aid of divine intercession.

To Massacre without pity.

To wage War without end.

To unleash Genocide for Hell's deliverance.

Such knowledge indeed would have been far better off buried far from the rational views and thoughts of sane men and women.

The Shade Demon glared down at the subservient Priestess, at this "Bride of Lord Bhaal". Her horrendous sacrifice was beyond doubt most welcome. Saturated in both blood and irony this situation was. Before she was baptized "Nocent of Letum", Giminicka Orcand had once rallied with the Sisters of Justice and Light under the name of "Eris" to conduct righteous warfare upon the shadowed empire of The Skeletal Ram. A sad and ruined 'child' she was at heart. In time, however, Giminicka Orcand was severely taught the grave error of her heretic's ways. After her cruel physical ruin and forceful psychological fracturing, she was reborn as a pivotal instrument of Hell's grace.

In fact, everyone here in this "Ministry of Evil" was now a phenomenal and mighty weapon of the unseen god of Murder. And similarly, just like prodigious Nocent, all were assuredly damned by their own hands. Forever they would be cursed to rule over the ashy wastelands and blood soaked towers of Hell's mightiest citadels. Masters of Torment and Whisperers of Corruption, they all now were. What better remuneration could one ever hope to entreat and pray for in this dead of night'

A smoldering rage was increasingly building within the massive essence of this beast. His body was now teeming with a seething power and venomous Hell-spawned hatred for their gallant foes spread about RhyDin. Yes, the slick marvel of their wet flesh as it was messily shredded within his ebon claws, literally bore a hole into his large, horned head and then deeply buried itself amongst his most sought after lusts and violent estimations. Burying the cinders and very sand of time's most hated enemies could assuredly bring about the painful revelations of a disemboweled sinner locked within the blasphemous tombs of....

His raging thoughts were suddenly interrupted.

The heavy sound of beating human hearts were betraying the fact that more warriors were now coming. Two more to be exact. This too, was prewritten and long expected. As Samara, of their Master's feared Al"Kacht Order, slid into the unholy chamber followed by the sinister Vaire, Molotoch felt the unbalanced scales pulling once more towards the hostile stronghold of The Crimson Ram.

They were now THIRTEEN in number.

The dubious pursuit quickly commenced within the room. As Lord Agarithil, was amusing himself at the expense of the mortal, but ever-deadly Huntress, the horned Prince of Nykan'Uztax gathered unto himself his malevolent energies and churning forces of shade.

When the fiendish wielder of "The Skull Of Mobalaul" at last finished his perilous game with the murderous Samara, he sharply addressed Molotoch with the pride that only a genuine highbrowed demon could muster, "We await your command Your Highness, Most Magnificent Prince of Death. We hasten to arms at your behest!"

Upon hearing this pronouncement, the diabolically evil Fallen Angel barred his lengthy fangs which were festooned with blackened Abyssal venom. Subsequently, his slit eyes flashed with visible red and amber hues in response to the spoken words of The Spade Jack. And thus, unto these chosen followers of the apocalypse, it was so.

Here now, they all stood, gathered in mass unison within this dark ministry. For, long were their individual destinies being shaped, some more subtly than others, in preparation of this very moment. These same unique visages staring at him now, were all boldly etched in angelic blood upon the grand throne of his one true Master. Molotoch, in consequence, knew them all by name and by inimitable smell, as did his Lord of hosts...The Skeletal Ram...Lord Bhaal.

Nocent. A genuine trophy of the purest evil. The callous titan and monstrous bane of the Scathahian Nation, was now the reigning High Priestess of their feared core, Temple Letum. A true, converted masterpiece of the Temple's ruthless design.

Dracina Hemdagg. An extremely powerful Malkavian queen and truly maniacal sovereign of the many excruciating tortures of the flesh. Indeed, this sadistic creature is the ever-seductive kindred 'sister" of Nocent.

Pharagos. The abominable Seraph Lord and leader of his brutal Blood Pack, who would loyally ravage Heaven's gates and wage a sinful war of hellish proportions to assure his own immortality. Beware of his sect's ear-piercing howling of hunger....

Agarithil. The shrewd and sadistic demonic Prince whose heralded arrival displayed Master Bhaal's unwavering commitment to the forceful spread of gruesome chaos in this campaign. His infamy was whispered by the most vile beasts in The Blood Pits.

Krysira Clayborne. The once "ugly duckling" who had now blossomed into the powerful and elegant swan. Her errant treachery and devious mind consistently act as an 'immoral compass" to this cabal of dread.

Isabella Dawnshadow. The merciless Unseelie noble who is a masterful harbinger of waking nightmares and a virtually unstoppable weaver of agonizing death. Her viciously concentrated aptitudes of the arcane have ushered forth mass suffering beyond any reprise.

Samara. The psionically-gifted and expertly-trained Huntress of Lord Bhaal, whose twisted passion for slaughtering the putrid Daughters of Scathach even rivaled that of the High Priestess, herself. For this woman, to kill is to live.

Hanzo Hattori. The exceedingly deadly Eastern assassin whose overwhelming desire and lust would assuredly guarantee him a golden place of bloodthirsty honor at the Gateway of Hell itself. The terror of night is his.

Laviacus of U'danelathu. The colossal undead guardian of the Elsvach and the devoted "Black General" of the dreaded stygian armies of U'danelathu. As wickedly mirrored in his crimson orbs, "Death' does indeed have a name.

Kya Robichaud. "Murder's" blood splashed daughter and "Insanity's" psychotic princess...she has absolutely no limitations in her longing to kill. This atrocious lunatic was truly a magnificent jewel within the carnival crown of the savage Lord of Sin.

Micar'shalee Barri"und. The fiercely dominant subterranean sorceress and master swordswoman whose slick trail of vile murder, barbaric cruelty, human sacrifice, and yearning for death has pushed her far beyond even the realm of the Drowish Spider Queen.

Vaire. The raving mad, yet debonair, murderer of the mind. With a dark gift of easily tormenting, manipulating, and crushing the psyche of his foes for the sheer pleasure of their anguish and his ultimate goal of conquest, this 'gentleman' is a mad genius.

And he, the darkborn Prince Molotoch of Nykan'Uztax, violently tore open the final, unseen throat and vehemently thrust forward the thirteenth onyx horn of these ravaging "Fangs Of Bhaal".

His massive, skinless head now slowly turned to the two acolytes who had knelt, as a reverent gesture of vile respect, before the lurid High Priestess of Night, Nocent. The earnest notice and attention of Molotoch were now solely fixated upon the pulsating relics that each of these new face cards had offered up in dutiful sacrifice.

In a thunderous tone drenched in the black, ancient tongues of his threatening and monstrous race, Molotoch, The Devourer, spoke but seven commanding words to the armored Anti-Scathachian, Nocent: "PROCEED WITH OUR LORD?S COMMANDED RITUAL, PRIESTESS."

"The road to darkness is a journey...not the mere flip of a switch." -Lex Luthor, Smallville

It was strange, although it could be nothing else but perfect. Just as the thunder and lightning warred for first blood far above this stone belly deep beneath the city, a throng of entrances had erupted into the chamber.

Lord Molotoch was born, praise Hell!

The Huntress had come bearing the Eye of Bhaal, praise Hell!

Her thieving, insane counterpart had slickly performed by rendering up the Amulet of Kavagor, praise Hell!

Krysira's eyes burned, had the blood run into them' The back of her throat closed, her tongue must have forgotten itself and tried to crawl back to avoid the acidic voice of their new "Dark Messiah." The tips of her fingers throbbed until her hands transformed into fists, was she cold" Her nose started to run, or was that just the drip-drip-dripping of blood from the ceiling as its course was finally spent' Her chest heaved, feeling as if it were cleaved in two. Was her heart giving out on her"

No, there was no blood in her eyes. No, her tongue was not at the back of her throat. No, she was not cold. No, there was no blood on her nose. No, her heart would beat no more strongly that it did now.

Nothing could be blamed for what Krysira felt happening to her as Lord Molotoch opened his razored maw and unleashed an unholy voice. This was what it felt like to be damned. Truly and utterly damned. It was a taste in her mouth, a scent in her nostrils, a buzzing of flies in her ears, a wail on the wind. All hope, all innocence, every good deed, every little-girl moment was gone. Completely gone. Krysira died. Krysira Clayborne, apple of her Grandmother's eye, shriveled. Krysira Clayborne, the thief from Guller's Creek, was stolen away.

Krysira Clayborne, the eternally damned was all that was left.

The tears fell from her eyes, cutting stark passages down her blood-riddled cheeks. Her soul ebbed from those tears to be offered up to great Nocent, to Lord Molotoch, to Lord Bhaal.

Reborn in death. Baptized in murder. Illuminated by damnation.

Krysira's breath finally returned to fill her lungs. She was nearly panting; she hadn't realized that she had more or less been holding that same breath for nearly two minutes. She was almost strangling herself as she watched her surroundings shift to the surreal tableau of Hell, itself. Or was it that last drop of innate inner goodness that was being squelched? That unseen spark of innocence that was being snuffed out'

As her lungs remembered how to breathe again, her grey-blue eyes took in their surroundings for all that they were: the end of all things. And she was a part of it. Krysira smiled. Her destiny was rewritten.

Hell had signed one more devout member to be claimed.

Giminicka's range of motion seemed to flow as her posture then took an obsequious turn towards the talkative and flamboyant cerebral-assassin who had nonchalantly ventured into their reclusive chamber of gore, where infanticide was a sacrament and cannibalism a misplaced delight. Far beneath the main floors of The IronHelm Flats they all were, yet that did not dampen the stranger's mood. This maniacally sociable newcomer, Vaire, was well-clothed in a fine suit and tie coupled with finely polished, thick heeled dress shoes......the long gentleman's cane completing his rather rich attire.

Lord Bhaal, the supreme Master of Murder & Deceit, had called out to this deranged man; he in fact made formidable use of Mr. Vaire's potent psionic and telekinetic energies. The same energies that made this madcap psion even easier to track down......and of course to also convince that he was destined to be a part of this larger, more grandiose plot for world domination and boundless massacre.

His lean face seemed awry with overbearing joy as he exclaimed: "High Priestess Nocent, there is no titled temple I hail from, only the Temple of Bha'al which I now swear my allegiance to. As a gesture of goodwill and a sign of my dedication, I bring a gift, an item stolen long ago by the short-sighted Perverts of Justice. The Amulet of Kavagor will be a great aid to our cause, and I hope a fitting gift to the Newly Arisen. And I pray that you allow me, for my part, to break the fragile virgin minds of the enemies of Bha'al...and when they stutter with madness, soak my cursed blade in their blood!"

Dangling from Vaire's deadly cane, the long-lost and oft coveted 'Amulet of Kavagor' hung........so serenely....catching the dim flicker of flame which reflected within the purple labyrinths of the large amethyst. Vaire bore this infamous gift with a toothy grin upon his gaunt countenance.

Nocent earnestly seized the loathsome amulet, and gripped it like a battle trophy as she raised it far above her helmed head. Its supernatural aura of invulnerability was now reflecting through her and spreading over the very room itself. The vile legion amassed here could undoubtedly feel its inspirational fury and its riling influence....simply being near this relic was enough to steal a taste of its charging sway. She then offered an unmistakable nod of approval to the crafty "mind killer" who had so expertly stolen this treasured artifact from the heavily guarded, fortress-like Museum of Rhydin. Vaire's carefree satisfaction in taking lives would be well employed.

Her voice then echoed with a marked stroke inside of the bloody room, "Samara of Temple Letum......Lord Vaire of Rhydin.......both of you have greatly succeeded in your callings......both of you have delivered the rare and unattainable to this union. The "Eye of Bhaal" will bequest existence and life to our citadel......."Kavagor's Amulet' will make our dreaded Lord Molotoch even more formidable and menacing to the pathetic and weak martyrs who dare gather against our forged banner. You both have done well before the eyes of the Skeletal Ram. Stand and thus be counted before his hollowed gaze...."

Samara the Huntress, Bhaal's Ace of Clubs, was now reunited once again with Nocent in this private army of the elite bent on ushering in the apocalypse here in RhyDin. The cultured and suave Lord Vaire....The King of Hearts.....would be a prized instrument of unrelenting terror and madness in this holy war which was expeditiously approaching.

The Beast within roared again as The Fallen Sister offered unto Molotoch's mighty claws, the precious gift of "The Amulet of Kavagor". Nocent's head was bowed in awe as her voice was again more powerful and with noticeable vigor at its tail, "Udhaken Phothaq Bhaalachus, Nyteck Molotoch."

After relinquishing the luminous gold and amethyst prize to the darkborn Prince, Nocent turned to face Vaire yet again, "And now...your payment my friend.....remuneration for a duty very well done. As for the further tasks you will do in service to The Skeletal Ram......the fruits and nectar reaped shall be far sweeter than even Venus's dampened loins could offer you. He, whose features and image are bathed in the blood of the naive that you shall spill, has ultimate designs for your prominence, my friend. I bid you welcome.....to your destiny."

She then placed a beautifully crafted ring of vibrant silver upon the wet floor. It was a heavy ring, engraved with many intertwining, archaic runes which culminated to feature an opulent emerald stone of engrossing design. Lord Vaire could certainly sense the dreaded calling of this accolade, and he would certainly know precisely what it was that was laid before his feet.

Unto all was then shown....'The Madness of Mathaloth". This venomously evil ring whose stunning centerpiece was fearfully alleged to be a "whispering emerald". Many of the dark rite believed that it was a carved piece from "The Eye of Bhaal" itself. The cursed item was crafted by the diabolic psionic Gaius Mathaloth more than three centuries ago, and its powers ranked beyond notoriety. Now it was being passed to the monstrous King of Hearts, in order to propagate this unholy crusade of slaughter. The ring was now solely Vaire's to wield.

After dispensing the earned gift to Lord Vaire, Giminicka then returned her attention to the persuasive "Eye of Bhaal". She covetously reached for the large, pulsating, green gem which was passively resting upon Krysira's onyx-marbled pedestal. Its sinister power could not be denied by any. Once in her clutches, the High Priestess walked across the grisly, fluid-sodden floor....continuing to move to this very chamber's Southernmost wall.

With a thinly disguised smirk of arrogance on her face, Nocent reared back her steel covered fist and threw a mighty punch into the aged stone and wooden construct. With a resonant crash and a subsequent cloud of raised dust, a sizeable blackened hole was now present within the wall. Even this wide fissure, was dim and foreboding.

Nocent of Letum methodically brought the ever-whispering "Eye of Bhaal" closer to her face in order to greedily stare at its sinful malevolence once more. Its green aura showered over her expression and ostensibly illuminated her sacred horned helm....thus causing the helmet's gemstones to smolder as if in some numinous response. Decisively, the evil priestess leaned forwards and placed the prized relic into the newly formed perforation within the wall. With that, Nocent spoke aloud a single phrase thrice in the black tongues: " Edo ab"curor." " Edo ab"curor." " Edo ab"curor....?

At that ill-fated moment, the already chilly temperature in the room of blood instantly became as frigid ice........

"Siyo, siyo!"* the distinct voice from the warrior of the Underdark began slowly, almost as if the darkened hiss were the very prayer of the Spider Queen Lloth herself. "Siyo, doer!"**

Micar'shalee watched with rabid anticipation as the newly born Molotoch made his way to life and the prophesized newcomers blessed this unholy sanctum with sumptuous gifts for the devilish magi. The ever stoic Drow was allowing her sadistic hate to smolder and charge her violent emotions!

Nocent, oh heavenly Nocent, plunged of herself to deep within the wall in order to deposit the ever-coveted, enchanted Eye of Bhaal. The Drow warrior-sorceress could almost feel the helmed priestess reaching inside of her, so rapturous was the aura of Nocent to make any of her followers in this moment of fulfillment, wish to give themselves to her in a climax of spirit, gore, and death.

"Senger Bhaal, tyn dosst cress. Udos ph'jhal ib'leua waenre jal. Lloth, ussta valsharess, Usstan xun dosst veein!"*** Her strong black thighs, covered in a tapestry of blood and steel, moved slowly, allowing her to steep in pleasure. Micar'shalee came to stand in between the vampiress Dracina and the sultry huntress Samara, an daemonic feminine trilogy to be sure.

The IronHelm Flats were more than a gateway to the hell that ravished each of the damned in this room, as they were about to become hell itself and then to be unleashed onto an unwitting city. The Poison Gaze felt the pull and comfort of the Underdark licking at her breasts and thighs as the room's suddenly temperature dropped further. Home had found her, her goddess had reclaimed her, this union of evil titans at her side was real, and her new lord had ravished her throughout this perfect night. An energy ripped through her limbs as she flung her arms wide in praise. The air plunged into the deep cold as the electricity around them prompted the Drow's white teeth to illuminate her stern ebon face.

The darkness would take hold of this pitiful city and all of its inhabitants. Night would rule forever.

*"Yes, yes!" **"Yes, come!" ***"Lord Bhaal, spin your web. We are but humble servants, all. Lloth, my Queen, I do your bidding!"

The feral beast had sternly accepted the infamous Amulet of Kavagor. It was honorably placed over his piercing horns and around his thick neck, the sparkling chain of gold seemingly stretching to accommodate his massive size. The cursed relic was now back where it belonged, around the supernatural throat of a blood spawn of U'Danelathu.

The great horned head slowly turned as the High Priestess Nocent completed the blasphemous ritual and thus brought impossible life to the lifeless. The monstrous IronHelm Flats was now sentient; it was 'aware' of the malevolence inside of it and of those minions of evil who now drew on its overwhelming negative energies.

Molotoch felt quite at home in this grotesque accommodation, which was now nothing more than a massive compartment in Hell's torturous maze of the damned. A stone slice from the feast of the apocalypse.

A scorching venom soon filled Molotoch's own fang filled maw as his narrowed amber eyes sought out his fellow demonic brother, Agarithil, and covetously fed off of his raw hatred for the spirits of the just and the noble which pulsated beyond the barriers of this construct and out into the darkness of Rhydin's city. Molotoch could literally taste the naive fear dripping from the air beyond The IronHelm.

A thunderous roar, echoing the stormy skies outside, escaped the demon prince's vicious jaws as if to roar forth a rally of recognition to yet another masterpiece crafted by his lord and god, Bhaal. For in this gruesome night of dancing shadows, which beckoned his own bloody entry back into the Prime Material Plane, another "life" was granted. The IronHelm Flats, this haunted citadel of The Fangs of Bhaal, was now a seemingly conscious existence poised to play its diabolical role in this ever progressing and deadly game of chess.

Interruptions were always terrible things to have, especially when you are on the receiving end of it. Within the shadows, reflected upon the floor, walls and ceiling due to various objects blinded by the insidious light, there were always eyes. Something was there; some presence felt, so deep in its dark realm as it observed, but never stepped out despite each ritual, despite the summons and gatherings.

Bhaal" Now there is a beast after her own heart. As dark and twisted as she may be, Renna would never lower herself to serve an ethereal and blasphemous creature that promoted murder. She learnt her lesson with the Nihil long ago that such beings should never ever be truly trusted, and certainly never truly followed with a piously blinded black ridden heart. You should always be ready to stab those you call Lord and Mistress in the back, with the weapon of power they entrusted unto you.

After all, in the end, you are just a pawn.

Renna was here for something else far more valuable than simple murder and bloodshed, and finally after much boredom in her hiding place, decided to reveal her doppelganger and Rhy"Din proxy to them.

Francine Renton stepped out from the realm of shadow - a method of transpiration between various locations, beside the chamber door, both hands thrust into the pockets of the buttoned up black leather trench coat, the mixture of multicoloured black, white and fiery red hair obscuring her face in conjunction with the hard fabric collar of her garment. Such lacklustre masking did not disguise the fact that those pale dead lips were in fact grinning a rather familiar expression.

No one would know the elder teen, for she was not an expected arrival. She did not introduce, nor did she say anything to any one. Walking casually across the chamber with her gaze not locked onto the walking behemoth, with its rather impressive Daemonic appearance and powerful aura, but instead entirely onto the one that smelt like the perversion of a Scathachian's scent.

"Iire llie mor, llie quarlani naa hab?" She whispered, turning finally to now gaze up at the beast known as Molotoch.