Deep within the dank sub-levels of the shadowy IronhHelm Flats, true evil was once again in silent repose. Nocent had been reclining on her great chair, simply staring with an otherworldly intensity at the ominous Red Wall...that monolith of woeful faces which had not succumbed to the cave-in on that night of violent storms. The "throne" on which she rested was fashioned from smooth marbled stone....an oddly comfortable creation of impressive magnitude which had been left behind in this once great structure to stand time?s daunting test.

The muscular Bhaalite, of course, had made her own grisly additions to the chair?s decor....additions naturally befitting the caustic personality of this chosen instrument of the god of murder?s wrathful vengeance. Impudently decorating the chair?s arm rests were the brutally severed heads of a young knight of the realm and his beloved wife.

The sharpened arm rests had been coarsely speared through the torn napes of their necks. The wooden ends were quite visible from within their open mouths....mouths which hung open in slackened shrieks.....singing silently as they revealed the seemingly cavernous emptiness of their newly extinguished mortality.

Majesty! The pale faces of the dead were sharply contorted; capturing their final few seconds of anguish and horror which they so nobly endured before all went spartanly dim. Their now silent, gouged lips were messily caked with their own dried blood, while their thickly glazed eyes gawked into the endless void with a sense of calamitous urgency.

Circumspectly draped over the back of Nocent?s ornamental chair were crimson-stained strips of unsullied human flesh...all reverently torn from the well-built torsos of both the knight and his childless bride. The sickening stench of death and decay hung heavily in the yawning chamber.....though nauseating and stifling, it only served to empower the Fallen Sister with anticipation of her glorious work of art which had yet to be unveiled.

As Nocent glared at the scarlet hued wall, well engrossed in the gruesome spectacle which lingered before it, a lone roach, thick brown and plump, scurried forth from the mouth of the male victim. After briefly exploring its new surroundings, the insect quickly descended back into the dark hollows behind the knights' shattered teeth.

The priestess glared speculatively into the darkness, weighing the options before her and assessing the almost imperceptible hints of the imminent struggle fermenting within the weakening organization of the city?s heroes. Their vastly dissimilar opinions and conflicting morals would be their ultimate devourer...fools.

Giminicka?s left gauntlet played idly with a large, ravaged chunk of human meat which was at present barely sustaining her predatory craving. There was no forgiveness in her....no sense of right or wrong....there simply was the bloody task at hand and her need to openly feed in a cannibalistic hell on the flesh of her fellow man.

Promises......vows......oaths......agony...death. All of these things were components of Bhaal's infernal grace. All instruments of his divine mercy. All epitaphs to be scrawled in gore across the desecrated headstones of the Scathachian Sisters and their foolish allies who would be ripped to glistening pieces of fat-laden meat, drenched with stale innate fluids, by the time this blessed book had been closed.

BOOK. A book indeed. THE book.....THEIR book. Behold, that cherished artifact was held even now in the contemptible, little hands of that bothersome barrister Mallorek. Oh yes, it was most definitely still there, for Giminicka could feel its lexis burning profoundly within her insane thoughts...acquisitively lapping at her with a distinct quivering between her muscular thighs that could be elicited by none other than the devil's tongue itself. The Tome of the Common Dread....Bhaal's own words....Temple Letum's libretto for mass slaughter and ultimate damnation. It was calling to her....longing to be back within the armored tabernacle of the horned god's faithful masses.

A longing..
A call..
An undeniable pull that led her through those hallowed halls.

Boot step, after heavy boot step. Muddied, worn. Those same boots brought the tall form of the ghastly figure known simply as ``Vice``. Out of place - Out of touch. She simply came when she was called and nothing more. "Hhnnn.." Dual toned grumble echoing out from her throat. As if to simply draw attention to herself -- that she was in attendance. This interest seemed to fade moments later. Blonde strands of dangerously long hair swayed about while right foot shifted at its heel. The lumbering body followed in a twist, turning to cast her attention on other matters.

With her head c*cking to the side and nostrils soon flaring. She'd take deep, yet quick sniffs about. "Sso much work to doo.." Lips parted and mouth then was held agape. Vices tall body began to bend back. That spine crackling eerily in protest from such harsh movement forced onto it. "Tthe woman I will kill so very soonn... Wwhat is it that you requiree..?" Words rolling off her tongue as body, half bent and twisted at its right, turned to face and soon enough cast shadowed eyes onto the woman who was dubbed Nocent.

It was extremely dark outside. The brisk wind lightly picked up her pink tresses and kissed the nape of her long neck. The chill night air felt rather good on her alabaster painted face. It made her laugh.

Clowns like to laugh, and after all she was a clown.

Ha Ha Ha Ha. It was a laugh forged of an impulsive yet seductive obligation to kill again and be whole with her newfound family of murderous monsters.

Family was good. Monsters were better.

As the lethal clown assassin slipped into the gigantic edifice of the IronHelm Flats and deftly weaved her way around through the dense blackness, she knew, even with the maze of her depraved mind, that she was not alone. Sinister eyes watched over her every step; counted each of her short breaths. Malice was her shadow and she secretly hoped it would f**k her hard.

Clowns like to f**k, and after all she was a clown.

Just two days ago Kya had written another charming little manuscript about that ghostly juggernaut of a woman, "The Scissor Stalker", who had newly pledged her undying loyalty and willingness to slaughter to the service of the Temple of Murder and its horned overseer. According to Kya, this powerful and dangerous creature had made a pact to protect the temple's enigmatic priestess, "The Red Lady", who had generously presented the Stalker with an ever so special doll of love, a sweet doll of errant sacrifice for her to fuss over. For her to maternally dote on.

The clown read it over and over again. Sexy Krysira had read it as well. Naturally, either by request or torture, many others had read it too. They all had believed it or had been made to do so; thus she wondered if the voodooesque magic had worked once again. The Baroness really hoped that it had. Very very very very very very very very very very much so in fact! Even though Vice had cut her deeply with those #$*!#$@ shears, she made Carnal smile.

Clowns like to smile...and after all she was a clown.

Her skipping descent into the innards of the building was a "pleasant" one as always. She leisurely emerged into the chamber where Nocent was in awesome repose. The sour stench of the rotting flesh and blood made the killer clown quite wet. It reeked of pure death, and Carnal had always felt more comfortable around the dead. Why? Well for one thing, they always liked her pretty makeup! HAHA!

Seeing the monstrous Vice looming in the corner like some kind of deranged, evil marionette made her red gruesome smile spread to eerie proportions. It worked! It worked! It worked! Take a thunderous bow pretty clown!

And bow she did before the seated "The Red Lady", Priestess Nocent of the most benevolent Temple Bhaal.

Carnal's sharp voice was hushed, but still laced with zany and homicidal intonations, "I have heard your summons and nourishing laughter my dearest lady. I am wholeheartedly ready with mind, body, soul, and cream pies to sew the seeds of murder, anguish, and chaos in the name of our luminous god."

The Death Knight had not left the confines of these consecrated halls since helping to retrieve the Scathachian artifact from the Red Dragon Inn. That noteworthy battle for the Gavel Of Scathach was very fierce, and it was heralded as an impressive victory for the God of Murder's novel legion. Here now, in the swirling mists of the IronHelm's haunted labyrinthine passageways, the undead warlord appeared on thundering steps of iron and relentlessly made his way into the vast room of the gathered allies.

Hazily lit crimson orbs flickered with purely negative energy beneath his massive spiked helm which completely shielded his countenance; giving him ever more the manifestation of some mechanical nightmare. Laviacus held fast his great shield, which was richly adorned with his god?s menacing emblem, and moved with steady precision towards Nocent's flesh covered throne of carnage.

Seeing their priestess, the armored colossus then took note of the others who had come to his Lord's summons so far this eve: Vice, Micar'shalee, and Carnal. A prized ensemble, and several more cabalistic denizens of the night were expected to soon arrive. The ravenous horde was growing once again, and the victory at the Inn over the Scathachian flock and their throng of allies was but the first in a long line of savage acts to restore the magnificent name of Bhaal to the lips of every man, woman and child who understood what truly happened in the dim corridors of the world when the sun sunk down in retreat.

With rigid and macabre movement, the broad Death Knight auspiciously hailed the high priestess Nocent and awaited her pivotal orders. His echoing voice boldly proclaimed the eventual mastery of darkness over light and the abiding loyalty of his heavy, serrated fist to the new order of Temple Letum's bloody majesty. The formidable Fangs of Bhaal, that had once been scattered by a magical stroke of ?heroic? cowardice, were once again coalescing in divine unity and bringing the very essence of Hell's odious fury with them.

The dreadful juggernaut from the appalling, agony-ridden Blood Pits of U'danelathu steadily approached through the gloomy corridors. With each heavy footstep, it was as if claps of thunder were booming inside the IronHelm as the Shade Demon tore through obstacles of wood and stone like they were nothing more than wet paper.

This fallen creature, so malevolent and hungry for carnage that only such a dreadful place as this could satiate and contain his rage, had come to make his abominable visage known to the gathered once again. Molotoch The Devourer, had too returned to this evil ministry of the Fangs of Bhaal.

The demon's massive horned head predatorily ducked into the room followed by the remainder of his hulking form. The unearthly creature's vision was literally smeared within a yawning, scarlet trench that was virtually tangible to mortal fingers. 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 earthly limitations. His large, fanged mouth fell open and a fearsome roar smashed forth, riddled with Herculean might and pure wrath.

Abruptly, in a twisted tone drenched in the black, ancient tongues of his threatening and monstrous race, Molotoch The Devourer, hissed a menagerie of unearthly sounds, an anti-blessing so it was called. A cursed war prayer was spewed forth like viscous, wet tar to summon forth the very leathery wings of Hell itself in order to shield these gathered fiends from the eyes of the on-looking Heavens or meddlesome, scrying wizards.

As he stood before the enthroned Nocent of Temple Letum, Molotoch's amber hued eyes feasted hungrily on the converging darkness. Employing his supernatural strength, loathsome necromancy, and an array of gruesome weaponry forged within the smithies of The Fortress of Woe, this blackened warlord prepared to initiate a new a reign of terror which should have commenced long ago with his birthing here in the great IronHelm Flats.

And with that swell of negative force, the dreaded demon Prince of Nykan'Uztax slammed his unholy battleaxe into the stone floor. Discernible flashes of crimson light leapt from the sudden junction of the massive axe blades and the aged stone. There the great beast stood tall, awaiting the remainder of his Lord's chosen to come so that they might once more wage bloody conflict on the Nation of Scathach an her vile church of heresy.

High heeled shoes clacked softly on the pavement in front of the IronHelm Flats. Blue eyes swept over the large, macabre building that was now fixed up to be less of an eyesore for the beholder. There was a sense of dark beauty about it now that seemed to call to the soul. Red painted lips formed into a smirk and the gaze shifted toward an armored form to the side.

"Ready?"

"With our unlives, My Lady," the armored figure answered.

A nod was returned to the response and the blond elven vampiress stepped toward the building, followed by a retinue of armored and shambling shapes. As she walked, the doors into the building opened wide as if of their own volition and she and her retinue continued their march.

Through the more distinctly torchlit halls, she and her companions came into better view. She wore a gray dress that ended at the mid-thigh, stockings bringing tone to those pale legs. Her companions; however, were a mix of black-armored warriors and decaying, shambling monsters of undeath. Of the former, there were four; of the latter, eight. Their procession continued through the halls until they came upon a flight of stairs that led downward.

This is it! she thought maniacally.

Her retinue of guards were the first to descend the stairway, the armored clinking with each step. They came to arrive within the basement itself among its fell coterie of inhabitants. The armored men came to stand at full attention while the decaying, undead monsters shambled to form a pair of loosely formed lines behind them. Finally, one of the armored men grinned widely to bare a pair of white, glistening fangs. Vampiric fangs.

"Hear yee, hear yee Fangs of Bhaal," he announced. "I now announce Her Ladyship, the Mistress of Death and the Arts Arcane and Martial, Mistress of Satyr Industries; the Countess Dracina Hemdagg!" His grin remained after he finished.

Following her herald's announcement, the slender and beautiful image of death descended the stairway. Upon stepping into the basement, she let her eyes wander over those whom were already gathered. Eventually her eyes settled on Nocent and there was a faint hint of a smile on her red lips for the fallen priestess. Then she extended her arms outward.

"It is so good to see all of you again," she said.

With that, the guard that had announced her screamed out "about face" and "forward march" and the twelve escorts vacated the basement by ascending the stairs back to the halls above.

Shadows moved within the darkened hallway, the soft clicking of nails on the rock echoing along the rough tunnel. The soft red of light reflected from eyes was seen a split second before the figures began to enter the chamber. Five they were, ducking under the remains of the jamb before straightening to their full eight foot height. At a growl from the one in the lead the other four split off, hard claws easily finding purchase on the rock as they clambered up the wall as easily as a child ran across a playground to find spots near the ceiling.

Leathery wings settled like a living cloak around the shoulders of the first as he approached Nocent's throne. He did now bow, never again would they bow, but took a stance to one side. Deceptively lean arms folded as he watched the proceedings, the muzzle peeling back slightly as he regarded the others gathered.

With that, the warrior-priestess of Bhaal turned slowly, holding an adorned hand mirror in her tight grip, "Krysira and I ?obtained? this from a mindless artifact collector who had no idea what he was holding onto. It pleases me to see that his blood is still caked into the crevices of this putrid mirror of pompous divination. Ultimately, this relic is meaningless to our cause....so I shall personally return it to my 'sisters' and gain their love and conviction once more. And while you all continue to murder in his most sacrosanct name and reign sheer chaos amongst the sheep who dwell here....we shall both, from different points, acquire more of these sacred items until our tilted board will finally be set."

"The barrister Lucien Malorek has the black Book which I seek....the very reason for our attack on that fateful night of storms when the heavens sighed and scattered us away, burying me underneath this holy ground to be long forgotten. Though the tome remains entombed within a magically runed vault at his home, their feeble attempts to defeat us were beyond derisory. Soon we shall have that which we need to castigate them all.....and those naive pawns whom they hold dear to their miserable hearts. I doubt they even know what they possess in that vault, which shall be their crucial undoing.?

?The great book shall unfasten the seals of revelation and guide us flawlessly to the other lost items of my Lord. And with these things we shall force wide open the gateway to the Isle of Shadow. I vow....this hidden island is a terrain of ripe flesh unlike any of you has ever ripped apart or devoured. The Book of Common Dread must be reclaimed! And therefore the path to its hallowed pages begins here tonight ...as I position myself ever closer to this foolish Mallorek through his own sworn protectors while you, my masters of chaos, plague them with unspeakable horrors and destroy with vengeance all that you hunger for here in Rhydin.?

Giminicka's curving, crimson hair hypnotically framed her shoulders and face as a distinct flicker scurried like a predatory spider across her eyes. "Thus I go to them now my allies....I go to rejoin the ?ever present? Scathacian Nation. Eris was my given name...now long lost. Eris died by flame and tooth long ago....Eris still decomposes deeply within their guilty recollections......so let them have the dead bitch back.

Within the darkness of its vast halls, The Ironhelm Flats smiled.