Though the blistering heat of the sun could be considered extreme to those whom dwelled in the spoiled forestlands of the west, the mercenary found it familiar and pleasant. It was an unusually unpopulated day in the Stronghold, located somewhere near the heart of the Desert – though the swordsman could not figure why there was a lack of vendors lining the streets and merchants desperately attempting to sell their goods, he made little attention towards it as he guided past the towering gates of the Stronghold and deeper into its central core, where the nearest well would soon inch into sight.

The swordsman was a well-established figure – donned in a durable chest-piece of some leather origin, his cream apparel flowed naturally, shifting with a slight ruffle with each passing of a zephyr. There was a sense of lifelessness in his eyes, lacking pupils and irises in their rather haunting creation. The visible skin that crafted the bridge of his strong nose and the flesh that constructed his cheeks was a rich, tanned complexion – a telltale attribute that was commonly found among the desert-folk, those that scoured the open seas of sand and called them home. He openly wore his weapon on the right side of his hip, a polished scimitar of pristine care and sharpness, catching glints of the afternoon sun and playing brilliance over its silver blade. Strips of thick, white hide that, in a macabre sense, closely resembled the white skin of some pale human flesh, tightly bound its hilt. By a belt, this instrument of savage butchery hung as an extending limb, stiff and moving only when he adjusted his weight distribution by shifting slightly on his feet. Though he could be considered intimidating with his handsome, six and a half foot height, there was a lack of aggressiveness to his posture – his back arched in a fine curve that held the air of some aristocrat or noble; his shoulders were taut and strong, radiating an aura of confidence and pride amongst the swordsman.

Calloused fingertips pulled a coin pouch from the inner folds of his robe, pulling out a handful of gold coin and throwing it unto the table before him. “Water,” he spoke in a deep, husky tone, removing a hide canteen from his pack and throwing it towards the merchant, “for myself.” The merchant’s tired eyes rose, and, with a crude laughter, shoved the coin back towards the mercenary. Recognizing the swordsman immediately, the merchant gave a yawn, turning his eyes elsewhere as if the mercenary was not worth the attention.

“M’fraid no can do, Horus,” the merchant grumbled with a touch of fatigue, “the well has been dry for some days now; you’ll have to go find some waterin’ hole out in the desert or somethin’ since there’s none here. An’ no, this ain’t for shamin’ me in that game of dice the other week, it’s for true.” Horus said nothing as he easily swiped his rejected pay from the table surface and back into his pouch, fastening it away as he brushed past, ignoring the merchant. Several other beings – adventurers, he presumed, not being able to recognize any by their faces – surrounded the well, kicking sand and dried mud where the traces of water should have been present.

“How can an entire well disappear overnight?” Said one.

“Not possible,” said another, appearing to be a mage by his bright apparel, “it’s the work of some dark magic.”

Stepping forward, Horus gave a mild sigh. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” with a brief wave of his hands, he let them fall idle at his side, save for the firm grip of the hilt against his left palm, “must you be so violent?” The others glared towards his direction, looking him over for a moment, as if confused.

“Yes!” The mage’s voice strained and cracked slightly, his hands throwing up into the air, also seizing the reigns of his own creature, a camel by appearance. “The well is very important,” he hissed, narrowing his eyes threateningly. “The caravans and merchants have all left the Stronghold because there is no water! Without water, the Stronghold is sure to perish, and any that have not left already! We can’t make it out of the desert alive without water – I’ve tried to conjure an elemental, but magic has been negated for Gods know how far!” Horus shook his head, crossing an arm over his bosom, cupping his clothed chin with the opposite palm.

“We’re all going to die,” cried a dwarf, his mouth wide and hungry with thirst.

“There has to be a solution to this...”

Angand, the Hidden Stronghold of the Anfauglir Desert and its small community of desert born people recieved a visitor the other day. Apparently it was a man, very secretive and very mysterious, guests were not a so common thing into a place like that, everyone found living in the desert something very hard to achieve, each day was an immense battle for survival. Water was the most prized there, not even gold or any magical item managed to gain such a high value among the people living in the desert, unless it was an item which could produce water, but that was a thing unheard of. Well, they could still dream. Water is the very element of life, one that almost every creature needs in order to be able to see another sunrise.

And there were also the creatures, insects like the scorpions and other monstrous, larger creatures that could put an end to someone’s life with an uncommon ease which made the survival hard.
Strangers and visitors were not so well seen among the community and no signs of hospitality were shown towards them, unless they were some sort of clerics or druids able to create water through their magic, but that just takes us back to what Water means to these people.
And since this stranger, the first one to appear in a long while, was none of those said above he was seen with suspicion. Coincidence or not, the well disappeared the next day after his arrival, and that stirred even more rumors in what concerned this man. Not many had taken a good look at him, but despite his mostly human appearance, they could distinguish those eyes of a forever glowing emerald color, powerful enough to penetrate the very dark and cold night typical to the desert. About 6 feet tall, this man had long silvery hair, easily flowing over his shoulders, also he had a hulking muscular build, which was pretty obvious since he wandered around with his torso bare, which was yet another uncommon thing. He wore no desert clothes, he was either insane or the sun didn’t affect him that much, or he wanted to believe that the sun won't affect him. The only piece of clothing he owned and wore was a loose-fitting robe which enveloped his lower-half and almost swept the sand as he walked. The robe was decorated with polished bits of blades probably taken from his fallen enemies, it was his personal ‘trophy area’. The name of this 'man' was Dispater, and his true nature was probably best to be left concealed.

For the night he chose a dark, abandoned chamber within the Stronghold, it was unknown if he had been sleeping over the night, or practicing some sort of dark rituals as the commoners started to believe. They linked him even more to the disappearance of the Water and considered him the main suspect. A small gang was even formed in front of the entrance to his chamber, a welcoming committe. It was almost noon, so he shouldn’t spend much more time into that room, eventually he will have to walk out.

And so he did, the door opened slowly and he emerged, a look of confusion quickly installing upon his face when seeing so many people gathered before him, some of them were armed and others weren’t.

“What?!” His words came out harsh, his voice deep and very masculine, resonating a powerful charisma. He was obviously disturbed by this.

“What did you do… You left us without any source of water! It is all your fault. You must die!”

Anger was slowly starting to consume Dispater, he was a hotheaded and didn’t take those kind of things lightly. As he became enraged, his eyes begun to glow more intensely than before, the chaotic energies he possesed instead of irises and pupils beginning to move even faster, giving them a hipnotic effect.

“I didn’t do anything. Leave me alone!”

“Then your mere presence here is a bad omen, we cannot afford to die because of you, leave at once!”
It was obvious that the mage, who seemed to have quite an influence among those people had made them believe that it was some sort of dark ritual behind the disappearence of the water, and he didn't have anyone else to blame other than Dispater. They weren't too be blamed, the man was strange indeed.

With his clothed chin resting in the cup of his palm, Horus squinted the flesh around his eyes in contemplation. Truly, it was some work of dark magic – even he, the mongrel offspring of vampiric scum and a desert woman, could sense it... it was strong, perhaps to the point of being overwhelming. His hand shifted from his chin to press against the rags that concealed his forehead, realizing that a headache had begun to uncomfortably throb at his temples. It was strange for the well to have been drained dry so quickly – he heard someone mumble that it had been a few days, and the smarter ones had left as soon as possible. Without water, it would prove to be a waste of an effort to even escape the desert’s power. The desert was furious and unforgiving, holding the sharp cunning and wrath of a woman. To test her patience and trial against her storms would be foolish and undoubtedly fatal. A touch of sadness curled at the corner of his mouth – yet, concealed beneath his cream, desert rags, it was unrevealed to those around him.

Shame that such a tragic situation would befall his beloved Angband.

His eyes lifted from the train of thought as he grew distracted by an uproar of voices, somewhere off to the right on the other side of the main, dirt road that winded from the main gates and deeper into Angband towards the heart of the stronghold. The Dhampir registered another unfamiliar face, and then moved over to the collection of men and woman that cornered him against the door of his stay. They were troublemakers, the lot of them – Horus had grown up with most of these Angband citizens, knowing well that they were probably up to no good. Dismissing the presence of the strangers around the well, he made his way over towards the mob, pressing his hidden lips together into a thin line. If they would be wise, they would not test his patience. In honesty, Horus did not wish to waste his energy settling down the displeased and rowdy public of Angband... yet, ironically enough, strangers were often outcast from this society of exiles and criminals.

Such actions disgusted Horus.

“Calm yourselves, kinsmen,” Horus spoke in a proud, arrogant voice, striding between the outlander and those that he called neighbors here in Angband. Several faces lifted with a touch of light, appearing to instantly recognize the Dhampir that had decided to take control of the situation. Some jaws were set grimly, some shifted their weight uncomfortably as he rose his bronzed, sun-kissed palms, as if to separate the distance further between the man and the mob. “I do believe that this man is being wrongly accused,” the mercenary spoke again, his tone calm and collected as his attention slowly rolled over unto the foreigner.

There was an unholy aura that clung to his large frame, his eyes downcast slightly at the stranger, whom stood a hand-span or so shorter than he. It was strange that a man such as himself would find Angband a place to call home – yet, from the plethora of cut-throats and exiles that resided here, it was not too eccentric... but it was odd nonetheless. His body had molded to the appearance of a desert man, appearing to own the rich, bronzed complexion where the skin of his hands and the flesh around his face was exposed to the hot, desert weather. Off-white, desert rags hung loosely about his immense frame, masking much of the bridge of his nose as he slowly turned his featureless, glowing eyes unto the mob. Some shivered in response, some stood fast, attempting to stare back with their own gazes.

“Horus,” one of the men stepped forward, challenging the Dhampir with an unwavering gaze. He was as large as the mercenary himself, if not larger – though it was obvious he was a human commoner, it was from the plethora of scars that decorated his arms and bald cranium that he had his fair share of trifles in the past. “It was not until this man appeared that the well dried! He stinks of foul magic, can you not see it? It is logical enough to me,” he roared, rolling his large fingers into his square palm to form a fist, shaking it towards the stranger. “He must leave, or we will all perish!”

“Daav,” Horus sighed, irritated, “I highly doubt it. In this critical time, you turn on your heels and blame the most vulnerable victim. It is coincidence, nothing more – besides, I plan on the ending of this dearth. Do not worry, kinsmen, I am sure to find the cause and source of this dark magic. I am sure some of the other men will be willing to aid me, but if I must, I shall fare alone.” With a shrug, he let his arms drop, one falling to rest on the handsome, white hilt of Chokeslave – the other hung idly at his side.

“Then you should make him go with you!” The one named Daav roared, continuing to shake his fist furiously. “If he truly is the cause, and if he does leave, then we shall no longer suffer! Then he will be your problem, not ours.”

Horus turned his attention back towards the stranger, his expression indifferent and unconcerned – eerily calm and unattached as he studied the foreigner’s eyes in silence. Then, after some awkward moment, he spoke again, his words directed towards Daav though the mercenary’s eyes still studied the outlander. “You cannot make a man risk his life. Your words would make no difference. Should he wish to accompany me, the help of hands would be grateful.” With a sigh, he stepped away, no longer occupying the space between the mob and the stranger. “Tell everyone to meet in the Cobra’s Hood, the tavern. We must take quick action before Angband suffers from thirst.” With that, he turned away, re-approaching those that were gathered around the useless well.

There was a grim, almost desperate light in his eyes.

Poor Dispater, he didn’t even know what those people were talking about, his reasons for being there was only for him to know but that didn’t mean anything, that didn’t mean that he was the one behind the dark magic which had caused the well to be drained in a matter of a few moments. He had other things which he deemed more important than trying to eradicate a whole community of the desert by cutting off their only water supply. How foolish that sounded, it was indeed a painful death to suffer, probably they won’t be able to stand the thirst for very long, and they would put an end to their lives with their own hands.

“If you are afraid to die of thirst, you always have the alternative of killing yourself, it is far quicker and less painful, trust me.” The tone of his voice held some irony and sarcasm which were caused by the kinsmen themselves, they shouldn’t have get on his bad side. If they really believed that he was some sort of powerful dark mage, than why they were so foolish to try and stand against him. The stranger stared countering the mob which had gathered before him, only with words for now but he would not hesitate to counter them with steel if he needed to, and he didn’t see anyone in particular able to stand against him. Only if they knew what he truly was.
His facial expression changed slightly, he had a more diabolical look, but that still didn’t mean anything. He was just playing the ‘game’ that the inhabitants of the abandoned stronghold had started, showing that there was no way he was going to do as they wanted, on the contrary…

But the dialog between Dispater and the mob had been soon interrupted, by another voice… another presence… the one of Horus. He looked like a typical desert warrior, but his eyes, the way he carried himself and the influence he seemed to have over the other inhabitants showed that it was more to this man than one would see at the first glance. Dispater had a vast knowledge in what concerned all the existence planes and the inhabitant races, which also included the one those people belonged, the Material Plane as it was called. The man’s glowing eyes turned towards Horus, his name was quickly picked up from the mouth of the crowd’s spokesman himself. A discreet stare was given to him, as Dispater was trying to figure out what he was. Well, Horus looked like a human, but on the other hand Dispater looked like one too, nonetheless that didn’t mean he was human.

So this man was the bravest of all, and probably the wisest, he accepted the fact that the stranger’s arrival and the drainage of the well was a mere coincidence, and decided to go investigate the matter. Dispater had a thought about tagging along, but not because that was what the other people wanted, but because he considered a job like that turn into a very interesting one, to meet the person or the thing which had casted this curse upon the small community of Angband. And probably they deserved it.

Dispater totally ignored the conversation between Horus and his ‘friends', though he found it funny that he was considered the ‘most vulnerable victim'. He took this opportunity to walk back into the room he had used for the night, unnoticed, and grab his equipment which was in fact his weapons. His greatsword was placed hanging at his left hip, attached by the robe’s waist with a strong chord, and his serrated chakram was placed on the opposite side, before he emerged the room once more. The sword itself radiated a powerful enchantment for those who were able to sense it.

They decided that they should all meet in some sort of tavern, the Cobra’s Hood. Interesting name, Dispater thought, but he was disappointed slightly, he thought that the quest would start sooner. He wasn’t really a part of the community so he didn’t have what to do at that reunion of theirs in the tavern.

“What about him?” One man from the mob asked Horus.

“I am not leaving anywhere, once you decide to go deal with this matter come look for me. I will tag along. There is nothing else better to do anyway.” His reply came fast, not letting Horus respond before him, then he shook his head, and turned into the opposite direction of the tavern, he was going to take a walk while they decided how to act against the curse which had left them without the water supply.

He found the lot of them, drinking themselves away – booze and aging milk to fend away the first, but through their dull, weary eyes, it was to be seen that there was no richness nor satisfaction given to these men and women. Their greedy hunger could only be replenished by water, but the dearth of that essential prize left their souls and minds drowned in sorrow and liquor. As he entered deeper into the Cobra’s Hood, Horus could see that the light had been drawn from their faces – usually, in his experience, Horus could remember the proud, arrogant men that would risk their lives for the glory of quest and adventure (and riches, but that often goes without saying). Yet before him men that were often eager to accompany the Dhamphir on his conquests far from the sands of Angband were morose and dead in spirit, leaning heavily over their drinks for the comfort of the numbing liquor. His steps seemed to ring for eternity as he wandered in to the center of the tavern, where even the dancers were in faint heart. Slowly climbing his way onto the stage, several dark, tired eyes rose to meet him. “Horus,” one of the men breathed in the silence of the tavern. “You’ve returned.” There was a lack of enthusiasm carried in those words – Horus dismissed his presence and turned to the others.

“Fellow citizens, do you not take action against the thirst? Surely you have realized that you cannot survive on these drinks...”

“Yes we can,” a woman, her words slurred by liquor, responded, gesturing to the man sitting beside her. “Herbert has been drunk all his life.” A few dry laughs responded, then the awkward silence resumed. It was not until Horus shifted uneasily that his lips parted to speak once more.

“Come with me,” Horus again addressed the crowd as a whole, “let us stop this dearth and again let the waters of Anfauglir flow through our beloved Angband.” A few scoffs followed his words, irritated murmurs spread throughout the corners of the tavern. “Will you drink away yourselves as you watch Angband perish to the heat and thirst of our desert?” The silence that followed answered his question for him. “Fine. Be ashamed once I return; you are no better than the spoiled elves of the western forestlands.” And, without another word, he left the tavern.

Moments later in the eerie silence of the abandoned Angband streets, he set his eyes upon the outlander he had previously defended against his own people. “You,” his voice was easily carried over the distance that separated them. “Wait a moment.” His confident, proud strides closed the distance within a matter of seconds. “Forgive me if I should be wrong, but you too, are from dark origin, are you not?” Horus himself was caught half in the realm of the living and half in the walking dead. The Dhampir appeared unusually calm and collected, as if he knew the answer to his curiosity without the stranger’s reply. “Then, you feel it too. There is foul magic at work here... I can sense something in the underworks of Angband. I know not why you offer aid, but I am grateful. Follow me.” Motioning him to continue, Horus led him to the well. The travelers that had previously been sulking about the dried well had departed, having given up on their complaints and deciding to wander elsewhere. Forcing aside the wooden covering over the mouth of the well, the Dhampir slowly lowered himself into the darkness.

“It is not a long drop. Often as a child, I would play in the stronghold’s underworks.” With careful placement of his bronzed fingers between the gaps of stone that constructed the well, he climbed seven or so feet down before pushing off the wall. The dull thud of a successful landing resounded up to the stranger. “Come,” Horus’s voice echoed upwards. Turning away from the light of Angband, he entered a small opening that was crafted into the side of the well. The mercenary struggled slightly to push himself through – yet, after a few grunts and some straining, he was continuing blindly through the darkness of the passage. “Angband’s underworks are a complicated series of sewers and underground rivers. Usually, we would have to swim to pass through here.”

The passage opened into a large, rectangular chamber. An upward slope, designed to carry a small stream down through the passage, led them out of Angband’s main well. “There is no sound of rushing water.” With a sigh, he climbed the slope and stood, eyes studying the stone craftsmanship of the various slopes and curves that would have distributed water throughout Angband’s districts. Yet, the stone had grown dry and only the sound of their breathing occupied the emptiness of the underworks. “The dark power is near. The source is not far off,” he turned to the outlander.

“Have you any speculation or recognition to what it or they may be?”

( Think Vivec’s underworks / sewers from ES III Morrowind. )

Without further words or actions, the outlanded departed from the rest of the group and the mob which seemed to have lost interest on him all of a sudden. All the commoners were finding their way towards the Cobra’s Hood tavern, and soon they disappeared within its walls. Now Dispater had some time for himself, time to inspect the ruins of the Agband. He didn’t see to have a clue about what was going on around with the well and how in the nine hells all the water vanished all of a sudden, but there was also a chance that he was there to investigate this matter in the first place and he was just playing fool in front of the commoners. At least one thing was for sure, he seemed very interested to find the source of such dark arts, put an end to it, or share its powers.

He took a walk around undisturbed by anyone, further inspecting the ruins, he tried to decipher some old writings inscribed into the very walls of what was once a great fortress. What secrets did it hide, and how such a great force managed to crumble to dust, who were the ones who had build the fortress and where were their followers now? Those were questions which could not be responded for the time being, and questions to which Dispater would love to know the answer, perhaps if he managed to get deeper into those ruins and even in their underground tunnels he would find some information. But first he had to identify the language used on those walls.

When Horus emerged the tavern, he would find Dispater starring intensely at some pillar, his eyes fixed and his right hand rubbing his chin slowly, it showed that he was contemplating and thinking hard. Something seemed to be on his mind, it bugged him that his vast knowledge of the Material Plane didn’t help him in this matter, it was weird, and not to mention disturbing for him. But his train of thoughts was interrupted as a strong voice pierced the silence of the desolated place. The words were directed at him, no doubt, seeing how he was the only one around. It called out to him, and he turned, only to see the figure of Horus for the second time in the same day. That meant only one thing, the moment of their departure had come, their investigation would soon begin.

Dispater gave a sinister smile to the other man’s words and a soft nod had followed it.
“Dark origin,” he repeated. “I guess you could say so. And well there is only one way to find out…” With that being said, Dispater followed behind Horus, his reasons of trying to help out still unrevealed, and they were better to stay like this, since it didn’t matter anyway. He was taken to the well, such a simple construction once held the very source of life on which the whole community of Angband depended, such an irony… it amused him so…

It was obvious that Dispater was not a man of many words and that was best reflected in his short answers, and the apparent apathy displayed into his eyes and facial expression.
Meanwhile Horus lowered himself into the darkness of the well, ah, how interesting, this quest was becoming more and more to Dispater’s liking so he followed his new companion eagerly. Though he was heavier, almost four times heavier than Horus, and the impact was stronger when he made contact with the ground, but it didn’t hurt him. He dusted himself off and resumed following Horus but now it was through the underground passages, and listened to him with quite an interest even if he didn’t reply to his words, as a matter of fact he didn’t have what to say.
Then came a question, and with the question came the opportunity for him to speak his mind about what could have caused such thing to the community of Angband.

“Why would someone such as them live in this stronghold without paying any homage to it and its builders, without trying to at least restore some parts of the building. Do you believe in spirits, Horus?...” And before he could reply, Dispater talked again. “Well I suspect some spirit or spirits of the ancestors who don’t find those sc… I mean people above worthy to call this place a home. And I don’t blame them. And spirits are known for being very extremist.” 'Extremist' was the key word, the missing part which linked Dispater himself to this place. His words had some depth and the way he talked about those people above showed how he despised them already.

He smirked somewhat, though the expression was concealed beneath the cloth of his desert-spun rags. It was odd, Horus came to realize, how easily he came to the company of strangers. Though he called many of those that lingered in the Cobra’s Hood friends and perhaps kin, there was a falsehood in the relationship... the mercenary often related himself easier to others that did not know the desert’s ways and lifestyle. It was their selfish tendencies that he grew to detest, but it was their pride and their stubborn determination that kept him in admiration and respect for his own people. It was a complicated lifestyle, one that few outside of the circle of desert society rarely comprehended... Anfauglir was a savage terrain, her desert sun and sands vile and tormenting to those that were not already accustomed to her ways. Those that resided in the less extreme regions were spoiled and did not suffer the way Horus and his people had – this was often overlooked and was perhaps, the sole purpose of tension between outlanders and those that lived in Angband. Foreigners were blessed with the bounty of the earth while the desert-folk were not.

Such ignorance was frowned upon greatly.

The cloth over his jaw shifted, as if he had parted his lips to speak – yet, before a word could roll from his tongue and expel past the corners of his mouth, the outlander continued. His expression was patient and undiscriminating, studying the foreigner as a silence followed his words. “Spirits, hm?” Shifting the weight of his body towards one leg more than the other, he brought forth a hand to cup at his concealed chin. The Dhampir’s attention fell to the stonework of the ground that supported them, intense and calculating as if he were studying each intricate detail carved into its rough face.

“We are a proud people, the citizens of Angband... unfortunately, ego does not fare well when it comes to working as a whole. Much of my people are selfish and inconsiderate of others, but that is often the way of the desert – if you do not place yourself first before others, you will often be left behind in the dust. It is unfortunate that many have not yet realized the ease that is accompanied by the union of an entire society... this will, perhaps, become the downfall of their government-less empire.” He gave a simple shrug and began to wander deeper into the underworks, swiftly drawing Chokeslave from its sheathe against his left hipbone in a single, mastered movement. In response, the weapon cried a magnificent, metallic shrill throughout the quiet of Angband’s sewers. “I pray that we need not to encounter these spirits with hostility, but, one may never know...”

“Might I inquire a name from you, since you know mine?” The question was suddenly interjected, his tone somewhat light in comparison to his previous dialect, as if it had suddenly come to mind. Awaiting a simple answer, he continued, almost immediately. “I am afraid that I am all too familiar with spirits,” he murmured lowly, his words laced with slight venom and bitterness as he led them deeper into the heart of the chamber.

The scratching of nails against stone chattered through distant tunnels, but it was most likely nothing more than a few rats being frightened by the sudden appearance of both the Dhampir and the foreigner. With a sigh, the Dhampir slowly rolled his attention over his shoulder, eyeing the outlander best he could through the darkness. “But if we must face these spirits and they are spectral in nature, I am afraid that I have nothing of magical origin to aid me.” He gave another shrug, turning his attention towards the direction of their advancement. “I am a simple swordsman, not yet versed in the tongue of the arcane.” He paused suddenly, slightly stretching a hand back as if motioning the outlander to a halt. Horus’s eyes rose to scan the area quickly, turning his cranium side to side. “We are getting close,” the Dhampir whispered harshly. His eyes narrowed slightly, his tone softening in pitch but remaining callous in quality.

“Should we encounter apparitions not of the physical dimension, can I trust you to have my back?”

Dispater grew accustomed to the darkness of the underworks already, and miracolously his eyes were glowing even brighter, they pierced the darkness with such an ease. They moved discreetly, scanning the tunnels and the man before them, Horus, he who had become the companion of Dispater in such strange circumstances. It was interesting to have someone on his side and unusual, since he usually worked on his own, but perhaps the two of them had several things in common, they were both mercenaries, and even if they worked for different people or forces the point of their existence was the same. Horus could easily pass as a common man of the desert, but even a common man of the desert was known to be slightly stronger than the average, that’s how the desert had a thing to say in their evolution. Maybe they were not blessed with the bounty of the earth, but they were blessed with the strength and the fiery sun of the desert and they should value that, but many did not know how to appreciate it, they turned their back on the desert and considered it their greatest enemy. There were other less fortunate than the desert dwellers, other places were far rougher and dangerous than this. Well, having the desert was not that bad in comparison with having no home at all, Dispater was some sort of experiment, he had no place to call ‘home’ nor a plane to which he belonged, unlike all the others. But he did not complain about that, complaining and wishing for what he was not granted to him in the first place was only a waste of time and sign of weakness. Life goes on, as well as the purpose of his existence, ‘a great purpose’: how he considered it. That might sound a little arrogant, but that was to be expected from someone such as him, maybe…

They continued their journey through the vast, underworks of the Angband, and for a short while the same silence has been preserved. Dispater’s attention, turned from Horus to the walls, his eyes scanning over the carvings. For a moment he stopped, an unusual glyph was carved into the wall to his left. A hand was quickly moved over it to sweep the dust which covered it, then its meaning was becoming slowly clear to Dispater. His index finger was quickly drawn over each line, circle and other geometrical form. The glyph was quickly imprinted into his mind so he could still analyze it, before he moved once more, catching up with Horus as fast as possible, not showing any signs of his discovery, nor his short stop. His mind was somewhere else, to that glyph to be exactly, but Horus’ words didn’t go unnoticed either, he was talking about another side of the people of the desert, a deeper one, not the theoretical approach he had learned awhile ago from the tomes, or probably from his previous visits. He totally agreed with a man placing himself above all others in order to survive, but he didn’t agree with foolishness and stupidity those people from the Cobra’s Hood tavern had showed towards him.

“Spirits are hard to deal with, indeed, they cannot be harmed by normal means, and some of them grow to be very powerful.” He shook his head slightly, following a few steps behind Horus, he fell in deep thought on how should they approach those said spirits, and how to encounter them. His sword was able to feed on souls, but could it feed on ghosts too?

“The name is Dispater.” Said he, but his attention was turned instantly towards the location of those sounds caused probably by rats, or maybe the force they were looking for which was behind the drainage of the well. “I have a few tricks down my sleeve, and I think I just discovered something interesting which could help us.” That glyph was the thing he was referring to, it seemed like it was of some ancient arcane origins, it was a spell, a spell which turned the wrath against everything in the caster’s way.

Close?! Already?! Well, Dispater didn’t expect to get close so soon, but it didn’t bother him one bit, at least he won’t have to spend too much beneath the desert, not like it wasn’t more enjoyable then on the surface.

“Aye, as weird as it may sound you can trust me.” And that was like the last thing Dispater said, he was getting ready for whatever they could encounter, his hand fell onto the hilt of his waiting sword. The time was close.

“I’m afraid neither myself nor my people have much relation with spirits... we are not very religious, nor do we ponder much of the afterlife; albeit, few of Angband’s citizens have just recently begun to worship and mutter the names of the gods... perhaps that may be the case? The spirits are becoming stirred by the sudden awakening and realization that they do exist, and in turn, are plaguing the non-believers? Yet, I am afraid, as many desert-kin do not have the time to ponder what happens to them after death. My people are arrogant, as I have said before, and they are only concerned with the now and not what happens afterwards.”

Horus gave a shrug, unsure of what to make of the beliefs of his people. He himself had taken an appreciation to Lady Threnody, the Goddess of Balance... however, he had not yet taken action to pursue religion or worship. Though he hated to admit it, Horus could not deny the truth – even he, the Dhampir, was hypocritical in some of his ways. Horus was poor and was too concerned with having to feed and shelter himself to worry about spirits or religion. The Dhampir was no better than those drinking away their worries, sitting several meters above him in the warm, honey light of the Cobra’s Hood.

He felt a tinge of guilt, realizing that he too was at fault, if such a thing was to blame.

But, he had his fair share of spirits in his time; most of them could not be phased by the material plane’s weapons, often leaving him defenseless in their presence. Yet, his most personal encounter with such apparitions was probably the Trance, a state in which he would lose consciousness of what became around him. The essence of his father’s memories were embedded into his memory – and though the majority of them were harmless, recognition of it altogether was unpleasant. Horus shelled the essence and memories lived by his father... spirit or not, he figured it was of the same realm as these foul apparitions at play.

“Something to aid us?”

He turned towards Dispater, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if ready to study whatever it may be. The Dhampir could not sense much more within these underworks rather than the presence that something was here – he assumed that the outlander would be more in tune and aware of their current surroundings by simply his knowledge. Dispater seemed to know his fair share of spirits, which led Horus to wonder... But, before he let his thoughts wander far off, he cleared his mind and turned his attention back onto the stranger. “What may it be?”

“I am assuming,” he spoke softly, realizing he was assuming any things, “that they are not yet known to our presence. Perhaps they feel us, perhaps they don’t... regardless, they are not approaching us, so we will be the one stumbling towards them. It would be wise to take our time, as we do not know the true identity of what we are up against.” Horus let his gaze turn completely onto Dispater, a hint of a half-smile pinching the corners of his eyes.

“Thank you, outlander... and you can trust me.”

Slowly, Horus retreated away from the center of the chamber to one of the walls, pressing his back up against the coarse, stone texture.

“Now,” the Dhampir sighed breathlessly, “what is it you have discovered?”

The sound of more scratching echoed down the length of the chamber, its source some good few meters away. The intensity had neither faded nor grown, continuing at the same, monotonous pitch as it had before. More scratching accompanied what was a single source – it was evident there was more than one, whatever it was. Horus seemed to disregard the sound, immediately identifying it to the sound of rats... after all, having grown up about Angband, he knew well of the sounds of his beloved home even without seeing their owner... yet, with such foul magic at play, he could be wrong. He refused to be doubtful, knowing that such thoughts could prove fatal as he had enough to guess at for the moment.

…Or not so close as he anticipated a few seconds ago. He listened to Horus’ words carefully, and pondered meanwhile, he was learning yet another new thing about the people of the desert, they were not religious, and did not care about the afterlife... interesting!

“This could be the cause, since the spirits are not used to be worshipped. What was once normal now it isn’t anymore. The balance has been disrupted by the sheer fact that the people began to worship those spirits. Or, they have been ignored for far too long and now they want to be revered and those people worship them out of fear.” He shook his head slightly, this was confusing, but at least he finally understood exactly what brought him to this place, it was like a call hidden into his very subconscious. And what seemed to be like some minor adventure meant for the time passing, now turned into a very serious quest to Dispater. The balance had to be restored, and the things should go back to normal, in the desert, people and spirits should not live together and threaten each other. The spirits needed either to be dismissed to another plane or dealt with in a more violent matter, it did not matter for Dispater, he didn’t care about the people nor about the spirits, he would have killed the people if they were the ones to intrude instead.

Dispater was a creature of balance and neutrality, yes, but his existance was not linked in any way to Threnody, the Goddess of Balance, other than through sharing the same ideals. He was not a religious creature either, he worked for gods and other people but only for great favors or payment. But he couldn’t say that he would not like to have the chance at least once in his life to share an encounter with the Goddess, who knows, it might turn out to be very interesting. The killer pondered about the matter at hand for awhile, he still studied the glyph which was very well imprinted into his mind for the time being, that till Horus spoke once more. He shook his head as if he just woke up, and raised his gaze to meet the frame of the Dhampir, to his question, Dispater nodded. Something to aid them indeed, Dispater hoped that he was not wrong about his discovery and hoped that he would be able to use it properly.

“What is there to wait for, sooner or later we will still face those spirits or whatever haunts these tunnels, but we should hurry and act before they discover us.”

Then Horus turned his gaze completely to Dispater, and he stopped, blinking a few times. He did not expect what was about to happen and what he was about to feel. It was different and weird in the same time to actually have someone at your side, an ally, a ‘friend’. Dispater didn’t have any friends ot allies other than his own kin, concordant killer’s were very protective over each other, kill one and you will have them all hunting you down, but they were not considered friends, they were more like brothers and sisters and they rarely seen eachother, each was on a constant quest of protecting the cosmic balance who knows in which manner and what plane.

They had come to a stop as it seemed, a small break, the quiet moment before the encounter with the spirits of the Angband; Horus went over to a wall and rested against it, Dispater on the other hand remained standing, and in the middle of the chamber, which was not far from the wall either. So, the man wanted an explanation, and since they worked together, Dispater thought that it wouldn’t hurt if he shared his discovery.

“Well, I found this glyph carved into the wall. It was the most weird sign one could found on the way here. I suspect it as being of arcane origins. I felt it… I think the glyph itself is the way to cast a spell. A spell which was often used around here, by those ancestors of the stronghold. I burns the flesh badly, but against spirits I think it would react as dismissing them to another plane, to the Spirit World where they belong. I still need a few things to figure out, but I think I understood how to cast it. Let’s hope it won’t turn against us.” He shook his head, and all of a sudden ceased from saying a further word, it was the first time since they have met when he talked that much.

The light in his eyes shifted slightly as he rose his gaze onto Dispater as his dialect came to a sudden pause. The colors and emotions that brewed in his expression were confusing, impossible to decipher – though the Dhampir felt compelled to urge the stranger to speak, he said nothing, deciding it was better off to leave words unsaid if Dispater found them inappropriate or of little importance. After all, there were more important things at hand rather than idle words that could waste their time. He gave a nod, signifying some measure of acceptance to his sudden silence, not seeming to notice the lack of dialect directed from the outlander – even the Dhampir himself was not used to so much talk, especially to such strange company as Dispater. Pushing himself off of the wall, his eyes averted towards the direction of the scratching.

And suddenly, he remembered.

“And, what are these?” Horus rose a thin finger to the glyph, gently and barely brushing it with the tip of his finger. He was so little then, barely towering a hand-span past four feet. Daav, whom had been the ‘leader’ to their youthful ‘gang,’ turned his attention away from torturing a sewer rat and narrowed his eyes onto the glyph. The other boys continued with their pulling and hitting; Horus ignored the animal’s cries, knowing that there were plenty more rats in the underworks of Angband, if anyone ever missed them. “I’ve never seen these before.”

“That’s cause you’re blind as a bat, bat-boy,” Daav laughed triumphantly, pushing Horus off to the side. “Now, let me take a look...” Leaning over the glyph, he wiped the dust from covering it. “Oh, man,” Daav suddenly grinned, turning to the other boys. “Look at what I found! Glyphs!” The other boys suddenly rose and sprinted towards their leader, letting their eager, curious eyes scan over the wall.

“What is it?” One of the boys whispered in a soft breath.

“A glyph,” Daav announced, an air of pride accompanying his words.

“From the age of the iron prison.”

Sometime in the memory, Horus had turned around and faced towards the wall – before him, there it remained, slightly worn by erosion of water and time, but there nevertheless. One of the dozen or so glyphs that decorated the underworks, as memoria to the ancestors of the Stronghold.

He remembered now, and he remembered so very clearly.

“Yes,” he replied, lifting a hand to touch the glyph softly. “In its history, Angband was once a prison... though those who were of that time do not meddle with our modern society and are far gone to our new world. There were records, thousands upon thousands of parchment scrolls with names of Angband’s victims. In her youth, my beloved city was not forgiving... she was a cruel mother to those who resided in her home.” He paused, his expression set and suddenly emotionless. The colors in his eyes suddenly appeared shallow, lost in reminiscence as he recalled what he had been taught as a boy. “Many died in her cruel care. It was said that restless spirits walked the halls of the prison at night, screaming in the terror and anguish they had felt as they were mortals. These glyphs were installed to rid them, to cast them away from Angband.”

“And now,” he spoke breathlessly, subconsciously digging his fingers into the stone of the glyph’s intricate design, “now the prayers of my people have drawn them into our vulnerable, new world. As these apparitions have thirsted for freedom in their lifetimes, now the plague my people with a new thirst – a thirst, to remember.” Horus set his jaw and turned abruptly from the glyph, his expression furious as he directed it to the cold, abandoned floor. “Such arrogance! It is times like these that I despise my kin, that I detest their very existence!” With a defeated sigh, he shook his head. “But, that matters little now. We must put these spirits to their peace.”

Horus’s eyes turned onto the glyph. “You say you know how to use it? It is, then, perhaps our best weapon against these mischievous spirits. Though I remember the history, I have never seen these in actual operation, as they are ancient tools,” then, he added, somewhat nervously, “I do pray they are still functional.” He shrugged.

“I am no man versed in the arcane, I have no way of knowing.”

He nodded to Horus words and to his short history about the Angband Stronghold, so it has been prison once... The more Dispater listened more things started to make sense to him, about the spirits, about the stronghold and about what was happening around at this very moment, everything linked togheter like the pieces of a huge puzzle. The sudden appearance of the incorporeal threats. It would not be long before they would make their presence known, as it would not take long before the two men would be discovered or either they would stumble upon the spirits theirselves.

So Horus seemed like he knew about those glyphs and what were they about, nonetheless they were very hard to find and only a lucky one would discover them without any knowledge of the arcane arts, and its many subarts. Even for Dispater this glyph-casting was something new, for the few offensive spells he knew he didn’t need to draw glyphs in order to unleash their effects.

It was interesting to listen to Horus and how he referred to the stronghold, as being a ‘she’, some entity, he seemed to hold some respect for those ancient ruins and what they once were, but dwelling in the past for far too long would not help them with the task at hand.

Dispater prepared himself to say something, his lips parted and the first word almost rolled through them, but he was interrupted, a strong breeze blew past him, making his silver locks to move wildly behind him. The breeze caught Dispater unprepared, he was not ready for the things that would follow; it happened all of a sudden, while he was listening to Horus’ little story. There was no way the breeze could be caused by something natural, and after all they were deep within the underworks of the Stronghold, the nearest exit was far away, not even a storm on the surface was able to cause such a powerful gust of wind underground. As the breeze blew past him, he felt the left side of his face as if it was pinched… a small cut appeared beneath his left eye, and a drop of crimson substance rolled down his cheek. He would have been hurt worse if it wasn’t for the unnatural inborn instinct which made him pull his head quickly to the right.

“Be on your guard!” Dispater shouted. It seemed as if the spirits had discovered them, and it seemed as if they were harder to deal than firstly anticipated; Dispater didn’t even think that those creatures were able to move that fast, what if he would have enough time to cast the spell? Then he would have to worry about Horus as well, the spell had a cone-like effect, so the man should not be in its way if he was to see another sunrise.

“Damn those things to the Abyss.” Dispater became aggravated with the sittuation he was forced to deal with, he could not even see it passing, so how he was supposed to hit them. The great, soul-feeding sword found its way quickly into the hands of the man, gripped powerfully with his both. He preferred heavy, two-handed weapons, he found them more proficient and effective.

A powerful howl echoing through the tunnels announced that the spirit was coming back, in the same manner as before, who was it to attack now and how the two men would counter it. The sword seemed to react strange to the ghost’s appearance now that it was ready for battle, it shook slightly getting a powerful reading from the incorporeal creature. The sword hungered for a soul, and the closest thing to a soul was the spirit. The spirit blew past him once more, throwing dust at his eyes, obscuring his vision slightly, but this time it did not attack, it got scared by the sword. The third time the spirit returned, it attacked Horus instead, it could be only seen as a small blur. “Prepare!” And that was the only thing Dispater managed to say before the spirit will unleash its attack once more, but now against the man of the desert. The foe put much effort into interacting with the material world and actually have an effect against the flesh of those two men, so each time it did that it lost a part of its energy. If they could delay it enough it will just extinguish on its own, hopefully... It was just an unproved theory which was born out of the sudden in Dispater's head. He would have to share that with Horus once they were out of the attack, if he won't figure that on his own.