Random Stories and Fragments

“Who are you?” demanded the balor Giggloshgrün. “I am nothing. I live to serve. My soul is yours to meld. My will is yours to twist. My essence is yours to shape. I exist to serve.” The soul repeated the mantra of the lowest denizens of Aeron's vault perfectly, and without the slightest hint of doubt. A wise soul, Giggloshgrün thought. He was simultaneously pleased that this soul would be easy to meld, and irritated that he would not be able to punish it for doubt or defiance. “Go, then. Practice the Mantra of Despair. We will have a mission for you in time, mortal.”

Laroth's pale manifestation remained impassive as the balor left him, but he inwardly smiled. The spell to cover his deception had worked. It had been a simple cantrip in all but scale. Ordinary magic didn't work in Aeron's Vault, as Laroth's research into the nature of the inferno had suggested, but one could sacrifice parts of their identity to create a semblance of it. Doing so was normally a hideous mistake, a trap set up intentionally to hasten the process of becoming a mindless servant of Hell, but Laroth simply saw to it that others made the sacrifice for him.

In life, he'd kept a decent amount of magical power tied directly to his soul. After his death, he had used it to bring out what little goodness remained in a particularly defiant soul. He convinced the soul of his own benevolence, and suggested that it sacrifice itself to help Laroth escape, spinning a wonderful tale of his beloved family, sick daughter, and so on. He'd expended more magic then he'd hoped to in order to assure the manipulation's success, but the soul eventually bought Laroth's story and sacrificed itself to him. Laroth had made a profit, with enough left over to forge an item out of another soul foolish enough to actively defy its superiors; a trinket to hide his identity and intentions from demons. Neither soul had been missed. The former was lost to the Infernal cause, a mindless servant of some demon lord. Every so often, while the trinket was activated, Laroth would hear the latter soul scream.

It was a careful act from then on. Taking out souls that wouldn't be missed, convincing them to empower Laroth while hiding his true intentions. Part of him suspected the gods of Hell were fully aware of what he was doing, and tolerated it for some reason of their own, but Laroth refused to accept the possibility. He preferred to imagine he was defying the gods on their own terms, especially as that was his long-term plan.

Laroth had obtained a few more trinkets since them. They were made of what Laroth had termed soul-dust, and none had a definite form, any more than he or the other damned souls did. He had ended up having to sacrifice all but that first, precious Trinket of Deception in order to avoid drawing suspicion, but his research suggested if he was to escape the Hells, he would need a weapon. He had tried making a knife out of a lesser soul, and leaving it for some defiant fool to pick up, but the weapon may well have been made of wet sand when used on even a lowly imp. Just as well Laroth had not attempted to use it himself.

The balor Giggloshgrün was too canny for Laroth's purposes, but he had his eyes on another, Magnashglug, a servant of Mammon who was more ambitious than wise. Laroth had an idea, a foolish, desperate idea, though, that might make Magnashglug serve him.

“O glorious Magnashglug, I, a lowly and nameless spirit, damned and unworthy of your time, seek your counsel.” Laroth applied a bit of spirit magic to keep Magnashglug from instantly smiting him. He had learned to do a lot of magic with very little power, considering how difficult it was to obtain; rather than attempt to pacify the beast outright, he merely put it in a comparatively good mood and added a hint of boredom. “Very well. If your words amuse me, I will spare you any agony. Speak.” “Magnashglug, Terror of the False City, Annihilator of Blasphemers and Pretenders, Destroyer of Dreams, Lord of the Legion of the Broken Coin... I seek to serve your infernal might. I presently am servant to Giggloshgrün the Hollow, Lord of the Fourth Host, Master of the Twisted Scepter and Corrupter of the Innocent. But compared to your awesome glory, Giggloshgrün is but a speck. To even gaze upon your glory is a far greater reward than he could ever provide.” Magnashglug nodded. Flattery was indeed his weakness. “And how would you serve me, pathetic one?”

This was it... Laroth risked everything. “I have deceived Giggloshgrün, as he is unworthy. I shall show you how I might serve.” Laroth dropped the Trinket of Deception, and Magnashglug stared at Laroth's true power.

Neither Magnashglug nor Laroth, however, noticed the greater presence, presently shapeless, but still there. Laroth had overestimated his abilities, but where he had failed, a far more powerful entity had provided.

And so Magnashglug heard Laroth's proposal, rather than crushing him and using his power for his own gain. Laroth said, “give me a fragment, a tiny fragment, of your own power, and I shall slay Giggloshgrün for you. Then, I shall trust you to protect me when I am sent to you for punishment.” Laroth knew Magnashglug would never hold up such a promise. Magnashglug would have noticed Laroth's own scheming, but again, his vision was obscured. “Very well,” Magnashglug said. And established a connection with Laroth.

Laroth then seized not onto the power offered, but Magnashglug's identity. This would normally have been fatal; Magnashglug would have been reduced to a wild beast, but annihilated Laroth nonetheless. But where the identity of Magnashglug had once been, Laroth placed his own, while wiping what had once been his own soul clean. And thus what was once Magnashglug became Laroth. Consciousness, Laroth had believed, is an illusion, a side-effect of identity and not connected to the soul. For a brief moment, the original Laroth slowly realized that his assumption was wrong; consciousness is indeed tied to the soul. He had little time to consider the implications, however, before his copy annihilated him.

The new Laroth had left behind a memory or two. His parents, the games he played with his brothers, indeed, much of his childhood, but nothing he held dear. Indeed, he didn't even notice them gone. Instead, he took from the identity-less thing that had once been him the power he'd collected, and the Trinket of Deception, before hurling it off for whatever the Infernals wanted to do with it.

Laroth noticed one miscalculation, however. He had hoped to pass as Magnashglug, but noticed he had wiped out the balor's memories along with its identity. He also noticed the balor's manifestation had changed... to resemble Laroth's own form in life. He attempted to reshape himself to something less obvious, but found it difficult; he had overestimated his own willpower. The best he managed was to clothe himself in the garb he'd had in life. In short, he'd made another miscalculation.

So when Giggloshgrün entered the room, he beheld a wiry but kind-looking old man, with laugh lines and a long, flowing beard, wearing a gray robe with blue runes sowed onto it. He looked like the sort of sweet old codger who would find himself in Sirona's heaven after fathering a large, happy family, but for two things. His eyes were jet-black pits, hinting this was not the man's true form, and Giggloshgrün could also see into the man's soul. And that was certainly far more appropriate for Hell. And those runes... despite himself, Giggloshgrün had to respect the audacity of such a villain wearing holy runes.

“You... how? Where is Magnashglug? You are no ordinary denizen of Hell, I can see that. Kneel, and I may have great use for you...” Laroth wasn't going to serve, however. He muttered a spell and conjured up a sphere containing the very essence of hope. “What do you intend to do with that, mortal?” But Laroth's form still retained much of Magnashglug's power; he jumped over Giggloshgrün and out into the main hall. There, he detonated the sphere and filled the numerous petitioners with newfound hope. Chaos ensued as they suddenly dreamed of turning upon their masters. They would be punished horribly, of course; the hope was wonderfully irrational, consuming them far beyond the point of sanity. This was hardly Laroth's problem, however. Laroth knew of the portal through which the most powerful petitioners exited, and fled through it.

He had, once again, miscalculated.

[As I said, due to lack of knowledge, a lot of liberties are being taken here (please don't hurt me). I'm choosing to operate under the assumption that Laroth did go to Hell, specifically straight to Aeron's, for his evil acts, and as you guessed, pulled his way out. Giggloshgrün is taken from one of TheWyrm's stories, an entity who will later be known as Giggles. I realize that essentially destroying your own soul after re-writing somebody else's to contain your identity is a somewhat insane idea, but so is stepping into a Star Trek transporter; they bring up similar paradoxes. And as you may have guessed, someone wants him out of Hell. I don't actually intend on answering the question of "who;" call it Virgil if you must. I vaguely suspect Kael has more details on Laroth then he's letting on, and I have completely and utterly gone against canon... like that's stopped me before.]

Ash and metal. Those were perhaps the dominant features of the landscape that surrounded him. All there was for Laroth to see, other than ash, stone, and more ash, were skeletal towers of steel, occasionally repurposed by a demon prince to serve as his palace, or even just a base, in the great, meaningless war between minor demon princes hoping to earn Agares' favor just as the previous inhabitants of Nyx had.

Laroth reached out for some tiny fragment of life... nothing. Not the faintest glimmer of light. He could only hope that as long as he kept to the shadows and avoided conflict, he would be unmolested. But he could not stay in this ashen vale forever. It was the domain of Agares, God of Despair, and this despair would inevitably infect him.

Laroth slipped into one of the steel monoliths and continued to search with his mind. He sensed a few points of interest in this waste; there was some great, dark and terrible mirror. He also felt two great beacons of raw power. Gods. There was of course, Agares. He quickly recoiled from that, desperately hoping that he had avoided Agares' notice.

So he continued searching for something, hoping the god was too busy to notice a speck such as himself. He finally sensed a point of power. A tiny light, seemingly beckoning to him. For a full year, he walked. He never stopped to question why no demons attacked him, assuming they could not be bothered in this lifeless wasteland. He never bothered to wonder why the despair permeating the land around him did not cause him to simply give up, sleep, and turn to ash himself, assuming it the result of his own willpower. He never found it strange that Agares had not come for him, convincing himself he'd singlehandedly managed to avoid a god in his own vault. Laroth failed to ask quite a few questions, in fact, that would have had very interesting answers.

He just kept on walking. He needed neither sustenance nor sleep, and did not grow weary or even bored. He picked up what had once been the toy of a Nyxian child, a quaint little clockwork thing resembling a baby, though it was not quite a human one. He didn't recognize the language it “spoke” when he pulled its string, but he placed the thing in the pocket of his ethereal robes. He spotted a perfectly preserved statue, though failed to recognize it as such, thinking it a peculiar scrap heap. He sighted a hellhound once, but it ignored him. He failed, as ever, to question this. He once climbed to the top of a stable-looking tower, but saw nothing of interest for as far as he could see, just countless skeletal towers and ash, and a hint of flame at the horizon to which he was walking.

Eventually, he reached the point of power he had found. It was centered about a Nyxian monument, and as he drew closer, he noticed only one thing of importance... a portal. He knew nothing of its purpose, but but the portal remained open. There was nothing else to see in this wretched vault but ash and metal. So Laroth stepped through, having nothing to lose.

[Short, I know, but especially with the Bannor still on Erebus and worshiping an uncorrupted Bhall, there's not much to say. Canonically, the vast majority of the realm of Agares is empty. The vast metal structures are open to interpretation; I envisioned pre-fall Nyx as resembling a modern city, and thus Agares' realm now contains ruins of the same, but if you imagined Nyx differently, there's enough leeway to envision the ruins differently.]

The landscape surrounding him stood in stark contrast to the city of ash Laroth had left. Chaos, fire, destruction, war, madness, devastation, and so much pain. Laroth was significantly more dangerous than most of this plane's inhabitants, but he'd be no match for the hunting parties he sensed. He'd have to avoid them. Laroth noticed he'd emerged near the entrance to a cave, and sensed desperate, suffering souls within.

Within, he found numerous... things, in no way resembling humans despite having been such once. They slunk away, expecting their horrific agony to be increased by this newcomer. But Laroth merely smiled his grandfatherly smile. “It's over now,” he said, drawing on his reserves of magic to add hope and kindness to his voice. “Your pain is ended. You can sleep. All you have to do is kneel.” One of the tortured spoke. “Lies! Lies? Wait? Not lies? Speak like angel? Angel? Here?” Laroth said, “yes. I have been sent by Sirona. You have done nothing to deserve the agonies of hell. She has sent me, in her mercy, to rescue you from this madness. All you have to do is trust me, and I will take you away. You'll be free.” Laroth sensed that none of the spirits here had any comprehension of who Sirona was, or even mercy, or trust. But one by one, they embraced the tiny glimmer of hope Laroth offered, and were consumed. Strictly speaking, Laroth has been honest about one thing; the fate awaiting them was less horrific than their current agonies. He stripped them of the bestial identities that they had developed in this hell, and warped them, shaped them. A glaive appeared in his hands, glowing cruelly and writhing as though it lived. Laroth focused on it, reshaping it subtly, filling the souls with hope instead of madness, and the weapon grew stable.

Laroth was about to leave the cave, but found the entrance blocked by a massive balor. “If it isn't the human that Giggloshgrün let escape. What have you done with my toys?” Laroth smiled, and rather than responding, charged the balor. He stabbed the beast, and it roared in agony. The glaive's blade left a vicious wound, as though it had been covered in some potent venom. Laroth proceeded to run, knowing this beast would otherwise tear him asunder. Blood and destruction surrounded him. Laroth witnessed some soul falling from the sky, manifested in the form of an embryo ripped early from its mother's womb. A pack of hellhounds approached it, and the pitiful thing attempted to create a rune and failed. Laroth left it to its suffering. Again, Laroth failed to wonder why his own magics had succeeded, believing it was because he was simply a far better mage.

Laroth was startled to find how good he was at fighting. He'd practiced with a staff, many lifetimes ago, under the Elohim order, but had never been this good. He assumed it the result of having taken a balor's soul for his own. Souls, desperate to cause pain, charged him, and he responded by letting his blade drink their souls. To each he slew, the blade offered a choice: “join us, or accept the agonies of hell.” Few refused, but eventually the wild things of Camulos' vault began to thin out. Laroth began to wonder about that... why would one find peace in Camulos' wretched vault? He was unsure to where he was heading, but sensed a vast oasis in the madness. For another week, Laroth walked, contemplating the strangeness of his situation and utterly unaware he was being followed.

His hunter was Melezak, a mid-rank fiend from Aeron's vault, sent to track him as part of his training. His present form was humanoid, save for his goat legs, the over-sized eye consuming his torso, and the fact that his “face” consisted entirely of a gaping, circular mouth. “Give me one good reason,” Melezak demanded, seemingly of the air around him, “why we should not simply destroy this over-confident mortal outright!” A blast of pain made it clear he would receive no such answers. “Very well. As you will. Fine. But, with all due respect, you're wrong...” another harrowing bolt of pain. Melezak ignored it. “I will feast on his bones. You gave your word you would not interfere, and I intend to take advantage of this. He is too weak for your plans. You deserve better anyways.” Melezak remembered too late that flattery was just as dangerous as insults, and received another dose of agony for it. Never mind. This would be worth it.

Melezak's followers were all bestial souls, taking various hideous forms. Brutal thugs, sadistic merchants, and even cruel lords started to look the same in Camulos vault... hungry. As in life, they sought to cause pain, and avoid suffering it. By controlling that, Melezak could control the beasts. They were kept silent by muzzles, but with a word, Melezak could release all their bindings... except the ones with which Melezak caused pain, of course.

For much of Laroth's journey through Camulos' vault, Melezak had been his protector, dealing with beasts that would otherwise had attempted to kill Laroth. This kept Laroth from growing any stronger; he would not battle Laroth until he was certain of victory. The thing that bothered Melezak was that Laroth didn't care about causing pain. The archmage showed no qualms about doing so, but he seemed more interested in power. And how was he getting that power? Mages rarely lasted long in this vault, unable to connect to the other vaults to siphon off the power they needed; what few magics that did work came at the cost of the user's sanity and identity. But this Laroth seemed to be playing by his own rules. Melezak briefly contemplated that somebody... wanted him to escape. No pain was forthcoming, though, so perhaps this wasn't the case.

So Melezak tracked Laroth for the week he wandered, before deciding enough was enough. He seemed to not grow tired, so when he first found Laroth in open ground, he struck. Laroth didn't notice the first pack of hellhounds Melezak released them until they were nearly on him. They tackled Laroth, but he managed to shove them off and stepped backwards, holding his glaive somewhat like a hunter's spear and slashing at them to keep them a blade's length away and managing to kill one. Melezak had expected something like this, but his pack was strong. Another trio of hellhounds was sent to attack Laroth from the rear. Laroth noticed them this time, and managed to slay one of the hellhounds before him and leap on the other side of his assailants. The hellhounds quickly began to surround him again, and Melezak released the rest of his pack to assure this. No more playing around, Laroth would die a second death, and be dragged to Melezak's lair for the latter's sadistic amusement.

But Laroth, who had until then made due with physical combat, proved a far deadlier opponent. Strange words filled the air as Laroth chanted. Melezak realized too late that Laroth was drawing the power stored in his own weapon, sapping the very essence of the souls within for his own power. The spirits gave freely, utterly loyal to the man who had warped their very identities until they felt nothing but love, and willingness to sacrifice everything to what seemed to them the paragon of kindness. His blade grew dull, but Laroth slowly began to glow with power. He jumped... no, he floated away from the pack of hounds trying to tear him to pieces and, and hurled his weapon at the hounds, where it exploded. It knocked the beasts back, injuring them, but more importantly, released a stream of weak souls that flew away, distracting Melezak's hounds. A few words struck agony into the beasts and rapidly reminded them of their quarry. A look of understanding appeared on Laroth's face, though. He stared the largest of the hounds in the eyes and muttered a few words. It howled in agony and began to rip and tear at its fellows. Melezak had no way to control the beast anymore, and it dispatched several of its brethren before being taken down, whereupon Laroth merely transferred his focus to another. Melezaks snapped his fingers and called off his pets. He'd have to do this himself.

“Causing pain? Is that really within the purview of spirit magic?” Laroth laughed. Like much about him, it could be mistaken for something pleasant. “No, no, my child. Well, not physical pain. Of course, pain has quite a few flavors. When Sirona took up the duties of the Fallen Gods, her sphere expanded appropriately. One can spread hope... what a wonderful thing, hope. Do you know what's more wonderful than seeing the glimmer of hope in a fair maiden's eyes? Knowing that you put it there.” For a brief moment, Melezak was confused by this seemingly charming sentiment. But than Laorth continued. “Knowing that in giving them hope, you have earned their utterly loyalty. You have their trust... and so they'll do anything for you. Anything.” Melezak thought of quite a few things he could do with a fair maiden's absolute trust, and Laroth seemed happy to give him time to do so. “Why... they'll sacrifice everything for you. Their family, their friends, their very lives... and even more. Give hope to the hopeless, my child, and you have their very souls. Show a starving dog a little kindness, and he'll rip a man's throat out at a word.” “So, mortal, what did you do to my hounds?” “Oh, them? Well, my child...” “Call me 'child' again, and I will rip you to shreds.” Laroth laughed. “Did you ever have the slightest intention of doing otherwise? But, your hounds. I must say, this sort of bragging is my weakness... I should know better, it got me killed once before. But I really can never resist. I didn't actually hurt them, just reminded them of their previous lives. Dug up their childhoods, their parents, that sort of thing, made them remember being human. And I don't just mean their lives, but the hundreds of emotions that Hell is designed to strip from you. The warmth and joy from a loved one's embrace is absolutely agonizing when mixed with the knowledge you'll never feel anything remotely similar for the rest of eternity. Care to see what it's like?”

Melezak fell to the ground, screaming in agony. The flood of emotions Laroth let flow into him were more than he could take. He wept. “Abigail... I'm so sorry.” A burst of more primal pain struck Melezak, but he didn't even notice it. “Please... please... I want to...” “Forget?” Laroth asked. “Yes... please, just let me forget.” Laroth took Melezak by the hand, and Melezak was no more. Coincidentally, in life, Melezak had never even known anyone named “Abigail.” Laroth kept a collection of deeply emotional and moving memories to place in a victim's head for purposes such as this. They had a wonderful way of reshaping themselves to fit in the victim's life...

Laroth skimmed through Melezak's memories. There was something buried deep underneath, something that Laroth vaguely felt was important to him, but he couldn't quite bring it up. No matter. He grasped the shell that had once been Melezak, and it formed into a sword. That, Laroth decided, would suffice. The hounds glared warily at Laroth, but knew better than to attack him. Laroth walked on, seeking that which he sensed would be his salvation.

[I kept the nod to Arbandi, though now he's just arrived in Camulos' vault. Gives him a good six hundred years or so to suffer and be willing to choose annihilation.]

Laroth found what he had been looking for. A slight rip in the fabric of reality (insofar as anything in Hell could be called “real”) that Laroth, with a bit of focus, managed to enter. He found himself inside the entrance a massive walled city, of every imaginable architecture, and stretching on further than any city of the mortal world.

Laroth found a single gold coin in his pocket. He examined it; it contained a spider on one side, and an angel upon the other. Or was it a demon; it seemed to change depending on the angle Laroth held the coin at. Laroth shrugged, and tossed it aside, doubting it would have much use. Several of this vault's inhabitants scrambled for it, clearly willing to kill for the thing. He watched them. Why? Laroth strode over to one of the combatants, a terrified, ragged little man who carried an expression of wide-eyed shock.

“You seemed... rather interested in that coin, my child. What is its significance?” The ragged man paused, and then nodded. “Oh, yes, that... we have been told that this is a challenge, and that ascension to something far greater lies beyond this miserable place. We need to get seven coins, and then the goatmen at the other gate will let us through, and...” Laroth waited, but the man went quiet. Laroth said, “you have no idea why you want to pass through the other gate, do you? You could make a perfectly reasonable existence here.” The little man nodded. “Yes, but...” he realized the truth of Laroth's words. “You're right... but... I still want to go through.” Laroth was confident what awaited this man was the battleground Laroth himself had just left. But that was not Laroth's problem. In fact, he had an idea.

“I see this city, consumed by greed and cruelty because men simply want to continue on to better things. I say, this is wrong. If you seek to ascend, then I shall aid you. I am an old man, weary of traveling, but you are young... perhaps it is right that you pass on. All I ask is that you trust me.” The young man nodded. “What is your name, my child?” “Ezekial.” “Very well than, Ezekial. Have you any friends?” “My wife, Senala. Mulcarn... our god abandoned us, said we weren't faithful enough. We arrived here together after passing the Swamp, but got split up.” Laroth briefly searched Ezekial's memories, and then expanded his mind's eye, seeing if he could find her. “Follow me,” Laroth said.

Laroth walked confidently towards the one he sought. He could have probably copied the memories Ezekial had of his wife and used them to turn some other soul into a fair facsimile of her, but he'd managed to pick out the real one in this town. He found her in an alley, surrounded by thugs. Like her husband, she was short, squat, rather ugly, and somehow reminded Laroth of a desperate rodent. The thugs were far more imposing, though dressed in Patrian clothes that had been obsolete even when Laroth had lived. “I don't have any coins...” the woman insisted. “Not what we want, lady...” one of the thugs said, grinning evilly. “You ain't the finest lady in town, but nobody will miss a Caver...” “Excuse me,” Laroth said. “Why are you bothering that young lady?” The thugs looked at Laroth, and shrank before him. “Aw, for Menthados' sake. Since when do your lot care what happens to Cavers?” Neither Ezekial nor Senala seemed to understand the thugs speech. Love, Laroth reflected, was a powerful force. How many people had he driven to commit unspeakable atrocities by manipulating it, how many young fools had he driven to suicide to power his magics?

Laroth grabbed Ezekial's hand. “Find the strength in yourself,” Laroth said, adding a bit of his own to make sure this would work. Ezekial stared down the thugs. “You... leave her... alone...” he said, and then, howling like the beast he practically was, charged the brutes. Laroth was startled by just how well Ezekial did, leaving several thugs laying on the ground in agony. He then proceeded to help himself to the coins. “And your wife?” Laroth said. He couldn't afford to let this Hell corrupt them... before he did. Ezekial looked at Senala and, as though it pained him, slowly gave three of the six coins he had collected to her. Laroth nodded. Perfect.

Laroth examined one of the thugs. “Tell me of this city, and I will help your pain.” Laroth took the thug's hand and found his trust, manipulating it to his own ends. The thug stared. “You're a Patrian? Why're you helping a Caver? Wait, you got Menthados' Kiss, didn't ya? Brutes aren't worth the time of people like me an' you!” “Menthados?” Laroth had never heard the name before. “The Blessed Lady Menthados, true Goddess of Reality. This is Her city. Sometimes, She gives people her Kiss, makes 'em anew. One day, She'll take the False World back from the False Gods, give him the Kiss. That's why we're collecting the coins, you see, a test to see who is worthy of ruling Erebus Reborn in Her name.” Laroth reckoned this “Menthados” was probably some false deity. “So, you called them... Cavers... what's that mean?” “Illians, mate. Idiots expect their precious god, Mulcarn to help 'em. As if the God of Ice cares about anything. Way you hear them talk in the world of the living, you'd think he ruled the world! Anyways, apparently Mulcarn collects all the really useful souls who worship him and freezes 'em... it's almost like he's making an army to play with. Ones who aren't so loyal, he tosses in the swamps. They end up here, eventually, usually having long since abandoned what little faith they had for him.” Laroth nodded. “So, do you seek an end to your pain?” The thug ignored him. A pity.

Laroth let him be. He turned to Ezekial and Senala. “We go now. Where can we find coins?” Ezekial shrugged. “No idea.” “Follow me. Stay close. As long as you trust me, nothing here will hurt you.” Trust. Oh, wonderful, wonderful trust...

“Coins! Coins! If yer want coins, listen to me!” A man was yelling like a carnival barker. Laroth and his companions stopped to listen. “I've got coins! Do me some favors, and I can assure you wealth galore! I've collected a vast sum, but the bank is corrupt. Demanding a coin for me to withdraw! Spare me a coin, friends, and we'll share the riches I have earned in my time here!” Laroth approached the man.

“A fellow Patrian! Civilization!” the man said, delighted. “And you've got some pet cavers...” suddenly, the man turned pale, recognizing Laroth. Laroth said, “hello, Marsallis. Remember what happened last time you tried to con me?” “No... no... I... not you again...” Laroth held out his hands. “Coins.” Marsallis stared, and handed him five coins. Laroth returned one; he couldn't afford the slightest drop of jealousy between these two. He would take all his coins in pairs. “Go withdraw your 'vast sum.'” “Tha... thank you... please, don't hurt me...” Marsallis said, clutching the single coin Laroth had returned. Laroth placed two coins in the hands of each of his unsuspecting lackeys. “Why did you return the one coin?” Ezekial asked. “Mercy,” Laroth lied. Ten coins, and he needed fourteen... but so far, so good.

Laroth sensed something out-of-place on the edge of his knowledge. Something holy. He walked towards it. Perhaps he didn't need to waste time hunting any more coins. “Follow,” Laroth said. In a particularly dark and dreadful alley, Laroth found a desperate beggar woman. “Please... I beg of you... but a singe coin...” “It would be unfair to give you one, for I carry none, and my companions go to ascension together. If your need is so great, I shall grant you two... if my companions agree. The woman stared at him. “Please... kind friends of...” the woman paused, recognizing Laroth. Then smiled. She changed subtly, until an angel of Sirona stood before him. “Have you changed so much, Laroth, or simply returned to your true roots? I had hoped to test you, but it hardly seems fair, since you no doubt saw my true nature through my disguise. Tell me, how have you come to be here? I had heard you hurled into the pits of Aeron.”

Laroth smiled. Sirona and her angels were the most reliable imbeciles in all of Erebus' heavens. This was too perfect. “I have come to regret my past deeds, and my repentance has brought me up. I sought to protect these two from the corruption of this Hell; they speak of some mercy past this one.” “No mercy,” the angel said, “but a far more agonizing fate. They were fools to seek the coins, and yet you have kept them from jealousy, and they remain fools and nothing more. Their love remains, through your hands. There are rules, you see. The two with you shall be taken to Sirona's heaven. And you... you have many crimes to repent for. I can only place you outside the gates of this city.” It bore no resemblance to his original plan, but this was good enough for Laroth. He kept his mind blank, lest the angel realize he had simply intended to use these two lovers as fuel to blast his way out of this damned city.

[This part really defines how I imagine Laroth. He seems benevolent, and indeed relies on things that normally would be construed as such in order to power himself. For instance, he was intending to blast his way out of Mammon's city using the power of love as fuel (this may sound familiar), though usually he's far more subtle. He makes people sacrifice themselves for loved ones that never really existed, uses hope to make people do things that no sane man would attempt, that sort of thing.]

The lovers had been taken to Sirona, and the angel now placed Laroth down at the outer wall of the city, in a great swamp where, in the distance, Laroth could see the Throne of Hell itself. Atop it shone a cold blue light... Mulcarn. Laroth grinned. “Before you leave, fair angel, I have but a single request. Take my hand, it has been too long since I have felt fair skin upon my own.” The angel smiled. “Very well.” And in that moment, for a brief moment, the angel saw into Laroth, and Laroth into the angel. She stared in horror, barely getting out “Sirona... forgive me...” before Laroth consumed her utterly. A pity she'd taken the lovers first, they would have been even more useful.

Laroth shrugged, and began walking. He felt tired for the first time in aeons; though he did not know it, his previous benefactor had decided the time was right that Laroth fight his own battles, to be sure he was ready for the purpose that lay ahead of him. And the very ground itself seemed to pull on him, trying to drag him down. Part of him wanted to go back to the city... he could probably become its ruler. Start some sort of false charity, become a great king... a god, perhaps, like that mysterious “Menthados.” Or he could just sleep... yes, sleep. Was his scheme really worth it? Could he really overthrow a god? Maybe he could rest... wait a few hundred years, then continue on. But, no, he couldn't rest. He shook the thought off, along with idle fantasies of playing god in some hollow city. Why would he do so, when real godhood was so close? He had done so much walking, in the realm of madness and the ashen vale, and he began to wonder about things he had not before. Everything had seemed so easy... how long had he walked in the ashen vale? A few years, not stopping except to examine some trinket. He checked his pocket; the doll was still there. He pulled the string, and it babbled nonsensically.

He put the doll back, and began to think. A child's doll... he'd always had a soft spot for children, before Kylorin had taught him differently. Once upon a time, he'd been a monk of Sirona, an Elohim, a follower of her teachings. But he had not been satisfied to heal. He could make things... better. The human soul was such a frail thing... he could make it stronger. As he walked towards the Throne, he remembered the the day where he had realized the truth.

Abigail. The strongest and more deadly of his memories were his own. When she had come down with the Wasting Sickness, the healers had declared her doomed. They did all they could to ease her pain, but eventually, she did die. Laroth would have nothing to do with necromancy; such sickened him. But surely, there was a better way. After all, it was not truly her body Laroth desired... no, it was her spirit. Her kind heart, her quick tongue, and all those beautiful stories she told...

Laroth had found tomes of forbidden knowledge, telling him of a way to have her back. To look into the underworld. And he had used them. It had been his greatest mistake. Because Abigail had found herself in Arwan's vault. And she was happy. Her weak, stupid little soul was happy.

She danced and played with a sick mockery of what Laroth was, a hollow creature with black pits where his eyes should have been, a hollow little thing. That she could love this... thing, this insult to everything Laroth was, this hollow, childish entity masquerading as her lover. Laroth had grown furious. He had attempted to speak to her, but she responded as those within a dream spoke. “Laroth/Not Laroth? Who you? You what? Laroth here, you not. You Laroth are not, I am am I?” He could not communicate with the one he once loved. Was this the fate of all who died? To become pathetic, dreaming for eternity? No, but it was the fate of those too weak to hold onto reality.

The old fury consumed Laroth once again. All those years in Hell, he'd forgotten what drove him. He'd dreamed so much of bloody vengeance upon the God of Death, of usurping his throne and become its master, that he'd forgotten what he was avenging. And as he thought, he realized he didn't care any more. Abigail? A foolish girl; the memory did not even feel like his, any more than did the ones he had stolen for his own use. But Laroth marched towards the Throne of Hell, ignoring those fetid souls who wasted eternity beneath the wastes and the fools who drifted downwards. Every so often he stopped, taking one of the souls beneath the wastes and draining it of its essence when he grew weary. They didn't even bother to resist, but they provided little for Laroth to use.

These were the weak souls, the ones Erebus could do without. No, when Laroth become ruler of the Underworld, it would be ruled by great lords, people like himself, those with the willpower needed to master the world of dreams. His empire would stretch across the land of the dead, and he would be its god. Not its king, nor even god-king, but a true god. He would consume Arwan himself, toss aside this second form as he has hurled aside his laughable, human shape, become ascendant. No mortal had ever before achieved godhood, and yet this would be his destiny. Immortality, eternity as the greatest of the countless great men of Arwan's vault.

Laroth found himself at the foot of the Throne of Hell, and stared upwards. He shuddered; he could sense Mulcarn himself atop that mountain, and surrounded by countess frozen souls, as the thug had said. Immobile... but aware. Doubtless, these souls would be released by Laroth's presence, so that they could send him to a second death... or worse, force him to join them. But Laroth began to climb. He moved slowly, avoiding getting near the frozen souls and servants of Mulcarn that wandered the mountain.

It was cold, and the mountain seemed to be made of ice as much as stone. Above Laroth, there was a great wound in the sky of this vault... Erebus. Laroth willed himself to keep going. Once, he lost his grip, and fell for quite some time before landing. He hurt, until remembering he was, in fact, not mortal. Pain meant nothing in this form. So he willed it away. In fact... he slowly realized he didn't need to climb. He could fly...

He wasn't quite sure, but he suddenly found himself in a gray, shadowy world. He had made it to the Underworld... and there she was, Abigail. He ignored her, leaving her to play with the false version of himself. It continued flirting with Abigail, but he hardly cared. It began to mock him, and Abigail joined in. “Look at that ugly old man. I mean, seriously! He's pathetic! I betcha a stiff breeze'd knock him over.” Laroth continued to ignore them. He quietly set to work attempting to warp the fabric of this universe to his own purposes. No success. Maybe he needed more power. “Hey, what's the old boy tryin' to do? Dirty old man's lookin' at ya funny, Abby. Watch out for 'im...” Laroth grabbed her, and she screamed. “You're ugly, you're horrible, you're... sweet Esus, you don't give a rat's ass, do you?” The thing that had disguised itself as Abigail wriggled and changed, revealing itself a shadowy creature that seemed perpetually in a state of flux. “You gotta be kidding me!” the spirit said. “I know I had you tricked; you thought I was your loved one, 'cept you didn't even blink when you wanted to annihilate me! If... if... did Esus leave me here to die?” Before the spirit could plead any further, Laorth quietly consumed its power. He did the same to his younger doppleganger, and proceeded to walk into the shadows. He heard sarcastic applause, and felt a vague rip in the fabric of reality. He knew, somehow knew, that beyond this was what he sought, and that this portal would allow him to slip, without being noticed, into the vault of Arwan.

Laroth smiled. The dreams around him warped and changed at his whims. He focused. Abigail was somewhere out in the mist, but he didn't need her for anything. She could dream for eternity for all he cared. He felt great beacons, the spirits of kings, of warlords, of sages. Even angels grown weary of their god's apathetic rule. They would be his warriors in this fight. And he would be their king. No... their god.

[I'm kind of glad I expanded a bit on Mulcarn's vault; it gave a better transition to Esus'. It also simultaneously humanizes and de-humanizes Laroth; he once had a noble goal, but doesn't care any more.. Laroth wasn't born a total monster, but doesn't mind that state either.]