Everything was destroyed. Johnathon's home city had been turned to ash by a single, terrible man who dressed as a king and warped minds with words. His family was dead. The Bannor empire was crumbling, and he knew it. The Hell they had escaped those many years ago had come for them, and this time, it was succeeding. But Johnathon had escaped, and fled to seek the single glimmer of hope that shined in the black night of the living hell Erebus had become.
He and a ragged band of survivors were seeking something that was only spoken of in whispers and rumors: the Paradise. A land untouched by Hell, if only they could slip unnoticed through Balseraph territory. It was probably a rumor, a fool's dream, if not an outright trap. But what else was there? Foolish dreams, at least, were better than despair. Those who died did so believing that their children, brethren, or friends might make it to Paradise instead.
Nobody prayed. Junil had failed. Lugus had forsaken them. Kilmorph gave nothing. Some had even turned in desperation to the Overlords, but they had also given up Erebus to the might of Agares. But it was said that even Agares himself could not touch Paradise.
To pass the time, the survivors swapped stories of woe; there were no other kinds. An elderly man, among the oldest of the group but still relatively healthy, said, I hear the Doviello fell. Utterly destroyed. Never thought I'd be so sad to hear that news. There were nods of agreement; the beastmen had been as fierce and unforgiving as animals, but at least they were better than the Infernals.
There was a time of silence, then another piped in. They say there's a fourth horseman. It's only a guess... something has been leaving a trail of devastation worse than the other three. No prisoners, no survivors, villages just... disappear. Things were getting worse and worse.
Said yet another, can't be any nastier than the third. Disease and death followed him everywhere... I've only heard, people who actually see him tend to die horrible deaths from the diseases... provided he doesn't kill them first.
A younger man put in what he'd heard: they say the first horseman, the King, tried to invade Paradise. Gasps and murmurs of horror. But they killed him! Yeah, they killed him and took his crown! Been getting ready to do the same to the other two... three now, I guess. Most wanted the tale to be true, but doubted it. Could the Horsemen be slain at all?
Said another, even if so, what about the Balseraphs? They're near as bad as the Infernals. Think it's all just some grand game, love nothing more than torturing people. Break their souls, make them worship Agares so they can turn them into demons. But not before breaking their bodies and minds... entertainment, they reckon it is. Horrifying. Every Balseraph is just a demon in a human-shaped egg, says I. Nods of agreement.
They'd encountered Balseraphs before, a few times, and each had been a desperate fight. The survivors couldn't afford to take prisoners or leave any Balseraphs to report their existence, and they dare not be captured alive themselves, so each encounter was a savage struggle to the death. After the first encounter, cannibalism had also become accepted policy; they couldn't afford to waste food or leave bodies.
There was a change in the plains of ash ahead. The eldest of the group smiled from ear to ear. Come on! he yelled as he ran, with suprising speed, towards what seemed to be another ashen plain. The rest of the group, inspired if somewhat confused, tried to keep pace.
When the old man reached the change in ash, he scooped the new stuff up. Except it wasn't ash. It was a strange, pure white powder, which the old man clumped into a ball and, grinning like a child, threw at Johnathon. It was cold, and upon touching Johnathon, began to turn into water. Snow! the old man yelled. It's snow! It's been too long since I've seen snow! He laughed and danced. This is it! We've made it! The Illian Empire! Hell has no power here! Paradise!
The air grew cold surprisingly fast as the group dragged itself towards the promised land. A rabbit, white as the snow around it, examined them. It was the first non-demonic animal they had seen for months, sometimes years. The youngest Bannor stared, half expecting it to bare razor sharp teeth, spit fire at them, or roar. But it seemed as frightened of them as they were of it.
A hunter, previously invisible, swathed in furs, appeared and speared the creature. He grabbed his catch, then noticed the ragged band approaching. More refugees? By Auric... luckily for you, I've been told we need all the hands we can get, but first things first. Listen up, and listen well. I am to have you take the Oath. The group stopped, and listened. Do you agree to abandon your old gods? The survivors nodded. One said, they abandoned us first! So they did, said the hunter. Do you agree to serve Auric, in this world and the next? Again, they gave their consent. Do you agree to abide by the laws and customs of the Illian people? And again, they agreed. Then I welcome you... the hunter couldn't even finish his sentence before the group cheered.
