Excerpt from "Consumation"

Ryme wiped her cheek, turning from the tomb, toward Rahan. Her eyes were red and her hair blew erratically in the wind, but her irises gleamed vibrant red and a triumphant smile rose to her lips.

"Let's finish this," she said, bowing her head. Rahan nodded back, walking up to her and embracing her with his single arm, like a father. Wind rose around them, and they were away.

In a moment, the mountains that sheltered the tomb fell away from them and the battle grew like a writhing, black carpet of bodies. The chaos raged everywhere but for the pockets of calm that surrounded those orators whose voices stayed blades and flushed rage from combatants.

"The Masters," Rahan explained, nodding toward the orators far below. "And our allies. We are trying to control the biggest groups, but some are resisting even Parzaius. That is why we need you."

Ryme felt the thrill of excitement and fear flutter through her stomach. "Non-lethal," she said.

Rahan looked into her eyes, and saw the smoldering focus of a driven woman within them. He smiled with quiet pride. "Of course," he responded. "Of course."

The winds set them down on a cliff overlooking the northern boundries of the battlefield and Ryme disengaged from the embrace, feeling truely alive again for the first time in months. Her hair billowed in red-orange waves like a fire, and her white robes gleamed through the dust and smoke of the war-stained air. She looks like a child, Nether thought, and also a goddess, he added silent respect. "I will help subdue the aggressors," he shouted to her through the din of battle. And, with a hop, Rahan leapt off the cliff, falling toward the sea of bodies and vanishing with a final flutter of his well-worn coat.

Ryme's eyes glanced across the battle once more. "Be safe, Nether," she whispered. "Just for a while longer." Then, with a deep breath to steady herself, Ryme called down the elements to wash across the battlefield, throwing men, minotaurs, and dragons about as if they were rag dolls.

Character Concept- Nim Falstaff

Nim Falstaff was a man to whom everything in life came easily. He was the fourth of five sons and- since his elder brothers assumed both his father's titles and services to respected lords- Nim had no set course in life. He spent his youth exploring and learning, finding at last a task that challenged him- training as a professional swordsman. He learned all that local masters could teach him and quickly outpacing even men a decade his senior. He ventured into the world, learning from the most esteemed masters he could find, surpassing each in time. And, when he felt he had learned all that could be taught to him, he joined a mercenary company to apply his talent.

Nim made everything look easy. He could dismount an opponent without so much as a sweat. He was master of any weapon he picked up. He rode well, he shot well, and his sheer skill made even his worst foe grudgingly respect him. Everything came easily to Nim.

And, after a while, Nim began to grow restless. What was life without a challenge? He began to feel like he was just sailing through his life, like nothing mattered. His skill began to wane as he grew less and less interested. His mercenary company kicked him out, his family would not have him back, and still Nim felt powerless to change the ennui that had rooted him to cynicism.

Years past, as Nim wandered familiar haunts and travelled into the world, looking for some meaning to his life. Yet, every challenge that excited in him the drive to excel, always left him feeling more depressed after he inevitably overcame it. And, as time went on, a resolution that had been brewing in Nim's mind began to take shape. One night, sitting alone in the woods at night, and staring up at the rain-spewing sky, Nim knew what he had to do:

Nim Falstaff had to die. But not by his own hand, or by the hand of some unworthy brigand. Nim needed to meet his end at the hands of someone greater. And so he set out, feeling energized again for the first time in years. Nim's death sentence gave him something to live for.

Catharsis

In a darkened room, deep in the latest reaches of night, a man slept. Rain danced a sad pitter-patter against the single window of the room, and the sounds of urgent winds and distant trains filtered through the window's imperfect seal. The man turned in his sleep. And, as the man slept, he dreamed. And through his dreams, a man named Michael died.

***

Michael's arms burned and his fingers cracked, white knuckles and bleeding palms proving to be a poor distraction from the abyss that gaped beneath him. A spasm threatened to shake his grip free, but Michael restrained it with a pained grunt.

Michael could feel the blood oozing from his hands, could sense the strength seeping from his over-taxed muscles. But he did not care. Any second he kept holding on was a second he was still alive. Time seemed to slow down, paralytic agony crawling in spiderwebs through his back, his shoulders, and into his arms. Muscles tore and he seemed to grow heavier by the moment. Michael let out a gasp and his fingers buckled. In an instant he was weightless, wind tearing past him as the walls of the shaft flew upward.

Faster than he could believe, Michael felt the flesh of his back being torn apart. The spike formed an ugly, jagged cone, arresting the momentum of the plummet as three feet of bloody metal burst through his chest and gut.

A spasm shook Michael's body as his spine caught and tore against the spike, and he died.

***

At first, Michael did not know where he was. The compartment was tight as a coffin, its walls blackened grating. Dawning horror drew the breath from his lungs as he saw the small jets of either side of him grow orange with anticipation. He screamed.

The jets erupted, pouring liquid fire into the cremator, blistening Michael's skin, causing pus and blood to ooze from every inch of his body. The red fire became white, and the weeping flesh blackened and caught fire, seeping the inferno into his organs and bones. Michael felt his eyes burst from the heat. Then, he died.

***

He was strapped to a table, above him, a man lowered the screaming metal teeth of a chainsaw onto Michael's neck. The buzz slowed for only an instant before pulling flesh and blood from its prey, hurling them into the air. Through the agony, Michael felt his aerteries torn, his wind pipe severed, his esophogus eviserated. The sudden inability to breath throttled him as the grinding blade touched bone, protesting with a halting hiss. Then, the blade was clear, the nerves severed, and Michael decapitated. He imagined he could feel his head roll off the table as he died.

***

A mere moment of awareness before a hatchet became buried in the back of Michael's head. Electrical impulses surged through his body, terrifying numbness cutting off his every sensation before one burst of pain filled his eyes and Michael died.

***

Suffocation, bleeding, poison, disease, starvation, crushing; Michael died again and again, without rest or mercy or hope. And rain splashed gently on a darkened window as a man slept blissfully.

Excerpt from "Patron's War"

I suppose we have a little time free now. I can get to that question you asked earlier about the Sins. It's hard to pin down exactly what they do here. In one sense, they're our jailors, the wardens to make sure the inmates do as they are told. In another sense, though, they're prisoners just like you or I. I suppose for the sake of precision, the best way to describe it is to say that they "reign" but do not "rule."

It isn't that they're in charge because they're stronger, smarter, or nastier than everyone else... nesissarily. It's more like a representative study of the living world- people need to see someone in charge. And since we seem to be sort on pitchfork-wielding goat-men, we must make due.

They're also in charge for a more subtle reason- they serve the "common good." Each of the Sins, intentionally or not, makes life eternal a little more bearable and Hell a little more like home.

Indulgence's extravagences made an upper class in Hell viable. These are the sychophantic fools and flatterers that dance around in masks and inflate themselves with the title of "Devil," "Demon," or "Duke." Indulgence's court was the polarizing force that reestablished the conventions of social opression that we are all so comfortable with. Imagine a city where all men are equal... Now there is a real mess for you!

It is Avarice's tender mercies that give us the goods we enjoy so. Cloths that deteriorate in weeks, food that tastes as vile as it is unsatisfying, and weapons to strike down your fellow man. Still, despite the quality, something is better than nothing, you must admit. For a man whose tastes have been honed to a razor's edge, like myself, every single trinket pumped from Avarice's factories, forges, and farms is an offense as sharp as a knife in the, ahem, the eye. I dare say you'll be less troubled, however.

And where does Avarice get his wonderful, smoke-belching factories from? Why, from the fevered, icy mind of Hubris, naturally. The Inventor largely leaves the rabble untroubled, but every advance, upgrade, or break-through that we see, comes from her cold, clock-work logic. From what I understand, Hell is somewhat more advanced than Earth is at the moment, and there's a comforting thought, isn't it? That technology has taken the Damned to her metal breast first and foremost is rather amusing to me.

As you may have surmised, this is a big city. And, even with Hubris' most bizarre contrivances, it's impossible to know what is going on everywhere. That is where Resent claims her position: running the offical newspaper of Hell. Never mind that most of the news is a series of elaborate and sensational slanders against whom so ever seems to be enjoying a modicrome of fortune at the moment. Afterall, Resent gives us what we want- a looking glass to the misery of man and a magnifying glass for the misery of our neighbors.

For those who'd rather visit misery on his fellow man than simply read about it, there is Rancor's war. Before you ask, I don't know who he wages his war against. I doubt he even knows. Maybe it's against no one. More probably, it is against everyone. And all you have to do to sign up is to start following orders. Every atrocity ever committed in any war began with a man who was just doing what he was ordered to do. Before he realizes it, he begins to enjoy the status and- more importantly- to hate his opponent. Rancor's war gives people a place to channel their despair and frustration and, convieniently enough, keeps the Thorns fighting amongst themselves too much to depose of the Devils.

Which brings us to Him. For safety's sake, I'll try to be brief. He says that every raping, murdering, blasphemous soul down here went to Heaven when it died. That's right, this is Heaven. And what it lacks in halos, harps, and helping hands, it makes up for in physical pleasures. Why were we supposed to deny ourselves in life if not to indulge ourselves in the afterlife? And, if you don't believe the message, he will be more than happy to sit you down and explain it to you in Great Detail. That's why we avoid speaking of him, or saying his name idly; we've seen what has happened to those who attracted Passion's gaze.

Finally, we come to the most frustratingly important of the Sins: Apathy. Dante didn't quite have it right- we aren't totally without hope. That's what Apathy brings us. They say he knows everything; a doctor in all sciences and a scholar in all fields. The problem lies with his nature- with a name like Apathy, you can probably guess how eager he is to help those who call on him. So, we wait and wait and wait. Apathy gives us the fool's blind hope that keeps us from curling into a ball on the streets. And there are just enough rumors of Damned who get out to keep the hope alive, no matter how unsympathetic Apathy seems.

There are those who think the Sins are our natural guardians, appointed by whatever power sends the Butchers. I don't believe that tripe for a moment. For one thing, the Strangers- the only creatures down here that seem to know what they're doing- don't obey the Sins. They don't actively oppose them either, however. They seem to just ignore them. You wouldn't believe how furious that makes the Sins.

For another reason, there is this story that has floated down here for longer than anyone can recall. The story of a bargin between Hell and Purgatory...

But that's best saved for another time.

You and I

Read me slowly if you have a chance; quickly if that is all you have time for. The point is not the comprehension or entertainment, just the act of reading itself.

You see, I am your friend. Secret, if you like, but I'd prefer if you shared me with at least one other person. But that's neither here nor there; I am YOUR friend. God's honest truth. I care about you and how you're doing.

Why? A fair question. I'm your friend because, technically, I'm your child. You birthed me. You own me and as long as you live, so do I.

I'm kind of immortal that way. Because here's the secret: I'm in your head. Right now. In some corner of your brain, I'm making you say these words to yourself. And no matter how quickly you finish this narrative (if at all) or disdain my arrogence, I'll always be in there, somewhere. Watching.

But it's okay. Like I said, I'm your secret friend. I'm your child. I'm you, reading this very sentence.

And I wonder if you'll help me out? When you die, I die, see? Why not share me? Give me a few more years. I promise I'll always remember you.

My secret friend.