A GARES , A NGEL

OF

D ESPAIR

Agaress Vault
This is the conclusion. Agares takes little interest in the powerful figures that make their home in the
mutable surface of his world. From the runs of Nyx the demon princes raise dark palaces and lay claim to
their own small fiefdoms. There is little beyond this, the demons are drawn to it because of their affinity to
Agares but few remain here long. Instead they begin their plots on Erebus or join the ranks of a god that
appeals to them. In time their fiefdoms vanish and their palaces fade back to dust.
Bhall lays burning in this realm and her corrupted angels with her. It is at the edge of her influence
that the most demonic activity happens. As was never true before her fall the demonic denizens of this realm
have begun to act together, impassioned by her presence they now delight in their schemes and have taken a
much greater interest in creation. Cabals have formed and even Hyborem seeks to challenge Erebus itself.

Infernal
What could be worse than hell? The domain of a fallen god, whispers of it are found in every religion.
The wicked shall face their eternal punishment in hell, says the Confessor.
Its fires burn hotter than any forge, and the foolish burn away like fools gold, the Stonewarden
warns.
The hottest days of summer do not compare, intones the Priests of Leaves, and there is no rebirth
for those defilers exiled there.
The Cultists babble, In the fire or in the void, your masters cannot speak to you, nor you to them;
shun the realm of the fallen sun, and falter not in your labors for your lords, or you shall be so banished!
And in the rituals of the Ashen Veil lie these words: From the fires of the pit, come our secrets, but
we acknowledge we are supplicants, and offer the price you seek. We come to bargain, not command, oh
Lords of the darkness and eternal fires. For this presumption, take not our souls, take those of our foes.
But the truth is much worse. Hell is an attack on every aspect of the souls that dwell within it. An
excruciating forge built to transform the weak and broken into physical manifestations of Agaress hate. In
life a man may consider an act unthinkable, but through the slow manipulations of hell that act will become
acceptable and then enjoyable. Many spend eternity in this slow grind, hating those above them and crushing
those below them.
Hyborem was not so easily satisfied, he thirsted for new challenges. With the covert assistance of
Agares, the walls of creation were weakened imperceptibly by rituals learned by the Ashen Veil. Hell,
always existing alongside the infinite plane where mortals dwelt, was given brief, tortured access. Hyborem
took his servants and set out at once.
They are forced to carve a city from the dirt with their own claws when this reality refuses to submit
to their will. But that will is strengthened by Hyborems demonic desires, and his underlings abject fear of
him. Hot tempered and impatient, he is nonetheless cunning and willing to watch the kingdoms of men, even
to learn from them how to operate in this realm, until his goals are fulfilled and he can bring as many
mortals into hell to torment for eternity.
Hyborem
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free
Up domesup spiresup kingly halls
Up fanesup Babylon-like walls
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idols diamond eye
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wavethere is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow
The hours are breathing faint and low
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
e.a.p.

Death Knight
Death knights are a grotesque mockery of their living counterparts. Knights are resplendent in shinning
armor, carry brilliant banners, and their chivalrous hearts show no fear on the battlefields. Death knights
leave a trail of walking dead and virulent disease, and show no pity in rending innocents limb from limb.
Some say death knights can only be created from the spirit of a knight who has broken his vows of fealty,
but many knights secretly fear that the Infernals have a way of dragging even the noblest spirit into hell to
serve as their vassals. This fear prompts piety on a level royal decree would fail to reach, and rare is a knight
who doesnt seek out a blessing from any passing priest.
Hellhound
There are parts of hell unclaimed by anyone. These unformed wastes are known as the Shallows and
lamenting souls seek them out to hide from the unending torments of hell. Demons, with a few hell hounds
in tow hunt them, gathering these souls and trading them to the lords of hell for various pleasures. The
hounds keen nose can detect the fear or sorrow of a soul days after it has passed. The only way to avoid
them is to remain calm and without emotion. A difficult task in hell, especially when the hounds baleful
howls can be heard coming for you.
Hunting Demon
Here is the savage hunger of the hellhound brought to bear under the guidance of a cunning Infernal hunting
demon. All the mortal realm is wilderness to the Infernal. They seek to dominate the world of men, but
merely existing in it is disquieting to them even after all this time. Perhaps it is the sense that something is
not quite wrong, or the fact that the fabric of existence was written with more laws than survival of the most
brutal. Either way, most Infernal direct their efforts to capturing souls before returning to Hell, and the
hunting demons are employed to great effect towards that end. They specialize in sniffing out children lost in
the woods, pilgrims taking a wrong turn, or prophets meditating in the wilderness.
Imp
Onsir Ellis, strangled to death during a barroom brawl. His wife entered the bar an hour before and begged
him to come home, but he hit her and she left crying.
Perris Loon, fell from the rafters of a temple while trying to break in. He lay on the temple floor,
back broken and blamed the carved angels looking down at him for his situation.
Adian Mor, a lonely man with dark impulses. He attempted to contain his desires by limiting his
exposure to other people, and staying at the edges of the small village he lived in. When that wasnt enough
he would capture an animal, usually a cat or stray farm dog, to satiate his desires for a while. He imagined
the greatest of his perversions acted out on a wolf that also lurked at the edges of the village. When Adian
captured the wolf he took it to his basement, a place of torment. The wolf broke free of its restraints and the
two predators fought. The wolf was more merciful than Adian was and it killed him quickly.
Twilla Margelin, successful merchant and landowner. His is the largest mausoleum in Girona. He
died by choking on what he thought was the finest imported veal, and was actually just tenderized beef from
the local stockyards.
But the Infernals dont care for history or culture, and nothing causes a refocus from the trivialities
of life to the eternal war better than the flames of hell. Now they are alike, hateful legions consumed only by
the desire to inflict pain on the living.
Manes
All paths of depravity end at the same place, the souls rebirth as the least of demons, manes. A state so
unbearable the entire infernal army pushes themselves onward based solely on the fear of being demoted
back to this squalid position. In hell manes are marked by the sins of their life, the amorphous forms of the

gluttonous, splintered bones breaking through the skin of the hateful, the larval bodies of the greedy. But in
Erebus manes are granted a form that allows them to become workers, citizens of a cruel hierarchy.
Sect of Flies
Ignoring the mortals need for armor-smashing maces, the Infernals developed a method of infusing iron
with the souls of powerful mages, damned in their pursuit of power. A strike from a demon so equipped will
leave a festering wound, passing though metal armor as if it werent there. The aftermath of a battle with
these twisted warriors leaves a stench on the battle field like no other, attracting flies to the wounds of
agonizing warriors.
Hyborems Whisper
Ethne tossed in her sleep. She was haunted with visions of wicked step-sisters, Sidney in her blue and
yellow dress, Dain, and a dinner table that extended into darkness. Tomorrow she would have to decide if
she was going to commit her people to a war against the Infernal that many would never return from. If she
didnt the Infernals would crush the Amurites, who were already on the verge of collapse. But if she joined
the war it would escalate further and even more would die.
In her dream Hyborem sat at the end of the dinner table.
Your logic guides you to one decision, and your morality to another. Hyborem stated.
Yes. Ethne found herself unable to lie to the Lord of the Balors.
Morality is an illusion, a dream without reason. It is the shifting wind. There was no trace of
magical persuasion in Hyborems voice and Ethne was free to respond as she wanted.
A queen must be more than an accountant emotionlessly weighing one option against each other.
Morality sets our goals, logic tells us how to achieve them.
Hyborem smiled, though it was empty of emotion.
Imagine that you stand on your palace wall...
As Hyborem spoke Ethne could see the city surrounding her palace. It was a quiet autumn night and
the city was lit by occasional lanterns and moonlight. Then guard bells rang out. Ethne could see men
running along the street. Five ran along the palace walls seeking the security of the palace gate. Another man
ran off into the city.
Guards along the palace walls starting shouting warnings and a werewolf lumbered out of the
shadows, chasing after the group of five men. The five men rushed through the palace gate and the men
called for Ethnes order, if they should drop the gate portcullis or not.
If you close the portcullis, Hyborems voice cut through the scene, the five will live, but the
werewolf will turn on the single man running into the city and kill him. You save five men, but you doom
another. What is the morale thing to do?
I would drop the portcullis and save the five men, Ethne answered. As she did she saw the scene
play out. The werewolf turned and cut down the single man before fleeing the city.
The scene changed, once again Ethne stood on the palace wall, and once again the guard bells
started ringing. Five men ran along the palace wall, but there was no man running into the city. Instead a
man stood beside her on the wall, watching the attack below.
This time the werewolf was closer, the five men wouldnt be able to reach the palace gate in time.
Hyborems voice cut in again, Again five men will die if you do nothing. Again you can save them
by sacrificing one man. But this time you must push that man off the palace wall. If you push him he will
fall in front of the werewolf, who will stop to kill him, giving the five men enough time to get into the
palace. What is the morale thing to do?
I would not push the man off the castle wall. Ethne said confused.
This is the illusion of morality, Hyborem said as the scene faded back to the room with the table
between them, In both cases you have the same options, but you make different decisions in the name of
morality. If you want to stand against the Infernal do it because it will save the most lives, it will increase

your power, you will gain the treasures of hell. But do not allow your throne to be ruled by the wind.
Ethne awoke, it was dawn and her meeting with the Amurite diplomats was a few hours away. She
didnt feel like she had gotten any sleep at all, and the day was only going to get worse.

The Ashen Veil

Mages spent weeks in meditation, exploring the farthest reaches of the ethereal world. The demands of the
body were ignored, and they survived sustained only by magic. Their efforts were rewarded, a sentience was
contacted, dark and horrible. It whispered secrets into the mages minds, secrets of necromancy, diseases,
sacrificial rites. It promised power in exchange for their blood, and they freely gave it.
Infernal Pact
I pledge my body, to gain your strength; I pledge my mind, to gain your insight; I pledge my heart, to gain
your devotion; I pledge my soul, to gain your obedience.
The Grimoire of Summoning, Second Ritual
Infernal Grimoire
Archmage Hairen Carashnel, God-King of the Holy City of Shard, screamed out in pain. What he had given
his demonic masters was not enough, not sufficient, and they were taking it out on him. He felt fire coursing
through his veins, pain and agony filled his body. Stumbling to the window of his tower, he pulled out the
ceremonial dagger in his belt and thrust it into the middle of his palm. He screamed out again, not because of
the wound he had made, but because of the pain his masters were causing him. For a moment, he only stared
uncomprehending at his hand, not understanding what it meant to see it pierced by the dagger.
Then he remembered. Raising his wounded hand, he let the blood drip on the window sill while he
spoke the words the demons had taught him. As the blood began to glow, the pain eased, and Carashnel
pulled out the dagger, hurling it towards the city below. The dagger exploded in the air, morphing into a
fireball that made the city light up in flames. The mage burst out in laughter as the pain was replaced by a
rush of pleasure. Now it was no longer his pain, it was the pain and agony of the people who had worshipped
him and trusted him with their lives, and he collapsed to the floor in a helpless fit of laughter as their deaths
empowered him.
It had been weeks since Carashnel had last slept or eaten. Ever since the Burning Sacrifice, he had
obsessively walked among the corpses of his followers, used his newfound power to make them walk the
earth once more. Even his tower was destroyed, so he abandoned the city, taking refuge underground. Now
he brought his army of living dead to that cave, one by one taking the remains of their skin and using it to
make the pages of a book. The demons granted him power, but soon they would take it from him again,
demanding that he slaughter more people in order to keep the infernal gifts. But he would cheat them, he
would use the remains of his followers to scribe down the new spells while he still remembered them. Then
the magics would always be at his disposal, and could never be taken from him.
By the time the adventurers found the cave, the army of living dead had long ago collapsed, now
little more than broken skeletons. Archmage Carashnel, on the other hand, was oddly well preserved. The
skin on his body had been flayed and woven into a rope that held him suspended from the ceiling, upside
down. Had it not been for the untouched face, still bearing a mask of terror and agony, he wouldnt even
have been recognizable as a human from all the long spikes thrust into his body. The way he was grasping at
the pedestal in front of him suggested there had been something important on it once, but whatever the
prized artifact might have been, it was now long gone.

Stigmata of the Unborn

The profane nailed the prophet to the stone,
and had him opened to the sky.
The sheet torn from their covered eyes,
they gazed upon the unveiled world as true.
The unborn saw and screamed and wriggled in the womb,
and came unto the world adark, attainted and corrupt.
S e e Al s o
Teb r y n Ar b a n d i

Mardero
The basilica was flooded with screaming, a mob calling for the death of Lita. Long suspected of witchcraft,
she was found with crows blood on her forehead and eyelids, evidence of her attempts at clairvoyance
through dark rites.
The adjudicator listened to the guardsmans retelling of her capture. A neighbor claimed to have
seen a cat walking backwards from her house and a pigeon hanging upside down from the eaves like a bat.
The guards had been called to check it out, not an uncommon occurrence for Lita. But this time she didnt
open the door, and when the guardsman entered, they found her in her basement deep in a trance, with the
crows broken body beside her.
What are the names of these demons you say I follow? Lita argued, Hate, suspicion, fear,
weakness, pride. Do you believe these are my demons or your own? You scream because I killed a bird, yet
you will return to your mutton dinner tonight and see no hypocrisy. You claim that what I have done is evil,
yet the temple diviners perform the same acts with oils and burnt incense.
She shook with rage, her voice carried an authority far beyond her 24 years. She turned and glared at
the townspeople, most she had known her entire life, and each one quieted under her gaze, but then picked
the screaming back up when her eyes were off of them.
The adjudicator was Goroff Grist and he had served in this role for nearly 30 years. He wasnt
concerned with Litas pagan ritual but he was very concerned with the effect she had on the city. This kind
of disharmony could not be tolerated in a cultured society; she had been warned before about her
questionable behavior and refused to become a good citizen. He had known the outcome of this trial the
second she was dragged into the basilica.
Goroff opened the large tome before him. The hall went quiet as he scribed Litas name and the
verdict. Everyone strained to gain some clue from the stroke of his quill as to the final decision. Goroff
sprinkled fine sand on the ink and blew on it, then he closed the tome.
The testimony has been heard and a just decision has been made. Lita of Alexandria will be exiled
from the Empire. This exile will be initiated by throwing her from the Cliffs of Hastur. We will see if she
will follow the crows fate and have her body broken, or gain the crows gift and be saved from the rocks
below.
The crowd cheered the decision, Lita screamed and attacked the guardsmen that held her. They
wrestled her into submission and began the march to the edge of the cliffs. By the time they reached them,
the crowd had grown and hundreds of townspeople were there to witness her death.
It was an early spring day and the mists common to cliffs still hung around its base. Lita had stopped
struggling and stood unmoving at the cliffs edge. She told herself that she would die without weakness and
step over the edge on her own, but she found herself unable to do so. She sensed something much worse
than death over the cliffs edge. Then the guardsman pushed her.
She fell. Her life passed before her, pain inflicted by her and on her, actions performed both good
and evil. She considered her own regret, had she become something she didnt intend? She pushed the
thoughts from her mind, she was not the one at fault, but the people of Alexandria. She fed off of her own
hate, wished only that they would suffer for what they had done to her.

She passed into the mists and heard the snap of thick leather, like the crack of a whip all around her.
A dark form slammed into her and at first she though it was the ground, but her direction changed and she
felt herself being carried along the cliffs edge. A beast held her, and she struggled to see its face. It had thick
hide wings and skin that felt like a serpents, but hard and warm. The face was a mans, horrible and
beautiful, horns and smaller bones pierced his skin and thick iron pins were inserted into the inside curve of
his eye, just where tears are formed.
He took her to a dark place, Hell or some hidden cave, it was the same to Lita. She became his
unwilling concubine, mother of his half-demonic children. His spells kept the many pregnancies from killing
her, but they did nothing for the pain which was so intense that she wished for the times when she wasnt
pregnant and had only to suffer the brutal rapes. And during the periods of the rapes she wished for the times
she was pregnant.
Mardero was the last of these children. His birth was so traumatic that even his fathers considerable
power couldnt keep Lita alive through it. His first act in this world was to join his siblings in consuming his
mothers flesh, the first of many human victims his father would bring them as they grew.
Now Mardero roams the land, unbound by the Compact because of his human heritage but as
destructive and loyal to the forces of Entropy as any demon.
Meshabber of Dis
The smoke twisted randomly, as if caught in breeze that was impossible in the small summoning chamber.
Kael knelt in a ring with the other students watching the mage in the center demonstrate the experiment in
conjuration.
A figured formed in the smoke, an imp a little over two feet tall. His chest was soot black, and he
grew lighter gray and hazy along his legs and arms, until his feet and hands were nothing but thin trails of
smoke. The embers from the fire danced up into his body and whipped randomly around him, settling in his
eyes, which floated lazily, and separately, around his forehead.
He glared at the students until Bradeline, the red robed mage, shouted Zazim!
The imps ears folded back against his head at the sound of his name.
Why do you bring me here? The imps voice popped like greasy meat in a hot pan.
They will try to control the conversation, lead you where they want to go. Innocent at first, but it is
a trap. Speak only of what you want from the creature, you did not summon it for idle conversation.
One of the imps eyes remained fixed on Bradeline, while the other floated around his head going
from student to student, looking for weakness. Kael was easily ten years older than the rest of the students,
and couldnt tell if the imp noticed this or not. Most of the other students paled and looked away at the imps
glare. A few returned the stare, their own fear overcome by their lust for power. Kael didnt react at all, and
the imps gaze passed quickly on to the next student.
After its examination of the room the imp dropped, placing his wraithlike hands on the stone floor.
The fire brightened and the smoke flared out, momentarily obscuring the imps form. From within the circle
its scratchy voice could be heard speaking unholy words.
The daft creature is attempting to summon more of its kin. Bradeline looked almost disappointed.
Most would attempt to flee, but both attempts will be blocked by the summoning circle you constructed. Its
call can not penetrate the shell of sorcery, symbols, and the enchanted powder.
Bradeline took a chain from his belt and held it toward the imp. He let go of the end, letting a copper
medallion inscribed with a six-pointed star swing down as he shouted the imps name again. Bradeline was
as much a performer as he was a conjurer. This time Zazim ignored him.
The powder was enchanted exactly as it should be, but it was not all silver as the spell required. The
imps call was heard, and in a gust of wind the ill-prepared powder was blown all over the surrounding
shocked students. Bradeline didnt have much time for surprise, the newly formed greater demon that stood
over the imp reached out and grabbed his throat.
The demon stood almost to the rooms concave ceiling. He had the hooves of a goat, thick twisted
legs, and the chest and arms of a massive gorilla. He had two human heads, one with its mouth sewn shut,

constantly screaming behind its pursed lips, and the other looked to have had its eyes recently gouged out.
Blood and ichor ran down this face and dripped onto the right side of the demons chest. On one forearm the
demon had almost a dozen battered gold rings.
Command me now, blood trader! The demon grinned. Bradeline had summoned him many times,
and forced him to perform acts degrading even to demons. The mage raised the medallion ineffectually in
front of the demons face, the one with eyes, but the demon only laughed. He would have toyed with
Bradeline longer, but the students began to scream and he realized he had more fun in store than just this one
killing. With a squeeze, Bradelines neck was broken and the demon threw the mages body against the stone
wall of the chamber. Then he turned on the students.
A boy, more full of ego than sense, began to recite a spell prohibited to students this young. He shot
his hands out toward the demon as he finished the incantation. But he was not ready for a spell that complex,
and the fire intended for the demon raced up the boys arms instead. He fell screaming as the flames
consumed his shoulders and head.
Another student, one that had looked away when Zazim glared at him, had his screams cut short as
the imp leapt to his chest and climbed into his mouth. Kael watched the students face flush at the realization
that he wouldnt live long enough to be killed by the two-headed demon that was tearing into the other
students. The student fell, choking and grabbed hold of Kaels drab brown acolyte robes. Kael ignored him,
the only unmoving piece of the hellish room.
The rooms single door was enchanted, only Bradeline or one of the academys other instructors
could open it. This was to prevent any creature that was summoned here from getting loose and threatening
the school. It had seemed a reasonable precaution to the students when they had learned of it, but now as
they beat on the chamber door they realized the limitations of the doors protection.
The Tale of Saverous, Act II: Chapter 1
Rosier the Fallen
There were four in the chambertradition said there should only be three, and it wasnt like the Order to
break tradition. The room was round with a domed ceiling and a mosaic of Lord Sabathiel on it. It was late,
and the evening prayers could be heard echoing from the sanctuary.
Rosier knelt on the floor; he was an Oath-taker here to report on an oath he had exacted. The Oathtakers served two roles: exacting oaths, and punishing those who broke them. As was typical, there was also
a Confessor here. The Confessors extracted information, they were the eyes and the ears of the Order, and
they served as a witness and record keeper for these trials. The last normal member of the trial was a
Diviner. A Diviner was able to tell if any Oath made in Junils name would be broken or not.
What had Rosier flush with anger was the Diviners instances on having a fourth person at the
meeting: a fellow Oath-taker, Valin Phanuel. Valin stood back by the door, unsure of what to do. The trial
(like all things the Order did) had very precise steps. It was a ceremony for three people, and only the
Diviner seemed comfortable breaking that. She started.
Arise Rosier, Knight of the 2nd Heart, Oath-taker and Nonpareil.
Rosier stood and repeated the phrase, as he had many times before, I am the shield till the sword
comes free, I am a bearer of the law until my lord gives me rest, I am a keeper of peace until the oath is
broken.
What oath do you bring me, child?
This Diviner was new, a woman, which was unusual. The former Diviner of the Abbey had been
called back, the reason unknown. This was the first time Rosier had met the new Diviner, but he had heard
that her unusual behavior had infuriated more than just the Abbey Confessor. Rosier pushed those thoughts
back and focused on the reason he was here.
At the Osul mountains, a small company of Twisted men were captured. They had served the Burnt
Priest, but with him dead and his summoned legions gone, they were left unprovisioned and far from their
homeland. I gave them the oath, that they should give up their violence and travel back to their homelands,
understanding that the way would be difficult, but that they would be unhindered by the Order if they stayed

true to their oath. Each one agreed.

The Confessor wrote the details in a tome; when the trial was finished, it would be packaged
carefully and delivered to the Cynosure of Junil. When he was done writing he methodically intoned, What
we three decide shall become law, let no one break it. Ask the question.
He glared at Valin when he said three, unwilling to change his script to account for him, as if his
conviction of the sanctity of the trial would keep Valin from being able to witness it.
Rosier continued, Will the Twisted men keep their oath?
The Diviner considered Rosier carefully. The old Diviner would pray here, maybe walk around the
room, speak to Junil in angelic languages. But this Diviner, she only sat staring at Rosier. Then she spoke.
What do you think?
The Confessor just about exploded. He couldnt say anything, it wasnt his turn to speak, but he
turned white, and then red, and then back to white again. In his horror, he even dripped ink on the tome, and
took it to be a sure sign from Junil that everyone in the room was going to be destroyed.
Me?
Yes, Rosier, what do you think?
The Osul cant support much life, and the twisted men arent competent hunters. Many will starve
before they get back to their home. After serving the Burnt Priest, they cant expect to receive any charity
from what few people live in that area. Faced with death or the threat of death, most will choose the threat
and break their Oath.
What causes men to break oaths?
Rosier was unprepared for the question, unaccustomed to being asked questions at all; that wasnt
the nature of the Order. He thought about it.
A lot of things, greed, anger, lust. Something as minor as a desire to act unlawfully to something as
big as a belief that the person is greater than the oath he made. There are probably as many different reasons
as there are men.
Valin, what causes men to break oaths?
It was either so clear in his mindor he was attempting to keep the Confessor from passing out
either way, he answered in one word, Weakness.
The Diviner considered again then seemed to come back to the trial.
Most of the Twisted men will break their oath. They will attempt to attack a village called
Hallowell in three nights. Take a company of Oath-takers and wait for them there. Some of the Twisted men
wont join the raid and will continue on, do not hinder them.
Everyone in the room looked at the Confessor. He wasnt writing, he seemed confused on what to
record and what to exclude as the Diviners rambling. He hastily noted the Diviners decision and intoned,
What we three decide shall become law, let no one break it.
Rosier kneeled again and said his line, I will carry out this duty, and pledge my life to this task and
to Junil. This is my oath.
The Diviner watched without expression. Rosier rose and left the room, Valin falling in behind him.
Before Valin was out of the door, the Diviner called for him. Valin stepped back in and closed the door.
We have another trial to perform, said the Diviner.
Valin looked at the Confessor, both equally confused. I witnessed no oaths today.
You just did, and we will need to perform a trial on it.
Diseased Corpse
This is the special unit of the Ashen Veil. No unit strikes as much fear in a well-defended city as an enemy
diseased corpse ambling up to the gates. They are the only unit that starts with the Diseased promotion, but
in large battles it spreads quickly through civilizations.

Savant
He came to the Ritualists under the cover of darkness, looking furtively around. It was not the temple that he
went to, with its genial looking librarians and philosophical debates, but to an abandoned building some
blocks away. The hooded young man opened the door without knocking. Inside was lit only by candles, each
giving a different colored glow.
Five gnarled old fingers wrapped around his wrist like a vise. Instinct made him struggle, but other
Ritualists soon had hold of his shoulders and left arm. Why have you come? hissed the Ritualist holding
his wrist. The other observed silently.
You told me this was the place, to become one of you.
Not good enough. It must be of your will. Why have you come?
The Savant to be answered again, I have come to bargain. I offer myself.
The Ritualist nodded, and pulled out a knife. Then he slashed the newcomers palm, and watched as
a thin line of blood appeared, soon forming a small pool in this hand. This he spilled into a small, fragrant
pile of desiccated herbs. The Savant was released, and he quickly clasped his hands together to staunch the
bleeding. Each Ritualist picked up a candle, and together they lit the reagents stained with blood.
A small fire appeared, with an overwhelming stench of burning flesh. A deep voice echoed
throughout the house. What can I give you?
The Savant peered into the flames before answering. I have been ignored, mistreated, and scorned.
Give me power to destroy my enemies!
And what do you offer?
Everything. My life, my wealth, my family, my honor. My soul.
It is done. You have favor with Me, and your service has been entered into of your own accord. Let
all see another choose my path! The voice faded.
Again the Savants hand was grabbed by one of the Ritualists. This was held into the fire, which did
not burn him. Rather, his skin wrinkled and aged before my eyes, the mark traveling up his arms and soon
covering his whole body. Then he was released, and he collapsed to the floor. He was still for several
minutes, and I thought I heard sobbing.
But no, it was laughter. His eyes burned with dark fire. I feel so powerful. At last was the last
thing I heard. He continued laughing as he was roughly stripped and dressed in the robes of a Savant.
From Chapter 9 of Reflections on the State Cults, by Elder Methyl of the Luonnotar
Balor
Out of a darkened shadow door
Stepped a beast of unbridled horror
Cloven hooves, arms of an ape
Black hair, sharp horns and eyes of hate
It dragged chains like a giant tail
It held a hammer, hooks and nails
The thing reached out and at its touch
My heart collapsed, my soul was crushed
It held the chains so I could see
In a haunting voice it spoke to me
For pain you cause there is a price
You pay it in the afterlife
And then the creatures work began
Nails in my face, hooks in my hands
Pierced my skin and tore my flesh
Agony from which there is no rest

Three foot long horns sit atop an enormous body. Its shadows are cast at absurd, unnatural angles. A stench
of Sulfur is expected, but overpowering nonetheless. Unconsuming fire dancing along ebon skin, and
features of pure hate never leave the gruesome face.
Giggles! Youve come back!
Keelyn
Ring of Flames
I fell into a burnin ring of fire
I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher,
And it burns, burn, burns,
The ring of fire, the ring of fire.

Entropy Magic
Defile
The forest was bleak and silent, E-lin was overcome with grief. He heard stories of a dark place deep in the
forests, but couldnt imagine such desolation. Twisted branches, rotten fruits, and decayed bodies covered
the floor. The lake was black and greasy. He cried as an aura of sorrow crushed his heart. He cursed to the
skies in agony, as promises of revenge were muttered. He would not be able to save this sacred woods, but
nothing would be able to save the one who did this.
Pit Beast
There was a time when mens mastery of magic was powerful enough to mimic the actions of gods. At the
height of the Age of Magic, great artifacts were created by the worlds most powerful archmages and they
even thought themselves capable of creating life itself. The pit beast was one of these creations. Formed
from the parts of other creatures grotesquely attached to the body of a giant lion, it was one of the most
successful of these experiments. The less successful were nightmares to themselves and their creators.
Pit beasts are abominations made from the pieces of various slain demons. They ache for a chance to avenge
their destruction, and will heed any call to return to the mortal realm. As long as they taste blood, they can
continue their assault indefinitely.
They love naught but combat, these fell beasts. They exist to destroy and have no concern for what. The
embodiment of chaos, pit beasts will remain in the mortal realm as long as they have something to fight. Oh,
you might want to stand back, Id hate to lose ANOTHER apprentice.
Wither
I felt the life seep from my body, the essence ooze from my bones. I met her only once, she gazed into me,
forgotten, lost, and then I felt it too. The endlessness of weakness, the trepidation of uncertainty. And ever
lasting, ever growing fatigue. Things became dimmer, I saw more and more of less and less. I could feel my
heart slowing, and my mind collapsing. I withered away, at her slightest of commands.
Tyrell of Condia, last words