NationStates Jolt Archive

Trembling to its fall, putting an end to it all by storm, by force, with might without remorse...
We are here to conquer this world.

Like cancer our hate consumes the light of Elysium, unstoppable force of demonic supremacy. All destroying, all devouring, Heaven now ravaged... scarred and empty.

******

The universe had experienced much turmoil in the months since Azrael's rise to power, not from the decline of Damien Dreadfire, but the awakening of something just as dark and terrible as the once infamous Lord....something evil that had stowed away in the shadows for ages. None had expected the most beloved son of Automagfreek to follow directly in his father's footsteps after cementing his reputation as being a caring and compassionate individual. While he was indeed both the latter as could be seen by his acts of kindness to his people, he was much more than anybody knew...for inside he burned with the same wicked inferno that had corrupted his father's soul.

But what of the once proud Warlord, Damien Dreadfire? Little was heard from him since passing on his title to his son, and various rumors of his death or exile were on the lips of nearly every Freekish citizen. None could deny how terrible a man he was and how cold and brutal he could be towards his enemies, but none could forget the stability he had brought to Automagfreek after endless ages of warfare. Where was he, one might ask?

On the thirteenth full moon of the calendar he arose from his bed in the dead of night, having been living in a small house high in the ULE Mountains since fading from the public spotlight. He gathered not his possessions nor any provisions before starting down towards the valley below, for on this night the bindings of the dimensions between this world and the next would be at its weakest...and there would be no need for material items where he was headed. An ominous pulsing from within the dank corridors of the Halls of the Dead beckoned him forth, his very soul being drawn towards the ominous spiritual energy that seeped from the ancient dungeon and out into the surrounding area.

Hours passed before he finally made his way down to the city below, where he carefully passed through the alleyways and poorly lit areas in order to avoid being seen. However his presence was known to a certain individual whom he could not escape, his trusted servant from the Other Side, none other than The One Who Shall Remain Unnamed. In a transparent mist he hovered and watched as the former Warlord approached the sealed entrance the the Halls of the Dead, where he appeared fro the shadows and confronted Damien.

Master, I sense a great...imbalance in you. I am deeply concerned.

Dreadfire turned slowly to his unwordly servant, his eyes fixated on the black mass where a face would normally be present. My time has come, One, I can feel it. The fires that once burned within my soul are all but extinguished, and I fear that the Gods will soon take my life from me if I do not appease them. For too long I have relied on the strength and emptiness of the dark powers....and if I do not right my past wrongs then the book of my life will be forever closed.

The One remained silent, then cautiously questioned what Damien had in mind. I'm not sure, I'll know once I see them. With that he faked a smile and began to throw open the doors to the ancient underground torture chamber...the final resting place for untold thousands over the many centuries of its existance. The skeletal corpses that lined the walls seemed to turned and eye Dreadfire as he made the long walk down the dank and must filled corridor, before turning down a forgotten passage towards the Vault of Souls. Once more The One appeared, this time almost begging his master to reconsider.

M'Lord Damien, what shall we do without you? Your people owe you everything, what will they do in your absence?

As Dreadfire prepared to enter the Vault, he looked not at The One but instead instructed him carefully as he closed his eyes and reflected. Look over Azrael and guide him as you have guided me. Do not let my line fail One, for if my line fails then Automagfreek is doomed. Safeguard my Empire, my realm, until such time the Gods see fit to release me...and I shall return to you.

Having said his goodbye, he stepped through the crumbling stone archway and into the Vault of Souls, where a chilling cold lingered in the stale air. As he walked deeper into the Vault he began to feel the sting of cold the likes of which would freeze Hell itself, but onward he walked towards the unknown detination at the end...if an end even existed. The blue crystal chambers that lined either side of the Vault housed some of the most unspeakable demons from the Other Side, ghastly horrors that were imprisoned on Earth after the great spiritual war that saw the Realm of the Living nearly torn to pieces.

Damien began to shake violently as his bodily fluids began to freeze, and as he continued onwards he spotted the shattered chambers of The Butcher and numerous other demons he himself had set free. In hindsight he regretted undoing the work of the protectors of light who toiled for millennia to enslave the beasts that now roamed freely because of his actions...all of which he would be held accountable for before the Gods.

After several hundred yards Damien was all but dead from the deep and penetrating cold that now turned his skin blue, and he struggled to move forward as his eyes began to harden and his blood turn to chunks. He was now reduced to crawling on limbs that cracked from movement as if they were going to break off, trying desperately to push himself forward. But finally he saw the end of the Vault of Souls, a set of a dozen stairs that led to a single crystal chamber that sat empty with an engraving in stone above it that read "Damien Dreadfire". He chuckled ever so slightly as he painfully crawled up the frost coated stone steps and towards the foot of the pod, his fingers nearly breaking off his hands as he clawed his way inside the vessel. With one last breath he curled into the fetal position and closed his eyes before a white mist filled the capsule and hardened within moments, sealing Damien inside permanently.

The One felt his telepathic connection with Dreadfire break, to which great sadness enveloped the mighty Lord Death Dealer. He would be tasked with informing Azrael in the morning of his father's actions and last wishes, to which the new Supreme Warlord would have to decide wether or not to tell his people and the world the fate of the most notorious man on the planet. For all anyone knew, he had simply faded from the public spotlight...but the truth of the matter was much worse, for his soul would not pay for decades of defiance and excess.

It was the next morning that The One appeared before Azrael as he was about to begin his morning workout with news of his father's departure from this realm and into the next. As the young Warlord took up his Panteran blade and started practicing his swordplay, he felt a slight breeze tickle the hairs on the back of his neck, causing him to jerk his head backwards and examine the nature of this disturbance. Fading into view came the unmistakable form of the Lord Death Dealer, his wide brim hat angled so that it covered his face and his long coat hiding the repulsive form underneath. Azrael was surprised to see him.

Fancy seeing you here One. He smiled casually before returning to his workout, the razor sharp edge of the mighty sword slashing through the air in fluid motions with both strength and substance. Indeed m'lord, my apologies for the disturbance....but I must speak with you at once. There is a matter of great urgency that cannot be put off....for it concerns your father.

Azrael paused, turning towards The One with lowered eyebrows and a gruff expression. Oh? He said with almost and annoyed undertone as he put down his weapon and took up a seat near the fountain in the middle of the courtyard where his daily activities were always held. With the back of his hand he wiped the sweat from his forehead and lossed his hair which he kept tied back, and as The One sat beside him he drank of the pure bubbling waters from inside the stone pool.

M'lord, I need not lecture you on Damien's personal history, for you know it all too well. I have seen inside his very soul, and the darkness that lies within is nearly too much for a being such as myself to handle. His aura is almost corrosive in nature, and from the fires of the Underworld he became incarnate and was made man. While I cannot share with you his life before I was put into his service, I can tell you what I have seen and experienced.

He shifted position briefly so that he was angled towards Azrael on the outer lip of the fountain's pool, though his head was still hanging downward. Damien knew that in order to achieve his dreams....dreams of power and glory, that he would have to dabble in the dark arts. The Gods of Light do not grant selfish wishes of fame and conquest, and so in the darkness he found refuge and was given near unlimited power in terms of what he could accomplish, and it was through his meddling in the occult that he forged his Empire on this Earth. But it came at a cost, for the Gods of Light did not take kindly to his blasphemy, and Damien was shunned by them.

But as he began to grow older and as he continued to carve a path of destruction across the planet, the heathen Gods began to abandon him. While this was happening, nations, alliances, and even whole regions themselves crumbled into dust, while Automagfreek reached heights no single nation ever had before. But in recent years as war and death grew fewer and further between, the Dead Gods who no longer received massive offerings of souls saw no further use for him. Why do you think Damien handed power over to you lad? He gave you the one thing on this Earth he loved more than you or himself, the very legacy and livelihood of the Empire.

Azrael was puzzeled as he stared The One down. I don't understand what you're telling me...

The Death Dealer exhaled and rose to his feet, knowing that he would have to tell the young ruler the truth no matter how hard he would take it. I'm telling you that after countless years of defiance, Damien has decided to make his peace with the Gods of Light and offer unto them a sacrifice....his soul will be held accountable for all the evil he has done in his lifetime. He is no longer among the living my son, he has ventured to the Other Side where I cannot see him nor follow...and he will suffer punishment until such time the Gods see fit to release him...if ever.

Your father is not here anymore Azrael, it's just you and Silvia now. His body is in a state of suspended animation within the Vault of Souls, so there is a possibility that perhaps one day in the distant future he will return to us.

Azrael felt lightheaded as his heart sunk within his chest, and he stood up onto unstable legs as he attempted to make sense of the whole situation. He paced around the courtyard like a caged animal, unsure of how to react to such dramatic news of his father's supposed demise. I...I can't believe it....I won't believe it. My father would never throw his life away to the very beings who denied him a normal life and who seek his blood for making his own way in this world. Is this what the Gods have in store for every great leader who chooses to become something more?

He began to grow angry, directing his rage at seemingly everything; The One, the Gods, even his father for what he did. It's bullshit is what it is. If the Gods think they're so much better, why don't they come down from their golden palace in the heavens and enforce their agenda? Because they're cowards and they envy men like my father who take charge of their destiny. And just as mortal men like Damien must one day die, when all is said and done he has influenced the future far more than they ever could.

The One tried to calm Azrael by assuring him that his father's divine sacrifice was not in vain, and that he would one day be rewarded for setting things right in their eyes. But the Warlord would have none of it, he was never one to believe in the forces of good or evil anyways. There were times before combat that he would pray for protection and guidance and the plains of battle, but his experiences in life lead him to rely on himself and his own judgement instead of protection from beings he could see. He was one of the few in the pagan Freekish society who never really subscribed to the idea of countless divine entities controlling men like pieces on a giant game of chess, and in disgust he stormed off towards his chambers within the Great Hall. As the Death Dealer stood alone in the empty courtyard and collected his thoughts, he debated wether or not to inform Damien's friend Dayne the Evenstar or the other Gholgothic leaders of the former Warlord's fate, but in the end he decided that it was something best kept a secret...for if the world knew of Damien Dreadfire's fall from grace, it could spell great trouble for Automagfreek.

Mere moments after Damien was sealed into the stone, a long shadow slipped across the stone floor. It's presence brought a very temporary silence to the room's occupants, who resumed their various rantings moments later, as if it wasn't there.

There was not form to cause the shadow as it moved, to stand beside Damien's vessel. "I never thought to see you here, Destroyer... You are the enigma that has so interested me in your species. The exception to so many laws of life and death. Doomed to spend your life alone, even in the presence of family... but blessed with the ability to rally a hundred billion souls to a cause. Sleep well, Damien. Sleep well."

The shadow turned it's attention to The One. "Deathdealer... inform your new master that I pass on my debt to him. If Automagfreek ever needs the assistance of Hellfire, they have it. Be forewarned though... we will only assist once. Do not squander this debt."

As the shadow turned away, it spoke again. [i]"And I have not forgotten that I challenged you to a spar, One. That is a day I look forward to, greatly."

The great company of Gods gather in retribution, they hath passed judgment upon thee. They cast down your heresy... they spit upon thee and thy rebellion and turn their backs upon thee.

They hacketh thee to pieces...their sons speareth thee...the Gods repulse thee...the flame of their fire is against thee.

Cursed art thou, impaled thou art, flayed art thou. Heretic...thou art cast down.

****

It was mere moments after passing through the white tunnel between the realms that Damien was bound in irons and forced to kneel on a stone slab before a large balcony inside a mighty theater of white marble. He looked about both in shock and confusion as he attempted to figure out where he was and what was happening to him, but before he could gather himself he was driven to the ground by a crushing blow from an unseen hand. As he grunted and struggled to lift his head he witnessed a council of thirty seven Gods appear across the balcony, their thrones made from gold and jewels. Dressed in white linens and adorned with both riches and flowers, they sat and glared down at the wretched soul called Dreadfire.

They spoke not a word from their divine mouths but instead looked on as a giant with a ram's head approached the stone slab where Damien sat chained, and with a flick of the Elder God's wrist he took up a large hammer and began to rain crushing blows down upon the once proud Warlord' body. His bone shattered and splintered into pieces, but reformed seconds later as if nothing had happened....and this would be his fate, to be beaten and crushed for eternity but yet still remain. However the pain of the smashing racked his entire body with a deep and throbbing pain, causing him to cry out in great agony and suffering. The Gods blinked not as more beings emerged to extract divine vengeance upon the heretic Dreadfire, unusual and twisted creatures with both human and animal forms. These were the lesser Gods that served under their divine masters and served essentially as angels do in the Christian religion.

Endlessly he was tormented for 10,000 years without pause, but since there was no real concept of 'time' in the Other Side, the millenia of suffering would be only as long as the blink of an eye in the Realm of the Living. The torture gradually grew worse and worse, with his bowels being torn out and cast into flames, his skin flayed by whips and his eyes punctured out....but with each painful act his innards and extremities grew back moments later. And just when it seemed that the torment would never end, the Gods and their minions suddenly vanished into thin air, leaving the chained Damien where he sat for ages. The colosseum would be his prison...where he would sit abandoned and forgotten.

Meanwhile in the Realm of the Living Azrael sat within his bedchambers and reflected upon what The One had told him, his imagination playing through what his father's soul must be going through. How could this have happened at a time when all appeared to be well within the Empire and within House Dreadfire? It all seemed so overwhelming for such a young man, whom ony recently had been put in charge of a nation most powerful and prosperous. Under such stressful times he would retreat to the ancient church overlooking ULE City and seek guidance and strength from the Gods, and he knew that he would find comfort in Dawn's Cathedral...not from the beings who were once worshipped there, but from the atmosphere and the fact that the site had once been his home.

The ruins of the Westwind Citadel could still be seen around Dawn's Cathedral, which was once the headquarters of Azrael after he bulldozed the ancient church to the ground and built a large fortress in its wake. His mind always drifted back to that time and place when he came to the Cathedral to pray, and this day was no exception. The flood of emotion that came over him as he threw open the giant oak doors was immence, for he was becoming more and more hateful like his father with each passing day. Damien frequented the Cathedral to worship the Gods of his choosing, and to seek their advice and direction with difficult issues that regularly arose within the Empire. But on this day Azrael would not be there to do the same.

The ancient relics, draperies, and paintings still lined both walls of the sanctuary, which had eerie shadows cast upon them from the flickering of candlelight near the altar. He sat on one of the many pews and wiped the tears from his eyes, and as he tried to calm his nerves he began to nod off, his head dipping down every so often as his eyelids felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds. As he slipped into a delicate slumber a fiery vision filled his head. He saw the giant earthen monolith that had emerged earlier in the year on the Forbidden Isle, standing ominously and dominating the horizon for miles in every direction. He saw a jet of fire erupt from the hollow center and watched as the flames fell like raindrops across the entire planet. A mere milisecond before he opened his eyes, he heard the laugh of a demonic woman, and saw her red hair fluttering in the high winds as she levitated slowly from the opening of the column.

His heart skipped a beat as he wrenched his head upwards, his eyes struggling to keep themselves open as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. Though the vision had been unsettling to him, he felt a strange comfort in the ancient cathedral...comfort enough to lay down and fall completely asleep on the pew...the image of that familiar woman still fresh in his mind.

Time continued to fall from the calendar, and each day that passed felt as if it were an eternity. Azrael's life had not been the same since Damien's departure from the Realm of the Living, and he both blamed himself and cursed his father for leaving so abruptly...for the void he left behind was too great for the young leader to fill. Thankfully the AMF government was able to keep Dreadfire's fate a secret from the Freekish public and the international community rather well, for if word spread that Damien was no longer an issue, it would have potentially disasterous results.

But the transfer of power from father to son could not have come at a better time, for Gholgoth was for the most part at peace and prosperity was everywhere in the region. Automagfreek itself had not been entangled in a large scale conflict since the Doomani war, instead participating only in minor operations for the sake of expanding the Empire's influcence in the world. The campaign in Nova Europa was an astounding success thanks largely to the reputation the Freekish military had earned itself after hundreds of years of decisive victories, and once word had spread that the Sentinels were coming for Nova Iceland, all opposition was quickly scattered to the wind. All in all, Azrael should have had nothing but positive things to celebrate....but instead dispair and anger held him tightly in its grip.

But through it all, the thought of the red haired vixen mesmerized him, though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew something was amiss. Having been under Rayne's spell once before, he could remember nothing from the days of the last AMF civil war when he was forced to stand against his father and suffered death at his hands. He felt conflicted as he attempted to make sense of his dream about the mysterious woman and knew that there was an intense negative energy about her, and even though he remained emotionally conflicted, his gaurd would have to be up.

He had stayed inside Dawn's Cathedral for days. Barely moving from his seat and staring blankly into space, he almost didn't notice the shuffle of footsteps that echoed from the spiral staircase in the next room. His head turned slowly towards the stairs and began to wonder what on earth could be making such noise considering the church was supposed to be empty. Ever vigilant he drew his Panteran blade and advanced cautiously up the winding, twisting steps in anticipation for battle, for he knew many an assassin had attempted to take his father's life and that it was just a matter of time before he himself would be a target.

As he reached the top the flicker of torchlight caught his eye, reflecting softly off the cold stone walls of the cathedral's peak. A soft voice drifted in from what appeared to be a small bellkeeper's room along with the scent of spring, telling him Come in Advocate, sit.. With his heart thumping madly he hid the sword behind his back and stepped cautiously into the room, of which he never remembered one existing. There be no need for arms in here m'lord. Put it away. How the mysterious female knew he had a blade on him came as a surprise, but at the same time he was comforted by the tone of her voice. He returned the weapon to its scabbard and moved towards an old wooden chair near the door, sitting slowly and scanning the surroundings carefully.

The cloaked figure stood at the foot of a stone altar that was coated in melted candle wax and various dried fluids, which at first glance appeared to be blood. She turned slowly and gazed at him intensely, though only her eyes were uncovered. I sense a great void within you young Warlord....and great weakness. She grabbed a handfull of small wooden runes from a black silk bag and dumped them out over the top of the altar, humming ominously and waving her gloved hand over them. The time has come Azrael, the time for you to cast aside the live you once lived and embrace a new beginning. Your father's demise is merely a singular moment in a long chain of events that has been put into motion, for it was written in the stars long ago that this day would come. I forsee great pain and suffering surrounding you, and as hard as you try to avoid the darkness....it is inside you...and it grows.

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, for he could only imagine if this was what Damien experienced in Pantera when he sought advice from the mystic crone in the Seastone Palace. Dreadfire was the scourge of mankind, the destroyer of worlds, and the bringer of suffering. You young Azrael, spawn of the Destroyer, you too shall unleash a torrential wave of vengeance and retribution upon this Earth. You are your father's son and therefore your fate shall fall in line with his, for it is your blood that carries a great curse from the Gods. You shall suffer as he did in life, death, and afterlife. Food shall turn to dust within your mouth, and your blood shall clot and flesh turn to rot. Your eyes shall be put out and you will wander this plane of existance for all eternity....

Her rant stopped abrubtly as her hand passed the last rune on the altar, and she gasped ever so slightly as her thoughts raced. But in the darkness the light still remains, the fire still burns....yes...I see another path perhaps. I see also a path of glory, of conquest and of victory. Your father built an Empire from nothing, and you shall take that Empire and transform it into a new order of this age. But this will come at a cost, for this path intertwines with the other, and with great victory will come great suffering. Choose wisely Azrael.

He could not make sense of the situation, for the nearly incoherent ramblings of the mysterious woman made no sense. So I'm fucked either way, doomed to the same fate no matter what my actions? That's quite comforting to hear. He rose from the seat and moved towards her, glancing down at the runes and shaking his head in disbelief. What is it that I need to do with my life? What purpose must I fulfill?

She smiled behind her black burqa and attempted to dumb down the rambling prophecy so he could make better sense of it. Follow the path your father forged through the fires of war and conquest, but stray not down the path of the demonic. Dreadfire had it right in so many ways, but he let the darkness consume him from within. Unleash Hell upon thy foes but confide not in its false ways, for if you cross this fine line all hope will be lost. Remember that the Gods respect and demand tribute and victory, but they will not make it easy nor will they forgive if you turn your back upon them.

There was an ominous pause before she stepped closer to Azrael and stared him dead in the eyes, uttering but one final phrase before the scene faded into a dream. You know what you need to do. After she stopped speaking the Warlord awoke on the pew where he had been sitting for days, a thick sweat coating his brow and his limbs tremoring as if a winter wind had cut through him. His encounter seemed too real to be a dream, and a single wooden rune on the seat next to him made him shake...for the woman had a familiar aura about her....

"DAMIEN DREADFIRE MISSING" read the headlines in the ULE City Times, which caused the populace to stir. How word had managed to slip out that the most famous leader in world history was now missing, Azrael and the Freekish leadership did not know. However little could be done except to deny the story, for if the reporter who broke the story was detained and sacked, it would prove that the rumor was true.

One thing was certain though, a world without Dreadfire had grown frightfully dull and made Automagfreek less secure overall, for even though Azrael was a skilled leader and warrior, he could never take Damien's place. He was a man most ruthless whos image and legacy was forever etched into history, and now that the world knew he was gone it would potentially spell trouble for the Excessively Armed Empire.

The One knew that something had to be done. He knew that now Automagfreek needed its rightful Warlord more than ever, but even though he himself was not of this world, the Lord Death Dealer knew not how to raise Dreadfire. He waited until the next evening when the moon was full, then he summoned his personal guard of Death Dealers, the eldest of the mighty servants of Fire to the Tomb of the Mutilated, the unholy crypt that served as a portal between this world and the next. Deep inside the Halls of the Dead, it was the dark beating heart of the infamous torture complex and contained more negative energy than almost any other place on Earth. It was here that The One would make his decision.

My kin, servants of the Dread Fires, we have a grave problem we must address. Our master's fate has escaped into the outside world, and now we stand on the edge of oblivion. I must envoke Ancient Rite and depart this realm in order to resurrect our Lord and pry him from the clutches of the Elder Gods, who have imprisoned him in the ice tomb of the Vault of Souls. Damien Dreadfire must be set free, and it is I who must be charged with this task.

Take up my mantle while I am gone, protect the Supreme Warlord and safeguard his life at all times. He will be vulnerable while I am gone.

The Death Dealers bowed their heads as The One moved towards the Tomb, which began to pulsate with a warm orange glow from within, its demonic light seeping out from the crack between the body of the stone altar and its lid. He then threw open the stone slab and inhaled deeply as embers began to rise up and a thick, blistering wind blew forth from the Tomb. He then dove down into the gaping hole, to which he fell for miles into a pillar of fire, his long coat and hat fluttering madly as the burning heat and winds twisted and spun around his body.

Eventually he smashed into the ground violently, however his body was unbroken and he rose from the small impact crater and began to scan his surroundings. A vast lake of molten stone dominated the landscape, and a blood red sky filled with black clouds loomed overhead, but The One smiled contently....for he was home. A blood stained dirt path next to him would serve as his road towards the unknown, for in the distance a great mountain of corpses burned brightly and eerily accented the ash filled air all around him with an unholy glow. It was this place of sorrow and suffering that he would find a secret path to the God's lands, where Dreadfire had sat chained to the arena floor for countless eons.

But before he could attempt to free his master, he would need to complete the journey towards the rotting monolith in the distance and summon forth malevolent energies then likes of which had not been loosed since the dawn of time itself, and it would not be easy.

The One walked for many days along the bleak trail of waste and despair, heading towards the rotting monolith in the distance where he would need to summon forth the negative energy needed to make the leap into Elysium. As he drew closer and closer he found himself being repulsed by a stench so deep and disgusting that even he was revolted by it, and he knew that the evil at this place of death and anguish was even greater than what his own black heart contained.

But finally he had arrived, and within the giant burning mountain of bodies there sat a path that had been cleared, and he knew that if he followed the path he would soon arrive at a clearing. As he walked his glanced from side to side, the melted faces of the slain starring back at him with an expression of pure horror permanently fixed to them. Even though the countless dead had laid at this site for ages, he noticed that as he passed they turned their heads ever so slightly and followed him with eyeless sockets, making careful note of his every move. It was then that he saw a crumbled stone altar in the middle of the small clearing at the heart of the corpse mountain, and inscribed around it were ancient symbols of an occult faith that had died long before the dawn of man. It was here that The One stood and prepared to conjure the unspeakable horrors he would need to liberate Dreadfire from the clutches of the Gods.

He lowered his head and began to quietly chant the forbidden words that had not been spoken for thousands of years, and almost immediately the sky turned from a blood red to an impenetrable black. A white mist began to roll in from the top of the peaks of carcasses and encircle The One as his voice began to grow in volume and intensity, and gradually the ancient symbols began to glow with a demonic orange light. The ground trembled and the air began to pop with the sound of electricity, and in an instant the charred and decomposed corpses screamed loudly and in unison as the blood stained soil split and broke, creating a giant chasm of swirling and unholy energy. From the gaping hole a mammoth shadow figure rose and arched itself forward, glaring at the Death Dealer with a blackened face before recoiling its form and then swarming around the altar with great force.

The One's long coat flapped violently as he was picked up from the ground and whirled around a mighty tornado of energy and wind, lifting him upwards with staggering force and speed. He braced himself as he felt the cold of the underworld leaving him, but as hard as he tried to maintain his composure he could not resist the pressure of the dimensional leap, and he momentarily blacked out as warming light engulfed his body. He came to as he dropped through a rift gate that had opened above the arena where Dreadfire had sat chained for many eons, and he scanned the area quickly to make sure that the Gods were not present. To his relief all he saw was the broken Damien sitting on the stone floor where he had remained, and The One then moved towards him quickly while speaking his name.

Dreadfire! Dreadfire it is I, awaken!

**********************

OOC: To be continued, possibly in another thread.