Plumes of black smoke wafted slowly into the dank, humid and stale air of the hell dimension Malevora. The realm was only the size of a city, enclosed on all four sides by crimson colored rock. The sky was a depressing grey with black and purple lightning cracking and monstrous thunder grumbling. Black clouds merged with the gently rising smoke that came from the slave factories. The frequent screams and moans of the innocent - or relatively innocent - resounded horrifyingly off the acoustically macabre cavern walls of Malevora.
On a small mountain of dirt, rock, and the skeletons of multiple races, were three thrones in a triangular formation, as different from one another as the rulers that sat upon them. Reigning from an elegant, gold-plated Victorian style throne of velvet plush seating was The Beast. Despite her title, this woman appeared human and quite gorgeous. She wore a long red dress and long blood red fingernails. On the seat of skulls and bone was Dagon, sometimes known as the fallen angel Dobiel, who is in charge of Persia. Dagon too, at the moment, appeared human, though not so attractive. He was old, ancient even; his hairless head seemed to be barely covered by his tight, wrinkled pale flesh. His eyes were a bright blue. His attire included a long black and grey leather cloak.
However, the human who sat upon the black leather La-Z Boy recliner was by far the most feared lord of this hell dimension called Malevora. He was clad in rugged and faded blue jeans, flip-flops, and a white muscle shirt that showed off not only his ripped biceps but also their scars. He did not attain his power without cost. The man's eyes were a piercing green, and they became greener when his emotions grew. He had black, slicked back hair and a scar running diagonally across the length of his unshaven face. Stubble had grown on his jowl over the course of a few days. His name was Dren. And he was The Infamous.
Green fire ignited on the torch mounted in the dirt by his feet on the Mount of Thrones. He smirked. His hunters had brought him yet another toy. He stood, rubbing his hands together. His old mentor, Dagon, watched with interest.
Captain Vorshal was standing halfway down the Mount on the steps. He was the commander of The Infamous' personal guard. He was a wraith, a pale creature with a black tribal tattoo on his face and long white hair. He wore a long black leather coat, his claws partially raised as he awaited the hunters' ascent.
Then they came. There were three of them. Two were reptilian demons. They were holding the girl, a dark-haired fragile young lady with pale flesh. Vorshal licked his purple lips. He also saw the dark elf who was in charge of the hunting party. Vorshal did not particularly like the elf, Rezlin, but he had to tolerate him for his master's sake.
As the hunters drew closer, Vorshal turned, beckoning them up the incline with a grin of exposed fangs. He made eye contact with the girl, reached into her mind with his own, and found her name.
Hello Alice...They came while you slept, did they? What cowards...