High noon, approximately a two-day ride from the outskirts of the Helscape—the devil's domain—a dark-garbed rider rides into the outpost of Devon on a ebony steed. Devon is the last sign of civilization for hundreds of miles in every direction; last chance to resupply for travelers heading south, not that any common man dare head that way. But this rider is no ordinary man. He lassos his horse to a nearby stable and rips his cowhide waterskin from his belt. Pulling down the worn kerchief from his face, he takes a sip of water but, alas, there is none. "Don't recall drinking it dry." he mutters to himself. The rider looks ahead and sees the local watering hole. "Could use some snake bite."

It is a poor establishment—dimly lit, dank, and an odd odor rears its ugly head at times; a doggery through and through. The patrons are a quiet bunch, not typical of tavern fare. The rider walks to the counter to speak to the bartender, a bald and burly man with one good eye. "Whiskey. Straight." the rider orders as he tosses a few copper coins onto the counter. The bartender looks down at the coins before looking back up at the rider.

"You can keep your coin, friend. No alcohol here." the bartender states.

"No wonder it's so quiet. No alcohol? Isn't that contradictory to the purpose of a bar?" the rider asks.

"No one's delivering nothin' all the way out here. Not this close to the badlands."

"Got anything stronger than water?"

"Sparkling water."

"Regular's fine." The rider drinks his lukewarm water and scans the room casually. Earlier in the week, he replied to a poster requesting bodies for escort service through the Helscape. A few hundred coins per person. As someone who frequents that half of the world, it should be easy money but only a fool underestimates the danger that comes from vising the Helscape. Then again, only the foolish go; the smart ones stay home. So what kind of manner of fool is this rider? He removes his leather gloves and places them into his left pant pockets, revealing a distinctive brand.

"Fuck! Are you a mage?!" a man standing beside the rider shouts when he saw the brand.

Calm and collected, the rider turns to the man and replies. "Do you have a problem?"

"You better damn bet on it! Why the fuck is a spell-chucker allowed in here?!"

"Easy there. No need to cause a commotion." The bartender attempts to calm the patron.

"If you got such a problem with me drinking here, you can drink elsewhere."

"The nearest outpost is not for a few days ride—"

"Then I suggest you start walking." The other patrons begin to whisper among themselves, trading rumors and myths on what they heard about mages. About how they sacrifice children for pagan rituals and how they lay with demons.

"That true? You fond of such deviltry? You fuck demons?" the patron questions.

"More likely to shoot 'em than fuck 'em. You got the wrong hog by the tail. I hunt demons for a living."

"I can vouch for this fellow." a slender man with a curled mustache said about the rider. "I occasionally employ mages for work. I know them better than most of you lot here. Let's all settle down. Sparkling water on me next round." The man managed to calm things down while the patron who originally caused the uproar was kicked out by the bartender. The mustachioed fellow walks up to the rider afterwards. "I hope that experience doesn't sour your thirst."

"Used to it. It's the end times. People are scared of any and all things unnatural. Not rattled at all."

"Nor should you be. Thomas Essex. Tom" The man tips his hat.

The rider does the same. "Arryn Flynt. Flynt."

"Arryn Flynt? If I'd a pig for every chance encounter in my life, I'd have a plate of bacon. I'm part of the company of surveyors whose advertisement you replied to."

"I see. Guess I'll be seeing you again in two days."

"I'd bet my mother's diamonds on it. But first, a drink."

Click, click, click. A spark or two had appeared from the lighter, but nothing much to light Jason's cigar. Frustrated he tossed aside the lighter and placed a palm over his temples beneath his hat. He had heard he'd hear more detail for his assignment in this town, but taking business in public wasn't wise. Even though he is not an official mage, nor bears a mark of it, his necromancy had become infamous. Which had its perks, of course, but not without the costs.

Someone confirmed an example of this, when people pointed out the stranger's mark and criticized him for his background of a mage. Least a normal mage aren't inherently evil. The curse of dark arts that Jason bears is void of any redemption, his own existence was a sin. While employers can tolerate it for his useful service, he didn't like to take things public.

Taking another look at the stranger, talking to someone else. He overheard a name and advertisement. This had to be about the job. He didn't know who he would be working with, but he knew he wasn't the only one taking it. This was what he was waiting for.

Jason stood up from his lonesome table, and walked some paces towards the two. "Heard something about a business. I reckon this is where I'm supposed to be..." He paused, Jason was a much more frail and smaller figure compared to the more burly men here, though that wasn't to say he didn't have any muscle or fitness in him, but at a first glance he was rather unintimidating. However he placed a hand upon Mr. Flynt's shoulder. His touch was cold, dead cold, and stiff, like a corpse. The look in his eyes was void of emotion other then a serious tone. Looking past Flynt's to the other man he continued, "Dead hand Jason ring a bell?"

It'd been several years since Reginald had gone into the Helscape. Several years of peace, quiet, and simplicity. Missions into that God-Forsaken place were probably half the reason for his gray hair. No one expected to come out of that place alive.

And yet, here he was: Longbeard the old man, sliding through the desert like a bird through the air. Why use a horse when he could just launch himself forward and slide? He was probably moving at least as fast as any rider, and he didn't have to worry about taking care of an animal.

Not that he didn't have a horse: no self respecting Mage would be caught dead without one. Jonathan was his name. The stallion was a newer one, because to the surprise of many, Reginald had outlived his old horse. Poor Malkovich. Jonny-Boy was a little bit more nervous than his last horse, so Reggie had decided to leave the beast behind at one of the Mage stables. Easier to move on two feet, anyhow.

Normally, he'd have to keep recasting the spell, but since he wasn't doing anything except moving forward, it was kind of an automatic reaction to keep the spell going.

So he skated along, muttering, "Gettin' too old for this nonsense." It was not the first time he'd said it, and it wouldn't be the last. Really, though, what was he supposed to say? Any time the Mage Order caught wind of a trip to the demon domain, someone put him on the job, just because he was one of the few mages to continuously return alive from the damned place.

Jefferson always came back, too. Damn Jefferson. Longbeard pulled his trusty revolver from it's holster and blasted the earth a few times as he slid by. Behind him, a pair of stalagmites erupted out of the ground, then disappeared just as abruptly. Damn kid thought he was hot shit, always blowing up everything within a half-mile. Some day firepower wouldn't be enough.

A shout of alarm surprised him from his front. Apparently he'd reached the city without even realizing it, and a young woman hanging her laundry out to dry had heard the shots and yelped in surprise.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat as he slid by. "Just thinkin' out loud." She gaped at him as he practically floated along, and Reginald realized that it might be best to walk from here. Normal folks didn't take too kindly to his particular method of movement.

It only took him a few moments to locate the meeting spot. Not a ton of places called 'The Devil's Claw' were around the town of Devon. "Gotta be the place," he figured, and pushed inside. Right away he knew he was spot on.

Arryn Flynt stood in the center of the room, alongside The Job and another youthful looking guy. Flynt was the important one: they had worked together once before, and Reggie had a good bit of respect for the man.

He sidled up to the small group of men, nodding in recognition to Flynt, then turning to The Job and holding out a hand. "I'm told you're called Essex. Reginald Dubois, pleased to meet you. Most folks call me Longbeard now'days." He smiled slightly and retreated to the bar, where he ordered the strongest drink in the house.

Sparkling water it was.

The mage sat on his horse a quarter of a mile in front of Ryn both six shooter raised as he yelled to the Night Elf “What do you want? Why the hell have you been following me?”

Ryn did not respond he simply stood staring back at the man, even if he wanted to answer the mage he did not know the answers to his questions. As he pondered why he was here following this man toward the Hellscape Anaquandai spoke to him “The time for following is over, now is time for killing.”

At these words Ryn began to sprint forward. The mage did not hesitate as three steaming blue rings appeared in front of the barrels of both guns and he began firing them in rapid succession. As each bullet fired passed through the rings they began to glow and steam as blocks of magical ice formed around them. Anaquandai once again spoke to Ryn “Step Left, 1 second Slide Right, 2 seconds Roll Forward, Stand, and then Swing.”

Ryn did as Anaquandai commanded. The magical ice bullets coming within centimeters of striking him, he could feel the burn of their chill as they passed, but each of the movements that Anaquandai dictated kept Ryn from harm. After closing the gap between himself and the mage Ryn rolled forward, stood, and swung Anaquandai.

The familiar feeling of the ax breaking bone and rending flesh ran through his body as the mage made a low grunt before splitting clean in two at the waist. The two halves of the mage slide off the horse and landed on the ground with a wet thud. Anaquandai spoke to Ryn “Another beast is dead.”

After catching his breath Ryn began rummaging through the dead man’s belongings. Mostly ammo, some of the poison humans consider medicine, human currency, and a small package of papers.

The first few papers were wanted posters for various outlaws, then there were a pile of business cards with “Rolando McCoy, Mage, Bounty Hunter, Runaway Slave Hunter, and Mercenary for Hire.” Printing across the top and an address in some human city across the bottom. The last was a job posting for a job in a town the Ryn knew was just a few miles ahead. A survey crew needs an escort into the Hellscape.

Ryn was about to toss the papers to the ground when Anaquandai spoke “Go to this disgusting human town and meet the contact. Lie if you must, get on the crew, and don’t try to kill the mages.”

Ryn frowned at the thought of doing a human’s bidding and he sneered at the thought of working with mage’s but Anaquandai’s advice was always sound so he mounted the dead mages horse and rode towards town. He would be there within the hour.

---

The acrid smell of ash lingered on the air as Grimjaw trudged across the dry, dusty landscape. His boot-spurs spit rocks out behind him, leaving a strange trail in his wake and his iron jaw clanged with each steady step. A staccato of gunfire echoed from somewhere in the distance. Who the hell is letting loose this close to the Helscape?, thought the bounty hunter. It sounded far off, no threat to the bounty hunter. Without breaking stride, Grimjaw turned and looked back the way he came, leveling one gnarled hand over his eyebrow to block the sun. In the distance he could make out the heap of flesh that was once his horse. The poor beast had simply given up and died in the desert. He came to a stop and looked up into the blistering sun above. The pale sky stretched endlessly to all horizons, except the black nightmare of the Helscape.

Grimjaw snorted, spat out an oily mess of phlegm and grease and stalked on. He wouldn't end up like that beast back on the road. For nearin' twenty five years he had pushed on through the desert-through drought and demons and mages and their wars. Picking up bounties and sniffing out loot wherever he could. Always on the border of the Helscape, always near to oblivion and whatever the hell else was out in the wasteland. The smell of ash drifted away and something else took its place.

It was a weird smell, always was when mages summoned something arcane. Somewhere between cinnamon, rotten fruit and horseshit, the tell-tale smell of mage-craft. Grimjaw scanned the horizon and pulled his rifle, Prospero from his shoulder and readied it. About two hundred yards in front of him were two distinct lumps of something or someone he thought somberly. Grimjaw approached the body cautiously, stepping carefully to avoid disturbing the tracks. He paused over the upper half of what had once been a mage.

Demons. Only demons would do this to man. Grimjaw studied the mans face. "Rolando," he said, iron jaw grinding out the syllables. Grim knew him, or knew of him. Not the most savory character, but out here in the wastes who was? The man had been split in two. But why? Grim turned to study the tracks.

One horse, two men, one light on his feet. The killer. Quick movements, calculated and timed perfectly. Professional. Or demonic, Grimjaw didn't know. But he knew that the victor had taken Rolandos horse, and those tracks led to Devon, only a few miles away. Grimjaw looked at the dead man one last time. Eyes wide in horror or disbelief. Dead in the desert. Gave up and died. But not Grimjaw. Grimjaw would keep moving on. Moving towards whatever was next.

Jason didn't need to give his name for Flynt to decipher who he is or what he is. His "friendly" shoulder touch was all the information that Flynt needed. But a proper introduction is what separates man from beast so Jason gave them his name and asks them if they know who he is. "Dead hand's accurate. You're a necromancer. A dying sect of magic unfortunately." Flynt explains in his croaky voice.

"Ahh. So truly a dead man walking." Thomas lightly jokes.

"Aren't we all?" Flynt adds.

"A grim outlook, but one that's not entirely inaccurate given the state of our sorry world." Thomas turns to Jason. "But yes, I do recall you've a part in this little expedition. Lady Fate has been kind to me today. Or is it Lady Luck? You'll have to forgive me. I'm a foreigner to these parts and am not well-versed in the terminology used here." Thomas explains.

"You're a Sillan." Flynt discerns.

"Correct you are, my good man. What gave it away?"

"Nothing. I've been around. Tell me, Sillan. Do you still speak the Old Tongue?"

"Assac ela dora. (You tell me.)"

"Kafka ta laga set. (Another language still lives.)" Before the conversation between the two men could continue any further, an old man interrupts; one that Flynt knows and has much admiration for. A grizzled veteran mage by the name of Reginald Dubois. The typical life span of a mage nowadays is somewhere between 25 to 35 years of age so while Flynt is considered "old" in mages' terms, Reginald is practically a relic. Reginald tips his hat to Flynt who returns the acknowledgement before he introduces himself and his purpose to Thomas.

"Tallahsa! (Wonderful!) Mister Dubois, it is a pleasure to have you accompany us. Dear bartender, a round of sparkling water for all of us, if you please." Thomas orders for the small party of four.

Flynt leans against the counter besides Reginald. "Good to see you, Longbeard. How's the gout? Not that walking's your preferred method of travel."

"Ahh, gentlemen, I'm afraid I must bid farewell to all of you for now. We will meet at the border of the Helscape in two days. I would advise getting well and rested in the next couple of days." Thomas states.

"Don't have to tell me. Getting here already drained my spirit what with that sandstorm and all." Flynt explains. Thomas then left the tavern leaving the three mages to their own accord. Flynt finishes his sparkling water and left a tip on the counter in the form of a copper coin. "I'm afraid catching up will have to wait, Longbeard. A bed calls me. And perhaps a warm body to lie next to." Flynt tips his hat to both mages. "Longbeard. Jason." He then leaves to retire for the day.



A cockroach scurries across the arid desert ground in search of shade from the blistering heat—heat not from the sun but from the wind that carries along with it hot ash and sparks from the Helscape. The cockroach: in many ways a perfect analogy for the human race. Numerous and resilient in the face of all odds. A sand-colored gecko pops up from underground and, in an instant, devours the cockroach. Flynt rides his steed southbound to the border between the Living Lands and the Helscape. Already, signs of the demonic scourge's influence on the world can be seen all around Flynt. He'll be there within the hour. Flynt spent the last two days restocking on supplies, most especially, ammunition. It's as important as water when traveling into the Helscape. He also purchased a small pouch of dried, candied Soulthorne petals from a specialty mage store. He'll need it in a pinch.

An hour passes and, as predicted, he's finally here at the outskirts. The land a mile out towards the horizon is nothing but scorched earth and rivers of lava. The band of surveyors are here, waiting for their escorts. They consist of Thomas Essex—the Sillan man from two days ago—a dark-skinned Ancient by the name of Ludo Greene, and a red-haired female dwarf named Jane Wrathebone. "Flynt, my good man! First to show up as always." Thomas greets the mage.

"Tom." Flynt acknowledges while also tipping his hat to the other two before getting off his horse. "Ride back to camp." Flynt tells his horse before placing it under a mind control spell. The horse gallops off northward.

"Your steed not coming with?" Ludo, the Ancient, inquires in a deep, bellowing voice.

"I rather like my horse. Prefer it living." Flynt responds.

"Allow me to introduce my colleagues. Ludo Greene is the Ancient fellow and this small beauty here is Miss Jane Wrathebone. This is Arryn Flynt." Thomas introduces everyone.

"Ey, yer flatter me, Tom. Beauty, I cannot claim. It is good to have ye with us, Mister Flynt." Jane says.

"Just Flynt'll do. I think you're lovely, Miss Jane." Flynt states.

"Thank ye, Flynt. Then just Jane'll do."

Longbeard had thought that he would be first to arrive. He'd woken with the sun and headed out just as soon as he put the hat on his head. There was no real need to prepare or clean himself up: a simple flick of the wrist removed all the dust and dirt from his clothing. Then he was off, sliding across the deserted landscape with undeniable grace.

He'd spent the two days in Devon, shooting the breeze with some of the inhabitants, and using his particular talent with the earth to aid them in various ways. He purified a well for one couple about his age, and he helped a pair of young men lift heavy planks into position through the use of what amounted to stone lifts. Basic things: he knew the world viewed his kind as dangerous and devil-worshiping, so it was always on his mind to leave a good impression. Tip your hat to everyone you meet, and do you best to leave a place better than you find it.

Now he was on the road--rather, he was out and moving, because there were no more roads--heading for the meeting point which they had been describe two days earlier. It was gonna be a tough mission. He got a feel for these kind of things in his bones, and his bones were telling him to prepare for the worst.

Lucky for his bones, Longbeard was always prepared for the worst, especially when heading into the Helscape. So it was no surprise to him when he passed a dead bird on his way out. Just another omen to things he already expected. He'd already been on the move for a while when the first speck of living beings popped over the horizon. With them came the Helscape, and Longbeard had to take a moment to catch his breath.

The Helscape. Even now, after decades of watching the place and venturing into those forsaken lands, seeing them still brought numbing fear into his heart. A place so devoid of life that the very earth itself bled red fire. The one good thing about the Helscape was the utterly ridiculous amount of obsidian just lying around. While he was in these parts, he'd have no need for regular stone bullets, because there was enough of the black rock here to keep him stocked and shooting until the day he died, and then some. Besides that, obsidian bullets were much easier to charm than heterogeneous stone mixtures like he was used to, and they were fiendishly sharp and damaging besides.

"Ho there!" He called as he approached. Flynt was there--how did the young bastard get everywhere faster than he did, anyway?--along with Essex and, Reginald assumed, the others in the surveyor group. An Ancient goliath who Longbeard didn't know, and a very lovely small woman who he would have loved to get to know better, were he just a decade or two younger. Nowadays his interest in beautiful women was purely optical. He'd seen enough people die from getting close to Mages to know where to draw the line.

"Mornin' to you all. Essex. Flynt. Glad we ain't dead just yet. And who're you?" he asked politely, tipping his hat to the strangers.

"Ludo Greene." Said the Ancient. Nothing more.

"Jane Wrathebone," said the pretty dwarf. She took his hand firmly and squeezed. "Jane to me friends. Glad t'make yer acquaintance, Longbeard." At his raised eyebrow, she chuckled softly. "Ahhh, yer reputation precedes ya, Stoneheart! A relic in a sea o'nubiles, ain't it so?"

"As you say, ma'am," said Longbeard, smiling gently at the woman's forthrightness. "Pleased to meet you as well, Jane. Hope we'll be workin' well together. Gotta make sure we all come back'n one piece, hey?" He straightened and glanced around. "And where're our fine fellows? They're missin' some lovely daylight."

It had taken Ryn little more than an hour to reach the outskirts of the human town now that he was on horseback. He rode down the main street keeping his head down and trying to ignore the stares and whispers of the townsfolk as he rode by. He rode straight the town’s livery stable and dismounted Rolando’s horse. An old Dwarf waddled out to meet him smiling and croaking a friendly hello until he got a good look at Ryn then his smile faded.

“What do you want elf?” any semblance of friendliness gone from the old dwarf’s tone.

“I would like to give you this horse. He is of no use to me and he tells me he is a loyal companion for any good master.” Ryn offered back attempting to be civil. The dwarf did not have to be told twice that he was getting a free horse and accepted. He allowed Ryn to fill his water skin from his well and filled Ryn’s ration bag with a few handfuls of oats and cracked corn.

Ryn then left the town of humans, as passed the last house in town he heard the murmuring of men. Cocksure humans were discussing whether they should try to capture the clip ear that just entered town, they were sure that the next time a slave trader or bounty hunter rode through town they could get a reward. Ryn headed toward the area the job advertisement had said was the meeting point well outside town. He needed to wait two days and this town was not safe for him, or rather he was not safe for this town.

He sat up camp in a small dry wash about a mile from the meeting point, then pulled out his flute and began to play. As the notes carried on the wind he thought of the last time he entered the helscape. Anaquandai had ordered him to do so and he had spent nearly two weeks roaming the wastes going wherever Anaquandai commanded and fighting creatures so terrible and powerful that he had barely survived. It was out there in the helscape in a long forgotten cave he had found the flute he played now. Anaquandai had told him it was an ancient elf flute but that did not mean much to him, just another relic of a time long forgotten.

On the morning the job posting Ryn had taken from Rolando’s dead body stated was the start of the expedition Ryn left the wash and headed to the described meeting point. He arrived to find a handsome old ancient, a young beautiful dwarf, a human, and two filthy mages. The human strode forward a somewhat confused look on his face. “Hello sir. I’m Thomas Essex and who might you be?”

Anaquandai spoke to Ryn “State the truth.”

Ryn looked Thomas Essex straight in the eyes. “I am Ryn the Clip Ear McCray. I have come here today to join your expedition into the helscape. I came across the job posting on the body of a mage that I killed in a fair fight outside of town and figured you wouldn’t mind having another experienced killer by your side.” He said this as he lifted the folded job posting into the air.

“Well this world is a harsh place. I appreciate your honesty and I won’t ask any questions, but if you want to start any trouble of any kind during our expedition I want you know that the other men traveling with us are killers just like you. Do you understand me?” Essex said slowing in a deep serious voice.

“I understand. I am here to work and nothing more.” Ryn replied.

“Well alright then we have ourselves an elf warrior. We just need ourselves a Halfling and a talking dog and we’d have ourselves a mighty grand party.” Essex joked as he shook Ryn’s hand.

Ryn introduced himself to the ancient and the dwarf shaking their hands and exchanging warm greetings. He then turned to the mages and gave them a slow acknowledging nod.