The Crypt of Alistair Sanguine (Closed to Xanbata Grim)

[Asmodeus]

Daylight was dying fast. Tenebrous Eldanoth unfurled the dry parchment with his frost-stiffened fingers. He scanned the page in a futile attempt to decipher the faded ink. It didn't help that he was in the middle of a blinding snowstorm. With a heavy sigh, he surrendered and tucked the scroll back into his coat. The garment was a monstrosity of crimson fabric and brass buttons, but that was why Tenebrous liked it. That, and it staved off a little of the chill.

Bloody Salvar. He hated the backwater villages full of inbred halfwits. He hated the dogmatic church that swindled the aforementioned halfwits. But most of all, he hated the damned snow. It was all the worst parts of moist and cold. Tenebrous felt a sudden pang of longing for the flames of the Nine Hells. You might burn to death in Baettor, but at least you'd die warm.

Tenebrous kindled an angry, red spark of hellfire in his palms and rubbed them together. The magic stung like nettles, but at least he could feel his hands again. The only reason he'd come to Salvar in the first place was a rumor. A particularly intriguing rumor. Word had it that the famed blood magus Alistair Sanguine was buried in this part of the world. And Tenebrous had no qualms about disturbing the dead if there was power to be gained.

It only figured that the archmage would be buried with his staff and his robe. Maybe even a few choice grimoires. Wizards had a tendency of doing that kind of thing. But it also only figured that the place would be rife with traps and wards and gods only knew what kind of summoned creatures. Tenebrous almost hoped he encountered something nasty. At this point, he wanted nothing more than to burn someone alive.

Still, for all his sorcerous might, Tenebrous knew he was no match for an archmage, even in death. Though he was loathe to do it, he had swallowed his considerable pride and found a partner. A nightwalker by the name of Xanbata Grim. Tenebrous didn't like many creatures. Humans were predictable. Elves were fun to kill, especially when you snapped their delicate bones one at a time. But they weren't good for much else. Fauns were a little too amorous for his liking. But vampires. Vampires, he could understand. Tenebrous knew what it was like to be creature cast from the light. To find refuge in the dark of night.

Tenebrous spat a few choice curses in Infernal, pulled his coat a little tighter, and trudged through the snow. The tomb and his partner had to be close. He'd find the damned crypt if he had to burn down all of Salvar first.

[grim137]

((Takes place before the events of Wanting Again (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25674-Wanting-Again)))

Xanbata couldn't remember why he'd come back to frozen lands of Salvar nor could he remember why he'd chosen to stay in some backwoods mining town up in the mountains whose name he'd never bother to learn. And he certainly couldn't remember how or why he'd heard the name Tenebrous Eldanoth or of the tomb he and the tiefling were supposed to raid in search of some magical MacGuffin.

Perhaps it had all come to him in a fever dream or in some sort of drug induced hallucination or it could have just been a gut instinct or a side effect of something. It didn't really matter. How or why he had come to believe he should meet this Tenebrous fellow was irrelevant as long as it happened soon.

The run down shit hole town he was in, the one whose name he would never learn where for reasons that only the gods themselves knew he was sure he'd meet his new partner in crime, was growing on his nerves and it wasn't the crappy weather either. No, the monster had long since adapted to Salvar's frigid climate, in fact he even enjoyed it on occasion. It was the boredom. The run down, one horse town was in the middle of nowhere. It had no brothels, no casinos, no opium dens and no one worth picking a fight with. It's only bar was a one room wooden rat hole that was just as cheap and nameless as the rest of the town. The only difference was that it seemed to reek extra strongly of booze, filth and body fluids. This would have been bearable had the women and men not been uglier, and likely worse in bed, than your average barn animal or if there was anything other than icy mountain wasteland for miles in all directions.

“I bet I could slaughter this whole town and it would take decades for anybody to notice.”

That was not the first time in that thought had popped into the sociopath's head nor would it be the last. Had it not been for the sheer apathy the town seemed to infect him with he would have probably gone through with it. Instead he stayed at the bar where he he sat at a beat up old table dressed in traditional Salvarian furs that covered his armor, with his sword tucked away in it's sheath at his side, drinking from a dented tin mug another drink that claimed to be mead but tasted more like piss and dirty dishwater. Xanbata hated being bored. He'd become a mercenary and adventurer again precisely so he could fight that feeling and apathy was only going to keep him sedated for so long.

“Tenebrous better get here soon.”

[Asmodeus]

The battered wooden door groaned open, and a gale of icy haze swept through the tavern as Tenebrous pushed his way in. The tiefling gave his coat a shake, strode to the bar, and locked eyes with the man behind it.

“Put wood on the fire and bring me something warm to drink,” he said “or I swear by the Pit you'll be on the ground holding your steaming entrails in both hands.” His tone was calm. Dangerously so. The bartender stared, and for a second, Tenebrous thought the man was too stupid to be afraid. “Now!” he yelled. Tenebrous could be persuasive, charming even, when the mood struck him. But he'd just spent hours wandering in the snow only to find himself in the pitiful excuse for a village he'd left a day ago. Diplomacy was the last thing on his mind.

But even in the midst of his demonic rage, Tenebrous felt something else. Something strange. He was being watched. He turned slowly on his heel and glanced around the crowd. Everyone was staring.

Of course they were. This was Salvar. The people only came in one color: brown like dirt and shit. Even if Tenebrous hadn't just threatened the bartender, he couldn't exactly keep a low profile. His curling horns, amber eyes, and pointed canines tended to draw attention. The blackened iron bastard sword strapped across his back didn't help either. Halfbreeds weren't well-loved in this part of the world. Especially not the demonic variety.

Still. Tenebrous was a prince of hell. He'd fallen far, but not far enough to be intimidated by this pathetic rabble. His gaze swept the room, giving each of the peasants a meaningful look one by one. Daring them to start something. The men's faces fell like dominos, refusing to meet his gaze. All of them except for one who stared right back.

There was something about this one. Something different. It wasn't just the armor and the sword at his side. This man was casually dangerous. A predator if Tenebrous ever saw one. He made the connection. It was the vampire. It had to be. He couldn't imagine many of the creatures roaming a land so firmly under the church's heel.

Tenebrous almost smiled for a moment. Almost. It looked like his luck had taken a turn for the better.

And then the door swung open for a second time.

Three men filed in, wrapped in long furs and leathers that swept the floor. They moved with a purpose and kept their wide brimmed hats pulled low. Tenebrous could smell the reek of faith and fanaticism on them from halfway across the room. Witch hunters, from the Church of the Ethereal sway.

“Citizens of Salvar, we come with a dire warning,” one said, his voice trembling with fervor. “We believe there are two creatures of darkness in your very midst. We are here to purge the evil from your fair town.”

Tenebrous breathed a heavy sigh and his hand drifted casually toward the knife on his belt. He supposed the old saying was true.

No rest for the wicked.

[grim137]

“Finally,” grunted the impatient vampire as the door opened up and the cold Salvarian winds trumpeted arrival of the tiefling Tenebrous.

Xanbata watched with amusement as slender demon ordered the local riffraff around and immediately drawing all attention to himself. Even the haggardly old bar wench that had been eye fucking the noble vampire all day found her eyes diverted to scarlet skinned new comer. Xanbata couldn't help but smile at the display. Tenebrous may not of looked like much but he certainly new how to maintain a commanding presence. Credit where credit was due.

The wood underneath Xanbata's feet groaned as the well muscled monster got up from his seat. He'd intended to go over and introduce himself when the three men so rudely barged in and began making a scene. The religious insignias on their clothing gave away their intentions before they even said a word.

“Oh great, some entertainment has arrived,” thought Xanbata gleefully as the man who he assumed was the leader of the group went through his diatribe.

“Creatures you say! Oh thank the lord you came to protect us!” exclaimed the vampire mockingly as all eyes in the room fell upon him and the men began to circle him like wolves with their hands in their clothing, supposedly resting upon their weaponry.

It was adorable how they thought they were the hunters in the room. But Xanbata wasn't finished.

“Come on out you horrible creatures! Come out out and face the judgment that these fine men have come to deliver!”

By now the men were so close he could practically smell the garlic on their breath and tension in the room was so thick he could have sliced it with his sword. Xanbata decided it was time to drop the act.

“Oh that's right,” said the monster as he locked eyes with the assumed leader and flashed him a toothy, shark like smile, “I'm the creature.”

Xanbata was smiling now, like little kid who had just gotten out school for the summer. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword and the air around seemed to shimmer and cackle with dark energy and anticipation. The old bar had already moved towards the wall, far away from the Xanbata and his new prey. They may have been a bunch of hill billies but they knew how danger when they saw it and what they now saw happening was most certainly dangerous.

“Before I begin,” said the blood thirsty vampire “would you and your men like to say your last rites? I know how much you zealots value your traditions.”

[Asmodeus]

Tenebrous shrugged out of his coat. It was new, and rusty brown bloodstains were such a bother to remove. The sorcerer pushed up his crisp white sleeves and strolled towards the witchunters. The floorboards groaned in protest under his fine leather boots, and he came to stand behind them. They had the vampire surrounded, but he didn't seemed worried. Quite the contrary. The man seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Before I begin,” said the blood thirsty vampire “would you and your men like to say your last rites? I know how much you zealots value your traditions.”

“Silence your unhallowed tongue, abomination,” the witchhunter sneered. His leathers were a little richer than the other two, and the holy symbol hanging from his throat was gilded. He also wore a curious broadsword at his side. Tenebrous took a glance at the metal and pegged it as blessed silver or the like. This one was obviously the leader of the little band.

“Gentlemen,” Tenebrous said. “Mr. Grim and I are travelers, visiting your fair country.” He smiled, baring his wicked teeth. “Is this how your treat guests? You wouldn't want to offend us.”

Two of the men spun to face the sorcerer, but the leader kept his attention fixed on Xanbata. The vampire had insulted him twice, first by disrespecting his precious faith and second for the crime of merely existing. The witchunter wasn't going to let that go easily. Snarling a prayer, his whipped sword out of its sheathe and swung it in a vicious ark at Xanbata.

Tenebrous would have liked to watch the man get torn to pieces, but he had his own problems. The other two witchhunters had drawn their weapons and were slowly advancing. Thankfully, the pair were armed with mundane steel. The tiefling couldn't stand the touch of sanctified metal.

“Very well. If you want an early death, who am I to deny you?” he said. His foot lashed out, and he shifted from grinning gentleman to practiced killer with horrifying ease. He felt more than heard the satisfying snap of bone as his heel connected and the witchunter screamed. Tenebrous might not have had his old strength, but he was still more than a match for the pathetic mortal.

The man fell to the ground, but Tenebrous swept behind him and caught him with a dancer's grace. With a practiced flourish, Tenebrous pulled the man's own knife from his belt and drove it into the base of his neck. He jerked like a marionette once, twice and then went limp. A satisfying trickle of warm blood filled the cracks between the sorcerer's fingers as he tugged the knife out and faced the other witchunter.

“When your soul's dragged kicking and screaming to Hell, would you mind terribly doing me a small favor?” Tenebrous asked. “Tell them that Asmodeus sent you. That he's coming back. That there's no corner of the Pit deep enough or dark enough to hide.” For a moment, the tiefling's genteel mask cracked, and the witchunter caught a glimpse of something. Something depraved. Something old. Something evil beyond words. The man stumbled towards the door, his faith and mission forgotten.

With casual disdain, Tenebrous spat a word in Infernal. A spear of flame tore across the room and caught the man in the back. He screamed and begged his gods to save him, rolling on the ground in a pathetic attempt to suffocate the hellfire. Zealots, Tenebrous shook his head. Disappointingly predictable.

“Mr. Grim,” Tenebrous said. “After we conclude our business here, I would advise that we take our leave with all due haste. We wouldn't want the whole church to feel obliged to show us their hospitality, would we? I can explain the crypt on the way out of town. Agreed?”

[grim137]

“Abomination? Me? Well I never!” exclaimed Xanbata in mock offense at the witch hunter's accusation.

The vampire's eyes never left the leader though he kept track of the other two with his extra sense. He was cocky, not stupid. When the man decided to attack Xanbata had nowhere to dodge to with his opponent in front of him and the table behind him. Luckily he didn't need to because as fast as the witch hunter was Xanbata Grim was much, much faster.

Before the righteous man's sword could taste the sinning creature's flesh his wrist was caught by the monster's right hand. For a second there was a look of fear in his eyes as he struggled in vain against the creature whose strength dwarfed his. Xanbata licked his lips as free began to glow with a deadly energy.

Xanbata twisted his victim's wrist, suddenly and sharply in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to to force the stubborn, stalwart witch hunter to his knees.

"Pray." he commanded.

The witch hunter looked the monster in the eyes and cursed the creature in his native Salvarian tongue.

Angry at his captive's stubbornness the Xanbata's placed his free hand on the man's stomach. The appendage glowed and crackled with it's master's dark energy as Xanbata bared his fangs. "Pray!" he commanded again, this time more forcefully.

“Oh blessed Sway please...” began the hunter. The vampire could still feel him struggling fruitlessly to free himself from his grip.

Before the prayer could be finished the dark energy shot from the monster's palm and slammed into his victim’s stomach, exploding like a hand grenade. The leather and fur that religious man wore did as little to protect him as as prayer he never finished, giving way easily as the poor man's midsection ruptured like an over stuffed water balloon and showered the small bar with blood, guts and other fluids. The process was quick but as the look on the former witch hunter's face seemed to attest, it was far from painless.

With his business concluded Xanbata turned to see how his demonic cohort was doing. He walked among the bodies and observed the demons handy works. The remaining patrons now gawked in horror at the two men, too scared to speak or act. Xanbata simply smiled at the scene laid out before him though he turned his nose at the repugnant smell of burning flesh.

“You're probably right,” sighed the vampire at the demon's suggestion “as much fun as that was I doubt the church would come at us that under prepared again. I suggest we take the bodies with us into the wilderness. The wildlife will get dispose of the evidence.” Then after a moment of thought he looked around at the other patrons and added, “What about the witnesses?”

[Asmodeus]

Tenebrous glanced around the room, taking in the huddled clump of blanched, trembling peasants. The vampire made a solid point. They couldn't afford to leave this many witnesses. The Tiefling flashed a brief, apologetic smile at the stunned crowd, moved towards the bar, and snatched up a bottle of cheap liquor.

“Terribly sorry,” he said. His words clipped, polite, and utterly free of remorse. “You had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Tenebrous stood over the body of the man he'd just roasted alive. The hellfire was still flickering feebly. He uncorked the bottle and upended it over the blackened carcass. The greedy flames caught the alcohol and roared to life. The sorcerer had tasted better drinks in the Nine Hells, but at least the stuff was good for something. The fire began to dance across the dry, splintery floorboards and crawl up the walls. The inn was a conveniently placed deathtrap. Quite frankly, Tenebrous was surprised it hadn't caught fire a long time ago.

“Wish we could stay longer,” Tenebrous said, sweeping his greatcoat over his shoulders. “But the road beckons. It's been a delightful evening.” The smoke had woken the peasants from their stunned silence, and they were starting to push and shove their way out. But Tenebrous was faster. He was out the door, Xanbata close behind him.

Tenebrous heaved the door shut and jammed his knife through the wood and deep into the doorframe. He felt a pang of loss. That dagger had cut countless throats and spilled gallons of blood in its day. But he had the witchunter's blade, and it would serve just as well. Tenebrous shook his head, ignoring the hoarse screams in the room beyond. He was getting sentimental in his old age.

Still, the night wasn't getting any brighter, and there was distance to cover. He fastened his coat, adjusted his bastard sword, and strode off into the night. He knew where he was now, and more importantly, he knew that the tomb wasn't far. He and his companion could reach it by the first light of dawn. The evening hadn't gone as planned. But still. What was a night on the town without a little light bloodshed?

[grim137]

“Yeah, lets get going,” agreed Xanbata Grim as he looked on a the burning the building. By now it was so completely engulfed by the white hot demon fire that the vampire could feel the heat of the flames on his skin to an uncomfortable degree even across the street. Black smoke billowed upward from the pyre into the cloudy night sky.

Xanbata looked around. The few people in the town that hadn't been at the burning bar that night, mostly the wives and children of the patrons, had come out of there homes to gawk in horror at the blaze. The demon and the vampire walked out of the village slowly passed the villagers who ignored the two monsters as they stared, cursed and the cried for their loved ones. They were no threat to anybody. It was all just background noise.

The two would travel through the night. The tomb wasn't far but the land up in the rocky mountains was treacherous. Between the heavy winds, icy and uneven ground, and the steep slopes made for a difficult trail. But worst of all was the darkness.

Out in the wilderness where there were no street lights nor lanterns on the trail it was near pitch black. This was especially true on nights like that night where the wind blew snow and sediment in the air and the clouds blocked out most of the light from the stars and the moon.

But the two pressed on.

To account for the near complete lack of visibility they made makeshift torches out of tree branches and hell fire. Despite the rough terrain and the very real threat of a potential blizzard or avalanche that the weather posed the two bantered freely trading stories of battles they'd fought, prey they'd hunted and decadence they'd indulged in.

By the time Xanbata and Tenebrous arrived at their destination the sun had begun the rise and the snow storm had calmed. The tomb entrance to the tomb was nothing fancy. In fact had it not been for Tenebrous, Xanbata Grim likely would have never been able to tell it was there.

Far from any beaten path, covered in frost and dirt and partially over grown with lichen and weeds was a large boulder embedded in the side of a mountain only differentiated from any of the countless others just like it by the faded runes that had been carved into it countless centuries ago. With an almost child like curiosity the vampire examined it, wiping away some of the grim and plant life and looking for any openings, or handles, or switches or mechanisms or any thing else that might give him a clue as to how to open it. When he couldn't find any he turned to his traveling companion.

“So what now?” he asked.

[Asmodeus]

“Now,” Tenebrous replied. “We make a grand entrance.”

He ran a hand over the frost-cracked stone and leaned in close to the rock. “Odo cicle qaa,” he breathed. The words were in Celestial, and the language tasted as vile as a saint's ashes on his tongue. For a moment, Tenebrous questioned why a mage with a reputation as dark as Alistair Sanguine's would make angel speak the key to his grave. But the tiefling's qualms were silenced as the stone ground open and a gust of musty air washed over him.

“And now,” he said with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “The fun begins. Welcome, good nightwalker, to the tomb of the Alistair Sanguine!”

Tenebrous took a cautious step forward, waving the torch in a wide arc. The tunnel was a long, rough-hewn wound in the mountainside, carved straight into the stone. Tenebrous found himself a little disappointed. No rusty deathtraps. No intricately woven defensive magic. No shambling horrors. He shook his head. The quality of bloodmages had taken a turn for the worse in the last millennia. He walked down the passage, footsteps echoing off the stone.

“A fun bit of trivia about Alistaire,” he said. “He was fairly powerful in his prime. Gave the church a real scare. The man was an artist,” Tenebrous smiled. “Every inquisitor they sent after him, he sent right back, undead, twisted beyond imagination, and pissed as the hells. He managed to raise a shambling army before the zealots finally got lucky and ended him. Still not sure how they did it,” he chuckled.

And then the laughter caught in his throat, and he almost choked.

Tenebrous was beginning to put the pieces together. The tomb. The Celestial password. How a group a mob of inept witchunters had managed to slay an archmage and slaughter his army.

The answer was simple. They hadn't. This wasn't Alistair's tomb. This was his prison.

He'd been locked down here along with the remains of his hideous creations. Tenebrous turned to warn the vampire, but the boulder slid shut behind him, cutting off the last of the pale moonlight. Something was dragging its way down the hall. Something big. Something that smelled like blackened, rotten meat. Tenebrous whipped the bastard sword off his shoulders.

“Brace yourself, friend,” he said. “We're about to meet some of the archmage's finest work.”

[grim137]

“Impressive...” mused Xanbata Grim as the mountain shuddered and the ground opened up.

The vampire followed his companion down the moldy cavern smiling at the demon's dramatic gesture. The antics of his red skin companion were extremely amusing. Once the two made their way passed the narrow entrance the cavern opened up a bit to where it was easily wide enough for three men to walk side by side comfortably.

Xanbata walked along side his companion listening with intent to the tale of Alistair Sanguine and while the story was certainly an entertaining one, the blood sucker couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. Like Tenebrous, Xanabata had been expecting something...more...he was a bit disappointed when he didn't get it. There were no death traps to avoid, no horrible monsters or minions for him to fight, for him to take. Aside from some odd coloring on the walls here and there, there was absolutely nothing that seemed out of the ordinary.

That was until they got deeper. Then it happened.

Xanbata didn't know what triggered it. If it was time, distance or something else altogether. All he knew as that at that moment a loud rumbling reverberated through the caverns as the opening closed and a thick curtain of darkness covered them. The only warmth and the only light in the cold, musty tomb now came from the torch that Tenebrous had carried with him and that wouldn't last very long.

Then came smell, as sudden as a flash flood, it filled the seem to permeate every inch of the cavern assaulting the nostrils of anybody who was trapped inside and Xanbata could sense the source. Down in the depths of the cavern was a large and likely extremely grotesque abomination of the undead variety. He could hear it moaning as it lumbered toward them and scrapped something against the stone wall.

Xanbata drew his sword and took a defensive stance.

The swordsman had spent the majority of his last life blinded and trapped in an endless darkness. As much as he tried to forget that past life, he could still remember those days vividly. He remembered how he'd learn to fight and thrive in the darkness. How to kill in the darkness. It was not something he was unaccustomed to nor something he'd forgotten how do. More importantly than that he remembered with great detail what it was like to be struck down and die in the darkness. He'd be damned if he was going to allow that to happen again.

The dark energy that had ended the witch hunter's life hours ago swelled in the predator's throat. Only to die down again when he realized that wasn't an option. A blast that deep under the mountain could easily cause a cave in and he was not about to let himself be buried alive and died out in the wilderness where no one would ever remember him. Not again.

And so the energy subsided from his throat and instead crept downward and spread like a mist over his prevalida blade. If he couldn't blow this creature up, he'd just have to cut it down.

“Ready when you are.”