High Elve of Red Hallow

CHAPTER 6: Dante's Chains

A portal opened...

He had descended. Dante waded through dirt, mud, and swamp until he came to the firey prison of Abbadoth. Those who had disobeyed the Master were trapped here in constant sorrow and agony. Those who had waited so long to see freedom from the Helscape, burning for eternity. 

The wondering elven spirit was to lock them, the king and sheep herders of the lifeless, away forever. If all went according to plan, Dante would meet his Master again in Hovenlla, a home in the afterrealm that no Death Wanderer's tentacle can touch. A world beyond Abbadoth, Fonde, or any other tangible existence known to Man, elve, or mage.

His spirit had grown beyond the confines of the flesh-bound Fonde. The land was covered in dry air and fire; the beauty of Fonde Ssique's sun never shown in this dark, terrible abyss - not a glimmer nor a thin radiant sparkle. Black blindfolds covered the denizen's.

The portal closed behind him, driving Dante deeper in. He sought a spot to share his final thoughts with Val. He walked purposefully through Abbadoth. He drew his ethereal sword and held it protectively close to his body. He walked past tall white pillars. Dante passed water-fire, a great pillar, water-fire, and past another great pillar. On and on. It was all sprinkled with sparks, and solemn in pure pitch garish, twilight.

"Val..." he mentally called the archer as he walked past piles of tortured dead and burning souls.

"Come to me, Val. I open my wondering mind to you. Please open your thoughts."

Black blood flowed through the river of fire. Spirits gathered around Dante as he passed. They were the spirits of the tormented and pained. The elderly, soldiers from battles past, fresh, beautiful, youthful women who were no longer youthful. Many of them were burnt to a crisp, with dry throats still gasping. They begged Dante for a drop of water. From all sides, they pressed in on him with blood-curdling whales. He did not fear the melancholy dead. He raised his ethereal, bright blade before him.

"Back, for I has not come to jest with heathens and the persecuted!"

He pulled his sword out further and sat on a bench, waiting with the spirits and swinging each time the dead approached.

****

Val and Eddipus took a dirt path to the east and crossed a bridge into central Acropolis of the Tell. They searched for a marker that would usher them onward. According to Val's map, there were four ancient cities and their destination was the south of Crenith; a great fortress of King Berisha. They would need to travel through many Streets to reach it, but something else on the map caught their eye.

Val and Eddipus made a detour to the opposite corner of the Acropolis. It was in this area that an abandoned archer tower stood. They were hoping to scour the place for weapons. With all the Draugen and dogs wandering the state, they weren't going to make it far on an empty quiver. 

"The watchtower must be deserted." Val assumed.

"As the rest of Crenith." Eddipus grinned.

Teylavere was dulling and needed to be cleaned. Eddipus was hopeful he'd find a whetstone. They approached the tower and entered, investigating the area of web-choked, dusty armaments. It looked like every guard and archer had vanished.

Val began to walk to the back. The arrows were locked tight in an armory. He kicked at the rusted door and grunted with no use as it rattled under the pressure. Sure enough, he soon spotted a sharp dagger sitting on a stone arrow loop. It was next to an abandoned mug full of rotten-smelling grog. Whoever this once belonged to left it when the blast destroyed Crenith. Val grabbed the burnt but sharp dagger and placed it in his boot while Eddipus walked over to a small grindstone. He was determined to sharpen his claymore. He slid Teylavere side to side while stepping on a pedal. It made a squeak as it spun, creating the sound of metal against stone. Pleased with his work, Eddipus returned the sword to its leather back holder.