King Avallach
Deity of the Old World
Prologue
The dungeon stretched from horizon to horizon, A neverending surface of grey and black. It had no walls and was not a true dungeon as such but the pillars of grey and black supporting the ceiling of steel, out of which rank liquids seeped and foul smells oozed from more than compensated for this. That it had no walls was not an oversight either it stretched on as far as the eye could see, the mind could approximate and then only more. The only light within the macabre structure made of black and grey stone structure was its only denizen. The fiendish Anathema. Several centuries before Sparda had stopped the demonic invasion of earth, whilst his alliance was with the demons of the realm that to him was home, he had been tasked with imprisoning this renegade. Initially ambitious and calculating, every passing era scraped away at Anathema's sanity until destroying Sparda had become a poisonous obsession.
Every moment not spent pummeling and maiming his enemy had become something that choked him but as his hatred grew, inkeeping with the realm where he resided, so did his power. Yet even the most perfect darkness is vulnerable as long as life, organic, celestial or demonic resides within. In Anathema's insanity hundreds of ideas for escape were tried and dismissed. With each stage gaining more confidence he was getting closer and as this happened, the darkness waned, as did the time Anathema would be imprisoned. He knew of only two beings who could stop him once he escaped. The first being the Son of Sparda, the other was the Hero of Fortuna. In his warped, twisted and demented mind, whilst in his efforts to escape, Anathema began cogitating the downfall of the two threats in existance and how to exact his revenge on the spirit of Sparda.
A small cut appeared on his monstrous left arm. His amber eyes flashed dangerously and he raised it to the audience of several of the string like sensors arrayed around his face. They acted as tongues and from the taste, he knew it not to be his blood. This was an omen of sorts but why he had received it, and whose blood he would yet have on his "hands" was not clear to him.
The dungeon stretched from horizon to horizon, A neverending surface of grey and black. It had no walls and was not a true dungeon as such but the pillars of grey and black supporting the ceiling of steel, out of which rank liquids seeped and foul smells oozed from more than compensated for this. That it had no walls was not an oversight either it stretched on as far as the eye could see, the mind could approximate and then only more. The only light within the macabre structure made of black and grey stone structure was its only denizen. The fiendish Anathema. Several centuries before Sparda had stopped the demonic invasion of earth, whilst his alliance was with the demons of the realm that to him was home, he had been tasked with imprisoning this renegade. Initially ambitious and calculating, every passing era scraped away at Anathema's sanity until destroying Sparda had become a poisonous obsession.
Every moment not spent pummeling and maiming his enemy had become something that choked him but as his hatred grew, inkeeping with the realm where he resided, so did his power. Yet even the most perfect darkness is vulnerable as long as life, organic, celestial or demonic resides within. In Anathema's insanity hundreds of ideas for escape were tried and dismissed. With each stage gaining more confidence he was getting closer and as this happened, the darkness waned, as did the time Anathema would be imprisoned. He knew of only two beings who could stop him once he escaped. The first being the Son of Sparda, the other was the Hero of Fortuna. In his warped, twisted and demented mind, whilst in his efforts to escape, Anathema began cogitating the downfall of the two threats in existance and how to exact his revenge on the spirit of Sparda.
A small cut appeared on his monstrous left arm. His amber eyes flashed dangerously and he raised it to the audience of several of the string like sensors arrayed around his face. They acted as tongues and from the taste, he knew it not to be his blood. This was an omen of sorts but why he had received it, and whose blood he would yet have on his "hands" was not clear to him.