2 Chapter 2

Alaric's consciousness drifts in a fog of confusion as he surveys his surroundings, his soul adrift in a realm unknown. "Where am I?" he ponders, his thoughts a tangled web of uncertainty and disbelief.

The scene before him unfolds like a nightmare—streets ablaze, chaos reigning supreme as denizens of this infernal town rampage unchecked. Alaric's gaze falls upon himself, his armor transformed, his robes pristine, and his helmet vanished. As he runs his hand through his hair, a shock of realization courses through him—soft, pointed ears atop his head, white as snow.

"What in the devilry...?" Alaric exclaims, his voice betraying a mix of shock and incredulity. "Why do I sport dog-like ears upon mine own head?"

With cautious steps, Alaric navigates the tumultuous streets, each corner revealing a new horror—crime, debauchery, and lawlessness running rampant. "What manner of place is this?" Alaric muses, his mind reeling with disbelief as he turns down a shadowed alleyway.

"Well met, stranger. What brings thee to this forsaken place?" a sinister voice taunts as a trio of demons block Alaric's path. "What is this? What dost thou think thou art doing?" Alaric demands, his voice laced with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty.

"We aim to relieve thee of thy possessions, good sir. Now, divest thyself of thy armor and hand it over," a stubby demon snarls, a glint of malice in his eyes as he brandishes a knife.

Alaric's hand instinctively seeks his sword, only to find it absent from his side. Panic grips his heart—had it been taken whilst he lay in repose? With a grim resolve, Alaric squares his shoulders, his fists clenched in determination. "If that be thy wish, so be it," he declares, raising his fists in a defensive stance.

In a blur of motion, Alaric strikes out, his blows landing with a force that sends his assailant reeling. "What sorcery is this?" Alaric wonders, his mind awash with newfound strength and agility.

"Have mercy, good sir! We seek no quarrel, but merely coin for sustenance," the remaining demons stammer, their bravado crumbling in the face of Alaric's unexpected ferocity.

"I am not yet finished," Alaric declares, his voice cutting through the chaos of the alleyway. "Tell me, what land is this?"

The demons' answers only deepen Alaric's sense of dread—Pentagram City, the pride ring of Hell itself. "Hell?!" Alaric repeats, his mind reeling with disbelief. "And why is it so fraught with chaos? Where is the order, the governance?"

"In Hell, good sir, one must fight to survive unless thou art an Overlord," one of the demons explains, a tremor of fear in his voice.

Alaric's heart sinks as he grapples with the realization of his predicament. "So I find myself in Hell...how disheartening," he reflects, his thoughts drifting to a lifetime of sins and misdeeds committed in service to power and ambition.

Determined to uncover the truth, Alaric turns to the demon he had subdued, his interrogation the first step in navigating this infernal landscape. "What art thou?" Alaric demands, his voice firm but tinged with a note of desperation.

"I am a sinner, much like thee, good sir," the demon replies, his voice trembling with fear.

Alaric eyes the creature, noting its unusual appearance—a purple cat-like creature with pointed ears atop its head and a swishing tail. "What is thy name, creature?" Alaric inquires, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.

"I am known as Felvin, sir," the sinner responds, his voice soft and deferential.

As Alaric contemplates his next move, a sense of foreboding settles over him—a mere sinner adrift in a realm of chaos and despair, with only his wits and newfound strength to guide him.

As Alaric's gaze lingers on Felvin, he notices the intricate patterns etched into the creature's violet skin, reminiscent of arcane sigils. His feline eyes gleam with a mixture of fear and deference, mirroring the uncertainty that Alaric himself feels.

"Tell me, Felvin," Alaric begins, his voice heavy with gravitas, "what secrets does this accursed realm hold? What perils lie in wait for a soul such as mine?"

Felvin's ears twitch nervously, betraying his apprehension. "This city is a crucible of sin and suffering, sir. Its streets run red with the blood of the damned, and its skies echo with the cries of the tormented," he explains, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alaric nods solemnly, absorbing Felvin's words with a mixture of dread and determination. "And how does one navigate this treacherous landscape? What alliances must be forged, and what foes must be vanquished?"

Felvin's tail flicks anxiously as he weighs his response. "In Pentagram City, strength is revered above all else. Those who command power—be they Overlords —hold sway over the fate of all who dwell within its walls," he explains, his voice tinged with resignation.

Alaric's jaw clenches with resolve as he considers Felvin's words. "Then I shall become a force to be reckoned with. I shall carve my path through the chaos, and woe betide any who dare stand in my way," he declares, his voice ringing with conviction.

With newfound purpose, Alaric turns his gaze to the horizon, where the crimson glow of distant fires paints the sky in hues of blood and ash. "Lead the way, Felvin. Together, we shall unravel the mysteries of this accursed realm and forge our destiny amidst the flames of Hell," he proclaims, his voice a beacon of defiance against the encroaching darkness.

As they venture forth into the heart of Pentagram City, Alaric feels a surge of adrenaline course through his veins. With each step, he embraces the chaos that surrounds him, channeling it into a weapon against those who would seek to snuff out his resolve.