Thirteen years ago, Sablehaven.
The figure crept through the streets, their cloak billowing in the wind. They weaved through the houses, and the lights. The figure was small, no more than a child. As they crept through the silent streets the cheerful ruckus of the tavern broke through the air. No moon shown as the figure went through the back door of the tavern, stopping at the stove. The stove held a boiling pot of stew, the dinner for the travelers on their way to and from Varathil. The child reached into their cloak pocket and pulled out a vial that contained an amber liquid, the color identical to the stew. They uncorked the vial and emptied it into the stew, stirring it once before exiting the tavern.
When the next morning came and the tavern boy, Axel, returned, he found everyone dead. Some had limbs twisted in awful ways, clearly snapped by themselves. Others had milky white skin, a foam the color of sage trailing from their mouths and eyes. And some even still had scratches, lacerations, and blood frozen or dried to their skin, like they had tried to rip it off of their bones. But all of them had one thing in common, all injuries were self-inflicted. Driven by the need to rip the poison from their bodies, the had ripped, broken, or laid there dying, just trying to rip the Armbtosion from their blood, from the food they had ate the night previously.
The town leader called a meeting after Axle told him what he’d found. One by one the town leader questioned everyone, even the children, until only two remained. One of the children stepped forward and pointed at the one who still had not spoken. “It was him,” the child whispered. “I found a vial in his cloak pocket and….and it had a drop of Armbtosion still in it.” The child whispered while sobbing uncontrollably.
The leader turned to the accused child with tears in his eyes and declared, “For your crimes, you are banished to hell little one.” He said, his voice steady despite his sorrow.
The accused turned to his accuser and said, “I love you.” Before he was grabbed by Varathilian guards and shoved into a prison wagon destined for Everfall. Once they reached Everfall they continued slightly past until they reached the guardian of hell, the risen devil was appointed by the king of hell, Etheran. The risen devil guards the thinnest point in the barrier, the only place a mortal could cross over.
The accused boy was thrown to the risen devil, and the wagon wheeled away, the driver never looking back. “Come little boy, it’s time for your punishment.” The risen devil whispered, not unkindly, while holding out their hand. The little boy accepted it, squeezing ever so slightly as he stepped into the frozen, mind numbing chill of hell.
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