The world is a haze. A seething, churning cloud populated with an inky, smoggy blackness. In a few moments, the darkness achieves various hues of gray, coiling out into a cloudy sky above the sooty skyline of a sprawling city. The hissing turbulence of steam accompanies the grinding of clockwork as the tenements bathe in their emissions.

Winding through the city are bustling streets, filled with all manner of people rushing about. There are sickly sweet smells; burning incense, acrid smoke, and sizzling meats. The sounds of active market life are almost enough to drown out screams that echo from dark alleyways, ignored and dismissed as commonplace by the busy people.

Cut into one of these buildings is a dingy archway. A rusty sign swings lazily above the doorway, embossed with a chipped logo resembling a bubbling sapphire vial.

A young boy, no more than ten, steps out from the dark archway. His jet-black hair glistens with sweat as he steps down to the street, the morning sun causing his magenta skin to glow. Thick horns coil from this forehead back towards his ears, an irregular gradient from burgundy to grey. His left fist is clenched, before he opens his palm, revealing its contents.

It's a set of bloody, gold-covered teeth.

The boy steps down onto the market street, bumping into passerby as he looks around anxiously. He wipes a few stray specks of blood from his forehead and turns towards an open square dominated by the massive Megalith, pulsing with eerie light from its many facets.

The boy's attention is drawn to a man preaching from raised stone steps. A small crowd has gathered around the man, who removes a purple cloth from a large, rectangular cage to reveal a scrawny imp inside. The crowd gasps and oohs as the imp throws itself against the cage bars in apparent rage.

The boy slowly pushes forward towards the front of the crowd as the man holds out his hands towards the people in a calming fashion. A nearby suitcase has a simple name pressed into the side: Thurbel.

As the devil continues to thrash in its housing, the man begins to chant an incantation. Faint purple light begins to dance around his fingertips before slowly arcing, creating an iridescent bridge between Thurbel and the imp. When the light reaches the imp's head, it suddenly stops smashing its battered body against the iron cage.

With a flick of his hand, Thurbel unlocks the cage, which swings open as everybody backs up a few steps in unison. Everybody, except the boy, who stands transfixed by the scene before him.

The imp steps out of the cage, looking around at all the people, snarling. Suddenly, he leaps into the air - people scream and back up further - before flipping into a forward roll and landing on its feet in front of the boy. They lock eyes.

Whispers spread through the crowd as this boy and imp stare at each other. Thurbel snaps his wrist again, opening the battered suitcase to reveal a stylized horn carved from some giant beast.

Music begins playing from the briefcase as the imp breaks into a jig, pumping its arms and legs in a comical way, sending laughs rippling through the crowd. Applause breaks out. Thurbel bows, removing his hat and passing it around, as people fill it with their hard-earned
sovereigns.

Time passes and the crowd disperses, leaving Thurbel to recage the imp, alone with the boy. Father Sun is setting, its view warped by the unrelenting haze rising up from Magnagora.

Finally alone, the boy steps upwards, and Thurbel turns towards him. The boy opens his fist once more, looking up at Thurbel, who pauses for a moment before holding open his own palm. Like tiny golden eggs, the teeth float upwards and into Thurbel's hand. The boy smiles, and throws the purple cloth over the cage.

-=-

Many years pass. Once again, the same boy stands quietly confident, although now he's a young man in his late teens. Likewise, we also see Thurbel, who's dressed in more finery than he was when he first met the boy and accepted his gift. The sun is just cresting over a nearby hill as the pair walk along a cobbled road towards a small, secluded pond in a verdant valley.

When they arrive, Thurbel snaps his fingers and the young man begins pulling vials and pouches out from the burgeoning satchel slung over his back. Apparently he isn't moving quickly enough, as Thurbel sighs and wrestles the ingredients away from him, scowling. Within minutes, Thurbel arranges the accouterments around him, and begins the motions for casting.

A series of strange purple glyphs form in the muddy shallows of the swampy pond and Thurbel continues chanting. The water swirls and swarms before a webbed demon emerges from the depths, its eyes glazed over with a milky white sheen. Thurbel commands the demon to shore, and the demon obeys, approaching the young man, who is watching in awe.

Suddenly one of the demon's eyes returns to its normal state and it lets out a shriek as it claws viciously at the young man. With a cry of pain, he stumbles backwards, bleeding from a deep gash that extends along his torso. He collapses in the bloody sand as Thurbel quickly regains control of the demon, and the man's eyes go lifeless.

-=-

The interior of the chapel is dark and quiet, its hallowed ground exuding a hollow feeling of tranquility. Thurbel hands over a large bag of coins to a hooded figure who pockets them. The young man's body lies on an altar in front of them, pallid and gray. Again, the sounds of spellcasting echo throughout the room as bands of yellow and red light wrap themselves around the young man's body.

The tendrils tighten and glow before reconvening over his chest wound, entering the man's body. In a few moments the dead man opens his eyes and sits up with a throaty gasp. Thurbel slaps him across the face. "Be mindful, Roethe. A fool you may be, but that doesn't mean you must subject the rest of us to your idiocy."

-=-

Sitting next to a window viewing out on a moonless night, Roethe huddles over stacks of dusty tomes. His eyes, filled with life again, dart back and forth as he hungrily consumes knowledge by the light of his palm. With his other hand, he is casually flicking his wrist and muttering, morphing a pebble into a stone needle, and then into a circular disk.

As he turns the page, he reveals a piece of parchment folded up in between the pages. Roethe lets the floating disk drop to the ground, and pauses to open the parchment. Written in the hasty script of the Demon Lords, it reads: "Accepting Apprentices to study under the True Power of Nil. Experienced applicants only. Wealth required."

Roethe gazes longingly at the page, reading it over and over and over again.

-=-

Back outside again, Thurbel squares off against a huge multi-horned demon. Thurbel keeps the demon at bay while it towers several feet over him. But Thurbel's magic is strong, and Roethe provides a weaker form of support, trying to impress his master with his own amateur binding techniques.

On the ground, the demon stands inside an intricate circle of salt, forming a restrictive barrier between the demon and the two magic users.

"Roethe! How many times must I tell you? Enunciate the initial consonants with a Feyranti accent. I swear boy, I wonder why I even keep you around anymore."

Roethe frowns and furrows his brow as he concentrates, magical beams blasting into the demon as it tries to break out of its bindings. And as he continues his casting, a thin, dark shadow washes over his eyes. He looks over at Thurbel, clad in finery, with an assortment of jewels and rings. His arrogance. His stupid face.

Roethe lets his left hand drop, turning it as if opening an invisible doorknob. A gust of wind rushes out from his palm, straight into the binding circle, breaking the link.

The demon bounds forward onto an unsuspecting Thurbel, sending them both to the ground. There's a thick crunch as the demon's weight crushes the viscanti's body, and a claw across the windpipe silences his bloody shrieks. The demon stands and turns towards Roethe, who has already surrounded himself with a new ring of salt and runes.

With a grunt, the demon hulks away, leaving Roethe standing at the massacred remains of his former teacher.

Hours pass before Roethe steps out from the circle towards Thurbel's body. Emotionless, Roethe plucks the magical items and jewelry, changing out of his dirty, torn clothing and replacing it with luxurious linens. He looks down at the bloody mess, stripped of wealth and power. He snaps his fingers, and the body goes up in flames.

-=-

Roethe, now dressed in finery suitable for an apprenticeship in service to the Demon Lords, ascends the countless steps towards the Seal of Death, the assigned meeting place for his potential initiation. The Seal continues to spin silently as he arrives. A hooded figure stands in front of the Seal, the backdrop of light masking their features in darkness.

"So, you have come."

Roethe nods.

"And you wish to serve the Demon Lords of Nil?"

Roethe nods a second time. The figure does the same.

"Tell me, Roethe. Where did you learn your abilities? Who taught you?"

A dark shadow crosses over Roethe's eyes as he gathers his thoughts. "A weak teacher gave me an opportunity to learn, but they didn't understand the true meaning of power. They were complacent and apathetic. I'm surprised he was able to retain as much knowledge as he did."

The figure doesn't respond. Tension hangs in the air, thick and oppressive. Finally, he speaks.

"I see." More silence.

"I was there, you know. At the chapel. I was the one responsible for reversing your Fate."

Roethe's eye experiences the faintest of twitches.

"At that time, it seemed as though you were the weaker one, not he. And yet here you are, preaching about strength, when you should be nothing more than a worm's nesting grounds."

It is Roethe's turn to be silent.

"By offering up your teacher as a sacrifice for your shortcomings, you have proven that you are exactly the man that we thought you were. And for that reason, Roethe, you will not be joining our ranks." The Seal continues to spin.

"Goodbye."

With a brief pop, the figure is gone, leaving Roethe alone in the cave with nothing but his lost ambition.

"Weak?" Roethe begins to fume. "Weak?! They are no better than he was! They will see! I will show them!" He lashes out at invisible strands of force, bright crimson light dancing around his fingertips before blasting into the cave floor. An arcane circle begins to form, getting wider and wider until it spans a significant portion of the cavern. Roethe's eyes go back in his head as he mutters an incantation, prompting a clawed hand to rise up from the portal he created.

The archdemon's nails scrape against stone as they push themselves up from below, completing the summoning ritual. They breathe deeply, hulking behind Roethe.

"They will see. We will show them!"

-End of Part 1-