Chapter 3

A cat named Klaus Valten is making a journey from the capital to his home in Valstadt, the greatest city in the Abysantium Empire, resplendent is his full plate armor, his helm gleamed with the morning light, carrying the Valten standard on his right paw and grasping the reins of his magnificent grasshopper steed with his left, and his snowy white fur was preened to perfection, Klaus wanted to look grand if he is to be reunited with his beloved family. He’s been gone for a year, and he’s been anxious to get home ever since he heard the news that his wife Sigrid already had three kittens; Hans, Bruno and Sylvia she named them. He could not stop himself from purring from the rush of emotions.

Klaus stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the city of Valstadt. The sight horrified him.
Valstadt was in flames; the greatest city in the empire reduced to a smoldering heap.
“Sigrid, the kittens!” he thought as he rode down swift as the wind, pushing his mighty steed to its limits. when his mount tipped over he immediately stood up and ran, casting off bits and pieces of his armor to quicken his pace, going as far as letting his front paws touch the ground and ran the way his feline ancestors did, he didn’t care; the only thing on his mind was his people, his family and friends, his wife, his children, the thought that he might be too late never crossed his mind, only instinct dictated his actions, he must reach his destination, he was unprepared for the worst but he must see this through.  

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“Noooooo!!!!!” his voice echoed throughout the halls of house Valten as he stared at the slain corpses of his family. “Mother, Father!” he cried out as he rushed to his parent’s lifeless bodies. His father Gustav and his mother Josephine, defiant to the end, his father held a broken flamberge in his bloody paws and his mother grasped her signature twin cutlasses. Tears began to pour from his blue eyes down his furry cheeks; he recalled how his father would always greet him after a long journey by bowling him over and wrap his huge badger-like arms around his neck into a friendly headlock, that was the time when his mother would get behind them and swat his father on the back of his head  with her paw; telling him to stop roughing little Klaus up, then they’d spend the day walking in the gardens chatting, afternoon tea with his mother and having father and son hunts late at night. Now those days were gone, pleasant memories taken from him by some heartless marauders.  He wiped his tears with one paw and tried to console himself knowing that his parents died an honorable death: in battle, defending those they loved.

Klaus hurried up the step and into the left wing of the mansion, to Sigrid’s room, and as he stood in front of the door, he braced himself for he is about to see. His paw shook as he reached for the door knob, he felt weak as he turned the knob and slowly pushed the door forward.
His nightmare was now complete; his precious little sister Eva lay dead on the carpet clutching a broadsword and a dagger and beside her was Sigrid, his beloved Sigrid.
He recalled when he first met Sigrid, he was a sickly kitten back then and Sigrid was Doctor Schreiber’s daughter, as the family’s doctor Herr Schreiber  was in charge of looking after little Klaus’ health, and always beside him was little Sigrid; who always assisted her father in taking care of Klaus, at a tender age Klaus has always been fond of Sigrid, her warm eyes and pleasant smile never failed to give Klaus hope, every morning he would wake up and ask his mother if Herr Schieber was bringing little Sigrid along with him. Sigrid has always been with him, since his childhood until the day they were wed.

A few steps away from Sigrid and Eva’s body was a crib, Klaus gingerly inched closer and peered over it: “By the Emperor!” inside were three kittens lying on the crib, their eyes closed. Perhaps all is not lost, he thought.  Klaus let out a loud purring meow, there was no response. Still purring he nudged each kitten with his nose; they felt cold and lifeless.
“No!” this can’t be happening, everyone he’s ever loved, everything he’s ever cared for, gone, taken away with one fell swoop.
Overwhelmed by anguish Klaus let out a wail of despair, its cacophonous sound echoing throughout the ruins of what was once House Valten.  

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Count Vlyslov was pleased with his handiwork, he was right in letting the fat mage live as his thrall; his deadly arsenal of spells has proven that his life is truly worth sparing. The mage didn’t even see it coming; there are no artifacts, only Vlslov’s three bodies which he needs to restore himself. With the aid of his new thrall and an army of ghoul pugs and domestic undead it was easy for his army to storm Valstadt and take his second body.

The ghouls were easy enough to recruit but the undead was a different story; they where under the control of the Dead Duke Drachenfaust, a typical undead noble with a very typical name. Drachenfaust has been an enemy of the Empire since the first crusade, terrorizing not only the Imperials, but the crusaders as well.

Still stuck as a giant bat, the Count ordered Chrome Lotus to open the box for him, the fat mage complied with a resounding grumble of frustration; muttering to himself about schemes that would dethrone the Count so he can take all the power to himself. The mage hated being the servant, the very notion of a great hero such as he taking orders turns his gut. But he had no choice as of now; by opening the first chest he had unwillingly sold his soul to the foul creature. He would just bide his time, and take every indignity with stride.

Chrome Lotus’ fingers tensed as he began to open the chest. Half expecting another undead horror to jump out and start clawing at his face, he thought of casting a few defensive spells to protect him before opening the box, but his better judgment dictates that doing so would delay the volatile count’s orders.
With some slight hesitation, he pulled the box’s lid wide open revealing: nothing. The chest on Valstadt was just a decoy, a clever deception designed to mislead their enemies. The mage could feel the count’s angry glare from behind him, followed by the sound of flapping wings. He knew that he was going to be punished for something that was not his fault. Slowly he turned his head and saw the bat-count swooping towards him, brandishing its sharp claws.

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Malvolio hated airplanes; he had spent the entire three hour flight in the lavatory vomiting the contents of his lunch including other foodstuffs that he didn’t even eat. he was more than happy when the plane finally arrived on Deustche, he used to live here on Europa and he loved how its people managed to blend the medieval with the modern, he especially loved it back in the industrial age when steamed engines were the norm.

Deustche is still the best for Malvolio, since it’s the only place where marijuana and “pixie dust” is legal, though he never used the hallucinogens, he did manage to make a good living out of selling it. Deustche is also popular for its Red Light districts, the gnome had never partaken once it his life in the act of carnal pleasure –his craft is more important- but he still enjoyed taunting the prostitutes by making them look out their window to see him brandishing a wad of cash.
Food is also the best; beer, pretzels, and black forest cake. Frankfurters –now made with a variant of tofu- still tasted the same even after the worldwide ban on meat thirty years ago, add some sauerkraut on the side and you’ll feel like your eating a piece of heaven.

He wasn’t in a hurry, so the jester visited a local bistro to enjoy a slice of black forest accompanied by a glass of milk. He sat outside where he could enjoy the beauty of the land he once called home; it was a beautiful sunny day made even more pleasant by a cool gentle breeze, there were very few cars to pollute the air because people preferred to walk its historical cobblestone streets. He looked around and was pleased to see that the people are still as colorful as they were back then; a couple were sharing a slice of cake, an old man with square shaped mustache under his nose was busy sketching a portrait of his granddaughter, and a group of older men were having their after work coffee with a plate of pastries, one of them leaned over and offered the old man and the little girl two slices of strawberry tart, another wrapped a few strudels –probably for his children- and went on his way.

Malvolio admits that he hates humans in general, but he can’t help but think otherwise whenever he sees them as individuals with their own personality, their own lives… family.
In his moment of sentimentality the gnome wondered what it would be like to think about someone other than himself, to receive a sincere smile from someone he cared about, he even entertained the notion of talking for the first time in his long life.
He shook away the thoughts from his head and continued eating his cake, putting modest bits and pieces into his mouth instead of wolfing it down like he always did. With a few sips from his glass he dismissed his sentimental reveries and basked in the moment’s beauty.

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Underneath the city’s filth a wretched creature lay wallowing in a heap of its own filth, surrounded by a cadre of diseased monstrosities. With years of Isolation, and maddened by the cruel fate which had led to the deformity of both body and mind, the miserable thing muttered and wailed to itself in its gurgling voice:

“Is there only torment in my existence? Has the world conspired against me since the moment of my birth? Damn you, damn you all! You took everything from me, piece by piece; my health, my family, my happiness, my health, my humanity, my face, my FACE! Give me back MY FACE!!!”

Its ranting went on and on, echoing through the filth encrusted corridors of the sewers which he calls his kingdom. “The Prince Silver” as he called himself, came from another world; a world ruled over by the faithful of a long dead god, a world where constant suffering is considered a “test” of the deceased deity, a world that willingly puts its own people through unimaginable atrocities to give birth to these pitiful monstrosities known only as “Emo-beasts”.

“Must cut, must cut… let the pain bleed out, yesssssss river of blood, river of pain…. Must cut more, cut away the pain, let it out, and let it bleed! LET IT BLEEEED!!!”

The Prince becomes more frantic as it starts to claw at its own flesh, screeching, growling, howling and then drops on a pile of offal, he lay there still; his pale eyes darting from side to side.

“Something near, something that brings me more pain… must kill the pain, cutting won’t help, must kill… kill…kill… pain… from above… from hu… man-things… must kill… must kill man-things… kill… kill… KILL!!!!”

The creature’s body began to convulse violently as his body began to pump out massive amounts of adrenaline, his nerves exploded throughout his into a shockwave of pain, and with a burst of unimaginable speed the prince dashed through and out his sewer kingdom.
His rapid movements made him nothing more than a blur, skittering through the cobblestone streets, and then slowing his pace to skulk his way to a couple who was coming home late from night of revelry. “I smell it; love, pretentious of all emotions, the root of all suffering, the root of MY suffering” the prince mused, as he hid behind the shadows waiting for the unwary couple to come within striking distance. “Enjoy it while you can fleshy man-things.”

Faster than the blink of an eye; the prince lunged forward leaving a trail of foul smelling ash floating on its wake, long silver talons sprang out from the tips of the creature’s gnarled fingers. One second, that’s all it will take for the decayed prince to rip two of them to shreds, but he’ll play with them for a while. He quickened his motions further but his momentum was stopped by something which drove itself into the side of his torso sending him rolling into the ground. The prince relies on adrenaline fueled speed to conceal himself, without it the startled couple ran with terror as the saw him in his entire decayed splendor: a horrific amalgamation of toad and man, with green skin constantly dripping with black pus and bile, it’s bloated torso pulsated as swarms of maggots oozed out of various orifices, gaunt limbs with gnarled clawed appendages were bound together with studded leather straps, and its toad-like head is adorned by a small golden crown sitting on top of its long silvery hair.
The Prince Silver was furious that someone had the audacity to get between him and his prey. His eyes darting about finally homing in on the image of his assailant: a small humanoid figure with pointed ears dressed in a garishly colored jester’s outfit with long brown hair topped with a wide brimmed hat.