The sky was red as blood, the rocky ground hard, bloody and smelled of death. Sounds of battles, screams of war and the dying sounded all around. Rotting corpses of dead creatures used in battles long forgotten were strewn across the endless plains of this demon world.

Sarevok was sitting on a rock, overlooking the battles from the mountains. Tanar'ri and Baatezu forces were butting heads on either side of the river Styx. He had been here for almost a year now, and neither side had made any progress whatsoever. But that wasn't the worst part : he had also spoken to an ancient Balor, who had started out as an imp, gained rank, become Nebassu, Glabrezu and finally, a Balor, but had never left this single battle. So far, the useless fight over the banks of the river Styx had claimed millions of Tortured Souls, battalions of Glabrezu shock-troops and all manner of mercenaries. But in that Balor's long, long career of warfare, neither side had ever held both banks for longer than a day before being pushed back again.

Sarevok sighed again, once again feeling defeated by the fact that he would have to spend his eternity here. But, he once again took solace in the thought that had sustained him : to wrap his massive hands around Laska Leafwalker's neck and slowly, agonizingly slowly squeeze the life out of her.

"ON PARADE!!!" the shout of his commander disturbed him from his pleasant daydreams. Quickly, his unit, a chaotic band of creatures, ran from their barracks and stood on parade. Sarevok was not the tallest one in the bunch of freaks, that position was taken by a huge Orog with a runny nose, but Sarevok was the... most normal. There were tortured spirits eager for blood, any kind of blood. A fanatical priest of Cyric had joined the chaotic war effort to... take a break from his dreary daily life at the time. Then there were some imps, and a collection of Lemures, but they didn't talk much at all.

Their commander, a huge sharp-toothed Nebassu stepped right up. "Alright, lovely boys, we'll be taking the eastern bank today."

"Again?" Sarevok muttered. "That'll be the twentieth time this month."

The demon sighed. "Why do they always send me the troublemakers? Oh, then LISTEN UP, YOU RUDDY FOOL! IF I TELLS YOU TO TAKE THAT BANK, YOU WILL BE TAKING THAT BANK! IF I TELLS YOU TO STICK YOUR HEAD INTO THE MOUTH OF A CORNUGON, YOU WILL ASK ME IF YOU WILL REQUIRE TO BRUSH HIS TEETH TOO!!"

But Sarevok ignored the foul-smelling air exploding from the commander's mouth, and returned to his favorite daydream : slowly sawing the still-living Laska Leafwalker to bits with a rusty pocket-knife.

"I was almost a god, fool," Sarevok muttered. "I almost led an army to victory over Amn and the Sword Coast."

"Almost ain't good enough," the commander shouted. "And let me tell you, the Baatezu ain't afraid of an ALMOST SUCCEEDING, FAILING, WHINY POOF! No get out there and KILL!!!!"

He'd been here for almost a year now, but the routine had been the same every time : there would be no coordination to his unit's actions. They'd all scatter and kill indiscriminately, sometimes they'd even turn their ire on each other. Right now, Sarevok wasn't paying much attention to it all. Instead, he was indulging in his favorite hobby : chopping of the heads of demons on whom he pictured the head of none other than Laska Leafwalker... The endless battle, the endless war, the cries, the screams of the dying who could not die. Surely this was Hell, and it was his sister that had condemned him to it.

The corpse of an Abishai now lay before him, but it would only take a couple of minutes for the creature to respawn in its own camp. He sighed : War was pointless if nobody ever died. Instead, Sarevok slung his sword over his shoulder and took a few moments to overlook the battle. In the distance, a group of Bateezu were using an airship to drop boiling oil over another group of Tanar'ri below. On the other side, a Tanar'ri battlemage rained fire and thunder on a supply-convoy... unfortunately, it was a Tanar'ri supply-convoy.

"Oh, that's clever," Sarevok grinned. "Bombing your own allies. What's next? Resurrecting the enemy troops?" But he knew that due to the chaotic practises of the Tanar'ri, this happened more often than not.

His eye was drawn to a strange encounter just below his perch. A strange cloaked man was currently strangling a slathering pitfiend with a metal chain. The man sat on his opponent's back, yanking at the chain with enormous strength, pulling harder and harder. Eventually, the creature let out its final breath, crashing into the ground like an overripe tomato. Sarevok kept watching from his perch as the man removed his cloak. He was impressed by the man's abilities, but his strange grey skin and numerous scarring took him aback a little. But when his eyes drifted to the man's many tattoos, he grimaced, thinking back of Laska's own greyish, tattooed skin and wishing he could rend the elf apart with his fingernails.

He also noticed that the man wore no brand, and thus, did not belong to any side. He grimaced as he looked at the brand that had been burned permanently into the skin of his left fore-arm on his first day of arrival. It signified that he was one of the Tanar'ri shock-troops, and was the eternal property of the Tanar'ri overlords. Again, he felt the overwhelming urge to crush Laska Leafwalker's head in a wine press.

He decided that the man was definitely a threat, but could be approached with caution. "Greetings," he spoke as he approached the grey-skinned man, but holding his sword high. The grey-skinned man, who used to be human it seemed, picked up his axe and glared at Sarevok for a moment, but then visibly relaxed and put down his axe again.

'He doesn't consider me a threat,' Sarevok throught, 'Such an insult.'

"I'd offer you a seat by the fire, but this place is all fire," the grey-skinned man smiled.

'He's still smiling,' Sarevok snorted. 'He must be new to this place.'

"So," Sarevok asked, "how long have you been a guest of our demonic hosts?"

"Oh, I'm not bound by demonkind," the Grey-skinned man said. "I do travel around a lot, crossing the planes of the Abyss, travelling. Fighting not for a side, really. Just... self-reflecting, I suppose. Always remembering what I had forgotten for so long."

"Riiiight..." Sarevok muttered, but noted the fact that the stranger was a planar-traveller. "So... Name's Sarevok. Yours?"

"Oh, I... am careful with mentioning my name. And I'm not really used to having a name in the first place," the stranger spoke. "How long have you been here?"

"A year," Sarevok said. "One damn long year thanks to that gods-be-damned elven sister of mine!"

"I travel myself," the stranger spoke, "self-reflecting mostly, coming to terms with all the memories swirling around in my skull. Sometimes it's hard to tell which life is actually mine... I mean, they all are, but... my life started on a slab at the Mortuary. All the other lives are like... being viewed from a distance."

"You've travelled far?" Sarevok probed, and offered a satchel of water, this plane's only delight, to the stranger.

"Thank you," he answered and took the water. "Yes, I've travelled at lot. Seen a lot..."

"To the material plane?" Sarevok asked. "To life?!"

"Well, technically, I'm not dead," the stranger spoke, "but, no, I'm not allowed to leave until I've made sense of my memories and the Powers That Be decide that I'm sane enough to return to the Sigil... and my friends."

"The Sigil?" Sarevok asked. "I have heard of it. Some sort of nexus in the planes?"

"Yes," the Stranger spoke. "If you're serious about escape, that'll be your destination, but actually returning to life without help from the land of the living might be impossible."

"Everything's better than here," Sarevok spoke and spit on the ground, imagining it was the face of Laska Leafwalker, and his spit was highly acidic. While Sarevok was still captured in the mental image of the flesh dripping of Laska's face, the stranger spoke again.

"Tell you what," the Stranger spoke. "If you promise bring something to the Sigil from me, and seek out a friend of mine, I'll show you the portal out of here."

"Let it be known," Sarevok proclaimed, "that Sarevok always keeps his word..."

The life left the brigand's body as his comrades ran. Sarevok's sword had made quick work of the would-be robber while he made his way through the foul-smelling slums of the Sigil. So far, being here had been a strange experience. He was still dead, but he had maintained his physical form. Unfortunately, it would not hold on the material plain. His guide had explained to him that his body would dissolve immediately the moment he'd set foot on the material plane, sending him back to his unit at the river Styx. So far, the Sigil was a step up from the fields of battle, but he wasn't too fond of the filthy smoke and dense occupation. There was no sun, no sense either... the city was a ring around a pole, basically, and he wondered how this place had come to be. Too many people, not enough green. He missed the wide fields of Faerun, and couldn't wait to return there... looking back at the bleeding corpse, he imagined it was Laska Leafwalker... Oh, there would be scores to settle.

Sarevok was still peeved to the core that the 'important task' the stranger had set him on was the delivery of a set of letters to the King of Thieves. Angrily, Sarevok thrust a handful of garbage into the door frame of a collapsed building, and entered the portal, ending up in the sunken village below the slums, where all manners of lowlives were peddling their trade. Recently, there had been a switch in management, though, and the place was turning for the better. But Sarevok, of course, didn't care about that. The King of Thieves had promised him to look into his case, and could have some answers for him.

Sarevok entered the throneroom of the self-styled King of Thieves. Skull-motifs were all over the walls, filled with gaudy tapestries with pictures of nude women sewn into them. But high up, on a throne of pillows sat, or rather, floated, the King of Thieves, being actively fanned and rubbed by a trio of naked female zombies.

Morte, the self-styled King of Thieves floated leisurely above the throne, purring like a kitten. "Ah, back so soon?" he greeted Sarevok. "Figure that, a letter from the Chief! Oh, and Annah was quite happy to receive her letter too. Heh, it even smelled of his cologne... too bad his cologne smells like Formaldehyde, though."

"Yes, yes, fine!" Sarevok snapped. "So, have you found out anything yet, or do I need to toss you into the wall a couple of times."

"Now, now," Morte grinned, "I wouldn't try anything. These are Karate-fighting naked female zombies. Anyway, my lovely assistant has all you need."

Out of the shadows once again walked the strangest creature Sarevok had ever seen, and it baffled him every time he appeared. "I, Nordom," it greeted him, 'it' being a polygon box with six thin mechanical limbs and a large face with wide mouth and huge eyes on one side of the box.

"Oh, come on, you blasted polygon," Morte sighed. "You're a thief-leader now, dammit, act like one."

"Hold," Nordom spoke and whirs and ticks could be heard from inside his body, "Seeking reference... Hold... Reference found... Integrating reference material... Activate : Arrrrr, mateyyyy!"

"No, no, no, you mechanical dipstick!" Morte roared. "That's a pirate not a thief!"

"Stop messing about," Sarevok snarled. "Tell me already!" His mind drifted to Laska Leafwalker drowning in a vat of lard.

"Or," Morte said, "more to the point, I'm quite sure that my chances with Fall-From-Grace are pretty good, won't you say, Nordom?"

"Attention : Morte," Nordom said. "There is a 99.9999% chance that such conclusions are drawn from the mental state known as Wishful Thinking."

"Oh, who asked you, Polygon?" Morte scoffed.

"The next words out of your mouth had better got something to do with my resurrection, creature!" Sarevok snarled. "I have a score to settle with a certain elf!"

"Attention : Sarevok," Nordom spoke. "Regarding : Research Resurrection... Probability of success through normal magical means with help from material plane : 0.17%. Probability of success through normal magical means without help from material plane : 0.0000017%. Reason for probable failure : non-existance of original body. Factor of complication : Bhaalspawn heritage. Conclusion : Attempt of Resurrection at plane of Bhaal will increase possibility of resurrection. Lack of Bhaalspawn-taint must be compensated for by other Bhaalspawn, who must give a portion of their taint out of free will. Most likely place to find other Bhaalspawn on a non-material plane world : Abyssal layer of Bhaal."

"But, that would mean..." Sarevok stammered.

"Yes, you gotta wait till a Bhaalspawn crawls up from the muck and claims the power," Morte said. "Sorry, mucker."

"Why does fate toy with me!" Sarevok roared. "I... have a pretty good idea who the first Bhaalspawn to claim the Abyssal layer will be!" he shouted, seeing that same face flashing in front of his eyes again. There was a good chance that the one person he wanted to kill with all his passion would be the only one who could return him to life! A roar of pure frustration escaped his mouth.

Bodhi was sitting at the miniature of Athkatla in her gameroom, putting flags on sections of the city that were under her influence. So far, her war against the thieves was going moderately well. Years ago, she had gotten herself into an alliance with the mighty Sharran vampire Hayaxi, promising her control over the city in the name of Shar if Hayaxi would grant her the power of the undead. And right now, she was struggling to fulfill her end of the bargain. At the early stages of the war against the Shadow Thieves, she had not only had her own coven at her disposal, but also Hayaxi's sizeable vampiric army. But when the elder vampire's sermon had been breached by an unknown interloper, Hayaxi had withdrawn all her forces to outside the city, leaving Bodhi to deal with the Shadow Thieves on her own.

'Hayaxi is a coward' Bodhi thought, 'Always taking the careful, safe path...'. Still, she did not blame the ancient vampire. Hayaxi had lived for over two millenia by being careful and calculating. Besides, the other vampire's absence played in right into her hands. Hayaxi was ancient and powerful, and would be sure to destroy her. But with Hayaxi out of the city, Bodhi could escape by sea with the core of her coven. She didn't care about the war, nor of the Sharrans... Imoen's soul was waiting for her, and it would empower her greatly, enough to break free of Hayaxi's blood-bond.

And, truth be told, she didn't give a damn about her own coven. They'd been taking terrible losses against the Shadow Thieves, but they were still winning. Until tonight. Lassal's failure to recover the weapon-shipment and turn the elven rogue into a vampire to fuel their need for arrow-fodder was most disappointing. But, his punishment was delightful... She actually considered pulling the daggers from his chest as he lay spiked in the torture-chambers but she decided against it just now : his screams were delightful.

"Mistress Bodhi!" one of her underlings streamed into the room. It was a young man, which she had turned herself to serve in her army of bedwarmers. "Scouts have seen Leafwalker's party approach the graveyard!"

Bodhi grinned, the light from the candle next to the map reflecting of her fangs. "Let them come," Bodhi said. "That's just the excuse I need to flee the city... and gain all the power I have ever wanted."