Warning - foulness alert.

High on a steep hill in the region of Dank Times stands the fortified stronghold of Lord Woebetide, a stone built and granite reinforced Castle accessed only through its main gate. Deep within its walls resides The Dark One, the Angel Bane, the evil Lord Woebetide.

The year is 1600, and the region of Dank Times enjoys prosperity through its many trade posts which exchange locally made hemp garments for exotic fruits from the Eastern Cape.

It is midday, and Lord Woebetide has taken to his bedchamber suffering from severe gastroenteritis.

His Lordship (lies naked upon his bed. Bathed in sweat and groaning under the combined weight of caked faeces and leeches): "Woe is me for I am stricken, woe, woe".

Chancellor Ghast (Desperate to assure His Lordship of his competence directs the small army of wizards, spellsmiths, soothsayers, summoners and doctors as they ferry fresh water, bucket loads of fresh leeches and sackcloth towels up from the bowels of the castle):

"More leeches, we must rid his frame of this deathly disease, and open that fucking window man I'm dying here".

A waiting maiden, covered in vomit obeys and hastily opens the only window in the bedchamber, alas it is a hot, still day, so sunlight streams in to only add to the discomfort.

His Lordship: "More magyck, rid me of this direness".

As one the crowd of gathered Mystics jointly chant, desperate to achieve some other worldly effect to bring their ruler some relief. Huddled in one corner a lone Fool juggles and jokes amid the stench, humidity and foulness of his surroundings.

Used Leeches, bloated with blood are cast to the fire where they pulsate and explode, adding to chaos and splattering the assembled company with blooded blobs which quickly dry in the heat of the day.

Chancellor Ghast (Completely lost in the confusion of chanting, moaning and the overwhelming stench which permeates everything): "I fear we may need the court physician, fetch Madam Bane".

All (in shock): "Madam Bane? No".

His Lordship (simultaneously and from every orifice spews forth urine, vomit, and liquified faeces in glorious colour): "Woe, woe".

At this sight everyone present rips a vomit wave which ripples about the room as the stench becomes overpowering. The smell of faeces now becomes almost malleable as even the Castle rats begin hurling themselves onto the traps in a bid to find release. From below in the courtyard, his Lordships Hounds whimper in synchronous pain.

Madame Bane enters the bedchamber and is immediately halted in her steps at the sight and stench that greets her.

Bane : "What the fuck.... " (Adds to the inch deep layer of vomit).

His Lordship : "Bane.....Bane". (Cries out in desperation).

The maiden who opened the window now succumbs to the attack on her senses and collapses with a sickly splash into the vomit covered floor.

His Lordship (groaning and barely audible): "Bane, help......me".

Bane (gathering herself): "By The Bones Of Legend I Cast Thee Out Foulness..... begone".

His Lordship now begins projectile vomiting which hits Madame Bane full in the face...

Chancellor Ghast : "Ye Gods!"

Bane (now soaked and caked in vomit): "Jesus H. Christ this is not in my fucking job description - holy shit, By The Organs Of Ostratop I Cast Thee Out Foul Thing Begone". (gestures wildly for effect).

His Lordship (now pale, and very weak simply lies half buried in vomit, faeces and dead leeches): "I can no longer tolerate...." (falls into deep coma).

Chancellor Ghast : "Assist Assist we must cut to rid the blood of the (cough) evil which (hack) fills his body - blades - I need blades".

Bane (now resigned to simply being an onlooker produces a dagger from her belt and proceeds to bleed Lord Woebetide to accelerate the blood loss, by cutting strips from his torso, arms, legs and face):

"We must rid the evil from his body".

His Lordship: "Fuck me, is this necessary?"

Chancellor Ghast (sweating profusely and feeling quite ill): "Steady thyself My Lord, we work to (vomit), rid thee of this vileness".

His Lordship "Woe, Woe".

....continued on page 672.........

"That's quite amusing," she says, shaking her head.

He sighs, frustrated at how this woman seems to have an unexplainable authority in this territory, a place as foreign to him as the deep end of the sea.

"Listen, I've told you as much as I know. I was never well liked, which accounts somewhat for my lack of knowledge," he spits back. "Besides, if I was of any value, do you think that the king would have let you get away with me?"

She was "Head of Prisoners and Punishment" to his lordship, Thomas Blackwell.

He would not dare give the aforementioned man such a title, as such actions would be similar to those of a traitor, and he might as well be as unfaithful as a spy. His king would tolerate no such thing, mainly because Mr. Blackwell had come to power because of a wicked turn of events, and, in reality, had no claim to the throne he created out of nothing.

"I will send forty legions of dragons, trolls, and dwarves upon the pitiful country you have called a home for the past twenty-five years," she says, her voice strained. "You must understand that you have to surrender the information that we want, that we need..."

"How do you propose that I do such a thing if I do not know what you seek to discover?" he argues stubbornly.

"I do not believe that we are progressing through this in such a manner that I could call valuable or even purposeful."

The lights flicker dramatically over the face of Ms. Rebecca Stone, casting strange shadows. Her fingers, gently tapping on the table in front of her, look odd and bony.

A look of mild impatience is found on her face.

In front of her, you can find Mr. Jackson Oliver, a well-built young man. However, the lines that tell of aging are already faintly present on his face. Stress and worry had always been part of his life, and they had certainly taken their toll.

"The lights shall flicker and die, the water shall run dry, and all souls shall lie down and never rise in the kingdom you have known if you are not careful," Ms. Stone warns. "Your young bride shall be one of the last, so you may see her suffer. Perhaps I'll have your precious king kill her with a promise to spare his life. Magic may have died in those lands, but here, it is strong and powerful."

"Have you no feelings, no soul?" he says. "I've told you what I know, nothing am I hiding."

She tires of this talk, this horrid dragging out of events. A small creature is summoned, and Ms. Stone herself exits the room.

As far as he can tell, the little demon now in the room stands no more than two feet off of the ground, and cannot be more than a foot long. Its deformed head is frightening, and its sharpest teeth are as long as four inches. A tail protrudes from its rear, looking somewhat like a barbed whip.

He call tell that torture is all that can come.