Hunger. 

A never ending gnawing within the stomach of the horror. A voracious and unyielding need to destroy, wreak havoc and feast. It could feel it. The whispers of promise that echoed throughout the wasteland. The scent and allure of a banquet that wafted through the still and lifeless air. The time was nearly upon them. The chance to sate their ravenous gluttony. Perhaps, their only chance. 

The creatures of the nether tasted of rot and ash. They hadn't a spark of life within them; the divine will of the heavens. Nor, the succulent taste of the ripe Order that opposed their Chaos. They yearned for it, craved it, with all of their thought and desire bent for it. 

The remnant will to live and the all consuming fervor to devour was all that remained to them. 

The time had come. 

A gentle ripple of energy thrummed within and throughout the necrotic veil. It beckoned and called them toward it. And, ever so eagerly, they answered the call. They turned toward the source. Their arms bent and cracked with exertion, teeth and nails snapped against the dead stone, and the hunched, dangerous forms, manifestations of death itself, ardently poured out their hatred and malice to tear the veil into the next world.

A rare moment of peace fell across the ghoulish crowd. Their mandibles, claws, fingers and limbs clacked and crackled in anticipation. It was close, so very close. They could practically taste the flesh of the living. It wouldn't be long. It wouldn't be long at all before they could break free from their horrid imprisonment. And, then, they would bite. They would chew. They would gnash and swallow, savoring the sweet delicacy of the screaming terror of their prey.

And, towering above the rabble stood the Balithor. A thick miasmic green cloud of poisonous gas billowed underneath it's cloak-like skin. Obscured within the mist, thin ominous black tendrils shook with agitated anticipation. The tendrils themselves slowly carved into the stone with an unsteady beat as it waited for the gate to open.

The small mouths that were dotted across it's skin, grit their teeth together with a shivering clatter. And, it's prehensile tongues slid through the gaps to taste the change in the dismal gloom. It strode through the din of abyssal horrors, flensing the rotted flesh from bone of any creature that stood in it's path. 

The Balithor would not be denied. It had already decided on the next meal to whet it's appetite. A certain necromancer that had torn the veil. The despair and doom that they would feel as their machinations came crashing down around them… would make for a delicious treat. 

But, perhaps, it would be nice to forage a bit as it went. Yes, a light appetizer before the main course would be quite lovely. The blood of humanity was quite a heady, sweet-tasting wine after all. 

The Balithor reached out with a wicked claw. It touched against the miniscule puncture within their reality. And, flexed violently as it tore the hole into the gaping maw that would allow them to escape. 

The creatures gathered rushed forward and stampeded toward the light. 

It was time.

The abominations poured through the rift in a frenzied wave of bloodlust. The Balithor itself led the charge as it tore through the fracture within the veil. The deathly creature stepped onto the cobblestone with a horrendous splintering crack. It's weight was too much for the poorly paved street to bear.

It let out a low exhaling hiss as it quickly surveyed the surrounding area. They had arrived in a secluded alley. There was only one way in and one way out. 

Except for one. 

The Balithor quickly scaled the walls and climbed onto the roof with a powerful bound. It sniffed and tasted at the air. It had to find the prey before anything else could spoil it. It could taste the stench of the nether on them. They were far away and pushing farther. It had to find them. 

It flexed it's powerful muscles. The sinew and bone popped and strained as it launched itself in pursuit. It would have the delicate morsel. Then, it would feast on the blood and gore of the city…

---

Archpriest Alexander, the old man, paced and muttered angrily underneath his breath. His decadent robes fluttered and glistened in the early morning light. He was livid. 

They had escaped.

Escaped!

Right from underneath his very nose. 

And, the previous night had gone so splendidly too. He had captured the perpetual thorn in his side. The acolyte Bob that had stubbornly refused to yield to his will. The acolyte that desperately clung to his own virtues of kindness, forgiveness and charity. 

Pah!

The Archpriest spat at the ground. The Church of Skalgnos had no place for such weaklings. The Church was a place of power, strength and purity. They worshipped the almighty god of fire that would set the world ablaze with his righteousness. They had no place for mercy. 

Alexander grit and ground at his teeth. He gnawed and bit, worrying that he might even grind his own bones to dust with angst. 

Skalgnos had only taken Bob because he was special. He had so much potential. He had so much power. Or, he would have had. If he wasn't a failure in every sense that mattered. He never trained. He never fought. He never listened. He was stubborn, pigheaded, foolish, docile, naive, hopeful, and he never ever bent. 

He never once swayed to the will of the Church, to the will of the Archpriest, to the will of god. 

It made Alexander furious. He had finally a good reason to kill him. He was so close. He was within his grasp. 

After all, affiliation with a necromancer was high treason. The purity and sanctity of the realm had to be protected. At all cost. 

They had scoured the entire city underneath the cover of darkness. They had burned and cauterized every gaping wound and ally that the bastard of death had wrought. They had sterilized the spreading infection, yet the disease itself still evaded their grasp.

And, now, against all odds, that very same necromancer had whisked Bob away. The weapon with the most potential was in the hand of the enemy. The worst sort of enemy. The enemy of all living things.

The Church would have him removed from his ordained position for this blunder. No, he would be fortunate to even escape with his head attached to his shoulders. He chewed at his fingernails anxiously and voraciously. He needed to fix it. He needed to kill them; now!

 He would have to send someone to take care of it. Yes, someone that he could trust. Who had never failed him and wouldn't rest until the job was done. Yes, yes, someone relentless. 

A follower that would burn the world in their wake. An extremist. A madman. A rabid dog that would tear out their throats and feast on their flesh. 

Yes, he had just the one in mind. 

A cruel smile spread across his face. 

Then, he heard the screaming and shouting as panic flooded through the street. Even in the cathedral, he could hear them clearly. A moment later, the bell tolled and told him exactly what had happened. 

A rift had been opened. The sanctity of their dominion had been breached. The filth had bled out into the throughway and splashed their heresy across the very doorstep of their god. 

He would not stand for it. He could not stand for it!

Filth!

"FILTH!" Alexander screamed and smashed his fist into a bloody pulp against the stone parapet. He cried out and rallied his people to him, leading the charge against the abominations that poured from the rift. "To arms, my brothers! To arms!"

He would make them pay.

---

Zephyra and Bob gladly tumbled into the river below them. They had made it outside of the cities walls. The water was a bit murky with the desecration of the sewage. Yet, it was far more clean than they were at the moment. And, as they swam further away from the drainage pipe, the water flowed and became clean and pure. 

Still...

In spite of the impromptu river wash, they felt soiled. The grime had seeped it's way into their clothes, their undergarments, their mouths, and even into the ears. A terrible skin crawling, squishy, gritty, feeling. Unfortunately, the taint and traumatic experience of the sewer wasn't removed so easily.

"Blegh," Bob announced to his audience of one. "I want to just… peel this shit off and wander around naked." 

Zephyra coughed and spluttered. She hadn't stopped rinsing her mouth with necrotic energy since she had nearly swallowed some of the rocky road textured sewage. "I'll join. I'm going to need… ten washes to feel normal again. At least."

"Ugh, I don't think ten washes will do it… Do you think that you could just transplant my soul into a new body?"

Zephyra smirked. "I could. But, I'd have to create an entirely new body for you. Otherwise, your soul might reject the vessel."

"Really?..." Bob stared at Zephyra with a pensive expression. "Huh, I was just joking. I didn't realize you could do that."

"It's so not worth it; unless your current body is destroyed." Zephyra wrinkled her nose at the smell that still clung and wafted from them.

"Why's that?"

"It's expensive. It takes a lot of materials, time, knowledge, and expertise to make a body. And, to be honest, I'm still lacking a lot of the necessary prerequisites."

"Ah. So… no new bodies then."

"Not anytime soon."

"Damn. I was looking forward to a couple of extra inches."

Zephyra raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"... Of height, you pervert!" Bob quickly stammered out. His face twisted into a wistful gaze. "And, some extra muscle might be nice too…"

Bob looked around dreamily. He wasn't paying any sort of attention to his surroundings as he daydreamed.

"I wonder if Phil likes muscular men."

"Phil, Huh."

Bob flushed bright red. "I-i mean, not that it really matters or anything."

"Well, I don't know much about any of their tastes. But, I'm pretty sure that none of them will like the smell of sewage. We should find a good place to clean up."

"Y-you're right. Ten baths should work."

They crawled from the bank of the river and headed into the woods. They weren't entirely certain where they would be headed. They only knew that they should put some distance in-between them and the town. 

Even now, the bell tolled in alarm. The pealing knell resounded through the trees and the surrounding countryside. The desperate sound spread far and wide, tenaciously pleading for help and assistance. 

Yet, everywhere it went, it whispered of an implied threat of... 

Doom. Doom. Doom. 

Even so, it faded into the distance as Zephyra and Bob made their escape. And, as the time passed and wore on, and as they walked further and further away from the havoc that they wrought, the resolve of the bell fell to a mere murmur upon the wind. Until, at last, it waned into complete silence.

They were alone. 

They had managed to evade their capture and demise. They rejoiced. They had succeeded. They had won a complete victory. And, they remained blissfully ignorant. 

They were being pursued