Pain. All there was, surrounding him, engulfing him like a riptide. His eyes gazed out around him, searching for anything he would recognize. Shadows, just shadows. Whirling mists of a dark charcoal set against a backdrop of night. He breathed in, taking in a breath of the thick air. It was familiar to him. He was home.

Chains held him fast. His arms and legs held in manacles, though he could not see what held them. He had gone past the point of being able to struggle. Exhaustion sapped his strength and he knew there was no more fighting. Death would come for him, and he welcomed it with open arms.

A inky shape emerged from the mists. He didn't need to look, almost already knowing who it was. His creation; a puppet of masterful build, a shell of shadowstuff given life by the essential energy that made up this plane. Clad in armor very much like his own, and like armed.

How did he get here? Last thing he remembered was the glow. A steady burning from within, his essence being almost ripped from him. As the thought of being ended entered his mind, he slipped into unconsciousness. Even now, looking upon his creation from the mists, he knew. Hunter's will be done.

"Gerald.", Hunter mocked, crossing his arms over his chest, almost patronizing him with his company.

His armor gave off a hint of smoke rising, it's surface becoming less steel in appearance and more to it's base material. Shadowstuff was an incredibly difficult material to create from. It's dark ooze being much as a primordial ooze from which all on the demi-plane of Shadow been made of. It was found in rare pockets in it's purest form, and with the right incantations, it could be used to forge. To create.

"Hunter", Gerald said, raising his eyes to his captor, "do not tell me you drew me here to have to bear one of you speeches. As you can tell, I am hardly in the mood."

Hunter laughed, tossing his head back outrageously. He took a step towards his father, resting a heavy gauntlet on the chain which held his right arm fast. He brought his helm within a foot of his father's face, a cold breath chilling Gerald to the bone.

"Once, you made me, father. Then if I do remember, tried to destroy me. Do you remember?", Hunter mused, pulling the chain tight drawing a thin line of red from Gerald's wrist. "Even now, those pitiful fleshlings are seeking to finish what you could not."

"You never should have been made, puppet.", Gerald said flatly, accepting his fate with normal rebellion, "Your release from bondage was not my doing."

"Oh yes, I remember. I hear every cry of pain escaping from you lips when I struck you. The whimpers of agony following every swing of this sword you forged. Could you only know what you made then.", his head turned to the surrounding mists, releasing his hand from the chain. He continued, "It was your pain that gave me release, and it's your's again which will set me free."

Gerald stood silent. He could barely make out anything past a few feet in front of him. Curse these shadows! Had he the time, he would've bettered the light. It wouldn't have impaired Hunter, but atleast he could see. This game of hide-and-seek was growing tiring.

Hunter took a few steps, reaching within a shadowpocket, hands grasping the leathery tome of the Necronomicon. He could feel it's power throbbing here, being so close to the borders of the Negative Energy plane. It thirsted for the power of the realm, and it would be satisfied. A finger opened the cover, as so many mortals had done before, leading them to damnation. He was no mortal, though, the book would hold nothing on him.

His sight began searching. A shaking of chain from behind him gave reassurance that Gerald still lay tied. Symbols and archaic language met his vision, translated instantly by his own arcane knowledge. He knew that which he sought, and knew how it would be done.

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Power surged over Gerald as the skin beneath his armor began to feel as if it was being slowly flayed. His jaw tightened, not giving Hunter the satisfaction of a scream. His eyes grew hazy, focusing on his creation before him.

Hunter began the vile incantation, his hand moving slowly, balling up the power needed from the surrounding darkness. A swirling vortex of shadow magic formed in the path his hand traced. Ancient forgotten syllables escaped his unmoving helm, speaking the words of power that would even perplex the most ancient of elven mages. Within moments, after the ritual began, the air about the Hunter became as a silent tornado, constantly swirling around his chanting silouette. Gerald hung his head in defeat, his skin beginning to feel as if it was boiling. His world went black to the sound of Hunter's maniacal laughter.

* * * * * *

Gerald awoke. Eyesight fuzz turned clear, with shadows pulling away revealing buildings around him. His fingers moved slightly, carrying with them stabs of pain up his arms. Mummering of voices echoed in his helm until the voices bore faces. The shadows became as solid as the cobblestones in which he lay. Within his line of sight, he could see the walls of a temple before him. A figure came rushing out, one familiar and known to all as Haulfest. An arm took his, lifting him to his knees, then to his feet. Gerald nearly collapsed, his legs unable to bear his weight. Words came muffled, offering support and compassion. He was safe, for now....

The crowd pushed aside, allowing the two access to Cordor's temple, the sun blazing high in the afternoon sky.

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