<em>Hate.</em>It was an emotion Valdric experienced all too often, yet one that he could never quite understand.  It was like an eel, writhing and black, slipping between his calloused fingers every time he attempted to grasp it, to control it and make it his own.  He had long since accepted that such an ugly thing was beyond his control, perhaps beyond the control of any man.  It seethed up from within at the most inopportune moments, thirsting, consuming, crashing in waves against the heart and demanding to be satiated with violence.  Only with immense willpower could it be governed, however loosely.  In those moments it could not be chained, but<em>directed</em>, and woe be unto any soul that stands in the path of the man dragged by the leash of that hound called Hate.<br/><br/>Valdric (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v296/rcburner/Characters/VonFisher4.jpg) was just such a man, and his body had been built well enough to grip that leather lifeline without being shattered in the black beast's wake; wide shoulders, a broad chest that strained the buckles of his vest, legs planted as firmly as tree trunks, and thick arms made for grappling.  He wore the dress of a military man of great rank, but of what army he had spawned there was no sign.  The faded brass engravings on his blackened gauntlets spoke vaguely of elvish forges, but with a peculiarity or corruption that twisted the signs beyond recognition.  A rounded helmet crowned with a spike and a ghastly white death-mask obscured most of his features, and both were utterly foreign and strange.<br/><br/>But Aranth was a world with many dark places, and strangers of unknown lands were no longer as uncommon as they had been in days long past.  Vritoom drew all sorts, and most of them looked about as unfriendly as Valdric, if not more so.<br/><br/>The more he walked through its streets, the more he began to understand the source of this particular brand of hate.  Like any city of sufficient size it had its filth, but it was not mere garbage that set his teeth on edge.  Nor was it the decadence, the distribution of sex and drugs and slaves as common commodities.  For these he felt some measure of distaste, but the vices of Man were many and only a fool blinded by naivety could possibly hope to curb them all.<br/><br/>No, it was something else.  It was the way the architecture clashed from road to road, the way clay huts gave way to oblong brass structures engraved and embossed with color and gold, which in turn gave way to gabled rooftops coated with shingles, fused with marble structures replete with ornate columns, erected besides clusters of brilliantly painted tents and stalls, ad infinitum.  Vritoom was like a magnet for cultures from all over the land, and most brought their respective cultures with them.  It was a vast and populous melting pot at the center of every major trade route, devouring refugees and wanderers, integrating them into its growing bulk, constantly reinventing itself and evolving into a hodgepodge civilization all its own.<br/><br/>And it was for that very reason that a raw sickness had taken hold in the man's gut.  But he was there with a purpose of great magnitude, and to abandon it for such petty reasons would be a heresy beyond measure.<br/><br/>So when he strode through the doors of that tavern he banished such thoughts from his mind.  He did not know why had had chosen this particular establishment, nor did he know exactly what he was looking for.  Fortunately--or unfortunately, depending on one's perspective--he was about to have his path laid out before him by the two unlikeliest people in the entire room.<br/><br/><em>"Explorers of Ruins, Caverns, and Bodies! Join While ya still can and get a cut of the booty!"</em><br/><br/>Valdric may as well have been an eager bloodhound the way his head snapped to attention.  A six-and-a-half foot tall bloodhound with a mask that could only have been designed by someone who desperately hated children and wanted to go out of their way to scare the nine hells out of them at every opportunity.<br/><br/><strong>"You are explorers then?"</strong>he asked, placing both hands on the table with such force that it nearly shook the mugs clean off it.  His voice was thick with both accent and urgency.  Dark grey eyes squinted out of the darkness, and the way he was looking at them was dangerously like how a starved man might stare down a piece of raw meat.<strong> "Professionals?  Versed in the ways of dungeoneering?"</strong>