The Madness of Eternity

The tavern was as any other Calosian tavern was, filled to the brim with people from all walks of life, from lowly peasants here for a drink, to rich merchants closing deals with noble lords. Clean white fire erupted from slender white metal torches embedded in the white marble walls. Pub Street, third ring, the City of Calos.
The publican, a portly old man who was perpetually sweating, was used to seeing people from across the world, as was every publican on the famous Pub street, but the figure who was sitting in the back corner unnerved him. He was tall, it seemed, and clothed from head to toe in black gear; a black, long sleeved tunic covered with a black steel breastplate, black trousers with more blacksteel armor, at his side hung a single sword, also black. His face was shaded by the hood of his black cloak. It was unusual to find someone so darkly clad in the city, even the Black Legionaries would usually have some flesh showing through their blacksteel plate armor. But even this man’s hands were covered with dragonskin gloves, dyed black.
He decided that this man was a potential problem and signaled one of the guards to escort him out. The three guards looked at each other, then the largest, a hulking man by the name of Olaf, stood and started walking towards the lone man. The other two stood and followed close behind, incase this one was a fighter.
“Time to go pal, Nikos wants you out.” He said, his deep voice carried beautifully across the din of the room. But the black-clad man let out a small laugh and turned his hooded face, locking eyes with Olaf. “What are you looking at Friend?”
“I’m looking at my dinner” the figure sneered, his voice was smooth, but reeked of evil, even the hulking Olaf shivered when he spoke. The torches flickered, then the flame turned black and the black-clad man stood, pelting the table across the room and embracing Olaf, clamping his jaws on the guard’s throat. It took him only a few seconds to drain the large body of it’s blood, then he pelted it away and started wantonly killing everything in the room, starting with the other guards, which he dispatched by snapping their necks, one in each hand. He then turned his sights on the people still sitting shocked at their tables. He drew his sword, a long serrated black blade, and began hacking them to pieces.
Nikos’ eyes bulged with fear as he saw the man cleave through his clientele, so he rapidly grabbed his cloak and ran towards the door as fast as he could manage. By the time he had reached it he found it was locked, as did about fifty other patrons who were trying to pound the thick door down. He turned around and ran to the only other door in the tavern, the smugglers entrance. As he pulled the door open, a thin dagger flew through the air and embedded itself in his back. The Publican’s hands flailed as he tried to reach the blade, causing him to trip on the stair and fall down into the tunnel. He scrambled to his feet and started down the tunnel, he knew where he had to go, the Garrison, they could keep him safe…

By the time Nikos reached the Garrison and the Calosian Guardsmen arrived at the tavern it was a morgue. Over two hundred corpses littered the room, some were pulled apart and others were drained of blood. The floor was slick with all kinds of fluids mixing; blood, ale, urine. The room stank of freezing flesh. And to the final horror of the guards, there was writing on the wall in fresh blood:
         
"The Bloodhound returns to his Master’s Side, to smell out his prey one last time."

One of the guards vomited, another swore, a few whispered prayers to their gods, and one, a green-eyed man who looked not a day over twenty, Sent out a quick mental message. *I found him*

The wind howled outside, the city was engulfed in the grip of winter, but the telepathic message was sent, and it reached out across the city. It went south, leaving the city and its massive walls, across the snowy fields and mighty border forts, past the borders of the province of Calos and into the Archduchy of Natæl. The old Volcano, harnessed and fortified by the Kraechae dwarves for the Emperor of Calos and given to the last of the Judicators nearly one hundred thousand years past stood at the receiving end of the message. A mountain of white stone, with towers of obsidian erupting from its slopes, denoting the vast interior networking of fortifications and living spaces, all ending with the central tower, a Spire built in the style of the great Spire of Calos, ending nearly a full mile above the plains below with three long prongs. And atop this mighty spire stood a figure encased in a full inch of ice. From his skin, bronzed so many years ago, and his hair, a pale silvery color, tied behind, and his pale crimson eyes he looked every inch like the ancient being he was. He also looked as lifeless as the stone around him. Two centuries since he last drew breath, his face was covered in a spider web of scars, from lines that looked like scratches to ones that looked like bites. They seemed to glow against his bronze flesh. When the message reached him a flicker of light crossed his eyes, then the form of the Judicator vanished, leaving the shell to crumble in the wind.