Acheron's Irregulars

With apologies to Akira Kurosawa and John Sturges. Criticism is welcome and warranted.

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There is a place called the Multiverse.

It is a setting of the strange and unusual, where belief can shape the very fabric of reality. It is a world where opposed idealogies clash in violent struggle and epic conflicts to determine the fate of the cosmos are a daily occurence.

It is the source for countless tales of legendary endeavors performed in the face of unimaginable villainy. From it have come numerous stories concerning the struggles of heroes against the very Gods themselves.

This is not one of those stories.

It is, in fact, a wretchedly boorish tale, and to be perfectly honest we couldn't recommend it to anyone.

Don't say we didn't warn you.

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There is a place called Acheron.

It is where men's nightmares of tyranny and war chose to form, creating a fire-blasted wasteland of scorched iron where nothing shall ever grow. Ignorant armies march to their futile deaths across slowly rolling blocks of burnt metal that are as large as continents, suspended in an eternal void. Men both mighty and small are swallowed up by the insignificance of it all, reduced to mere cogs in a broken clock moments before it is smashed with a sledge-hammer.

It is a place of mindless allegiance and futile effort, where the dead are cursed to re-enact the battles that claimed their lives and no one knows what anyone is fighting for. It is war without glory, without courage, and without honor. It is smoke and pain and iron and blood.

This is not where our story takes place.

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There is a place called the Outlands.

It is a circular stretch of land which some claim lies at the center of the Multiverse. Upon it live nomads, wanderers, and a few towns - and at its center there is a Spire, atop of which there is a City.

But that isn't important right now.

What is important is that upon the fringes of the Outlands, there are many towns. These towns are known as Portal Towns, and each one sits upon the border that leads to a very specific place. Some of these borders lead to pleasant places, and as a consequence the Portal Town is also very pleasant. For instance, the Portal Town of Ecstasy lays upon the border of Elysium, which is so ridiculously pleasant that they actually thought naming its Portal Town 'Ecstasy' was a good idea.

However, some of these Portal Towns share borders with very unpleasant places. For instance, one Portal Town in particular - a village few know and even fewer care about - happens to have a border with a very nasty realm known as Acheron. This village is called Rigus.

This is where our story takes place.

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"Tag! You're it!" Rumour's hands shoved roughly up against his older sister's back, sending the dark-haired girl tumbling to the cracked and dry earth with a surprised cry.

"Stop goofing off," Fact muttered as she drew herself up from the ground, dusting off the cracked leather of her trousers. "We have work to do."

Rumour threw a disparaging look towards the glow of the waning evening sky, followed by one of his trademark pouts - a weapon which his sister had long learned to ignore. "There's no firewood out here. There's hardly any trees left, either."What few trees remained around the town of Rigus had withered and blackened, as if they had been scorched in some incredibly hot fire, and their wood rarely made even passable kindling.

"It doesn't matter. We can't go home empty-handed," Fact lectured her less cautious brother in the same way their mother used to, hands on her hips and waggling her finger at him. Rumour hated it when her sister did that. "Now help me pick up some of this wood.""But it won't burn anyway!" Rumour whined, before his eyes brightened as he focused on something behind his sister. "Why don't we ask him if he knows where we can get more wood?""What are you talking about? There's no one else out-" Fact was cut off by the sound of stomping feet somewhere in the distance. Whipping around, her eyes widened at the sight now before her.

If the purpose of armor was to protect, then this man was easily the most well-protected person that Fact had ever seen. From head to toe he was sheathed in tempered high-polished steel, ornate celestial designs carved upon every inch of available metal. Each of his steps seemed to involve an incredible struggle which was only made all the more vast by the immense weight of his sword - a blade that was as thick as Fact's brother and twice as tall, kept slung over the shoulder.

The man's face was a road-map of faded criss-crossing scars that blurred the features of his face into obscurity, but Fact could see beneath the maze of old wounds that he had once been a handsome man. Now he was shaven bald, his one good eye gleaming hawkishly as he marched with a ceaseless step towards the children - and the town behind them.

"We must run back and tell the elders," Fact instantly realized outloud, before grabbing her over-eager brother and dragging him with her as fast as she could back to the village.

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Hesitant introductions were offered but ignored. Questions were asked and met by stoney silence. Eventually, drinks were served.

Rigus had only one tavern, and the tavern's drinks were confined to water and a foul smelling substance that felt like tar and tasted twice as bad. The traveler chose the water.

The chair he sat upon groaned underneath the weight of his armor as he gulped back the glass, washing away the dust of the Outlands in a single pull. The town's elders - there were three, a woman and two men - watched him from the other side of the table, surrounded by the town's adult population. The children, barred from entering the tavern, watched with silent fascination through the tavern's exterior windows.

The man brought the glass down with a solid clink on the wooden table.

"My name is Boric," He spoke, his voice low and reverbrating down through the very base of the tavern itself. "And I am on a Quest."The village elders all instantly nodded. Obviously, any man who wore armor as expensive as his and wielded a sword that big had to be a very important person on very important business, they told each other.

"I am on a Quest," Boric continued as one of the tan-skinned females refilled his glass, "To slay Evil."Of course, the village elders agreed. After all, slaying Evil was always very important business, best left to very important men.

"And this Evil," Boric finished, lifting the glass up and watching it with that fierce hawk-eyed gaze, "Is the realm of Acheron."

Boric was mildly displeased when his announcement was met not with the buzz of people agreeing with him, but instead a sort of dreadful silence. Leveling that one-eyed gaze towards the audience, he spoke once more in that revebrating voice of gravelly stone.

"Does this not meet your approval?""Ah, well, you see," The third village elder - a hesitant scrawny man by the name of Timid - mumbled, "It's just that, ah, well, you see... This isn't the first time, ah, someone like you has, ah, gone into, ah, Acheron."

"Of course not," Boric grunted. "But this time it will be different."

"Yes, yes, of course. This time you'll smash the undead armies with one fist, grab Hextor by the throat and hurl him to the ground, then kick him in the nose," The second elder - a burly and gruff ruffian by the name of Rash - growled. "But let's think this through a little, yes?"Boric's eyes narrowed. He did not like the direction this conversation was going. "What are you saying?""What they are trying to tell to you is that heroes have sought to topple Acheron before, and they have failed," The third village elder - a slender waifish old woman by the name of Clarity - explained. "And every time they fail, Acheron punishes us for allowing such heroes to pass through our lands.""I see," Boric grunted. "The armies of Acheron have attacked your village before?""Yes," All three elders - and several adults - exclaimed in unison.

"Such vile, reprehensible evil shall not go unpunished!" Boric exclaimed, smashing his mailed fist (the one that wasn't holding the water) down into the table. It made a terrible racket, splintering the wood.

"You're not listening," Clarity sighed. "They only attacked us because we let heroes who attacked them use our city as a staging grounds for their assaults.""So what are you trying to say?" Boric knitted his brows together.

"Ah, well, you see, ah, I think, well, not to speak for all of us, but, ah, I think what Clarity is trying to say, ah," Timid began, "Is that, ah, we'd much appreciate it, ah, if you didn't... Well, if you didn't use our town as a staging grounds to attack Acheron.""That's ludicrous," Boric spat. "You have no doubt suffered for years under the oppression of Acheron!""Actually, they pretty much leave us alone if we leave them alone," Clarity explained. "Sure, it's an evil place, but it's pretty self-involved. They don't have time for us, see...""And we don't need goody-two-shoes like yourself shaking things up," Rash snapped. "So you can take your sword and take your God and take your-""Shut up!" Boric roared, causing all three elders to blanch and several of the adults to feint. The children who were watching outside of the windows nearly all fell down at once, then scrambled madly to get back up on top of the younger children's shoulders.

"Now you listen, and you listen good," Boric began, hefting his blade up and pointing it at the three elders to emphasize his point. "Because I'm going to explain this once and only once...""In three weeks, my comrades and I will be arriving at this town. In three weeks, we will use your town to stage an attack against Acheron. You will feed us. You will house us. And with the Gods as my witness, you will help us. You will do as we ask, or so help me Gods, I will see to it every single one of you are judged for whatever terrible sins you have no doubt committed in your past and duly punished for them. Do you understand me?"

The mute silence of the cowering villagers was enough of a response for Boric.

"Bloody peasants," Boric grunted, turning and kicking down the door on his way out."Bloody adventurers," Rash grumbled.

"Ah, what do we, ah, do now?" Timid began, wringing his hands in indecision. "This, ah, seems absolutely terrible. We couldn't, ah, survive another attack from, ah, Acheron..."

Clarity nodded her head. "We will have to speak to the Aasimar. He will know what to do."

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The Aasimar was older than old. He was old back when all the village elders were just little children, and supposedly he was still old when their parents were little children. Supposedly, there had been a time when he was someone important, perhaps even a servant of a Power. Nowadays he spent most of his time on his rocking chair outside of his house, regaling young children with strange tales of terrible cataclysms and amusing adventures.

Clarity came alone. The Aasimar did not particularly like Timid, and often argued with Rash.

"There is a Paladin, Old One," She began respectfully, "Who wants to use our town to stage another attack against Acheron.""Another one?" The Aasimar asked, his voice creaky with none of the righteous command it had possessed in his youth. "Didn't they do that last year?"

"A decade ago," She softly corrected him. "He is not allowing us any choice in the matter. In three weeks, his men will come here and they will launch an assault against the Plane of Tyranny.""And once he and his men fail or get bored, Acheron will respond with an attack in turn," The Aasimar finished, nodding. "You lost your husband last time, didn't you?"Clarity paused. "Yes.""The Planes are a regretable place. These things happen," The Aasimar explained. "If the Paladin refusese to listen to reason and forces us to abide by his laws, we have no true choice in the matter. We can not resist him.""We can not sustain another attack, Old One. The harvest this year was especially bad, and-"The Aasimar sat up in his chair, peering at Clarity with one eye wide open and the other narrowed to a slit. The wrinkles of his face were suddenly drawn deeper, as if they had been carved into bone and flesh with a knife. "You'd have us resist the will of adventurers? You know what sort of power those types wield."Clarity lowered her head. "I know. But after the severity of the last punishment, I fear that we may not survive the next attack."

"You are set on this?" The Aasimar asked, still staring at the elderly woman.Clarity reminded herself of her husband's face. "Yes.""Hire more adventurers.""What?" Clarity blanched, staring at the old man as if he had just told her to recruit Tanar'ri."Fight fire with fire," The Aasimar explained, smiling. "Hire adventurers to fight adventurers. Or at least adventurers capable of convincing the Paladin not to use our home as the staging ground for his little idealogical war.""We have no money," Clarity frowned."I have a little. Not much, but I have been saving it for a rainy day. You and two people you trust must voyage to the City..." The Aasimar glanced in the distance, towards the center of the Outlands. "You must travel by portal to the City, and find adventurers who are willing to help you. I do not have much, so you will likely have to rely on adventurers who are compassionate and good of heart.""Such things don't exist," Clarity muttered dismally."You might be surprised," The Aasimar was quick to retort. "Yes, things have gotten bad. Nowadays, adventurers just ravage the landscape in search for glory or trophies of war or riches. But there are still a few who are in it not for the thrills but for the oppurtunity to do good. The City may not be the best place to look for them, but it is the only place we can start."

"I will go to Sigil, then," Clarity sighed reluctantly, rising to her feet.

"Make sure one of them's a cute tiefling lass," The Aasimar quipped, glancing up towards the skies. "With a tail... I always had a thing for-"Blushing in a manner that was out-of-character for the elderly, Clarity made a quick exit.