Styer's Inn. Basically everything in Mitro ended up being named after Styer not long after his return from the dungeon, and thanks to that name recognition, the establishments carrying the crawler's name amassed a grand reputation. The inn was no exception. It was a wooden building, dark as the forest, and very large, boasting countless floors and enough rooms for everyone in Mitro at once, or so it claimed. That being said, even though it was the peak season for tourism in Mitro, most rooms were empty. As a matter of fact, though it had been completely booked for the next three months just the day prior, it was now completely empty save for 7 rooms, 6 of which had a bunch of knights sleeping in them, and one of which lay empty as the morning sun gently graced the bedsheets and the pillows that were thrown all over the floor.

As the church bells rung in the town announcing the sixth hour of the day, Jeerad, the captain of the royal guards, opened his eyes and grumbled. He wasn't a morning person in the slightest, but he had a duty to fulfil. As fast as possible, so fast he almost tripped over himself, he put on his shining white armour and attached his sword to his hip. Jeerad was a large man, by all accounts, an honourable, though terrifying individual. He had climbed from poverty and indentured servitude all the way to the king's castle, and he had the scars to prove his worth adorning his dark skin like war medals. Every step he took going up the stairs to the king's room, he breathed the air of the inn. That smell of wood and burning candles reminded him of his home, a village not too far from Mitro, where he had made a name for himself by killing hordes of demons with nothing but a wooden bat. Then, he remembered the events of the previous evening. Worrack. Jeerad couldn't believe his eyes when that thing made its way to them, the aura of his faith, the fear that struck every king's man in that tavern had made even his knees bend and break. He shivered, his sword clinking against his armour.

He knocked on the door, twice, three times, but there was no answer. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead and the thumping of his heart shook the metal around his body and echoed in his chest like the bell that was still sounding outside. He kicked the door in, pieces of dark wood flying all around the room as a crashing sound awakened every knight at the inn. Jeerad ran inside, looking around frantically, his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to slice open any enemy. But all he saw were the sheets and the pillow, an empty bed, and the kings white armour laying on the floor.

The noise at the inn was infernal, the scraping of metal and the screams of men preparing for royal battle. The poor innkeeper was cowering behind the reception desk and every butler and maid still in their bed had their eyes wide open thinking of what kind of demon had just made its way in.

The men ran outside, swords drawn, their blades shining with magic, the words and symbols carved into the steel granting them speed, fire, lighting, and power. Ahead of the pack, Jeerad commanded his troops.

“Find the king! Slay any that mean to harm his majesty, show no mercy!” His voice boomed in the lively city, bouncing off the stalls and the buildings, shaking the ground and the bones of the villagers and tourists. Like an earthquake, the knights set off in every direction, screaming at the top of their lungs, to find the red-cheeked royal.

As his troops scattered, Jeerad looked around and noticed the strange movements of the people on the south side of the street. The herd of humans, elves, orcs, and ogres seemed to split at some point, as if avoiding an obstacle that stood in the middle of the busy street, though no such thing could be seen. He approached the spot, yelling at the people around to move out, that he was the captain of the royal guards on official royal duty! As the people dispersed, a man stood before him, his hands on his hips, wearing nothing but a silk robe tied lightly around his waist, the knot covered by his overflowing belly.

“Oh, Jeerad, there you are!” Said the man, his flabby arms shaking lightly like pudding, his red cheeks bending as his lips curled into a genuine smile. “Is that not a demigod? I know they're never claimed, but with that red hair and that face, that has to be a son of Trog, right? I mean, look at him!”

The king pointed at a man trying to run a stall just a few meters ahead. The king was standing in the middle of the street staring at a demigod, his hair like flame and his face like anger, the very image of Trog the Wrathful. The rage in the man seemed to be contained at the moment, but it was clear he was bothered by the king's blatant disregard for his business of selling charred Octopode arms. The captain of the royal guard put on his best people-smile and apologized to the man and managed to coax the king into returning to the inn to put on some clothes.

Before long, the king and his royal guard had made their way to Styer's Mug, gold in hand, looking for the orc. He was right where they'd left him, his face still glued to the table and his eyes peacefully closed. The mugs around him had been taken away by the tavern keeper it seemed, and the guests plenty at the tavern looked completely unbothered by the presence of the sleeping beast. The king held a wry smile as he ran off to Worrack and knocked him over the head with the little bag of gold coins. The king was by no means a strong man, but getting hit in the head with a bag of gold would be painful for anyone, Jeerad thought as he winced, but not even a scratch was left on the orc's head. Instead, he slowly opened his eyes and mumbled under his breath something about beer. As his eyes focused on the little king, he broke out into a smile himself and greeted the royal like an old friend when his gaze grazed the gold and images of beer upon beer painted the most beautiful scenery in his mind.

The king and the orc exchanged some words as Jeerad approached, but he didn't manage to hear them. As he took a seat at the table, the orc completely ignored him and ordered his first mug. The table was silent, save for the constant gulping of golden liquid and the sloshing in the giant's belly and the crashing of mugs into the table and to the floor. By the time his cheeks were rosy and his eyes seemed to be ready to close again, Worrack spoke.

“Huh, where were we?” his booming voice, deep as the sea and dark as the night sky in a cave, rang in the captain's ears. The slurred words captured the king's attention like a moth to a flame, “Ah yes, Styer fell down a hole! That idiot... Careless, that's not like him but I still warned him before he went in. He didn't listen, of course.

Faced with the darkness of the dungeon and not even knowing how deep he was, he came to the only sane conclusion, he found the only out. He had to go back up. See, the dungeon gets more dangerous the deeper you are. If he had fallen down only to the third level, he could probably hold his own, knowing Styer myself I know he would hold his own, but if he was four, five, Beogh forbid ten levels deep! Just getting spotted by the wrong thing would spell his doom. There are ugly things down the dungeon, very ugly things, and all of them are filled with an insatiable hunger, cursed by the darkness. So he ran. He was smart, so he was careful to avoid open space and wide corridors to have as many obstacles between him and whatever lurked in the darkness as possible. Thankfully, just a few steps away he found a staircase leading up. The spiralling and winding staircase was poorly lit, causing him to almost fall several times on his climb, but he made it up to a dead-end corridor that hooked into a corner. It wasn't the best situation to be in, especially because he didn't recognize where he was. He made sure to thoroughly explore the first and second levels so he would be able to recognize any location in there, so this was a guarantee that he was at least on the third level of the dungeon.

He was careful not to make a sound as he moved, which wasn't too hard on account of his light armour. As he peeked around the corner, he saw an empty hall. The walls were different there, they were a white stone that shone dimly, maybe reflecting the lights that hung around from the ceiling, he thought, but on closer inspection they were glowing slightly. His steps echoed in the hall.

At first, that's all he heard, but then, a rumbling came from one of the other corridors that lead to the empty space. There was a scraping sound, like wood onto stone, and a thumping, thumping, thumping, like a heartbeat that shook the earth. He drew his dagger and readied his spell, walking carefully ahead, looking around to try and hear where the noise was really coming from. The echo made it hard to tell which of the corridors it was. He looked around, crouching, and then the noise stopped.

Just when he thought he was safe, a roar like thunder came from a corridor to his rear-right. He snapped his head in the direction of the sound and was face to face with a giant ogre. The beast's body was carved up with scars and bleeding wounds, the nails on his feet dug into the stone dungeon floor like claws, jagged and rotten, and its face was contorted into an expression of rage and hate that matched its sharp teeth that overflowed in its maw. Its belly protruded from its giant body, covering the little clothing it had around its waist. In his giant three-fingered hand, it held a giant club made of wood, larger than Styer himself, with jagged pieces of bone and stone sticking out of it. The club was already above its head as the beast swung at the elf. Styer had no time to think, and purely on instinct he managed to react in time and dodged the crashing attack that left a small crater in the dungeon floor where the elf had stood only a moment before.

Despite their appearance, ogre's are incredibly intelligent beings, some have even become great sorcerers over the millennia. That one in particular however, was a hard-headed beast. In between roars, it managed so hurl some insults towards the elf, but that was about the extent of that specimen's mental capacity.

After the second swing, Styer realized his advantage. Agility. The ogre was slow and took a long time to swing its enormous club. Styer knew it was no trifling foe and if it managed to get close to him it would drop the weapon and simply crush his frail elf body in its beefy hands and bite off his head and helmet in one, as those teeth were likely to be able to pierce the thin steel that made up the elf's headgear. So, getting close enough to stab him wasn't an option, though Styer wasn't even sure if his dagger would be able to pierce the ogre's thick skin, and he was certain he couldn't jump high enough to reach his neck to land a critical hit. Thankfully for him, however, he had range.

He ran back on his heels, getting some distance between him and the dungeon monster. Then, he gathered his mana into a flash of light that shone blue in hue. As he did so, the beast roared and raised its club in front of its eyes to shield them from the sun that Styer had summoned in the dark dungeon. In that moment, Styer felt something inside him, he continued to poor mana into his hand and the light turned from blue to purple. He had finally gotten enough mana to cast a spell he had memorized from that grimoire that had been given him so long ago. The Searing Ray. All that killing he had done in the dungeon had made him stronger, the dungeon had made him stronger.

He read the spell in his mind and focused his mana into a beam that sliced from his hand to the beast's chest. The ogre screamed in pain, his skin charring and crumbling away and the dense layer of fat beneath melting with the spell's heat. The beast stumbled back but Styer didn't let up, continuing to focus his magic into the beast, willing the ray to carve its way into the ogre's heart. But before that happened, the light from his hand flickered and shifted to blue, before vanishing entirely. The ogre was on one knee, his chest bleeding profusely, blood and fat dripping onto the floor, and it now had a black spot on his chest. But it still screamed and, leaning on his club, he stood up once again, his face creasing and contorting into the image of doom. Styer tried again, stepping back and concentrating, getting as much of his mana in his hand as possible, but he could only gather a little bit of blue light that he sent flying to the beast, hitting it on the arm. The ogre cried out in pain, but kept moving towards the elf, determined to crush his every bone to dust.

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Styer felt his heart pump in his chest like a drum, his hand was numb and he struggled to move his fingers. Magic contamination. He had gotten lucky to cast searing ray, but magic is unforgiving and he was being punished by his own mana. The ogre's movements were impeded, but it kept on swinging his club tirelessly. Styer dodged every attack, but the beast was being careful to direct him towards a corridor and out of the open space. Styer looked back and his stomach dropped, he was being led to a dead-end.

His eyes widened with fear and his death flashed before his eyes right before he dodged it, the giant spiked club furiously hitting the stone ground once again. Desperation makes even the most careful rash. Styer felt he had no choice but to fight the ogre head on, dagger against club, but before he threw himself to his death, he spotted something in the middle of the stone hall. It was a staircase that lead down framed by a stone darker than that of the dungeon floor, and a dim light emanated from within. That stone was clean in a way that was unnatural for the dungeon that was caked in filth. That was Styer's only hope, to go down the dungeon and fight his way up another staircase later on.

Still, the glowing staircase was behind the ogre, so the only way to reach it would be to get closer to the beast. Styer readied himself. The ogre raised the club above his head and swung down like lightning, crashing onto the ground in front of the dodging Styer like a thunderstorm. But this time, Styer ran towards the beast, dagger in hand. He jumped forwards and slid in-between the ogre's trunk-like legs and slashed at the back of its knees with his dull dagger in one motion, achieving little more than a scratch on the beast's skin. Still, Styer successfully made his way past the monster, and ran with all his might towards the staircase and jumped in, tripping and falling down the stairs painfully, leaving the ogre behind before it could even turn its back.

At some point, he stopped rolling. His back, arms, and legs were bruised and tender in many spots, but besides that he was in rather good condition. Then, he looked around, and at once realized what he had stumbled upon.

He was inside the Ecumenical Temple. Many adventurers that had given up on the dungeon returned with a new or renewed faith in a god, and the vast majority of these adventurers mentioned the existence of a certain level of the dungeon, away from the darkness and the danger, a temple of reflection and peace. Styer relaxed almost immediately. The temple had a layout similar to the dungeon, filled with winding corridors and hallways, corners upon corners, but at the same time it was completely different from the insanity beyond its steps. There were no visible sources of light, but the whole level had a soft glow in the air that made it easy to see everything. There was also a light scent in the air, a kind smell. It smelled of dirt, of soup and beer, of wood burning softly in a fire. It was a place for adventurers. Styer walked around for a while and looked at the various altars that lay in the corners of the temple.

He saw the altar of Elyvilon the Healer. It was a small stone sculpture of a large cup with two handles, one on either side, carved entirely of one piece of shining white marble. Inside the cup was clear water. Styer took a sip and felt refreshed, the pain in his body was washed away by the goddess. Next to her altar, he saw the golden altar of The Shining One in the form of a golden number one that glowed strongly as an aura of pure justice and ultimate good beamed from its every jagged edge. Styer felt the warmth in his heart, he thanked Elyvilon for the help and bowed to the grace of The Shining One, but walked away from their altars. Styer was not a good elf, he was evil to his core. That was his nature, or perhaps his nurture, having been raised by a worshipper of an evil god like Beogh. Though he yearned for the light, he still walked towards the darkness.

In the side opposite the altars of good sat altars of unadulterated evil. Dithmenos the Shadowed's altar was in the form of a dark orb made of a dark crystal, floating above a platform of equally dark stone. It hummed, that altar, calling those that wished to hide, to strike from the darkness, to kill without name. Styer gazed into the crystal orb and saw his own reflection. His dark hair was hidden in the shadows and his golden eyes had turned a dull grey. He was surrounded by smoke and darkness, and he smiled. That reflection held something in its hand, a crystal, though that too was hidden away by Dithmenos so Styer could not be sure of its nature.

To the right of the Shadowed was an altar built of a dull metal in a form that had no name, but as Styer gazed upon it he was sure that it was the swing of a blade cutting straight through a neck. Within the metal lay a flame, a fire that burned since the dawn of time and would burn until there was no other fire left to extinguish. Styer knew, as his face felt the warmth of the fire, that was the altar of Makhleb the Destroyer, the god of bloodshed. In the flames, Styer saw a spell. The words were written in a language only Makhleb could teach him, he knew that in his heart, and the spell was a great one, a disastrous one. Makhleb promised destruction, promised the death of any that opposed Styer on his journey, and that spell was like a blade that would cut through the necks of any that weren't wise enough to fear it.

Then, Styer shifted his eyes to the last altar on the temple. Compared to the other ones, it wasn't as grand or as beautiful. The altar was in the form of a tombstone. The stone was old and missing a piece at the top, and clearly no one in centuries had bothered to clean it, as it was covered in black grime. Styer wiped away some of it with his hand, and as his hand touched the stone he felt some grooves carved in. He wiped some more, and an inscription revealed itself below the crude carving of a skull.

“Here lies Styer the Grim Reaper. He was a friend to the dead, and a foe to the living. The last avatar of Yredelemnul the Dark.”

Yredelemnul, a god so evil even his name was a curse all over the world. A god that dug up that which should remain buried. Yred's face had been wiped from all the kingdom's mythical records after the thousand-year-war. Styer had read about it in a old book he'd found in Mitro. The cover was black and grey with mould and the words were falling off the page, but the thirst for knowledge was great in the young elf, so he tried to read what he could. It told the story of a war that had happened before things were written down, a war that was fought not amongst man and beast but amongst gods. According to the book, there was a dark one that walked the earth in a black robe. Everything he touched with his bony fingers would start falling to the ground in death, but before their bodies could collapse entirely, their limbs would move in an unnatural way, their muscles would be too strong and cause their bones to crack and their skin to rip, they would not blink, their mouths would be left open even as flies and larva landed on their teeth. As he walked, this being of death gathered an army of those which should not exist, an army so large and fearsome only the gods could face it, and they had to face it as one, evil and good united, the righteous and the wretched together against the one who wields death.

The book didn't say how the war ended, or if it did the pages had been rotted away by the time Styer had stumbled upon it. Still, that story lingered in his mind, and the power of the being in the story slithered its way behind the elf's eyes and carved a home in his will. Styer put his knees to the ground, clasped his hands together, and closed his eyes. He remembered the one who raised him did the same when he prayed to his god, so he copied his ways. As his eyes shut and the light was washed away, he felt a hand be placed upon his head. The fingers were long and thin, he could feel the knuckles softly on his scalp. Then, he heard a voice. A voice that was many that spoke as one. Some were old and raspy, others were new and soft, some voices echoed and others vanished as soon as the words left their rotten lips. They told Styer of a new world that would come, a world that had once been but that was ripped away unfairly by some that were too blind and cowardly to accept it. They told Styer he could make that world come back, if only he could dig, dig down to the depths of the dungeon and grab the orb of Zot. The power it held would be enough to turn even a simple elf into a god. Styer nodded along, tears welling up in his eyes. His chest beat as fast as a dragon could fly and his body shook and trembled, but he was not afraid, he simply believed the story he had read so many years ago, he believed the words of Yred, and he accepted the mission that his darkness had graced him with.

In that moment, Styer the Elf became Styer the Tainted, the first follower of Yredelemnul the Dark, god of death and undeath, in thousands of years.

Yred had given him great power as a reward for his devotion, and Styer was eager to try it out. He walked up the stairs out of the temple and the darkness of the dungeon engulfed him once more. In one corner of the hall of white stone, he noticed an ogre, a pitiful thing nursing a wound adorning his chest. Styer could feel it was close to death, so he walked towards it. His steps echoed lightly in the hall, but enough for the ogre to notice and turn around to face him. Its face bent and cracked with a fury and an all-consuming anger, but Styer did not waver. He called upon his mana, concentrating it in his hand. A flash of blue appeared, then it turned to purple as Styer stopped his march. The ogre was running towards him at full speed, each step a thundering crash unto the stone floor of the dungeon. Styer raised his palm and aimed at the charred flesh in the ogre's chest. A ray of purple light burst from his hand and hit it. The ogre screamed and whipped his head back, dropping his club to the floor. Styer continued his focus for as long as he could, the searing ray burning the thing's flesh, then bone, then flesh, then skin, then coming out of the ogre's back and hitting the wall behind it. Styer's magic was exhausted and the purple light turned blue before it fizzled out as the ogre's body, heavy and slack, slammed onto the ground with the sound of meat and blood, lifeless.

Styer walked up to it and examined the cadaver. It was a strong body, a powerful foe to be sure. He could see that the hole, about the size of his fist, that went from the ogre's chest to its back, straight through its heart, was surrounded by charred flesh. The battle was over, and Styer was victorious. Still, it wasn't enough. The ogre's duty was not yet fulfilled. Styer placed his hand atop the ogre's head and spoke with a voice that was not his own. A voice that was many.

“Rise.””

Worrack signalled the tavern keeper to bring him another mug of that golden liquid he loved so much, his large hands waving in the air sloppily and uncoordinated. The king and the captain had their eyes wide open, staring at the orc's face like it was a rare gem they'd just unearthed.

“Styer the Tainted?” Asked the captain, his dry throat making his voice crack. “I've never heard of such a person. The legends speak of Styer the Elf, and not one version says anything about the hero being evil.” His indignation was clear.

Worrack laughed like a wave crashing on the shore.

“That's right, Jeerad. Tainted? No such thing, of that I'm sure!” Said the king, after managing to reattach his jaw to his skull.

“Well, your majesty. Your little bag is empty, you see?” Mocked Worrack, grabbing the leather bag that had once been filled with gold coins in front of the king's face. “Maybe he was evil, maybe he wasn't. But WE had a deal. You pay, I say. Simple as. And you ain't paying no more, so I ain't saying no more. Simple as!”

His belly bounced up and down with every chuckle, bouncing the table with it and knocking the countless mugs on the table down to the mountain of countless mugs on the floor.

The king stood up in a flash and slammed his hands onto the table. He exclaimed, his voice loud and proud as a royal decree, that he would return with more gold and he would make Worrack finish his tale. He left the tavern in a hurry, followed closely by Jeerad and his guards, many of which warily glanced back at the beast in the shape of an orc.