How the devil in Carl’s head played him, played him like a fool, played him like a fiddle. Once again, he tricked Carl, tricked him because he knew him. He knows Carl’s wounds and weaknesses and presses them until they burst.

Now, without seeing his wife, Carl is off again—a long trek along the Cyne road, Aeleford, as his first stop. As Carl crosses the Scyle mountains, he remembers his time within the Sanguinators academy with Agazuul and Lixiss.

The Sanguinators were a great helping hand on their seemingly impossible quest. They gained valuable resources and a squad of Sanguinators, and Lixiss had gotten an ancient legendary blade infused with many enchantments.

The worst part of the trip there was the constant reminder to return to the Deeprealm, a horrid place of tunnels and caves filled with many terrible creatures, humanlike and otherwise hungry to take everything you have to offer. Worst are the dark-elves; while knee-weakingly beautiful, they are vicious and eager to use your infatuation.

The Frygdscael woods seemed, once again, full of goblins. Carl quickly struck them with a few well-aimed crossbow bolts. They found their way into an eye socket, a chest, a forehead, and, unfortunately, a shield. Tricksy little buggers, those goblins. Descendant from orcs and gnome couplings, none consensual apart from a few described only in the sauciest of novels, plain brute strength for their frame from the orc-side of their heritage and the craftiness and inventiveness from the gnome side. Only one of the four remained standing, aggravated greatly by my killing of three of its kind. It quickly swapped its shield and sword for a goblin-sized short bow. A few quick arrows flew Carl’s way, none striking true.

Carl made his horse take haste as the goblin knocked back the last one; he took careful aim with this one. Carl saw as he looked back. The cold morning air began to solidify around Carl, forming a dense overlay of ice over his body. The arrow struck true, cracking the layer of ice, lodged in deeply but not touching the studded leather Carl wore underneath.

As Carl dispelled his frost armor, the arrow fell to the ground; the distance between his horse and the goblin was already far too great for the creature to dare another shot. As the forest cleared, he saw the trusted little town of Aeleford just a short distance away.

It is a quaint little town that Carl had passed many times before. A few years ago, it wasn’t even half this size. How war displaced people, Agazuul rescuing half the village from the Deeprealm was quite the feat—a village back then, a town now. Things were changing quickly, but the war remained.

There wasn’t time to stick around; too much to still do. Carl headed towards the bridge that crossed the Lorg-mèinn River. It was a large, spacious bridge, able to sustain two horse-carried carts side by side and still have room for a line of infantry. Carl saw a beast scouring the skies, but it was not his quarry.

The Cyne road took Carl to Durnaelf, beside the Agrandiant Range. The devil inside Carl’s head told him where his new quest lies—rumors of strange beasts ravaging the cellars of the local taverns. Now, to follow up on them, it is always best to catch up with some of the locals. Carl went to Ranlyn, the local smithy, but he knew little about it. Carl tried Gweneth of the whorehouse but had no luck, though her offer of coitus tempted him. Iorwen, a tavern wench, knew not much either, offering up no more than the names of the taverns Carl already knew were attacked.

After running around, talking to folks and the owners whose taverns had been put in danger, Carl sat down in one of the only taverns that hadn’t been attacked yet.

The Skookum Crow, a humble tavern. One of the smallest in Durnaelf, in dire need of some renovation.

"Ah, not much luck? What did you expect? With your pisspoor talents. You call this investigating?" The devil in his head exclaimed a harsher tone than usual.

"You sit here, drinking that slop; you should be out there looking for whatever is causing these people grief!"

"Hm, like you care," Carl declared into the ether. The tavern keeper Gilleas responded,

"Care about what?" Quite often, Carl was annoyed that only he could hear the devil inside his head. One of them declared their words into the open, the other in the safety of the mind. Gilleas seemed to pay it little mind as he cleaned some glasses. Only a few drunks were his patrons, still inebriated from last night, some waking to order new drinks.

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Like many patrons, Carl hoped his answers could be found at the bottom of the glass; his mind was already elsewhere. No longer on the quest before him, away from the troubles of Durnaelf. Carl’s thoughts had already found their way back to the farm, where he left his wife again. Eventually, he would have to tell her of the devil in his head, the things it made him do, and why he did as the devil in his head commanded.

But as the dark brown ale seeped down his gullet, Carl found that such thoughts were slipping far, far away. The devil’s voice inside his head was trying to creep its way back up. Carl quickly drank another dose of the antidote. His head began to swim against a new tide of ale consumed too quickly.

As Carl took the third glass a bit more slowly, starting to feel a delightful numbness, a throat thoroughly smoothened, there was a sudden noise.

"Ah, there it is; you are so not ready. It is thoroughly enjoyable to see you disappoint me in new ways." That sentence had a vile enjoyment; perhaps the devil inside his head saw a way out. There was a scream from Gilleas; he left to grab another keg in the cellar just a moment ago. It was time to get moving, but try as Carl might, he found himself stuck to the barstool. Fear had him in its grip. Memories of the Deeprealm started to float out of the murky brown sop he tried to use to drown them.

Visions of a plagalocus made their way to Carl, a violent torrent of fragmented memories. A strange demon half-locust - half-man, three heads taller than Carl, whose presence made everything around it wither and die. A demon capable of inflicting horrible diseases and corruptive magic upon any victims it chose, capable of summoning demonic locusts that eagerly consumed flesh as their counterparts consumed crops.

The fight against that demon wasn’t pretty; Carl still felt his right arm being stripped of its flesh, the locusts cruelly leaving the nerves for last. Carl could still see the look of genuine fear upon Agazuul’s face as the plagalocus grabbed him and breathed its corruptive magic down his gullet. How weak Carl felt then, powerless. Carl wasn’t; in moments like that, he was grateful to have a devil inside his head, one whose hatred for these creatures overpowers any need to make him feel worse about himself than he already does.

The devil’s voice inside his head grew loud now, a command uttered which Carl could not receive. Carl floated in the brown sop, his memories like small, deformed fish, their bodies grazing his, each carrying something Carl would’ve rather forgotten. Carl could’ve led a good life after the journeys in the Deeprealm, but he had closed that path. Carl took away the possibility of glory, of renown. To face the devil inside his head and prove Carl did something for him that he wouldn’t have been able to do.

Two voices screamed at Carl, for Carl. Gilleas with pleads which came garbled from the struggle. The devil inside his head was trying to reach him. "Would you get a grip, you oaf? There’s work to be done!" Carl’s body remained in the sop; he waded through it, trying to reach for the controls. Waves started to form in the sop, starting as ripples. They rose and wanted to devour Carl, drown him. Their battle against the flauros, who saw Carl’s every spell coming. Carl overthought every move. Lixiss used brute force, and Agazuul gave the creature no quarter. He made sure that any future would result in its death. While Carl stood there, uncertain to tap into the deep pools of his abilities, afraid that the creature would again foil Carl’s attempts.

Another wave hit Carl, pushing him deep within the brown sop. A small fish with a sharp fin cut into his skin. The Moravï with the head of Tòmas, the black crane who wears the face of the dead. A plain freckled face with ginger hair and a suntanned complexion, with deep green eyes. That face would forever be engraved in Carl’s mind. Carl believes he could’ve easily prevented Tòmas’ death. Tòmas was murdered by a few goblins left alive when Carl cleared out a cave. Carl didn’t want to go through the effort of tracking down the fleeing goblins. Tòmas paid the price for it; the moravï might have been easy to slay, but how it wore the face of Tòmas would be as likely to leave as the devil. How foul demons can be, to mock you in every step. Demons often feel like they exist only to remind us of how futile life and its continuance can be.

Carl felt like he couldn’t breathe, so deep down, he couldn’t see. Carl no longer knew where up or down were, left or right. Panic began to seize Carl. With a loud crashing splash, the water around Carl started to sway and swirl with immense force.

"You are going to do what you came here to do!" The devil inside his head commanded.

The nonchoice of inaction was swept away from Carl as he resurfaced. He found himself lifted far above the dark sop by burgundy leather wings. Forcefully put back in the control seat, Carl could again view the world through his senses. Gilleas stood there scared with a bloodied broom handle as a rat the size of a wolf pounced towards him. Carl quickly shot forth a burgundy blast of flamelike energy from his hand, knocking the demonic rat back down the cellar stairwell.

As Carl was still getting his bearings, once again condemned to a demon hunter’s foul, dangerous life, a demon rat caught him by surprise. It was charging Carl with its full weight, leaving Carl with one option: back up so he could adequately cast something. As Carl backed up, already congregating his energy to tear this demonic beast apart, Carl tripped over the legs of an already overturned table. He had little time to react; all he could do was get back up and prepare for impact.

Carl was sent flying through the window, shards of glass tearing his clothes and leaving him bloodied. Just as the demon rat came for more, a green flame skull with yellow eyes hungrily made its way to the creature, blasting it apart with tremendous force.

END OF CHAPTER 5 - Carl 2