“Yogurt!,” Dalthan screamed, his voice filled with unbridled terror. Laid out across a black marble slab, the lean man thrashed blindly against an unseen assailant. “Yogurt! Safeword! Safeword!,” he shouted as he shook his head furiously. Dalthan’s emerald eyes snapped open, rolling wildly in their sockets while he frantically struggled to breathe. Strangely, his arms remained still against the cold stone, as if they were held in place by the memory of fine chains and leather cuffs.

“Yo…gurt?,” Dalthan whispered in muted shock when he realized his imagination was the only thing holding him captive. Like a man awakening from a vivid dream, he tentatively lifted one arm, then the other. His gaze slowly sharpened as he studied his freed hands with an expression of wide-eyed disbelief. Dumbfounded, the young man experimentally wiggled his fingers while he caught his breath. Once he calmed his racing heart, Daltan noticed the droning murmur of conversation all around him. Like a fisherman’s line reeling in a surprised salmon, the sound of unfamiliar voices inexorably tugged his attention toward the bizarre scene unfolding around him.

Dalthan found himself in a large room of worked stone. Scores of stone slabs, each one carved exactly like the one he was sitting on, were evenly spaced across the floor like desks in a classroom. Planted at regular intervals across the floor, shining mage globes sat upon wrought iron posts, their pale light filling the chamber with an ethereal glow.

In stark contrast to the unadorned walls, the vaulted ceiling was decorated with an intricate mosaic depicting a gruesome battlefield. A dizzying array of creatures, some familiar and some alien, clashed against one another in a bloody meat grinder at the ceiling’s apex. The image was so detailed that Dalthan would have sworn that he saw the painting move and shift as if new troops were constantly joining the melee. No matter how many times his eyes roamed across the mosaic, it seemed to constantly display a fresh scene of carnage.

He would have spent more time studying the artwork if his attention hadn’t been drawn to the ‘people’ milling about all around him.

Dalthan used the term ‘people’ loosely. His unblinking stare slid across the most diverse crowd that he’d ever seen. He caught sight of humans, elves, and dwarves of all types. There were also monstrous humanoids scattered throughout the crowd. Orcs, goblins, and at least one lumbering troll mingled among the other species with no more concern than chihuahuas marching along with a group of cocker spaniels. Everywhere he looked he saw mortal foes casually walking next to one another, oftentimes appearing to engage in good-natured conversation.

But that was just the beginning of the surreal sight.

The truly eye-catching creatures were the ones that made Dalthan reach the daggers that he no longer wore. A hulking half-spider/half-elf creature carefully wove its way through the massed individuals. A tall, lanky biped, with what looked like an octopus for a head, walked across the broad chamber with the stately grace of rank nobility. Overhead, a flying bird woman, with bright rainbow-colored feathers, soared above the crowd on her way toward the room’s only exit.

“What the fuck,” Dalthan whispered when he finally remembered to breathe.

“First timer?” asked a high, nasally voice.

In the blink of an eye, Dal’s boots hit the floor so he could drop into a wary crouch. For the second time in a matter of moments, his hands reached for the daggers that should have been strapped to his belt. A grimace twisted his lips when his nimble fingers closed over thin air instead of the familiar hilts of his weapons.

This would be the last time he let Madame Leatherlace disarm him. It would be the last time he let Madame Leatherlace do several things if his hazy memory was accurate. Even thinking about it nearly caused the word ‘yogurt’ to bubble up from the depths of his traumatized mind.

“Easy there, killer.” Humor clung like spun honey to the other man’s irritatingly shrill voice. “You don’t look so good. Take a deep breath. The staff doesn’t like cleaning vomit off the altars.”

Well, this guy looks like an insufferable prick, Dalthan thought as he sized up the speaker. Long black robes, open across his gaunt chest, were draped over the man’s lanky frame. A myriad of jewelry, ranging from ornately wrought golden rings to a rustic necklace of shark’s teeth, adorned the bald man’s pale skin. Though the various trinkets were attention-grabbing, the older man’s most arresting feature was a set of cloudy gray eyes that made the thief feel as if the cliche wizard wasn’t looking at him so much as looking through him.

A decidedly uncomfortable sensation.

“My name is Zaplixel,” the man continued to speak in the patient voice of a ranger trying to free a wounded bear from a trap. “I may look like a prick but when I see someone waking up in the Mausoleum for the first time I can’t resist trying to give them a hand. It can be a very disorienting experience, after all.”

“My name is Dalthan Sol’Magor,” the thief replied in a well-practiced tone that oozed self-confidence. A heartbeat later, his eyes narrowed with open suspicion. “Wait a second. Did you just read my mind?” Dal’s smooth, silky voice took on a harsh rasp like a piece of steel dragging against a whetstone.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The black-robed wizard smiled beatifically, presenting the very picture of innocence as he replied, “What a thing to ask! I certainly did not. Ancev preserve us, that would be a terrible invasion of privacy.”

Dalthan was not convinced. Tell the truth or I’m going to kick you in the nuts, he mentally threatened.

Dal was so caught up in watching Zaplixel for a response that he never noticed the minotaur approaching him from behind. He almost jumped out of his boots when the barrel-chested bovine rumbled, “Make a hole, humans. If you want to chit-chat you’ve got the entire Hub at your disposal. There are better places for socializing than the Mausoleum.”

Dalthan spluttered in outrage as he watched the burly bull-man stomp past. Like him, the minotaur wore a simple outfit of homespun cotton. Now that he thought about it, almost everyone here was unarmed and dressed like a peasant that’d just spent their harvest season coin at the local tailor.

“Don’t think too poorly of the fellow,” Zaplixel murmured, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Some people don’t handle their deaths well no matter how many times they return to The Hub. Quite frankly, I’m shocked that you’re handling it so well.”

“Where is…,” Dal began, but then his addled mind caught up with what Zaplixel was saying. Suddenly, all the other oddities in the room faded away as a nauseating sensation of vertigo left him light-headed and disoriented. The pink tip of his tongue anxiously slashed across his suddenly dry lips before he managed to croak, “What, exactly, am I handling well?”

“Your first death, of course,” the insufferably cheerful wizard replied without missing a beat. “Most people have an existential crisis when they realize that this is the afterlife for folks like us.”

“I would say that you’re excellent at processing grief,” the bald man continued, “Or just a sociopath. Either way, good job!” The wizard punctuated his words with a lopsided grin and an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“No…nono…wait…,” Dalthan’s eyes had grown glassy as he looked off into the middle distance. “Are you saying that bitch killed me?” His right hand fumbled with the rounded edge of the altar beside him, tightening its fingers in a white-knuckled grip as he looked toward Zaplixel with a pleading expression. “But…but…yogurt?” There was a hopeful lilt to his voice by the end, as if he expected the magic word to activate and make everything better.

“There, there, lad.” Zap patted his shoulder consolingly while the thief continued to stare with a slack-jawed look of horror written across his face. “Look at the bright side. Now you don’t have to worry about hiding your disgusting sexual deviance anymore.”

“Though you may want to consider therapy,” The wizard offered his shoulder one last supportive squeeze before the touch slipped away. “Being evil takes a toll on the psyche. We wouldn’t be able to keep doing our job if we didn’t have professionals to help us work through our issues.”

Light began to return to Dalthan’s vacant stare as anger burned away his despondency like a flashfire scorching its way across a dry prairie.

“You said you couldn’t read my mind, asshole,” Dal said as he took a threatening step closer to the frail-looking mage.

“Oh please, I don’t need to read your mind to tell that you’re a degenerate,” Zaplixel said with a dismissive flick of his wrist that made the countless bracelets he wore rattle like a set of wind chimes. “This is The Hub of Evil, young man. It's where the bad guys go when they die. You don’t end up here if you’re saving kittens, donating to orphanages, and enjoying missionary position.”

Like a marionette with its strings cut, Dalthan wilted against the black stone altar. “I never thought of myself as a bad guy,” he lamented. “I was a bit selfish sometimes and my family called me flakey. As if it was my fault for being so busy.”

“My friends liked me though!” he said, a hint of desperation worming its way into his voice like rot spreading through the walls of a log cabin. “We used to go out to the bar all the time until the tightwads stopped picking up the tab. If they’d kept coughing up the beer money, I wouldn’t have started stealing that blind beggar’s collection plate…”

Like the whisper of a reluctant ghost, Dalthan’s voice grew quieter and quieter until it trailed off into silence. Several moments passed with Dal’s lips moving soundlessly before he found his voice again. “Oh. I guess I was evil, huh?” he murmured, meek as a mouse.

“It happens to the best of us,” the old wizard replied. Zaplixel then offered a sympathetic nod and an understanding smile. “Let’s get you to processing, eh? You’ve had a long day and they’ll get you set up with an apartment and a pouch of seed money.”

The thief perked up at the mention of ‘money’, but even the allure of easy wealth wasn’t enough to draw his green eyes away from the stone slab. “What is this thing, anyway?” He asked, desperate for a distraction. For the first time, he noticed how warm the stone was as he slid his index finger against the altar’s black surface.

“Oh. I guess we never got around to that part.” Zaplixel’s robes swished ominously as he stepped around the moping thief. The bald wizard gave a quick motion for the other man to follow, a movement that sent the bracelets on his wrist singing once more. “Walk and talk, my young friend, walk and talk.”

Dalthan reluctantly fell into step beside the wizard as the old man began to speak, “They’re altars to the Archdemon Balerik. He runs the show around here, so it's a name you’re sure to come across again. He’s the one who plucks suitably…tainted…souls from the newly departed and gives them a new lease on life in The Hub. From now on, whenever you die out there in the infinite planes, you’ll end up back here. Minus your possessions, of course. Imagine the scandal if the busybody assholes that kill us didn’t get to loot our corpses!”

Though initially intrigued, Dal’s attention soon lapsed while Zaplixel’s hideously shrill voice droned on about something that probably wasn’t important. Some nonsense about all the Archdemons being fake, except for this Balerik guy.

His boring lesson certainly wasn’t as interesting as the beautiful woman in line ahead of them. She had black hair the color of polished obsidian and her flawless skin reminded him of bleached alabaster. Perhaps she sensed Dal’s eyes on her because she glanced over one slender shoulder while the thief was admiring her figure. Dalthan flashed her a winsome smile that had worked well on many a barmaid. Eyes the color of wet rubies danced with mirth when she replied with a predatory grin. The mysterious woman then made a show of languidly running her pink tongue across the twin fangs that peeked past her plush lips.

Dalthan gulped and slowed his pace so he could step behind Zaplixel as the old man passed.

“I’ll do better this time,” the thief grumbled as he followed Zap toward the soaring archway that marked the Mausoleum’s exit. “I know I can be a good guy. It’s just going to take a bit of work.”

The bald mage cast an openly skeptical look over his shoulder that made Dalthan bristle. “Sure you will, kid. Sure you will.” The old man’s eyes rolled so hard that Dal could hear the damn things rattling in their sockets.

Dalthan glowered in silent offense but couldn’t bring himself to openly dispute the geezer.

By the time they reached the massive archway the din of conversation around them had grown to a dull roar. He could scarcely hear himself think over the tumultuous racket. Perhaps that was a blessing in disguise because Dalthan felt like a rudderless raft being swept along by a river of fantastical creatures.

“Chin up, Mr. Sol’Magor,” Zaplixel shouted in his ear. “The crowd will thin out after we cross into the courtyard. The first thing we’ll do is head to the Experience and Levels kiosk so they can hand over your character sheet.”

Dalthan’s emerald eyes blinked owlishly.

“...my character what?”