P.A.L.E. G.A.S.

Prologue

Location: Hell; The Council-room of the Vice

Deep below the surface of the earth, arguably in a separate dimensional world in which no mortal man has ever set foot in nor holds any proof of its existence lies a dark, rocky, cavernous land. The atmosphere is sweltering, the temperature above that of any star, the air, though barely lit by the harsh light of fire, is hazy as in the desert when the sun is at its peak.

The rocks go on forever, there is no end, simply put, and as such, there is no beginning. A slice of the earth cut across the the obsidian colored rock like a jagged scar. Inside the steep, almost never ending faces of the cliffs dwelled the souls of those who had once roamed on the Surface.

Each were left to their own devices, to do as they saw fit, but the way this Hell worked was that at the end of the day, or whenever their conception of a day was over, for there was no sun or moon or stars, these souls found that their objectives had barely been fulfilled, and never satisfying enough to them. These were the Lost.

The souls who lingered on the flatter surface of the canyon-like scar never rested, they had no home. The terrain was rough, every few miles lay a torch lit with dark fire, the only source of guidance. Yet, the souls here were so accustomed to the dark, that they shied away from their only light. They spent their time forever wandering, always tired, endlessly searching for a rest they will never find. They move in anger, bitterness, and frustration. These were the Searching.

The last category, because it can be asserted that there are more specific types within these three, linger around what is speculated to have been the beginning to the place with no such thing. The Lake of Fire here burned, and around its shores for miles were the souls who fought to enter the very thing which would consume them forever. The multitudes shoving and pushing their way towards the center of the Lake moved so together, that if looked at from above, would seem like one solid block of the same substance. Each soul saw something unique to them, special to them, at the center of the Lake, and each is horribly convinced that they could swim to what they saw and find fulfillment. None saw fire and flames, none saw those that dove in, screamed and struggled as they swam towards a target they would never find. Those who entered the Fire never came out, such was their punishment, a reward for their foolishness. For this reason they are the Foolish.

Now, between the Lake and the edge of the canyon, at the edge of the barren fields that housed the Searching and never quite meeting the back end of the multitude of the Foolish lay a fortress made of brick darker than the world around it. Surrounded by vast walls of impressive fortification with towers overlooking the never ending expanse of the world exposed, the fortress was imposing. And it was quiet.

Not a soul dwelled there long, except for the one who ruled over all that transpired in this realm of chaos and punishment. The ruler never showed his face, but communicated through whispers, the only presence in this realm that resembled the wind. They were subtle, and most often, sounded sweet. Every soul who heard him stopped to listen before the whisper passed over them, continuing to have the same effect until the whisper met its receiver.

However, there was one room within this fortress of silence, whispers, and darkness that was filled every hundred years. It had four torches, one for each corner, and housed a large, dark, round, wooden table in the center surrounded by seven chairs of the same substance. There were no windows, the door was hardly visible, just as everything else in this world.

For every hour of a hundred years this room remains empty and as desolate as the world surrounding it. Except for a few occasions for twenty four hours after a century has passed, the room is filled by seven forms, one for each seat, to discuss a matter of tradition they each spend the rest of the century executing and planning out.