In hell, truth and damnation lurk in the shadows, ready to pluck the wandering traveller and sow the seeds of darkness. Such words played heavily in Peadar’s mind as he stared into the gloaming red sky. Stuck in the perpetual crimson sunset that the Echelon of Inferno was well known for. This hellish plane, renowned for the harsh sands and tumultuous volcanoes, burnt like a smouldering coal. Visible cracks of life shimmering vividly in the desolate and scarlet dunes, a bloodline for the denizens of hell.

There is power to be found in the sand. The Echelon provides to those filled with righteous madness, for who would travel to hell freely, if not mad? Peadar’s fingers caressing the exterior of the fine golden locket. Three rubies twinkled merrily, lightly coruscating about his blond bearded face. He leant against a limestone wall, hiding behind the glare of the burning light. Eternal twilight ushering forth a glow of waving light, bending upwards, entwining everyone with seething heat.

Peadar watched the marketplace of Danaze intensely, feet burning. Rectangular limestone tenements encircled the protected area. Tarpaulins and clothing hung about in an organised mess, connecting the buildings with varied ropes and strings, creating both shade and exposure. Coruscating ornaments, made from stained glass, cast dancing lights on the faces of the locals, adding a mystery one would expect from the underworld. The buildings stood about five to six stories, the lower levels gratified with a myriad of different colours, depicting strange symbols and words. Peadar scrunched up his nose as he caught a whiff of sulphur and a stench of burnt bodies.

The bustling bazaar carried the pungent smells of spices and metal, of potent herbs and freshly dyed cloth. Local people of all walks of life, haggled and yelled over each other. Children giggled and shrieked, scrambling and weaving through the densely packed crowd — chasing pets and friends alike. He saw horned and tailed merchants rub their hands with sinister smiles. Entertainers blew fires and molten lava from their cupped hands, low and loud drums only added to the ambience to the already colourful bazaar. Working women danced alongside the performers, bodies painted in gold and black, wearing only a loincloth. Their yellow sultry eyes drawing in men and women alike like a moth to flame, with the same deadly end. Only this one would see empty pockets.

Tartan shemagh, silken colourful cravats, with the hue representing their marital status. Blue meant single, yellow meant married and white for a widower. A puffy sleeved doublet was worn under thick jerkins. A codpiece was usually made from gold; the higher one was in the echelon society, the bigger the codpiece. For the bottoms many wore leather or silk tight pants, some opting for shorter pants and a hose for modesty.

Peadar saw wagons entering Danaze, pulled by reptilian beings. The creatures, aptly named raaptyr, were enormous beasts and stood on their thick hind legs. Feathers run down their spines and to their long whipping tails. The raaptyri bobbed and tilted their gigantic heads side to side, beady black eyes blinking as they towed wares and produce.

Peadar adjusted his blue cravat, sweat dripping from his forehead, and stepped out from the shadows. Peadar gently nudged his way through the serried throng, his one hand grasping his sporran. He would not have a rogue child stealing his gold. Making his way quickly to the jeweller and the locket securely in hand, he could feel the necklace vibrating, pulsating with unbridled heat. He needed to see Fang as soon as possible. Hopefully, the annoying ormofolk could help.

He passed by the gated entrance to the chateau; he spotted a few masked echelon ladies wearing encrusted rubies and diamonds on their bodies and flowing silken skirts and gloves. They sat by the front sand garden, tittering away. Heavily garbed servants stood over them. One held a silvered tray with three porrons, and the others fanned the women with ostentatious feathers. Stern, armoured guards stood watch at the gate.

One guard spoke, ‘I highly suggest you move on, asar.’

Peadar didn’t reply, simply choosing to comply. The last thing he needed was to be dragged and flogged across town for looking where he was not meant to. Shaking his head, he continued to weave through the people, putting up his free hand whenever some merchant offered him delectables he wished not to partake.

‘Molten sugar! Molten beans! Try it now before it’s sold!’

‘My friend, try my new fire pear. You will never want for more!’

‘Master asar! Master asar, a new blade for your pleasure. Strong and lightweight. No other blade will bring down demons like this one.’

He shoved the merchant’s hand away from his face. Ignoring the calls and shouts from other vendors behind him and continued on his way.

Peadar rounding the corner and a potent scent of tobacco assaulted his nose. He used the red shemagh to cover his face. Forcing through the shouting denizens, the tobacco stench mixed with the powerful stench of perspiration.

The back end of the marketplace sat at the end of the tenements, stalls were set up with rainbow coloured canvases protecting their wears from the harshness of the crimson dusk. Right at the back, an old woman rested on the steps of the decrepit building. Peadar noticed her rotund form lazily laid out on the plush red pillows, in between her fat fingers was a thin smoking pipe. She stared at him with knowing eyes and lowered her pipe, smacking it against an ironed plate. Unperturbed, he ambled over.

‘What brought you here, young man?’ she rasped out, her voice filled with gravel.

‘That doesn’t concern you, old hag,’ Peadar made to step over her.

The old woman grabbed his leg with lightning speed, digging her clawed nails into the fine leather boots he wore. ‘Is that so?’ she hissed, scrunching up her bulbous and mole ridden nose.

Peadar moved his hand towards his silvered axe, blue eyes narrowing at the woman. She let go and took out some dried weed from between her bosom. Thank the imps she wore a simple shirt.

‘You should be careful, asar,’ she said, ‘What and which you carry will split the sand asunder and bring forth a path in which the sky becomes the ground.’

‘You are a mad old wench,’ Peadar spat at her, not in the slightest intimidated by her words. He has seen and heard far worse.

‘Be whatever you believe, young asar.’ She paused, coughing. ‘But even now the water has whispered a spell and something simmers in the sand. Look.’ She used her pipe to point behind him.

Peadar signed in annoyance and turned his head, fingers still wrapped securely around the hilt of his axes. He saw nothing but a bustling town.