[i]And reassembling our afflicted Powers,
Consult how we may henceforth most offend
Our Enemy, our own loss how repair,
How overcome this dire Calamity,
What reinforcement we may gain from Hope,
If not what resolution from despare.[/i]

-Satan, Paradise Lost

[hr]

A ferocious wind tore through the jagged peaks of the Claws. They funneled through the sharp, angular slopes, of the mountains to blow down across the lower slopes and promontories in violent howling gusts. Pebbles and small stones, loosened by the ever-shifting squalls tearing down the peaks, tumbled down sheer cliffs to the talus-covered foothills some dizzying distance below. Ascending such mountains, even under comfortable conditions, would be a formidable undertaking; under such adverse conditions it was nigh-suicidal.

Such adversity failed to give pause to Aurelius Verxilis, armiger of the Order of the Castigati. For Aurelius had lost everything, and his own life had scant meaning anymore. His unshaven, bristly cheeks pressed against the jagged face of the mountainside as he searched for some fissure or ledge in which to place his foot. A tattered cape - once dyed black but now sunbleached a dark gray - flapped furiously in the downdrafts, threatening to tug the Castigate from his precarious footing and send him tumbling to certain death. Aurelius reached out with his right leg and wedged the toe of his boot deep into a cleft in the cliff face. He shoved off with his left leg, leaving the safety of a ledge that he could seize a protuberance in the rock with his left hand and then found haborage for his right hand in another fissure.

Aurelius took a brief moment to catch his breath, and looked up toward his destination. Far above him, his destination was at last in sight: the half-collapsed spires rose into a sky of tempestuous clouds. The remaining half of this mountainside was all that separated the Castigate from the destination he had sought for these past five months. The ruined citadel of Arkhagon Zul was just above him now.

Before continuing the ascent, Aurelius reached around to feel the satchel under his cape, to ensure the reason for this great journey was still in his possession. His fingers ran across the contours of his pack, reaching under the crossbow secured to the outside of the satchel until he could feel the reassuring hard, flat surface of a huge grimoire pressing against the inside of the bag. Contented that [i]it[/i] was still with him, the Castigate continued his arduous climb up to Arkhagon Zul. If he discovered that he had lost the great tome, all would truly be lost. Contained within the Demonslayer's pack was the key to the only remaining purpose of his life, the reason that the entire Order had been dispatched to hunt him down.

For in Aurelius' satchel was the [i]Liber Demonica[/i]: the spark that would ignite Nagath and set all of Geryon ablaze.