Disclaimer: I do not own any character portrayed within.

Author's note: I will be portraying the Raising Hell Overlord, plus the Evil Presence spell.

Chapter 1: The Legend Begins

The Overlord stood upon the balcony of his throne room, staring out over the vast expanse of his Evil domain. From here, all he could see was the districts of Spree and Heaven's Peak. But he knew that his dominion stretched all the way from the Ruborian Desert to the forests of Evernight. This knowledge brought to mind a phrase written down in a memoire by one of his predecessors, 'and when he saw the length and breadth of his domain, he wept, for there were no more lands to conquer.' Weeping however, was not something he particularly felt like doing. Although his situation was the same, weeping like some traumatized wench would solve absolutely nothing. Perhaps some therapeutic smiting would help, halflings this time. Those particular screams were especially entertaining. Perhaps they reminded him of Melvin, and puncturing that bloated sack of flesh like a balloon.

With his mind set on some halfling hurting he began to make his way towards the dungeon. Gnarl met him halfway; "Up for a bit of smiting sire?"

He showed his approval by nodding his head, the move amplified by the arcanium helm upon his brow.

A wide grin spread across what passed for Gnarl's face. "Excellent sire, shall I call up some halflings? It has been some time since you deigned to grant them a quick death, by grinding their pathetic, flabby faces into the ground!"

He nodded again and descended into the dungeons, amazed at how Gnarl seemed able to read his mind at times. The dark, dank, gloomy dungeons. As he approached the pit in the center he could hear the screams. The cries of the melange of creatures and other sentient life that amounted to his own personal collection of smiting material.

Gnarl called down to him from the catwalks overlooking the pit. "Sire, I took the liberty of bringing the halflings up. They are awaiting your dark majesty in the arena."

Gnarl was always "taking liberties," and the only reason he hadn't punted the old minion across the tower like the oversized walnut he looked like was that most of the time he was doing the right thing. Like now for instance, it saved some time. The few times that the elder minion had gotten something wrong, the results were catastrophic. Like the incident with the crane recently. That event in particular just set his blood to boiling and made him want to hurt the halflings even more than before.

Gnarl yelled after him like an overbearing mother as he walked into the arena without summoning a single minion. "Sire, you'll need your minions!"

He shook his head and physically pulled the gate down behind him, sealing himself inside the arena with the thirty odd halflings that had been brought up from the dungeon and armed. If he needed his minions to take down only thirty halflings, then he was a pathetic excuse of an Overlord.

The sand of the arena floor crushed and shifted beneath his boots like the bones of the countless corpses he had left in his wake. His minions stood high in the stands, cheering him on and throwing witless insults at the halflings that were cowering against the far wall. The halflings were terrified of him before he even drew his blade, when he did a smell of panic joined the delightful stench of fear in the air.

His new minion jester, Quaver, announced the fight with a poetic flair in the reedy voice. "Greetings minions, and all followers of darkness! Today, our great and mighty master deigns to grace us with his presence, and to educate us all on proper smiting technique. Look how the halflings tremble in his presence, this will be a fight to remember!"

He took a moment to appreciate the great differential in skill between Quaver and his last jester. Had he known that he had a minion capable, not only of creating new inventive titles, but of waxing on poetically about his past exploits and making every small detail seem like an earth-shattering event. He should have promoted Quaver months ago. Of course, had he known the intentions of his last jester before the near miss in the Infernal Abyss the walking pile of dung wouldn't have lived long enough to create two of his list of titles. Perhaps, in retrospect, it would have been a good idea regardless. "Persecutor of Pumpkins?" He had kicked the old jester off of the tower many times for uttering that one.

On the other side of the arena, the halflings seemed to just notice the fact that he was alone. The gibberish spewing from their mouths as they attempted to whisper among themselves seemed to suggest that, since he was alone, they could kill him and finally escape the Dark Tower. The idea almost made him laugh, with emphasis on the almost. He would have to stand completely still for close to five minutes before he would even be in need of medical attention, and even that was iffy with the pathetic amount of skill he had seen halflings use a blade.

Exceptionally amused, he gestured for the halflings to come at him, and they predictably did. With a contemptuous flick of his blade he sent the head of the lead halfling rolling across the sand, followed by a swift impale of the halfling that leaped through the air at him. There were a few loud clicks as three of them started hacking at his legs, before he decapitated all of them with a single stroke, igniting the corpses and hurling them at the rushing mass. The rush of battle came upon him, and it seemed like only a few seconds later he was standing almost alone in the middle of the blood drenched sands. One lone halfling was still alive, and the one that had inspired the others to be so bold at that. The terror-stricken look upon the flabby little face, was beyond price. Come to think of it, there was a striking resemblance between this halfling and Melvin, of course before the latter became a walking ball of lard. A distant relative perhaps? Or could this be the attempt at a hero story where the son intentionally gets himself imprisoned on the oft chance he could avenge his father? Either way, he was going to have a bit of fun. He sheathed his blade and punched one armored gauntlet against the other, he was going to beat this halfling to death.

Quaver was quivering with excitement, no surprise really. "The gauntlet has been thrown down minions! Our lord has issued a challenge to the only hobbit left alive, can't say I envy the little butterball."

The halfling in front of him was shaking hard enough that he could see the blubber bouncing around, a truly repulsive sight to behold. Set on putting an end to this bought he started forward, the halfling matched every forward step with a backwards one. Irked, and at the same time pleased, by such cowardice he started to run after the halfling. His longer strides quickly closed the distance and he seized the halfling by both arms. It squealed for mercy like a stuck pig as he slowly crushed it's arms inside of his hands like twigs, before he flipped it over and did the same thing to it's legs. Finally, as the coup de grace, he grabbed the halfling by the throat and shook it until it was blue in the face before punting the corpse across the arena to splatter against the far wall.

The minions burst into wild applause while Quaver did his poetic duties. "The halfling he did try to run, but none can stand against our lord, when he wants to have a bit of fun!"

Finished with the brawl, he felt better, but only just. Conquering was in his blood, he wouldn't feel right unless he was out doing just that. Hell, he couldn't even gain a modicum of amusement from pillaging the Golden Hills every now and then. It kept his treasury filled to the brim, not that there was much strain on it these days. The only thing that drew from the huge pile of gold in the private quarters at the present time was the decent salary he paid to the servant girls he had 'persuaded' away from Spree. While he was thinking about it, he really should do something about the outfit that Gnarl had come up with as the servant uniform. He was evil to be sure, but he wasn't cruel, especially to his servants.

Gnarl came trundling down the stairs from the throne room to meet him, and the old minion looked positively elated. "Sire, I think you will be very pleased to hear this." The adviser beckoned for him to follow.

And follow he did, out of curiosity of what could get Gnarl so rustled up, and a not small amount of boredom. The afterglow of the halfling slaughter was wearing off rapidly and his foul mood was returning with a vengeance.

Gnarl led him down towards the crypt where the Tower Heart was kept, also where he had battled it out with the Old Overlord. "One of your minions Sire, Grubby if you want to know, was screwing around with the Tower Heart. And by 'screwing around' I mean he was dancing around on top of it. As I'm sure you are aware, the Browns are not the most coordinated of minions, Grubby fell off and hit the Tower Heart with his head on the way down. He's fine if you want to kick him around yourself." Gnarl paused to let out an evil chuckle. " What is most curious is that when he hit the Tower Heart he brought up a Tower Gate that I can't recall you ever using. Even more curious, the Gate refuses to let any of the minions through."

He would admit that he wasn't paying much attention to Gnarl's ramblings, as busy as he was looking over the hazy image presented in the gauzy lens of the Tower Heart. He could see a stone circle on top of a green hill. So, in theory, it could be the Gate in the Mellow Hills, but there was a pointed lack of trees or other distinguishing features. The sky that he could see was also slate grey, and he couldn't recall ever seeing it rain in the Mellow Hills, never even a wisp of cloud actually. With every detail that he did not recognize, he became just a little bit more excited. The prospect of new lands to conquer and subjugate sent his pulse racing, his black heart pumping almost as fast as it had during his battle with the Forgotten God.

With determination bordering on suicidal recklessness he gave the Tower Heart a light tap, locking the destination in to the mystery Gate. So what if he couldn't bring minions through the portal. If he absolutely needed assistance he could summon an almost limitless supply of Wraiths from the bowels of the Infernal Abyss with a purposeful wave of his arm. Otherwise he had himself, his arcanium blade enchanted with the power of a thousand Reds, and his arcanium armor enchanted with the power of five hundred Browns and Greens each. The armor alone would probably see him through. If it could take a full impact from both Kahn the Warrior and the Forgotten God then he doubted there was a force out there that could puncture it in a single blow.

Gnarl followed him on his heels, reiterating a lot of information he already knew. "Now don't forget Dark One, you can return to the Tower at any time should you wish it. I'm sure that the Tower Heart will be able to return you to the exact location you-"

He gently let the flat side of his blade fall down and lightly smote Gnarl over the head, just to shut him up. Gnarl obliged by being silent until he stood before the Portal.

Gnarl gave him a little wave. "Remember Sire, don't die. It would be a real shame to have to show the ropes to another new Overlord so soon, and especially after all you've accomplished!"

He waved off Gnarl's concerns and sprang into the waters of the Portal with a vigor comparative to a Brown jumping up and down on a fresh corpse, or a Red setting something on fire. The trip through the ethereal nothingness of the Portal took a good deal of time, far more than usual, leading him to believe that his destination was quite far away. Just when he started to wonder how much longer he would be floating through nothingness, he arrived.

What the Tower Heart had failed to show him was that it was raining wherever he was now. Nothing particularly heavy, just a light drizzle that made a delightful sizzling sound when it hit his sword or armor. Around him, the stone circle wrapped completely around the Tower Gate, like the giant wheel of a carriage with holes for the spokes that were not there. Now, he was completely convinced that he had never been here before. The promise of new lands to conquer pulled him out of the circle at a light jog, and right outside there was a small collection of men, soldiers, waiting for him.

One of them, with a decorative plume on top of his helmet, presumably a sign of rank, barked at him. "Oi, you there. This here is private property, what are you doing in Stonehenge?"

Instead of answering, he started to size up the eventual opposition, the quality of their weaponry, and the way they carried themselves. What he saw was encouraging. The metal seemed to be exclusively steel, which was a slight step down in quality when it came to recent enemies, but whoever had made it knew what they were doing according to his firsthand experience with forging. When it came to the soldiers themselves, he was a little bit let down, but he really couldn't expect all that much from rookies set out at some remote point, at least that's what his expert eye could discern.

His silence, coupled with his burning gaze, seemed to unnerve one of the rookies, who leaned over to the plumed soldier and whispered loud enough to be heard. "Sir, I don't think this lout likes you making demands of him."

Gnarls voice rang through his helmet. "What! How dare he insult your Dark Majesty? Teach them to respect your Evilness!"

He felt the overpowering urge to roll his eyes. As if he hadn't planned on smiting all but one of them already. He even had a good idea set in his head of how exactly they were going to come at him and set his stance accordingly.

The soldier with the plume drew a short sword and pointed at him, "Charge!"

He set his weight on his back foot, dissapointed by the predictable tactics, but prepared nonetheless. When the first soldier was about five feet away he took one step forward and flicked his blade up, followed by two quick swings left and right. In the space of only a few seconds he had decapitated three of the soldiers, and disemboweled the fourth. His arcanium blade cutting the steel like it wasn't even there.

The plumed soldier clearly wasn't being paid enough to die, and dropped to his knees. "Please don't kill me! I'm just doing my job!"

Gnarl mused through his helmet. "Ah, pathetic peons. Show the slightest bit of power and they all start groveling. Useful when taking over, but it gets troublesome when anyone else threatens them and they roll over."

The kneeling peon in front of him seemed to mistake Gnarl's voice as his. "Ah, I don't know what you mean sir. I just work in Southampton over yonder." The man pointed off to the southeast.

Gnarl's voice sounded positively giddy. "Well Sire, an Evil empire has to start somewhere. Sack that town!"

Had Gnarl been physically present, he would have punted the old minion however far he could. That old minion just could not shut up, or seem to comprehend that he did not actually need an instructor to tell him when to do everything. As it was, he motioned for the man on the ground to move out of the way. When he passed by, almost as an afterthought, he flicked his blade back and severed the top half of the soldier's head from the rest of him. He didn't need a guide to a town he could see off in the distance, and no one here needed to know that 'Stonehenge' was how he had arrived, plus it was fun.

Forty Five minutes later: outskirts of Southampton

The Overlord surveyed the simple, yet effective fortifications surrounding the town. Wooden posts had been drilled into the ground to make a simple barricade around three sides of the town, the fourth was protected by a large body of water he assumed was a sea. He could see a man up in a simple guard tower, but from here it was impossible to tell if they were armed or not. Best to assume that they were. A good rule of thumb for planning any battle was, 'plan for the worst, and hope for the best.' A lesson he had quickly taken to heart fighting his way through the Golden Hills for the first time. It had spared him the headache of summoning more minions more times than he could count.

Normally he would send a few Greens to the top of the tower and kill the solitary guard so he could take the whole town by surprise with Browns and Reds. However, minions didn't seem to be able to come through the Portal to where he was, so the Wraiths from the Abyss would do just fine. With a wave of his hand the skeletal beings started popping up out of the ground, with a small explosion of fire marking the construction of each one. He would rather have his minions due to the greater tactical diversity it allowed him, but you had to work with what was available.

A shock and awe plan formed up inside his head, involving a shielded Wraith, a few of the giants, and about thirty or so of the regular variety. He could be reasonably sure that the few real soldiers stationed in the town weren't all that skilled, so a small number of Wraiths would give him all the control he needed. Being dead, the Wraiths could take hits that would mortally wound a fleshy being, more so than even a Brown, much more so. The tradeoff was that the Wraiths were even more stupid than his minions and had no initiative. But at the moment he didn't need thinkers, he needed brute force. Checking one last time that he had all of the troops his plan required he signaled the Wraiths forward with a wave of his sword.

As he walked along in the wake of the Wraith charge he thought to himself about why he preferred his minions over the Wraiths. The Wraiths certainly did lots of damage, but they just did it. His minions relished in the carnage as much as, if not more than he did. Couple that with the overall hilarity of watching his minions go completely crazy when ordered to charge, practically foaming at the mouth and screaming their ridiculous battle cries it was no wonder at all. His minions were just more fun to use for an Evil Overlord.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a peasant armed with a shovel rushing towards the back of one of his gunner Wraiths. Now, technically the peasant could beat on that Wraith with the shovel all day and not kill it, but it would be just plain distracting looking at the broken up Wraith. Taking preventative measures, he took two steps forward and kicked the peon in the back hard enough to break the man nearly in half. That cry of pain, plus the sounds of burning wood and people was complete music to his Evil ears. It reminded him of razing Spree after they betrayed him to Kahn and the raiders. The part that particularly irked him about that betrayal was that he had been nothing but benevolent to those peasants, apart from requisitioning ten of their young women to work in his Tower. But that was still no reason to try and get him killed.

He saw a large flag made out of a white sheet waving around wildly in the hands of an elderly man standing on the roof of the only stone building in the town. In response he lifted his hand and stopped the Wraiths from attacking the humans.

The old man climbed down off of the roof and approached him, fear causing him to wring his hands like an old woman. "Who, whoever you are dark stranger, we surrender. Please, no more..."

The old man started to ramble about how cooperative they would be, but he found himself distracted by the sight of a young man trying to flee unnoticed through the carnage with a large leather tube strapped to his back. Here was a prime example of how stupid the Wraiths were. His minions were at least smart enough to automatically detain someone trying to flee. The Wraiths had been ordered to stop attacking, so they were just standing there while the boy ran right past their blank skulls. He remedied the situation by sending the shield Wraith after the runner. A few seconds passed before the loud splatter of a pulverized human carcass reached both him and the old man in front of him. He turned his attention back to the old man, and would have smiled if his helmet wasn't hiding his face. The effect however, was exactly the same. The old man turned as white as the sheet he was still holding and a distinctive smell filled the air as the old man soiled himself.

Not really caring, he gestured for the old man to lead him to the rest of the townsfolk while ordering the full company of Wraiths to fall in behind him for an added dramatic flair. Amusingly, and expectedly, the stone building seemed to be a church. It was amusing because people always complained to whatever god they happened to worship when things went wrong, and it was entertaining to watch the pall of hopelessness drift across the faces of the faithful. The Silent Order that worshiped him back at Heaven's Peak would never dare complain about their troubles to him, even if they could, for they knew him to be a wrathful 'god.' Looking inside the church, it was not hard at all to imagine that any god would abandon the sorry collection of dirty faced peasants.

One of the men that looked to be about middle aged, with a missing right arm, stood from the crowd and pointed an accusatory finger in his direction before drunkenly shouting. "Are you a servant of the Cursed Sword?"

He slapped the back of his helmet just to make sure Gnarl knew to stay quiet. Not that the drunken question didn't anger him, quite the opposite. But he had a history of being able to tolerate the drunken ramblings of most anyone. Besides, the mention of a 'Cursed Sword' intrigued him enough to allow the drunk to live for just a bit longer.

The drunk ignored the efforts of his fellows to shut him up. "I always knew the shadow of the Cursed Sword would cross the sea to get to us, especially after I lost my arm hunting the damnable thing down. Stupid, self-righteous woman, said it was for my own good taking my arm off-"

He cut the drunk off by punching them square in the mouth, the crunch of teeth breaking against his fist satisfying even more so because of the earlier comments from that mouth. Without further delay, he seized the drunk by the head and lit up the stone chamber with the blue glow of Evil Presence. He wanted to know about the Cursed Sword, and he wasn't going to waste time trying to get the drunk to answer questions. From the mind of his victim he pulled a name, Soul Edge, and a city, Ostrhinsburg. Both of them across the sea from where he was now.

Satisfied, he shot his knee up into the stomach of the drunk for good measure and turned to leave the church. It then hit him what exactly he was going to do with the town. He certainly didn't want to stay and whatever Soul Edge was the people feared it more than him. That alone gave him reason enough to seek it out and claim it if he could, destroy it if he couldn't. He had a reputation to uphold after all. With one last thought, he beckoned the shield Wraith to charge into the church. Moments later, bloody pulp was all that remained of the villagers of Southampton. And their only seaworthy ship in his possession. With the pulse of conquest thrumming through his veins, he commanded the Wraiths to set sail.

Authors Note: If there are any suggestions for Mistress, or more than one, please state any ideas in reviews or a private message.