The stench of rotten oil is the first thing that hits your nostrils.
Tar. Rotten, putrid, tar.
"Easy, Hombre." You tug back on the reins of your horse, rearing it away from unsteady ground. Just above the horizon lies dozens, maybe hundreds of small pits, covering the rotten gray landscape. Don't be a fool, Lazarus, you think. Those pits are anything but shallow. One wrong step and you'll be lost in the oil, never to climb out or see sunlight again.
It's been three days since you were tasked by King Jeoffrey, the ruler of Norwinia, to come and vanguish Darkon. His blight cannot be killed for good, only halted by a paladin of the highest order and banished to the depthes for another hundred years.
If only you were of the highest order.
You still remember the day; your mentor was slain by the forces of Darkon. He was the only paladin of the ninth tier that still remained alive, and Darkon killed him, as if to ensure no one could stop him. You, as his apprentice, were immediately promoted to fill his rank... and thus, you were given the task to slay Darkon.
"Easy, easy!" you say as you rear the stead back once more. Something seems to have disturbed Hombre, and based on the smell of rotten beef, it's a Drakkon. However, a fight could slow down the journey; after all, Darkon is less than a full day away from emerging from his prison and devouring the Realms, so any wasted time could surely mean the end of Norwinia.