A 99 word poem of a small town, and the demon who guards its chapel when the mists rise.
Rumors of gold and more, spoken on the wind draw the greedy to their doom.
“Swiftly, repent! The Saintmaker is coming!”
For your pleasure and entertainment, here we present, thirty fiendlings seasoned with a whiff of brimstone, teasingly clad in shadow, accompanied by tunes played on pipes of angel-bone; likewise do we tell of the gifts they might bestow upon one in their favor.
So get them before Hell freezes over!
In the middle of the sky over the land of Dankij there is a door. The door is fixed in an upright position and appears to be fastened to the very sky itself. Worldwide rumors say it has been there since The Creation. What could be behind this door?