Krippendorf, protector of Latveria and overseer of all, in the absence of Doctor Doom, had just received word that a band of young school children, no older than the age of six, had stumbled another pile of bodies, when they were play out in the hills. Bringing the death count up too seventeen (known) deaths. Gods only knew how many other poor unfortunate souls that had been deprived of life out there. This was absolutely sickening, even to ponder – after all! They were not American scum, they were Latverians! They did not commit senseless acts of crime against one another for sport!

His gaze from the village wavered, a cold whisk of air whipped across his body, freezing his soul. He heard a clacking of feet behind him, on the balcony, and in his thoughts cursed himself out, for he had been so self-absorbed in deep musings that he had not heard the arrival of the strange. Just mistakes could cause the overseer his life in the future.

The overseer’s form became less rigid as he say Marina Berencer, his mistress. She was a tall female figure, who wore long billowing white robes, much as he did, but where as he wore them for his social stature in the country, she wore them to conceal her well-curved figure, giving her a hue of mystery to her.

She smiled, her luscious ruby lips gave way to a pearly heavenly white. But noticing, for the first time, the trepidation on the overseer's stern, triangular face, her smile faded away, only to be replaced by a quizzical glance. "What troubles you so, my lover?" she asked in that voice that seemed to sing to him, and only to him.

"Nothing."

"You do not lie well, my lover."

He nodded, and bowed his head toward the village below them. The cold winds compressed themselves upon his body, as he said, "It is this entire situation with this . . . wave of murders . . . no strike that, with this wave of slaughters. It has me on the . . . the edge . . ."

She laughed slightly, it was a sweet, sweet sound that did not seemed diminished by the horror that faced them all. "I thought you might need a release . . ." she said seductively, her tongue wetted her luscious lips, as she eased her way toward him, seductively, with total disregard on who might stumble upon their lustful acts of carnal pleasure. She placed her warm, slender hands upon his chest, which was exposed by the v-neck collar on the robes. He moved his hands onto her shoulders and slide her long bellowing white robe off.

He smiled, and the problems of the world seemed to drift away into a flame of passion and desire. And they embraced, their hands ravenous smoldering over the other one’s backsides, clawing and tearing away at the thin white robes that covered their bodies. She moaned a laugh of pure pleasure in despite the cold air that whipped across both their bodies. They gave way to their lustful demands and carvings.

He heard footfalls collapsing on the stone walkway that would lead the passerby right past the balcony where they gave into their passions. But at the moment he didn’t care. For a fire pool of sheer animalistic passion came upon him, and was overflowing and swept his lover into its hungry maw of lust and passion.

They were absolutely entangled in each other, there was no "I" from that point on, only "we."

"Someone’s coming, my love," Marina hushed, feeling his lips gently caresses her long slender neck, her own hands were playing against his muscular back.

"Let them come," he replied in a moan.

She screamed.

And he knew it was not because of his actions. His head swirled around only to see five hooded men in crimson robes. The one in the middle – the one that was the leader – grinned devilishly, the upper portion of all over their visages were cloaked in a shroud of shadow. But that of his lower portion of the face was a reddish skin tone, his grin revealed sharp toothy points to it, and a black goo-tee danced across his crimson face. His hand escaped his billowing ropes to reveal a golden scalpel. That’s when Krippendorf noticed that they all bared blades, each one more fearsome than the one before it.

"Who dares!" the overseer commanded.

The leader nodded and the others released a battle cry of some sort, charging forth and slaughtering the couple, they screamed, trying to fight their own death-throws only to be sliced down. Soon blood was everywhere, it spilled over the rail and descended into the wilderness below, and the leader smiled.

They found themselves in Doctor Doom’s thrown room. Once the golden light of the teleporter effect gave way, Doctor Strange’s vision had to adjust to the darkness of it all. Primarily torches set in holders along the walls lighted the throne room; the throne room was cast in shadows that danced in counter point with the flickering flames. The effect was vary medieval, even the massive crimson red curtains that draped the windows looked as if they had been hand crafted during the Dark Ages. The medieval affect was, however, ruined by the flat view screen that extended from the ceiling before the throne and the robotic guardians that stood to either side of the throne. The guards’ metallic bodies burnished and painted so as not to cast any form of reflection.

Doom looked around and knew something was out of place. "Where’s Krippendorf?" he demanded.

"Who?" Strange asked, clutching his head in pain. He felt weak for some reason, Strange could feel his once iron firm grasp upon his mystic powers grow faint, even more so than when he had to strain to even levitate. Something was wrong!

"Krippendorf," Doom continued, searching his throne room, which was nearly pitch black, unaware of Strange’s discomfort. "The overseer of Latveria, when I am not present. He’s suppose to be here."

Strange recovered, and composed himself. Something’s happening in the mystic realm, he mused, walking in the direction of the thrown chair, only to step in a pool of liquid. Strange casted a wry gaze earthward, toward his feet, and blinked several times, to make sure that his eyes were not playing tricks on him.

Doctor Strange found himself standing a pool of thick crimson red blood.

"My god . . ." Strange hushed.

Doom approached from behind and looked earthward as well. Rage started to build up within him, as he feared what he had already started to conclude. The a cult had struck again! "Computer! Full illumination!" he demanded. Moments later, the main computer core obeyed their master’s request and the entire throne room was lit up with the harshness of golden bright artificial light, cascading from the ceiling in waves. The torches seemed to dim themselves, but the crackling sound was still vary much present, giving off an ominous effect.

But the sight before them, on the wall, was even more ominous and gruesome.

Strange was taken aback by the sight, Doctor Doom was outraged. The muscles in his jaw, which were covered by his steel face mask, started to ripple back and forth uncontrollably, as his gaze scrutinized the sight before him. And it was a grotesque one, to say the least. Chained onto the way, stood the corpses of Overseer Krippendorf and Mistress Berencer, entangled in the lustful throws of sexual passion. Their nude bodies were twisted and merged into one, it was even more hideous than the remains of the captivating young handmaiden, and segments of their flesh were rearranged in a dark twisted manner. So twisted that not even Doom wanted to ponder their meaning.

On the wall in both their blood were the words "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Khtullis R'lyeh wagn'nagl fhtagn."

He spurred on into the cold night’s howling and crying winds, a smile touching his thin red lips. The sounds and moans reminded him of his home realm that he longed for, ever so much, but the Master’s work be done. And he was his chosen one: His agent.

He walked forth onto the docks that over looked the small waterfront on the Latverian East Side, the cold sea air filling his nostrils, caressing his very soul. He heard the door that he had just exited slightly creak open and heard footfalls of one of the Faithful behind him.

"Why have you disturbed my musings?" he said, his tone dark and sinister and was dripping we anger and contempt. "Speak! I command you!"

"Uhm - - Uh - - Sire, we have received word from our operatives within the castle walls," came the distinct voice of Otik Mage, the leader of the cult the Faithful, whose soul purpose was the reawakening of their only god, Khtullis. "They report that Doctor Doom as well as a stranger, that Doom called, Doctor Strange have left the castle and are heading for our catacomb stronghold.

He smiled devilishly, laughing into the night; he turned and walked closer to Mage. "Is that all?"

The leader bowed. "Yes, milord."

He nodded his head in appreciation, it was not so much as a nod as it was a tilting of the eyes. "Word yet from the other?"

"No, milord."

"Be gone with you then prepare the others for the conflict that awaits them. Both Doom and Strange are cunning, but we have the might and the right of Khtullis behind us." He smiled. "And with that we can never fall nor stumble!"

The leader who was dressed in blood soaked red robes, bowed from the waist down. And vanished back into the shadows. Leaving him standing alone, laughing in the night’s cold contempt.

Doom and Strange had left the castle far behind, looming as a silent sentinel of an ancient mystic past, engulfed in a thick unyielding fog, it seemed to be aloft in the clouds, rather than stationary on a massive majestic mountain that covered all Latveria in its dark shadow. The village reminded Strange of something that had escaped the passage of time and technology. It seemed to be a medieval village, with stone paved roads, instead of the tar and cemented roads that Strange had been accustomed to in New York City. Wooden houses lined the walkways on either side, all leading to the Latverian version of town square, in the shadows of Doom’s castle a massive statue made out of sheer obsidian glass. A towering woman stood there, a thin white sheet covered her well-crafted form; her back was slightly hunched forward, her hair cascading down over one shoulder.

Funny, Strange mused in morbid humor, while he alongside the monarch of this small yet prosperous country walked toward the back of the statue coming from the only north road that twisted upward around the gray, snow covered mountains. One would think that Doom would have placed a statue of himself in the center of the main town of Latveria, instead of that of some nameless woman.

Tearing away from his unimportant musings, on one of the most trivial of all topics, he looked from side to side of the stone paved streets. Then noticed something of more relevance. He looked around the streets with more scrutiny, confirming his conclusions. Doom seemed not to notice what had caught Strange’s eye, his rage was clouding his vision, it was obvious that his soul motive was, in Strange’s opinion, vengeance, in that of his own, justice – either way someone was going to pay dearly for their transgressions upon Doom’s people. (Did Doom bring him along because he knew that his personal feelings would get in the way of the greater good, it was something for Doctor Strange to ponder . . . later . . .)

"Doom . . ." Strange hushed, stopping his walk and looking from side to side, he was taking up a defensive posture. "Where’s all the villagers?" he asked, wryly.

This caught Doom’s attention, he stopped, and an ominous howling of the wind lashed out throughout the streets, giving more emphasis on the deserted streets, a tribute to the emptiness of it all. "Interesting . . ." he pondered aloud, a thin layer of cobalt blue glass descended over his eyes, scanning for life forms of any type. To no avail. "My sensors show no life readings, within its range, Strange, which is quite extensive," Doctor Doom reported, his vision shifting back and forth covering all the area. "Nor am I picking up signs or energy signatures decaying corpses. So they cannot have been . . ."

The last word to escape Doom’s lips was slaughter, but neither Strange nor himself could hear it, for his words were drowned out by the battle cry ranging of beings in the near thousands.