I entered the alley, confused and hungry. But it was not a physical hunger, rather it was a compulsion. A sickening drive to enter that foul corridor, strewn by trash and ignored by all but the most desperate of vagrants. There laid the body of a middle-aged man in an oily black coat, drenched by the pouring rain. I stared upon his torso, which was bleeding profusely. Or at least, it had been.
He was dead now, perhaps for several hours. The stench surrounding him and his now almost stone-like complexion made that much obvious. I approached him, cautiously, fearing what may have happened to him and if his assailant was still around. I could feel rain splashing against my face, or was it my own tears? I couldn't tell at that point, the pressure was simply too much.
I rummaged through his coat, only to find a slip of paper in his pocket, and two rings, one gold and one silver. They looked peculiar, religious even. The gold one had a rather disturbing eye-like gem in it, while the silver one had a double-cross design upon both sides. I slipped on the rings, silver to the left hand and gold to the right, then read the note. It was hastily written in black ink, the words almost illegible from the mix of water and fresh plasma now coating the edges.
Don't pursue Diablo or Jesus. Leave them be, or he'll find you.
I couldn't begin to understand what he meant. Perhaps he was schizophrenic? I fled, almost completely forgetting the corpse that lay behind me. I was only moving for about a half-hour when I saw another figure following me. At first, I don't pay any attention to him, but then I saw it: a knife, glistening against the street lights. As I ran, I heard the figure speak.
"Give them to me," he said in a voice that sounded more serpentine than human. He lunged at me suddenly, with a ferocity that I had never seen before. I raised my arms in defense. I don't know why I did, it shouldn't have done anything save for giving him even more of a target. But to my surprise, it proved effective.
I saw the knife bounce effortlessly from my arm, as though I was made of rubber. Instinctively I kicked him, pushing him back. He appeared even more startled than I was. He staggered back and proceeded to slice away once more, only to be once again blocked. Panicking, I reached out with my right arm and struck him. The sickening crunch yielded by my flailing arm dropped him instantly, his skull shattered.
I had no words, no questions save for what I had done. I kicked the knife out of his hand, embedding it into the ground. I looked at it once more, pulling it out. It was a simple kitchen knife. I do not know what compelled me to conceal it beneath my jacket, let alone touch it. I knew better, but somehow I simply could not contain myself.
Since that encounter, I have heard other stories. Some seemed to be outright nonsense, stories told be the derelict and the hopelessly addicted as they staggered on half-mad through life. Others by more reliable figures. All were different, but all shared the same theme: five-hundred and thirty-eight Objects, brought forth by some unknown force, beckoning others with the allure of their power...