As the shimmering veil of the portal dissipated, our valiant heroes emerged onto the verdant expanse of the Borgian Plains. Cradled at the southern skirts of the towering Oragorian Mountains, this was the realm where the Para'trose Dwarves held dominion, their sovereignty unchallenged beneath the mountain's shadow. Hill dwellers by nature, the dwarves delved deep into the mountain's edge, extracting treasures from the earth's embrace.

Their magnificent city, Para'trose, was a marvel built from the Greystone from the very heart of the mountains. Grey stone spires, quarried from the northern peaks, pierced the sky, standing as silent sentinels over the land. The city was alive with the symphony of mechanical wonders—cogs turned, gears meshed, and pistons drove the lifeblood of industry through its stone veins. The Para'trose Dwarves were not only miners but also master tinkerers and engineers, their ingenuity giving birth to a metropolis where the rhythm of machinery was the heartbeat of civilization.

Enai, with eyes wide and heart alight with wonder, gestured toward the city's grandeur. The trio of unlikely heroes—each with their own tale of courage and cunning—joined in jubilation, for the city stood resolute, untouched by the encroaching darkness of the undead legion that had yet to stain its borders with their vile presence. With haste, they descended towards the grand gates of Para'trose.

The journey across the plains was caressed by a gentle zephyr, the warmth of the valley's breath a comforting balm upon their weary faces. As the colossal kingdom drew near, a wave of solace enveloped them, as soothing as a hearth's embrace in winter's chill. They approached the gates, their spirits lifted by the sight of the city's enduring might.

Gone were the days of the mad King Thraybern's tyrannical rule. The city now thrived under a constitutional monarchy, its senate a beacon of wisdom, guiding Para'trose with a hand that weighed the needs of the many. The senate's ascension was the people's will, a collective uprising that dethroned the despot and heralded the era of King Thraen the Benevolent. He, the son who defied his father's madness, led the resistance that toppled the old reign and ended the bloody campaigns against the Corviran stone dwarves to the east. His leadership saved the bloodlines of Para'trose from the brink of extinction, ensuring the future of the remaining Para'trose Dwarves.

With hopeful hearts, our heroes sought audience with the dwarven council, their quest far from over, their stories yet to be etched in the archives of the ages.

In the wake of tumult and tyranny, the people's patience had frayed to its final thread. With the dawn of the resistance, Thray'en, the scion of valor, rightfully seized his sire's throne, casting him into the solitude of the northern realms. There, amidst kin of distant blood, the dethroned monarch would dwell, stripped of sway and scepter, a mere shadow of his former glory.

The city of Para'trose, once stifled under tryanny, now breathed the free air of democracy. By popular decree, the citizens elected stewards of valor and honor to uphold the realm's harmony. King Thray'en, with a stroke of his royal seal, affirmed the will of his people, enshrining their constitution in the unyielding rock from the mountains—a testament to their unbreakable spirit.

Since that pivotal age, the lands of Para'trose have flourished, blossoming into a diverse home for many souls. The kingdom's gates, once barriers, now stood as open arms to all who would honor the dwarven decree of law and order. Such is the legacy of the Para'trose dwarves—a tale of resilience and renaissance.

As our heroes neared the city's heart, the gates loomed ever larger, their towering presence a testament to the dwarves' architectural prowess. Encircling the city, were several other colossal gateways making passage through and around the city seamless.

Upon reaching the threshold, Enai, heir of Adwin's noble line, offered a nod of recognition to the guards. His voice, imbued with the weight of his lineage, sought to command their attention. Yet, amidst the exchange, a guard's gaze fell upon the young Ic'la, his words tinged with amusement. "Gongorinas?" he mused, the name a clumsy twist upon Enai's noble heritage. "Rarely do we behold the chosen of Gongoria in these parts," he chuckled, his merriness a veil for the skepticism beneath.

Unmoved by titles or tales, the guard rebuffed Enai with a decree from the king himself. It was then that Zacarya, the Lilivian envoy, stepped forth. His presence, a calming balm, sought to sway the steadfast sentinel. "I am Zacarya, kin to the western crown, bearer of spectral raves to King Thrayen," he proclaimed. "Grant us parley with the council, for our words carry the weight of kingdoms and the promise of peace."

With solemn gazes cast upon the elf, the dwarven guards addressed him with a gravity that belied their stout forms. "Aye, 'twas you who dispatched the spectral ravens to the realms beyond," declared the captain, his voice echoing with a resonance of purpose. "Such tidings are seldom shared, not with outsiders, nor even with the kin of Para'trose."

A youthful dwarf, his beard barely a whisper of the grandeur to come, peered at his superior. "Captain Jackby, methinks his words ring true," he ventured, his eyes alight with the fervor of youth. The captain, his visage a tapestry of battles past, nodded gravely. "Then let us hasten them to the keep, for the council awaits and the scouts have yet to herald the approach of the foe that threatens our hallowed halls."

The trio was ushered through the city's gates, the grey stone streets a testament to the enduring might of Para'trose. Encased within walls that had withstood the sands of time, the city stood unyielding, its archer towers and battlements a silent promise of protection.

In time, they arrived at the castle keep, its architecture a symphony of stone and ambition. There, at the threshold of power, they were bid to wait. Soon, a dwarven gentleman of distinguished mien approached, his beard a cascade of silver wisdom. Clad in linens of the finest weave, he perused his timepiece with an air of expectancy. "Zacarya, scion of Lilivian royalty, you've tarried long," he chided gently. "Come, we must convene with the king and his council. Reports from the Xyclirions and your own sovereign uncle have preceded you, echoing your dire news. Now, tell us, how vast is the legion that marches upon us?"

Zacarya, turned his gaze upon Lyrielle, the healer of the Lurg tribe. With a gentle nod, he deferred the council's query to her, for she held the secrets of their kin. "Lyrielle, the elders beseech your wisdom," he intoned.

Lyrielle, her heart fluttering like a caged sparrow, stepped forward. The embers of the council fire cast dancing shadows upon her visage as she spoke. "The Eldergrove Tion, revered among the clans, stand as the vanguard of our people. Their knowledge of the martial arts eclipses that of any other, and their abode is not of mere timber and thatch, but of living arboreal towers that spiral towards the heavens. To the northwest, next to the base of the lilivian mountains, lies my humble village of Lurg. The Eldergrove's numbers are legion, bolstered by the wayfarers from the lesser cities that dot the path to Para'trose."

Her voice, a mere whisper now, carried the weight of sorrow. "The Necromancer, a blight upon our land, has ensnared not only the warriors and the wise but also... the innocents, the children of our future." A tear glistened in the firelight as she turned to King Thrayen. "His sorcery is an abomination, a perversion of life's sacred cycle."

King Thrayen, his countenance as stern as the ancient oaks, sought understanding. "Reveal to us the nature of this dark magic," he commanded, his eyes piercing the veil of uncertainty as they fixed upon Zacarya.

The elf, his aura shimmering with hidden knowledge, nodded solemnly. "This malevolent entity has defiled the heart of our cities—their very lifeblood. A necrotic bacterium, born of forbidden alchemy and the darkest necromancy, courses through the waters of Eldergrove. It is akin to the dread Chornolock plague, yet far more sinister in its design."

A heavy silence fell upon the council. "We stand at the precipice of despair," Zacarya murmured, his eyes closed in contemplation. "Our dwarven kin, do they possess the flexible full plate armor of the ancients? For this scourge spreads not through the air but through the vilest of bites."

King Thrayen rose, his voice thundering through the chamber. "To arms! Let the forges of Neelan burn bright this night. Full plate armor shall be the bulwark against this tide of corruption. Go forth, Keelani, to the Tower of Magi, and bid them dispatch spectral ravens to our allies afar. And you, General Lerion, ensure our stratagems reach the ears of our approaching brethren. May the gods grant them protection in their armored embrace."

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With urgency in their steps, the council heeded their sovereign's decree, their resolve as unyielding as the stone walls that guarded their realm. The fate of Eldergrove Tion hung in the balance, and only time would tell if the light of hope could pierce the shadow of the Necromancer's curse.

As the twilight shroud of evening descended upon the citadel of King Thrayen, three weary figures emerged from the shadowed forest, their silhouettes etched against the fading light. The royal court, a bastion of ancient stone and flickering torches, stood vigilant as the scouts, cloaked in the dust of their urgent journey, crossed the threshold.

The leader, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, bowed before the throne. "My liege," he began, his voice a hoarse whisper, "the message from the ice elf holds true. A legion of the undead, vast as the winter's night, marches upon us. Their numbers are such that they could crush our gates asunder."

King Thrayen, his eyes alight with the fire of impending war, turned to his council. "Summon the warriors, sound the horns of Valoria! Let every blade be unsheathed, every shield be raised," he commanded, his voice echoing through the stone halls.

The scout, his face etched with the urgency of their plight, spoke again. "Sire, the dawn of tomorrow may never see the light if we do not act swiftly."

It was then that Zacarya, the elven arcanist archer, stepped forth, his eyes gleaming with arcane insight. "Majesty, the void's embrace seems to be their bane. Yet, it is the Lich, once a mere puppeteer, now a fallen monarch of the abyss, that casts a shadow upon my thoughts. Annulle, the Demi-Goddess, has spoken of his might."

With a bow of reverence, Zacarya sought the king's leave. "Might I peruse the tomes of your grand library? For within its hallowed walls, I believe a key to unraveling this necrotic enigma lies hidden."

King Thrayen, his brow furrowed with concern, granted his request. "You have witnessed their horror, you have delved into their plague. Seek out the knowledge that may turn the tide."

Thus, the trio was escorted to the grand library, a vault of wisdom where the chronicles of time were kept. The wood elves of the northern realms had brought with them scrolls of ancient lore, and the dwarves, though not scholars of renown, had amassed tomes of considerable worth.

They entered the sanctum of knowledge, its aisles lined with volumes of forgotten ages. A wood elf, her hair a cascade of autumn leaves and eyes the green of new growth, greeted them. "Welcome, travelers. I am Annabelle, guardian of these chronicles. What wisdom do you seek within the heart of halls?"

Zacarya, his voice steady, inquired, "We seek the forbidden chapters, those that speak of necromancy and the shadowed kin."

Annabelle pondered for a moment before replying, "Indeed, we possess such texts, but tread carefully, for the knowledge therein is as perilous as the dark arts themselves."

In the hallowed halls of the Grand Library of Salaria, the trio of seekers—Zacarya, Enai, and Lyrielle—exchanged a silent pact with a mere glance. Their eyes, alight with the fire of unity, spoke of a shared resolve to delve into the forbidden knowledge that lay hidden within the library's ancient depths.

"Lead us, Annabelle, to the section of protection from the dark arts.," Zacarya intoned, his voice a blend of reverence and anticipation. The air hung heavy with the scent of aged parchment and whispered secrets as Annabelle, the keeper of books, let out a melodic chuckle, her innocence belying the gravity of their quest. "Follow me, brave souls, for the path you seek is veiled in the dust of ages."

With a grace that belied the years of neglect, Annabelle guided them through a labyrinth of towering shelves, each a sentinel guarding the wisdom of eons. The section dedicated to combating the dark arts loomed before them, its presence an ominous whisper in the annals of time. With a nod of gratitude, the trio watched as Annabelle retreated, her gaze lingering upon Zacarya with an unspoken promise of mysteries yet to be unveiled.

Enai, with a playful smirk, teased Zacarya, "Seems the stars have aligned for you, my friend." Lyrielle joined in the jest, her laughter a light in the dim corridor. "Oh, the forest's embrace has ensnared our elven sage!"

Zacarya, his patience fraying like the edges of the ancient tomes, retorted, "Enough of your mirth. Let us focus on the peril that threatens to engulf Salaria."

They scoured the section, their fingers tracing the spines of countless volumes, seeking a thread to unravel the necromantic plague that threatened their world. Hours slipped by like sand through the hourglass, yet the answers they sought remained elusive, hidden beyond the veil of their understanding.

Compelled by an unseen force, Zacarya ventured alone into the deeper recesses of the library, drawn by a curiosity that bordered on obsession. The shadows grew denser, the air colder, as he passed beyond the realm of the dark arts into a place where light dared not tread.

Enai and Lyrielle, steadfast in their search, remained amidst the tomes of darkness, but Zacarya felt the pull of destiny guiding him. A chill breeze caressed his skin, whispering secrets in the language of the ancients. "Annulle?" he questioned the void, his voice barely a breath.

Then, a voice, ethereal and compelling, beckoned him. "Over here," it called, a siren's song leading him further into the heart of of the Library. Zacarya turned, his senses heightened, his spirit attuned to the call of the unknown. "What was that?" he murmured, stepping into the darkness of the large hallway.

In the hallowed alcove of the Great Library of Thrayen, a tome of ancient lineage beckoned to Zacarya, its presence as conspicuous as a beacon in the night. Bound in leather the color of the earth and framed with a border of mithril, it seemed to call out to him, a silent siren amidst the sea of knowledge. With a tilt of his head, Zacaraya watched as the volume tumbled to it's side, as if guided by an unseen hand.

He lifted the tome, its weight a testament to the secrets it held, and exhaled a breath upon its surface, sending a cloud of forgotten years scattering into the air. "Covenant of the Gods," he read aloud, his voice echoing softly in the chamber. He cast his eyes heavenward, a silent plea to Axiel, the deity of all life and wisdom. "Is this your doing? What guidance do you offer us in our darkest hour?"

The book was sealed, not by mere lock, but by an enchantment of elven steel, its magic palpable to the touch. Zacarya glanced about, the thrill of long lost knowledge quickening his pulse. With a surreptitious glance, he secreted the tome into his bag of holding and rejoined his companions.

"Behold, Zacarya," Enai proclaimed, his excitement barely contained. "This hieroglyph, it bears the likeness of a Morasu elf, does it not?"

Zacarya peered at the page, his eyes narrowing in recognition. "Indeed, this script is ancient draconic, a language not spoken in these lands since the dragons sought sanctuary in realms beyond our reach. Yet, I have studied these runes, deciphered their curves and angles."

"This was penned by the Rock dragons, or so it seems," Zacarya mused, his fingers tracing the lines of text. "A wise and realm-wandering kin, they were. But what secrets do they share with us now?"

Enai leaned in, his curiosity a flame. "What revelations lie within?"

As they delved into the depths of the script, Zacarya's expression shifted, a storm of emotions playing across his features. "The dragons are but a thread in this tapestry," he whispered, his voice tinged with awe and dread. "Here lies a prophecy of a Lich, a sorcerer whose soul clings to unlife. He sought dominion over the dragons, to bend their will to his vile purpose."

The trio stood in silence, the weight of their discovery pressing upon them. The fate of Salaria hinged upon the unraveling of this ancient covenant, and the battle against the darkness that threatened to engulf their world.

Enai leaned closer, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his determined features. "Could it be," he whispered, his voice a blend of wonder and dread, "that these majestic beasts, the dragons, ventured into the accursed lands of Ulumbria? That they met their demise only to be resurrected into a ghastly legion of undead wyrms?"

Zacarya, his eyes deep pools of knowledge, glanced up from the ancient tome. " Yes enai, that's exactly the heart of the tale," he affirmed, his fingers dancing over the parchment as if to coax secrets from the ink itself. "The chronicle tells of a time when hundreds of stone-scaled dragons soared the skies. Yet, only three endured the dark sorcery that befell them. This tome, I believe, was scribed as a harbinger to our realm, though its message is shrouded in enigma."

He delved deeper into the script, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I grasp the words, yet their meaning eludes me," Zacarya confessed. "In every tongue I comprehend, the translation remains the same. In the Salarian vernacular, it states: 'The bearers of light shall hold the undead at bay, and only in the direst hour shall the light be granted to those who earnestly seek its embrace.'"

They pondered in silence, the air thick with the gravity of foretold destinies. Enai's gaze was drawn to a passage, its script curling like tendrils of mist. "What secrets are etched here Zac?" he inquired as he points toward the bottom of the parchment, his voice barely above a whisper. Zacarya, with the reverence of a sage, traced the arcane letters, his touch almost reverent. "It speaks of sacrifice and salvation," he intoned solemnly. "'Those who cling to life shall forfeit it, while those who dare to embrace sacrifice shall be deemed worthy of eternity.' Such are the cryptic words scribed."

A collective pause enveloped them, the riddle's essence as elusive as a wraith. "What enigma does this pose?" Enai's frustration simmered, his words a mix of vexation and intrigue. "This conundrum serves us little, Zac!" With a nod of grave accord, Zacarya acknowledged the shared perplexity, mirrored by Lyrielle, whose aura was akin to a hearth in winter's chill. "Perchance we must heed the call of ancestral wisdom," she proposed, her hands enveloping theirs in a gesture of unity. "Fate's design is often inscrutable."

With a collective resolve, they stood. "Then prepare we must, for the fray that looms," they declared. "Let us seek solace in rest, for the morrow brings war."

They departed the hallowed halls of the Library, seeking sanctuary within the town's humble inn. The city was a hive of vigilance, its soldiers donning armor and sharpening blades under the cloak of night. Scouts ventured forth into the darkness, tasked with bearing news of the undead horde's approach. And so, the stage was set for the ensuing chapter, where the clash of steel and spell would reach its crescendo.