15th of the 12th Epoch, 768 of the First Age.
The fire cracks, casting its warm welcoming light inside the otherwise dark tent with space fitting enough for a family of five of high rank, be it within the Horde appearing primal to the southerners, or for even a high elven noble family. Even the massive figure of the Pentarch of the Nightscale could not block it from spreading its fiery light upon the woven walls that once belonged to a might beast whose bones are now used to support it. His large hands lean towards the flames, the palm soaking in the warmness of the flames, acting as a starting point to course through his body clad in ornate, yet still somewhat considered primal robe with armor and bone serving as protection in case they would get attacked. Even though the chances for that are low. Thanks to the protection the Nightscale and the mountain range circling around the north like a gentle mother’s arms embrace their children.
“The Ruadr-Vargr and Hlátr-Scaelu leaders arrived your Exaltedness!” a cool light manages to penetrate the tent through its wide entrance as the figure of an old man clad in dark brownish armoured robe enters, a hood covering his human face covered in runic tattoos with jagged edges and scaled texture. He swiftly strokes his dark bluish beard with his long fingers with sharpened finger nails covered in dark paint that resembles the starless night sky in the rays of the northern sun. “Hvitr-Ha’ygr and the Dhau-Íssz representatives are still on their way your Exaltedness.” The messenger continues in his deep dry voice with his massive figure hunched down slightly. “Durothil won’t make it. How many days away are Vro-Ghahk and his entourage?” The Pentarch says in his deep voice with an authorative, yet also somewhat tired tone while pushing his palms towards the flames burning in the centre fire place within the tent. “Two days.” The messenger quickly replies, getting on his knees as the Pentarch turns around slowly looking at him with a gentle, fatherly expression. “Thank you, my son! You can go now!” The messenger gets up and bows deeply before he leaves the tent.
The moment the canvas that serves as a door blocks the cold light of the day, shadows start creeping at the walls and the large shrine of the Nightscale whose menacing dragon head adorned with six eyes stare at the bulky, yet smaller figure of the Pentarch. The shadows seemingly move inside, enveloping his body ending in weird hand like shapes that seemingly grip his throat while unseen voices sing in a distorted unison filling him with tender coldness and a feeling of limitlessness.
The Pentarch once again holds his hand out over the flames and with a quick movement, pushes into the calm flames, that are sucked into his palm like a black hole devours stars, a suffocating darkness settling inside while the unseen voices gradually increase in volume, almost shattering his mind. Then with a snap, the flames lit up filling the interior with a warm light again, the voices quietly singing their cacophony while the Pentarch whistles in unison with them.
**
After sleeping through five days Aivha woken up to the rotten stench of undead looking over her, their empty eyes filled with darkness seemed like ones of children watching their parents waking up. Strangely she thought that she would experience all the pain that certain books taught her about the transformation into a vampire. But none of that happened, instead she spent the usual five to six days dreaming in which she at first was floating in an endless sea of nothingness. Then on the third and fourth day the nothingness gained matter, turning into the underground landscape of the Bottom Layer’s Upper Stratum filled with the once again bustling cities of the dark elves, seeing all the old rivals and even friends whom she went on multiple raids or attended rituals during which they conversed with the denizens of the Abyss.
On the fourth and final day the dream turned horrific at first as she seen the enormous Deadfire phase through a gate that tore into reality, its jaw filled mouth open, emitting a soul shaking shout that made even the stones quiver in terror followed by its flames. But this time instead of losing everything, the dark radiance of the nameless figure dressed in modest dark elven robes appeared and vanquished the dragon. His cold hand caressing her cheeks while his gentle voices whispered promises of glory and a bright future for her kind in which they’ll reclaim their place amongst their surface kin. All she needed to do is open herself to him. The moment she did on the final day, vision both horrific and exhilarating filled her, the image of large tree hovering in the nothingness in colours unseen and indescribable with cracks spreading from a hole in its ethereal bark. Then in a free fall she experienced hundreds of worlds including the one her race originates from before waking up, filled with a new purpose and understanding. And a new fervour.
The undead disperse from the chamber like room as she slowly gets up from the cleaned bed. As she starts standing up, she quickly falls back as the hunger weakens her muscles, feeling low on necrotic energies. Her ears start to twitch as it picks up the sound of footsteps approaching her, two sounding metallic, but soggy yet dry as they belong to two ghasts under the Nameless, while the third is soft more meaty belonging to one of the Dhau-Íssz prisoners they captured not too long ago, to which she is somewhat aware.
The two ghasts with skeletal, dark elven faces drag the Dhau-Íssz cutists inside who is practically naked, only his underwear remaining on him showing his body filled with festering scar tattoos. While Aivha would usually look at them with disgust, her bat like pale face contorts into one filled with hunger. The two drop the human on the floor with his face empty, staring at the ceiling. The two undead leaves as she slowly gets up, licking her dry lips while slowly approaching the limp yet conscious Dhau-Íssz and swiftly bites his neck, tearing the flesh while draining blood while making distorted growls unbecoming of a dark elf.
As she feeds, visions of a smaller city appear in her mind, people clad in dark robes and bony armour chanting in circles in front of a shrine made of charred bones and stone formed to resemble dark flames. Then she sees the man being called out by a tall dark elf in long, gaudy dark robes holding a staff made of obsidium with dark scale surface and an elven skull sitting on the top staring emptily into the distance. The Traitor. Anger fills her, making her tore even more brutally into the dying Dhau-Íssz, finishing him off by tearing the head off that was already half torn off.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Unnatural calmness settles within her and she sees the two Ghasts return with another Dhau-Íssz held by the two. They stare at her before dropping the pale wood elven dragon cultist inside, through their shared connection thanking them and their master before she sinks her teeth into the motionless cultist.
**
The air is thick with the scent of incense and decay. Shadows dance across the walls, flickering in the dim light of candles and magical balls of light placed in sconces. In the centre of the room stands the lone figure of a dark elf almost as tall as a high elf with long smooth white hair giving off an ominous glow, giving him a regal appearance. Wreathed in darkness, he wears gaudy dark long robes that seem out of place inside the tomb he holed himself in since he lost contact with a pseudo-soul, he left on the Upper Layer of Mount Dhaugrúz.
His eyes open, gleaming with a malevolent light as the door opens. Through a spell he surveys the whole room watching as one of the Dhau-Íssz members, a half-elven enters wearing their quite primal, barbaric robes with bone like armor over it. His face is wrinkled, pale as a corpses after decades of immersion in the arts of Death. “Any news on the lost outposts?” The Traitor asks in his cold, dry and hollow voice, devoid of any warmth. “Yes, the scouts reported that a large groups of the strange undead led by constructs took them. They also took some prisoners.” The half-elf reports in a shaky voice, dread filling him slowly. “Leave.” The Traitor quickly follows up, hints of anger appearing in his otherwise hollow tone.
“Damned useless Horde and their Pentarch!” Without saying a word, the half-elf leaves shutting the door closed as silently and quickly he can. Wrinkles appear on the smooth skinned deep violet face of the Traitor as it contorts into anger. The air slowly changes, the flames on the candles die while the few remaining tattered banners disintegrate into nothingness as the room is slowly filled with negative matter following the anger filled will of the Traitor.
Then in the next moment the dust hovering in the air freezes in place, the air that previously caressed his skin stops suddenly, a suffocating stillness settles inside as he feels the ancient, powerful and prideful presence making itself known to him, accompanied by the slight feeling of fear the Traitor felt while pleading for his life knees down in the rubble, the smell of deathly smoke once again assaulting his nostrils.
Then a swirl of energies appear in the dark resembling the night sky, a canvas of deep black and dark violet with a few gleaming dots that pulse in and out of existence as the darkness claims them. “Oh the Brightest In Our Night of Lives, how can I serve you in this hour?” The Traitor bows so deeply his forehead practically bonded with the dust covered floor, not necessarily uncommon in the society of his kin when they are dealing with higher powers.
“Forego your pleasantries, I am here to learn, how will you take care of the trespasser?” The Nightscale spoke, his voice deep, slow and deliberate each word pronounced with weight, but also a sense of detachment that comes with age so long that it has seen not just the rise of kingdoms, empire but the decay of worlds. The Traitor clicks his tongue so silently that not even the spirits inhabiting the tomb unseen could hear it.
“Do not worry about it, its nothing more than another nuisance.” The Traitor says while slowly raising his upper body up, staring at the projection with a cold smile. “Is that so?” The Nightscale speaks once more, his voice quivering the soul of the Traitor, whilst provoking slight ting of anger within him with a question coveted in moderate mockery and doubt. “I already sent word to the Dhau-Íssz and your highly precious Pentarch.” The Traitor continues, tendrils grow from the projection approaching the Traitor slowly. They slowly creep up his body and twist around his body, his body quickly starts to deteriorate, his moist, smooth skin dries, his eyes evaporate becoming empty holes and his long ethereal hair falls out while feeling the Nightscale probe inside his mind. Then the tendrils disperse and he once again gains back his handsome, yet sinister dark elven appearance.
“Do not fail.” The Nightscale warns him with an ominous tone. „For your own sake.” The Deadfire adds before the swirl of energy bursts into nothingness, allowing the dust in the air to move again, the air to softly caress the skin and hair of the Traitor who is still frozen in place, raking his brain why the voice of the dragon showed hints of familiarity.
**
As Aivha walked towards the gate, the open structure part of the wall grew in size with each of her soft steps. After spending two days at least feeding she felt fresh once again, using the newly gained magical sup-aspect of mind to conceal her vampiric features, gaining back her dark elven appearance. At the gates a group of undead comprised of ghasts, ghouls and skeletons of the Nameless stood with three undead drakes.
One of the large undead drakes, standing on all fours with its scales darkened by the tainting negative matter of its master, its dragonic skull half-exposed with empty eye sockets, weakly shaking its long tail from left to right, its body covered in the strange armour crafted by the undead with an empty seating on top.
The other two already taken, their silent riders sitting on top. Even as she climbs atop hers, the two figures seem colossal, clad in armour made of a weird mixture of bone and obsidian, possessing a jagged and menacing appearance that fills Aivha with a slight feeling of cold terror in their presence. The armour itself seems to clung to their bodies like it was tailored for them. Under the armour they wear robes made of pure shadows, swirling and shifting constantly as they moved their bodies, ending in hoods on the top the veiled their heads in total, consuming darkness.
This is her second time meeting with them, but she is still assaulted by a certain feeling of uneasy. The first time was the day before when the Nameless called her to himself, to check on her the changes, and to give her a mission. The moment it opened the door, Aivha unconsciously got down on her knees, thinking that the Reaper himself came for her. But then at that moment the word, Arnyak appeared within her mind, rooting itself into her understanding that it is a creation of his master, making her calm down to an extent.
As they start moving out the gates, her body and the ground quake ever so slightly. Aivha turns her head back, her soft, sleek tunic’s collar gently breezing her jawline, her menacing red eyes stare right back at the grinning heads of the enormous Skeletal Undead Construct. She turns back and orders her mount to continue on after the rest who are already out of the gate, led by the two Arnyak towards the dark elven haven. As she catches up to them on her mount, the gates close slowly, the empty grinned heads blankly stare at the back of Aivha.