Ripples appear on the smooth dark surface of the water as the featureless figure, made of shifting, pulsing darkness with red veins shaping into a tree like formation on his chest, with a certain eerie motionless slide, heads towards the obsidian platform in the middle of the vast, ostensibly endless sea of darkness. The figure slowly heads towards the enormous tree made of liquid like shadows, with flowers of varied colors, shifting between blue, red and dark violet, offering a semblance of light under the dark, cloudless skies with a sun bearing a resemblance to a gaping black hole with barely visible cracks spreading from its edges in all directions.
He slides quietly onto the platform, circling around the tree then his empty face dimmed under what seems like the outline of an enormous hood stares into the dim waters as he arrives behind the tree. Deep under the water, hundreds rest with smooth dark figures, tendrils invading the back of their heads. Some of the figures vaguely resemble humans, elven and dwarven kin, orcs and goblins. And some resemble creatures, like a basilisk, one that seems to be towering in size with a bulky body with ten arms protruding from its sides and back, a large spider with a beautiful elven woman on top of its creepy head adorned with eight eyes, a hydra with dozen heads, each punctured by a tendril and many other different kinds of monsters.
Small, jagged edged steps rise out from the waters, serving as more of a guide then a path, leading him further from the small platform with another smaller island connected to it with sconces with orbs of the same colors as the trees. The steps end at a platform with a few steps of stairs leading towards a dark, ominous throne surrounded by murals hovering above the sea.
Numbering at seven, the rightest depicts eight different figures with a radiating aura with a ninth skeletal figure floating, falling above the eight into a vertical tear. The one directly beside it depicting the skeletal figure drifting in emptiness, tendril like shapes appearing from the nothingness with each having indescribable heads staring right at it, beckoning and calling. The third one on the right is separated into multiple parts, each depicting a kneeling figure facing a single featureless one with an empty radiance, holding its arms out like a kind father ready to embrace their children. The fifth depicts the same figure with empty radiance held in the air above a sea by dozens of tendrils, below the sea the previous figures float with tendril coming out from the back of their heads, above the figure an uncountable number of eyes with differing shapes and positions watch, taking up most of the space above.
The sixth shows a tall, male elven figure with a fading aura standing atop a cliff, surrounded by two large, lupine beasts and six crude, bulky figures of orcs and humans while above the elf the space tears, overlapping and shifting figures pouring out with their arms reaching towards the elf in unison. The seventh and final mural depicts an enormous dragon standing in the middle, with six legs, four eyes and wings resting, melding into its hulking body. Encircling him are his worshippers, the first appearing to be a young child, the last a skeleton in ragged robes and rusted armor with a dark line encircling them. Behind the dragon resting on jagged spikes resembling the jaws of a beast is a figure whose head is veiled under a large tattered hood with strange runes framing the edge, an armor both menacing and divine covering the visible parts of his body, permeating an aura of change, passing. Facing the dragon on the opposite is a the tall figure clad in dark robes, holding his arms arrayed in a swallowing dim darkness, out with out line both around and within him of different figures. A single faded, hulking tendril adorned with the eyes of varying shapes connected to his back with the empty space above him gradually darkening, with the top so dark it invokes a sense of existential dread.
The Nameless slowly sits into the throne, a hulking tendril of massive shadows, darkness appearing, connecting to his back as he leans onto it. The figures floating in the depths, open their eyes gleaming with emptiness and gasp silently, gasping and struggling for seconds before an unnatural calmness settles within them. They rest their knee, composed of fluctuating darkness that pulses with each movement as their will spreads to all undead they raised, their eyes watching through the all their undeads’, watching as thousands of undead begin their march towards the distant ruined dark elven cities and fortifications in the Upper Stratum of the Bottom Layer in Mount Dhaugrúz.
**
“UNDEAD” The large stone doors burst open, a dark elf clad in light armor made of a leather like material yells, his dark bluish skin moistened, drenched in sweat while panic settles on his androgynous, handsome face. “How many?” With his commandeering deep voice, the short statured dark elf with a bald head riddled with demonic scar tattoos pulsing with sinister dark colors, his face more masculine, than the maguses, with a thick, trimmed bush of a beard hiding his lips trembling as he tries to hold back his constant anger. “Approximately five to six hundred General!” The scout says with small intervals between each of his words while kneeling on the long dark red carpet placed between the entrance and the large war table with a map of the Upper Layer laid out on top of it.
“Damn it, they already found us.” Zoklaeth mumbled in his while trying to keep his constantly rising anger at bay. “Call for Cacmieh immediately.” He quickly turns to the slender dark elven magus on his right, clad in sleek, dark, gaudy robes with golden edges and a large flamboyant collar that bends outwards. She quickly nods and rushes out of the room. “Everyone, get ready, you call everyone to the walls. May the Abyss guide us to victory!” Zoklaeth practically yells his commands and grabs his helmet while he heads out followed by his own entourage covered in menacing dark elven armor.
The haven used by the dark elves is an ancient tomb of their fallen high nobles, arch maguses and their one and only king who ruled them a few hundred years ago, struck down during their last attempt at taking the north from the people of Virdr. The now necropolis serves as the last bastion for the dark elves, the labyrinthian tomb runs for hundreds of kilometers inside the eastern jagged walls of the Upper Layer, corridors twist and turn with thousands of luxurious tombs large enough to house families and or used by maguses to practice their abyssal magic while the tomb guardians patrol vigilantly. The haven itself is separated by a long chasm that leads down to the lowest layer of the mountain, a bridge connecting to the wall that starts from the ground, ends at the jagged ceiling. The large obsidian wall has smooth surface adorned with dozens of windows used for protection by the tomb guardians, necromantic knights of the dark elves who spend their lives to guard the final resting place of their greatests.
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Zoklaeth quickly arrives to the walls, greeted by one of the Graven Knight of the haven silently. “Did they made any movement?” He asks, his anger filled voice instilling fear within his own troops while covering his head in his closed, horned helmet with loincloth like extensions at the side that rest on his chest as the helmet rests on his scar tattoo covered head. “Nothing so far, they are just standing and waiting.” The echoing voice of a tall Graven Knight replied as Zoklaeth walked to one of the windows, staring out, down at the rows of undead. “Any necromancers spotted yet?” As he watches he notices the lack of necromancers behind the raised undead oozing with the light bluish and dark violet necrotic energies that make up their exposed, corrupted souls. “We spotted a few behind the rocks surrounded by their constructs.” A magus replies, his high pitched voice increasing the anger within Zoklaeth even more, making him struggle to not bash the head of the magus to the wall. “Archers ready their bows, Maguses summon their pets. Let’s greet them with a hail fire of arrows and hellfire” Zoklaeth relays his orders to his subordinates surrounding him on the balcony above the gate, the dark elves clad in armor and woven outfits disperse then the fabric of reality distorts in front of Zoklaeth and a handsome tall dark elf clad in sleek, menacing but also extravagant robes exposing his chest adorned with abyssal tattoos that pulse with the same colors as Zoklaeth’s scar tattoos and the ones inscribed onto his dark claymore’s blade, and armors smooth, grim surface.
“Are you sure that they are aware of the haven?” Cacmieh asks in his cold, toneless deep voice as he stares at the sinister appearing Zoklaeth who resembles a knight from the Abyss more than a dark elf of the warrior caste. “From what I’ve seen from up here, it’s pretty sure they are not her for a picnic.” Zoklaeth replies mockingly while walking towards the window. “Are you doubting their power?” Cacmieh asks in a tone filled with cold, empty suspicion. “I am.” Zoklaeth retorts while rushing down the stairs, each step creates a soft quake under his and his armor’s weight.
The haven's walls, a fortress of layered spells, stand strong against all who would trespass. The first spells were crafted by ancient dark elves, channeling the potent necrotic energy that pulses within the mountain's heart. These spells maintain the undead guardians, thwarting any who seek to take control of them, and empowering the Necrotrectors. The second layer, born of forbidden magical aspects, is maintained by Cacmieh and his three demonic contractors. They weave an illusion of jagged walls, so lifelike that even a touch conjures the frigid sensation of cold stone. A step onto the bridge casts one into a deep trance, a nightmare of falling into the abyss below that are the lower layers of the mountain deep within the earth, shattering bones like glass and rending flesh. For the undead, or to be precise to their necromancers, this illusion spells doom all the same, for it travels through their necromantic link to their masters, bringing death in its wake.
A deathly pale orc appears on the jagged hill behind the small army of undead, a beasts ribs wrap around his abdomen over his tattered dark robes with a hood veiling his sickly yellowish eyes that stare emptily towards the hidden walls. “Dark Elves of Dhaugrúz, the merciful Deadfire offer thou one last chance to surrender and swear thou fealty! What is thou answer?” The orc screams through the rotten crowd, his dry deep voice distorted and amplified by magic, so that it can even penetrate the walls making his voice heard clearly even by Zoklaeth who is coursing between his warriors as he makes his way forward.
An eerie silence settles both outside and inside the walls. Cacmieh watches as the maguses around him summon their imps before he walks to the nearest window, the archer without saying a word stands out of his way. “Here’s our answer.” He mumbles then in the next moment a large ball of swirling dark reddish flames appear at the center, destroying numerous undead within a blink of an eye. “So that is thou answer.” The orc murmurs with hints of disappointment in his voice. Then as he turns his back, a dark metallic spear pierces through his head, ending his life within a blink of an eye. Then arrows and elongated, whirling javelins of hellfire fly out from the walls seemingly, thunderous roars reverberating, shaking the ground and the walls as the arrows explode on impact, taking out numerous undead that started moving towards the hidden bridge.
As they step on it, they fell stop, and the screams of the necromancers of the Dhau-Íssz echo towards the walls, muffled by the layers of dark marble like stone stacked on top of each other, kept together tightly by a dark gelatinous formula resembling hardened, dry mud mixed with liquid tar. “Ready yourselves!” Zoklaeth’s deep voice echoes through his helmet, then in the next moment the gate slowly creaks open, he and a large number of personally chosen warriors pour out from the gates. Their loud footsteps shaking the bridge and the ground in its near vicinity as they sprint towards the undead that remain a few meters from the bridge that is no longer hidden under the veil of mind magic.
The group quickly charges in the rows of undead, their flaming blades cutting through rotten meat and decaying bones like butter, the necrotic souls dispersing into the dark void of space. With Zoklaeth leading on the front, cutting ghoul and ghast with his flaming claymore, his appearance fully resembles a sinister knight’s from the abyss, drenched in the dark, tainted blood of the undead, instilling fear even in them that reaches their controllers through the necrotic link. The ground shakes under them as the imps and archers continue their supporting fire, the number of undead rapidly decreases while they reach the bottom of the hill.
Without much of a problem, Zoklaeth rushes up the hill, cutting numerous undead in two that tries to stop the unstoppable abyssal knight. Within the next few minutes, Zoklaeth and his most trusted finish off the necromancers, the ones who haven’t ran away, either because they are more afraid of their master’s wrath than death, while the other half just doesn’t fear death, seeing it as the ultimate reward.
Zoklaeth stands atop where the pale orc of the Dhau-Íssz offered the mercy of the Deadfire, watching the carnage while holding the severed head of a wrinkled human necromancer, lifting her head above his drenching his exposed head in blood as he crushes it with his sheer power before letting out a guttural, almost demonic scream that fills the surviving warriors with dread and awe at the same time.