A symphony of clashing metals, a musical ode to the creation of protection, war and glory echoed within the walls of the once mighty dark elven city as the Nameless and his new mockingly divine companion, Ferthur the devil of the Twenty Sixth layer of the Abyss Below strode the city’s streets. On each of their sides undead rest eerily, their gaping empty eyes watching ever vigilantly against any would be infiltrator.
“Truly strange undead ye possess.” Ferthur speaks as the two stop in their tracks at the large building of both dark elven and deep dwarven design. “Never seen undead working tirelessly at smitheries.”
The Nameless remain silent as he inspects the various armors crafted with great precision and care by his undead minions who stopped, like factory workers when their boss arrives for annual inspections.
“Truly a marvel, their souls bound in perfect harmony.” The devil continues his compliments while his tender, smooth furred hands smoothen along the necrotic cold flesh that almost feels like porcelain. The dark elven undead whose face he caresses grasps his forearm, a dreaded coldness creeping through his vile being prompting his body to turn from a solid flesh like material into air, escaping the strange grasp just as the strange song started to ring in his ears.
Without saying a word, the Nameless walks out of the building, its ceiling riddled with holes, darkened by the flames of the Deadfire that ravaged the city during his arrival to the deep. Ferthur follows after him, before he leaves he takes one look at the undead who are already back working, creating great armors with unconventional shapes.
The two silently continue on their way, arriving at the gate just as it slowly creeks open revealing a mixed horde of undead. Some wearing dark elven and deep dwarven designed black armors with helmets shrouding their grotesque visages, while the other half wears armor crafted with a certain crudeness and care, made of bones of various beasts of the world, with bland woven dark robes draped underneath it casting strange shadows over the lifeless, rotting faces. The group itself is seemingly led by a large ogre like undead with bloated scales covering its arm, its hood torn off revealing its half draconic, rudimentary face with one of its tusks broken off.
The Nameless turns his head ever so slightly upwards, his eyes fixated on the amalgamation of an partially skinned ogre and the lower arachnoid body of an Arachne appearing upside down on the top frame of the gate. A tender smile graced his lips, radiating pure delight, a father’s smile when his children succeed in their tasks.
“That is the one.” The Nameless spoke, a single soothing, refined voice of an adolescent men leaving his mouth, his teeth blandly bright. Ferthur looks at the undead construct, his eyes gleaming like two shining stars in the night sky, filled with curiosity and excitement of new avenues.
The ground shakes beneath the Arachnoid Construct as it lands a few meters before the two, its multiple legs creaking as it straightens its posture and bows with a certain air of elegance.
“Are ye sure about it? It seems strong enough to me.” Ferthur hovers closer to the construct, inspecting every fine, disgusting detail of it before he turns his head to the Nameless his angelic deer head stuck in a calming look.
“I’m/we’re not an advocate of perfection, life is about constant progress.” The Nameless turns around, his face brighten in cold lights of the under mountain’s light as he speaks. “We may have scored victory after another, but fate can be a cruel mistress.”
The Nameless disappears in the city, Ferthur and the Arachnid construct staying at the gate as the devil continues his inspection before the two disappear in a burst of wind and lightning, kicking up ash and rot settled on the decrepit buildings surrounding them while the rest of the undead march further into the city for renovation.
**
A serene silence filled the vast space surrounding the tower at the north eastern edge of the ruined dark elven fortress, a vast underground plain stretched out for hundreds of kilometers into the dark distance with the occasional twisted spire like rock formations doting it. The Dhaugrian lets out a sigh of boredom, the air escaping his body rustling his thick dirty white beard darkened even further by the hood draped over his balding head.
The bone armor of the Dhau-Íssz wraps around his bulky short body like the claws of a skeletal dragon or a strange construct, his black robes fluttered in the cold, clamp air of the Upper Stratum like the wings of certain bat like monsters living in the deep. His skin dark, rough as the very stone of the mountain, pitted from centuries of exposure to death seeped into the mountain itself. A few wrinkles appear on his face, hidden by the shadows of his hood, the first signs of death magic usage, while his eyes already losing their color, turning as pale as the horse of the Reaper itself.
His face veiled in calmness, the unheard whispers of the dead buzzing his hearing like an angry swarm of hornets, dripping with venomous rage unending. A gasp of disbelief and relief leaves his mouth as the previously wrathful whispers come to a sudden silence, the last thing he sees in his pale eyes are a large orb of darkness that consumes his body, leaving behind nothing of him, or the top of the tower.
A soul and ear piercing cry reverberates through the plains, beyond the tall walls of the fallen fortress, planting the seeds of dread into the hearts and minds of the few dozen Dhau-Íssz necromancers and warriors clad in bone and scaled armor with dark robes draped under led by one of the Blessed of the Nightscale.
They quickly stand in battle formations, the necromancers chant in unison as they call upon the hundreds of undead borrowed to them, their silent whispers of rage intensifying at first, but then gradually drown out by the wills of the Dhau-Íssz necromancers as they crawl out from the ground and from the decrepit buildings where they were resting unpeacefully. Bones creak, armor’s clank as they march towards the gate, acting as the vanguard for the living.
Minutes pass by, felt as hours to the living as they wait for the enemy to show up, assaulting the somewhat repaired gate, none of the living inside had any disillusion that it may hold for long against an onslaught. Sweat flows down on the faces under the scaled open helmet with horns imitating a young dragons on the sides, white as the snow of the North’s. The grip around their weapons’ guards tighten, their teeth push together strongly as anxiety rises within the warriors rapidly.
Hundreds if not almost a thousand undead appear in the distance, led by the enormous figure of a minotaur like undead with six rotting arms growing out from its sides, its mouth closing shut after its battle cry traversed through the plains, into the hearts and minds of its enemies. By the will of its lord, it orders the undead including the recently recruited to march and kill any who’s filled with the warmth of life. The seemingly mindless horde lunges with a newfound fervor onto the walls and the gate, the dark wood creaking as small holes are punched and stabbed into its rough surface, ghast and eyeless ghouls screech at their opponents whose faces veil the dread of death with the anxiety of the unknown under their helmets pushing the hoods onto their heads.
Stolen story; please report.
Their soft chanting fills the courtyard, praying to the Nightscale for survival, or for a quick death. Then the gate burst into flames, the few undead engulfed by the dark flames, giving false hope to the defenders until the flaming undead rushes towards them, plunging into their brethren still possessing the ethereal light blue light of necrotic energy that taints their soul, binds them to the will of the necromancers.
Some of the undead get cut down, some manage to hold the line and keep their traitorous kin in fates at bay, others loose their ethereal light, replaced by the all swallowing darkness inhibiting the Nameless’s undead. The flames spread onto the others, burning those who haven’t turned on their jailers.
“PREPARE YOURSELVES!” Within seconds the vanguard solely consisting of the undead quickly turn towards the living with a cold emptiness, the dread intensifies within the warriors. But the hope of survival sprouts within them, the voice of their commander, a Blessed Orc of the Nightscale. His two meters tall body stood tall with midnight hued complexion hidden under his armor, his body bore the fierce, sinewy contours of a dragon, with scales of the exposed hands and feet glinting like polished obsidian in the faint light. The contrasting metallic white scales of his armor almost seemed to possess a life of their own, writhing, pulsing with each of his movement as he walked to the rearguard, screaming from the top of his lungs, his voice enchanted with the sub aspect of mind to block the terror out of his troops.
“BRACE YOUR WEAPONS MY WARRIORS! DEATH IS OUR FRIEND!” His guttural deep voice echoes through the primal dry shrieks of the Nameless’s undead, then his left hand grips the air as his mana condenses pouring the aspect of flames into it, shaped into the form of a javelin by his will and with a certain degree of elegance hurls it towards the undead.
“ARCHERS, RELEASE YOUR ARROWS!” He issues the next command as the swirling flames of a javelin flies past and above the heads of his warriors holding the undead back with their large shields. The javelin gradually changes its trajectory, aiming down at the ground between the rotten, skeletal feet of the undead.
“NECROMANCERS, SUPPORT US IF YOU DON”T HAVE ANY REMAINING DEAD” As the burst of flames sending chunks of undead and armor pieces in all directions, the Blessed Orc of the Nightscale turns back and orders the Necromancers, whom most are getting up from their knees from the chanting, a mild headache churning within their heads accompanied by a feeling of loss, one that is more on the positive side of things.
Their chanting resumes, with less ominous undertones, as the arrows fly towards their target, the tips light up on each like candles with flames whirling in the air, imbued with the magical command of explosion, destroying parts of the wall facing the vast plains, and numerous undead that were crawling over it like spiders. Some in a last ditch of effort threw their spears, axes and swords towards the Dhau-Íssz warriors. Blood flows out from under the helmets of a few, falling over like a tree, kicking up dust and ash, the unnatural heat of the flames in front spreading between the ranks.
A second cry, this time much closer snuffs the life out from the flames, smoke obscuring the gates, gradually getting thicker while circling around the living. “Calm your senses, see beyond the trick of your mind.” As the smoke dissipates, the ones at the front scream at the enormous, three or four meters tall minotaur like undead construct with six arms lunging at them. With one of its right hand’s claws burning with negative matter, it cuts through the first row of three like butter.
Its upper left arm holding an enormous battle axe strikes down, followed by the ear-piercing shriek of the air sliced through, its black metallic blade lights up in dark flames, landing with a thunderous road as its cleanly and vertically cuts the unfortunate human warrior of the Dhau-Íssz in two, his soul screaming in pain as it’s dragged to the afterlife.
The massive battle axe glinted in the cavernous lights, dripping with the blood of the fallen as it was hoisted high above, ready to strike once more at the hectic warriors of the Dhau-Íssz fighting for their life with the rest of the undead. With a loud clang noise, its blade meets in a violent union with the longsword of bone and obsidian of the Blessed Orc of the Nightscale, sending shockwaves through the muscled arm of the orc.
He bares his fangs in a wide grin as he stares daggers up at his towering opponent, with a kick powered by his draconic muscles and magic, sends the Minotaur Construct a few meters away from the center of the battle, its massive body destroying a few undead as it slides back scraping earth with its numerous legs resembling chitinous scythes.
The Blessed Orc of the Nightscale slowly approaches the weird construct, cutting down undead left and right as they rush mindlessly at him, all the while his eyes fixated on his opponent, his eyes glinting with the anticipation of a great duel.
Flames gather out of thin air in the left middle hand of the Minotaur Construct, swirling constantly while offering their warm light to the surroundings, then gradually darken emanating the coldness of eternal slumber. It quickly dashes towards the Blessed Orc, the ground shaking as its legs propel it into the air slightly above. The battle axe strikes while at the same time the its middle left arm is held out, palm first as a beam of dark, cold flames assault the Blessed Orc, a ward erected around him by one of the Dhau-Íssz necromancers in the back who keeps an eye on their hope for victory.
The ward breaks under the heavy strike of the battle axe, slowing its momentum leading it stopping on the scaled shoulder plate of the Blessed Orc, his longsword striking at the heart of the construct with. The hard, ivory blade of the longsword found its mark, driving into the Minotaur Construct’s heart like a heated poker plunging into a block of ice, dark ichor flowing out onto the helmet covered head veiled in the shadow of the construct’s body, using every fiber of his muscle in preparation to keep the corpse from falling on top of him.
A shocked grasp, then a blood curdling scream leaves his dark mouth set with rows of contrasting fangs as the Minotaur Construct grabs onto his waists, it’s palms were like fiery branding irons as it reached out to touch the scaled armor clad waists, the pure magical aspect of flame engulfing its giant hands that form a ring around the Blessed Orc’s waist, gradually melting and warping it.
Molting scaled pieces fell to the ground, blistering on the ground while his screams intensify, the flames escaping beyond the protective confines of the armor, burning his dark, scaled flesh entering its body. His draconic, molten gold like eyes started to liquify like butter left out in the sun, his body under the armor that glowed in a igneous light erupted in flames, prompting even the Minotaur construct to let go of him.
The Blessed of the Nightscale fell unceremoniously to the ground like a wet doll, his body dispersing into the air, just like the hope of the remaining Dhau-Íssz warriors and necromancers still fighting, as the flames finally feel satisfied, leaving behind only his melted down scaled armor and the charred ivory blade of his sword.
The echoing chorus of weapons clashings, spells hurling and culminating in a thunderous roar gradually decreases, a blessed silence settles on the ruined fortress with jagged obsidian and golden felled walls, reaching four meters at least.
The courtyard itself littered with macabre corpses bathed in blood and chunks of bones, meat. The surrounding gradually darken as the Minotaur Construct slowly moves to the middle, raising its arms in the air. A light blue light forms around them, which then gradually darkens as its edges twirl into tendrils, reaching into each motionless corpse laying around It, piercing into their chests violently, tethering the souls to will of the Nameless, depriving them off the joys or agonies of the Beyond.
For the naked eye, the pitch black tendrils and the aura they grew out from dissipate into nothingness as the dead eyes turn to dust, replaced by the swallowing dark light tainting their bound souls. The space fills with the macabre sounds of the undead rising, silently staring and waiting for their Master’s orders.