“I promise that. As the soon-to-be Arch-Magus, I’ll free our people from the contract so that we can take our place amongst our kin.” The dark elven boy with a bright smile says, his voice filled with hope and overconfidence after demonstrating his first spell, creating an astral image of a stallion knows as a hippocampus after training to control the mana flowing both within and out his body. How foolish she thought even back then. Still, it was a foolishness that filled her with hope and a strange warmness that her parents called love. She wasn’t sure of that.
At the end of the day, Griggorn was somewhat more than the others helping her fulfill her ambitions to reach the top one day. With him she could genuinely smile, and for years that dream of theirs seemed to be within their grasp. At least until the arrival of the cursed dragon who torched their kingdom into a pile of rubbles before disappearing in the deep.
“I believe it when I see it.” Acniss said back then with a certain air of elegance she possessed even back then, a gift of her family. But these words were enough for the young Griggorn to be set on a path of self-destruction he wasn’t aware of yet at the time.
The short memory is broken when the last button on her flamboyant purplish black dress with boasting large collars that curved out from the shoulders into a gaping maw of faded gold that glistened under the light of magical stones blanketing her chamber in a warm light. She clicks her tongue in annoyance at her servant’s mistake, then she looks at the servant girl with her cold ruby red eyes.
She appears no older than sixty, blessed with smooth white hair that glows even in the dark, a contrasting black skin and violet eyes filled with dread. This girl is a somewhat recent addition to her entourage, hand selected by herself. While her beauty overshadows the girl’s, she still felt a bit of pity as the servant started to apologize and beg for her life while her throat cave into itself until her soft skin started to tear exposing the dark muscles that quickly followed in the same fate. Then the bones started to crack until they shattered into a thousand pieces, scattering all over the chamber as her head separated from her body in the span of a minute.
The dread frozen on her face for all eternity as it bounced once on the soft cushions laid out in what was once the mausoleum of one of Acniss’s ancestor. “Cleaning.” She said the simple word with an authoritative tone to the rest of the servants surrounding her in skimpy dresses, with cold uncaring looks on their faces. One of them conjured tendrils of water that swirled around Acniss’s feet, gradually growing to match her height, cleaning off the gore that tainted her majestic body clad in the dress while another fixed the last button on her dress.
“Clean this up.” After she took one last look at her body in the mirror, she snapped her fingers and two Graven Knights entered the room, while she ordered the servants to clean up the mess she made. “Let’s not make them wait any longer.” She murmured as she walked through the corridor, heading to the area that has been accommodated by the Warrior caste where they train endlessly since their exile to this labyrinthian haven.
Now it will be the place where they can witness the prowess of the Arnyak, to see if these strange undead are as strong as the young protégé of Cacmieh claims them to be. The weird heavy feeling within Acniss subsides, slowly replaced with one she knows well, excitement.
**
The sound of the crowd was a constant hum shivering the large gates in front of him inside the dimly lit antechamber. Yet he could still hear his own breath while holding his helmet resembling the skull of a devilish being with curving sharp horns made of mythrinite dyed dark. His large claymore stuck in the ground so deep that anyone other than him would find it impossible to free it from its earthly binds while the infernal runes etched into its metallic surface glowed with a warm light even as he left it untouched.
After a week since the arrival of the strange undead that now acts as a secondary line of defense in front of the hidden entrance, Zoklaeth convinced his fellows to test the power of the Arnyak, to see if these undead are strong enough for them to consider an alliance with this nameless necromancer Cacmieh’s protégé talked about, almost too fervently for Zoklaeth’s taste.
While Acniss and Cacmieh may care about the magical prowess of this necromancer, or the numbers he controls when they calculate if it is a worthy alliance that may result in the rise of their fallen kingdom, or if its just another necromancer that found some ancient tome or got fooled by a demon who will meet their untimely death at the hands of the Traitor.
None of this mattered to Zoklaeth. For him the only thing that really mattered is how strong these undead are. To him a minion’s strength reflected the power of their master. If the strongest of these undead, the so called Arnyak proved strong enough that in a duel they reach a stalemate, Zoklaeth would advocate for the alliance. And in the worst case, if he cuts one down easily, then he goes along with the other two’s plan of using the necromancer to gain the favor of the Deadfire.
As he stood a few meters from the gate, a strange feeling of unease crept up on him, a shadow that loomed over his bulky shoulders, suffocating the thoughts of victory. Just like the other two, he is already aware of the Nameless’s loss at their former capital through the reports of Cacmieh’s spies that stalk the Upper Stratum, making Aivha look a bubbling idiot who remained ever so confident in her new master and his minions. While she is partially wrong in his eyes, they still managed to take down multiple fortresses and two other smaller cities close to the haven. In his eyes, all those Tainted are just small fries who got a bit of power, nothing more, nothing that he could not cut down easily himself.
Yet she remained adamant about her weird loyalty to this necromancer, most likely brainwashed by him as Cacmieh said during their last meeting where they came up with the idea of using the Nameless.
“But why this unease?” He asks to himself in a soft whisper with aggressive undertones as the anger swells up in him not understanding the why. Then as the gates open the cacophony of the crowd intensifies. Zoklaeth grabs his claymore and lifts it out from the ground with a simple move before he walks out to the cheering of the crowd.
He raises his fist and claymore in the air, the cheering remains as intensive as was when he stepped out, and as he circles, he notices the gazes all concentrate on the magnificent figure of Acniss standing on the balcony with a capturing smile. He snorts, but then the thought of presenting the head of the necromancer to the Deadfire, followed by him and Acniss sitting side by side on the throne calms him down, turning the burning rage into a tender warmness.
At the groaning of the gates opposite to him, Zoklaeth turned around with an annoyed look, but then he quickly remembered that he still has to beat this opponent. At first, he only saw the whiteness in the shadows, but then with each heavy step as if the ivory exoskeleton like armor weighted tons, the swirling shadowy figure of the Arnyak slowly got drawn out in to the reality in front.
The Arnyak moved with a certain air of dread that sent chills down to his soul, calming his anger a bit while it felt like his lush white beard started to frost in the presence of it. It’s head, if it had one to begin with, cloaked under pitch blackness that hummed with each step he took forward, felt like being fixated on him.
It’s left arm slowly shifted into a straightened position with its hand holding on a nonexistent guard before the ivory flesh grew out from the vambrace, shaping into one with a long blade made of the same darkness that constituted its body. Similar runes appeared on its shifting surface that swallowed the light, its sharpened edges blurring the world around it while he cut the air as if the Arnyak was testing out the weight of the weapon he just made. The he lifted the sword in front of him, its long blade disappearing as it melded into its head.
Zoklaeth slowly lifts his helmet over his head, the enchantments inscribed into it resonating to his soul, expanding his field of vision while seeing things in greater detail. The ivory exoskeleton appearing more metallic than bony, the ground harsher and colder under their feet, the shifting of the darkness appearing more as the ever-consuming abyss it is with faint outlines of something that is the amalgamation of an orc and a lupine beast’s head draped under a soft hood of mass shadow. He holds his claymore in his right hand, its tip scraping the hard ground as it lit up in flames of hellfire.
He turns back looking up at Acniss who with a graceful nod initiates the duel before disappearing in the balcony. The crowd’s cheers intensify after going almost silent as her seductive figure disappears from their vision, finally turning their attention to what is about to go down in the arena as Zoklaeth firmly positions himself into a battle stance.
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The two combatants circled each other warily while the crowd cheers intensified, screaming to start already, practically ordering Zoklaeth to tear the Arnyak apart. His grip tightened around the guard of his claymore while the Arnyak remained seemingly calm, uninterested. The light of the ceiling seemed harsh, casting his long shadow across the ground.
Then a deep bellowing signaled him taking the initiative, the anger that was snuffed out by the eerie cold only he felt reignited within him as he took his tenth side step. Sparks fly in all direction, flames extinguishing, turning into foul smoke as his claymore hits the ground as the Arnyak evades his attack in an unfitting bestial manner instead of parrying it with its ethereal blade. The hellish flames snuff out for a moment around Zoklaeth’s blade before quickly reigniting as he swings it quickly following after the Arnyak.
This time it parries the vertical swing, a surprised look appears on Zoklaeth’s face hidden under the helmet as the blade that could easily cut through even Mythrinite gets stopped by the ethereal mass of shadows, and gets stuck as if an axe that got stuck in the thick hull of a tree. Then he feels the icy touch of the Arnyak grabbing onto his throat while he tried to dislodge the claymore with one pull.
The Arnyak lifts him up above its head, then throws him against the wall several meters from them. The relativaly short body of Zoklaeth, compared to his opponents, tears through the air and with thunderous echo slams in the wall creating a small, flat crater around his body before he fells down to the ground. Blood flows out from his mouth, through his helmet’s mouth while he slowly gets up.
As his attention is focused on the ground, his whole being boiling, he looks towards the Arnyak as he hears the scratching of blade on the ground as his claymore is thrown at him by it. He picks it up while keeping his eyes fixated on the Arnyak. Then the earth quakes with each step he takes during his rush, screaming like a maddened beast. His speed gradually picks up, becoming a blurred image to all those watching in silence.
As their blades are about to meet, Zoklaeth’s muscles loosen as the claymore is redirected mid strike at the waist instead of aiming at the hood veiled neck. But it stops mid air once more, as if someone grabbed onto it. He quickly dodges this time as he sees the blade of shadows striking down at him, hearing and seeing the small destruction it brought upon the floor as it landed.
From a safe distance he quells his burning anger, trying to calculate a way to get his claymore back that seemingly hovers in the air before falling to the ground. This time however his opponent instead of sliding it towards him, raises his right foot before slamming it to the floor. As it lands silently, the world starts to spin as if it created a small earth quake, making him lose his balance.
With flailing arms, he falls backwards toward the ground, his anger rising to even bigger heights as it mixes with the embarrassment, already imagining the laughter of the crowd before he meets his demise. The Arnyak disappears into burst of shadows, then reappears in his vision, his conjured sword high in the air, approaching him with great velocity.
Laying on the ground, he closes his eyes preparing to face his mixed ancestors in whatever afterlife awaits him. Fleeting moments pass, but the cold, harsh pain he always imagined would soothe his soul never arrives, yet there’s this icy sensation in his soul, mind and body paired with a faint sound, as if someone was humming in the distance a sweet note that makes him smile.
As he opens his eyes, the scenery of the swirling mass of shadows imitating his claymore’s blade dissipate, the ivory guard shatters into nothingness and the Arnyak holding his arm out to help him stand up. With a bit of hesitation, he grabs onto it and gets up in a mixture of cheers and scoffs before Acniss appears on the balcony silencing the crowd with her beauty.
“That was quick and somewhat entertaining.” Acniss says as she walks back to her seating.
“And informative too.” Cacmieh adds while thinking, adding the information he gathered from the battle. “An interesting specimen if I may add. A wraith if I’m correct.” He evaluates the whole duel once more in his mind, adding what he knows about Wraiths, souls of the dead shackled to the mortal plane by either a curse or by the will of a necromancer. In all cases a high amount of necrotic energies twist the soul into a vile being filled with nothing but a hunger for death, possessing abilities that seemed familiar to that ones shown by the Arnyak. While it seemed like teleportation, Cacmieh summarizes that like wraiths, Arnyak can shift between the material and the ethereal plane at will, making them practically invincible against the inexperienced. While his thoughts flow like a river, he turns slowly to Aivha for confirmation.
“You could say, but in actuality they are different. If my understanding of them is correct, unlike wraiths, the Arnyak possess two egos. One focused on physical prowess, the other on magical.” She says with a somewhat arrogant tone as she stares right into the arena where the two contestants leave the area.
“Interesting.” Cacmieh says with a straight face veiling the excitement within him that this information means for future studies into the arts of necromancy.
“Its all well and good. But does it truly prove that this necromancer is strong enough to face not just Griggorn but the dragon too? What about the other lesser undead of his?” Acniss asks while snapping her fingers, two servants of her entering with a tray with four glasses and a jug filled with a dark beverage with a sweet scent matching its taste.
“The likely hood of that risen high. Even if those two are the strongest, they are proof enough. Merging two souls together while maintaining their respective egos under control is a challenge even to most adept necromancers, even to me.” Cacmieh says cutting in before Aivha could utter a single word while lifting two filled cups up in the air towards himself and Aivha.
“And if there is an entity in play, they have to be on par with the Deadfire.” He adds while moistening his throat.
“That will suffice. For now, I suppose.” Acniss says while enjoying her drink, the two servants behind her throne sighing internally.
Cacmieh stands up first signaling with his eyes to Aivha to follow after him as they leave Acniss alone waiting for the next games to begin. “I wonder, will you regret your choices?” She mumbles, her eyes fixated on her reflection on the smooth surface of the drink before the gates groaning brings her attention back.
**
The gates howl as they slowly open, revealing a group of undead craftsmen with empty stares. Two of the dwarven holding the handles of the large cart filled with heaps of glistening dark materials with metallic surface. Ferthur instantly recognizes the material as Stahlaar, an ore specifically invented by Griggorn himself. A magically improved Dhaugrite, the very stone that makes up the lowest layers of the mountain itself, drenched in deathly energies since long before the first settlers.
In his first attempt, he desired to tailor it for the dark elven warriors, adding warding enchantments to the processed Dhaugrite that kept the necrotic energies at bay. This ended in failure, with most of the subjects ended up as pile of corroded ash with the first iteration of Stahlaar armor remaining intact. This fact helped with further studies and improvements, with each iteration the necrotic energies slowed down on the consumption of the wearers, but still wasn’t perfect. In the last iteration he worked on before the arrival of the Deadfire, the negative effects slowed down considerably with the last wearer being their fallen King who died challenging the Deadfire foolishly.
“I wonder why never added this to his undead?” Ferthur asks himself while watching the undead pull the cart into the middle. They slowly pick down pieces, grafting it onto the corpses laying silent on the cold boards one by one. With each piece, darkness creeps up the edges, sewing it tenderly to the still fresh flesh. The flesh slowly alters to an even darker tone, resembling ample sinewed shadows.
“Such is the nature of the dark elves, forever evolving in every conceivable way they can imagine.” The Nameless spoke in a deep and warped voice, an ominous, mournful tone that sends shivers down the animus of Ferthur, instilling the fear of casualty within his infernal being, while he stares at the Nameless facing him with a stoic, impassive expression.
“So, tell, what is ye plan with all of them?” Ferthur asks with his voice shaking a bit as he is faced with the aura of the Nameless permeating the whole underground area.
“A surprise for him.” He adds while standing over one of the corpses that lost of its features, pieces of Stahlaar plates grafted into its chest, head and limbs that are shaped to resemble claws. A smile curls onto his lips, startling the devil who after spending at least two weeks or maybe more witnesses the first complexion change of his.
“I/we hope it will bring his memories back of the olden days.” He adds while straightening his posture, the smile fading away erased by the flowing memories that bring pain with them.
Then the Nameless walks towards the elevated gate opposite to the entrance, leading into the former laboratory of Griggorn still filled with some of the tomes he had written before the fall of their kingdom. Ferthur remained in the air, watching his new host to this realm walk into the laboratory, hesitant to follow or not. The answer came shortly as the high gate closed behind him.
“Do not be afraid little ones.” He walks to the large stone table in the middle of the laboratory, a constantly phasing mass of darkness faintly resembling a weird amalgamation of a dwarf, an orc and an elf lays on it, shrieking in silence. The Nameless bends down and says with the warmth of fatherly love that seems to stop the constant phasing while an unnatural coldness sniffs the lights out.
Tendrils reached out from the ground around the edges like ghostly fingers made of a shadowy mist, coiling like serpents as they attached themselves to the cold obsidian seemingly melding into it. They slithered they way up, wrapping around the ghostly apparition while, slowly sculpting it a new ethereal body.
As all these went down, he watched in silence, witnessing the rebirth of it into a more powerful form while whispering promises of vengeance and purpose into its nonexistent ears. Then he lifts his attention up, staring into the nothingness. “You’ve done well my Myrmidon! Those two will suffice.”