The streets of Asyhneaeas were buzzing with the noise of life once again. Yells echoed as orders traversed between the various members of the Dhau-Íssz while they were preparing for the long march against the former border city of the dark elven kingdom below the mountain. Lowly undead help out carrying the heavy supplies as they necromancers order them. These undead are mostly weak skeletons or zombies who have only received a small amount of necrotic energy from their master.
With how apparent it became that their enemy is capable of taking control over, or more precisely can exert their will over others, Griggorn and the close aides of his decided to send the more battle capable to the furthest cities to guard those points from possible dark elven or deep dwarven invaders. While they were not a hundred percent sure that either allied themselves with the enemy, they were aware of the Nameless’s undead that settled down at the former dark elven haven.
Griggorn regretted in this moment not attacking the haven earlier, forcing the remains of his people, and his love Acniss under the protection of the Nightscale. While he is not fully on with the dragon, especially because he still has no idea what he seeks at the heart of the mountain. Almost two centuries passed since the dragon nested himself down there, making him question what goal does he have that needed the destruction of two kingdoms and to shut the Gods out of this realm.
At one point he was thinking maybe it is for some mass death ritual that requires a certain amount of death, but then he quickly realized how foolish of a thought it was. If that would be the case, why level two kingdom to ashes? After so many decades of nothing happening besides the Horde settling down, Griggorn joining and rising to the second highest rank after the Pentarch himself.
Adding on top of that the tales he heard from the slaves both gathered by the dark elves and the Dhau-Íssz painted the elder dragon in a much darker light compared to how he is a benevolent God to the Horde. Not counting the Dhau-Íssz themselves who were following after his rampage in the south, raising and maintaining the hordes of undead. One thing did become clear to him regarding the Nightscale. He has a vendetta against the Gods and their more religious servants.
“If I may ask, shouldn’t it be a good time to deploy some of our force against the dark elves?” His train of thoughts breaks when Eriro another turncoat of the fallen kingdom of theirs asks after telling two Trolls to not put their supply crates full with heavy weapons and armour pieces atop the buildings.
“No, better to focus on the necromancer first. When their undead will be ours, then we gain those, we attack them.” Griggorn says while stopping to let two ogres clad in the standard bone armor of the Dhau-Íssz pass by. “I see.” Eriro mumbles as her soft face takes on a pondering complexion.
“What about the Dhaugrians?” She asks as she spots a deep dwarven Dhau-Íssz warrior continue her patrol along the busy street.
“Well, they strangely behaved, we’ll leave them be until the Nightscale wishes to bring them under his control.” He continues on while remembering the past story his teacher told him about the Dhaugrians, once devoted to both the Aesir and Vanir, even Hephaustus found worshippers amongst them in the past. Then a few decades before the Nightscale’s arrival, all the shrines and altars dedicated to them were demolished by the order of their King and Queen. For a few years he though they were somehow got under the influence of the Nightscale, but during one of his visits, seeking their aid for his people, he spotted those new shrines of indescribable shapes took the place of the old. After seeing the icy madness in their eyes as they greeted him like they knew him, and talking about some song they hear while dreaming he gave up on them, realizing they must have become the victim of some aberration. Like the demons and devils, they too noticed the Gods waning influence in this world, a good opportunity to extend their influence.
At the gate, the long line of guards greets the two with bows and hitting their free hands onto their scaled chest plates as the two passes by. Though before stepping out, Griggorn helds his left arm out and Erori after a bit of hesitation, grabs it. The two disappear into thin air in a twirling of reality before they reappear atop the ravaged walls.
“Is this all?” The two of them stood atop, gazing down at the sprawling encampment below, where thousands upon thousands of Dhau-Íssz members, humans, dark elves, dwarves and orcs mixed with the less intelligent, but more destructive, hungry for war races like trolls, ogres and goblins waiting for the signal to march.
“There are still a few bands patrolling, but they will join us along the road.” Erori says as she flips her hood back, letting the Upper Stratum’s air blow her long silvery hair, the scales at the edges of her face shining as the cold lights shine upon them.
“How many Blessed remains.” He asks while walks beside him to the rails. “There is at least ten here, and four more amongst the bands.” She adds while her soft hand touches the cold, crumbling rails.
“If you allow me to say it, I feel this is a bit overkill, isn’t it?” She asks while staring into his eyes with an affectionate look.
“Maybe, but the quicker we rid off this problem, the better.” He says while grabbing onto her shoulders, teleporting away with her.
**
The doors click close, the sound travelling through the long corridors, spreading in all directions thanks to the various turns and twists. The gaze inviting form of Acniss remains still between two Graven Knights silently acting as her bodyguards, towering even her. Her eyes gleaming in the lights like the world’s most refined rubies dash from one gazing dark elf to another. Each veiling their lust well under cold, motionless complexions but they can’t fool her. She is well conscious of her looks, how no man or woman can resist the urge to take her for themselves.
And while usually she enjoys this, this time she finds it annoying. She has the urge to snap their heads off like a twig just for taking a short peek. But she calms herself down, reminding her that her own kin are not so expendable, especially in these times. That she still needs them when they will rebuild their kingdom.
Then she moves on, the two Graven Knights following after her without uttering a word from behind their helmets with a skull shape, their light blue eyes pulsing from behind the two holes for eyes.
“Visited your parents?” After reaching the twirling stairs connecting all the levels, she runs into Cacmieh who asks in his typical monotone, cold voice. Yet his eyes tell of fatigue, not of the body but the soul.
“Yes, and you them I assume.” Cacmieh replies only with a silent nod. “Did they offered any insight on these, what did she called them?
“Arnyak. And yes and no.” He joins beside her as they climb the stairs slowly, the dark elves coming down standing out of their way, while lightly bowing.
“What does that even mean?” She asks with an annoyed tone, wanting to just hear a simple answer from the successor of Griggorn.
“If you have time, come with me.” After a bit of silence, Cacmieh sighs and instead of starting a somewhat long explanation, he invites her to his residence. “Aivha and one of those are waiting there.”
After a bit of hesitation Acniss follows after him, the four traverse through the vast system passing by the onlookers whose gazes are filled with either envy or jealousy aimed at both. The two quickly spot Aivha in her magus robes that flow down on her body, the dark purplish soft material glistening under the light. Meanwhile the Arnyak appears as a dark, tall silhouette, almost like a wound in the fabric of reality with a contrasting ivory armor forged around it.
Aivha bows elegantly, greeting Acniss with respect. Acniss reciprocates the gesture with a motherly smile, expected from the rulers of their race, not out of kindness but more to plant a falsehood of it in their subjects. Even if they act suspicious.
“Are they necessary?” Cacmieh asks as they enter his spacious residence, once an empty crypt that has been granted to him in light of his achievements as a possible successor of Griggorn as Arch-Magus a few years before the arrival of the Deadfire. “You know I’m more than capable.” He adds while standing in the way, looking up at the much taller Acniss.
“I’m sure of that, but you know how worrywart are they.” She says and with a sigh Cacmieh lets her and the two Graven Knights in, followed by Aivha and the Arnyak. Acniss snaps her fingers and with a cold stare, orders the two to stand guard at the entrance while she settles in. She picks one of the most opulent furniture, a settee with dark reddish silken texture and golden trims and sits down while crossing her bewitching lithe legs as long skirt part of her dress parts to the right.
“So once again, while I don’t question their combat prowess, what makes these special, worthy of consideration?” She asks in a rather measured tone while pointing her eyes at the Arnyak.
Without acknowledging her question, Cacmieh turns to the Arnyak and raises his arm pointing at the circle in the middle of his residence, a runic circle engraved into the floor. The Arnyak remains still, as if its unsure what to do, whether it is a trap or not. Its hooded head constantly swirling seemingly remains still, while in reality it turns for confirmation to Aivha. The dark elven girl nods softly, only noticed by Acniss who smiles at it faintly.
It slowly moves, almost gliding across the space and into the circle where it stops and rotates around, creating a blurred aura around its form. The echoing voice of Cacmieh fills the room as he starts chanting in the incomprehensible language of magic as he holds his right arm out, towards the Arnyak. The circle under its feet lights up in a strange mixture of colors that its body swallows quickly.
The chanting intensifies, his usually leveled complexion changes to one where his soft dark skin wrinkles, sweat flows down from his temples and the top of his shaved head. The abyssal scar like runes lit up in their menacing lights, a weird hunger, the rage of failure and a feeling of abandonment mixes within him as he calls upon the aid of the Triumvirate. A weakly scorching wind enters his residence, flapping the buttoned down skin tight collars of Aivha and Acniss while their skins are assaulted by the irritating heat.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Dense mist of a scorching red, putrid green and a gloomy dark hue rises from cracks on the floor, wrapping around the Arnyak, caressing its ivory exoskeleton before invading its silhouette like body. As the scrying ritual happens, it remains still unbothered by the three invading its being to inspect its secrets.
“Are you done?” Acniss asks after the abyssal wind calms down with a bored look and tone. Cacmieh raises his left hand, signaling with his ring finger to her to keep silent while they finish prying through the Arnyak. She clicks her tongue while scratching her dark nails on the arms of the soft seating.
Then thinking “Finally” runes appear at various points around the Arnyak. A light blue rune, a spherical line with even more swirling ones inside connecting to a central one separating the interior into two in front of the gaping darkness of its hooded head. Hundreds of the same circling around its body, runes that seem to be collections of multiple minor runes which in separation can mean multiple things associated with the one they mean together. Some appearing serpentine, others like hourglasses or almost resembling bats. As she recalls from Griggorn’s explanation once, magical runes of the major Aspects are usually made up of their minors, and they even share some of the minor runes amongst each other. The only exception to this being Disorder that follows the abyssal language’s runes.
“Interesting.” She rakes her brain, trying to see if there is anything truly fascinating. She spent quite a lot of her time with Griggorn when he experimented with dead slaves, inscribing bindings into their soul as a way to replace them with undead. While she thought it was a good idea, undead do lacked the drive to rebel against their masters, or even at the best case just murder them. But as usual Griggorn always failed to count in the noble factor. Undead offer little to those whose darkest desires need satiating, and there is many like those in the upper echelons, even in the lower too.
“What is it?” She asks as she decides she’ll have time to relive old memories later.
“Do you still have time for the longer explanation?” Cacmieh turns to her and asks in a voice that seems to carry a demonic echo with it.
“Just cut the unnecessary things out.” She says her body rising with swiftness and grace out from the seating, quickly fixing her posture as she circles around the Arnyak like a hungering shark around its victim. Her eyes decoding all the runes, recalling her old friend’s voice explaining those to her in the distant past, quickly recognizing the mixture of death and mind aspects that make up the undead in front of her.
“Truly interesting!” Cacmieh says with a slight crackling as he wipes the sweat off of his forehead.
“In what way?” Acniss asks while trying to see what he finds so fascinating about an undead that seems no more interesting to her than the regular wraith or shade.
“Look above this.” Cacmieh points his middle finger at the magical rune of mind then slowly moves it down at the others surrounding the Arnyak. Then she notices the strange outline around the runes, like a frame, that adds a new meaning to the spell usually cursing and binding the two grafted souls. Around the mind it appears as dark as its shifting body, around the exoskeleton it takes on the ivory color of the exoskeleton like armor.
“You see it now too.” He says in his monotone voice while his lips curve into a victorious smile of a child who just solved the hardest puzzle of their life after days, months of trying. “Those… frames do they change them drastically?” Acniss asks still not grasping what’s the source of his joy.
“Those frames are runes.” He speaks. “Runes of some undiscovered Aspect that seems to be a glue on top of being adding a new effect to the spell. Their nature being different was clear as day when they arrived. Necrotic energies appear as a light bluish color carrying the coldness of the grave, but these are black as the starless sky bending, breaking the light while possessing a creeping cold that reaches down the soul, but you are aware of that yourself too.” He rambles with a quarter of madness reflected in his eyes.
“But what is this Aspect? That is what I have been asking myself ever since. At first, I searched through our oldest tomes that he saved, but there was nothing in them that would come close to this. Then I sought their counsel, and while he found it familiar, he still has no idea what this Aspect is.” He continues on while walking around the room, his eyes now fixated on the runes.
“Now you understand it too.” Aivha says with a gloating smile on her face. “What does he understand?” Acniss asks with a distrustful complexion.
“From both all perspectives of an Arch-Magus, I can say with certainty, not allying with Him would be a grave mistake.” He stops staring into his protégé’s eyes then turns to Acniss saying with a calm voice veiling his excitement.
“This thing… Arnyak is not an undead… at least according to our definition of one.” He walks to his table, flipping a tome open with skeletal frames. “As you probably know, undead that is raised slowly accumulate necrotic energies on top of what is used, through which they slowly find a way to break free and become an entity of Death.” He takes a deep breath and looks into her eyes as he adds.
“Just like you.” She says with a cold voice as she looks at Cacmieh with his runic scars pulsing with a hellish glow, his flesh slowly taking on a new darker color and infernal texture around the edges of the slim cavities. “But still, what makes them, not an actual undead? I mean you said its two souls combined.” She continues as Cacmieh remains silent, turning to Aivha for a moment.
“It is made through Death magic, but instead of just chaining them, the third layer of runes allow their souls to be grafted, tethered together in a harmonious unity so to speak.” She adds while Cacmieh tries to collect his thoughts.
“You know of Flesh Sculpting through which undead constructs are made?” He asks after finding a good way to convey it to Acniss. “Yes.” She replies with a firm voice.”
“You see, in the past the second Arch-Magus experimented with creating something similar, but instead of using the flesh he opted for the soul. I don’t have to point out that he failed, even though at first, he used twins in his experiment because of their matching soul length.” He continues while staring at the Arnyak.
“So, this unknown Aspect allows to graft souls?” Acniss asks while sliding her right hand along the runes slowly and carefully.
“Yes, in a sense, but this is only the tip of the iceberg.” Cacmieh quickly adds while ending the scrying and calming down. “As I said, this Arnyak is not an undead, or for now I’ll refer to it as more than an undead.”
“Then what it is?” Acniss asks as she gets impatient at the chaotic explanation.
“As I said, my predecessor combined twins with no success, this creature is a combination of two completely different souls not related in any way other then being created by the Maker. Yet they remain calm, while the twins were driven to madness, lashing out and killing two of his disciples after the procedure. But this Arnyak moves, acts and fights as if it has been created, not enforced, mutated or even mind controlled.” He walks to his table and picks up his pipe, starting to fill it with Dohmno leaves, a kind of tobacco that soothes the mind gradually.
“So, it has been rewritten from the foundations.” Acniss says while walking back to the entrance door to evade the nostril burning cloud of smoke puffed out by Cacmieh. “Yes, precisely.” He says after receiving confirmation from Aivha.
“But it this new Aspect can offer so much more, but for that we need him. That is why I have to rephrase what I said earlier. If we ally with him, our Kingdom won’t just rise, but may reach greater heights that you and I could ever imagine.” Acniss notices the small change in his eyes, tone. The old Cacmieh who lost all hope after replacing Griggorn, who ended up similarly, came back as if realizing that through this way their people could be free from their contract binding them to the Triumvirate.
“We’ll see. Things definitely became more complicated.” She says while trying to organize all these new information added on top of the rest.
“A large force is gathered around the capital.” Then the door quickly opens revealing a young dark elven man who just entered his life cycle where he gained his more harsh, masculine features including a soft, trimmed beard. After a moment of silence, regaining his breath he reports.
**
The enormous gates of obsidian loomed over Ferthur who appeared as a bright star in the dim scenery of the Upper Stratum. For the first time in his infernal existence, he felt hesitant entering, facing the one he entered into a contract into. Then after mustering enough willpower, he pushed the gate open and entered into the chamber where the Nameless awaited for him, four armored constructs standing in silence, each oozing presence that screamed they could easily send him back to the Abyss if he tried anything.
“Are you still afraid?” The Nameless asked, his warped voice echoing through the chambers, carrying an otherworldly cold that creeped into even Ferthur’s infernal soul. “I would never be towards ye!” He quickly exclaims in a calm, collected tone while lightly bowing in his direction.
“I/we see. Are you done with them?” The Nameless walks down the three steps of the small stair, sitting down and locking his hands together as if praying. His head looks up at the devil and tilts slightly as he asks.
“Yes, adding the essence of Disorder onto them at first proved difficult, but in the end, I think I achieved what ye sought of me.” Ferthur says, his voice smooth as honey while answering as the fear he felt moments ago passes, recognizing finally that the Nameless has no harmful intention towards him. “Thank you, I truly appreciate it.”
“Is there anything else?” A few moments of silence fall onto the chamber, Ferthur breaks the silence still wishing to return to his realm, a rarity amongst his kind as they prefer to remain in the mortal realm. “I/we am/are aware of you sensing our true nature.” The Nameless shatters his anticipations of return in a single sentence.
“So, we have two options here.” He stops then continues after staring into Ferthur radiant eyes. “I/we either take care of you here… right now or we alter the deal, one that will be generous to you, I/we can guarantee that.” He slowly stands up and start walking. His androgynous face slowly starts malforming into a more skeletal one, crown like jagged dagger like shapes stretching his ivory skin slightly on the top. His eyes fall in and fill with darkness, surrounding the two silvery pearls. With each letter, with each step he grows in height, Ferthur staring at him with fear on his blinding white furred dear head.
The surroundings gradually darken till the two stands in front of each other, Ferthur on his knees facing up in the void. His mocking radiating form changes into his more hideous, infernal one as the fear of not having enough time he once escaped from returns.
Then as quickly as he felt the dread appear, it dissipates with the scenery changing. He no longer kneels, but stands proudly as he watches himself from outside his form. A form much too different from his, resembling his old self before he the abyssal corruption turned him. Now his infernal skin had the texture of the finest silk, but with subtle hint of scales that shimmered in the infernal light. Yet when touching it, it was hard and warm. His horns, towering and sharp, curved menacingly towards the sky while they were dark as the night, reflecting a wicked gleam that would make even the first of the Fallens deeply envious.
Six large feathered wings, a deep black that allures, captivates any who set their eyes on them, adorned with the highest-grade golden ornaments reflecting the abyssal sun rays. His legs covered in soft dark fur, his lost most prized treasure back in its place and even more glorious than it once was hidden under a long kilt with a loincloth that flaps in the warm air of the Abyss Below. His hoof much thicker, shimmering dark with golden frames on the bottom edges.
Then other demons and devils started appearing around him, some slowly caressing his new form with a passionate look on their face. He sensed each and everyone of their affection towards him and to each other, filling him with a sense of satisfaction as his dream finally came true.
Then the scene right in front of him fades just as she notices Her, facing the towering Nameless with his chest exposed in the frames of his robe, dark veins emitting a black light scorching his infernal skin with a coldness. He lifts both of his arms up waiting for Ferthur to take one.
“Do you accept my/our offer?” The Nameless asks now in a much more soothing voice of woman, with soft warped echoes of others. “I do!” Ferthur answers without hesitation, grabbing his left hand as the details of the ruined chamber return with the Nameless facing him with the beam of a confidant.