“Don’t get close to the flames.” Zhug screams at the Dhau-Íssz hurrying to put out the flames quickly consuming one tent, then move on to another spreading in a rapid velocity as if it’s possessing a mind of its own. The few whose ears his voice reach too late become victims of lashing tendrils of the black flames similar to their God’s. Just the tip of the raging whips is enough for their bodies to be quickly engulfed, their flesh quickly decaying as their bodies hit the ground, then raise up groaning.
“Hurry mages, those who can keep a greater distance from it, my warriors protect them with your very lives! Death is with us today!” He orders the few mages of the Dhau-Íssz, they nod in agreement then after conversing they start assaulting the flames with conjured water, combining it with a necrotic inscription. They try to siphon the negative matter, not recognizing its nature in time with many quickly filling their bodies and soul with it. The cold emptiness gnaws at the being as they slowly turn into fresh undead.
“Cut them down.” Zhug noticing this while finishing off a burning undead ogre yells at the warriors near the undead Dhau-Íssz mages who change their targets, liquid javelin quickly hardening into ice, heading towards the back of their former clans-kin. Before the second hail fire could propel at them, the nearby warriors turn around quickly cutting their heads off then slicing their bodies in two vertically for good measures.
“You and you, come with me.” He cuts down two more burning Dhau-Íssz undead locked in a duel with two of his warriors, in a blink of an eye. Four more rush at the three of them, quickly meeting a similar fate to the previous two. As he looks up, his draconic eyes spot the Nameless a few hundred meters in the distance, the whiteness of his skin making him easily noticeable to the blessed orc’s eyes. He orders the two follow him as he decides to cut down the head of the snake, to end this battle faster so they lose less of their friends and families.
As they approach the Nameless’s position with a fast pace, cutting down any undead in their path, old memories start flooding his mind. The first time he participated in a battle was with his old clan, fighting against the Empire’s force sent to exterminate their clan living in the centre of the continent. He remembers tasting the blood of a high elf knight clad in their fancy golden alabaster armour that seemed ripple with every graceful movement the elf made was a beautiful sight, even though he lost one of his eyes to her blade, before he managed to sever her head with his crude axe.
“Run you fool!” He remembers his father mowing down the high elves as they escaped into the night, their golden blood refining their alabaster, hardened skin and black armour melding into the darkness. He remembers the arrows flying into his siblings’ and parents’ bodies ending their existence in a mere second, their corpses serving as his means of survival. He recalls the exhilarating feeling of near death that came over him while covered, as the elves stood over him then leave while their sorcerers burned up their small village.
The same feeling of nearing Death came over him, a wide grin painted across under his helmet as the dark ichor that is their blood paints his face even darker. His long blade sliced through air and undead like a bolt of lightning, leaving trails of motion behind for a millisecond only he could witness thanks to the blessing of the Nightscale.
He still recalls the sharp, cold touch of His God’s claw, four times the size of his head. The surge of power made him drunk in that moment, feeling the world around them slow down was just as exciting as having the sense that one could easily fold Mythrinite in their palms, crush it into metallic dust.
The same power that he honed through the past three decades since he joined and ranked up amongst the Dhau-Íssz. The power that helps him heave his large battle axe with one hand that would otherwise need to be held by two firm hands for the average warrior. Its once snow silvery blade was now tainted with the pitch-black blood of the undead as they get closer and closer to the Nameless, reaching the end of the camp close to that peak resembling the enormous fang of a dragon.
He is so close to him that now Zhug can make out his androgynous face hidden under the large hood similar to Griggorn’s. A beautiful face that lacks any emotion, an impartial coldness forever frozen onto it. The feeling of staring daggers with death quivers his muscle heavy body clad in his fine scaled armour. His grip tightens around the icy handle, a certainty planting itself within him, if he lets it go, he dies. The very same fear that he felt while loosening his muscles under the weight of his father’s cadaver, his eyes staring motionlessly at the elves mesmerizing blue eyes reminding him of the beautiful clear skies of the summers.
His drenched in sweat body then starts shivering as an unnatural coldness spread in the surroundings filled with undead endlessly rising from the ground, tents rapidly consumed by the flames of death and abyss, and shouts and yells of fighting, dying Dhau-Íssz. Amongst the cacophony of conflict, his ears pick up heavy steps belonging to someone wearing hardened armour.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
He looks once more at the Nameless, now his lips seem to curve into a weak smile, the screaming of his two followers brings his attention back to the surroundings. While Zhug-Rim himself stands at two meters, the Arnyak in front of him made him tilt his head up, a phenomenon new and uncomfortable to him. The shadowy cloaked and armoured figure slowly raises his giant claymore of a light bending darkness, gleefully beckoning Zhug into a duel between the two.
The two followers withered, dry corpses slowly raise up from the ground and charge away thanks to Zhug’s senses screaming at him to not take his eyes off the Arnyak. There was a small voice within him that whispered to him to give in, to engage in a duel of fates with the Arnyak, but his more wizened calm part reminded him to bring the Nameless down first.
The surroundings slowed down gradually while he remained at the same pace while walking together and raising his heavy weapon to strike down the Arnyak. Its dark cloak and sleek, menacing armour slowed with the rest, while the swirling, gaping darkness inside kept the same flow as Zhug.
He let out an unconscious gasp as the Arnyak moved its right arm, grabbing onto his blade, then an invisible force lifted him up and thrown him across where he stood. The world around him accelerated back to its pace, accompanied by a dizziness he’s still not fully used to, making it somewhat harder getting up onto his feet.
From the edge of his vision, the jagged greaves gleaming the wicked lights of the Upper Stratum appeared, slowly getting closer. He quickly lifted his arm up, blocking the strike of the Arnyak sending a shockwave through his body, his vibrating, locked teeth’s existence felt irritating. Then once more the same invisible force hit him in the head, his helmet flying off into a burning tent while he fell on his back. His dreaded long hair spread out under his armour, pulled by it as he tries to look up, seeing the Arnyak slowly walking towards him cutting down the foolish Dhau-Íssz charging at it.
With an elven like nimbleness, Zhug swiftly leaps back on his feet while spitting out his blood and his right tusk, using his battle axe to once again block the incoming pulsing dark blade gobbling the dripping blood on it, aimed at his neck. This time he ignores the wave of the force, and aims at the head of the Arnyak while the surroundings once more gradually slow down around him.
The thick and sturdy enchanted blade of the axe stops mid air as unseen hands grab and kill its velocity in one motion. He feels its frosty breath carrying the stench of death blown on to his face, and feels his eyes getting heavier, his breathing slowing and getting harder with each passing moment as his face gets closer and closer to the gaping darkness within the flailing hood.
A foolish thought crosses his mind, and he swiftly tilts his head back then exerts all his neck muscles sending it towards the Arnyak’s head. He groans as his scaled forehead hits on an invisible wall, that feels like that one time he smashed his head against a bandit’s helmet covered head, but this time the metaphysical helmet proves stronger than his tough skin. He still manages to get free, tumbling back a few steps from the somehow visible confused Arnyak.
Zhug manages to stay on his feet while facing the Arnyak coming towards him. He changes into a defensive stance with his battle axe held in front if him. Every inch of him is ready to parry and strike as it steps ever closer to him, casting its shadows onto him. Then the world spins in his vision after he blocked the Arnyak’s strike once more, then got hit by the unseen force sending him spinning into one of the tents.
An anger that feels similar to the one he felt towards the elves that massacred his old clan slowly surfaces within him as the Arnyak plays around with him. Their faces flash before his eyes, clear as day disgust plastered onto them.
He quickly peeks around, hoping to notice reinforcements coming to his aid, but his hopes are quickly squashed when all he sees are his warriors, mages either locked in a slowly losing battle against the seemingly endless undead. Or just seeing their throats being destroyed, their lifeless corpses being gnawed on by ghouls before slowly rising back up or lifted up by their heads that are crushed like melons.
The grizzly scenery of a Dhau-Íssz dwarven mage’s being torn apart by each of his limps slowly as seconds decelerated to minutes. Minutes braked to hours as he watched as an undead ogre missing a good chunk above its shoulder tear a half-elf half-orc warrior, his intestines landing on the ground like a wet sack. He felt the heaviness of time gnawing at him as he turned to extremely slow moving Arnyak in front of him, so slow that it appeared almost completely still.
With each step, his limbs felt weaker and weaker with each step. At the first three steps he could no longer hold his battle axe. He dropped it and from the edge of his vision he saw it for a second as it seemingly floated in the air while falling towards the ground as the rhythm of time faltered.
His face was completely faded by the fourth step. The once dark scales framed around his crude orcish face were losing their dimness until they fell off, dispersing into still dust. His long hair turned alabaster for an eternal second, before the world faded, his bones hitting the unearthly armour of the Arnyak, pulverizing on impact.