With each step she takes, closer and closer to the dusk-hewn gate, the thrumming deepens in her mind. With each step, her whole soul tinkles, as unseen arms cloak around it, enfolding with gentleness. Galeldeth hybrid, face plastered with joy, she can barely hold back as she stops in her tracks.
Statues of differing weird shapes surround her on each side. From their dozen to several orifices, they bleed a black as the starless night, molten metal. Feigril namely, oozing with a primal coldness creeping into the soul, beckoning one to its doom as if it possessed a mind of its own. A recent invention of the Dhaugrians they brought up from the deepest stratum of the Bottom Layer. Once molten lava flowing deep, the presence of the Heart of the Mountain and the Deadfire changed it to a black river of death. By a simple touch, it corrodes flesh and bone in a matter of seconds. Seeing these effect first hand, the maddened dwarves thought it would be perfect for their goals, and bought up a large amount of it with their containers capable of holding death infused materials.
With the help of the Null Matriarch, they were capable of shaping it into its current form, Feigril as they call it. The Alloy of Doom in the common tongue of Elysium, one that isn’t used to make armour, but ingested instead by the most honoured of the Dhaugrians. Galeldeth, to her chagrin, still not deemed worthy to partake in the ritual. “One day.” She whispers while solemnly staring at the artificial river formed at the ‘feet’ of the statues.
Her gleaming lips curve in a wide smile once more as she gets down on her knees, using her staff for balancing while also seeing through them. “Matriarch of the Great Empty One, I beseech for your endless wisdom!” Her echoes travel back to the far end of the path as she shouts.
She hardens her muscles to stay still, not quiver as an otherworldly coldness fills the halls, Feigril moving up in front of her, enveloping the whole gate. It takes the shape of an oversized, puffed dwarven infant with an affectionate yet cold complexion. It opens its mouth, its tendril appearing tongue slithering down towards Galeldeth.
“What is it you seek, my Dear Daughter?” The tendril forms a soft lipped mouth with jagged teeth, a deep thrumming feminine voice that trembles Galeldeth with each word spoken. “I have no intention to sound sacrilegious, but is it really him, Mother?” She musters her strength before speaking.
“It is him, you not have to worry about that.” With a tired tone, the Matriarch speaks. “Then why didn’t he come here? Is he dissatisfied with us?” Galeldeth no longer capable of holding back the aching in her heart and soul yells.
“As much as he is eternal, is an impatient one he is. But to lessen your aching, why not depart with the Children? He’ll be proud and interested in our work, I’m most sure of that.” The Matriarch of the Great Empty One dissipates, the black liquid metal flows back, revealing the dusk gate that slowly howls open as her disembodied voice rings through the hall. Galeldeth looks up as she is basked in the colour out of this world, revealing the horrific Children that slowly creep towards her, numbering at fifty.
“I will not disappoint you.” She mutters with an ardent amusement plastered on her mixed face of rough dwarven and graceful elven features. “Nor him.”
**
21st of the 12th Epoch, 768 of the First Age.
“I knew this smell, the Sleet Spectres of the North finally showing themselves in front of his Exaltedness.” Cels’ran towered over the statue he leaned on with his precisely four meters, the hulking Chief of the Hlátr-Scaelu as he tauntingly hailed Vro-Ghahk and Orh-Ghauth answering the call of Pentarch Zahgorim.
His ripping upper body exposed with only a pelt draped over his massive shoulders, adorned with scars he accumulated over the years through battles and duels for leadership. His once handsome face hinting at his elven heritage similarly blemished to the point, he is blind to both of his eyes, while parts of his right half-pointy ear is chewed off. His greying black locks cascade down onto the pelt, seemingly the two blends together.
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Vro-Ghahk breathes slowly as he pushes the desire to shoot back at him, instead opts to just greet him with a firm armlock. Their arms violently latch together, creating a sound similar to two logs hitting each other.
“It is good to see you too again, old friend!” In the end, he gives in to the burning feeling, and greets him back in his own way. “You can do better than that. Maybe in the arena if you’re up to a challenge, just like in the old days.” Cels’ran snorts back.
The two used to be good friends back before their arrival in the North. Their clans before joining up with the Horde that marched after the Nightscale were neighbours in the south who constantly traded goods with each other. They even organized their raids together, sometimes attacking settlements together at other times they coordinated so that the other won’t disturb the raiding, even offer their help to scout the imperials who often sent their forces out to drive the raiders away.
But this friendship between them turned into a rivalry when they arrived, a race begun between the two to earn the favour of the Pentarch. While this rivalry had its faults, it led to both becoming a major clan within the Horde, with both clans earning large territories in the west and east respectively. It came to thanks to a major loss of a siege where the two clans turned on each other after a member of each killed each other over spoils. Another reason that is tied mostly to their respective chiefs is the way they want to deal with the moon and snow elves.
Cels’ran himself doesn’t believe the finicky, conceited elves of the North would join the Horde, so during his hunts he prefers to leave no survivors, often devouring the injured instead of enslaving them. In his eyes, to fully claim the North, the elves either has to be completely eradicated or reduced to a number where they have no hope left to fight back against them.
Vro-Ghahk himself is on the opinion that they either should leave the elves alone and wait for the day when they see that the future of the North lies with the Horde. Or if they choose to continue their resistance, then capture their leaders and indoctrinate them, to show that the Nightscale is a benevolent God and Ruler, who can offer his love to them better than the Gods ever could.
“That will be enough, both of you.” Morogh-Grai the successor of the Ruadr-Vagr clan after his father’s demise interjects as Cels’ran’s claws start scraping Vro-Ghahks’ greyish black vambrace while the two starts bearing their fangs at each other. Orh-Ghouth lets out a sigh while he greets the mature orc eerily resembling his father with the only trait, he inherited from her mother being the long-dreaded white as the snow hair and alabaster smooth skin unbecoming for an orc.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.” Vro-Ghahk apologizes while the two embraces each other, his voice breaking a little thanks to the combination of Moroghs’ strength and the pain that he felt as he noticed his former friends’ son. “Do not. That’s just the way of the Mountain.” He offers a wicked smile as they separate, patting his senior’s massive shoulders. “But we should drink to him once this meeting is over.”
“That would help in more than one way.” Vro-Ghahk adds as he straightens his furred armour to shield from the cold that he gets more aware of as his headache lessens. “What about the Dhau-Íssz? No representatives for them?” He asks while noticing the lack of the dark robed members of the Horde.
“That is why he called us for.” Cels’ran is the first to reply, adding a scoff at the end. “Whoever took care of our vampiric problem proves to be quite the headache for them down there.” The dwarven skinchanger adds in as he jumps down from the foundation of the statue, her long knotted chin beard flailing in the cold wind as her lupine eyes stare condescendingly at Vro-Ghahk.
“That much I know.” He adds in while holding back the shiver that runs through his body. “I lost friends to that Thing.” A sombre look settles on his brutish, cleaned, pale face.
“Hmmm, how could you know what they’re dealing with?” Cels’ran asks this time without any hint of hostility. “During one of our hunts for the elves, that Thing… a Nightmare snatched up the moon elf from our grasp. I’m not sure, but the two our suspects for the recent events down there.” After a bit of hesitation, Vro-Ghahk shares this information, hoping to mend their damaged relationship with the clan of skinchangers.
“The Pentarch is ready to meet with you!” An elderly man draped in nice robes steps out from the large tent setup in the decrepit temple serving as the meeting place for the clan chiefs. They respectfully bow before the elder before heading inside silently.