Durothil’s footsteps echoed within the vast darkness that surrounded him as he walked forward in the dark platform. A blackened lake that once was lava surround it, silently seething every so often. He recalls the first time when Griggorn brought him down here, remembering as he watched the slowly falling water drops from the jagged teeth like ceiling formations as time flows much slowly in the lair of the Nightscale.
Even now, the young high elves’ attention turns towards the sides, his dimness dissipating in his eyes as he watches a drop hitting the blackness with the pace of a snail. A ripple slowly forms, first one ring that extends within five minutes into a larger, followed by another in five minutes, and so on so forth. His faded icy blue eyes watch this sluggish event for at least fifteen minutes before he realizes where he is and what he came for.
With the recent demise of Griggorn, Durothil has been officially elected as the leader of the Dhau-Íssz clan. Although he has always been the one, they obeyed, even when Griggorn has been chosen by their God. Some mellowed up to him and obeyed him without question, while most still remained unsure whether to bow down to the dark elf or wait till the day of his demise. Durothil himself was in the latter camp, as his mother was the one who founded their cult after witnessing the power of Nightscale first hand, a survivor of the Ruination of Corpsilum in the 567th year of the First Age.
His mother regaled odes every single day to the like-minded folks that flocked to her, survivors who already were discontented Empire and the Deos. At first, they decided to rise up against their slave masters, staging a rebellion in the southern colonies. With the aid of the dragon, they believed victory was within their grasp, and for the next twenty years they worshipped the Nightscale fervently, receiving his gifts which allowed them to raise undead armies to assault the settlements.
The Empire at first did not pay much attention to them, mostly hired some adventurers, raised small slave armies, promising them freedom if they settled the minor crisis. Which is partially led to the growth of the Dhau-Íssz who in their first days numbered around a few hundred at best living in crypts and caves to hide from their enemies. But as the slave masters who led their armies slowly decreased in number, said slaves realized that their freedom lied with Dhau-Íssz and their draconic God, drastically increasing their number to the thousands within five years.
By that end point, according to some historians, the Empire sent a large force of their 7th Legion to beat down the Dhau-Íssz just as the Deadfire grew bored with the rebellion and took off to the North, raising the Kingdom of Virdr on his arrival. At first, some Dhau-Íssz thought their God abandoned them for not taking the Empire, but Durothil’s mother spinned the tale that this rebellion was nothing more than a test to prove their worth to the Deadfire. She convinced them to follow after the dragon, and for the next two hundred or so years wandered after Him. A few did remain behind, mostly those who laid low during the conflict acting as the eyes and ears of his mother, continuing this task even today.
Following the Nightscale, they continued to grow in number as they followed the trail of destruction and death that attracted fellow minded folks through the now Deadlands of the centre of the continent. They even lost some, including his mother, that led to him being elected as the successor in 687th of the First Age. Even though he only entered his seventies back then, and mostly just heard the tales of the Deadfire through the bedtime tales his mother regaled every night.
With each step he takes, his heart starts pounding faster and faster as excitement scorches him inside. Then slowly he feels icy needles thrusting his soul, his legs getting heavier, the steps becoming harder as dread mixes in within. He recalls the first time he arrived at the North witnessing the ravaged cities, the constant fight between the survivors against the undead whose scorched black bodies moved with unnatural precision, their souls silently wailing in anger.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
He remembers the first time he ventured down, the same excitement and dread churning within as Zahgorim engulfed his body in various enchantments to protect him from the deathly miasma polluting the lowest layer of the mountain. The same ones that are now woven into his bony armour and black robes shielding him from a quick, yet agonizing death.
He recalls the moment the enormous figure of the Nightscale rose from the murky depths, towering over to the point that even if he had looked up, he could not see his head or even neck, just the scales covering his chest dripping in a speed where each drop seemed melded together, resembling a blackened waterfall. Yet his deep voice resonated within the vast lair he called home for the past two hundred or so years. It quickly deepened his worship of him even deeper as his voice sounded divine, timeless to his pointy ears.
“O’ Great Ruler of the House of Dusk, I came as you called forth to me!” As he arrives at the same edge where he stood with Zahgorim, he gets down on his knees and musters his voice that echoes into the darkness. From the edge of his vision, he notices the murky lake ripple, as the Nightscale slowly slithers towards him.
Then as silence hardens, his Draconic God emerges His head that towers over him at ten meters while his two left eyes stare down at him. Eyes so vast he could fit in one elongated iris at least thrice. The dark fluids at first slowly flow down, taking at least two minute to reveal his features, then in a blink of an eye they cascade down in a mere second.
“I welcome thee once more, Child of Bruccitae! Raise thee head!” A foul wind rises as He speaks, his deep voice grasping his soul with tender coldness, dissipating the dread, leaving only his exhilaration. “How can I be of service to your Greatness!” He asks while staring at the row of eerily ivory teeth, the size of a small house capable.
“These are tough times for us. With the blunder of Griggorn, the number of us greatly decreased within the mountain. The enemy is slowly approaching, aiming to take what I have worked for so long.” He speaks slowly, metering out each syllable, word while his eyes seem to focus on him. “I see your Greatness. But how can I be of help?” He asks, faltering at his words as the dread momentarily returns within him.
“I sought out Zahgorim, he is preparing the best of the Horde to send aid down. But for that I need thee and the Fervent of mine to start preparing portals.” He slowly tilts His head towards Durothil, his scentless cold breath graces his body and soul. His withered pale skin slowly gains its smooth texture back, his greyed long hair turning back to raven black, while his whitening eyes gain their intensity back.
He feels that he could easily rot away an elven Praetor clad in their radiant armour with numerous enchantments woven into it. He feels he could lift a whole stone building with one arm, as murky scales start forming on his limbs under the layers of black robe. He feels the softened pain of his nails falling out, his golden blood flowing down while mauve claws grow into their place. He carefully tracks his tongue behind as his teeth start crumbling into fangs, sharp enough to sever even troll meat with ease. The surroundings brighten as his eyes match shape with his Draconic Gods, his starless night scales gradually shimmer even more intensely.
“A gift for your past and future services, my Child.” The Nightscale says with his affectionate eyes radiating with kindness in Durothil’s heightened vision. “Thank you, O’Great Ruler of the House of Dusk, Most Beautiful of the World!” Durothil is filled with joy, his body collapsing onto his knees as he yells out while trying to hold back his tears. “This one will not waste your gifts, I promise on my very soul!” He adds after calming down a bit. “I know. Now go, start the preparations.” The Nightscale chuckles a little that brings another, smaller wave of joy to Durothil who after deeply bowing walks away while the Nightscale watches.
“I wish you could see how your betrayers spin into your embrace in this age, my friend.” As he sees Durothil disappear behind the obsidian hewn gate, he turns his head around. He speaks towards the dark distance with a sombre tone, with his unblinking eyes of swirling mauve and brass mist dancing around the gaping dark irises. “Soon my work shall be done, and I shall deliver his creation to you!” He slowly submerges in the murky lake, large bubbles popping on the sides as he speaks before calmness returns.