7th of the First Epoch, 769th of the First Age.
“Griggorn has died.” These words brought a silence upon the meeting room, where the chiefs were called with their representatives by Pentarch Zahgorim. He uttered the word nonchalantly, as if he expected the demise of the former Arch-Magus of the Dark Elven kingdom of the mountain.
“So, in the end, he too was a weakling.” Cels’ran adds his piece while crossing his arms as he sits on the ground. His massive legs crossed too as he sits in a meditating position, showing his foot missing toes at random.
“How many did he lost?” Orh-Ghouth is the next to speak up after contemplating on what to inquire about first. “Around five thousand of the Dhau-Íssz just in the battle. On the rest, we don’t have exact numbers, but we know that all the Blessed of the Nightscale perished the past few weeks.” Glib, the right hand of Zahgorim answers the question in his high, graceful voice.
Glib is one of the recently joined members of the Bál-Su’urthr, once a proud son of a low ranking noble family of the now fallen kingdom of Virdr. His long centre parted fair hair gleams as the fire burning in the heart of the room casts its homely light on them. He sits facing the entrance on the right of Zahgorim with Vro-Ghahk being on the left.
When the Horde arrived, his family fought against them like many others remaining, but as their forces started to deplete, and their few territories taken, he quickly took the initiative and murdered his father who was a hard loyalist to the ruined kingdom. For the past half century, he dedicated himself to the Bál-Su’urthr. At first, he joined the primal clergy of the Nightscale and rose quickly in its ranks, attaining his current position within seven years.
“I see. Was Durothil amongst the losses, or he remained in the deepest stratums?” Orh-Ghouth asks once more.
“No, he was the one who contacted us a week ago about the lost. He also informed us of the fall of the border town leading into the middle stratum.” Glib swiftly answers back.
“Was it the same enemy that felled my father?” Morogh-Grai asks, even though he, like everyone else in the room, is aware of the answer. “Yes, it seems to be the work of the Dhaugrta.” This time Zahgorim answers as Glib looks at him for confirmation.
“Are we sure that is a good name for it?” Cels’ran asks nonchalantly as the rest fell to silence. “I mean, sure he raises the dead like the Nightscale, but is he one of his kin?” He continues after everyone glares at him for throwing up of the needless question.
“Naming the Nightmare is important for the future tales of our triumph over it. Whether he is kin of our God or not does not matter.” Glib replies in an agitated manner as he spent at least two nights mulling over the name.
“He is right. What matters now is that he is on his way down to the lower stratums of the Bottom Layer. And with a sizeable army at his command, from what Durothil told us.” Zahgorim continues after putting his left hand over Glib’s shoulder, whose heated mind starts cooling down second by second.
“Did he raised all those fallen?” Morogh-Grai asks with a staggered look on his face. “Yes, and it appears to be the dark elves and, to a lesser extent a surprise, dhaugrians allied themselves with the Dhaugrta.” Glib is the one to answer this one, looking at the stacks of documents laid out in front of him. While the Horde themselves still not fully embraced the idea of documenting things, whether be it the birth or a battle, Bál-Su’urthr slowly made the first steps in this endeavour, thanks to Glib and a few other former nobles that joined.
And the Dhaugrians are no surprise to any at the table. Their descent into madness is one well known tale even amongst the Empire and its colonies in the south of the continent. Vro-Ghahk himself gets the thought that maybe it wasn’t the moon elf he pursued that called the Nightmare into their world, but the Dhaugrians themselves were the main culprit.
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On the other hand, the dark elves allying themselves with the Nightmare is a bit of a surprise. In the recent years, starting with Griggorn more and more of theirs started joining the Horde. Mostly the Dhau-Íssz, but a few can be found within the other smaller clans dotted around the southern regions controlled by the Bál-Su’urthr.
“Never though the deep elves would join it. But I guess there is not much difference between a demon and a nightmare to them.” Cels’ran adds his piece while gulping down his mead, followed by a belch that echoed within the whole room. “Possibly, but honestly it hit me as a surprise. This is the first time they associated with a Nightmare, at least from what I could gather from the records.”
“Well, didn’t they mingle with the Dhaugrians. Could be their madness seeped into them without notice.” Orh-Ghouth throws up his conjecture while grabbing his keg with his remaining arm.
“Whatever is the case, what matters is that the enemy possesses numbers bigger than what the Dhau-Íssz hold down there.” Vro-Ghahk says after pushing away, the dread within reared its head once more. “That is something Durothil is working on already. For now, I ask all of you to gather your best.” Zahgorim says after Vro stops and turns at him with a look of inquiry.
“What about the elves?” Cels’ran asks.
“For now, they are not a threat to us. And we only require those within the boundaries of the capital and maybe the region.” Glib speaks up after getting the approval from Zahgorim. “In three days, the portals will be ready according to the Durothil,
“If no more questions are left, the meeting is adjourned for now.” Glib stands up first and looks at Zahgorim’s face veiled in shadows. After he gets the approval once more, the meeting of the chiefs come to an end, everyone lifts their kegs and consume the beverages in one go after their voices unify in a prayer to the Nightscale.
**
“Did he arrive back?” Zahgorim returned to his tent laying on top of the ruined castle, asks Glib while warming his hands over the sconce burning as brightly as the southern sun.
“Yes, two days ago. But he wanted to wait on his report, saying he needed time to think.” Glib answers while standing proudly at the entrance holding another paper on a heavy wooden tablet. “I found it strange, but I thought that maybe he’s still exhausted after the fight or just the travel and the investigation took its toll on him. Maybe both.” He continued after being a bit unsure for a moment.
“I see. Let him in.” Zahgorim speaks with already focused on something else while Glib spoke. His right hand lifts the tent’s entrance open and calls Gnuld inside, who quickly greets the Pentarch by getting on his knees and kissing the ground with his furred, wrinkled forehead.
“Leave us!” Zahgorim orders Glib while turning around, his cloaked silhouette sending slight shivers down his spine. Without uttering a single word, Glib bows and steps out. Gnuld keeps his head down while a cold force passes through his being, stopping only at the boundaries of the tent.
“Lift your head, Son of Nuld!” His voice sounds mellowing to Gnuld’s ears and complies with utmost respect gleaming in his crude eyes.
“Tell me, how do you feel now?” Zahgorim walks to the edge and calmly sits down, letting the light of the flames burn his eyes. His voice reaches his ears even though his face is veiled in utter darkness, appearing like a depiction of the Reaper himself. Although the flames offer their warmth, Gnuld feels cold creeping into his small body, mixing dread with awe at the same time. Then it turns into a calming nothingness as if they were ripped out from his being as he closes his eyes, recalling the dream accompanying him since the incident at Téllnag.
“I feel a coldness replaced the warmth of chanting. But it is not one that feels wrong… or maybe a better word would be uncomfortable. It feels… better. I feel the absence of the wall that bought so much despair.” He starts ranting with his voice breaking while grabbing his temples as cold joy pours through his being.
“It feels like you are limitless?” Zahgorim stands up and slowly walks to the goblin. Gnuld face conveys worry as Zahgorim gets on his knees, and puts his hand on his shoulders. “Did he tell you anything?” He asks in his deep voice that shakes Gnuld to the core.
“He showed a better world where we don’t have to fear the day the Empire comes for us.” Gnuld answers for a while, not hiding his pull to towards the temptation. “It may be foolish to say this now, but what if he fails? Would that not expose us to the Nightscale?” Gnuld asks and Zahgorim laughs haughtily then goes silent within a moment. He turns his head down facing Gnuld and speaks: “Death is certain.”