The seamless murky surface of the lake ripples as one of the eyes of the Nightscale opens. In a mere moment, the darkness dissipates as the heart of the mountain lit up in mauve. The earth shakes as one of his enormous claw lands on the platform, digging deep into it before it sinks into the dark depths.
Then as he burst forth from the lake of Necroatn, lava that got corrupted by extensive amounts of necrotic energies, it all falls down on the platform, leading to its unnatural decay going down within seconds. His neck reaches high above, his gnarled regal horns numbering at nine with one in the center, the rest stacked under each as they go down towards his long serpentine neck with pitch black obsidian covering it shaped like enormous plates, with even more horns sprouting from them.
Necroatn cascades down from the crevasse where his dark as the night sky scales glint even in the dimness faintly lit by his eyes. Drops the size of small boulders land on the turbulent surface as he raises his left hand, great enough to crash five giants in them easily, slowly turning it towards the east. The platform pieces slowly rise back from the depths, the slowly rebuilding, gaining back their previous state before the quick decay devoured it.
His elongated head stares up to the ceiling, where Necroatn drops fall with the pace of a snail. “Did I feel it right? Or was it just my mind playing tricks?” His deep, echoing voice fills the dark space, for his worshippers mellowing, regal, for his enemies dreadful. “Am I reaching my expiration, or have you returned finally?” He asks, turning towards the thick darkness, as a nostalgic feeling, yet different from what he remembers, courses through his being.
“It doesn’t matter either way.” His slight sense of joy is replaced by the gaping aching that filled him since the day of His banishment. For a moment, rage rears its head as he thinks that the Pretender had come to take his place. Then in the end, confusion comes as the two feelings mix together in his enormous heart. “The truth will be revealed, when you arrive.” He says, while once more staring at the ceiling, his eyes seeing through the layers of the mountain.
**
“They performed quite well, I must say.” Cacmieh adds as the Draurinottes line up, numbering around twenty. The inky darkness of the liquid metal known as Feigril swirled as if a piece of the night sky had been liquified, crafted into tall skeletal silhouettes. Their bodies’ surfaces shimmered with an otherworldly lustre, reflecting no light but absorbed all that dared to approach it. The shields under some of their legs caved in under their heavy weight, yet they moved with the nimbleness of the elves.
“They are the work of decades. We did test them a lot beforehand, so this result is expected.” Galeldeth adds, with pride slipping in her words as she puffs out her chest, seemingly ready to be commended. “Certainly, praise the Matriarch!” Kriegrsforin adds, with a bit of hesitation in his voice. While his mind may not be in the right, he is still like his southern cousins, preferring battles without subterfuge.
“Are they not to your taste… Excellency?” Zoklaeth is the only one who notices the Nameless staring down, as if he gazes directly in the eyes of something. “They did. Performed better than my expectations were for them initially.” He speaks, his voice mellowing to the Dhaugrians, while Cacmieh is mixed, part of him awed as if hearing a royal speaking, the other part repulsed, fearing something about it.
Draurinottes then disperse as the Nameless looks at them, swirling dark bluish arcane must ooze out from them before he walks further into the outpost. He surveys the buildings, his eyes cold and emotionless as he looks at each. “How weird.” He murmurs while recognizing the intent behind them. “What is, if I may ask?” Cacmieh asks while he and the rest slowly follow after him.
“These people escaped from the south, from the Empire, with some of them being slaves to them. Yet they try to copy their style.” The Nameless stops in the square where the armoury is slowly unloaded by the undead while the lone Arnyak watches over them, passing weapons and armour to the ones who either don’t possess any or the ones they had damaged beyond use, even for them.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“They probably made it in a hurry.” Zoklaeth adds his piece while carefully evading two slender Eliovadeks towering over him as they pass by. A coldness, tender and caring hits his body, suffocating the infernal flames as his impatience wanting to escalate into anger rears its head. Galeldeth pokes him in the sides, a chastising look on her face, a slight unnerving sensation in him as the eyes stare at him.
“I see.” The Nameless stops as a large group of Eliovadeks walk through, their heads grafted under Stahlaar plates, lightly bowing. “Now, let’s start making preparations.” His hands clap together loudly, all the undead freezing in place as if they stopped for them. “Will you be able to handle things?” Then he turns to Cacmieh and Galeldeth before sitting down on the railing of what appears to be a crude fountain. Galeldeth herself responds firmly at first before noting that she may be out for a day or two depending on how many troops she has to attend to.
Cacmieh himself proudly exclaims that for him, it may take one day to recover after placing protective inscriptions into at least hundreds of their warriors. With that confirmed, he then sends them off in a kindly manner, watching each with his eyes, both visible and unseen, as they head to their respective camps set outside the walls. “Almost forgot.” A tired chuckle leaves his mouth, with a snap of his finger the undead still frozen in place start moving again as he stares down at the ground with a clear aim. “Soon my friend…”
**
10th of the 1st Epoch, 769th of the First Age.
“How are things coming along?” The camps outside the capital’s wall bustling with life even more as the clans called their warriors from both outside the nearby areas hunting for remnants of the kingdom and the elves, and from the inside stationed in the capital itself. While the Bál-Su’urthr has its largest force stationed around the capital, spread out in the smaller fortresses, the other clans were also obligated to send some of their warriors as hunters against the remnants.
Trolls and Ogres help carry the large logs that their shamans and craftsmen shape into catapults and trebuchets against the large invading force of the Nameless. Centaurs, minotaurs and other bestial races keep watch on the perimeters of the camp for any would be surprise attack after the information regarding Kra-Aghk has been spread across the capital.
“We’re doing fine so far. No sign of enemy.” Eywindur confirms while coordinating two Ogres coated in their snowy runic paint granting them physical power beyond their natural and honed strength and reflexes, carrying multiple logs and crates with easy and great balance as they head towards the west where their shamans sculp them into.
“How is Gha-Rhol managing?” He turns to the northeast, where the mages of the various clans converged. There they carved runes into the ground, with the help of the Farseers to create the portals up here in the overworld. “She’s doing fine. At least so far, she said so.” Vhar-Thurg adds as he returns with a large tree severed from its base cleanly. It lands loudly with a few diverting their attentions at Vhar-Thurg who didn’t even notice the sound as he sits down facing Vro-Ghahk on the log still possessing its ivory leaves.
“According to her, the portals will be ready by dawn.” Rielk adds as walks out from their tent, stretching his arm while his jaw opens wide as a loud yawn leaves it. “At least that’s what she said a few hours ago.” He sits down beside Vhar with a heavy torn off Vaurg limb roasted in his hand.
“Good.” Is the only thing Vro-Ghahk says softly as he stares into the distance.
“Are you okay, Chief?” Vhar asks, looking at him in his own worrying manner. Through the year he fought beside him, it is the first time he noticed hints of uncertainty on his old friend. His feet thrumming constantly, his arms crossed while his fingers beat in a jumbled rhythm while his chest puffs out as he inhales deeply before white mist sallies from his nostrils and large ebony ring pierced in the middle.
He remains silent as the setting sun paints the landscape in a warm, yet menacing amber. His rational self tries to answer, but his more primal part grapples his throat, smothering any attempt at voicing out his answer. “I am. I’m gonna rest for now. Wake me once the portals are ready.” His veins pop out for a moment as he manages to force out the words, masking the slowly creeping dread rearing its head.