Down she looked from the sky, hovering high above the peaceful village where his descendants fled and settled down after the long and arduous exodus from their homeland. Peaceful still as is as was their home where he promised the world for her, where he promised he shall always remain by her side – promises fear took from him the moment they walked into the shadows of the Vesgeriath Woodland.
The memory of cold marble’s touch against her soles intertwined with the gashing roots and stone, the freezing snow and treacherous slush which rid of her balance. The smell of death felt pleasing now, though the terror it instilled her as she listened to her siblings being gorged on filled her with anger as she recalled the desperate, cowardly golden eyes glancing back at her pensively for a mere moment before he realized she would simply just hold him back as the ghastly twigs and low-hanging branches swallowed his once stalwart form.
His betrayal stung deeper as her pleading eyes glanced upon the tenebrous smile of the wicked fae. And the sting ventured deeper as she watched the grizzly cadavers of her once fair sisters; stalwart and feeble brothers dancing around, tearing at each other for the amusement of the dark creature who himself filled her heart with terror and disgust. The creatures’ laughter each night and day eroded her until she was a husk meant to be nothing more than a plaything for him and his wicked children.
Though she was not sure why, the cadaverous fae decided to show him his queer mercy by tearing her tortured soul from the embrace of the Solemn Shepherd and shoved into the half-eaten remains of her mother. For centuries she toiled in the crumbling vessel, once cradle maturing life standing beside him, satisfying his mundane needs of hunger, lust and thirst – each with their own twisted baggage. She twisted the necks of little critters like little sponges, their screams and primal pleadings were at first like knives scraping against boards, then as the decades passed turned into a sweet serenade as her mind remembered the boy who left her behind, and imagined his screams his pleadings as she twisted his neck, tore out his intestines and played with his organs.
This maddening existence continued for centuries, ended by a fair maiden, a brave praetor wearing the same armor of those who failed in their task. Snow white, enameled plates welted neatly together with a ruby red tunic of fine silk or velvet beneath complementing the long, dark hair of the aevhen maiden. The one whose strike finally nullified the contract she was forced into at last. And the one who gave a fresh vessel to the wraith she had become to the wicked amusement of the Fae who sprouted forth the first corpse.
Though at the time, she gorged on his corpse as peculiar, strange hunger overcame her upon forcing herself in the vacant vessel, a sudden desolation followed as she consumed not just flesh, but the more esoteric elements including the vow which was carved into the whole being of the Fae, the vow which once more bound her to the will of another, one who shall not satisfy her thirst for vengeance she knew whilst once more weeping under the shadows.
At least not until the time came to march under his banner to reclaim the lands which by His divine right of claimant, belonged to the creatures, of the folk of Dusk. Whose emissaries visited her and taught her the ways to siphon the nekrotic matter which he had left behind in centuries advance and showed her how to utilize the curse to amass an army of the dead when the first sign of his shall arrive in an Ophidian Sorcerer wearing the fine garments of Night; the armor of Great Serpents and the staff of the Traveler.
Her second savior came just a few years before the Pledge decreed onto her predecessor, her jailer was invoked by the Ophidian Sorcerer who filled her court with fresh macabre of her people. A dark stranger with a presence of utter emptiness of the ancient and enigmatic folk who walked the realm even before her ancestors. And the one whose dark light soothed her like the first light of the Illius on the days when she was still filled with hope, joy and love. Sensations which until gazing into the yawning blackness where two slits of a strange color shimmered under the shapeless hood were lost to her.
Though he still expected patience from her, but gifted her with the possibility of enacting her vengeance against the boy who bore the resemblance to the one who had left her behind. The same lineaments, the same voice filled with regal confidence, the bravery of the huscarls of Virdr who leapt headfirst against the invading hordes and the horrors led by the shunned aevhei and dwarves who existed in the dark bowels of the dread Dhaugruz. The same golden eyes which shimmered with the brilliance of Illius, though pained just as hers when she lived with the chance presented to her by fate.
Though she had her doubts regarding the stranger. Expectations blossomed in her paranoid mind when she was instructed to eliminate the order of magusos holed up in her territory. These notions though withered when her wrath was partially satisfied by the extinguishing of the boy’s father who possessed the same regal eyes now occupied by the same yawning blackness as the others. One who marched amongst her minions head first into the small, peaceful settlement which barrier she broke down.
As she watched his withered, feeble form trod the streets, searching for his own kin led by hatred, she felt the lips of her vessel curve into a tenebrous smile. “At last!” she thought as the searing hatred abated, a cold twinging heralding the thrill of satisfaction she thirsted for centuries. “Leave him to me!” She uttered the command, nearing downwards as dragon’s fell from the sky as the Pallid One approached the camp of the Draennith Praetoriir.
**
“Do you see that honey?” Shad’Yrg asked as she noticed the white silhouettes approaching under the dim embrace of the woodland. Her first assumption was another wave from beyond the mountain, but as they neared towards her body trembled from dread and excitement.
“Something isn’t right.” Sigi said and both Shad and Gna agreed as the meandering turned into a march, and the wind carried the whispery serenade of twilight into their ears.
“Stay behind us! Take small and careful steps, but do not take your eyes of. Sigi, you too report if you see anything." He nodded. Carefully they headed back towards Vonschneithar whilst keeping their weapons and minds ready, whilst Vopiscus and Favonia flew over the woodland. Their winged mount’s flames lit the tenebrous surroundings, revealing the lifelike dead marching with the pace and mannerism of the living. And as in life, they raised their shields crumbling shields held by the same spell binding them above their heads as the polychromatic torrent battered against them.
Suddenly darkness veiled them as the flames ceased to be as the two dragons suddenly fell into the ghastly embrace of Vesgeriath. As they neared towards the gate, they listened as the undead thrusted their blades into the praetors, and dragged them away to their master following not far behind.
Sigi suddenly stopped, noticing vague silhouettes circling around them, halting before the gate. “Behind.” He yelled while releasing a translucent white and golden wave tearing off the shroud of the revenants whose dark gazes focused more on the walls rather than them. “Perceptive.” Slowly, Orhadin’s minions stepped forth the Vesgeriath’s gloom, and through them his deep sibilant voice traversed the small distance betwixt them.
Though his attention focused away for a moment as he felt the condensation of nekrotic matter high above Vonschneithar materialize into a highly potent spell of destruction and decay. “Sigi, could you attune to me?” Shad asked as her clammy body began to shiver from the cold, nightly breeze seeping into her clothes. “We have to regroup with the others as soon as possible.” Though the dread she felt came not from the spell, but from Orhadin himself who walked between his minions with a genial smile and manner.
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“Whilst I am here only for you, young Sigiwaer, the one favored by the true monarch of Dusk itself, I extend the invitation towards your companions as they are the beloved children of his too.” Orhading stroke the bottom of his peculiar staff against the snow blanketed ground at which all the dead except for the eerie revenants sheathed their weapons and formed a line around them, cutting off all chance of escape.
Behind him Uchitemar followed with a calm, listless expression as he eyed the one who rid him of his own flesh a few years ago. The hatred he felt towards Azugh ceased to be, queerly turned into gratitude as he concluded those events culminated by the Will of Night. Still his presence – even though neither Gna or Azugh recognized him – shook them as he exuded an inhumane, chilling presence.
Gna looked back at the two. “This shall be a long night.” He said mirthfully as his blood boiled from the thrill of battle. “As soon as you two see an opening, rush back for aid!” Then he added as he turned back and raised his axe. “I see, it is regretful.” Orhadin said with mild sorrow in his voice just as the barrier shattered behind them, Gna and Azugh’s cry mingling with the arkhaine roar. Snow risen up in the air, alternating into its fluid state with the deadly qualities of blades and axes; great balls of golden flames rained down towards the undead mowed down by the two orkhs.
Orhadin watched with a mild grin under hood sewn from the prima materia of the Night itself.
**
A vile stench permeated the once lively inn. Once a place where the good folk of Vonschneithar could wind down after long day of work just, a place where his father could escape from the woes of their reality with the aid of bitter beverages which he himself had an aversion of initially. But the more time he spent amongst the cheery folk regaling old tales – with many inconsistencies thanks to the alcohols mind warping properties – he himself grew accustomed and loved the place. Less so what followed in the mornings, but it was a worthy sacrifice he often concluded toiling in his bed with a major headache quite often as he had yet to realize his own limits.
Yet, within a few moments all this sweetness was drained out of the place and now it was a grim reminder of their realities, of the grueling life they had as the place turned into a graveyard of the good folk and the revenants who broke through the barrier and the walls which stood for centuries. He felt glad of always keeping his gifted blade on hand, drenched now in the putrid vile of the undead who rested once more motionless at his feet whilst the haziness slowly faded, his mind sharpened.
Slowly his gaze turned from the ghastly corpse laying before him and slowly swept across the ruined, dim vista where screams broke the peace and joy, and stopped on the torn corpse of the half-dwarven owner whose vacant gaze met his, seemingly accusing him for not saving his life in the heat of the moment. “Eadwald, come!” Aelfsigior’s voice broke him out from the stupor induced by his own remorse. With a tightened grip around the handle, he rushed out to the streets which laid silent moments ago, now chaos unfurled as the villagers struggled against the hordes of dead swarming through the northern gate.
As they slowly mowed through the undead, a heavy knot coiled in the pit of his stomach, churning uneasily with a cold and hollow ache that seemed to tighten with each passing moment, with each strike cleaving through the withered, warped forms. One born not from the fact the undead seemed to pick him out from their group, led by an antique loathing, but from their darkness yawning in their eye sockets, gaping maws. A darkness which seemed to distressingly whispered into his mind, confirming a woe and worry which ailed his heart and mind for the past few years since his return.
“Can’t be!” He froze amidst the battle for a mere second, allowing a blackened arrow to pierce his shoulder. Both ailments strengthened when the answer to them appeared in the rotten form of Ulrich, whose hideous, half torn off visage oozed with a mocking hatred aimed at him. His golden eyes he shared with his children was no more, in their stead the same yawning darkness glared with an empty loathing back at him, and a warped shriek left his unnaturally stretching jaw as his ivory and blackened fingers wrapped around his sword. Even as he approached quickly, Eadwald could not find the strength to break free from the binding numbness instilled by the desolation of reality unfolding before him.
“It can’t be.” He repeated endlessly. Tears welled in his closing eyes as he ceded himself to the cold embrace of merciful death to deliver him away from the veracity of the night. A delivery which did not arrive, in its place a forceful blow came from two sides. One from the right, and one from the left which sobered him out from the sudden and utter gloom which poisoned his mind. “Have you lost your damn mind! Do you truly believe he would have wished for you to throw your life away even in a moment like this?” Aelfsigior’s shout boomed through the shrieks and wails, the clashing of blades and spells lighting up the starless night.
As his jaw ached and he bit his tongue from both hits, he answered silently with a flat headshake. He looked down, watched with a certain relief borne from his liberating death as the golden flames released a heat soothing the aching of his heart, and focused his mind on avenging the one responsible for the enslavement of Ulrich. The one who floated across the darkness, out of the reach of rising flames seeded by the flames of the mighty dragons. His fingers cracked around the handle as he glared at the Queen of the Damned, meeting her veiled and infectious dark gaze.
**
Augermil’s blade swept through the feeble torso of the undead, severing half-rotten flesh and brittle bones. The dim flames dancing on the edges of his blade scurried onto the once proud aevhe whose blackened soul screamed in silence as they marred away the taint and soothing darkness, reminding him of the bliss of the natural cycle that was ripped from his arms by the Queen of the Damned. Though he wished to offer a prayer to the soul which returned to the cycle at last, he and his blade had yet to rest as half a dozen of her minions intercepted him as he pushed through.
Though their forms slowed as Mirdbruil wreathed them in an aura, slowly ripping them out from the regular flow of time allowing the elderly draevhe to cleave his blade before them. Flames detached from it, and at once a wall shot out from it, altered hastily into an imposing wall which swept through and immolated them and at least fifteen more impeding their way towards the southern gate where a group of villagers and guard struggled against the hordes of Dusk.
Mildly frustrated, Augermil turned and searched for Jaculus whom he found flapping his great wings with feathery growths at the trims creating wind infused with the matter of dawn, torrenting the dead with each flap. Yet their number dwindled little. “Jaculus! Here!” His deep voice boomed through the shrieks; the clashing of blades and the roar of spells hurled by Mirdbruil, Amiriniel and his fellows. The dragon hearing his call stopped the continuous spell and soared down towards him, though he arrived in a distressing manner.
At once he seemed to lose his faculty of flight and tumbled into the ground, flattening a few dozen undead and more as he swept through the tents and faltered only a few steps from Mirdbruil and Augermil. Led by his instinct, Augermil turned around quickly and held his blade just as an old, familiar glint blinded his sight for a moment. A blade he himself gifted to his nephew who was downtrodden at the escape of the hordes of pariah folk and at the loss of his sister who was devoured by the black flames of the Nightscale’s firstborn.
His sorrowful gaze met the yawning blackness occupying the empty holes, and grief rode on the tides of nausea as the smell of death reached his nostrils after it vented from the ever-grinning mouth from which flesh withered and blackened. The once brilliant scales he inherited from his niuvhen mother were no more visible, only the clammy black flesh beneath it pulsated with the anger which drove the blade to strike at his once beloved uncle.
“What is happening?” Jaculus’s confused cry passed besides his ears as he struggled against his own who seemed to posses the strength of thousands. Augermil hissed sibilantly from the sudden surge of pain when the tainted knee thrusted against his abdomen. A strike which seemed to care not of the radiant, polychromatic armor adorning his new form. “Stand!” Came the cold voice of his nephew, warped by strange spell binding and empowering him with more than the might of Dusk.
“I am truly sorry,’ Augermil said, forcing the words. “I shall free you from the grasp of the Darkness and give you your deserved rest.”