Crunching of marrow, flesh, tearing of clothes echoed through the vast Veinway of the Dhaugruz, spanning hundreds if not thousands of kilometers between the basin and the Vesgeriath Woodland. Long rows of stalactite teeth flow through the earthly maze, bathing the oval vein of the dreaded mountain in a myriad of cold shades which eerily bring warmth to all those living or traversing down there.
“Enough!” Orhadin’s serpentine voice produced a loud whisper stopping the living dead in their gluttonous endeavors. He could feel their dissatisfaction but relented knowing – feeling – their food becoming their comrades in death.
His slender, withered hands covered in grayish scales arose slowly, holding his peculiar staff in the left with a top depicting a majestic, but also horrific serpent coiling into itself while hugging a shining trapezohedron darker than the scales of the Elder Dragon of the House of Dusk. As the sleeves of filamentous darkness which was his long robe hugging his thin, delicate body slid back, it revealed dark veins of myriad hieroglyphs marching towards the staff pushed against the cold earth.
Ophidian shadows slithered onto the ground numbering in hundreds swam across the illuminated ground towards the torn, macabre corpses clad in the snow white muscular plates of the 19th Legion. Each shadow passed through the natural orifices, and each corpse of the band of scouts rose slowly before they could begin their blessed sleep.
Segmented plates of draconic belly design clashed against each other in a soft harmony as he gently slammed the staff three more times like a judge condemning the hall to silence. As if filled with the same sense of justice, the whispers arrived in a calm onslaught, listing their resentments against Orhadin for their accursed state.
Their wrath washed over Orhadin who managed to stand his ground, although his thin eye lids shuttered vertically and horizontally over his serpentine eyes thrice as he felt his body scorching with rage, with desperation. He slurped it all up and a deep, solemn sigh escaped his thin lipless mouth of corpse-like flesh. One tear flowed down his gaunt cheek as he bottled their anger in his heart then once more beat the earth with his staff to beget silence.
When the last whisper faded, he recalled the repeating list of the dead, telling what they was taken from them by him and his accursed living dead. No more joys of life, no more tastes of food and drinks, no more relief after clenching their thirst, ceasing their hunger. No more warmness kissing their body, melting away the coldness of the cruel north.
His ophidian will slowly eroded these resentments, these losses away and formed into new ones. Seeds of the joy of undeath planted into their tethered souls, slowly blossoming into tastes of death, relief from the pesky needs and sensations of every day life, the endless certainty of service, purpose to carry out the will of his and his Masters.
With the illusory choice laid out before them, they arrived unknowingly to acceptance to their new state of being, blind to their chains which may one day end in their grizzly rebirth into something more. They bowed down to their knees towards their new kings and queens and at his silent orders, rose and began their march towards their former home, to bring more into his fold.
“Onwards!” Orhadin’s disembodied voice echoed through the minds of his disciples, fellow nekromancers waiting, watching these events unfold with fulgent eyes of admiration, surrounded by their own minions rotted by the nekrotic matter.
**
The sweet lavender scent of Mirdbruil’s breath, the warm light of the Illius penetrating through the window of their room gently awoken Ulrich from his merry slumber on the tenderly cold day of the fourteenth of Aurhiur in the 1259th year of the First Age. His log arms embraced the delicate form of his dear wife whose silken hair spread across her side of the bed. The corners of his lips curved up as he listened to her almost childish moans, she emitted each time she woke up, one of the little things he loved about her.
“Morning.” He said as her fulgent eyes opened than drawn into a relaxed, happy expression as she greeted him back. The two remained under their sheets, hugging each other before the rustling coming from Eadwald’s room cruelly forced them out from the warm embrace as he swiftly left to practice with Azugh, not even waiting for the warm breakfast.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Good morning my Snow-Princess.” Not long after that, as they just planted their feet onto the creaking floor, Ulrich heard the rushing soft footsteps followed by a faint one. In the door way Amiriniel greeted her and with a swift movement grabbed her, lifted her high before slowly descending back down to the floor. Behind her in the doorframe, Sigiwaer silently peeked inside as he greeted them in his usual shy manner.
The darkness in his eyes pulsed as the singular pale pupil in its center moved eastwards, westwards. Though initially they found the eye quite worrisome, now with the new revelation from the dwarven priest, the last of their worries – which amplified after the New Life Celebration – faded completely and Ulrich kneeled down and greeted the boy with a kiss on his forehead where his tousled fringe dangled weakly, a bright smile on his face while his cheeks reddened a little.
He held out his hands which slowly grew in size, though still dwarfed when Ulrich’s wrapped gently around them as they walked to the kitchen. Following them behind Amirinel and Mirdbruil came too mimicking them before the two sat down in their usual place while just becoming aware of the absence of their sibling.
Ulrich began humming an old song as snapped flames under the heating apparatus after Mirdbruil filled it with a bit of a vegetable broth. An old song taught to him by his old man, a song written by a minor deos serving eternally in the Court of Endless Ideas, using divine notes which fill all those hearing it with mild joy. A hymn to begin the day on a good note.
Mirdbruil playfully shook her head, the long hair of hairs rustled with aevhen elegance. Amiriniel quickly picked up and hummed along while she moved back and forth like a wave on the ocean. Sigiwaer joined in too with an even fainter humming as his attention focused on his hands fiddling to the soft rhythm while his feet dangled.
“So what are the plans for today?” Ulrich asked as he hovered the bowl full of the steaming vegetable broth between his hardened palms stretched out.
“I want to practice a bit more with Mama.” Amiriniel said as she straightened her posture elegantly while the spoon flew into her soft hands. “Me too.” Sigi said shyly as he done the same then blew the steam cloud rising from the spoonful of broth.
Ulrich pondered for a while then asked them as he wanted to spend a bit more time with both as the two only spent time with him at home after they decided to become pure magusos. “What about practicing at the training grounds?”
“Will Papa and Mama duel?” At that Ulrich almost suffocated on the scorching broth he just swallowed while the two were thinking on their answers. He looked at her and quivered as old memories flooded his mind. “We could, just like when we first met.” She said with a scary yet also kind smile.
“Maybe some other time.” He answered as he wished to keep the proud image instilled in his dear children, as long as possible. “Though I will duel Priernuss.” The two’s eyes lit up at those words after feeling a bit disappointed in losing out seeing a match between a pure magusos and a praecanthar – magusos specializing in enchantments, which most warriors fell into.
The two looked at each other while slowly consuming their broths. Their hands moved in perfect unison as they placed the it into their mouths while ignoring the heat. “Could Mama and Papa really not duel? It would be really helpful to our growth.”
Ulrich once again found himself in a precarious situation – to him at least – and started sweating not because of the breakfast spreading its warmth across his muscle-bound body.
Then he felt relief – not intense – at the next words pouring out from Mirdbruil. “What if Papa fights Uncle Aelfsigiour? I think that would be close enough.” The two once more looked at each other and nodded at the same time eliciting a relieved sigh from Ulrich as they accepted the offer. “A spear is pretty close to a staff after all.” Amiriniel murmured as she stared pensively at her blurred reflection.
“Fine. There is a deal.” Amiriniel said with her head held high as she learned it from Priernuss. “Deal?” A bit flabbergasted Ulrich asked but let it go.
“Thank you!” After the breakfast, he walked slowly behind Mirdbruil in the middle of cleaning the bowl and the apparatus. Their lips softly connected as their breaths intermingled. “A few more years and we won’t be able to delay it.”
“I know.” He said weakly as he was afraid, they may lose their respect, that they won’t depend on him anymore if they witness him losing against Mirdbruil. “No need to worry about that. I’ll hold back when the time comes.”
“Thanks, but I think it will be better for them to see the full potential of a magus.” He said as he let go and stretched his arms while also mentally preparing himself for the day. “Anyway, I’ll better start preparations.” With that, the household began their day.