The throne room of Susurrus, Vlaakith’s palace in Tu’narath, sprawled across the Astral Plane like a wound carved into the timeless void. Its walls rose impossibly high, forged from obsidian so dark it seemed to drink the faint silver light that bled through the crystalline skylights overhead, their jagged edges refracting the glow into fractured shards that danced across the chamber. The stone was not smooth but rough-hewn, its surface pocked with fissures and protrusions, as though the palace had been ripped from the corpse of some ancient, petrified deity—a fitting foundation for a godhood-obsessed queen who thrived on death’s embrace. The air hung heavy, stagnant, suffused with a metallic tang that clung to the tongue like rust, a bitter residue of blood both old and fresh. It mingled with the acrid bite of brimstone wafting from the braziers lining the chamber, their iron frames twisted into grotesque shapes—clawed hands, gaping maws, eyeless faces frozen in silent screams. The flames within burned an unnatural violet, their light pulsing erratically, casting flickering shadows that slithered across the walls like living things, illuminating the macabre tapestry woven into the very architecture.
Skulls adorned every surface—thousands upon thousands, cemented into the obsidian with a precision that spoke of obsessive, almost ritualistic care. Some were small, delicate, the brittle remnants of mortal foes whose names had long faded into obscurity; others were massive, draconic, their hollow sockets still smoldering with embers of long-extinguished rage, the air around them faintly warm as if their spirits lingered in defiance. Between them hung the bodies—or what remained of them. Fleshless husks, their bones charred and twisted into unnatural angles, dangled from iron chains that swayed gently in an unfelt breeze, their links rusted and pitted with age. Some still twitched, preserved in a mockery of life by Vlaakith’s necromantic whims, their sinews creaking as they shifted, their faint moans a constant undertone to the palace’s oppressive silence—a chorus of despair that never ceased, never faded. The floor beneath was no less grim: a mosaic of salt flats and blackened quartz, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the grotesque splendor above in distorted, nightmarish hues. Each step upon it echoed with a sharp, crystalline chime, a sound that reverberated through the vastness like the tolling of a funeral bell, its pitch shifting subtly with every impact as if the stone itself mourned.
The chamber stretched wide, its edges lost to shadow, giving the impression of an endless abyss contained within walls. The ceiling, high and vaulted, glistened with veins that doubled as skylights: ornate works of silver crystal that pulsed faintly, like the arteries of some colossal, dormant beast. Their light was cold, sterile, bathing the room in a silvery glow that clashed with the warm violet of the braziers, creating a dissonance that unsettled the eye. Alcoves lined the walls, shadowy recesses where statues of Githyanki warriors stood frozen in mid-strike—some carved from obsidian, others from the bones of fallen enemies, their surfaces polished to a glassy sheen. Their eyes, inlaid with rubies, gleamed in the flickering light, watching, judging, as if the spirits of the slain had been bound within them to serve as eternal sentinels. The air carried whispers—barely audible, a susurrus of voices too faint to discern, yet too persistent to ignore. They seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, from the skulls, from the chained husks, a tapestry of sound that wove despair into the very fabric of the room.
At the chamber’s heart loomed the throne itself: a monstrous thing of fused iron and bone that seemed to pulse with a malevolent will. Its backrest was a lattice of petrified angelic wings—stolen from celestials felled in ages past—their calcified feathers now protruded into jagged spurs that gleamed faintly in the violet light, their tips sharp enough to draw blood at a touch. The iron frame was blackened, warped, as if forged in the fires of a dying star, its surface etched with tir’su runes that glowed faintly when the light struck them just so—symbols of dominion, of unbreakable will. Skulls of demons and warriors alike ringed its base, their eye sockets aglow with crimson pinpricks, as if the souls within still watched, still judged, their silent vigil a testament to the queen who had claimed them. The air around it shimmered with heat and power, a distortion that warped the edges of reality, making the throne appear both solid and ephemeral, a seat woven from the threads of despair itself. Tendrils of faint mist coiled from its base, rising like the breath of a sleeping beast, dissipating into the heavy air only to reform moments later.
Upon this throne sat Vlaakith CLVII, current Lich-Queen and (Self-Proclaimed) Goddess of the Githyanki, her presence -- a storm of cold authority cloaked in an eerie, unnatural stillness. To the casual observer, she was a Githyanki warrior in her prime—tall and wiry, her yellow skin taut over sharp bones, her features angular and fierce, a vision of predatory grace. Her armor gleamed silver, its plates meticulously crafted, hugging her form like a second skin, each curve etched with tir’su runes that pulsed faintly with an inner light—sigils of power, of command. Her hair, a cascade of silver-white, was bound tightly behind her head in a warrior’s braid, its ends brushing the nape of her neck, framing a face that could have been carved from amber—high cheekbones, a predatory jaw, eyes like molten gold that shimmered with a piercing intensity. She was striking, regal, an example of Gith’s ideal preserved in flawless form, her posture erect, her hands rested lightly on the throne’s arms.
And yet, there was something wrong, something that clawed at the edges of perception, a subtle dissonance that betrayed the illusion. She did not blink. Her golden eyes stared unyielding, unsoftened by the flicker of life, their gaze fixed and unrelenting, as if they could pierce through flesh and bone to the soul beneath. Her chest did not rise or fall; her breath, if she ever took any, was an absent thing, a forgotten habit of the living she no longer bothered to emulate. Her hands, splayed against the throne’s iron arms, remained locked in place, fingers rigid, unmoving, their yellow skin unmarred by the creases or calluses of use. It was as if the glamors that cloaked her lich’s form wove a mask that was too perfect, too still—she was a statue masquerading as flesh, caught in a moment of eternal pause. Even her lips, thin and sharp, remained a taut line, devoid of the subtle shifts that marked mortal expression. She forgot how to live, forgot to mimic the rhythms of life, and in that absence lay the unnerving truth: this was no living being, but a thing that had clawed its way beyond death’s grasp.
A sword rested at her side—not sheathed, but impaled into the throne’s base, its blade was a jagged shard of blackened steel that wept a thin trickle of ichor onto the floor, the dark liquid pooling in shallow grooves etched into the quartz. The weapon hummed, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through the chamber, a sound that was both a hymn and a threat, its pitch shifting subtly as if alive with malice.
The silence of the throne room was thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant whispers of the damned walls and the soft clink of chains as an occasional reanimated body shifted in its unending torment. Vlaakith’s stillness was absolute, her gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the chamber’s walls, her mind a labyrinth of control and suspicion. The air around her crackled faintly, a subtle discharge of power that would have made the hairs on one’s neck rise. The violet flames of the braziers flickered in rhythm with her presence, their light dimming and flaring as if responding to an unseen pulse, casting her in a glow that made her skin shimmer faintly—like amber lit from within, yet cold to the touch.
And then, the silence was shattered.
The great doors at the far end of the chamber groaned open, their infernal iron hinges screeching like the cries of the damned, the sound echoing through the vastness with a harsh, grating edge that set the teeth on edge. A figure strode forth, her steps deliberate, her armored boots ringing against the quartz floor with a rhythm that seemed to mock the throne’s oppressive stillness, each chime a sharp counterpoint to the moans of the husks above. Kith’rak Veylith, one of Vlaakith’s most cunning agents, was a tall, wiry Githyanki, her yellow skin marked with the scars of countless battles—thin, white lines that crisscrossed her arms and neck, a map of survival etched into her flesh. Her armor was sleek, utilitarian, its silver plates etched with the tir’su runes denoting her rank, their faint glow pulsing in time with her steps. Her eyes glowed a pale amber, sharp and unyielding, like the edge of a blade catching the light, and her silver sword hung at her hip, currently polished to a flawless shine that belied the blood it frequently drew from her enemies. Veylith carried no fear in her posture, her shoulders squared, her gait steady, but there was a tension in the set of her jaw, a subtle tightness that betrayed the weight of her news.
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Vlaakith’s head turned slowly, unnaturally -- a purely mechanical pivot devoid of mortal grace, her golden eyes locking onto Veylith with an intensity that could pierce souls. The motion was deliberate, predatory, her neck tilting just enough to align her gaze, but her shoulders remained still, her torso still rigid as stone. The air grew heavier, the braziers flaring brighter as the Queen’s attention sharpened, though her expression remained a mask—unblinking, unmoving, her lips a thin slash across her face. Veylith stopped a dozen paces from the throne, dropping to one knee with a grace that belied the urgency in her bearing, her armor clinking softly as she settled. Her voice, when it came, was steady but edged with something raw—something that made the shadows in the room seem to lean closer, their edges sharpening as if drawn to her words.
“My Queen,” she began, her words cutting through the stillness like a blade, each syllable crisp and deliberate. “I bring tidings from the Planes. Tidings… of fracture.”
Vlaakith did not respond, her silence a void that demanded filling. Her fingers, rigid against the throne, did not twitch; her chest remained still. Her golden eyes bore into Veylith, unblinking, their glow intensifying slightly, a faint shimmer that made the air between them ripple. Veylith took a breath, the sound harsh in the deathly quiet of the chamber, and pressed on, her voice gaining speed as the weight of her report spilled forth.
“The Dragon Goddess is silent.”
The words hung in the air, heavy as a falling blade, their echo lingering in the vastness of the chamber. Vlaakith’s gaze flared, her golden eyes glowing brighter for a fraction of a second, the only sign of life in her motionless form—a brief spark that illuminated the amber planes of her face, casting sharp shadows beneath her cheekbones. Her lips remained sealed, her face an unyielding mask, but the air around her thickened with palpable anger, the braziers’ flames licking higher, their violet light painting the walls in streaks of bruised purple. Veylith continued, her voice steady despite the weight of her revelation, her hands resting on her bent knee, fingers flexing slightly as if to ground herself.
“Tiamat’s clerics are powerless. Their prayers echo into nothing, their altars cold as ash, the incense unlit, the offerings untouched. In Tu’narath’s forges, the smiths whisper of rituals failing—flames that once burned with Her blessing now flicker and die, leaving the steel brittle, the edges dull. The older Red Dragons grow restless. Qudenos and his kin still bear our riders – for now – but their obedience frays. The Elder Wyrms—Xarathis, Veymora, Karathax—are making demands. They speak of hoards doubled, of regular tribute in gold and souls beyond what Gith promised, of pacts forged anew with each of them alone. The Kith’raki report unrest in Githmir—riders hesitate before their mounts, their hands lingering on their blades, fearing betrayal from the beasts they once commanded without thought. Without Tiamat’s will to bind the Dragons, their greed awakens, and they are no longer content with the chains of Gith’s pact.”
Veylith’s hands clenched into fists, her knuckles whitening against the dark leather of her gloves, the faint creak of the material audible in the stillness. Her amber eyes flicked upward, meeting Vlaakith’s unblinking stare for a heartbeat before dropping again, her voice lowering as she pressed on. “Worse still, a prophecy stirs among the crèches. Our Seers—the Blind Savants who stared too long into the astral currents—claim Gith herself yet lives, that she walks the Planes once more. They say her return is foretold in the shifting silver tides, in the way the void bends and twists beyond our walls. Warriors now murmur her name in the barracks, their voices low, their eyes turning away from your throne. Some openly question if Tiamat’s silence heralds Gith’s foretold awakening, if she now comes to reclaim what is hers—what you have held in her stead. And…. there have been Omens, my Queen.”
The throne room seemed to contract, the air growing denser, hotter, as Vlaakith’s power coiled around the room like a serpent, invisible but palpable, pressing against the skin like a storm about to break. Her voice, when it finally emerged, was a low, resonant hiss, each syllable deliberate, untouched by the rhythm of breath, its tone cutting through the chamber like a blade of ice.
“Omens?”
The word was a single, sharp note, a lash of power that cracked through the air, silencing the distant moans of the husks, stilling the faint swaying of the chains. Veylith flinched, a barely perceptible shudder that rippled through her frame, but she held her ground, her knee pressed firmly against the quartz, her head bowed lower. Her voice remained steady, though an edge of strain crept into it, a thread of tension that wound tighter with each word. A bead of sweat slowly rolled down her bowed forehead.
“Yes, my Queen. In Xamvadi’m, a clutch of dragon eggs cracked open under the watch of the breeders, revealing nothing but rot, their shells crumbling to dust in their hands, the air thick with the stench of decay. The silver blades of our knights dull without cause, their edges fading as if the forge forgets its craft, the metal flaking away like ash in the wind. Your authority wanes, my Queen, eroded by whispers and omens, by the greed of the wyrms and the tales of the seers.”
Vlaakith rose, her movements slow, mechanical, each motion a deliberate act devoid of the fluidity of life. The scrape of her armor against the throne was a sound like the grinding of bones, a harsh, grating rasp that echoed through the chamber, setting the chains above to trembling. Her aura flared into visibility, casting jagged shadows that stretched across the walls, but her face remained still—too still—her eyes unblinking, her lips a taut line that did not quiver. The sword at her side pulsed, its ichor flowing faster, pooling at her feet in a thin, glistening stream that spread across the quartz like spilled ink, its surface shimmering faintly in the violet light. Her hands lifted, fingers splayed rigid, unmoving, as if the act of flexing them were a forgotten gesture.
“Whispers,” she snarled, the word a lash of power that cracked through the air, silencing the wails once more, the force of it sending a ripple through the braziers’ flames, their violet tongues flaring upward to lick the ceiling. “Tiamat tests my dominion, and my own people dare to falter? Gith’s return is a lie—a tale spun by weaklings who fear my rule, who cling to clouds rather than steel.”
Veylith bowed her head even lower, her braid brushing the floor, her demeanor steady despite the Queen’s wrath, though her hands trembled faintly where they rested on her knee.
Vlaakith’s gaze burned, her golden eyes flaring like twin suns, though her body remained a statue—unmoving, unbreathing, a predator caught in its own trap. The braziers flared higher, their violet flames licking the crystalline ceiling, casting wild shadows that danced across the walls, the skulls, the chained husks. The air grew so thick, it pressed against Veylith’s skin, heavy with the weight of her Queen’s power, the faint crackle of it audible as it arced between her armor’s plates.
Vlaakith felt it now—the threads of her empire fraying, the loyalty she had painstakingly forged through decades of fear and steel slipping through her grasp like sand. The Dragons, once her mightiest weapon, now turned their greedy eyes upon her dominion, their demands a blade at her throat. Her warriors, once unyielding, whispered of a savior long lost, their faith in HER shaken by mere omens and divine silence. Her power, her absolute dominion, teetered on the edge of erosion, and she would not abide it—not while she yet ruled, not while her will still held the Planes in its grasp.
“Summon the Inquisitors,” she commanded, her voice a blade of ice, each word precise, devoid of life’s warmth, cutting through the chamber with a clarity that silenced even the whispers of the walls. “Purge the crèches of the filth—rip the blaspheming tongues from the Seers, let their blood drown their prophecies. Send full war parties to remind the wyrms of their place. They will learn to be content, or they shall perish. I will forge new chains if I must, but they will not defy me. This Empire is mine, and MINE ALONE.”
Vlaakith now floated fully off the ground in a maelstrom of power, her amber eyes gleaming with rage, her posture unnaturally straight Veylith’s armor clinked softly as she stood up – as quickly as decorum allowed without running away outright.
“As you command, my Queen.”
The doors groaned shut behind her, their screeching hinges fading into the distance, and Vlaakith sank back into her throne, her descent as stiff and mechanical as her rise. The chamber’s silence descended once more, thick and oppressive, broken only by the faint moans of the husks and the soft drip of ichor from her sword. But it was not the silence of triumph—it was the silence of a Queen watching her dominion crack, of a ruler who felt the weight of her crown grow more precarious with each whispered doubt. The violet flames dimmed, their light retreating to a faint flicker, casting her back into shadow—a figure of amber and silver, still as death, her unblinking eyes staring into the void.
In the depths of her undead mind, a single, unspoken thought lingered, cold and unyielding.
I will not fall.