Tomb Lord Rlar’thotepmon Kanethiek tilts his head up from his torpor at the sound of some of his subjects, specifically Evolved Zombies Ke’ath and Ke’jiek, approaching this gilded throne. Ke’ath holds in his hands a scroll case, ornate black wood with gold decoratively inlaid throughout. It is obvious from wood being used in it’s construction that it has not come from Kanetheik or anywhere else in the Tomb Lord’s kingdom. The only wood, cloth, paper, and parchment that yet remains in his tomb-home is preserved by magic, and that scroll case clearly contains none.
A correspondence, then. After how many years has someone decided to contact me? Rlar’thotepmon wonders, and knows it is not an invalid concern. A mummy that never leaves their underground domicile and knows nothing of the affairs of the surface, he is not. He is, however, a Tomb Lord, king of a kingdom long buried, quite literally buried in fact. Rlar’thotepmon briefly wonders who might be contacting him, and for what purpose? If it is one of the other Tomb Lords, should any yet live, why contact him now? If it is one of his subjects, why would any of them even be awake?
His answer must wait, as Ke’jiek catches his eye. She’s produced a letter and a golden letter opener from somewhere on her person, and he watches as she takes a few steps closer to his throne, and prostrates herself, holding the letter and opener outstretched above her head. Ke’ath does the same, though he places the scroll case on the ground beside him, to take a decidedly more militaristic knee as opposed to Ke’jeik reverent prayer form.
“Rise, and speak to me of what business is brought here today.” Rlar’thotepmon lets the words flow with his full regal authority, and waves his hand in a grandiose gesture to disguise the act of getting into a slightly more presentable posture.
“My Liege Rlar’thotepmon Kanetheik the XI, I, General Ke’ath of the Thousand Legions, have received correspondence from our ancient ally, the Vampire Lord-Queen Sathris in the east. One of her personal court attendants, Count Versan, brought it to your humble servant with a request to deliver it to you.” Ke’ath, always the first to speak of the two siblings, gives what Rlar’thotepmon trusts is his full report, and nods to him in response. He turns his gaze to Ke’jiek, and waits for her to lift her head to speak.
“My Lord Rlar’thotepmon Kanetheik the Eternal, I, High Priestess Ke’jiek, have received letter from another of our allies, the Lich Lord Numeriaa, also brought by one of his personal attendants, with a similar request.”
“Ease, my servants. I shall read these messages, but first, the state of my kingdom, and the world at large.” Rlar’thotepmon addresses ‘his kingdom’ to Ke’jiek, and ‘world at large’ to Ke’ath, for no other reason than to give them each something to do.
“Yes, Lord, to my knowledge, the lands beyond the desert have not changed much in the last two hundred years, but the desert elves within the desert, upriver the south, have been overthrown, replaced by a human merchant kingdom seeking to utilize the rivermouth’s strategic location as a trade hub. I fear I know not much else of the outside lands, lord.” Ke’jiek’s news is not good, per se, but Rlar’thotepmon feels that the affairs of mortal kingdoms are more or less irrelevant, as he’d wager that this new human nation will be gone within a hundred years or so. He turns his attention to Ke’ath.
“There is no change in any of the major or minor tombs, save one. A group of adventurers raided and destroyed Tomb Je’lek fifty three years ago, and I have received no word of them since.” Ke’ath’s less formal tone now is a welcome change to Rlar’thotepmon. Just as he’d hoped, a few hundred years of separation from his sister had indeed made him less uptight.
“Thank you, my servants. I will now read the messages. Ke’jiek.” He does not need to finish the command before she approaches and hands the Tomb Lord the letter an opener.
The wax seal is indeed that of Numeriaa, and does indeed bear the [Mark] spell within the mundane one, so Rlar’thotepmon is certain it is genuine. Slowly, he slides the letter opener underneath the wax, separating it from the letter’s main body before he pulls the flap back and retrieves the folded paper within. As expected of Numeriaa, the text is incomprehensible, if only because it is obviously coded. It is not a code one could decipher easily though, the code’s true cipher is most certainly lost to history, given that the language Numeriaa originally wrote the cipher in no longer exists. Still, it only takes the Tomb Lord a few minutes to read the real message in its entirety.
Sworn Member of the Council and My True Friend, Rlar’thotepmon Kanethiek the XI,
These words are for you, and you alone. The most terrible magics lay upon them, none other than the guilt that someone other than the intended recipient reading them will know exactly with whom they have trifled.
It is with regret that I first inform you that our number is reduced from the time of our last correspondence. The Wraith Lord, Crypt Lord, and Plague Lords have all fallen. The first two fell to our ancient enemy, the Cult of Undeath’s perversion of our patron deities will persists even to this era, it seems. The Plague Lord fell quite recently, just a few months ago, in fact, to a group of adventurers in the west.
Enough of current events, though. Queen Sathris has called for a meeting of all the remaining council members, for what reason, I know not. I simply wished to write you biddings of goodwill, and my assurances that I will also be attending Sathris’s meeting. Even if only four of us still exist of our original seven, and even if this meeting is to be the disbanding of our council, I still wish to remain allies on good terms with you, as a fellow undead ruler and as a friend. Rlar’thotepmon, I fear the world may be changing soon, and the time may come when we must act, rather than hide.
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Your Ancient and Most Faithful Friend,
Numeriaa the Twice Blessed
--
“Welcome, Rlar’thotepmon, it seems you are the last to arrive, as usual.” The jab comes from Sathris, and he briefly thinks on how best to return her banter.
“And you, Sathris, came so early, it’s a wonder that jester of yours is satisfied with your performance.” A low blow, to be sure, but such an exchange is the perfect way to ease the tensions among the room occupied by so many powerful undead.
“Rlar’thotepmon, it is a gift to see you well after so long.” The Savage Lord, Efrati, makes himself known, but quickly falls silent again. Rlar’thotepmon looks over the wiry man, and sighs. A mortal by birth, as they all were once were, save Sathris, Efrati’s condition is unique even among sentient undead.
A mortal fleshcrafter becoming an undead after performing so many experiments on himself is to be expected of course, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that even his magics and techniques probably cannot keep him from Eternia’s clutches for many more centuries.
“How fares your experiments, Efrati?” Rlar’thotepmon makes sure to give the man ample time to think, and is somewhat surprised by the response.
“Unwell. In the past thirty years, I made some progress in the grafting of souls onto otherwise incompatible bodies, but I have yet to find a way to truly preserve my own, save taking up Sathris’s offer or turning to lichdom. As it is, I do not have many years left, old friend.” Efrati slumps back into the specially made chair, and sighs again. Rlar’thotepmon decides not to disturb the councils slightly less than immortal member and further.
“Nume, I wish to thank you personally for your letter. I always enjoy hearing of you.” Rlar’thotepmon directs his voice towards the purple skeleton adorned only by inky sinew, and Numeriaa laughs as he stands.
The embrace they share is brief, but reminds Rlar’thotepmon of the better times, of days past when they needed not worry about ruling the realms beneath the sands or tending the Dragon Library. To say nothing of hiding themselves eternally from the surface world, and the madness that might have claimed all seven of the council's original members had they not found eachother.
“Rlar, I believe all this dawdling is making Sath angry.” Numeriaa’s abridging of names is something of a trademark of his, and it brings a smile to the faces of all for a moment. He does have a point though, and so Rlar’thotepmon takes his seat in between the seat of the late Plague Lord and Efrati. Missing three members, the crescent shaped table feels so… empty.
He wasn’t close with the three that are now gone, not in the way he is close to Numeriaa or Sathris, but still, it stings to have some of the only people in the entire world whom he could truly relate to, whom he could truly bare his heart to, be gone forever. Even undead can feel like that too after all, if the emotion is strong enough. Sathris struts around the table, and picks up a few scrolls, some papers, and other items with her as she walks to the affectionately nicknamed ‘teaching chair’. Rlar’thotepmon hopes it isn’t the dissolution of their council, but knows his fears are unfounded when the vampire takes the care to readjust her bosom before speaking.
“With the news that Plague Lord Gigungre was slain, I sent scouts out into the world. I wanted to know if we were being hunted, if there were any threats to us, anything. I found a couple things that are… a bit different, but I wanted to share them with you.” Sathris takes out a scroll, and unrolls it in her hands, before hanging it up on the magical board that led to the teaching chair’s namesake. Her fingers trace a few lines on the map, and then she turns to continue. “There’s a war between some of the human kingdoms, Riverta and Etrest, but before it broke out, the former of the two sent out high level adventurers to search for an undead one of their princesses saw in a prophecy. This information came from one of said princesses maids directly via her becoming one of my subordinate’s thralls, so I trust it. I think they’re the ones that-”
“Gigungre was in one of the dungeons around there, sleeping in the heart of a dungeon in a swamp… So I guess that explains how he went. Damn.” Efrati is the one to interrupt Sathris first, which, to Rlar’thotepmon’s recollection, is the shortest amount of time between Sathris beginning speaking from the teaching chair and being interrupted.
“Yes, that’s right, but that wasn’t what those adventurers were looking for, at least, I don’t think so. Which leads to the next thing I found…” Sathris pulls out another scroll, as well as three opened letters, and passes the scroll to Numeriaa, who takes it and begins reading.
“‘United Churches of the Goodly Gods… bounty… information… [Untouchable]’!? Why in the name of the gods would the churches be hunting an [Untouchable]? In this age?” Numeriaa’s brief summary of the scroll’s contents is both enough for Rlar’thotepmon to believe he has a grasp on what exactly Sathris is trying to get and enough to completely shake him to his core.
“Yes, Numeriaa, an [Untouchable] walks among us once more. I think it might be time for us to step into the light, once more, to stop hiding and rebuild what we all once had.” Sathris sits in the teaching chair and leans back for a moment, before flicking the letters in her hands as Rlar’thotepmon says the piece he feels should obviously follow her statement,
“Why? All the faiths under the sun and quite a few that aren’t are sure to be mobilizing and unifying more than ever, what about that makes this a good time for us to attempt to claim kingdoms for sentient undead, exactly?”
“Because the undead they were looking for before the war is the [Untouchable], and what’s more, my sources say that over the last week or two, a portion of land near a dungeon on the border has gone silent, and I think that’s where this undead is.” Sathris smiles and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and putting her chin on her hands, before she continues. “With an [Untouchable] as our ally, not even that false Cult would be able to stop us. I’d like to call a vote to go pay him a visit.”