Post by Deleted on Jan 1, 2009 13:08:12 GMT -5
((Stuff I probably won't finish unless told to. Friend told me to put it up, so here it is.))
Part I
As I set these words on paper, I think to myself how bizarre a thing the world is. So much known and yet for all of our knowledge, Man and Liche still ponder at so much of Velurgren's majesty. So often is pride awoken in the hearts of those of Celestial descent as it is within those of mortal descent. My name is Akidamus, son of Velario, and I am one of the survivors from the expedition into the Chavari Peaks. The story is strange, and many of you will turn your noses up and call it nonsense. Even my more educated companions within the Imperial College of Thaumaturgy seem to think me mad, but the Liches know I am no madman. Of course, what man will trust what they say? For every truth a Liche tells, he will tell seven more half-truths, each with double-meanings. Regardless of your opinion of me, fool or survivor, this is what transgressed in those treacherous mountains.
The account begins in mid summer, if I recall. My friends and I were on leave from work in the mines for some rest and recreation. We were in the southwestern border of Eastwood, hunting small game and the occasional goblin gathering. Their small black magic circles were indeed cowardly, and it was most entertaining to watch their witches scamper away in fear. One evening, we had just quelled a goblin hunting celebration when a Liche came down the road on our left. Any adventurous man reading this will know that such is common, if unwelcome.
The Liche rode the staple mount of his kind; a bizarre horse-like creature with an elongated neck, black scaly skin and a loping gait. With him came his horrid servants. Necromancy is prohibited from the Imperial College of Thaumaturgy, but the Liches are not so picky (Hence the name). Necromancy is among the most popular forms of magic to them, and they are not lax in displaying their talent in mystical puppetry of soulless flesh. In his entourage, he had an escort of six skeletons bearing spears and shields flanking a chariot on which were several crates of supplies. Driving the two scaled black beasts was a Transcended Celestian, called "Ghosts" by the Orc. (An educated man would know better, but the Orc are anything but educated.)
The Liche stood staring at us for many aeons, it felt, addressing us with his beady dark blue eyes. I shuddered; "the eyes are the portal to the soul," a wise man once taught me. What dark knowledge must creep about such a beings mind! Finally, his croaking voice broke the silence in way that made the stillness almost more favourable. "Humans adventuring in Eastwood, hm?" A short sentence, drawn out over the course of ten seconds. The Liches did not struggle with the Trade tongue, but they knew of so many languages, young and old, that it was easy to confuse words. Indeed, the Trade tongue is a dialect of dwarfish, oddly enough. The blasted heathens of the south are not a factor in this tale, so I shall speak no more of their blighted existence. Darugan, being the unofficial spokesman for our collective, said, "No sir, just hunting for recreation. We are on leave from work for some time, so we take advantage of the opportunity." The Liche seemed to absorb the words like a sponge, contemplating their significance like those of a majestic incantation. Spontaneously and without prompt to the manner of the request, he said, "I am leading an expedition into the Northern Peaks tomorrow, men. My superiors see substantial amounts of magic there, and as per my duty in joining my particular order, I must seek out all profound sources of magic. Will you come?" Needless to say, we were all rather stunned by the terrifying request. Why us? we thought. We are but simple working men, we do not want to explore! we thought. But then I remembered what has been said of the Liches; their decisions are so beyond our own. They would sacrifice a newborn child for the betterment of the world, and then not lend aid to the more civil Orc tribes under attack from the trolls. Stranger still, was his demeanor in such a monumental request. It was as though he ask we go to the grocer for him.
He asked if he may make camp beside our own settlement. To this, we obliged, if awkwardly. We lay awake long by the fire that night as the gravity of the situation sank in. The coal black skin of the standing, yet slumbering Liche barely reflected the crude light of the fire and his dark crimson robes flowed strangely in the cool breeze. His hands and lower legs stuck from out his robes, and they were armoured in gray, contoured steel. Every vestige of his existence that evening was made from mystery to cosmic terror at what might be concealed beneath the crimson vault of Armour and cloth.
With effort, we at last fell to sleep.
Day broke late, it seemed. For all the short terror we experienced last night, our slumber was all around well. It was approximately 9:00 A.M. and pleasantly warm. The Liche's temperature contraption estimated it to be about 25 degrees, to which we all uneasily agreed.
We decided to breakfast with some fine strips of bear meat, a loaf of bread, and some local spring water. As we ate and chatted, the Liche counseled with his masters in Zirthoj through a multicoloured shifting orb. I say shifting because that is the only term to explain its completely strange surface. It was not any solid colour or sheen, but a rainbow maze of knotted colours and lustres. One of our companions, a proud city fellow by the name of Mitliar, approached the Liche on the odd sphere. "Tell me, Liche; what is that you speak and see into? I have not seen those beyond the halls of the Imperial College of Thaumaturgy or the Officer's Quarter's in the Grand Imperial Army Barracks. Are you a thief to procure such an artifact?" The Liche glanced his way with those damnable eyes, seeing deep into his mind. Reading it as easily as a man reads the Daily Courier, he saw the man's pride and frustration plainly as we see the sun. "I... am no... thief." He said, drawing breath with each pause. "These were made... by my people... donations to your kind... by our emissaries. We have many... creations… you have few." The slowness and grandeur of the Liche's statement silenced even proud Mitliar. Such was seemingly impossible, as if the conviction behind the words themselves were that which silenced us.
"Follow." He said plainly, mounting on his steed and gesturing to our own. "To your capital of Talsindar. I require more than hunters; mercenaries, explorers, men of action." At least we could be home for a brief period, but one question still haunted me. Mustering up all the courage in soul, I asked him, "What is your name, master Liche?" He turned slowly on me, stabbing my spirit again with those eagle claw eyes. "I am Lord Chavar, member of the Order of Vostryardu."
And at that, we rode for Talsindar.
PART II
I must say, I was always captivated whenever I enter man's cradle of Talsindar. Such a monument to our society's achievements and such a fitting place for it to be governed. Gleaming marble spires and a sea of pillared structures spread far as the eye can see, and the walls overseen by captured and pacified Minotaur. Clumsy beasts, but intelligent enough to know loyalty. In the streets, people muddle about toward their respective destinations, shopkeeps and merchants try desperately to sell their wares, and men of the Imperial Legion keep watchful protection over all.
Many races flood the streets of man; the occasional Syrdak, an ogre, an orc, even a dragon soaring above us. Even with this variety of peoples, Lord Chavar still stood out like an open wound on flawless flesh. Other than the coal-black of his skin and the scab red of his robes, he was a figure of confidence and knowledge. Following him, we stopped at several merchant stands; I've half a mind to say each one. He would spend only a minute or two, buying strange and worthless items, then suddenly combining them into a magnificent item of magic technology. He spoke of magic, the sciences, and whole manner of topics that befuddle ones mind when taken in all at once.
We at last arrived at Kasta Circle; an immense oval in the centre of the city near the courts, senate and Imperial Capital. Here gathered much of the city's inhabitants when seeking only the finest wares. Was there ever more gold exchanged through so many hands at once other than Kasta Circle? I do doubt it. Our leader slowly rounded on us, again blasting us with those tiny eyes. "I've no more need of you. Be off." Obviously, we were relieved and shocked. Not that we desired to venture to the Northern Mountains, but why change his mind so suddenly? I inquired him about this, to which he said, "I needed you for part of the expedition, yes. The way from Eastwood to Talsindar, I knew not. Indeed, I may have consulted my instruments, but then I could not request that you come with me now." It is true what they say about Liches; their words always carry something you never expect or prepare for. No wonder Arbiters despise them so much.
All of my comrades stayed mounted and rode off, frustrated that such a haughty being had disrupted their recreation time. Finding fascination in the esoteric, I chose to remain with the Liche. Who knows what secret knowledge might be in the Northern Mountains? Lord Chavar's subtle excitement was contagious and terrifying.
He set up a stand of sorts. Little more than an outlandish sign with curious runes that, somehow, I could understand. This is what they said.
The first one to take notice was a rather striking Feral Elf woman. She wore a long knife and shortsword as weapons, an elaborate kerchief obscuring her face, a short leather cape and leather armour with unchaste tightness. She approached with a loathsomely confident attitude and looked over the sign, glancing toward the impassive Liche, then winking at myself. I regret confessing, I was aroused sexually by the act, but I repressed the thought as I remember the quality of a Feral Elf's soul; cold and black as midnight winter. "Northern Mountains, eh Lichey?" Her voice was not as mellow as her appearance, to say the least. Beautiful, but sounded much like a wily adolescent speaking to authority. The Liche nodded, unmoved. "Well, whaddya call a dame who’s just looking for a good thrill, eh?" She felt across her legs seductively, but Chavar was entirely unaffected. "A female elf seeking an adventure. You would be an Adventurer. Your payment will be any non-dangerous and already discovered magic artifacts. Now must I teach you arithmetic while I explain that which is carved there as plainly as the stars?" Her pride wounded, but her greed and dangerous thrill seeking greater, she signed the contract he presented and left to fetch her own steed.
Later that same hour, another visitor approached the humble stand where we sought more to venture into the North. He was a tall Orc; obviously a mercenary, judging from the honourary Orc mark on his gauntlet. Chainmail rustled as he looked over the poster with animate interest. "You're the one leading this, man?" I was beaten back by the volume of his booming baritone, but said "No, sir Orc. The master of this expedition is the Liche there." Walking tall toward Chavar, he signed the mercenary contract and left for the Irongut Tavern. All this made obvious by the loud monologue he had with himself.
Next to arrive was, strangely, another Feral Elf woman. This one was obviously of higher standing than her predecessor, as she wore elaborate and decorated robes whilst mounted on a steed borne from conjuring. The Liche found much more interest in her than any other member so far. She seemed a learned woman, for sure, but something about her made my spine freeze. She hardly spoke a word, but she and the Liche must have made their deal. At her departure, I swore I saw the Liche tinker with one of his bizarre instruments, but I spoke not of it. His knowledge of magic was infinitely beyond my own.
It must have been an hour's passing before another gentleman took notice of our humble stand. A bulky Syrdak, wielding a mace and axe by either side of his hip, wearing decorated and painted chainmail across his body. Upon his serpentine head, he bore no helmet or coif, but a small false topknot. This led me to believe he was a knight of the Order of Gwekstak; a particularly renowned Syrdak knightly order. He observed the sign thoughtfully, exchanging a stony glance between myself and Lord Chavar. "The northern peaks are dangerous, Liche. What exactly is it you're seeking?" Chavar stood unflinching before the guttural, accusing tenor. "It is vital to anyone who seeks to draw on magic that my expedition does not fail, Syrdak. You can help, or you can cling to the Gods while their power is drained from the world into these peaks." I was shellshocked. He had not spoken of the enormity of the expedition, but it seemed as though much hung in its success. So many questions borne of this answer, as usual from a Liche. Why was he gathering a motley crew of adventurers? Why not tell the Grand Imperial Legion? Why not inform the College of Thaumaturgy? The Syrdak remained heavy-set. "That does put a damper on things, doesn't it?" He cast a small spell that made wind blow viciously along the blade of his ace, sharpening it more than any blade wheel. "Very well then. Do you need me to sign something or return to a location at a given time?" Chavar's ire seemed to rise modestly but for what reason, I cannot know. "City gates. Nightfall." The Syrdak nodded, turned quickly from us, and left in a brisk pace.
The last one to join us was an unwelcome balance to the party thus far. Before, we had gathered those with a modicum of intelligence, but this Ogre slave was thick as his waist. For clothing, he bore little more than filthy pants, a large shirt that exposed his bulbous chest, and boots a whole child could comfortably fit in. For a weapon or tool, I could not tell, but he carried an immense steel hammer; easily as large as myself. "Oi, blacky. Dis be goin' ta da mount'ins, huh?" he boomed. Chavar saw something to use with him, which I failed to recognize. The northern peaks were the Ogres homeland; what better way to have a navigator? However, the Ogre memory was entirely visual, so we'd get obscure turns at certain sights, no doubt. "Yes, Ogre. The north peaks are our destination. You wish to come, I'm guessing?" The Ogre adjusted himself, swinging his hammer down the the cobblestone street and cracking it. "Dere gonna be somefin' innit fer me, blacky? I's need to git away from my masta befo'e he know I git away." Chavar did not require an explaination; just needed the Ogre. "Yes. Go to the city gates at nightfall. You will be free after our venture." The Ogre beamed, his large filthy teeth gleaming with dirty meat. "Awright, blacky, Gates at nigh'faw." At that, he thudded off.
Come twilight, the two Feral Elves and the Orc returned. They all introduced themselves, which makes it easier for me to tell my tale. The Feral Elf in the leather was Arcelai Faithbreak, the conjurer Feral Elf went by Nykallius Heartrender, and the Orc introduced himself as Maklerus Ironblood. If I knew each person more intricately, I may have left at that time, but fate was cruel and I stayed for the nightmare to come within those hellish mountains.
PART III
Nightfall came both sooner and later than I had hoped. Sooner, because I was anxious to venture into the mountains with my esoteric guide. Later, because I feared what we may discover was causing the disaster Chavar was apparently investigating. Could it be true that some diabolical force was draining the magic of the Gods away from the world? My mind reeled at the
possibilities of such a terror. Regardless of our fears or imagined doom, our mismatched gang and Chavar's retinue made toward the main gates. By the Five Most High, what a splendour they were! Magnificent statues of old kings and emperors, etched tear-jerkingly beautiful from what must have been acres of marble. Once again, a testament to mankind's glorious dominion in Velurgren.
The three moons, Aslei, Gevilian and Vekal, glared down at us like the prying eyes of the Great Worm himself; the stars were akin to the angels that would carry us to the hereafter. Wherever I looked to the once-captivating night sky, I saw my doom looming over me like a shadow. The entourage, however, seemed relatively unaffected. Maklerus fingered a Kraken tooth in a charm necklace of his, probably remarking to his ancestors. Arcelai leaned arousingly on one leg, fumbling with a dagger in boredom. Nykallius was impossible to read, however. Her violet eyes seemed to glow in the black moonlight, and I felt my flesh crawl. As always, the damnable Chavar sat atop his steed impassively. His confidence was contagious, however. Confidence or madness I mused. In spite of the brooding night, I maintained composure and awaited the others as the Ogre and Syrdak were absorbed into our motley group.
The Ogre called himself Gorgnuthog; apparently, he knew his way fairly well around the Peaks, so we felt blessed to have him in our collective. The Syrdak was even more welcome when he explained he was one of his order’s healers. Introducing himself as Sir Masrajunn, he had apparently been sent from his Order to find an adventuring party like this to offer his aid. Fortune had it that we would be so privileged for him to join us. His attitude was humble and wise; a welcome addition to the contrasting assembly of swashbucklers and scientists.
Lord Chavar made space for the Ogre in his Celestian-driven cart, ushered his undead servants aboard, and we took the path to northern Eastwood, by the town of Paradarus.
Despite his lack of a mount, Maklerus was able to keep a good pace with us in running. How he did not tire, I cannot say. I suspected malign forces but remembering the legendary Orc superstitiousness, dismissed it without a thought. He talked at length about battles, sieges and other blood-coated feats he had accomplished.
Gorgnuthog slept through much of the journey, waking only to eat, rancidly relieve himself, or to adjust his position. Each time, I pried with questions about the mountains. Apparently, Chavar approved, as he asked for clarification on many of my inquiries. The Ogre usually replied only to yes or no questions, or grunting when he "di'n't wanna talk no more." It was much like speaking to a young child; a very large child who could tear you limb from limb with little effort.
Arcelai caught my lustful eye a number of times, but in my heart, I knew the rotten gutter that was her soul. Even the way she rode her mount was decadent, and describing it would make me feel an unchaste man. Her auburn hair was tied back, exposing her entire angelic face, and it travelled about halfway down her back. She was tall, little shorter than the massive Liche who we followed. I firmly beleive saying more would distract my male readers, which would deter my purpose in this account.
Nykallius was more eerie than stunning, however. Beautiful, yes, as all elves were, but her gaze... her eyes. It seemed unnatural, unknowable. Possibly in communion with the Great Nemesis? I doubted it, but I was correct... in a way. She was a witch, I found out after a lengthy and somewhat one-sided conversation with her. Drawing her power from the Dread Scyleroth, but owing him no loyalty whatsoever. Like a leech to a God, she sucked his power and used it for her own ends. One man I knew was a warlock himself, and he used the stolen magic for the betterment of man. Feral Elves have no pride in anything but their individual selves, however, so I assume that is where their pilfered power is applied.
Sir Masrajunn was amiable, if somewhat quiet. He often prayed during the tour, devoting himself to the Five Most High and tending to his axe and mace. Such callous weapons for a knight, I thought, but the Syrdak were a tough breed. When they could not sway the foe with holy conviction, they made their statement in crushing blows of blade and bludgeon.
Paradarus is, for lack of a better term, an embarrassment to the Empire, I think. Her walls are overrun with the moss of Eastwood, her people live in foul shacks homes, and her overall appearance looks not unlike a carpenter's nightmare... or a poet's dream, depending on the author.
Chavar turned his chill gaze to me, and ordered that I purchase us some provisions within the town. When I asked him why I must go into this ghost village, he mentioned the excessive terror these people lived in with the Goblin infestation. The Syrdak and game hunters, vigilant though they were to slay Goblins, could not stem the impossible tide of green tormentors. This led to profound distrust of any non-human who entered, possibly even open hostility. The Liche were almost unheard-of in this region, so Chavar wisely chose not to provoke unnecessary violence.
I meekly approached the miserable hamlet and stood for what felt like four milennia before the gate, shouting for entry. Finally, a haggard and middle aged guard stood atop the parapet and answered with "Whaddya want, stranger? You best have a good reason for coming in here, or are you one of those dwarves again? We oughta pin you with arrows right now, so speak up oe we let fly!" My blood surged through my body as I explained the situation, leaving out the sensitive details. "No, no, I am no dwarf! My companions and I are part of an exploration group to the northern mountains. I simply need to obtain us provisions!" The guard did not respond for several minutes, and the dawn began to break. I shivered, realizing how cold the night truly was. All the while he was absent, I pondered why he had cared if I was a dwarf. A dwarf was a rare sight in these parts, nar, anywhere beyond their jungles. Such thoughts played through my head until he, at last, returned. He admitted me to the dredge town and I beheld a dominion I did not envy in the slightest. Only the capitol structure and temple were made of stone; everything else was built by wood upon the ruins of old structures. The entire scene broke one's heart and made even the most optimistic man feel dismal. I strode briskly to the markets which were just opening, and glanced at the rising sun through the thick trees. Though the night was dry, the morning dew made the trees and air damp. If any peace was to be felt in this miserable borough, it would be in the scene I had just detailed. Disheartening, to say the least.
When the food stand opened, I meandered to it, observing the cheap wares of the other merchants. A blacksmith, a palm reader, a book provisioner, even a sorceror's stand by the name of "Cheap and Practical Magic." I stopped only for a moment to pay a mere 6 gold coins to learn the words to a weak fire spell for lighting a pipe. Handy, if I do say so myself.
Upon reaching my destination, I made purchase of half a peck of apples, a large pouch of salted crackers, and a handful of a local delicacy called "Devil Tail," smoked sausage dunked in ground tomato paste. With these, I felt as though everyone's pallette would be satisfied. I thanked the shop owner, and ventured back to our motley assortment of adventurers.
I returned at approximately the same time as Maklerus and Sir Masrajunn. They bore two buckets of water each, and I took it that Chavar had ordered them to obtain it for us. He and Nykallius chatted about subjects that only the most learned man could hope to understand, whereas Maklerus and Masrajunn discussed their battle feats which only a soldier could comprehend. Gorgnuthog was awake and munching loudly on a whole deer. I assumed Arcelai had slain it, due to the blood on her daggers and the grin on her face as I gulped at the gorey sight. An ogre eating is not for the faint of heart.
After the lethargic being had his fill of meat and drink, he pulled himself onto Chavar's cart, our wily fellowship mounted, and we made for the Jainor Foothills at the base of the mountains with all the heed of a child running to it's mother.
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Vasmidi pulled tight on the reigns of his raptor, ordering the beast to slow and stop. Here’s the place… he thought absentmindedly as he looked over the desecrated grounds. He remembered the last time he was in the Eastern Plaguelands, slaughtering civilians and fool Light crusaders not unlike a force of nature. Indeed, the Lich King was anything but natural, but his force of will was akin to such.
Gory, bloated mushrooms dotted the ruined landscape, appearing as ruddy boils bursting from the ground. Shambled and blasted homes were scattered liberally, the wreckage of each betraying no known rhyme or reason to the layout of the town. In hindsight, there had been a structure to the settlement, but such was the carnage unleashed in the furious assault on it, that not even the earth itself was left truly intact.
He dismounted the hissing reptile, feeling his feet sink slightly into the marshy, sucking ground. Oddly enough, his recollection told him to expect otherwise yet again. Weeks ago, he would have sworn this was fresh green grass rather than mucus-like purple lichen. Not that he would have preferred that way, not in the least, but it added to the mounting disturbed feeling one gets when in the presence of the Lich King’s handiwork.
Just beyond the obliterated village, he saw a blood elf woman making way to him upon a dark, burning steed. His blood rushed through his body as fury rushed through his mind; snippets of recent memories flashed though his diseased brain. Wedding, Kaezius, Stranglethorn, the Travelers, Atal’Hakkari, Vaerannis, Oshu’Narash, Sedition, Vykalidan, each leading in some obscure way to another. All of these bridges, forming at incoherent and confusing intervals, formed a massive web through his startled head. Despite the fact the woman was not who he thought it was, the mere chance that it could have been her sent him reeling.
The seemingly separate and meaningless memories began to clumsily stitch together. Losing his death knight status may have restored his memory, but the significance and association of each was another matter entirely. He remembered his life as it was in its completion once again, and snarled at the prospect of being so humbled by a lesser being. An elf no less; a woman no less! He couldn’t imagine anything more degrading, more insulting, or more wretched! A tempest of volatile passion blazed through him, driving his already plagued mind into further insanity and vileness.
Part I
As I set these words on paper, I think to myself how bizarre a thing the world is. So much known and yet for all of our knowledge, Man and Liche still ponder at so much of Velurgren's majesty. So often is pride awoken in the hearts of those of Celestial descent as it is within those of mortal descent. My name is Akidamus, son of Velario, and I am one of the survivors from the expedition into the Chavari Peaks. The story is strange, and many of you will turn your noses up and call it nonsense. Even my more educated companions within the Imperial College of Thaumaturgy seem to think me mad, but the Liches know I am no madman. Of course, what man will trust what they say? For every truth a Liche tells, he will tell seven more half-truths, each with double-meanings. Regardless of your opinion of me, fool or survivor, this is what transgressed in those treacherous mountains.
The account begins in mid summer, if I recall. My friends and I were on leave from work in the mines for some rest and recreation. We were in the southwestern border of Eastwood, hunting small game and the occasional goblin gathering. Their small black magic circles were indeed cowardly, and it was most entertaining to watch their witches scamper away in fear. One evening, we had just quelled a goblin hunting celebration when a Liche came down the road on our left. Any adventurous man reading this will know that such is common, if unwelcome.
The Liche rode the staple mount of his kind; a bizarre horse-like creature with an elongated neck, black scaly skin and a loping gait. With him came his horrid servants. Necromancy is prohibited from the Imperial College of Thaumaturgy, but the Liches are not so picky (Hence the name). Necromancy is among the most popular forms of magic to them, and they are not lax in displaying their talent in mystical puppetry of soulless flesh. In his entourage, he had an escort of six skeletons bearing spears and shields flanking a chariot on which were several crates of supplies. Driving the two scaled black beasts was a Transcended Celestian, called "Ghosts" by the Orc. (An educated man would know better, but the Orc are anything but educated.)
The Liche stood staring at us for many aeons, it felt, addressing us with his beady dark blue eyes. I shuddered; "the eyes are the portal to the soul," a wise man once taught me. What dark knowledge must creep about such a beings mind! Finally, his croaking voice broke the silence in way that made the stillness almost more favourable. "Humans adventuring in Eastwood, hm?" A short sentence, drawn out over the course of ten seconds. The Liches did not struggle with the Trade tongue, but they knew of so many languages, young and old, that it was easy to confuse words. Indeed, the Trade tongue is a dialect of dwarfish, oddly enough. The blasted heathens of the south are not a factor in this tale, so I shall speak no more of their blighted existence. Darugan, being the unofficial spokesman for our collective, said, "No sir, just hunting for recreation. We are on leave from work for some time, so we take advantage of the opportunity." The Liche seemed to absorb the words like a sponge, contemplating their significance like those of a majestic incantation. Spontaneously and without prompt to the manner of the request, he said, "I am leading an expedition into the Northern Peaks tomorrow, men. My superiors see substantial amounts of magic there, and as per my duty in joining my particular order, I must seek out all profound sources of magic. Will you come?" Needless to say, we were all rather stunned by the terrifying request. Why us? we thought. We are but simple working men, we do not want to explore! we thought. But then I remembered what has been said of the Liches; their decisions are so beyond our own. They would sacrifice a newborn child for the betterment of the world, and then not lend aid to the more civil Orc tribes under attack from the trolls. Stranger still, was his demeanor in such a monumental request. It was as though he ask we go to the grocer for him.
He asked if he may make camp beside our own settlement. To this, we obliged, if awkwardly. We lay awake long by the fire that night as the gravity of the situation sank in. The coal black skin of the standing, yet slumbering Liche barely reflected the crude light of the fire and his dark crimson robes flowed strangely in the cool breeze. His hands and lower legs stuck from out his robes, and they were armoured in gray, contoured steel. Every vestige of his existence that evening was made from mystery to cosmic terror at what might be concealed beneath the crimson vault of Armour and cloth.
With effort, we at last fell to sleep.
Day broke late, it seemed. For all the short terror we experienced last night, our slumber was all around well. It was approximately 9:00 A.M. and pleasantly warm. The Liche's temperature contraption estimated it to be about 25 degrees, to which we all uneasily agreed.
We decided to breakfast with some fine strips of bear meat, a loaf of bread, and some local spring water. As we ate and chatted, the Liche counseled with his masters in Zirthoj through a multicoloured shifting orb. I say shifting because that is the only term to explain its completely strange surface. It was not any solid colour or sheen, but a rainbow maze of knotted colours and lustres. One of our companions, a proud city fellow by the name of Mitliar, approached the Liche on the odd sphere. "Tell me, Liche; what is that you speak and see into? I have not seen those beyond the halls of the Imperial College of Thaumaturgy or the Officer's Quarter's in the Grand Imperial Army Barracks. Are you a thief to procure such an artifact?" The Liche glanced his way with those damnable eyes, seeing deep into his mind. Reading it as easily as a man reads the Daily Courier, he saw the man's pride and frustration plainly as we see the sun. "I... am no... thief." He said, drawing breath with each pause. "These were made... by my people... donations to your kind... by our emissaries. We have many... creations… you have few." The slowness and grandeur of the Liche's statement silenced even proud Mitliar. Such was seemingly impossible, as if the conviction behind the words themselves were that which silenced us.
"Follow." He said plainly, mounting on his steed and gesturing to our own. "To your capital of Talsindar. I require more than hunters; mercenaries, explorers, men of action." At least we could be home for a brief period, but one question still haunted me. Mustering up all the courage in soul, I asked him, "What is your name, master Liche?" He turned slowly on me, stabbing my spirit again with those eagle claw eyes. "I am Lord Chavar, member of the Order of Vostryardu."
And at that, we rode for Talsindar.
PART II
I must say, I was always captivated whenever I enter man's cradle of Talsindar. Such a monument to our society's achievements and such a fitting place for it to be governed. Gleaming marble spires and a sea of pillared structures spread far as the eye can see, and the walls overseen by captured and pacified Minotaur. Clumsy beasts, but intelligent enough to know loyalty. In the streets, people muddle about toward their respective destinations, shopkeeps and merchants try desperately to sell their wares, and men of the Imperial Legion keep watchful protection over all.
Many races flood the streets of man; the occasional Syrdak, an ogre, an orc, even a dragon soaring above us. Even with this variety of peoples, Lord Chavar still stood out like an open wound on flawless flesh. Other than the coal-black of his skin and the scab red of his robes, he was a figure of confidence and knowledge. Following him, we stopped at several merchant stands; I've half a mind to say each one. He would spend only a minute or two, buying strange and worthless items, then suddenly combining them into a magnificent item of magic technology. He spoke of magic, the sciences, and whole manner of topics that befuddle ones mind when taken in all at once.
We at last arrived at Kasta Circle; an immense oval in the centre of the city near the courts, senate and Imperial Capital. Here gathered much of the city's inhabitants when seeking only the finest wares. Was there ever more gold exchanged through so many hands at once other than Kasta Circle? I do doubt it. Our leader slowly rounded on us, again blasting us with those tiny eyes. "I've no more need of you. Be off." Obviously, we were relieved and shocked. Not that we desired to venture to the Northern Mountains, but why change his mind so suddenly? I inquired him about this, to which he said, "I needed you for part of the expedition, yes. The way from Eastwood to Talsindar, I knew not. Indeed, I may have consulted my instruments, but then I could not request that you come with me now." It is true what they say about Liches; their words always carry something you never expect or prepare for. No wonder Arbiters despise them so much.
All of my comrades stayed mounted and rode off, frustrated that such a haughty being had disrupted their recreation time. Finding fascination in the esoteric, I chose to remain with the Liche. Who knows what secret knowledge might be in the Northern Mountains? Lord Chavar's subtle excitement was contagious and terrifying.
He set up a stand of sorts. Little more than an outlandish sign with curious runes that, somehow, I could understand. This is what they said.
To all adventurers, mercenaries, slaves, soldiers and fortune seekers
I present an opportunity unparalleled within the last Millennia. Now, it is the chance to earn your place in the history texts. An expedition to the Northern Mountains. The rewards will be great, and differ in accordance with each of whom I seek.
Adventurers: Any non-dangerous, already discovered magic artifacts.
Mercenaries: 50 Gold Coins in advance, 100 Gold Coins upon completion.
Slaves: Freedom from your masters.
Soldiers: Honour, distinction and double your wage.
Fortune Seekers: Any and all non-magical artifacts discovered.
I present an opportunity unparalleled within the last Millennia. Now, it is the chance to earn your place in the history texts. An expedition to the Northern Mountains. The rewards will be great, and differ in accordance with each of whom I seek.
Adventurers: Any non-dangerous, already discovered magic artifacts.
Mercenaries: 50 Gold Coins in advance, 100 Gold Coins upon completion.
Slaves: Freedom from your masters.
Soldiers: Honour, distinction and double your wage.
Fortune Seekers: Any and all non-magical artifacts discovered.
The first one to take notice was a rather striking Feral Elf woman. She wore a long knife and shortsword as weapons, an elaborate kerchief obscuring her face, a short leather cape and leather armour with unchaste tightness. She approached with a loathsomely confident attitude and looked over the sign, glancing toward the impassive Liche, then winking at myself. I regret confessing, I was aroused sexually by the act, but I repressed the thought as I remember the quality of a Feral Elf's soul; cold and black as midnight winter. "Northern Mountains, eh Lichey?" Her voice was not as mellow as her appearance, to say the least. Beautiful, but sounded much like a wily adolescent speaking to authority. The Liche nodded, unmoved. "Well, whaddya call a dame who’s just looking for a good thrill, eh?" She felt across her legs seductively, but Chavar was entirely unaffected. "A female elf seeking an adventure. You would be an Adventurer. Your payment will be any non-dangerous and already discovered magic artifacts. Now must I teach you arithmetic while I explain that which is carved there as plainly as the stars?" Her pride wounded, but her greed and dangerous thrill seeking greater, she signed the contract he presented and left to fetch her own steed.
Later that same hour, another visitor approached the humble stand where we sought more to venture into the North. He was a tall Orc; obviously a mercenary, judging from the honourary Orc mark on his gauntlet. Chainmail rustled as he looked over the poster with animate interest. "You're the one leading this, man?" I was beaten back by the volume of his booming baritone, but said "No, sir Orc. The master of this expedition is the Liche there." Walking tall toward Chavar, he signed the mercenary contract and left for the Irongut Tavern. All this made obvious by the loud monologue he had with himself.
Next to arrive was, strangely, another Feral Elf woman. This one was obviously of higher standing than her predecessor, as she wore elaborate and decorated robes whilst mounted on a steed borne from conjuring. The Liche found much more interest in her than any other member so far. She seemed a learned woman, for sure, but something about her made my spine freeze. She hardly spoke a word, but she and the Liche must have made their deal. At her departure, I swore I saw the Liche tinker with one of his bizarre instruments, but I spoke not of it. His knowledge of magic was infinitely beyond my own.
It must have been an hour's passing before another gentleman took notice of our humble stand. A bulky Syrdak, wielding a mace and axe by either side of his hip, wearing decorated and painted chainmail across his body. Upon his serpentine head, he bore no helmet or coif, but a small false topknot. This led me to believe he was a knight of the Order of Gwekstak; a particularly renowned Syrdak knightly order. He observed the sign thoughtfully, exchanging a stony glance between myself and Lord Chavar. "The northern peaks are dangerous, Liche. What exactly is it you're seeking?" Chavar stood unflinching before the guttural, accusing tenor. "It is vital to anyone who seeks to draw on magic that my expedition does not fail, Syrdak. You can help, or you can cling to the Gods while their power is drained from the world into these peaks." I was shellshocked. He had not spoken of the enormity of the expedition, but it seemed as though much hung in its success. So many questions borne of this answer, as usual from a Liche. Why was he gathering a motley crew of adventurers? Why not tell the Grand Imperial Legion? Why not inform the College of Thaumaturgy? The Syrdak remained heavy-set. "That does put a damper on things, doesn't it?" He cast a small spell that made wind blow viciously along the blade of his ace, sharpening it more than any blade wheel. "Very well then. Do you need me to sign something or return to a location at a given time?" Chavar's ire seemed to rise modestly but for what reason, I cannot know. "City gates. Nightfall." The Syrdak nodded, turned quickly from us, and left in a brisk pace.
The last one to join us was an unwelcome balance to the party thus far. Before, we had gathered those with a modicum of intelligence, but this Ogre slave was thick as his waist. For clothing, he bore little more than filthy pants, a large shirt that exposed his bulbous chest, and boots a whole child could comfortably fit in. For a weapon or tool, I could not tell, but he carried an immense steel hammer; easily as large as myself. "Oi, blacky. Dis be goin' ta da mount'ins, huh?" he boomed. Chavar saw something to use with him, which I failed to recognize. The northern peaks were the Ogres homeland; what better way to have a navigator? However, the Ogre memory was entirely visual, so we'd get obscure turns at certain sights, no doubt. "Yes, Ogre. The north peaks are our destination. You wish to come, I'm guessing?" The Ogre adjusted himself, swinging his hammer down the the cobblestone street and cracking it. "Dere gonna be somefin' innit fer me, blacky? I's need to git away from my masta befo'e he know I git away." Chavar did not require an explaination; just needed the Ogre. "Yes. Go to the city gates at nightfall. You will be free after our venture." The Ogre beamed, his large filthy teeth gleaming with dirty meat. "Awright, blacky, Gates at nigh'faw." At that, he thudded off.
Come twilight, the two Feral Elves and the Orc returned. They all introduced themselves, which makes it easier for me to tell my tale. The Feral Elf in the leather was Arcelai Faithbreak, the conjurer Feral Elf went by Nykallius Heartrender, and the Orc introduced himself as Maklerus Ironblood. If I knew each person more intricately, I may have left at that time, but fate was cruel and I stayed for the nightmare to come within those hellish mountains.
PART III
Nightfall came both sooner and later than I had hoped. Sooner, because I was anxious to venture into the mountains with my esoteric guide. Later, because I feared what we may discover was causing the disaster Chavar was apparently investigating. Could it be true that some diabolical force was draining the magic of the Gods away from the world? My mind reeled at the
possibilities of such a terror. Regardless of our fears or imagined doom, our mismatched gang and Chavar's retinue made toward the main gates. By the Five Most High, what a splendour they were! Magnificent statues of old kings and emperors, etched tear-jerkingly beautiful from what must have been acres of marble. Once again, a testament to mankind's glorious dominion in Velurgren.
The three moons, Aslei, Gevilian and Vekal, glared down at us like the prying eyes of the Great Worm himself; the stars were akin to the angels that would carry us to the hereafter. Wherever I looked to the once-captivating night sky, I saw my doom looming over me like a shadow. The entourage, however, seemed relatively unaffected. Maklerus fingered a Kraken tooth in a charm necklace of his, probably remarking to his ancestors. Arcelai leaned arousingly on one leg, fumbling with a dagger in boredom. Nykallius was impossible to read, however. Her violet eyes seemed to glow in the black moonlight, and I felt my flesh crawl. As always, the damnable Chavar sat atop his steed impassively. His confidence was contagious, however. Confidence or madness I mused. In spite of the brooding night, I maintained composure and awaited the others as the Ogre and Syrdak were absorbed into our motley group.
The Ogre called himself Gorgnuthog; apparently, he knew his way fairly well around the Peaks, so we felt blessed to have him in our collective. The Syrdak was even more welcome when he explained he was one of his order’s healers. Introducing himself as Sir Masrajunn, he had apparently been sent from his Order to find an adventuring party like this to offer his aid. Fortune had it that we would be so privileged for him to join us. His attitude was humble and wise; a welcome addition to the contrasting assembly of swashbucklers and scientists.
Lord Chavar made space for the Ogre in his Celestian-driven cart, ushered his undead servants aboard, and we took the path to northern Eastwood, by the town of Paradarus.
Despite his lack of a mount, Maklerus was able to keep a good pace with us in running. How he did not tire, I cannot say. I suspected malign forces but remembering the legendary Orc superstitiousness, dismissed it without a thought. He talked at length about battles, sieges and other blood-coated feats he had accomplished.
Gorgnuthog slept through much of the journey, waking only to eat, rancidly relieve himself, or to adjust his position. Each time, I pried with questions about the mountains. Apparently, Chavar approved, as he asked for clarification on many of my inquiries. The Ogre usually replied only to yes or no questions, or grunting when he "di'n't wanna talk no more." It was much like speaking to a young child; a very large child who could tear you limb from limb with little effort.
Arcelai caught my lustful eye a number of times, but in my heart, I knew the rotten gutter that was her soul. Even the way she rode her mount was decadent, and describing it would make me feel an unchaste man. Her auburn hair was tied back, exposing her entire angelic face, and it travelled about halfway down her back. She was tall, little shorter than the massive Liche who we followed. I firmly beleive saying more would distract my male readers, which would deter my purpose in this account.
Nykallius was more eerie than stunning, however. Beautiful, yes, as all elves were, but her gaze... her eyes. It seemed unnatural, unknowable. Possibly in communion with the Great Nemesis? I doubted it, but I was correct... in a way. She was a witch, I found out after a lengthy and somewhat one-sided conversation with her. Drawing her power from the Dread Scyleroth, but owing him no loyalty whatsoever. Like a leech to a God, she sucked his power and used it for her own ends. One man I knew was a warlock himself, and he used the stolen magic for the betterment of man. Feral Elves have no pride in anything but their individual selves, however, so I assume that is where their pilfered power is applied.
Sir Masrajunn was amiable, if somewhat quiet. He often prayed during the tour, devoting himself to the Five Most High and tending to his axe and mace. Such callous weapons for a knight, I thought, but the Syrdak were a tough breed. When they could not sway the foe with holy conviction, they made their statement in crushing blows of blade and bludgeon.
Paradarus is, for lack of a better term, an embarrassment to the Empire, I think. Her walls are overrun with the moss of Eastwood, her people live in foul shacks homes, and her overall appearance looks not unlike a carpenter's nightmare... or a poet's dream, depending on the author.
Chavar turned his chill gaze to me, and ordered that I purchase us some provisions within the town. When I asked him why I must go into this ghost village, he mentioned the excessive terror these people lived in with the Goblin infestation. The Syrdak and game hunters, vigilant though they were to slay Goblins, could not stem the impossible tide of green tormentors. This led to profound distrust of any non-human who entered, possibly even open hostility. The Liche were almost unheard-of in this region, so Chavar wisely chose not to provoke unnecessary violence.
I meekly approached the miserable hamlet and stood for what felt like four milennia before the gate, shouting for entry. Finally, a haggard and middle aged guard stood atop the parapet and answered with "Whaddya want, stranger? You best have a good reason for coming in here, or are you one of those dwarves again? We oughta pin you with arrows right now, so speak up oe we let fly!" My blood surged through my body as I explained the situation, leaving out the sensitive details. "No, no, I am no dwarf! My companions and I are part of an exploration group to the northern mountains. I simply need to obtain us provisions!" The guard did not respond for several minutes, and the dawn began to break. I shivered, realizing how cold the night truly was. All the while he was absent, I pondered why he had cared if I was a dwarf. A dwarf was a rare sight in these parts, nar, anywhere beyond their jungles. Such thoughts played through my head until he, at last, returned. He admitted me to the dredge town and I beheld a dominion I did not envy in the slightest. Only the capitol structure and temple were made of stone; everything else was built by wood upon the ruins of old structures. The entire scene broke one's heart and made even the most optimistic man feel dismal. I strode briskly to the markets which were just opening, and glanced at the rising sun through the thick trees. Though the night was dry, the morning dew made the trees and air damp. If any peace was to be felt in this miserable borough, it would be in the scene I had just detailed. Disheartening, to say the least.
When the food stand opened, I meandered to it, observing the cheap wares of the other merchants. A blacksmith, a palm reader, a book provisioner, even a sorceror's stand by the name of "Cheap and Practical Magic." I stopped only for a moment to pay a mere 6 gold coins to learn the words to a weak fire spell for lighting a pipe. Handy, if I do say so myself.
Upon reaching my destination, I made purchase of half a peck of apples, a large pouch of salted crackers, and a handful of a local delicacy called "Devil Tail," smoked sausage dunked in ground tomato paste. With these, I felt as though everyone's pallette would be satisfied. I thanked the shop owner, and ventured back to our motley assortment of adventurers.
I returned at approximately the same time as Maklerus and Sir Masrajunn. They bore two buckets of water each, and I took it that Chavar had ordered them to obtain it for us. He and Nykallius chatted about subjects that only the most learned man could hope to understand, whereas Maklerus and Masrajunn discussed their battle feats which only a soldier could comprehend. Gorgnuthog was awake and munching loudly on a whole deer. I assumed Arcelai had slain it, due to the blood on her daggers and the grin on her face as I gulped at the gorey sight. An ogre eating is not for the faint of heart.
After the lethargic being had his fill of meat and drink, he pulled himself onto Chavar's cart, our wily fellowship mounted, and we made for the Jainor Foothills at the base of the mountains with all the heed of a child running to it's mother.
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Vasmidi pulled tight on the reigns of his raptor, ordering the beast to slow and stop. Here’s the place… he thought absentmindedly as he looked over the desecrated grounds. He remembered the last time he was in the Eastern Plaguelands, slaughtering civilians and fool Light crusaders not unlike a force of nature. Indeed, the Lich King was anything but natural, but his force of will was akin to such.
Gory, bloated mushrooms dotted the ruined landscape, appearing as ruddy boils bursting from the ground. Shambled and blasted homes were scattered liberally, the wreckage of each betraying no known rhyme or reason to the layout of the town. In hindsight, there had been a structure to the settlement, but such was the carnage unleashed in the furious assault on it, that not even the earth itself was left truly intact.
He dismounted the hissing reptile, feeling his feet sink slightly into the marshy, sucking ground. Oddly enough, his recollection told him to expect otherwise yet again. Weeks ago, he would have sworn this was fresh green grass rather than mucus-like purple lichen. Not that he would have preferred that way, not in the least, but it added to the mounting disturbed feeling one gets when in the presence of the Lich King’s handiwork.
Just beyond the obliterated village, he saw a blood elf woman making way to him upon a dark, burning steed. His blood rushed through his body as fury rushed through his mind; snippets of recent memories flashed though his diseased brain. Wedding, Kaezius, Stranglethorn, the Travelers, Atal’Hakkari, Vaerannis, Oshu’Narash, Sedition, Vykalidan, each leading in some obscure way to another. All of these bridges, forming at incoherent and confusing intervals, formed a massive web through his startled head. Despite the fact the woman was not who he thought it was, the mere chance that it could have been her sent him reeling.
The seemingly separate and meaningless memories began to clumsily stitch together. Losing his death knight status may have restored his memory, but the significance and association of each was another matter entirely. He remembered his life as it was in its completion once again, and snarled at the prospect of being so humbled by a lesser being. An elf no less; a woman no less! He couldn’t imagine anything more degrading, more insulting, or more wretched! A tempest of volatile passion blazed through him, driving his already plagued mind into further insanity and vileness.
