The winds called to him, welcoming back a part of them that was to long buried. Alone he stood in the howling cold of winter and watched with eyes long dead a place as forgotten as he. His cloak and clothing flapped loosely about his tall lithe frame ,along with a dragon shaped crown of pure gold and sparkling gem stones. The crown was ancient, past down by the blood and to blood only. Any not of the vain would be burned to a smoking-crackling husk if they so choose to risk the raft of the gods. They who sent down the treasure to the noblest of men and woman-the progenitors. The crown came with a companion, a sword of pure gold and rare silver, coupled with the charm that stole away at the very essence of those it struck in the name of justice. The sword was once holy, yet years of misuse corrupted such a weapon and the name given to it at its creation change. The devourers blade it became, wielded by the last of the blood, the one who fell. The sword rode on his hip, hidden beneath the folds of his kingly rags, its weight to him a constant reminder of his failure to the blood if not the people. The people, it seemed to always fall to that, as his grandfather would scold him. What of them he thought. Arch Lord he was once called, king, husband, father, friend and-villain. All those names were now just old memories returned after years of abandonment, lost in the cold and tormented by death. Yet here he stood, alone on a mountain where once stood his home...covered by snow , looking out over a vast domain-also once his in not just name but deeds and blood...The Blood. He could blame the ass dickering nobles or even the council of clerics or the Mage Lords, his own order , for the fall of his kingdom , but in the end it all fell on him and what he was willing to sacrifice in order to save what was left of his families name and high standing. He had made that ultimate sacrifice and paid ten folds for it in the end, the evidence was before him and his eyeless orbs blazed with hatred. Varis-Lems eyes blazed with hatred. Below the sky scraping mountain sat what was left of Alldurmere, his city and home land, now nothing more but a sarcophagus of ice and snow. What was left of his castle and the high towers that populated the once great city lay in ice covered ruin, coupled with the bodies of dead animals and titans alike. Even the forest that waited before the city were nothing now but a skeleton of tall branches and cold, packed mud. A domain for yetis and ice trolls. Haunted villages and towns controlled by barbaric giants and dragons. Many dragons. Varis-lem would have cried if he still had eyes to do so, so many people, the children, even the dwarves of the mountains that came to visit every year to celebrate the union of the two races, all gone. Or were they. Dark energies wafted up from the valley below , waiting for his call, his touch-his blood. Varis-lem basked in it, letting the power absorb into this new, decay that was he. Already he felt strong, more sure, this body is stronger than the might he knew as a human , and much darker in essence. This power fueling him was of a necromantic source, a building of energies that originated from the millions of souls who died here a century ago and more. Died because their king and lord choose to over reach, and brought down the raft of the weeping god. Now returned to life as undead, Varis-lem let that energy foul his body, like food to a starving man. He didnt think the transformation would take so long, a century buried like a dog in the murk, food for worms or a mound to be pissed on. Oh-but the reckoning. His mantel enlighten like a star blazing with his hate and sadness, his teeth chattered and a burning blue light fanned out from his eye sockets, the power lifting him up. It was time. The Reckoning. Eight books, heavy and old rose from the insides of his cloak and hovered before him, the body of all eight tomes ablaze just like he. They started a slow spin around the dead king, pages wild now and flipping through, back and forth-back and forth. The runes written inside the articles flamed with the same blue light, then popped out and surrounded the lich like a shield, slowly rotating. A hand, nothing but bones and ripped flesh rose after, the the other with bared the sword. Blood fell from the empty book now that the writings were magically ripped from the pages and fell, darkening the snow far below and a chorus of arcanum cries did Varis-lem wail. And a rumbling started far below, low at first , then trembling to earth quaking and moving. He could feel them, the millions dead, souls that wanted release, revenge, calling for a reckoning. He called to that energy and in turn they answered. They remember him, him of the blood, yes they would come, and yes they remembered him. They wanted him, loved him still , even after his crimes they were one with their king. Below him the ice creaked- cracked harder, and cracked open. A cloud of mist and gas mushroomed out from a split that started right from the mountain upon which he stood and ran down the iced over valley, right down its center. Varis-lem, with two skeletal hand a-grip the devourer sliced each book then that pasted by his power, each destruction sending out the freed runes out across the valley of dreadful Alldurmere Out of the black and white ice came the souls, hesitant at first, the in fours that turned to forties and four hundred, four hundred thousand and so on and on. The danced around him, flowing and glowing balls of lights, lights and more lights of every color, amazing to behold, tailing tails of smokeless fire, amazing as a witness. A witness to the reckoning. The sword tucked in a fighters stance, Varis-lem waved his off hand as if calling his opponent then fanned out quick with the devourer. The souls flew back down into the splitting and rumbling valley floor-And ripped!- The iced over foundation up that was once mighty Alldurmere back into remembrance. A canyon opened -up as if two of the imprisoned titans won free of their ice holdings and each grabbed a side to pull, sucking in what was and reshaping it to the will of a deadman. Out of that canyon rose a nightmare , a grey-skull on top of a forgotten skeleton. Out of that canyon rose a dreadful city, one of pure ice with millions of death dealing wraiths milling about The towers that were once a marvel to all traveler to visit. Alldurmere returned but was ice over now, pure evil and cold. And manned by a skeletal knight, each and ever one, populated. The castles and homes, shops and inn, huts for the poor, all four districts, Boamere, Kashmere, Calmere, and Voldumere, all burst through the broken earth, screaming into its new unlife and all aflame to fight for a dead man, a dead king. In a rush did the crowds of skinless zombies claw and swarm to reach their suspended king, like schools of fish , bunching and climbing Sent from
Posted on: Tue, 12 Nov 2013 22:29:51 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015