The Dark Heroes, pt. II

Master of Death

Heavy is the tone of this tale, the tale of an ill-starred son, the story of Niilo Ledraith.
Five centuries past, there was a master swordsman, a proud heir of an old dynasty from Korlain, tracing lineage all the way back to the Voyagers, the men who had journeyed through the Dark Beyond...

Yet in the Age of Alliance, with the outside enemies lying low, the Raven Kings sought to weaken their rivals from the Old Families, and House Ledraith grew desolate.
But as fate would have it, there came Morkei the Witch Lord, and the Raven Kings were subdued to his Reign of Sorcery. As Morkei’s dominion grew more assured, House Ledraith pledged their ever-lasting allegiance to the Witch Lord and his grand Cause. They sent Niilo, their eldest son to his side to serve as captain and apprentice, and as a token of their loyalty...
But the Witch Lord laughed at the young count, for to be his apprentice, one has to prove both loyalty and ability beyond common man’s wildest dreams.
So Niilo came to the vanguard of Morkei’s dark army, to march under the Congregation’s many-faced standard. He proved both able and loyal, and soon was leading the fight against the Yrsithian people, man, elf and dwarf. Before long, he was the youngest captain to serve under Morkei yet.
Niilo was promised greatness then, but he was not so corrupted as not to doubt his master’s great Cause that to his eyes, only brought ruin where once was beauty and order.
Soon his ways were noted as strange and unfitting, and people began whispering. A Watcher - a creature from Shade bound to Witch Lord’s own will - was assigned to him, to see if he was indeed the promising apprentice he seemed to be at first.
Despising the oversight, yet with his family’s name to consider, Niilo tried to shut out his doubts. Then one day, the dark creature asked him to perform a special task - bring ‘justice’ to an elf family living high in the mountains and refused to submit to the Witch Lord’s will.
Brooding over the task set to him and how he came to be a mere executioner, Niilo sat down and drank, drank until he knew no more.
Next day, he learned that his lieutenant took initiative into his hands, eager to show his outstanding qualities to the Watcher and their Lord.
When Niilo arrived, the proud elven manor was aflame and the soldiers were carrying out charred corpses and a young trembling elf girl. When the talk began of what’s to be done with her, and the upstart lieutenant, basking in glory, offered his ideas, Niilo fell into a rage and slew him, taking the girl into his custody.
Though not a heavy crime for a noble and a Chosen, it was bad enough.
The Watcher was not pleased, and demanded that Niilo take the girl’s life before next sunrise, or face the Witch Lord’s wrath.
So Niilo took his blade and led the girl into the woods.

But in his heart, he knew he would seal his damnation with the dark deed, and as he looked at he young one, he recalled many things he thought he had forgotten. His doubts became certainly, and his apathy became roaring despair.
Niilo knew full well that his skills were inadequate even for his own survival as a hunted exile in the war-torn Ersidria, let alone keeping his charge alive.
Yet in his time with the Witch Lord’s banners, Niilo learned many secrets  of the Black Host and the creatures that comprised it.
Thus he resolved to seek the Night’s Gift, the only path to salvation, for the girl if not himself.
Vampires were an elite force in the Black Host, dreaded mounted knights in impenetrable armor by day, winged terrors by night, feeding at will on the human cattle driven in wake of the army, or even Morkei’s own soldiers.
Niilo found his chance in a proud young convert, blood-starved and unhinged, whom he challenged to duel and slew, but not before taking bite wound.

With that, he packed the terrified elf maiden and fled. The curse took hold, and Niilo escaped the hunters on the black wings of night, the girl in his arms.

The war passed and the Black Host was scattered as was the Congregation - some driven back into shadows, some brought to justice.
Then the Mist came over Ersidria, covering aching land with a veil of cold forget, concealing the devastation and ruin with layers of phantoms and dreams.

The elf girl Aethil came to accept her protector, and together they wandered far and wide, learned the ways of the nature, the Mist and the Night, found secrets that lay hidden from others. Under the veil of the Mist, they discovered wonders and fled from terrors, watching the rare passage of people from the Outside.
Still, Niilo knew he had to give a better life to the poor girl. At first he tried, halfheartedly, to find her suitable parents, then he could no longer bear the thought of parting with her.

Living in ruined temples and shrines, Aethil learned of the culture of her people, recovered clothes, books and many wonderous items from the lost age. So the years passed and the two kept on wandering. As if in penitence for his sins as a captain of the ‘Blacks’, Niilo did everything for the girl, never letting down guard, always providing, teaching her what he knew, watching her sleep. He never touched her, though readily he desired her. Long nights filled with heartache, bitter truth that to her, he was her involuntary step-father, nothing more, yet to him, she was everything now.

So the ages could pass in quiet grace and melancholy, himself an undying husk, his companion a near immortal at the dawn of her life…
Yet slowly, under the shadow of the Mist, the girl grew into a pale, beautiful woman, and Niilo’s heart blossomed with pain and love.

One day Aethil recalled that Niilo had once told her they would one day go to the shores where the great winds scattered the Mist, brought the scent of ever-blossoming fields of land untouched by darkness. There, he had said, they would step on a white ship and sail away, into Immortal Lands of her people, like her ancestors did for millennia.

As she spoke of this, the vampire smiled, and stayed silent. He knew of course that this dream was unattainable. His transformation took a heavy toll - he became master of death, yet death too became his mistress. Without feeding on human blood, his body grew fragile and he ached to see his step-daughter shudder at his sight.
Then once, hearing the whispered rumor of a hidden truth, a way to turn back the curse. So he found a place for Aethil to hide, bidding her stay in its safety and await his short return.
His quest was in vane, for the sorcerer he heard of was already caught and burned by the clerics of Red Dawn, as were his works and research.
Flying back in great haste, he found the hidden barrow empty, with neither Aethil nor any trace of her.
Heartbroken and bitter, never knowing if she left him or was taken from him, the restless immortal quailed.
Where has my dearest gone to? Is this light too now taken from me? Can I let her go? 
In silence did the cursed one brood, and the silence consumed him.
No heart beats, no breath falls, no voice sings... 

The bond is too strong to relinquish.

The Dark Heroes, pt. I

The Ghastly Gambler

Few would believe that this marauding villain, this foul assassin fish-eyed and ever grinning his mirthless grin was ever more than the wretch he is today. Yet Valen Ystraine once had been a mercenary captain of some repute indeed.
He was one of the many glory-seekers that came to Ersidria in the wake of the Fugue, and one of the few who survived the Blackgate slaughter...
Proud of his victories, he accepted the honor of becoming a Mist Warden. But bound by an oath he did not fairly consider, he soon became hopelessly addicted to the ‘ice shade’ - Ersidrian most ruinous drug.
Along came the drink and the cards. Too proud ever to lose, he ruined his reputation by cheating, which inevitably set him on an ever darker path... so he found other masters to serve, ones that did not mind doing business with a murderer.

So he survives, though despising himself, and only vanity drives him on, for to take his life would be to lose... So on he goes to ever more reckless escapades, hoping to meet his match one day and fail to cheat death at last.

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The Undertaker

Who can tell what came over good old Rendolf?


He used to be a well-respected member of the Ravenwood community, providing the much-needed services of an undertaker to all towns close enough to Mapleshire cemetery and even the baron of Greyrock himself, for not all of the Bastion’s prisoners could simply be thrown into the sea of burned - some were once nobles...
But when the Fugue came, trouble came to the Mapleshire and its famous war-cemetery. Bandits and worse multiplied like flies, then the whole village of Mapleshire was put to the sword, or worse...
Dark rumors spread, and soon there were those who accused old Rendolf of leading a gang of grave-robbers and highwaymen, for the sole reason of selfish gain. Those who knew Rendolf better were appalled by these ghastly stories, but what else could explain that his house near the old crypts alone remained untouched by the murderous scum?
Some reasoned that Rendolf must have become one of the many victims of the mysterious Eidolon powers. For indeed, his worst side became his only side, that nasty temperament and a brooding look that kept children away from him, and that lingering hate for all things still failing to seek his services... And as much as he now hates his fellow man, he hates the undead more. Perhaps he sees them as dishonest dodgy clients, who knows?

Fragments of Eternity, pt. I

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The Secret Forge

Who in their right minds would travel to an island awash in the Plague Sea, shrouded in ash-clouds, lit only by the fire-breathing mountains on the edge of the Great Dark of the south?
Only those resolved to follow in the Witch Lord’s footsteps, those seeking ultimate power… For beneath the charred rock and pestilent waters lies the secret sanctuary of the Old Gods, the legendary Titan Forge, ravaged by the Torment’s own furor...

Better it had sunk that day, put to rest below the writhing ocean, a memory of a fairer age. For now the island is a blistering hell drowned in growling thunder, resounding through an air that itself is a poisonous fume, despite all fury of Storm Winds.
Even so, if legends are true, this scenery is the least of a Seeker’s woes, for they say that Doom of the Old World was sealed here, and left its searing Mark, when the spiteful Dethregor let open the gates into fiery Abyss. From there, he summoned a demon horde that would bring ruin to his brothers and all their proud creations…
Thus the Secret Forge was stormed by the creatures from the Nether realms, yet vague are the words spoken of the Old Gods’ fate and their last stand.
That day however, Twin Peaks became Evil Twins, their fire never cooling, their heads ever smoldering, turning skies black and crimson as they burn bright against the Great Dark of the Nether Ocean.

And every now and then, a sailor hears them growling with the voice of an ancient Doom, and few can withstand the madness of despair it imparts on their souls.
Some say, it is the roar of the trapped fiends, raging in wanton bloodlust, yet unable to break the runed walls of the elder sanctuary. Others hear the long dead Titans, the Gods of Old, speaking with shattered voices of all that was lost in fire and shadow.

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Nashmerul, Enclave of the Fallen

Tel’Razi were the first race on Edalar ever to reach to the Stars, ever to attempt the Ascension.
Guided by two Teachers from the Upper Worlds with mighty gifts and visions, they broke away from enslavement by Underking Dethregor, whose will bound them for centuries in the darkness of Great Below.
So an Age began in which cities were built unlike any before or after, the Silent Masters creating things of magic and technology none had ever dreamed of...

Yet their Ascension was doomed by their own nature, ever so proud to have risen above their station as slaves, beholden to their own ingenuity, their newly gained perfection.

So it was that the Silent Archon, entrusted with the third Instrument of Fate, sought in secret to wring power from both of the Great Masters, to make himself a God, and his race the sole and immortal rulers of Edalar, above and below.
In a cunning scheme of deception, he set the two brother at each other’s throats, and struck a bargain with another, greater power...
The ruin came with fire from the sky, black ichor from the ground, nameless horrors from beyond.
Long was the war waged, for Tel’Razi were mighty and proud. When final downfall was upon them,
some abandoned their pride and fled, disillusioned, back to the deepest reaches of the Underworld. There, some pledged allegience to their former master Dethregor, transformed but still alive. He mocked them and hurt them, but made them his lieutenants to rule in the vast Below.
Now the knowledge they gained from the Teachers, though dearly paid for, allows them to be the masters of the Deep, despite their frail bodies and broken spirit.
Their experiments with flesh and anatomy brought forth grotesque creatures that soon drove away all other dwellers of the murky caves... 
What ancient wonders may these fallen creatures harbor in their hidden vaults? Many wish to find out, yet few ever dare to.

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Greyrock Bastion

No other fortress can boast a history as rich in blood and torment as Greyrock, nor a call as blood-curdling as has its name.

Near five centuries ago, the War of Tears raged across Ersidria. Morkei Witch Lord drove his Black Host onwards against the unwalled borders of Yr'Sieth, the First Kingdom.
Fair though they are, the elves made his Host pay with blood for every inch of their wooded land. To see an army of men joined with fiends from the Shade, invading their lands filled them with a black fury. Resolved to end the arrogant sorcerer’s march before it truly began, the elven lords met him with everything they had, and fearsome indeed was their strength that day.
Yet it was just as the Witch Lord had hoped - for he knew that his Mastery could not be matched, and the elf king fell to his wrath, same as all others who challenged Him, Morkei, the Ascending Dominarch. At last, seeing their hope failing, the elf queen took survivors back deep into shades of green, where they prepared for a different kind of war.
Victorious on the battlefield, invading troops were fast falling to the ever more painful raids and ambushes of the vengeful Yrsithians, lingering in the ancient forests.
Seeing his minions’ morale failing, Morkei was filled with dark fury - for he knew he had the Mastery, and his triumph will be complete, could they not see it?
So he performed a sinister ritual, in which, it is said, he sacrificed something he would regret until the day of his fall.
Yet the magic was strong - for it raised from the ocean’s deep a mountain of pale gray stone and shaped it into an impregnable fortress...

Thus had Morkei seal his fate, even as he gave his followers a lasting symbol of his supreme power.
Enraptured by the sight of its dark majesty, his minions were at work in the newborn fortress day and night. They began digging ever deeper recesses to house their forges and ritual chambers. Before long, the latter were filled with prisoners, whose suffering fueled the cruel magic of Morkei’s henchmen.

When Morkei’s Reign of Sorcery came to a sudden, ruinous end, allegiances shifted, and treachery flourished.
Soon came the grim host of Gallah Eresar, the Avenging prince, to cleanse away the remnants of Witch Lord’s reign. As they prepared for a costly siege though, a big black raven brought word from Delovar Innai, Morkei’s regent.
The man pleaded for his life, claiming ignorance of the bigger picture and innocence of the horrendous crimes the Black Host committed on the elven lands. And there, Eresar men saw him hoisting the white flag of surrender...
Yet the lord of Arium was wary of traps and treachery laid by his spiteful nemesis even in defeat.
So the prince agreed, but only if Delovar would first release all his prisoners and let me walk out his gates unchained and unharmed, followed by his guards, unarmed and in full surrender.
The regent’s raven brought his consent, and at dusk one heard commotion rising behind the grim walls.
Soon it was clear that the wrath of the long-tortured men and elves was too great to control, and the Bastion was overwhelmed by a murderous mob. In the riot, the erstwhile regent was slain, though not before he was tortured in ways unfit for civil description. Next to his white flag was hoisted a gruesome banner made of his flesh.

With heavy hearts, the Eresar host turned south to save what was left of the elven kingdom, and so the prince never entered the sinister fortress...
Thus to this day, the Bastion was never stormed, its majesty never truly challenged or dimmed, but only passed from one hand to another.

And so today, the master of Greyrock is baron Urdd, the late heir of the Sezar line... For centuries, his line has served faithfully to the Allkingdom and the Archduke of Orodris, making Ravenwood the most stable and lawful region of Ersidria.
But soon after the Fugue started, dark rumors of treachery and betrayal came to the Ravenwood capital...

Whatever his reasons, if Dregaine truly did turn his back on the work of his fathers, what could anyone do about it? The baron knows his stronghold is impregnable, and so do we all.

And yet... where an army fails, a man resolved and with nothing to lose may find redemption by triumph before his end. A man like you, perhaps?