The Hand of Rectitude (closed)

[Bhurin]

Chapter 1 image

[Bhurin]

Deep within the lands of Rekmor, where the land festers and rots from a wound in the earth, a great darkness stirred. In the heart of those lands, storms ravaged the heavens each passing moment, and below most all creatures suffered. Only those that found wanton joy in pain could survive in the depths of the Fallen Kingdom, for it was here that the Lord of pain endured. The Lord of suffering. The Lord of Nightmares.

 

Known in the West as the Nameless Emperor, the Lord of Nightmares began his treachery out from a citadel deep in Rekmor known as Shadowkeep. Within a matter of years, the forces of Rekmor had manifested from out this “wound”, and a vast empire had arisen, stretching now throughout the Western lands. A force, known only as the Hand of Rectitude, was spreading like a plague and wreaking destruction in the West. Those that did not surrender were invaded. Those who did not comply were butchered.

 

However, though they had begun to spread to the North, attacking the tribes of North Men and Ice giants, South into the rule of the Lizard King, and deep in the heart of the earth into the Underdark, the Hand knew no influence in one place: the East. For, though no one spoke directly of it, many believed the Lord of Nightmares was afraid to challenge the power of the Eastern power, the Antaean Confederacy. Many who were safe behind walls of stone and under watchful eyes scoffed that the Hand’s forces were too thin, its armies none the match for Confederacy might. And so the Hand could not push past its boarders into the East, the darkness was contained.

 

It was time to change that.

 

The darkness called out into the night, summoning its champions. They gathered in the heart of Shadowkeep, where the Lord of Nightmares dwelled in perpetual darkness; the warriors of the Hand, loyal and powerful.

 

It was in a throne room where they received their instructions from the Lord himself. He appeared to them as a man, plain to the eye though clad in shadows. When he spoke, he moved not his mouth, but the words emerged from his throat, and his voice echoed like a struck anvil, tearing at their souls with each word.

 

“MINIONS OF RECTITUDE, KNOW MY WORDS. HEED THEM AS LAW.”

 

“MY INFLUENCE IS NOW FELT THROUGHOUT THE WORLD. THERE IS NOT A SOUL THAT DOES NOT FEAR MY NAME. THE HAND IS FELT LIKE A SHROUD OVER ALL LANDS, YET STILL THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO CHOOSE TO DENY ME. TO DENY THE RIGHTEOUSNESS I CAN BRING TO THEM. THEY HIDE IN LIGHT, AND REFUSE TO BELIEVE IN MY INFINITY. BUT NO LONGER.”

 

Slowly, almost gently, the Lord raised his hand and a dais in the middle of the room rose from the floor, showing an illusion of the Eastern Continent.

 

“THE GREAT RULERS OF MEN HAVE MADE THEIR MISTAKE. SO ENSURED ARE THEY OF THEIR POWER, THEY ALLOW THEMSELVES TO MAKE ENEMIES IN THEIR OWN TERRITORIES. THE ‘JUST’ AND ‘NOBLE’ HAVE AFFORDED US AN OPPORTUNITY. THEY HAVE OPPRESSED CREATURES WITHIN THEIR CONFINES, DENYING THEM, SUBJUGATING THEM. ANGERING THEM. NOW THEY HAVE SOUGHT US OUT, SWEARING THEIR LOVE, AND OFFERING US A WAY INTO THE EAST.”

 

Suddenly, a creature stepped forward from the darkness. He was a wretched creature, a Gorog, with misshapen body and terrible features.

 

“THIS IS GROMUL TREL”, the Lord of the Iron Crown continued, “LEADER OF THE GOROG TRIBES. HE WISHES TO BE EMBRACED BY THE HAND, AND HELP US BRING OUR INFLUENCE TO THE WORLD. HE SHALL PROVIDE ALL INFORMATION YOU WILL NEED. AND, TO ENSURE VICTORY, I AM SENDING MY RIGHT HAND, LORD MARIONUS, TO AID YOU IN THE CAMPAIGN. HE SHALL BE MY EYES AND MY HAND.”

 

From beside the Lord of Nightmares’ throne, out stepped the Dread Lord, a massive giant clad in demonic armor and clutching a scythe.

 

“NOW GO, AND ACHIEVE VICTORY. YOU ARE CAPABLE OF NOTHING ELSE.”

 

With that, the doors of the throne room opened, and the gathered champions bowed before their Lord and withdrew.

__________________________________________________

 

Five Regiments of Rekmor’s army now follow the Champions of the Hand into the lands of the East, with promises of more in the days to come. Seige craft, Hoards of Fallen, and vicious, lethal soldiers from the Camps of Rekmor, all moving like a wave across the lands of Rekmor and adjoining Dornikul, the first country to fall under the Hand. Villagers from farms and cities rushed into their homes as the nightmarish tide washed over them as it had years before. Nightmares moving across the kingdoms to slaughter.

 

And, leading them all, the nightmarish band of the Hand’s Champions. Here rode the Mages and Generals, the tip of the blade of the Hand’s forces.

 

Those most intimate with darkness.

 

Four weeks later

 

They rode into the encampment early that morning, when the skies were already dark with the Gorog’s work. Now the infernal armies of Rekmor could battle under shroud of synthetic darkness; more driven for blood and victory.

 

Without word or warning, they dismounted and disappeared into the folds of their tent, with the exception of Ghorn of Yain, who gave call to the Gorogs to continue their Howls of War.

 

Once within the walls of the tent, Ghorn of Yain spoke.

 

“You have all been chosen for this hardship. All of you know what it is that must be done. We must strike, against all who oppose us, and wound these wretches so that they shall crumble. We have been chosen, so that victory will be inevitable…”

 

Before he could continue, however, another man stepped forward. His name was Yar'cule the Infernal, and was known as the High Sorceror of Rekmor. He was clad in black and red robes, fitted to his frame like a uniform. His eyes were yellow and bloodshot, his skin a sickly pale white, and his hands were gnarled, with one always adorned with a scarlet glove. His voice was old but zealous, and was tinged with veiled power. Rapping his staff, a single shaft of dark wood crowned with a red jewel, against the ground, he spoke.

 

“Know this, Minions of the Iron Crown. The Lord expects our victory, but not our survival. None of you can be spared from death should they succeed on any front. If our deaths, however, bring forth the Hand’s conquest, then our blood shall wreak a new order to the world.

 

All of you have been summoned from the Four Fronts for your efforts in the war against ignorence. Stand forth and be named, warriors of the Hand…”

[Justin Silverblade]

So it is finally time. Our trek has not been in vain. Perhaps I was wrong in the assumption of our enemies' will. It is good that they have not surrendered...

 

He was the first to step forward. "I step forward and shall be named. I am Jadus Zennakoth, Warrior of the Hand, hailing from the Northern front."

 

Clad in black and red plate mail, the warrior's blue eyes searched for those others who would be named. His face was emotionless. This was bussiness. He returned his cold gaze towards Yar'cule. "Death is a fact well understood by my blade. The attack will not fail whilst I have breath left to aid the Hand."

 

Jadus took a step back and unsheathed his longsword. In one fluent motion he brought it's blade to the ground, holding the hilt with loose grip. The soul behind his eyes began to unharden, and dance quietly with a childish glee.

 

I will enjoy this. It has been too many days... It is time to remind the sword by my side just what it is to taste warm blood.

[Lady Celes Crusader]

A young looking female half-elf raises her head in the sky and heard the call. The light from the fire glows on her palid white skin, which bears two glowing scars, one on her left cheeck and the other on her left breast. She smiles at the announcement and her vengeful yellow eyes shows her joy.

 

She steps forward. "I, Zakuro, The Lady with the Burning Scars, Warrior of the Hand, am hailing from the Southern front."

 

Dressed with black leather pants and bra, her chest covered with a silver chainmail. A red cloak attached with a silver dragon-shaped brooch, black boots and a short sword attached to a belt completes her attire. She walks over one of the fire camps and draws her sword. She then puts the point of it in the fire.

 

"Pain, humiliation, sorrow; that's what I only knew from those confederate dogs. This is the gift I'll give to them. I'll give so much of these that they'll wish for death."

 

She then pulls out the redened tip of her sword and draws an hand on her left wrist in a tribal fashion. She didn't grimace as this was merely an itch compared to the pain her burning scars constantly give her. When she's done, she raises her wirst and shouts her pride.

 

"This is my vow of loyalty to the Hand. My life belongs to the Hand."

 

She moves an hair strand from her eye sight and wipes her pony tail away and gives a fierce look to the other warriors, expecting them to be as loyal as she is to the almight Lord of the Pain.

[Justin Silverblade]

So this is what the Hand has trained in the south. Impressive.

 

A verse came to Jadus' mind when Zakuro began etching a design into her wrist.

 

Elven features, human touch,

Iron grip, devil's clutch.

Human speech, elven sung,

Power weilding, devil's tongue.

She would be a great ally, to be sure.

 

When Zakuro happened within speaking distance, Jadus was looking forth to the distance, or to he or she who would be the next warrior. He did not hesitate in speaking at her presence: "Your passion procceds you, Zakuro. I look forward to eliminating the Confederacy alongside your skills."

[Lady Celes Crusader]

She looks at the Jadus and admires what she sees within him. His gaze intrigued her as it is the only expressing feature of his face. She sees the strenght, the courage, the loyalty and the evilness needed for this invasion.

 

"My magic and your sword shall pave the way of the Hand's victory, Jadus."

 

She looks around, looking for any other warrior willing to vonlunteered. She looks at the gross hand she drew on her wrist. The crudeness and the dry blood on it gaves a gruesome look onto it.

 

"I just can't wait to hear their screams fueled with terror. I just can't wait to see their tears born from sorrow. I just can't wait to see who else will step in so that all this destruction comes true."

[Bhurin]

Next stepped forward Ghorn of Yain, a well known soldier to them all. He was clad in gray armor, adorned with a winged helm and a charcoal sword always in hand; never sheathed. He stepped forward, his eyes a piercing blue, regarding them all coldly, as though they were wretched to him. His face seemed perpetually in a cold rage, his mouth a thin slice across his youthful face. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with an enigmatic anger, though still it contained trace amounts of a young voice, not yet fully grown.

 

“I am Ghorn of Yain, Field Commander of the Rekmor Armada. These men that have followed us to the field of battle are my own. I have trained them with blood and sweat, and they are a killing machine.”

 

Ghorn paused for a moment, his eyes quickly scanning the room seemingly searching for opposition, “It is they who will win us this war. No party of men or women will topple these confederate dogs! It will be the blade of Rekmor’s invincible army that will strike down these wretches! And I shall lead them to victory…”

 

Ghorn slowly rose back to full height, his eyes still dancing with thought, as though he waited for some other reply. When none came immediately, he smiled and added, “With all of your help, of course…”

 

With that, Ghorn swept his hand in front of him, as though inviting someone to take his place as the center of attention…

[Zadown]

From the shadows a man clad in simple ranger's clothes took up Ghorn's invitation. He had a shortbow slung on his shoulder and a longsword in a scabbard at his belt, on his face a sneering smile that proclaimed himself superior to everybody else here.

 

"You boast freely ... do not underestimate those 'confederate dogs', warriors of the Hand. I've seen the borderlands from both sides, seen the castles and the hardened men that will rise their spears against us. I am Khimeira, formely of the Antaean Confederacy ... and I pledge my ancestor's sword to the service of the Hand, as I have done for years."

 

Something flickered in Khimeira's eyes, something showing a very different emotion than his sneering smile, and he walked away from the middle of the tent without making any noise.

 

I never thought it'd come to this... with heavy heart I rise my dishonored sword against the Confederacy.

[Bhurin]

While Khimeira spoke, Ghorn's eyes slowly narrowed upon him. They danced with silent thoughts, burning with an unrest...

 

Quickly, he was losing his patience, and neared breaking point with each spoken word...

[Justin Silverblade]

When Ghorn spoke his first words, his very voice and gestures caused Jadus to harden his stance. As Ghorn continued his little speech, the laughter was ripped from Jadus' eyes, leaving but a mirror to return Ghorn's gaze. Slowly he replaced his longsword, and listened carefully to Ghorn. He found his thoughts continuing a petty conversation he had the intelligence to not say aloud.

 

"...These men that have followed us to the field of battle are my own..."

 

Those who follow us belong to the Hand, not you.

 

"...No party of men or women will topple these confederate dogs!"

 

Judge not my skill, nor that of my enemy, lest you have met either.

 

"...the blade of Rekmor’s invincible army..."

 

No army is invincible. Ours merely does not lose.

 

"...And I shall lead them to victory…”

 

You? I was not ordered here without a purpose. We...

 

"-With your help of course."

 

Of course...

 

Jadus found his gloved fist had become clenched during his thoughts. Slowly he unwrung his fingers, holding his hand behind his back to hide the unsolid action. His eyes loosened though his body did not, and the new face.

 

Jadus listened aptly to the new and next warrior to be named and speak. He gave a slight nod that could be barely percieved within the first sentence of Khimeira's voice.

 

A wise one. Smug, but wise. Reminds me of- Once of the Antaean Confederacy? Even wiser still, to be on this side of the boarders. To have one from the other side, as I recall, may be a blessing or a curse.

 

As Khimeria's voice ended and he left 'center stage', Jadus reflected breifly, and then spoke to the group aloud. He made an active point not to step into the center while doing so.

 

Pulling his gaze to who he would address, Jadus spoke firmly and directly. There was no quiver in his voice. "Yar'cule the Infernal, High Sorceror of Rekmor, if those presented be the group we have as warriors of the hand, then we shall be successful." He looked briefly towards each of the others with a small head bow; head diverted just slightly, enough to make and then break (in respect) eye contact. "If you all hold yourself as well as you fight, we will have little resistance."

 

He moved his his eyes back to Yar'cule. "Have we any more warriors to be presented, or can we continue?"

Edited by: Justin Silverblade at: 1/12/02 10:36:53 am

[Bhurin]

As Jadus receded back to his former position, before Yar'cule could continue, the silence was once again pierced by the voice of Ghorn of Yain, his voice insolent with restrained disgust.

 

“You speak words vile to me, former Confederate!” Ghron’s eyes locked where Khimeira was standing, though shadows draped his eyes and Ghorn could not be sure where their attention lay. “You speak of your former ties with questionable respect… Do you require…”

 

“Enough…”

 

The voice cut away Ghorn’s words like a tide of infinity, acting also as a herald to a sudden drop in the room’s temperature. The voice, calm and composed, rolled like a church bell, echoing even against the flimsy walls of the tent. The voice resonated softly after as well, and sounded as if there were many voices overlain, talking at once, when it spoke.

 

The various occupants, cringing from the surprising sound, turned to perceive the throat from which it was spawned. Eyes turned to the front of the table, now quietly perceiving the source of the church bell voice. With his hands griped on the sides of the table, the Dread Lord Marionus stood unmoving, hunched over and silent. As the whispers still fluttered in their ears, Ghorn finally spoke, “My lord, I…”

 

“I shall not have words of treason spoken before me…” Marionus’ voice was cold and emotionless, but held an intangible disgust somewhere within its somber tone, “Not whilst the Lord has given them His acceptance and reliance…”

 

Slowly Marionus rose, as though he were taking a long breath in. Soon he stood at full height, his form an impressive sight in the dark. The Dread Lord stood above them all, his form unnaturally tall and monstrous. He was clad in black armor, black as soot, which covered his body almost completely. With chain mail guards and deep leather boots, the entirety of Marionus’ form was hidden from view, save his arms; which were revealed from the armor as incredibly muscular but pale arms. He wore spiked gauntlets that clicked softly when he moved his hands, adding bladed tips to his fingers. His face was hidden by a fearsome helmet, comprised of a bone skull visage and crowned with curved horns, lending a demonic appearance to the Dread Lord. He wore a deep gray cloak over top all his armor, linked together by a broach of unfamiliar design. Marionus was most favored by the Darkness, and had served the Lord of Nightmares longer than any could remember.

 

He was a moving nightmare, let loose upon the world…

 

“My words were only in the interest…” Ghorn tried, his voice quivering from hesitation.

 

“Silence…” Marionus spoke, his words now holding force behind them, “He does not give his trust nonchalantly… Your words do you harm now, Commander of Yain. Speak no more…”

 

“Yes my lord”, Ghorn said hurriedly, his voice broken with fear and tears slowly building in his eyes.

 

Marionus moved his massive frame slowly, almost gently; turning to observe the occupants of the room. “You all are most loved by Him…” Marionus’ figure stopped finally toward Khimeira’s form, “Know that, in all you do…”

 

“All of you must adhere to the task at hand, and worry your thoughts only with the defeat of our enemies, and your honoring of Him. Nothing else will matter in the days to come…” With that, Marionus looked to Yar’cule and nodded slightly, before returning back to his position at the front of the table.

 

“Alright everyone,” Yar’cule said, his voice, too, shaken from suppressed emotions; suppressed fears, “you are all considered the greatest that our Order possesses. We need to organize our efforts, and quickly; and all of you are going to accomplish this. Before you begin, I have information that shall be vital to your initial successes. First off, know that the Confederacy IS a formidable opponent. With our forces spread to five fronts now, we cannot expect to overwhelm these adversaries; as in fact the opposite is true. From what my spies have been able to acquire, the Confederacy has an army reserve near double our own, and they know well how to use the terrain to their advantage. We are within their boarders, within their fields and woods and hills, within their home. Hence we cannot afford to lose our line to the West, as it will act as our source of life in this land. It is IMPERITIVE we not loose the Gorog city of Grengarl, for its fall will herald our forces stranded in enemy territory. The Gorogs will defend it with their lives, but that does not guarantee its safety…”

 

Yar’cule took a moment to sip from a glass on the table, his voice was returning to normal but now was cracking and dry, “That is why I shall remain there. All of you will be needed to forge ahead into Confederate lands, and I can and shall reinforce the city more efficiently than any other. This means that Zakuro, my dear and talented student and peer, shall be your War Sorceress. Her magic will serve as a most potent weapon in your war…”

 

Yar’cule smiled then, his gaze turning to the Lady of the Burning Scars for a moment. Zakuro, her face calm and expressionless, merely nodded slightly at Yar’cule’s complement.

 

Yar’cule turned then, his attention upon something in his cloak. Finally, with a look of satisfaction, he produced a large parchment and rolled it open onto the table. He then began to paw over it as he continued, “This day we shall take advantage of an excellent opportunity. The Gorogs have been burning the lands here for days, and have attracted the attention of Confederate forces. They rode out four days ago from the Fort city of Iscot, 'they' being a formidable but relatively small sized Confederate army to stop the Gorogs. When they march upon the fields this afternoon, as I have predicted, we shall move all our available forces against them. This will lend us the weapon of surprise, and our success. Victory would mean an unprotected Iscot; more then an adequate stronghold to begin our assault into the East.”

 

Nodding to himself, pleased with his work, Yar’cule returned his gaze to the other members of the table and added, “Any questions? If not, then prepare your plans for today’s assault, and the orders you shall give to our waiting army. We have…” Yar’cule turned, looking at his palm for a moment, then finishing, “two hours until we commence our attack.”

 

“We offer no terms of battle today, only an advancing force. They can either engage us or flee, but today we spill the blood of our enemies…” Marionus added, his voice rippling in the air.

[Lady Celes Crusader]

Zakuro shrugs when she heards Ghorn's words. She was tempted to think outloud what she thought of his foolish speech, but she refrains from it as now is not the best moment to do so.

 

She was glad that the Dread Lord interrupted this nonsense. She smiled for a few seconds and then, returns her attention to Marionus. What a prestence! She is proud to serve such Lord who inspired the deepest of all terror only by his presence. When he speaks his voice reaches her scarred heart and ignites her fierce loyalty and passion. Knowing that the Great One puts her among his cherished servants, she promise to herself to never dissapoint him, to never betray him.

 

My life, my magic, my loyalty and my might are all in His disposal. That's the least that I can do and I promise to give Him more of me if its what I need to do in order to be among His favorites.

 

She then listens to her master's words and nods when he mentioned her. She waited the moment that she'll be allowed to speak in order to do so.

 

"I'm thanking you, my master, for your trust you put in my skills and I shall prove that what you spoke of me is the truth. For the Lord of Nightmares, the blood of our ennemies shall be my perfume. I have no questions. With you permission, I'm leaving this meeting so I can prepare adequatly for the offense."

 

Marionus nodded at her request. She sheated her sword and bows respectfully to the Lord of the Dread first, then nodes to her master before returning to her master's tent, where she can assemble the material she'll need to build her deaded magical traps.

[Justin Silverblade]

His hands began to shake, when Marionus spoke. Calmly Jadus placed is left hand to meet his right, behind his back. His front displayed him a cold and hardened warrior listening to his champion and lord. From behind, one could see that the sense of awe Jadus felt with the Dread Lord's speech could not be entirely contained within.

 

Yar'cule continued to fill them in on the details. When he had finished, Jadus shook his head. He had no questions.

 

Two hours to kill. I have been waiting for weeks. What is two hours? Perhaps 'Ghorn's' troops could use an inspection. I would know what skill holds our battle here.

 

Zakuro left the tent, signalling the end of the meeting. Seeing this, Jadus followed suit, intent on examining the Hand's army; lives he would undoubtably save by adding his skill to the battle.

Edited by: Justin Silverblade at: 1/13/02 5:59:17 pm

[Zadown]

When Zakuro left, Khimeira had been on the move for several minutes, having faded out from the tent right after his role was known to him. After him sped his own men, a trail to the black comet: scarred mercenaries, rangers fallen to the lure of money, luck-seekers from far away and a precious few real soldiers who wanted to serve the Traitor. They were the hidden arrowhead of the invasion, a barb that would strike flesh and twist in the wound without warning, telling their presence only by the pain they brought.

 

So they want a field battle? Against the Knights of Confederacy? Ha! I want no part of that half-witted idea...

 

The band of thirty or so dark scouts sped through the forest, giving a wide berth to the field. They ran on without a word, only a hand signal now and then broke the isolation of thoughts each and every one of them had. An enemy scout barely slowed them down, dying with a soft sigh when an arrow penetrated his throat.

 

Khimeira felt a stab of cold penetrate his chest.

 

The first of my countrymen ... this is how it starts, and have to have the stomach to endure this bitter game to the end, as per my last promise to a dying man. I am an arrow of Fate - may he fire me true.

 

As a pack of wolves Khimeira's band of killers ran between the trees, faded to the color of the trees.

 

Soon.

[Lady Celes Crusader]

Zakuro was kneeling in front of a chest, checking the rags she founds in it. She had already assembled a formidable arsenal of explosive material. Nyarkul, a difform creature that could be apparented as a goblin, analyzes the inventory spread on the table.

 

"Mistress Zakuro, you don't intend to carry all this explosive material along? You'll be like a errrr... a walking bomb!" said the slave creature.

 

Zakuro gets up and walks over her servant, who crouches in anticipation of any kind of blows, but nothing happened. Instead, the creature sees the Infernal Sorcerer's student surveying what is on the table.

 

"I know Nyark", she finally replies, "I'll be a walking threat if I carry too many explosive matters on me. Also, my backpack must be as light as possible."

 

Nyarkul blinks as he didn't understood why the Lady with the Burning Scars didn't hit him because of his impertinent remark. Any other students would have done it, but she didn't and he knows how cruel and dreadful she is to her ennemies.

 

"Why should I hit a loyal servant of the Hand?", asked Zakuro, "Your opinion was right, Nyark, and you know much more about explosive than these other mages does. My wrath, hmrph, I'll keep it for the Confederate dogs."

 

She then pats the goblin on its head and resumes her survey.

[Bhurin]

As movement happened all around him, the Dread Lord stood silent and alone within the confines of the tent. His form was folded inward, his arms crossed across his chest, and his head was down. Slowly, the sounds in and around the tent began to fade. They muffled together, as though heard through great water, and began to recede as if moving away.

 

Slowly, the darkness was over taking him. He closed his eyes, and felt himself falling into it. Falling into a darkness that not even he, Dread Lord of Rekmor, could fully understand or withstand.

 

On the outside, suddenly the Dread Lord howled, his body seizing, as if in incredible pain.

 

Inside his mind, he had descended into oblivion.

 

It seemed like hours, Marionus’ being violently torn across a void of intense fire and cold. Any other man would have cried in pain, but Marionus remained silent. Cast down he was, deeper and darker, until he was within the Midnight of Evil.

 

There, he beheld his Master.

 

“My Lord!” Called forth Marionus, his voice wretched with pain, “I am yours to command!”

 

THE TIME HAS COME, LORD OF DREAD…

 

The voice boomed like thunderous rage, rolling through Marionus like a blazing pain.

 

KNOW NOT FEAR OR MERCY

 

“I am a widower of whores, my lord!” Marionus replied, his own voice a murderous symphony, “They are vile to me! I shall not fail you!”

 

GO THEN, THE TIME IS NOW. STRIKE THEM DOWN!

 

GO…

Go…

go…

go…

 

Suddenly, Marionus snapped back to consciousness, waking to dozens of bodies over him, trying to revive him. At the front of them was Yar’cule, whose eyes reflected least concern and most knowledge of them all.

 

“He spoke…” Yar’cule began, looking to Marionus for answers.

 

Marionus nodded, then rose to his feet unaided. He towered once again above them, and quickly made for the side of the tent. Marionus reached for his Scythe, and turned to the others in the room. “It is time…”

 

Marionus quickly made for the outside, all the others moving out of the way for him. Once outside, Marionus was met by a waiting army of Gorogs, men, and beasts.

 

Marionus perceived them silently for a moment, turning and eyeing them all from behind his bone helmet. The entire company was dead silent, awaiting their Lord’s words with eager anticipation.

 

Finally, as a cold wind began to blow through the camp, gripping each and everyone with an icy grasp, the Dread Lord raised his scythe in the air and howled with monstrous fury.

 

Everyone else, especially the Gorogs responded with a bloody cry.

 

The Blood Lust was in them now. It was time for war…

___________________________________________________

 

***Alright everyone, time to move to the main thread. Please wait, as Broghamir will come and begin the next segment.***