THE LORDMARCH IS COME; 1614

[Swgrclan 2682]

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V217OrusJJw ]

 

"Step forward those who would serve, for an army will be raised.

The powerful will be ripped from their decadent nests,

and CAST OUT into the cold world, that we know, and endure.”

 

10th of the Sun’s Smile, 1614

 

A heavy mist hangs over the frigid north. Frost clings to the dilapidated ruin of a fortress that has long since met its end - and then again after the dark and the base inhabited it in these present times. There is a greater presence to occupy the cold emptiness that the northern fortification has always known; comprised of many souls twisted and wretched, driven to anger and malformation whether by deep sorrow or the hand of another. All of these dark souls gathered in the valley that stood before the fortress - a veritable army of them, all taking different shapes and sizes - and far above stood the few lords that made the pact to rule them all for one purpose:

 

Dismantling the disparity.

 

 

Necromancers, Blood Mages, Mystics, Shades; Dreadknights, Paleknights, Darkstalkers, Frostwitches; Wraiths, Daeva, Liches, Wights, Ghouls, and Mortals. They were all here, standing as one amid the deepest cold any living man could ever suffer. When they peered above, they did not look upon the God-dwelling heavens, but rather those that they called masters - the lords of the Lordmarch. The March of the Old Lords.

 

 

Above those who would call themselves the leader of this march of vengeance flew a flag, marked by the twofold ouroboros; both the living serpent and the dead one, coiled together in an eternal binding to mark them as one and the same. Upon the ledge stood a multitude of the march’s commanders:

 

Barrowlord Kozilek and Dreadlord Akhortep the Wights, Gravelord Chrodraeos and Dragonshand Ghamul the Wraiths, and then the furtive Ashkeeper Abdiel, the only living man among them, who stood at the middle. The Ashkeeper, who has long since ruminated in the dark corners of this ill earth until his return on this day, stepped forth to stand at the edge of the ledge so that all those below may witness his coming words.

 

Abdiel spoke firmly, his voice projected tenfold in volume as it drifted down into the valley. A strength was carried in his voice that had long been contained within, finally shattering the characteristic of a man who wore many faces and told no one his name:

 

“You gathered within this cesspit of lifelessness and desolation, not because we willed you to, but because the dream to discard our empyreal shackles through unity was conceived, and then made reality through the inspiration of all of us. No lord rules truly without subjects who believe in their fellow Man, no commander is followed into battle unless his camaraderie confide in eachother. This would never have transpired if the Dark was tied under a leash and forced to gnaw at our enemies like a rabid dog. You are all here because we have realized we are one; that when we pull ourselves from the stagnancy, when we stop hiding in our lightless crevices that dot the land, our strength cannot be matched by those who oppress us with the illusion of deific Light."

 

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xggWJLgN-Es&t=21s ]

 

“Never again! Never again will they feel they can oppress the darkness nascent within all mortals with certainty, never again will the Godslaves think to encroach upon us with hubris and expectancy of victory, never again will kings and lords of Men truly confide in the idea that, if the Aengulites and the Deificists are rooted in this land, that the Dark will be kept at bay for all time! Mortal Men do not yet know the depths of Dark within them, so upon this day, when we march forth to make an example of our power, it will be carved into history how the many usurped the tyrannical few, and with the strength that we have lured out of our innate darkness, we declared to the Gods that we do not need them here!”

 

“There will be no Gods now, only Men. There will be no Light, only Dark. There will be no Disparity, only Unity. And when their keeps and their fortresses burn, when the puppets of deities lie dying in their own tainted blood, they will realize their Gods have failed them, for no God may stand as any true lord of mortals!”

 

Nearly breathless from his speech, with the many looking up upon him, Abdiel reaches up to pry his hood and old, deteriorated helmet from his head; revealing the visage of an aged, battle-torn Dark Elf; his amber eyes burning from the “dragonblood” in his veins, bidding even more expression of deep and truly mortal anger that his words already exemplified well.

 

 

“By crushing the armies of our enemies, by seizing the unity we have been starved of, we will be fighting for our very existence- for if there are those who would deny us anything beyond stagnation and refuse us our rightful place in this world, then we shall unleash such TERRIBLE VENGEANCE, THAT GODS YET UNBORN WILL CRY OUT IN ANGUISH!”

 

Inspired by the declarations of the Ashkeeper Lord, the frost-gripped legions below rose one fist and bellowed out in equal, collective fervor; crimson and cerulean shrouds and cloth adornments clinging to their forms whipping in the wind as they turned and march from the valley of desolation, and out to the long-despised archons of the Gods.

 

 

"Never again will we bow before them, never again will we endure their oppression- their tyranny. We will strike, without warning, and without mercy, fighting as one hand, one heart, one soul. We will shatter their dreams and haunt their nightmares, and as their last breath tears at their lungs, as the shadow of death numbs their minds and cripples their bodies, they will know only one thing...

That they must fear the Old Dark."

 

A horn bellows from the forgotten, lifeless earth. All those bound to the service of the Lordmarch know its sound, and thus are given their signal to strike.
 

 

[Zarsies 6795]

A dreary man, withered and worn by aeons of wandering and forlorn ventures of the past, raised his head to lay a weak and feeble hand upon a colossal gauntlet of stone and hewn rock, its surface textured and glowing with the churning of phantasmal ichor and  congealed snot. The decrepit dark elf let out a long and abated sigh of relief as he rose from his crouch, back singing with the chorus of age -- pops and crackles -- and he stiffly stood before a great creature of rock. A low, thrumming drone bled from the mountain of armor-shaped plate and sheets, calling with words fractured and splintered like the soul nested in its hollow core,

 

"R̲̬͍͇̥̤ͮ͋ͦ̓̍̐͠e͒ͥ̀s̸͕͈̖͆̿́ͯt̶̰̆̑̉̔ͦ̅,͈̹̽̋ͬ̌ͨͧ̚ ͓͇̪̪̮̤ͥ̏ͩ̒͜m͍ͩ͡a̩͆̈́ͫ̌͛̚͟ś̰͖͙̗̜̥t̜̤̫̯͇̝ͮ͋̂ͪͬ̂͐͜e̬̱̩ͥ͌͋̃͊̂ͅŗ̲͍̙̫̗̝͋̇ͨ͗ͯ̈?̷͇̱̮͉̮̖"

 

The man flicked a hand to his left and floating from the darkness sprawled a thinly wrapped mantle of metal, pauldrons papery and weak with a helm to match, and from them sprouted clean, white silk, feathers, and fur. With the assistance of the titan the man donned the armor, shaking his head after whilst an abyssal and grim voice permeated the cold steel on his body: its tone was pathetic, sad, and o'so dreary alongside the signature low pitch of one prepared to weep. He whispered back to the giant in a single quip, his speech laced with hate and sorrow in a dark tongue,

 

"N̽ͪ̓҉o̠̥̠̺͉̲͆̈́̈ͨ.̷͇͙ ̩͍̿̑̓̉͢Ń̤̝͈̣̘̙͎̒̑ͯ̒o̲͍̞̲̥ͫwͮ́ ̣̝̜͈̙͍̤͒̆͊͊ͫ̈́wͧͪ̍e̗͎̜̘̼̣̿͢ ̩͕̜̗̤̼̙͂ͨ̂̀̎͜c͕͈͙̠̭͚͓̒̾͑͒͌̎ř̰͑u̦̠s̰̱̰͈͖̽̌ͤ͒̏̉̈́a̱̳̙͈͚͚̻̽͞d͔̳͖ͭ̌͒e͕̿ ̪͈̼̞͖̥̻̏̈́̀f̫͓̦̝̂̈́ͫ̄ͣ͝ȯ̷̱̬ͯ̿ͥr̟͚͉͙̘̊̃͐̿͑ͭ̀ͅ ̵̯̬͐ͩ̃̐ͨ̑t̻͍̥̰̘̯̙̿͆̑́̀ͮh͈̦̳͈͛̽̅̔̂͢e̪̘̰̟̝̣͛͜ ̖̪̥ͯ̊̃ͯ͡ͅt̩͈͕͕̐̀̇̓̒ṙ͉̲̻͓̃ȕ̸͎̻̥͈̤̤̽ͯͯ́t͈ͧ̈́̎̾͒h͉͂͜.͓͆͛͑̎͒"

 

 

[Guest]

The wailing of a single man filled every inch of the water, his form bent beneath fast moving rapids as his arms were chained down, experiencing agony unimaginable to man. With the frayed waters tearing constantly at his blueish flesh, the spirit found no respite as he drowned, caught in a limbo perpetuated by his withered soul and amoral deeds.

 

"Fear the Old Dark; fear what is to come, for there is only man."

 

A single voice whispered within the hollowed remnants of his mortal mind, seemingly eternal.

 

"The god slaves will suffer, someone will finish what I started, they will come to heel and finally some semblance of truth shall be found for Man."

[The King Of The Moon 7016]

Amidst the desolate canyons of the east, at Tahn's opposing coast to the Old March's gathering, a meeting of equal intent - though lesser in size - occurred. Two Ish'Urkal of the  Ixxli - malformed and twisted by their consumption of spirits - addressed their fellow Dark Shamans and what fleshsmithed abominations the pagans also had in their service. Two clearly seem to head to the conversation: A pair of floating Orcish skulls atop spectral bodies that alluded to their former shapes, one visibly once younger Uruk of a grey-brown translucent matter, another a much smaller Goblin of mould-green essence. The latter, Gukdab, spoke first.
"Long haz it been our cauze, bruddaz, to liberate dah Uzg from dah deceitful and dizhonourable klutchez of dah zhomoz, who bend dah knee to dah zpiritz and backztab their bruddaz in exchange for powa. It haz been our duty to rid dah zonz of Krug from deze zhacklez."
A series of murmurs (for the mostpart, in agreement) resonated from the assembly of six notably less degraded Orcs. One without limbs yet retaining a withered torso and head of mortal flesh, the other five of relative normality spare sunken features and declined muscle. The former Ish'Urkal, Kurag, then continued.
"Az mi have alreadi informed Gukdab, a mighti legion am to be formed. Mi haz recieved word ob aMarch of dah Old Lordz. Waagh iz upon dah forcez ob dah buurz'mojoz. A cauze nub diffurunt from our own. Dey zeek to ztand againzt dah tyranny of dah Paladinz, Clericz, Azhendid, Druidz..."
Some of those gathered became irate, a blatant streak of disapproval for the conversation's potential course erupted from some of the Dark Shamans. The fleshsmithed entities quivered, those still clinging to sentience in their enslavement fearful for what may come. Gukdab took over once more.
"Mazta Kurag and I peep dah value in an allianze. We peep dat dah greatur zpiritz dah enemiez ob dah Old Lordz zerve are nub zo different from dah enemiez we face. With or without lat'z involvement we am gonna extend our cauze beyond juzt dah Urukz." He paused. "It am tik our horizonz broadened. Dah Lordmarch callz uz; dah chainz of all dezhendantz will be zhattered!" The Ish'Urkal lofted a fist of bastardised spirit and corporeal matter to a chest of similar make, pledging to his brethren. "We will mayke dem fear dah Old Dark."
 

[drfate786 1690]

The Von Amice packs his insidious agenda into his chariot and proceeds to ride north. The living will know to fear the old dark and the godslaves will know the pain of ten thousand years.

 

"Hail to the lordmarch, may my plans serve them."

[EdgyMagey 787]

   As torches flickered in the dark room, two figures' shadows trembled on the wooden floor. One was seated, its form hunched, the other behind it, its arms on its shoulders.

 

   "You are going to hurt yourself." The second figure echoes with a tinge of worry hidden in her tone. "When will this ever be done?" She speaks out, with a single, shaky sigh escaping her.

 

   "When I finish what master Cahir has started." The second, stern tone replies, as the first, seated figure adjusts its clothing, before swiftly standing up to face the other.

 

   "Now, where may my scalpel be?"

[arakrsptec 171]

"Been there before," An Azdrazi uttered from atop a crumbling tower, scaled form drenched in the light of the flames around him. To his side stood two others, both adorned in metal plates. Seekers of the trials, set upon claiming the path of a dragonkin. "If our allies will continue to hide in their castles, it comes to us to wage war upon the ilk I once stood alongside." He spoke, gaze falling to the landscape far below the ruined walls of Tor Azdraeth. He turned, passing between the stone walls that surrounded them. "Time to begin your training."

[The Media Wizard 2958]

Azoth shivers unexpectedly.

 

"Oo... that was odd. Are my nipples hard?"

[bromadan 368]

"Punsi the Gods.." Torug muttered his helm as he raised his claymore onto his shoulder. 

[Lhindir_ 3691]

[Reserved]

[ForeverGinger 148]

The decrepit corpse of a halfling stands among the hordes of the dead and dying.  Even there, vicious tearing hunger gnaws at its twisted frame: A constant companion in the long nights to come.  The creature raises its head, howling into the frigid northern wind;

 

"Walls crumble, gates rust... Soon, a feast of godsflesh!  Fear the Old Dark!"

[Skylez 870]

 

Amidst the ruined West lie a propped figure, sparsely adorned in plate with a brigandine torso; 

a measly fire ushering faint ebbings of radiance onto him and the near vicinity.

 

 

He was a newly risen Stalker of the Dark, though despite his newfound status the fellow was grizzled and aged from time and experience.

The old Veteran had seen enough senseless fighting and pointless toil as his sight kept locked onto the soon to be smoldering flame;

though truly he hated the Godslaves as any of his new brethren.

A newly stitched shroud of crimson lay bound around his neck and right pauldron, flapping idly therein chilled Western gales.

 

 

He'd heave himself upright while still in his solemn demeanor, and then began off, unbeknownst of the true curse that ailed him -

Undeath.

 

The Darkstalker wished to better the realms of man as the Redshrouds of yore attempted, that was his troublesome path.

[mitto 2312]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.