The Dawn of the Abyss

[Phantuhm 197]

Spoiler

 

       

Conflict

“In a time of struggle and stale battle between necromancers a black beacon rose to guide the weavers down a path of enlightenment.”

 

The Purge

 

The Abyssal ways overturned the Necromancers of old and established new branches of Abyssal necromancy, a mass purging took place removing many of their magic and reducing them to novices. Of the mass of necromancers, a select few were chosen to inherit the full power of the secret art.

 

The Dawn of The Abyss

“The Abyss consumes all.”

 

I. A Chosen One

 

Down below the jagged crevices of Azuras sat a forgotten necromancer within a leaky cave, drinking with skeletons and ghouls while titanic flesh beasts labored away lighting the forge. They shaped and hammered molten metal into weaponry for his army to wield. The Necromancer finished his glass as he looked to its bottom in despair. He felt an abrupt pulse of pain writhe through his heart. The ker’s stomach began to turn as he reclined himself in order to vomit, but nothing came up. He threw off his cloak and chestpiece; looking in a cracked mirror he revealed to himself his own form. His body had been tainted by the abyss, blackish purple cracks leeching out from his heart, stretching through every inch of viscera, coursing through his very veins. He retrieved his cloak and set out to restore the balance ‘pon the world above.

Azrakan journeyed to the Synodic Gates; their doors flung open as his skeletal servants made way for him. They announced the necromancer’s arrival with banners of The Black Sun. 

“I HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.” 

His voice echoed throughout the halls as the newfound abyssal weaver then yelled.

“The Black Sun rises once again”

 The Necromancer’s undead dispersed missives across all of Azuras for seekers and those interested to learn of the ways of the Synod.

Spoiler

IGN for letters: Phantuhm

 

 

The Abyss Weaver
 

 

 

Edited January 27 by Phantuhm

[Benleft 2589]

Wagwan

[Xergarok 811]

Barrowlord Khôr, draped in crimson robes, awaited Azrakan under a tree. He stared out in front of him as his servant prepared a herbal brew for his husk to enjoy as it basked in the peace and clarity of the Abyss which accompanied the Elder wherever he went.

 

"Tea?"  Asked the Barrowlord before engaging in talks concerning the past, the present, and the future.

[Hawkeye_Gough 624]

The mouthpiece of Strife sat in its pitch-black throne, a great-axe still resting in its chest and spilling rouge viscera that turned pale by the time it reached the floor. His favored Mortal kneeled before him, re-professing the words of Azrakan mere hours prior. The corpse, possessed by some strange dual-magic as black in hue as the oil seas of Aegis, stroked its beard with a skeletal hand, the hair and skin beneath sloughing off like putty.

 

"I do not speak the names of the Old Lords," the Herald spoke in its decrepit Darkspeech when a certain name was said. "It is a sin among sins, for we of the Bygone Ways." They paused, a memory washing over their brainless minds and staining their constant voice with a twinge of lost sincerity. A mote of loss, among emptiness. "But, even so, He is not the Lord with whom I concern myself. The King o'er Geidleth is my forebear, not Him."

 

Interrupting no further, Strife listened to the tale of his old commander's ascent into  new nascency. "I admit," he says, once the story was fully told, "I am pleased by this awakening... Bring him to me." Without another word, then, the corpse slumped forward, collapsing off the seat and onto the ground.