[ET] A SCAR UPON IDUNIA

[Petsch2k 1851]

 

 

 

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THE SCAR UPON THE WORLD

 

As the tear in the world flooded the surrounding silver woods with abysmal life force. Nature screamed in agony as life around the rift began to wittle,  decay, and corrupt. The Darksworn Reikonor rose once again and with it the Legion of Darkoath. Hexwraiths rose in power–the Darksworns generals–they led their own portion of the legion each with their own objectives to complete. The realm of the living would fall into chaos once again, as more and more undead sightings begin to appear across Azuras. 

 

The High Kingdom of Idunia would be no different, surrounded already by the accursed emberrest forest–home to many cults, apparitions and feral corcitura–undead have begun to rise in numbers. But something was different, their bones would be darkened, black veins pulsing with abyssal magik. They dawned armor and necrotic weapons, imbued with dark magik to cause cancerous wounds. It seemed as if something terrible was about to occur, something that would begin a battle that has been fought since millennia.

 

Light vs Dark

Good vs Evil

 

THE VISION

 

Within the Idunia Capital, the Templars of Malchadiel would go about their daily tasks, most were either out patrolling or honing their skills.  

 

In an open area within the Temple of Malchadiel, Adûnakhor and Ser Valanor  were training together. They were brothers-in-arms  who had fought alongside each other many times. As they began to channel their holy magic their swords began to glow a warm light when suddenly they both noticed something was off. A small sharp pain struck their psyche, pulling them both into a vision. 

 

Their perception began to blur as the world around them suddenly was washed away. They barely had time to react before being pulled into their psyche. 

 

After a few seconds they recognized that there were deep within the emberrest forest, the vision cut through the dense fog before darkened undead in armor came into view, they were armed with blackened weaponry that dripped with black ichor, it seems they were guarding a group of necromancers circling an altar while chanting a dark mantra.  The black speech irritated the Templars as they listened to the accursed tongue of the damned. The surrounding trees would be decorated with hanging dead peasants as the necromancers channeled black magic onto the center of the altar. 

 

As the two witnessed the blasphemous ceremony, they were pulled back into the temple, in the same stances they once were. They wasted no time, considering that vision to be a message of utmost urgency, they called for a quick task force to go engage their enemy that lurked within the woods. 

 

The knights of Malchadiel gathered a small but deadly force, and soon sallied off towards the outskirts of the Capital. As they began their search for the undead, the Templars in the group began to have sharp pain, small visions giving them hints as to where to go. They eventually found the ritual ceremony and with it a plethora of undead. There they encountered what seemed to be an abyssal knight, large in stature, its blade covered in writhing tendrils and rotten smog. It called out to the Templars hiding behind the cover of the woodlands. Taunting them before the signal was given.  The night echoed with clashes of steel, bursts of flashes from the sparks that let off as each blade landed upon another.

 

The battle was fierce, quick, and violent.

 

THE RIFT

 

The towering undead knight was slain. The Hexwraith crumbled to the ground, but soon the ground shook, in the corner of their eyes towards the rift–the necromancers had completed their mission–the ground began to shake, and a new scar tore open. Abyssal flame and a myriad of black tendrils crawled out, lifeforce pouring out onto the ground, the foul stench of corruption polluted the air. Slowly the lands began to change, the dirt darkened, tree bark twisted unnaturally, leaves turned dark purple to shades of black.  The Host of Idunia had won the battle, the field was littered with undead and allied corpses, but now a rift was open and more undead will be pouring out from that wound…the dire circumstances was not over. Reports later that day came from Caurost, they too had been attacked. More and more reports began to come in, more undead, more necromancers, it seems they were being assaulted by multiple fronts. 

 

They may have won the battle, but the war had just begun.

 

 

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[Random 1690]

A second pitch black pin was embedded into a grand map of Azuras - this time not on the distant silver island, but a mere horse ride away from Alduun itself. Other markers soon joined the one, as defensive emplacements were placed around the area. Though they had been taken by surprise the first time, no more would be conceded to Reikenor and his wraiths, regardless of how many times they would arise from the abyss.

 

The Prince turned away from the war room then, a shackled necromancer deep within Minas Aradar awaiting interrogation.

[ChainedDragons 1374]

This darkness is a greater threat than any petty descendant squabbling.. we need to focus our efforts on defending our home lest we let it crumble like Aveos.

 

Bron set his quill down as he closed his latest journal entry.

[Beardicuss 486]

The little boy Konrad had been reading his most recent addition to his forbidden collection reading up upon the lich Draakar Mordring and his binding to the four old lords when the news of the rift reached him and alrighty the wheels in head begin to turn. The plans of a mighty adventure began to form in the child's mind of seeking this dangerous place for Glory and to satisfy his own morbid curiosity 

[Sandman_Plays 659]

{!} Ser Caspian mourned the dead, after the battle, his voice hoarse from orders, though despite the eight hour long assault they had won the day, he ordered large barrels of mead and wine to be distributed to the men in celebration for those who survived.

Eight Hours 1 scratch... perhaps someone smiled upon him from above.

[FadedMoonlight 450]

1 hour ago, ChainedDragons said:

like Aveos.

"Minor spelling mistake..." Creaked the voice of an old man from the shadows as he watched Bronadron write in his journal, a set of lockpicks, boltcutters and 32 signs in his right hand.

"You lose..."