The Black Scourge

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It had been happening, as had been told it would... A head each day... reaching inside the lands of Leumalin. "If the Princes do not bring us an elf every elven week, a head shall reach Malinor once every elven day." The messages come each elven day with the head... signed as "The Black Scourge", "Followers of Setherien", "The corrupted of the North", they signed all differently, but you can tell they are all the same. Not even a few elven days ago they made another appearance, showing themselves at the gates of Leumalin. They asked who wanted to surrender to the will of Setherien. They were ignored, taught of fools, worthless incompetents... It was their mistake... The deal was once more sent to the ears of the elves, if an elf was not delivered once an elven week, a head would arrive once every elven day. As the two who spoke stood still, beasts came from the ground from black smoke. They started attacking the people as freezing blue flames were sent from above. Many died that day, but it was not the end. The deaths continue to show each day, a head appearing each day... It will continue, so is the promise of the Black Scourge... Will their leaders cave in to such a crime? Will others take it onto their own hand and defend their brothers and sisters? Or will some to protect their loved ones, betray their kind and offer the elves themselves? What will the elves do?

The world seemed silent, as if Anthos held it's breath. The robbed figure made it's way up to Malinor, heaving a large bag. If anyone would have seen this figure on the road, they would surely have seen the red liquid dripping from the bag, continuously, endlessly. Drip, drop, drip, drop. As the gates of the famed Elven city came into view, the Masked being crept alongside it's outskirts, watching travelers come and go. The dark servant twisted it's head, grinning as he observed a Prince and an orphan make a deal. He dropped down after it's conclusion, driving a spike into the soft grass. He cared not if anyone saw him, removing the dark object from his bag. He placed the head on the wooden spike, twisting it around to ensure a snug fit. As the people of Malinor convene on the spot, they gasp in terror and awe at the sight of the head. Those who knew Bircalin would recognize the head, a pumpkin carved across his temple. The bottom part of his neck seems to have been brutally sawed off, and an eye is missing. Next to the gruesome display, a note written in blood is held down by a yellow flower. It reads: "We vowed, you ignored"

A slender female figure in a black hood steps forward. "One thousand two hundred minas."

The desolate North was still. Though once it had clamoured to the march of the Glurtzfolok as they travelled south to their beachhead, its icy vales and frosted peaks bore only silence. The roar of the Bohra natives was a distant memory - where they had gone few could say, but now their ruins served new masters. Within a ruined building that had perhaps been a temple to the Bohra of old, dark shadows flitted and coalesced into humanoid form. Viewing their surroundings contemptuosly, one of the figures raised a spectral hand dismissively. As if diseased, a blood red stain appeared in patches on the grey stone walls and spread like fungus until the temple resembled the dark edifice that once terrorised the South. Satisfied with the Dark Lieutenants focussed on other spells. In bursts of dark flame, new figures appeared in the temple, cloaked and heeding their Master's terrible call. Taking seats at what appeared to be pews, the figures resembled an unholy congregation, their attention rapt and focussed on the spectres at the pulpit. After all had arrived the spectres gazed upon their flock. The gathered figures began to answer questions only they could hear, whispering softly to themselves. One by one they bowed and left, vanishing in flashes of flame or making the trek South on foot. Wheels had been put in motion.