Sir Amalar Amuul - Northern borders of Varathuun
Sir Amalar had briefed the Dragonsword agents prior to their departure and giving to each of them a specific role occupying the and detaining the pirates headed for Cthonia. A few questions by the agents and clarifications and they were off riding hastily towards the northern borders where they would try to intercept the pirate ship before it had any chance to reach Cthonia's borders. Their command if they did happen to see the pirate ship was to destroy it and leave nothing behind. Although, it was clear to Sir Amalar the ship was too far ahead for them to intercept. They'd have but little choice but to ambush them within Cthonia
Sir Amalar got down from his horse and looked up at the ship they would be taking. It wasn't all that much, but they needed to stay hidden as this was a covert mission, and any sign of them being part of Dragonsword or anything to do with the king would lead the enemies off. No, this ship would have to do in all of it's... simplicity. She's a good ship, the owner had encouraged him, Amalar crossing his arm across his chest. Seeing as they would have little choice, he docked with his relatively small group of men, denying any intervention from the army, loaded any and all of their provisions and set sail towards Cthonia. He could clearly see, however, his men were eager for battle. They haven't seen action in a while and they thirsted for blood, for Dragonsword agents had transcended beyond normal men. They were elite and death was as much of their lives as breathing. It was second nature to them. Soon, Amalar thought to himself allowing a small smile to form on his face as the ocean air hit his face and he took a deep breath at its wonderfulness. Even monsters among men were subject to such beauties.
Ramoutejes- The Dark King of the Northern Tundras
After a century of slumber, Ramoutejes awoke. An anti-climatic awakening where he stood from his throne, his person and form shifting and altering as if it were behind a heat wave. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked to his right, where his double-headed flail lay, next to his throne and took it before he walked forward two steps, turned right and took a step back, he was now on the roof of his tower overlooking the tundra that was his kingdom.
It was near. He could smell it. His second blight would soon begin upon the mainland, his men were for too long inactive and idle. No longer. But first, before he did any of that he would need a newer army, an army that could withstand the blows of men and other races and knew exactly where to look. He devised a course of action as he played with the silver ring that shined in the sunlight. He then noticed it. Something indeed was off. He looked up and beheld the might of the noble sun. With a grunt he uttered a spell in a language long forgotten in the mainland and blotted out the sun above him for a ten mile radius with dark, black clouds.
Much better. He then continued to devise battle strategies for what would be the first campaign in his march to take control over the mainland as he had many, many centuries ago. He stood there devising and planning for what seemed days and days, for indeed they were days simply standing upon his tower and replaying outcomes over and over, calculating their chances of success. After a few days he was satisfied with a plan. It would take time to even begin the first phase, but the sooner he started the closer he could feel his grasp upon the world.
Ramoutejes looked up at the cloudy sky and read a poem aloud. Yet, this was no ordinary poem. This was a poem of that long forgotten tongue, none except dragons, kuratchi, and other skazka remember such a dark, rich, gritty - yet beautiful language, a poetic language devised by the Dark King himself of such magnificence and poetic art that could turn the strongest, toughest man into a weeping puddle if used in the correct manner. But his poetry was a double edged sword, he could devise it and use it in such a way it would strike fear and horror in those who heard it, for such was the power of this language, such was the force behind each word. He read the poem and ordered his voice to carry itself so it could be heard all throughout the mainland, proclaiming in his deep, rich voice how he had returned and beckoning his Iaz'gul to council. Ten minutes the poem sounded, a warning for what was to come, for those who indeed take heed.
After his recitation the world seemed to fall into a deep, thick, palpable silence for a few seconds before it went back to normal. Shortly after, Ramoutejes heard the roar of the dragons belonging to the Iaz'gul as they neared his tower. Fourteen roars that shook the tower and Ramoutejes himself. Fifteen where the Iaz'gul, the remaining one, known as the King of the Damned resided in the southernmost swamps acknowledging his master's call for he would not be summoned on this day, he was to wait and grow his army of the Corrupted. When the signal came, he would fly north with the massive army to wreck havoc and destroy all that is pure and light. Not yet, however. Ramoutejes, having discussed the plans with the King of the Damned in secret prior, needed now to inform the rest of the Iaz'gul. When the signal came he would march and not a moment sooner.