---
C H A P T E R I
D h á l v ó r í
“There it was, doomed to wait, with eyes of fire and hands of hate.”
T h e H u m a n L a n d s
The sun had only lurched above the horizon for an hour or so, bathing the calm Human Lands in a soft morning light. It was days like this that the golden sunrise would shimmer across the lakes and the seas, giving the land a curious yet hauntingly beautiful quality - it was a land that seemed to be untouched by the darkness and madness of its parallels. It was different to the Outer Planes, and its resident Humans had always considered that a blessing, rather than the curse it truly was. Every conflux saw the hungering Demon Lords draw closer, each with a different intent in their eyes; be it conquest, deliverance, or destruction. It was a land beset from all sides by madness and chaos, veiled behind a mask of calm and beauty, the envy of the masters of other worlds.
Unbeknownst to the poor denizens of this most utopian plane, the world behind the veil was shifting, and the end of all things was to come to fruition. Whether this would be averted or welcomed was the calling of those who claimed to preside over this creation that was wracked with conflict and chaos.
It was this morning of perfect light that a stranger emerged from the wilds, to the simple town of Thiliden-Mor, and with him he brought a storm that would shake the very world.
“Greetings, outsider,” the militiaman greeted the man who had shuffled into the town from the wilderness. “We don’t see many o’ ya’ outside folk ‘round these parts,” he continued, tipping his crude iron skullcap in the direction of the newcomer who seemed to care little for the hospitality. The most he did to even acknowledge the militiaman was bob his head slightly as he passed the checkpoint and into the mud-trodden streets. The guardsman shrugged and returned to his duties, not giving the man a second thought. The stranger certainly was unusual, especially for the wandering type. How strange it was that he chose to hide his face, when such a thing breeds mistrust and contempt among those on the road; still, there was nothing in the town worthy of stealing.
The Wandering man could have only been a thief at worst. And even then, the guardsman doubted it. He was probably just one of those hermits who needed to stock up on supplies for the coming winter. The decline of magic in the past centuries did leave such hedge wizards at a disadvantage, no longer able to fully support themselves through their magical talents alone, they were forced to attempt to reintegrate with society at some level just to survive. Yes, that must have been it. The guardsman was sure that this was just another nostalgic hermit.
But the silken and masterful weave of his robe spoke of other origins, ones much more sinister than an ailing hedge wizard. Into the hem was woven an impossibly intricate script of a language long since forgotten, the hue of the fabric growing darker as the sun rose higher into the sky — as if it were drinking the light, and consuming the day.
The town’s tailor was first to notice the exotic material while on his mid-morning stroll across the square; something about it piqued his intrigue, and he was compelled to approach with questions. Where had it come from? and how much for the robe? were prominent among his flurry of queries, all of which were ignored by the stranger, who stood emotionless, staring into the sky and watching the slow motion of the sun above. The Tailor had given up within the half of the hour, returning to his place of work in a huff, feeling more than a little irate at the blatant rudeness of the stranger. He was not the only one, however, and as the day slowly crawled to its prime, the stranger became somewhat of a town spectacle, with men, women, and children of all ages crowding around the Wanderer for reasons they did not understand, simply to get a single look at this mysterious man that had appeared in their cosy little slice of the world. The entire day had become somewhat of a farce, with everybody in the town making a vain attempt at trying to guess what the Wanderer had come to do, and why he was there; nobody could entice a word from him.
Night fell upon the town, sending many disappointed children back to the comfort of their homes, leaving only the truly curious few behind to decipher the mystery. The tailor was among their ranks, and he was left bitter from being ignored that morning. His response was to approach the Wanderer, and rather arrogantly asking why he had treated him as such this morning, demanding that he tell him the origin of the robe’s fabric. His rash words were accompanied by a forceful grab of the robe, which he pulled clean off of the stranger.
The poor tailor’s heart must have skipped several beats when he realised his mistake.
-
The following morning, the world awoke to the news that the town of Thiliden-Mor had been the site of a savage Koragar attack, as all residents had been found slaughtered and eviscerated, utterly torn to shreds by some wild animal pack. It was the best explanation that human scouts could muster. The bulletins that had been posted across the continent of The New World failed, however, to mention the one unaccounted for corpse — whose body was strapped to a terrified horse and sent across the wilderness to the Golden River Valley. The Tailor’s body played canvas to a message, carved into his skin by some unknown power.
‘Dear Absalom,’ it read. ‘Your world is in danger. The Outer Planes march against you. There are others like you, those that you must bring to the cause of your world. I am not your enemy. I wish to see your kind prosper.’
‘-K’
T h e A s h e n A b y s s
Shadows were dark in the ineffable umbra. They were inky and impregnable, a true veil of obscurity that hid all from sight. Those that called this place home had to rely on other senses to perceive the world: sound and smell, touch and taste. But sight was forbidden in the abyss; it was a luxury granted only to those with the fortune to be born to other Planes.
There are stories in circulation in the ramshackle settlements of this place that the light was taken from the land so that the people would not have to endure the sight of The Moonlit Beast. All renditions of this tale are different, some claim it is a bird with a thousand eyes, the only creature capable of seeing through the shadows of Aárdú Lyásí, some claim that it is the most powerful shadow dragon ever to live. Some storytellers suggest that it is, in fact, a more humanoid monstrosity. Squabbling alike, though, none will ever know.
It stalked the deepest reaches of the Abyss, moving silently through the night, hungering always for its throne of darkness. This was a seat of power taken by an outsider, an imposter — an intruder. Mother Night, the false Demon Lord of the Abyss, resisted the lull of the Beast for longer than it could remember, its primal power and cunning being beaten back at every turn. But it did not wallow in sadness; it persisted with frightening tenacity, lending itself to a conflict of back and forth attrition for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.
The last months in the darkness had been quiet, though. Conflict was nonexistant, and the Grand Hunter did not prowl the shadowed plains for the flesh of unsuspecting shades. Wandering souls were no longer fearful of crossing the darkness, and it seemed as though the beast had absconded for good.
The silence, some said, was terrifying. The obscurity of not knowing was more fearful than the screeching echoes of the Moonlit Beast through the Abyss.
But those very same souls would later regret that assertion. All of those in Aárdú Lyásí would agree that the bellowing war cries of an assembled warband were much more frightening. Especially when they carried from the far reaches of the Abyss from all sides, forming the words:
‘Hail to the Beast”
T h e F r i g i d S c a r
The howling wind used to be the only sound that reached across the tundras of the Scar, in a much simpler time for the native beasts that called this frozen wasteland home. Never before had their land been in the grasp of a Demon Lord; they had always retained their independence through ferocity and strength, with few being able to subdue them. The hostile nature of the Scar itself was often more deadly than any Lord could be, so it took a truly fearsome individual to finally bring low the proud Behemoths of the Winter Lands.
The Ice Wraith Eredun was the first to achieve such a thing. With his foul ‘Pendant of Winter’ he had enslaved the Behemoths for his own, perverse ends. Rimeheart was the only one who had resisted such sacrilegious entrapment, and as a result had been cast out by his brainwashed brothers. He was set to wander the wastes for the rest of his natural life, which would have been a kind release, had the corrupting power of the pendant not made him much more than he once was. He was twisted and malformed, yet powerful and proud. He had taken up the mantle of the Ice Crown under the vein of being the last of his kind, and, assuming he would be capable of existing alone, left for the blizzard-locked horizon.
The howling wind used to be the only sound that reached across the tundras of the Scar, in a much simpler time for the native beasts that called this frozen wasteland home. Now, the wind was accompanied by the anguished cries of Rimeheart, the Lonely Behemoth, searching for others like him. His lips are twisted and frozen together in places as a result of the Pendant, but he manages occasionally to call the words ‘please,’ and ‘brothers,’ to the mountains, hoping every time that his booming voice will bring salvation in the form of company, but it never does.
It was only by chance that one day the endless wandering brought the Behemoth to a clearing in the storm, a gargantuan marking in the snow was laid out before him, forming the unquestionable shape of the foul Pendant. It was no doubt that Eredun had been here before him, invoking his foul powers and enslaving yet more of his kind.
He cast his eyes down to the snow, making out the undeniable shape of two Behemoths, dusted in a day’s snowfall, breathing. It was slow and light, but discernible. Rimeheart would often stumble across scenes like this — they were the sites of the Pendant’s effect; there would always be a behemoth within that was recently taken by the Ice Wraith. But these two… their eyes did not glow with the faint blue that was so common of the Lost.
They were free.
T h e G a r d e n s o f F i l t h
“I seek an audience with the King of Decay,” the rotting jester stated. He had made it to the heart of the city of decay with a message for his liege. His eyes were black with the very essence of rot, like many of this sickening world. He had wandered for hours through a foul squalor of pus and putrid bile just to find his way to the residence of Karuz Thrak, the Plague Lord.
A trio of Kul Rak zombies stared the jester dead in the empty eyes, their foul minds calculating the correct response for one wishing to gain an audience with their lord. One of the vile triumvirate began to moan a strangely melodic wail, one that echoed upwards through the crumbling excuse of a city.
“Youuu,” it groaned through a jaw so rotted that its original shape was barely even recognisable. “Seek the Decaying King?”
“Yes! Yes! I seek master! I bring with me news of an opportunity most fruitful! Our lord has an opportunity to corrupt more than this world! Things are beginning to change!” He quivered in response to the second guard suddenly brandishing his spear, pointing the piercing edge at exposed throat of the jester. “I- I- I only wish to serve master!” He yelped. “Master demands lives to poison!”
The Zombie lowered his weapon, casting his gaze directly into the empty sockets of the jester, who unleashed a menacing grin momentarily, revealing a tattered row of blackened stumps of teeth, lined with a newer set of long, needle like spikes that were more reminiscent of a flesh-devouring snake. His face returned to a frightened composure following the guard’s words.
“King does not talk with dead clowns, King talk with those loyal to plague.”
“And I am loyal to the plague! You Must believe me! Master will wish to know!” he snivelled in retort.
The first guard turned to the second, and the second turned to the third who vacantly started into the first. Their empty expressions spoke droves of their consideration of the jester’s proposal, who keeled over into the dirt, awaiting the judgement of the Plague Lord’s guardians.
A minute or two seemed to pass, the two conflicting parties at an awkward stalemate where nothing was said, leaving only thoughts to be considered.
Finally, the first guard snapped his head to the left with a sickening crunch of bones grinding and flesh tearing, and opened its mouth, allowing a sick concoction of black and yellow fluids to pour forth following its judgement.
“Liar. You are liar. You shall not purify the master with lies!”
It flourished its weapon with uncharacteristic grace, raising it high above its bare and exposed skull, and slashing down at the jester. The weapon struck the filth below, the small and queer frame of a creature had disappeared in a way which should have been impossible.
“Foolish creaturesss,” a very different voice hissed from below the sludge of the earth. “Thisss is not your conflict to decide.”
The guards had tried to fight back against the strangely beautiful, yet horrific beast that then rose from the bile, its scales glinting in the dull bubonic light of the Gardens of Filth. The three were torn to shreds in seconds by a serpent that moved as fast as lightning, striking from all sides with a fury to match. Within seconds, the three apparently powerful guardian Kul Rak were nothing more than a chaotic pile of shattered bone, torn flesh, and tended armour plates.
A jester, small and feeble, was then seem making his way to the throne of the Plague Lord. He was not questioned by any of the Lord of Decay’s guards thereafter. He prostrated himself before the Grand Defiler and spoke his message:
“Master, master. The path to the Mortal Lands are open once more. The Humans do not know. A strike could ensure you become the new master of the Young World! They are not expecting you. Now is your chance! Master Master!”
