Prelude to Souls

Death.

Throughout every era, people have been captivated by it. Men, women and children. Scholars, philosophers, mages, craftsmen, servants and kings. From the most humble dwelling to the greatest civilizations, death has always been present, always waiting just beyond comprehension. For some, there exists only fear and dread, as is often the case with the unknown. Others hold curiosity, spending their time with theories and possibilities while seeking to unravel the truth through misguided logic. Religions often make use of death to serve their own cause and increase their wealth. No matter the purpose or intention, this mystery remains steadfast and unaffected.

There are a few, however, who seek it out, searching for power beyond that which can be bestowed through life. Herein lies the great irony: that those with the spark of life turn against the living and seek the ways of the dead. Often times, those who follow this course fail to comprehend the full breadth of the nature of life and death, and the connection thereof. In their ignorance, they turn to the power of souls, and to unnatural manipulation of spirit and body. They become the dark harbingers, shifting the balance between living and dead.
To these, the world brands with the title of Necromancer.

They know not how close their ignorance has brought them to the forgotten truth.

Kryos marveled. Not something most people would do if they were standing where he stood a foot away from a newly risen undead beast. An unholy union of griffin and a lesser wyvern, the result was more likely to instill disgust or fear, rather than awe. Frayed feathers erupted from the scaly flesh, at least in most areas. Over the neck, breast, and most of the legs there was the lack of the reptilian skin; newly created muscles and tendons stretched across the decayed bones that served as the origin point to the necromages. Where blood vessels normally tracked, dark magic now pulsed, the force which would sustain the beast. Despite being immobilized through the work of the mages—standing a full ten feet tall on all fours—the shrill shrieking that screamed from the beak and torn flesh echoed around the large stone chamber. The smell of the twisted body seeped into the air, and had Kryos not been accustomed to living in a cesspool of disease, undead and plague, he might have vomited on the spot.

Despite all of this, Kryos stood motionless a foot away from the bound creature. His vision was locked, not with the glazed eyes of the undead griffin, but rather upon the center. His crimson eyes glowed with power beneath his onyx hair, complementing the violet light that glowed from the magical seal below him. The work of the necromancers had been completed; the body had been crafted, and the souls had been torn back and replaced. Now it was Kryos’ turn. At the end of his work and concentration, he marveled.

The beauty of a soul is constant. It never changes. Even after being forced into a body as rotted and maimed as this.

As he finished, the flaming black and white spirals that danced around his arms dimmed until they disappeared. He had finally succeeded in merging the souls of two creatures, as he had been charged with by one of the Dread Lord’s lieutenants. Months of trial and error led up to this moment. The two souls, one griffin, the other wyvern, resonated within the corrupted body. As far as he could feel out, there were only minor deficits in function due to the merging. With practice, Kryos hoped to speed up the time the ritual took, as well as perfect the process so that the body would be completely functional to the will of the two hosts. No doubt the other generals would want more and more hybrids. Expediting the process was in his best interest.

“Done.”

He took several steps back to where the necromancers stood. As the glowing runes which held the griffin captive dimmed, he watched closely. There harmony between the two souls came out of sync for a only a second before they realigned. The large creature ceased its screeching, bristled its feathers and scales, and waited for the order of the commanding necromancer standing to Kryos’ left.

“I know it’s new, but start out slow. They are still working out the division of labor.” Kryos turned and walked past the supporting mages to his desk at the end of the room furthest from the ritual site. He paused before sitting down, looking back at former high elf, now undead.

“Don’t mess with the resonance either.” The unspoken threat lingered in the silent air. Then, the undead turned and exited the chamber, the newly created and augmented creature following behind.

As the cavern quieted but for the burning of torches along the walls, Kryos sighed and sat down. He rubbed his temples, ordering his thoughts so that he could accurately document the recent work in his journal. As he opened the black and silver, leather-bound cover and flipped past the pages, he could see just how far he had come to understand. He doubted that even among his race, the Dwiilar, the ones known as the guardians of souls, there would be one who knew what he had recently learned. For none had tried to study soul magic such as theirs alongside necromancy.

He dipped his quill and laid ink to parchment.

February 20th, 1815

Successfully merged two souls in one body today. A hybrid of griffin and a lesser wyvern. The necromancers told me they used the core structure of a recently hunted snow griffin, and added the tissue of the wyvern. The mixed body that they created and then pulled the souls into seems to help with what I will call the “resonance” between the two souls. There are familiar aspects that both recognize, which I believe was a major factor which led to success.

It took some extensive manipulation, but eventually I was able to achieve resonance between the griffin and wyvern. The process is hard to put into words, as most things with soul magic is. I think that it would best be described as finding the places in one soul where the other will fit. A bit like a puzzle, except you only have two pieces that are multi-dimensional and are constantly changing and reacting to anything I do. It takes a lot of patience, but with some more practice, I should be able to get a better feel for it.

I have achieved something which I originally thought was impossible. I never imagined that two souls could be conjoined in such a way. I can manipulate and augment souls, change their nature, even sever their ties to the mortal plane. But I have learned that you can never destroy them, thus the idea of merging two souls seemed out of the question. But the way that I have been able to cause two souls to resonate and be in harmony within one body causes me to question many of the assumptions that I have understood about souls. This feels like the beginning of, well, getting the answers I have been looking for, although my discoveries are raising more and more questions to explore.

I wish that I could remember more. And the fact that I still haven’t regained all my abilities worries me, especially since I have been speaking to Gilgalion of late. Two nights ago, I allowed him into my mind, if only for a few minutes, but even that was devoid of progress. He says that he would need more time and access, but I am loath to give him access to my mind. Still, the thought of being able to see again into the realm of souls would give much insight to my work.

I digress. The important thing is that I have, as the necromancers would call it, “fused two souls together.” Silly, really, when you look at what is actually happening. They have so much power, yet so many fail to see the truth of a soul. Regardless, I can only wonder what Maeril will think of this when he gets my report. I still do not know why I was assigned to research this, and I can only wonder where this will lead.

I do have some concerns when I start making hybrids out of the souls of the races of humans, elves, dwarves, etc. From my experience, the more self aware a soul is, the harder it is to reshape, although my skills have improved greatly during my time here. For this reason, I am grateful for the power of the necromancers. While I am able to directly change and manipulate, they are able to suppress and dominate, which may be needed to achieve resonance.

After finishing his reports and reassessing the new hybrid, Kryos found himself heading back to his quarters. Before the Corpse War, it would have been a simple matter to move from the large caverns below Trenyce’s main keep to the adjoining tower where Kryos stayed when not involved in his work. Now, however, after the city essentially tore itself apart with the undead horde, getting anywhere took time. There had been talk of cleaning up the main streets, but the Dread Lord preferred to keep the city in its ruinous condition. Kryos suspected that it was for defense reasons. As far as anyone in Trenyce knew, their leader was the last remaining lieutenant of the Forgotten One. There may be a few others, but they had vanished into the Plaguelands. If the High Elves decided to assault the city, they would essentially be walking into a labyrinth. Regardless, Kryos didn't mind moving through the debris. After long days in the caverns, he enjoyed the opportunity to stretch his legs and clear his mind.

The sun was nearing the horizon, and the still intact outer walls cast most of the city into deep shadow. Most of the undead paid no heed to Kryos as he moved through the lengthening darkness. He ducked under a partially collapsed archway and then, rather than skirting the splintered ruins of a toppled house, hopped along the snow-covered, fractured ceiling supports. This area, just west of the Keep proper, had suffered the most from the war. Barely any buildings still stood, and any that did were just skeletons of their previous elven glory. Despite the fresh snowfall, the stench of rot, death and disease blew with the light breeze and swirling ice crystals.

The crunching of approaching footsteps in the snow drew his gaze the the corner of the wall of the ruined keep. As he neared, a women almost as tall as he rounded the corner. She wore simple boots, gray wool pants, and a dark green parka. Black hair escaped the bottom of the fur-lined hood that framed her slender face and neck. Her piercing blue eyes shone with inner light against the deepening shadows.

Madison Freebird.

As far as Kryos knew, her role here was quite similar to his own: research for the Death Lord. He suspected that, like him, Madison had a personal goal that she worked for, and Trenyce simply happened to be the place where that goal would most likely be achieved. While their spheres of research were completely separate, they crossed paths often enough. Personally, Kryos regarded her with interest and curiosity. He had unintentionally looked upon her soul and it was, as he had put it, “like no soul he had ever seen before.” Perhaps with time he might learn more of the Briarheart.

Kryos nodded his head as they passed, with silence the only acknowledgement either of them needed. Her footsteps vanished before he reached one of the side doors to the keep.

Minutes later, Kryos closed and locked the door to his small quarters. He went to the makeshift fireplace, added a log and some kindling and soon had a small fire warming the room against the frost. He unstrapped the two swords from his back and placed them on the foot of his bed. Now unburdened, he poured a glass of dark water from a large pitcher, which he then purified with his ring. While it didn’t do much for the taste, it beat the alternative.

Going to the window, orange and purple light pouring in, Kryos looked over the once majestic city. His room was high enough that the sickly aromas of the city rarely reached him, and he savored the clean air that blew in from the gaps around the window frame. The city was cast in darkness from the outer walls, a stark contrast to the colorful, evening sky. The sun neared the horizon, with the rolling hills of the Raiaerian countryside casting shadows over the fresh snow of the adjacent planes, hiding the savage groups of undead creatures that prowled beyond the walls and the power of the Dread Lord. Past the horizon lay the Great Forest, Daer Taure. Beyond that, the Mountains of Dusk.

A feeling of nostalgia tickled his mind as he wondered what remained of his people. If they had survived the Corpse War, or if they had scattered from their hidden home in the mountains. He struggled to remember what it had looked like, or the faces of those he must have known, but like a near-remembered dream, the memories continued to elude him.

It’s been almost two years now, since that day when I was pulled from the rubble. Two years of working alongside the Death Lord, with no idea how I came to be back in this land. Or even how I came to be buried in the first place.

He thought of how he must have looked when Maeril Thyrrian, the last of the Death Lords of Xem’Zund, extracted him from a collapsed cavern deep under the Lindequalmë. Barely conscious, with hardly the clothes still intact to cover his body, with no memory of who or what he was. He had acted on instinct when the necromancer equated his usefulness to be greater as one of the undead. His power burst forth and he returned the souls of the approaching undead to the world beyond. As he fell to the ground, surrounded by corpses, he remembered seeing Maeril smiling at him.

Since then, he had lived and worked here, in the fallen city Trenyce, searching for answers and furthering the development of the undead through advances in soul magic. While significant gaps still remained, most of his memory had been restored. Not only that, but he had come to master his own abilities through the course of his research and the knowledge of those who dwelled in the city. At this point, it mattered little to Kryos to know what originally brought him back to the land of the High Elves. What mattered were the secrets behind his research, his magic, and his memories.

Turning from the window, he walked over to and sat on his bed, pulling the thick, fur blankets over his shoulders. He leaned back and rested his head against the wall, crimson eyes lost to the dancing of the burning flames. As his eyelids slowly drifted closed, he smiled. He felt he was getting close to the answers he sought. The truth behind his lost memories. The truth behind death and souls.

A stone obelisk cast in faint light. A ring of obsidian fire. A boy, slumped against the pillar. His face, darkened in shadow, dripped blood onto the hard floor.

Kryos’ fists clenched and a snarl grew across his face. He grabbed for the short sword at the small of his back, but only found air. No matter. He would deal with it before it could ask him. As he moved forward, his footsteps echoed, growing louder and louder until he couldn’t move any closer. The small figure before him stirred, opening its eyes. The glowing blue and silver gaze pierced Kryos as the question came blasting forth.

“Why? Why me?”

Kryos ground his teeth, fighting against the force that held him.

“WHY?!”

The black flames roared and swirled, engulfing them both. Kryos felt the heat turn to wind, and scarlet leaves danced and fell before his eyes. A child’s laugh rang through the cursed forest and he saw a shadow flit through the red wood. A little girl peeked at him from behind a tree, innocent eyes slightly hidden behind her blonde hair.

“Come and play with us!”

The ground began to shake to the beat of a growing gallop. An enormous, golden dog came wheeling to a stop by the girl’s side. She clambered upon the beast and, as they turned and raced off, her laughter once again rang through the forest.

“C’mon Kryos!”

They disappeared and he found himself alone once more. Leaves gently fell around him and laid intricate patterns upon the forest floor. Sitting at the base of one of the nearby trees, he waited for what seemed like an eternity; the unchanging light making the passage of time unmeasurable. He leaned his head back against the smooth bark.

Alone again. It is probably best this way.

Just as his lids began to fall, he noticed a light before him.

~~~~~~~~~~

The shortsword was in his hand before his silver eyes finished opening to the darkened room. Three small, orange glows were all that remained of his fire, yet those points of light were more than enough to enable him to see that he was alone. With a deep breath, he calmed his racing heart. Gradually, the pounding in his ears dimmed and vanished.

He’d lost count of how many times he’d had that particular dream. It was always the same. The cavern, then the forest. It always ended the same: him resting against a tree. This time, however, had been different.

He furrowed his brow as he tried to remember. He had been alone in the crimson wood, but then, someone had appeared. It had seemed like the stranger brought with him a brilliant light, like the dawning sun over the vast ocean. While he couldn’t remember many details, Kryos somehow remembered the man’s face; young, although the innocence that should have accompanied it was hardened by experience and sorrow. Eyes as dark as his brown, almost black hair, shone behind a pair of half-rim spectacles.

The man said nothing. He only stood there, watching Kryos, sadness and pity dimming his countenance. After shaking his head, the stranger turned and walked away.

A spark of recognition flash through Kryos’ mind. He knew with certainty that the figure in his dream was not just a specter summoned by his unconscious, but someone real from his forgotten past. He had known the man, he was sure, but the shroud over his memory prevented recalling anything more.

Frustrated, he rose from the bed, keeping the blankets around his shoulders to ward off the encroaching chill. Moving to the window, he saw faint traces of brightening sky. Dawn was coming, although it was still a ways off. Not that it mattered to the majority of the city’s residents, being undead and all. Rest was a concern unique to the living. He would need to head back to the caverns shortly and begin again. Anticipation filled him as he thought of how to approach the task, of what new progress he could achieve. Now that he had resonance coming more easily, he expected that he would start making leaps forward.

Just before turning away to gather his things, he looked up to the early morning sky. The stars still shone through the now indigo canvas. As he gazed at the heavens, a memory came rushing back to him. One of a similar night sky. A young man turning toward him and beckoning. A man with half-rim glasses.

Ingwe.

Once again, the cavern was filled with violet light that ebbed and flowed with the magic of the necromages. Three large undead stood motionless in the center of the glowing glyphs. Kryos placed one hand on the chest of the first zombie. His eyes gleamed brilliantly with power as the shimmering spirals of his magic burned across his forearm and into the creature. The light and darkness of his soul danced like flames, but more slowly as if submerged, with fragments of the ethereal magic breaking off into small, spinning shards that rose and faded to nothing. Within the chest wall and beyond the material plane, he wrapped the creature’s bound soul in his magic and began the augmentation process.

A high-pitched cry interrupted his thoughts, followed by clashing, banging and the general chorus of combat. It echoed from the stone tunnel that lead beyond the walls of the city. In mere seconds the sound grew to a crescendo. A mass of brown and gray barreled into the chamber with an earsplitting shriek. Feathered wings plowed into the line of necromancers behind him as claws carved arcs of blood and flesh through the air. The hybrid roared again before plunging its beak into another’s chest.

Large hands encircled Kryos’ neck as the violet light from the floor flickered out, threatening to crush his throat. The berserker undead he had been manipulating bellowed and lifted him off the ground. Eyes narrowing in rage, Kryos clenched and twisted the hand still resting on the brute’s chest. His magic instantly shifted, becoming blades that tore through the soul, ripping the ties that bound it to its body.

He landed in a crouch, eyes taking in the chaos in the cavern. Obsidian magic blazing around his hands, he leapt forward, over the body of the undead, and slammed both fists into the chest of the second rampaging zombie, before turning to deal with the third.

It lunged. Kryos ducked under the outstretched arms and, as it flew past, he kicked its legs. As the creature stumbled, he leapt after it and, after slightly changing his magic, struck it square in the back. It crashed to the floor.

Turning, he looked past the remaining necromancers struggling to retake control of the beast and settled his gaze on the hybrid griffin. It roared in defiance, eyes enraged and wings beating furiously. Kryos’ still glowing crimson eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the monster’s soul.

What had been a harmony of two resonating souls was now a fractured struggle for dominance. And at the center, a void. Something had been ripped out and destroyed.

Cold steel reflected torchlight as Kryos unsheathed his sword from his back. As the griffin turned towards him, he took a deep breath and settled into a low stance, sword pointed down and away. His mind cleared and his eyes focused solely on his opponent.

Time slowed.

He could see every twitch of its head, every bristling feather and flexing muscle. The creature crouched, a snake poised to strike, before exploding towards him, wings and talons outstretched. Kryos dodged down and to the right, simultaneously avoiding the beak aimed for his heart as well as the claws. As the talons sailed over his head with mere inches to spare, he rose, swinging his blade where wing met body.

The hybrid crashed to the ground behind him with a scream of agony with the now severed wing traveling on until it hit the far wall.

Bloodlust in its eyes, the creature rose and charged. He deflected the swipe from the outstretched claw, moving towards the wounded side. As he skirted around, the hybrid grabbed his blade with its beak, ripping it free from his grasp. Keeping his momentum, he spun while simultaneously drawing the shorter blade from its place at his lower back before plunging it into the creature’s side. Brilliant ethereal flames erupted from the blade and into the creature, racing to the raging soul. As his magic filled the void, the screeching subsided and the beast stilled. Placing both hands over the hilt, he twisted the sword as his magic severed all connections the two souls had. His hybrid relaxed to the ground, eyes closing as the two souls faded from his view and into the Realm of Souls beyond.

With a grunt, he pulled his blade from the fallen body and turned to see the destruction. At least ten of the mages with Kryos had been torn apart. That mattered little, as they would be brought back before days end. The concerning fact was the damage to the floor of the cavern; large cracks ran through the stone, branching out like spider webbing. Either the damage would need to be repaired or he would need to move locations before further augmentations through soul magic could continue safely.

“Kryos, the Master wishes to see you.”

The Dwiilar sighed and allowed his eyes return to their normal state.

“Yeah, I bet he does,” he muttered as he retrieved his longer sword from where the hybrid threw it. Digging through the debris of the crushed table, he found his journal to be intact. He grabbed his cloak and turned to the necromage who had addressed him.

“Let him know that I expect an explanation as to what happened to their souls,” he ordered, motioning to the large corpse in the center of the room. “And if you have nothing better to do, start clearing things up.”

“Remember your place. We only answer to our Master.” The words slithered out like the hiss from a snake’s tongue.

Kryos’ sword appeared at the man’s throat before the words ceased echoing. White flames rippled along the edge.

“I don’t care if you can be brought back over and over,” he snarled. “It doesn’t lessen the pain of your soul getting torn from this plane of existence. Maeril is not my master. You’d do well to remember that.”

The undead mage said nothing and only glared at the Dwiilar.

Turning away, Kryos headed toward the passage that would lead to the Dread Lord. He disappeared into the darkness, the path only illuminated by the magic that still glowed on his open blade.

Even while seated, Maeril Thyrrian preserved an imposing presence. Black eyes set deep within his pale, bald head viewed the world with disdain and contempt, while at the same time commanded the authority and regard due to one of the last Death Lords. His red and gold armor, draped by the black and green folds of his robes, only added to his majesty. At his side, the tell-tale dead blade axe and blackstaff rested.

Kryos silently entered the chamber and waited across the table from necromancer. Reports and maps fanned out before him; no surprise to Kryos. Some might think that controlling the undead horde would only be a matter of power and control. Before the fall of the Forgotten One, that may have been the case. Without his leadership or access to all of the Archivists, however, the remaining Death Lords fell into chaos. Through cunning and strategy, Maeril Thyrrian survived. With planning, he now had two of the scattered Archivists at his disposal to fulfill Xem’Zund’s legacy. Through continual research, he now stood on the verge of eradicating life from the land of the High Elves.

The Dread Lord set down the documents he had been studying and met Kryos’ gaze. A smile danced across his face.

“The creature get you riled up, Kryos? If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you’ve gotten slow.” He chuckled, deep voice resonating through the room. “It’s good for you to keep sharp on the skills that you still have.”

Kryos’ eyes narrowed in anger at the taunt, and the necromancer let out a full laugh. He held up his finger to stem the question before it could leave Kryos’ lips.

“The reason is simply this. The acquisition of knowledge to further the work. How much you know of that is entirely up for me to decide.” All traces of amusement had vanished from his eyes. “While you are not bound to me by magic, do not forget by what power your life is preserved.”

A tense silence fill the air as Maeril studied the soul mage from behind strong, steepled fingers. As it was, Kryos could do nothing but acknowledge the simple truth behind those words.

“I understand.”

Maeril nodded and moved on.

“I’ve read your report on my last assignment,” he said, tapping his finger on one of the bundles of paper before him. “I now need you to apply your abilities on a much larger scale.”

“Are you talking about production, or the number of souls involved in resonance?”

The Death Lord continued as if he hadn’t heard the question.

“I’m sending you and one of the Archivists to Beinost. You are to study the city and the souls used to create it, learning and documenting everything you can. Any additional word concerning enemy forces would also be vital to report.” He paused for a moment. “Of course, your purpose is to remain hidden. Discovery will be dealt with in the usual way.”

The Dwiilar's breath caught. “When do I leave?”

“Sundown. You’ll meet at the southeast gate. Any further instructions or direction, if needed, can be relayed through the Archivist.” He motioned with his arm, indicating their business was finished. “I expect your return by three months time.”

With a nod, Kryos spun and strode down the torch-lit hallway, a smile playing on his lips and eyes sparkling with excitement. Sunset was a mere three hours away. It had been months since he had left the cesspool of Trenyce and the putrid air that accompanied the Plague Horde. Now, he had the chance to study the City of Souls and the mysteries held within.

This will be an insightful trip.

Kryos leaned against the outer wall of the city gazing up into the darkening sky. A handful of stars glinted in the far eastern twilight, marking the path he would soon travel. Directly overhead, large dark clouds were streaked with violets and reds. The incoming storm was heralded by a clean, frosty wind that tugged at the edges of Kryos’ thick clothing and played with the strands of hair that escaped his hood. Newly fallen snow swirled and danced around his legs. Behind him and the city, the sun touched the horizon. His eyes followed the evening sky’s example; vivid crimson fading to darkness. Edges blurred and details faded from his sight. Yet despite this, Kryos could only describe the land before him as majestic, much like the paintings of the High Elves that he would occasionally stumble upon in the ruins where the washed colors blended together to create a complete whole.

As the land continued to darken in shadow, his mind began to wander. Ahead of him lay the city created by thousands of souls. A feat that was completely unprecedented and one which may never be seen again. Kryos doubted that even the Forgotten One could have done something so grand. Then again, Xem’Zund probably wouldn’t have wanted to do something of that sort anyway.

Still, the city was an enigma in and of itself and he looked forward to studying it firsthand. Kryos had come a long way in his research and study of his own magic and of souls. Yet even the idea of creating a city from souls left him with questions that threatened to rip holes into his present understanding. How could that many souls be used simultaneously without adverse on Beinost’s creators, or even on the city itself? Were the souls willingly given from those who still lived in Anebrilith, or where they taken from the fallen dead during the great siege? Perhaps both? And how could souls, the spirits of the living, bring about a material form such as a city, even if the foundations and resources of Anebrilith were used as well?

That last question weighed heaviest on Kryos’ mind, as it challenged his understanding of the essence of a the soul. For the past several months he had felt that there was a piece missing—the key which would allow him to close the expanse between life, death and souls. One which would finally answer the question he had been chasing all this time.

The sounds of light footsteps approaching broke him from his reverie. Opening his now silver eyes, he saw the dark form of the Archivist, dressed in his deep purple, now almost black, robes. Upon his back, the great grimoire containing forbidden knowledge and power rested. The hood which overshadowed his face fluttered in the chill breeze, and beneath it, Kryos could make out hardened features and hazel eyes. Eyes that shone with life and intelligence. One of the rare Archivists who was not an undead.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he swung his pack onto his back, adjusted his swords, and started off into the winter night. The journey to Beinost would take the greater part of two weeks, even if they only stayed in Mirdan Timbreth for less than a day. A feeling of excitement fill him as he lengthened his stride, the Archivist falling into step behind him. He didn’t know why, but it was as if Fate was calling him forward.

Kryos lifted his gaze heavenward as snowflakes began to fall. He breathed in the pure air and smiled.

Thread: Prelude to Souls
Participant: Kryos
Type: Workshop

Congratulations!

Kryos receives:
975 EXP
110 GP

All rewards have been added.