The Voice of the Father

[Apocalyptica]

Atop the hill, horse and rider stood. To sit astride the skeletal horse should have been uncomfortable at least, though the zombie gave no indication that straddling bones, a few chunks of maggot-ridden flesh and stretched cracking hide were anything but natural. As she sat, watching the movement under the trees, she let her bare feet brush against the arching ribs of her steed. It was as if Huyana knew her mind, though the horse's dark eyes were nothing but a blank void. Tossing a sparse mane of black, she began to canter forward until she came to a plateau under the red canopy. It was there that Jivantika dismounted, letting her rotting feet finally touch the ground.

It happened again. When she was upon her undead mount, she was safe, for the unicorn would keep her safe. But skin to the flesh of tainted Raiaera, she was at the mercy of the Lord. Xem'Zund's voice tore through her mind, taking over everything. He was louder than the hunger, louder than the clang and clash of steel heard so close by. Licking her splitting lips, the zombie took a ragged breath. She had no need for air, really, but breathing came as naturally as blinking. Her body moved in death, but her thoughts remembered what it had been like to truly be alive. Now, with the deep baritone ripping through her brain, she wished for true Death.

Destroy the living and bring them to the fold! it urged, while she shook her head furiously. She didn't want to attack, didn't want to add to the power that she'd been desperately trying to resist. Instead, she fell to her knees and began to crawl through the grass and weed. Tangled tree roots and burred ferns grabbed at her dress, pulling and scratching both at the fabric and her own discolored flesh. As she came closer to one of the humans who had fallen at the start of the attack, his body laying several meters from where the melee was in full swing, she grinned. No one had noticed her yet, and she didn't want to be messed with. She was just here to eat and run.

Her teeth buried themselves in his arm, where years with a sword had bulked up the flesh. Muscle was the best, and as she clawed and gnawed to rip her prize from bone and tendon, she shuddered. The voice was demanding that she rise for Xem'Zund, do her duty as one of his Children. Closing her eyes tightly, Jivantika gave a whine that was more like a dog than a monster, and tried to keep down her meal.

Somewhere, not so far away, another body fell on the cursed ground of Lindequalme.

{open}

[Dirge]

((I'm down, IM or PM me with your idea's...))

Doom and grief struck the lands of the high elves like the worst of cold snaps in the Northern plains of Salvar. The fluid tongued, gracefully inclined, snooty elves were on the blink of destruction. Their existence, art, way of life, and dominance over the little understood element of song magic was being threatened by the darkest of the mainland had ever seen. Like the human and elven denizens of an ancient Corone, a looming cloud of malice and pestilence held the air. Its firm grip slipped effortlessly into the hearts and minds of the people. Panic tore through the streets, rioting grew like a raging wildfire; sweeping the lands and battling those against it with a rabid ferocity.

To the half elf sorcerer, Vigo, it reeked of deep seeded veiled weaknesses.

He smirked. His sharp features twisted with the cruel glint in his deep green eyes. It was like seeing a mortal enemy be crushed and outright destroyed by the fickle winds of karma. The Forgotten, Lord Xem’zûnd, offered no mercy, lent his hand only to those willing to take up his mantle and carry his scourge. His macabre desire, his devious requirements flooded the minds of those that led his army against the plethora of pointless defending ‘heroes’. Chaos. Pestilence. Fear. They wrapped him in a warm embrace, seeping into any caught in his blood smeared wake. But few grasped at the tails of his coat and allowed the emotions to flood through them, twist them.

Vigo Drak Ruinn was not a powerful general to lead the defending militia against the overwhelming darkness. He was not one to stand alongside the weak, defenseless, powerless. He was a man of earnings; a man of conflict and chose the side that would benefit his own personal goals the most. The Lord was the one on the winning side, for now. He would take up his mantle, though it would be difficult to warp his already torn thoughts. The gods, if they really were more than figments of the simple minded, had cursed his very existence from birth. He was a simple man, but simplistic in thought. He knew what he wanted. He always saw what he wanted, and he wanted anything he saw.

It was not his choice or decision to pick and choose what would be good, legal, and beneficial for the betterment of society. Fate and karma would do as it pleased. If it will for the destruction of democracy, the downfall of civilized society, or complete entropy across the face of Althanas, he would be the last to interfere. It was a cruel path that befell those that crossed fickle Fate, a way that would offer nothing in return for the choice. Besides, he was a budding sorcerer, a wielder of the destruction and malice of nature itself; he wasn’t a fucking god.

His personal feelings, however, absolutely adored the wanton destruction of a society that had shunned. He had grown up a half elf, his mother of the Raiaeran decent and his father a bastard of a man from Corone. In a town on the skirts of the northern mountain ridge, he had suffered under the barbed tongue of the cruel, ‘immortal’ elves. The ideals that personified Xem’zûnd were akin to his own, though what would come of the nation after the onslaught was unknown. He could care less though. With the promise of power and experience, he had quickly allied against an entire nation. One man, one conscious with the desire to destroy a people, standing against countless thousands of so called defenders, it was all he could claim to be.

And, as soon as he had ‘enlisted’ commands had come. He was a lowly soldier under the command of a powerful god. Not animated like the undead he would eventually lead. He could think alone, without a constant tug and pull of the Forgotten, and with that single shred of knowledge he could smile and look over the small town before him. Its name had elapsed during his quick travel, but it did not matter. He was to target a single man within the city turned bastion of false promises.

But the undead had beaten him to the town, tearing into the native elves with a ferocity that even the sorcerer was put off by. Their sickly skin was sagging; their gate slow and sluggish, but behind that façade of undeath was the power of the dark Lord. It pushed them always; they needed nothing that the dirge mage required. Sleep, food, they would have been but a forlorn thought of their former lives, if they were allowed to think of their own volition. As such, Vigo was not able to enter the town before the war began, but was hardly far behind. His hands were glowing, his powers throbbing and growing, Xem’zûnd’s promise budding with every accomplishment the sorcerer called his own.