Long May The Dead Rein
With a crackle, sharp and jagged, a rift tears
through the fabric of reality. It splits the world like shattered glass, unseen
and unheard. Not yet.
The battlefield lies abandoned, scattered with
broken weapons and shattered armor. Echoes of past violence whisper through the
air as the wind howls over scarred earth, carrying the faint scent of rot and
ash.
From the tear, a figure emerges. It glides
forward, skeletal and towering, limbs impossibly long and thin. Its feet never
touch the ground. Tattered robes, stained with time and blood, hang from its
frame—relics of a forgotten past. Faded sigils twist across the fabric,
remnants of an empire lost to history. The air ripples around it, charged with
necrotic energy, sparking like a storm about to break.
Atop its skull rests a crown of blackened gold,
twisted and grotesque—a mockery of authority long corrupted. It pulses with
dark power, faintly glowing as if it remembers the weight of a reign that
should have crumbled to dust. The earth shudders as the figure lifts a bone
staff high, the air turning bitterly cold. A groan echoes beneath the soil,
ancient power stirring once more.
A suffocating chill sweeps across the
battlefield. Mist spills from the rift, thick and ghostly, curling like
serpents around the broken remains. It winds closer, wrapping around the ankles
of those who stand too near. Above, the sky twists into a churning vortex of
dark clouds, swirling in chaotic fury. Even the heavens tremble in the figure’s
presence.
It does not speak, but its malice seeps into the
minds of all nearby. A whisper without words, a cold dread that gnaws at the
edges of sanity. The mercenaries and scholars scattered across the field feel
it first—a creeping unease, like icy fingers trailing along their spines. They
glance at the sky, at the mist slithering around their boots, unease growing.
The Knight Constructs react next. Silent
guardians with souls bound to stone, they shudder as their cores flicker,
resonating with ancient, unspoken fear. Metal limbs creak as joints tighten, a
foreign dread seeping into their very being. Something old, something evil, has
returned.
And it remembers them.
The air thickens, oppressive, as though the earth
itself is holding its breath. The Elder Lych raises its bone staff high, and
dark energy crackles around it, like the charge before a storm. The ground
trembles beneath its feet, the soil groaning, as if burdened by the weight of
ancient curses. The Lych’s skeletal form sways, its tattered robes fluttering
with the wind. Slowly, deliberately, it waves the staff above its head. The
dead answer.
The earth cracks open. From the blackened soil,
long-buried warriors begin to stir. Their grotesque, decaying forms rise from
the grave. Limbs snap stiffly, like brittle twigs. Eyes, empty hollows, stare
into nothingness. Their rotting flesh hangs loosely from broken bones. Some are
draped in rusted armor, dull and pitted; others wear remnants of once-proud
uniforms, now tattered. They move as one, an eerie, silent army. Each step
creaks with stiff joints.
A low, mournful moan fills the air, rising with
the wind, as the skeletal soldiers shuffle forward. Their movements are jerky,
but purposeful. They are bound to the Lych by a dark oath, made long before
death, that keeps them chained to the earth in eternal servitude.
But the Lych is not satisfied. It hisses, its
voice a dry rasp that seems to scrape the air itself. The words are ancient,
foreign—long forgotten—but they carry a terrible weight. They spread across the
battlefield like a shadow, sending an unshakable dread to anyone who hears
them. A thick, unnatural silence follows.
Then, the very fabric of reality tears. A rift
opens with a sickening rip. Another follows, and then another, each one rending
the world like a wound in flesh. The earth groans, yawning wide. From these
wounds, undead demons spill forth—twisted, writhing forms, their bodies in
constant flux. Their eyes burn with a hellish fire, their souls bound to the
Lych’s dark power. An invasion—an endless nightmare—twists the battlefield into
a hellish distortion. The dead rise once more, their wills shattered, their bodies
mangled, and the very land itself recoils in terror.
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The air hums with a pressure, an unseen force
that gnaws at the bones, burrowing into the edges of thought. The Elder Lych's
power unfurls like a stormfront—silent yet tangible, slipping beneath the skin.
It isn’t a voice, but a cold, vast whisper that creeps into the minds of all
who stand too close. This isn’t death. No, death would be a mercy. This is
something worse—this is oblivion.
The soldiers stumble. Mercenaries clutch their
heads, weapons slipping from their hands, forgotten. Scholars and scribes drop
to their knees, trembling. The whisper swells, growing into a chorus of ancient
voices, murmuring from a time long past. They don’t scream—not yet—but the
terror is there, thick and suffocating, building beneath the surface.
Above them, the Elder Lych raises a skeletal
hand, fingers curling like claws. A scrying orb shudders into being, swirling
with dark, liquid mist. It pulses, revealing a distant, flickering image—a
scene far beyond the battlefield.
In the distance, beyond the ruined earth and
bloodstained soil, a figure stands. The sight of him cracks something deep
inside the Lych. The whisper falters, folding in on itself as raw fury surges
through the void.
The Lych’s voice shatters the silence, jagged and
broken, ripping through the night.
“ARTHUR!”
The name is a curse, spat with venom so thick the
air vibrates with it. The Lych’s skeletal form trembles, robes snapping in the
wind as rage pulses from its decayed frame.
“Thou returneth from the grave? Impossible! I
cursed thy bloodline! Damn thee, Pendragon! Beshrew thee!”
In the orb’s flickering light, the Beast Lord
stiffens. A sharp breath catches in his chest. A weight crushes down on him,
unseen but suffocating. He feels it—the eyes upon him. He is being watched.
Hunted.
Then, movement stirs in the shadows. A figure
steps forward—a demon girl, her eyes burning like coals in the dark.
The Lych recoils, a screech of rage splitting the
air.
“Blasphemy! A demon... in the presence of a
once-mighty lord! The gall! The hubris! Damn thee, Arthur!”
The orb shatters in its grasp, shards of black
glass scattering like dying stars, vanishing into the abyss.
“Kill them all!” the Lych hisses, its voice
trembling with fury.
The battlefield churns, a sea of undeath crashing
forward. The ground trembles under the weight of an army long forgotten—ancient
warriors, skeletal remains still clad in rusted armor, and demons twisted
beyond recognition. They march together, bound by a single, relentless will.
The Knight Constructs stand firm. They feel
it—the gnawing tug of necromantic power, a force trying to strip them of their
purpose, to twist them to the Lych’s will. It claws at their very being,
whispering of servitude and silence. But they resist. They must. If they
fall, all is lost.
Around them, adventurers and mercenaries grip
their weapons tighter, summoning the last of their courage. Their spirits
tremble, fragile with fear, yet they stand. Together. The last defense against
the rising tide.
Then, the dead charge.
A wave of rotting flesh, shattered bone, and
soulless eyes surges forward. The clash is deafening—steel striking claw, magic
against shadow. The Gnarly Roses fight with deadly precision, their voices
cutting through the chaos, shouting orders to strike at the undead’s weakest
points.
But it’s not enough.
For every abomination struck down, another rises
to take its place. The Lych’s will doesn’t waver; it strengthens, feeding on
the fear, the despair, the dying hope. From its distant perch, the Lych
watches, its hollow eyes unblinking. Its presence spreads across the
battlefield like an eclipse. It feels the resistance, the trembling resolve of
the living. A slow, deliberate smile creeps across its skeletal face.
And then—
A horn.
The sound tears through the chaos, deep and
commanding, a defiant call that shakes the very air. The Lych’s face twists. It
knows that sound. It remembers.
A low growl rumbles from its hollow chest as its
gaze snaps toward the source.
“It cannot be.” The words drip with
disbelief, with rage.
The wind howls. The battlefield falls silent.
The Steward lives.