Black Snow

[North Timistania]

Black Snow: Prologue

“For their arrogance, the mother cursed them with degeneracy, bodies warping and minds shattered,
they wander the mountains to this day, maddened remnants of something greater. Let their fate be a
lesson, what is given can be taken back.”

-The Book of the sallow regent

The Borderlands

Death stalked the barren tundra, winds screamed like anguished beasts as they battered the bone-white
plains below. The battle had been a bloody one, steaming entrails from slit bellies briefly filling the air
with fatal heat before being flash-frozen by the merciless frost. The dead and dying lay like frozen
statues, fixed in the place of their doom by the oncoming storm, the moans of the dying flowing up
toward uncaring mountains.

Korthus removed his helmet and took stock of the slaughter before him, the infidels had fought fiercely
and it had only been through clever deception that his forces had triumphed. His burrower was
presently feasting on the guts of a dying horse mandibles snapping around bone as it slurped up the
thick slurry of gore. He removed his gauntlet and stroked the black carapace of the vast insect with a
gentle caress.

His legions busied themselves with the grim task of retrieving their dead and dying, most would be too
far gone and have to be mercy killed. War on the tundra had no mercy, death came swiftly to all and a
single mistake was all too often fatal, casualties had always been high for both sides. It had always
struck Korthus as rather amusing that the two pre-eminent races of the ice lands should wage unceasing
conflict over so forsaken a place.

The ruined strongholds of the mother's first children stood as silent witnesses to what had once been, a
vast civilization had once spread across the plains. But the first men had been arrogant and allowed
themselves to grow complacent, the mother had punished them with madness and degeneration, that
once glorious race was reduced now to carrion-feeding scavengers that prowled the dark. Korthus could
already smell their telltale reek, they hid in the shadow of the mountains and waited with maddening
impatience for the armies to depart so that they might feast on the dead.

“My lord the battle is won, the dogs of Eliana and Nero have been put to the sword” a bone masked
officer said as he saluted with cold reverence in his voice

“All save one,” Korthus said inclining his head

The general of the snow elf army had evidently not yet joined his men in death, he presently lay pinned
beneath his slain horse, legs broken and the cold frost creeping across his body with disturbing speed.
Korthus smirked and strode toward the unfortunate elf, one last game before his return to Irileagh*.
Like most children of the mother Korthus was bald, his face bore subtle but telltale signs of his star
spawn, eyes too black to be those of a mortal man, and dark veins that flowed across his pale temples
like snaking tattoos. He bore a forked beard that he kept neatly oiled with marrow fats, it lent him a
diabolical appearance even without his trademark smirk.

For over fifty auroras he has stood watch at the gateway to the Borean realms, his ruthless vigil holding
back the tide of infidels from the south. It was a duty he chafed under with ever-increasing boredom,
the skirmishes were unending and the stalemate never truly changed, he had thus begun to treat it as
the wretched game it was and delighted in toying with his enemy. Long ago Korthus had dreamt of great
victories and the destruction of the hated enemy, now he simply wished to be done with a pointless
conflict that seemed doomed to continue for all eternity.

The snow elf lay gasping, the weight of his Armour and the dead horse becoming harder to bear with
each passing moment. His eyes were bloodshot from the strain and one of his ears had been severed at
the tip, a sliver of red ice hanging where the wound had frozen. The elf looked up at Korthus with an
expression of pure burning hatred, the generational spite that had kept both sides murdering one
another in the darkness for millennia beyond counting.

“You fought well, for an elf, pity we will never cross blades again,” Korthus said with a poisonous smirk

“More will come” the elf hissed through gritted teeth, the defiance taking every pained ounce of energy
he had left

“Yes, I suppose I shall have to kill them as well” Korthus replied with a sudden weariness

“Your heresy shall be your undoing!” the elf groaned weakly

“You know, this used to be more fun, you’d think after fifty years of slaughter you people would have
something original to say” Korthus replied with an irritable roll of his eyes

For fifty years the two races had turned the borderlands into a grotto of horrors, entire valleys had been
filled with frozen corpses and untold thousands had darkened the snow with their blood. Every hissed
defiance and ultimately empty threats but the war never changed it just ebbed back and forth like an
endless blizzard. Korthus unsheathed his blade, eliciting a resigned look from the dying elf, then he
plunged the tip into the ice directly in front of the stricken general.

“Nightfall is coming soon,” Korthus said pointing with a gloved hand to the gaunt figures that lurked on
the peaks above

“If you can reach my blade, it will grant you quick end...the Saggothi* though...well...they prefer their
meals alive,” he said coldly before turning to leave, the elf's protests silenced by the oncoming gales.

“Gather the men, we make for the vault!” Korthus ordered in a commanding voice that boomed across
the valley

Mounting the chittering burrower once more, Korthus began the long ride back to Irileagh, his army
forming up behind him. They did not get far before a familiar buzzing filled the evening air; he looked up
to see the gigantic form of a snow hornet descending, the beast landed mere meters from Korthus, a
shower of white snow spraying everything within arm's reach.

When the dust cleared a gaunt and withered being lowered itself from the back of the resting hornet, a
gnarled hand caressed the giant insect's head before turning to regard Korthus. Rheumy eyes glared out
from a mask of pure white ivory, the priests' robes flowing in the breeze and giving terrible hints to the
skeletal frame beneath. Centuries of long and dark study, augmented by the imbibing of pallor and
ichor, had withered the holy man's body but in the process brought his soul closer to the mother.

“Lord Korthus, you are summoned to the capital by order of the hierophant” hissed the withered holy man

“And what have I done to deserve such an honor?” Korthus asked curiosity piqued

“Not you my lord, your brother, blessed Nutamek has gone to join the mother in the void, the emperor
is dead and his successor is to be crowned” the priest replied in a rasping voice

Once they had been close but after so long on the boundary of the empire Korthus had grown to resent
what he saw as undeserved exile. Yet he did not hate his brother and the prospect of returning home
after so long was undoubtedly tempting. He tried to remember his niece's face, she had been only a
small girl the last time he visited, she would be nearly twenty-five auroras now. He wondered if Sayona
would even recognize him.

“Very well priest, lead the way” Korthus replied calmly with a slight bowing of his head in acquiescence

Across the long tundra, they would journey, along the benighted paths that snaked underneath the
mountains, it was a journey measured in days. Korthus felt the stirring of something within him that he
had long since thought dead, the sudden anxiety and frenzy that could only come from excitement. He
would go to the capital with all haste, a re-union was in order.

*Irileagh, the great underground boundary city of the Borean empire, founded by the emperor Dagorn in
the silent age, renowned for the intricacy of its bone architecture and the size and aggression of its
burrowers.

*Degenerate descendants of the first men, mutated beyond any resemblance to their once glorious
ancestors. Possessing elongated bodies, webbed hands and feet, and vicious talons. The Saagothi are
feral and untamed monstrosities that prowl the tundra of the borderlands and feast on anything either
living or dead that they can bring down.

 

[North Timistania]

Yathgil'loi
Capital of Borea

Sayyona watched as the pale blue lights from the lanterns danced across the walls of the room, they snaked across the ivory like the tendrils of some ethereal beast. The room was warm, almost to the point of discomfort, great clouds of potent narcotics billowed from the many hookah pipes that lined the chamber. The princess's personal hall was one of the few places she could be truly at ease, surrounded by only her most trusted handmaidens, hence the indulgence she now allowed herself.

Snow dust glowed bright green as she breathed in the burning smoke, the hallucinations already dancing at the edge of her vision. She exhaled a noxious cloud of multi-colored smoke and sighed as she felt every muscle relax, the walls had transformed into a melting mass of shifting light, rays glittering in hues that the mortal eye had no name to describe.

Such moments were fleeting, the careless ecstasy of the pipe growing ever more distant as destiny marched unceasingly forward. One day soon there would be no lazy nights of poetry and fragrant smoke, instead she would bear the weight of the imperial crown and all the terrible burdens that such entailed. The colors in the room began to darken, perhaps reacting to the souring of her mood, Sayyona took a deep breath and pressed the anxiety down as deep as she could, the colors lightening slightly in response.

The roof of the chamber seemed to peel back as though it was skin flayed from a corpse, cold starlight glared down as the cosmos revealed itself. The void was a vast cloak of inky blackness only occasionally pierced by the pockmarks of distant astral bodies. Sayyona frowned, the dust had evidently been stronger than her brewer had promised.

“Sayyona, my child” a voice that was both whisper and roar boomed in her mind

A great shadow seemed to descend upon her mind, she felt a presence fill her that was so vast it was almost crushing. Her heart pounded with terror as she felt the alien sensation of a stranger fill her being, but then the fear was gone, and she was staring up at the void in total silence. She felt whole, as though some part of her that had been long separated was now embracing her in a warm hold.

“Mother,” Sayyona said in a reverent voice

“Nutamek has returned to me and been made whole, now you must take his place” the voice of the mother proclaimed, the words filling her mind like frost creeping across uncovered flesh

Hearing her father's name spoken of in past tense was still a strange experience, he had clung to a withered life for what had seemed like an age. The priests had scoured the vaults, terrible elixirs from the age of Dagorn* brought forth to preserve the ailing ruler. For a time, he had survived, but it was always borrowed time, eventually, her father had succumbed to time's relentless onslaught. A withered shell of parchment skin and brittle bone had been all that remained.

And yet Nutamek had triumphed, the great work of the star spawn had been preserved and now Sayyona would take up his mantle and legacy. As with all rulers before, she would be the instrument of the mother, the mortal incarnation of the elder god. As her creator's overwhelming presence filled her soul, Sayyona felt the comforting chorus of her star-spawned nature compel her to obey without question.

“We are whole! *” Sayyona replied in a reverent voice

Her eyes darkened as the pupils dilated completely, black veins snaked across her arms and face as the elder blood boiled to the surface. She felt the divine begin to overwhelm the mortal as teeth became fangs and fingers twisted into talons, and visions burned in her mind like the heat of a fading sun. She beheld the world, its seas boiling and its lands barren and devoid of all life, the skies a blighted orange hue. Horned beasts stalked this benighted world, dragging vast lines of chained slaves behind them.

“Behold the future” the voice hissed like burning coals

“This cannot be” Sayyona replied in disbelief

“This is the outcome the enemy seeks” The mother explained

“Surely even the Sindrasil are not this deluded!” Sayyona declared incredulously

“The infidels are merely an annoyance! The enemy is no mortal” The Voice snapped

“Who then?” Sayyona asked fearfully

“It calls itself Salroth, a being that the lesser mortals know as a “demon” an eater of souls” The mother explained, the name stinging Sayyona’s ears as though it were a hot needle

“He seeks our souls as well?” Sayyona asked

“You do not have a soul child, you are beyond his grasp, an extension of a greater being” the mother replied her tone a mixture of reassurance and amusement

“Then why do we fear this demon?”Sayyona asked in confusion

“His arrogance is all-consuming, he believes himself omnipotent, for now, this is a delusion, but if left unchecked he will swallow this world...and that is unacceptable” the mother replied ominously

“We are whole!” Sayyona intoned defiantly

“I have chosen this world, it shall be a garden for my children, you shall spread across its expanse and bring my eldritch song to the dark corners of this world” The mother declared her voice booming as the ecstasy of devotion filled Sayyona’s being

The vision shifted, the world was bathed in the chill of winter, and across the frozen mass elder things slithered. The children of the mother revealed, rejoiced, and murdered amidst the eternal tundra, the mothers chosen leading the lesser races into a wild age of cosmic abandon, liberated from the petty constraints of mortality. But first, those who would oppose the mother's ascension would have to be destroyed, demon or not.

Sayyona felt the world begin to shift as the colors receded and the effects of the dust began to fade, her eyes were restored to their undilated form and the changes that had wracked her form were nowhere to be seen. A line of black blood flowed from her nostril and her head throbbed as though battered by a hammer, the wider room stared in a mix of concern and fascination. Sayyona wiped her nose and rose from the divan she had been resting on.

“My lady are you alright?” a handmaiden in a concerned voice

“Clear the room and summon my council, there is much to discuss before the coronation” Sayyona commanded as she regarded her reflection in a mirror

A pale woman with jet-black eyes glared back, braided hair the color of raven feathers flowed down her pallid face and her mouth seemed locked in an eternal expression of displeasure. Sayyona, chosen of the mother and soon, empress of Borea, smiled for the first time in days.

“We are whole” a distant voice echoed

*The mad Emperor of Borea, a legendary alchemist who reigned for over 300 years thanks to the arcane sciences.

*A traditional Borean oath, referencing the concept that all Boreans are merely biological and spiritual extensions of the mother. To proclaim this is to state that one's entire self is in unity with the elder god.

 

[North Timistania]

Port of Kingsmouth

Western Borea ​

If Kingsmouth had ever seen better times than they had been many years ago, the dour arctic port seemed eternally mired in a state of decrepitude. A host of tattered inns and moldering tenements clustered along the main harbor represented the center of the port, they loomed like hunchbacked demons over the ice-encrusted ships that had the misfortune to moor in such a place.

Most shore-bound souls made the sensible choice to cling to the relative comfort of the taverns, the locals certainly preferred it that way. The kingsmouther’s were a sullen bunch, possessed of pallid skin and warped features that seemed almost inhuman if focused upon for too long. They were unwelcoming at the best of times, outsiders who asked too many probing questions would always be met by hateful glares and dismissive shrugs. Sensible souls rested, stocked up on provisions, and left in short order, kingsmouth was not a place to idle.

For its part, Segrasha did not see any point in dwelling on these imbeds, they were just more mortal cattle to be swept away when Salroth claimed the world. The fire demon had once cheated men of their eternal souls and swayed the decisions of kings and holy men, now thanks to a brief indiscretion he found himself in this backwater, watching foul-smelling fisherfolk potter about in the cold. Segrasha’s punishment had indeed been apt, he had thrived upon attention, Salroth had rendered him irrelevant and invisible.

Still, the rumors of midnight cults and vaulted cities seemed at least somewhat interesting and Salroth rarely sent his agents, disgraced or no, to places that bore no importance. There was something to these Borean’s, but if so, it was buried deep, near as he could tell there was nothing to this tribe of men other than a particularly miserable choice of home. Still, it wouldn’t do to return to the shadow realm empty-handed, he had to find something or risk a fate far worse than death.

The filthy inn that Segrasha currently inhabited showed little promise of providing a breakthrough in his search, the dank and humid common area was packed with drunken sailors and sullen-looking travelers. The most appalling thing for Segrasha was the smell, some demons reveled in possesing mortals and all the visceral sensation that came with such an act, Segrasha was not one of those. Segrasha found the noise, stink, and monotony of mortal existence maddening, every moment spent in mortal skin was a hellish torment.

To make matters worse his judges had carved cruel runes of punishment into Segrasha’s soul-flesh, ensuring that every mortal sensation was that little bit more acute. They had known of Segrasha’s hatred of all things mortal, his punishment had been aptly designed, a being of eternal fire and shadow was now forced to attend to the disgusting bodily needs of its host as though they were its own, he could almost hear his captor's laughter even now.

His present company did little to ease the fire demon's humiliation, the local drunk was a bloated mass of slurred speech and foul smells. Zardok was a sorry sight even by mortal standards, his greying hair was a mess of grease and neglect, and his beard was matted with stains from sloppy eating and binge drinking. The man's cheeks were aglow with the ruddy sin of alcoholism and his eyes were constantly darting back and forth as though he feared others might overhear his ramblings.

“They gather at the edge of the port after dark, chanting and praying to somethin obscene! You'd be better to leave this town stranger, nothing good will come from prying eyes”

“Where exactly do they meet?” Segrasha asked as he casually pressed another cup of ale into Zardok’s hands

The drunkard took a long gulp from the cup, draining half in a single motion, then he fixed Segrasha with a fearful gaze that reeked of both despair and resignation. Segrasha knew that the mortal would tell him everything, the old fool was a slave to his desires like all mortals, he would do anything for one more cup of liquid oblivion. Wants and needful things, that was all mortals were, you just had to know which vice to indulge, and they became putty in the hands of the immortal.

“Can't stop ya if you do anything foolish stranger, but fine, it's your funeral” Zardok relented

“So, you'll tell me?” Segrasha asked

“Aye, gods help me....” Zardok said his gloomy voice trailing off

“Well!?” Segrasha snapped, he had to keep the drunkard on topic lest he fade into a stupor

“a warehouse with a stone eye carved into the door, it's got a red roof and a tall spire, walk to the end of the port district, you can't miss it, though gods spare you if you're crazy enough to enter”

Segrasha formed its mortal host's lips into an approximation of a smile, a feeling of disgust flooding his soul as he did so. He longed to be free from the fleshy prison and its ape-like gestures, perhaps what lay at the port's edge would provide his salvation. He pressed yet another cup of ale into Zardok’s hand, allowing the fool to indulge in his chosen vice, he gleaned some small sustenance from feeding on the drunkard's despair, crumbs of mortal suffering.

“Can I get ya another round?” came a foul voice, it sounded like a cross between drowning and strangulation

Gilman, the owner of the miserable accommodations, glared at the two men with a probing look in his eyes. Segrasha noted, not for the first time, that the Borean’s bore irises that seemed black as the void, it was like staring into an abyss from which no light could escape. Gilman was a squat creature, eyes bulging from his face at near inhuman angles and his nose little more than a flattened set of holes. When the publican reached for their empty cups, Segrasha noted the subtle webbing between his pudgy fingers.

“No that will be all, I'm feeling weary, gonna go hit the pillow,” Segrasha said in a tone of mock fatigue

“Aye probably for the best, streets are empty at night, and we prefer it that way,” Gilman said bluntly before shambling off to attend to another table.

Segrasha rolled his eyes in disgust, human or not these kingsmouthers were an odd bunch and the stench from their skin made even Zardok’s vile company seem enticing. The sooner he discovered what they concealed at the edge of town the sooner he would be free from his prison.

*************************************************************************************

Gilman sighed as he wiped the sweat and gore from his brow, chopping through the bones and sinew always left him puffed afterward. He set the meat cleaver down and motioned for Olmstead to take over. The aged fisherman stumbled forward with a large sack balanced on one shoulder, his unnaturally long arms grasping the thing between needle-like fingers.

“Don’t see why I always have to do the hauling!” Olmstead grumbled as he began scooping up the portions of the quartered man

“Because I always have to do the filleting! Now hurry up, we’ll feed this one to the congregation” Gilman snapped wearily as Olmstead muttered a halfhearted retort under his breath

Gilman couldn’t be sure how many outsiders he had disposed of over the years, fifty years of chopping tended to leave arithmetic by the wayside. What he did know was that there were few dark corners of the land or ocean that he had not cast slaughtered flesh and hacked bones into. He didn’t regret his work; it was vital to the great plans of the mother that the true nature of Borea remained a secret. However, he did sometimes wonder when it would end, the years passed, and the outsiders kept prying in ever greater numbers.

“The visitor will want to know about that other outsider” Olmstead muttered as he hauled the red-stained sack onto his shoulder and turned to leave

“You just worry about that sack, ill deal with our friend,” Gilman said dismissively

But deep down he felt a surge of fear grip him, visitors from the true empire were rare in kingsmouth and their presence usually preceded something terrible occurring. Gilman shuddered and then turned to leave the cellar, Zardok had been dealt with, but the other prying set of eyes likely belonged to something far more terrible than a drunkard.

*************************************************************************************

The visitor was presently residing in a small room at the top of the inn, little more than an attic with a bed. Gilman had never seen the visitor's face, it was always concealed beneath his hood, about the only thing he could ascertain was that his guest was male and possessed a great deal of authority. The visitor was listening to Gilman explain the situation, though if he was concerned it was impossible to tell.

“The drunks have already been dealt with, the other one though....” Gilman said nervously, letting the words trail off

“Will most likely be heading to the temple, we will use that to our advantage” The visitor replied calmly, seemingly unconcerned by the news

The visitor raised a single pale hand and whispered something in a low and indecipherable voice that sounded oddly familiar, the words stung Gilman's ears as though hot coals were resting in them. For the briefest of instances, Gilman swore he saw a whisp of green fire flow up into the air before vanishing. He had heard the stories of the true empire, of the eldritch sorcery practiced there, but to see it was another matter entirely.

“Come,” the visitor said softly “We make for the temple” The visitor explained moving to leave

************************************************************************************

Segrasha crept through the empty streets, clinging to the shadows as he made his way toward the red-roofed warehouse. Even in his mortal prison, the demon felt at home in the darkness, he flowed through the deep black of night like an eel through murky waters. The streets were deserted, save for the occasional Watchmans lantern, there seemed to be nothing save the creaking of old wood and the howl of frost-bearing winds.

Finally, he came upon his destination, an unimpressive-looking warehouse with a red roof and a single great spire that pierced the tattered skyline of old kingsmouth. Every building near the warehouse seemed run down and in a state of disrepair, but the stones of the warehouse were in good condition and the paint on the roof was pristine, likely recently touched up. An eye glared down at Segrasha, a baleful thing that leered out at any who would seek to penetrate the inner sanctum of the building. Segrasha scoffed even as he felt his host begin to demure.

“Silence your whimpering worm! It is nothing but the primitive superstition of inbred mortals” he hissed in a low voice, his demon voice briefly overwhelming the mortal disguise

He forced the host to comply, flooding the mortal vessel with a wave of fear and pain as he urged the flesh prison onward. The body complied and soon they were moving into the sanctum, the door was curiously unbarred, and no guards' pike or alarmed voice emerged from the dark to challenge this intrusion. Instead, they were greeted only by darkened pews and an altar that bore something terrifying.

Upon a stone altar covered by red silk, there rested a great statue of obsidian, at first glance the form resembled a female human, but that was before the other features became obvious. Great tendrils snaked down the creature's skull, serpentine tresses that took the place of mortal hair. Two unnaturally long arms rested upon the arms of a throne, their length ending in talons. Two milky white stones had been fixed into the obsidian sockets, pupilless eyes that seemed to stare right into the soul.

Segrasha felt uneasy for the first time, something about the icon felt threatening, as though it truly did stare into his soul. He brushed it off, the mortals had a talent for masonry, so what!? They were mere primitives that would be fodder for the dark lord's eternal empire. Segrasha strolled past the altar and beheld a wooden hatch that was blatantly unconcealed behind the priest's lectern. Perhaps now they would find something worth bringing back to the shadow realm.

“Down the ladder worm!” Segrasha hissed within the vessel's skull, words stabbing at the host's brain like hot knives, pain compelling him to obey

The hatch opened with a loud creak and revealed a ladder that descended into inky blackness, a fetid reek wafted up from the dark. The host began to climb down, the smell grew stronger with each step closer to the floor below, a vile mélange of unnamable odors that seemed to burn the very air they inhabited with their foulness. At the bottom Segrasha’s infernal sight allowed him to comprehend their location, a catacomb beneath the town of kingsmouth.

Segrasha soon realized he was not alone, things stirred in the moldering darkness, and the air was sharp with the vile tang of mortal blood. Segrasha’s infernal sight allowed him to see as clearly as if it were dawn, ahead of him stood something unnatural. It was a scaled mass of elongated limbs, teeth sharp as blades, and webbed talons that were slick with gore. It was presently peeling the flesh from a severed hand, teeth tearing into the dead meat and exposing the muscles beneath.

The monster did not seem aware of Segrasha’s presence, its eyes were vast pupilless things of milky white, it was clearly blind. Other figures soon shuffled out of the shadows, they gathered around a pile of severed human remains and began to pick at the gruesome fare with bestial eagerness. One held up a bloated head, the horrified features of Zardok were instantly obvious, evidently the drunkard had paid dearly for his loose lips.

One of the creatures began to sniff the air, it let out a reptilian snarl and began to draw close to where Segrasha was concealed. The fire demon decided the time to leave had arrived and made for the ladder, the sounds of clawed feet splashing toward him grew louder as he mounted the ladder and began to climb. He clambered up, dragging himself out of the tunnel and slamming the hatch shut behind him, the roars of the beasts below were audible even with the sealing of the tunnel.

Segrasha rose painfully to his feet, the host's exhaustion flowing into his own soul, the demon swore in the black language of devils, the air growing briefly hot as he uttered profane words. At the very least he would have something to report to his masters in the shadow realm, perhaps enough to gain a reprieve from the vile punishment runes they had grafted upon his soul flesh. He made for the door and found that his way was barred.

*************************************************************************************

The visitor pulled back his hood to reveal a wizened face, he looked to be about fifty, and his skin bore the corpse-white pallor that was typical of a Borean, unusually* he possessed a long white beard that had been carefully braided. His eyes were inky black orbs that seemed to devour any light that met their gaze and they stared with a cold and predatory expression at the would-be intruder.

The demon had concealed itself well, its host being utterly unremarkable even for a human, the man that it wore was a scrawny mass of shivering bones and greasy brown hair. Yet for one who bore the eldritch sight it was another story, the infernal creatures' very essence seemed to blister and maim creation with its mere intrusion into the material world. Like a wound in existence, the creature was exposed, unable to hide its nature from the visitors' eyes.

“Thats far enough outsider!” Gilman barked in a threatening tone as he shouldered a rusted billhook

His challenge was met with mocking laughter, the scrawny intruder suddenly appearing larger and far more dangerous than before. The laughter boomed from every direction as though it was emerging from the shadows themselves, the intruder let out an agonized scream and then his eyes began to burn like hot coals. The shadows seemed to collect around the screaming man and his skin began to crack and peel as his form changed.

“I WILL NOT BE IMPEDED BY YOUR KIND! YOUR SOULS WILL BURN UPON THE PYRE!” the man roared his voice filling the kingsmouthers minds, every word was excruciating, and felt as though hot nails were being jabbed into their brains

The figure advanced, two charred horns sprouting from his head, the pews and floor began to burn as flames flowed down the demon's body and engulfed everything they touched. Gilman and Olmstead exchanged terrified glances, the visitor simply stood unmoved, his face as calm and calculating as ever. Gilman took a step back and felt his hands begin to shake as he struggled to hold his weapon.


“WHAT DO WE DO NOW!” Gilman shouted fearfully

“Get behind me, this one is mine!” the visitor said as he took a step forward

The visitor began to chant, his voice booming as he drew upon the powers of the void, the very air stung with each word that was uttered. He called upon the powers that dwelled in the vast expanses between the cold starlight and the outer realms began to bleed into the material in response. Colors that had no name flowed across the room, the air shimmering with eldritch power as the sorcery of the outer gods filled the temple. Glyphs that burned any eyes foolish enough to linger upon them took shape, they burned with cold green fire as they etched themselves into the walls and floors.

The demon and the visitor locked eyes as the eldritch and the infernal clashed.

*Hair, especially facial is rare amongst Borean men

*************************************************************************************Segrasha felt the agony of his host as he enveloped it with his true form, the pain was well worth it, he roared with joyous laughter as the flames flowed across his body and revealed his demonic aspect. The effort it took to sustain his presence was immense, but every moment was exhilarating, he could taste the fear emanating from his enemies and he drew strength from it. He would devour these lesser beings and return to the shadow realm in triumph.

Two of his would-be challengers had backed away from him, hiding behind the elderly man at their center like children behind a mother's skirts. The older man did not seem surprised or particularly phased by Segrasha’s true visage, he simply began to chant in a language that stung the demons' ears and filled his soul with confused agony. Glyphs and sigils burned into life as the stranger continued to chant, Segrasha gritted his teeth as the words caused his host to bleed.

“ENOUGH!” Segrasha roared angrily

He raised a charred hand and a line of blazing hellfire streaked across the air toward the chanting sorcerer, Segrasha smiled maliciously as the fire drew within inches of the man's face. The smile vanished as the flames simply melted away in the face of a wall of unnatural light. Colors danced through the air, greedily devouring the light and heat from the flames and leaving nothing save smoke in its stead. The sorcerer smiled briefly, mockingly, as he took another step forward.

“What use has fire in the void?” the sorcerer asked as he raised a glowing hand

Segrasha had dueled countless sorcerers over the course of its existence, the charred bones of his enemies had struck fear into all who beheld them. Against a lesser mage, he would have triumphed, but this being called upon forces that seemed beyond even the knowledge of the shadows and he wielded them with a will that spoke of immense ability, whoever this stranger was he was unlike any the demon had ever faced.

Tendrils of green fire flowed forth from the glyphs that hovered above the stranger, they lashed out with unnatural alacrity and pinned Segrasha in place as they each grasped a limb. The demon felt his powers begin to ebb as though all the heat was being sucked into a black void, he let out a pained scream as the forces that held him sapped all the strength from his once mighty form.

The stranger stepped forward and was soon standing over the demon's imprisoned form, the powers that had twisted the host were now retreating. The demon's form melted away and soon there was nothing save the scrawny man that Segrasha inhabited. Segrasha cursed his ill luck as he realized the danger he was in, he reached out with the tendrils of his soul and tried to enter the body of his would-be captor.

Instantly he felt a force, something unimaginably vast, Segrasha felt as though he was being crushed by some immense weight. Mortal souls were typically a hotbed of doubt, fear, and conflict, easy to exploit and influence. Whatever lurked within the stranger, it was nothing like a mortal soul, there was only cold silence and the feeling of something completely alien. Segrasha reeled in the face of this bizarre sensation and flowed back into his original form.

“I am beyond your parasitic touch, bottom feeder, I am an extension of something far greater” the stranger replied in disgust

“We are whole!” the three kingsmouthers shouted in unison

“Who are you!” Segrasha hissed

“I am Jetrell, first son of dagorn!” the stranger replied in a defiant tone

Segrasha felt a shiver flow across the flesh of its host, that name carried weight, even in the lands beyond the accursed tundra. Jetrell, the warlock of the black spire and torturer of demons, Segrasha had assumed it was just a myth, but now here the terror was. Segrasha let out a pained howl as he realized he had been defeated and worse, fallen into the hands of a truly terrible jailer.

*************************************************************************************

They bound the demon in chains marked with sigils of warding that seemed to shift and change as though living. When they were finished Jetrell took a blade and carved a sigil into the beast's forehead, a rune of control that would bind the beast to the mortal plane until released. When he was finished, he motioned for Gilman and Olmstead to take the intruder.

“Load it onto my hornet, I will question this one further when I return to the spire” Jetrell commanded as he turned to regard the devastation within the temple

Jetrell had long suspected that something terrible was going to happen, the whispers in the void all pointed to a coming conflict that would change Sorras forever. The demon's presence was confirmation that Jetrell’s theory had been correct, darkness was rising, and it seemed intent on spreading itself across the known world. This demon had been a mere scout, how soon before legions more followed in its place?

Jetrell had long prepared for such a time, of all Dagorns sons he had inherited his father's talent for the arcane. Where Korthus was a martial genius and Nutamek a peerless ruler, it was Jetrell alone who possessed the power to grasp the infinite forces beyond the material realm and the will to shape them. He had walked planes of existence that mortal understanding could not describe, communed with alien deities, and feasted upon the dark knowledge of the cosmos. And all his searching had revealed the same terrible conclusion.

A war was coming, the things between stars whispered of a battle that would tear across creation, and its instigator was a being known as Salroth. The so-called dark lord was rising as foretold and his emergence would be the first spark in a clash of gods and entities stranger, the winner would shape creation to their will and the others would perish in the coming bloodshed.

Many of Boreas greatest sorcerers dismissed Demon kind as nothing more than the emanations created by the fears and desires of mortals. They were parasites sustained by lesser beings, bottom-feeding leeches that dwelled in the lowest sphere of existence. Jetrell did not disagree, but even leeches had teeth and Salroth had millions of such creatures at his disposal. Jetrell would take his new captive back to the black spire and pry all the information he could find from its vile mind, he needed to know what Salroth was planning.

He turned to leave the temple, a stench of brimstone clinging to the air as he headed for the door. The air in front of him began to hiss and boil as it formed into a smoking image that resembled a familiar face. The hierophants masked visage glared down at Jetrell, the warlock frowned in annoyance as the visage began to speak.

“Jetrell you must return to the capital with all haste!” the elderly priest echoed in a rasping voice

“I have no time for court politics! Nutamek is more than capable of managing his empire without me!” Jetrell snapped back in annoyance

“Fool! All your power and you remain blind! Nutamek has rejoined the mother, can you not feel his absence!?” the hierophant chided in a disappointed voice

Jetrell had never cared about the bickering and backstabbing of court politics, Nutamek had claimed the crown and Jetrell had gladly supported him. While the nobles squandered their divine heritage on pointless squabbles, Jetrell kept watch and sought to guard the mother's people against forces that plotted to undo all that they had built. Perhaps that was why he had failed to notice his brother's death, so focused on tracking hell spawn was he that his vision had narrowed

“He has an heir, bury him and be done with it” Jetrell muttered dismissively

Jetrell felt instant regret as he muttered those words, he had loved his brother in his own way, and he had gladly sworn to protect Sayyona when the time came. But with demons stalking the dark and the very stars promising slaughter, this was not the time for pointless ceremonies and drawn-out political intrigues, he needed to focus on discovering Salroth’s plans.

“You swore an oath! To protect and serve Nutameks heir! I ask you to return to the capital as your uncle, do not make me invoke the power of my office to compel you! The coronation is in three days, be in Yath’Giloi then!” Sartumek hissed his eyes briefly burning with arcane fire as the vision disappeared

“Fuck!” Jetrell snarled in annoyance

Against any other soul he would have simply ignored the summons, Sartumek was no such soul. The brother of emperor dagorn and hierophant of the mother's temple, Uncle Sartumek bore powers terrible and far-reaching. The priests of the temple held authority over all who bore the mother's blood, with a word they could compel obedience and even twist the flesh of the disobedient into more pliable forms. Jetrell had no intention of testing his uncle's patience.

 

[North Timistania]

20 Auroras before the present day

The Pallid Tundra

Continent of Myrggol



“One seal to break at shadows rise

The second at the descent of Titan's fingers

A third when Tor’Ghuul’s eye awakes unbidden

Fourth and final when the void begins to bleed, and the stars descend”



-Book of the Sallow Regent “Breaking of the four seals”



The snow burned like fire, any flesh not covered by fur or bone stinging as though held against an open fire. They rose upon the wings of their hornets, the low drone of those terrible beasts drowned out by the shriek of wild blizzards. Rising ever higher they climbed into the mountains, the world below them vanishing as they ascended into a plane beyond the endless wastes below. Great spires of rock greeted them as the summit became visible, the mouth of a great cave greeting them like a yawning maw.

They landed at the opening of the cave, two bone-armored royal guards dismounting first to secure the area, they stood sentinel at the entrance their blades raised in salute. Nutamek lowered himself from the saddle and helped his daughter down, at nine she was still small enough to haul free from the great beast. Sayyona regarded the cave entrance with a mix of fascination and trepidation, the darkness seemingly beckoning the visitors to enter.

“Keep watch! I would have a moment with my daughter” Nutamek ordered as he took Sayyonas hand and led her into the blackness of the cave

The emperor of Borea was a withered soul, his body wracked with a wasting illness, he moved on skeletal limbs and his hands had long since become like talons. Only his father's alchemy had been able to slow the decay and now even that was beginning to fail. The titan of borea who had ruled for two centuries was now nearing the end of his long life and in the darkness, he appeared to his daughter more like a shade than a man.

Nutamek raised a wrinkled talon and whispered something that seemed to blur the air around his breath for the briefest of seconds. A pale ball of blue flame seemed to flow from the emperor's mouth as if guided by an intelligence of its own the fire floated above the emperor and illuminated the ancient stones with its eldritch glow. A great corridor was revealed, snaking and shifting runes glittered in the disturbed blackness, the fire giving life to the script that had long lain in cold sleep.

“Do you know what this place is?” Nutamek asked in a gentle voice

“No Father” Sayyona replied shaking her head

“The first men built these spires to honor the mother, in days of old they painted the walls in a living fungus that would glitter with the elder tongue, these halls once rang with the sounds of devotion and the hum of eldritch magic” Nutamek explained in a solemn voice

The mother's first children, the stories Sayyona had heard painted a picture of godlike beings who had shaped the wastes into a paradise. She had seen their ruins on her journey to these mountains, great abandoned stone cities that jutted from the ice like the bones of the long dead. She had been struck by an uncomfortable realization that for such a godlike race to be so thoroughly erased the deed must have been the work of something truly terrible.

“What happened to them?” She asked in a low, timid voice

“They ruled these lands in an age of wonders, but in time they grew lax in their devotion to the mother and began to seek power for themselves, for their arrogance the mother cursed them with a terrible fate, every subsequent generation born more deformed than the last”

Sayyona had heard those tales too, mostly they had been told to her when she had misbehaved, a cautionary tale to shock her into obedience. Tales of scaled horrors that wandered the ice wastes feasting upon flesh and marrow, great fangs and claws rending and devouring everything they could bring down. The stories always ended with “Behave or the Saggothi will eat you” Sayyona suspected the truth must be even more terrible.

They moved down the narrow corridor, the air seemed to infect everything it touched with a chill touch that flowed down into the bone. The runes glittered menacingly in the cold light, their forms squirming and shifting when stared at for too long. Finally, the flames led them to a great stone door, it loomed down upon them with a threatening vastness, as though it might fall and crush them on a whim.

Nutamek reached out with a hand and caressed the ancient stone, hidden runes danced across the face of the door and burned to life at his touch. The door heaved with tortured effort as arcane sigils forced it to part. A darkened hall was revealed to be on the other side, a great oval held aloft by a circle of ivory pillars. The ceiling was a mass of shining stars, constellations, and astral bodies blazing in the inky blackness.

“Behold daughter, the orrery, the seat of the prophets, here the blessed have long come to receive the mother's clarity, let us gaze into the eyes of the outer realms and see what mysteries they might impart,” Nutamek said as he raised his head to stare at the heavens

The stars above burned bright white and the world around them melted away as the blinding light of vision enveloped them. Nutamek felt unseen forces pry his consciousness from its anointed vessel, the blinding lights fading and revealing a great stone hall. The same glowing script flowed across the walls, but the stone seemed clean, unmarked by the ravages of time, and at the center of the hall sat upon a great throne rested a first man. Its skin was the color of yellow parchment and two black eyes glared down at Nutamek with a probing expression.

“The Sallow regent!” Nutamek uttered in a reverent tone

The ancient tales had described the first men as being blessed with the gift of prophecy, they had communed with the outer realms and read the warnings that bled down from the stars. The Sallow regent had been doomed by the decline of his once glorious race and chosen to document his wisdom in a tome that had been left for the Boreans to discover, it formed one of the holiest tomes of the mother's faith.

The last king of the first men seemed close to the end, his body marred by age and the corruption of the mother's curse. His elongated body was curiously more alien than that of a Borean, thin boned arms and legs were visible beneath his tattered robes and his head was conical in shape. These beings had evidently resembled the mother far more closely than those that came after and yet...they were inferior, their degeneracy proof that they had been a failed experiment.

“So finally, my message is revealed, take heed of my words for I speak with the voice of the outer realms” a voice that seemed to emanate from every corner of the room boomed in Nutamek’s head

The script on the walls seemed to react to the regent's voice, shifting and changing into pictorial forms, great horned beasts clashed with mortal warriors as the glow of fire illuminated everything. The faint shriek of the dying seemed to fill the air as the grim scene bled out across every surface. Cities burned in the distance and the hall took on a vision of apocalypse.

“Behold the breaking of the first seal, the world shall be plunged into fire and shadow!” the regent declared as he motioned to the wall with a skeletal hand

The scene shifted again, frost replacing flame and a vast image of a pale woman seated upon a throne of obsidian filled Nutamek’s sight. At this ruler's side stood two other figures, one a warrior with a blade resting upon his shoulder and the other a sorcerer, ghost fire twirling beneath pallid fingers.

“Behold the trinity, the holy unity that must stand before the first breaking, the immacula* seated upon the throne of the chosen, the war master who shall cleave out the heart of the darkness, and the visitor who shall chart our path through the unseen tides, without this unity the seals breaking is the doom of all, the trinity must be united!” the voice boomed in an urgent entreaty that seemed to echo in Nutameks mind

Nutamek felt his heart begin to pound like hammer blows upon burnished steel, the prophecy of the immacula was an omen of the end times, how had the time of revelation arrived so soon? The immacula was a being blessed with the greatest share of the mother's essence, a living conduit for her power. If the prophecy was only now being revealed, truly terrible events would soon be set in motion, the tumultuous rise of the shadow being the first.

The vision faded and Nutamek realized he was standing in near darkness, the once pristine hall now empty and decrepit. He summoned the flame back into existence and scanned the room, Sayyona was sitting upon the steps in the center of the hall, she seemed deep in thought her tiny features furrowed by revelations far too great for a mere child to bear.

“Daughter, what did you see?” Nutamek asked as he placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder

Sayyona gazed up, eyes completely black, the power of the vision still coursing through her, the room seemed to grow unnaturally cold as she whispered into his ear, the elder speech burning as the voice of the outer realm boiled the air. The voice was unrecognizable, almost female but as though spoken from some vast distance and bearing the unnatural tone of something infinitely larger.

“She is chosen, blessed.....Immacula” the voice snarled



*The Immacula, the mother's perfect vessel, a being whose birth will usher in the age of revelation and whose power will represent the greatest share of the mother's essence ever placed within a Borean. A messianic being long awaited by the Borean people.

 

[North Timistania]

The Gate of Yathgil’loi

Borea

Continent of Myrrgol



The banners of the legion fluttered in the ice winds, pennants of weathered hide snapping back and forth violently as they were pulled and pushed by the wild force of the blizzard. Korthus glanced at the line of weary legionaries that stretched out behind him, they had marched for days across foreboding tundras and vast glaciers, they were all exhausted and eager for rest.

“Rest?” korthus thought, he couldn’t remember the last time he had truly known such a state

For fifty auroras he had kept watch on the border, a vigil that had been characterized by unending slaughter and stalemate. In the beginning, he had relished it, the excitement of great campaigns and the thrill of crossing swords with the sindrasill blade masters. But the war was unending and little by little the years wore away Korthus’s enthusiasm for battle.

In the end, he had come to question the purpose of the conflict, two great empires locked in an eternal struggle over a stretch of barren tundra that neither side had any desire to occupy. A war of temporary gains and endless deaths, the only ones to benefit were carrion eaters and the propagandists who lionized defeat and embellished victory. And year after brutal year the valleys and glaciers filled with more frozen bodies, grim testament to the thousands sacrificed upon the altar of hubris.

“And now your death has finally called me home brother, I wonder if you truly remembered me at all”

In fifty auroras Nutamek had never once called Korthus home, he had become a distant jailor to his younger brother, never writing to or recalling his brother from the front. Korthus had seethed with resentment at his posting and yet now? He felt sorrow for his brother's passing, it was involuntary, and it enraged him to feel it. His emotions fought an inner struggle, hatred and love tangled together in a messy union; he would never stop feeling either for his brother.

The great doors of the capital loomed ahead, vast constructs of black steel whose faces were carved with sigils written in the elder tongue. The writing on the two gates seemed to writhe and struggle against the metal, the eldritch magics resting uneasily upon the dark metal. Korthus dismounted, his burrower clicking obediently as the Borean caressed its chitin with a gloved hand. Stepping forward, Korthus was instantly struck by an assault of voices and unnatural images.

“Mother calls! WHO ANSWERS!!!” a disembodied voice hissed, every word like hot nails piercing Korthus’s brain

“I am Korthus! Son of Dagorn, scion of a gentle born* house and a loyal son of the mother!” Korthus replied in a commanding tone

There was a hissed of escaping air as the two vast doors parted and with the moan of protesting metal, vanished into the sides of the wall and in their place revealed a vast tunnel that bored down into the earth below. Lanterns of living fungus lit the path with ethereal blue light and the wind seemed to roar up from the underground like a predatory beast that had just caught the scent of its prey. Korthus remounted his burrower and motioned for the legion to move, ten thousand warriors obediently marching lockstep into the darkness.

*************************************************************************************

The capital glittered in the darkness, tenements, and terraced farms snaked up the cavern wall, great lanterns, and amoeba vines* filling the darkness with an eerie green phosphorescence. Crooked spires rose above the processionals and twisting streets, they loomed over the city below like the tendrils of great sea beasts. Black eyes stared out from the many balconies and plazas, the citizens of Yathgil’loi briefly pausing from their daily lives to witness the arrival of the legions.

A mortal would likely have found the great cavern city frightening or alien, for Korthus it was a long-desired homecoming. The cold lantern light was like a soothing balm, his homesickness easing as he once more beheld the city of his birth. Here among the dark caverns, he had grown to manhood, the echoes of the subterranean a sweet serenade to his youthful ears. Everywhere he looked, Korthus was struck by old memories that rose to the surface after what seemed like an eternity submerged.

In the great obsidian palaces at the height of the cavern, he had feasted, dueled, and sparred with the other gentle born* both literally and figuratively. In the streets below he had whiled away the hours of his youth in the pleasure houses and smoke dens, his mind and body sated by delights both physical and supernatural alike. How he had missed the acrid scent of snow dust, the sweet taste of ice wine, and the riotous mélange of color that followed ingesting pallor*.

Deeper still did his memory descend, down into the catacombs where he had hunted burrowers in the dark shadow of the first men. The great ruins of that doomed empire had served as the youthful princeling's playground, he befriended the degenerate Saggothi* with gifts of flesh, and he wandered their subterranean realms freely as a master. It was in the eternal night of the necropolis that he had tamed his first burrower, riding the chitinous beast back to the undercity in triumph.

“Home! At long last home!” Korthus whispered with barely contained joy

The legion, at last, came to the gate of the imperial palace, great walls of blackened stone snaked out before the oncoming army. Statues leered down at the new arrivals, the mother's tendril-haired form resplendent as it rose above the fortifications. Other outer gods were given places of honor, and carvings, and monuments depicting Torg’huul*, Ny’Holek*, and countless other elder deities lined the great processional. To a mortal such beings would have elicited fear and madness, to the Boreans though they were family.

The palace gates parted, and horns blasted out in celebration as Korthus entered the imperial sanctum, the palace within was a city within a city, sprawling halls, gardens, and apartments existed to house and service the multitudes of nobles, servants and imperial family members that called the inner sanctum home. In the center of the courtyard, vast statues of black obsidian honored the memories of those rulers who had returned to the mother's side.

“Hello Father,” Korthus said with a weary grin

Dagorn, the mad emperor, was a peerless alchemist who had reigned for three centuries thanks to his mastery of unnatural sciences. His statue was oddly serene, a book resting in one hand and a quill in the other, it was nothing like the erratic and cackling ancient that Korthus had known. As the youngest son, he had experienced only a fraction of his father's reign but had borne witness to the full decline of his father's sanity.

Next to Dagorn, a new figure had been erected, someone both familiar and utterly unrecognizable, Nutamek’s youthful features almost mockingly changed from the withered husk he had become in his last years. The wasting illnesses and endless alchemical remedies had been erased, replaced by the idealized visage of eternal youth. Korthus chuckled in bitter amusement, he was unsure whether he or his late brother had had the last laugh.

“Death suits you brother, you certainly seem less...wrinkled” He muttered wryly before turning his attention to the palace steps.

Korthus dismounted his burrower, the reins taken by attendants in protective clothing, the beast snapped in annoyance as it was carefully led away. A small crowd had gathered at the entrance to the imperial halls, nobles, priests and countless other functionaries formed a mass of brightly colored finery. They flowed down from the summit of the steps to the lowest point, their position indicating their importance.

Korthus ascended the black marble steps, boots echoing as they impacted with the pristine stone, the court parted quickly as he strode past. He must have appeared a terrifying sight, his Armour a complex tapestry of scratches and nicks and his cloak a thing of tattered finery. He had a regal air about him even so, a victorious warrior returning from the front, one gloved hand rested upon the hilt of his blade, the edge of the weapon immaculate and razor sharp.

“And so, you return at last Korthus” an elderly voice called out from somewhere unseen

Ancient Sartumek ambled into view, the hierophant's appearance simultaneously decrepit and imposing. The brother of the late emperor dagorn, Sartumek had walked the path of the clergy rather than taking the sword or crown, the role had granted him unmatched eminence but also extracted an immense toll. He leaned heavily on his staff with long thin fingers that looked like their meager strength might fail at any moment.

“Uncle, the years have not been kind,” Korthus said half in jest and half in sincerity

“We are all less than we once were boy, less and more” Sartumek replied cryptically

His stick-like frame was covered in robes of silk and leather, old bones wrapped in elegant covers, he seemed weighed down as though some unseen hand was trying to crush him. His wrinkled face was half concealed behind a mask of bone, two age-wearied black eyes glaring out of the sockets. The years had not been kind, but this was no mere elder, Sartumek was a conduit for the mother's will and powers lurked beneath his broken frame that it did not pay to toy with.

“The Armour of a general suits you well nephew, I fear it is a mantle you will carry for some time, this brief respite in the capitol may be the last for some time,” Sartumek said sadly

“The elven front is stagnant uncle! We claim territory and then they seize it back the year after!” Korthus replied in a dismissive tone

“I do not speak of the elven front Korthus, there are terrible things afoot beyond our borders, my spies in the lands of the thirteen already whisper of things crossing the veiled sea and of cities aflame with hellfire” Sartumek said ominously

“And this couldn’t just be humans engaging in their usual delusions?” Korthus asked skeptically

“There is much you must know; come we shall discuss it inside with Sayyona and Jetrell” Sartumek explained calmly as he motioned to the halls within

“Jetrell? That smug bastard is here?! Fuck!” Korthus snapped involuntarily

“The coronation requires all sons of Dagorn to be in attendance and mind your language boy! Now come, nephew, we can discuss this further over ice wine” Sartumek said with a mix of annoyance and amusement as his disciplinary tone gave way to the briefest of grins and a softer invitation

With that they spoke no more, Sartumek led the way, his cane tapping rhythmically upon the ornate stone. Korthus was less than enthusiastic about a meeting with his elder brother, the man's acerbic nature was enough to make Korthus wish for another half-century on the Sindrasill frontline. Still, it was a family gathering and it would not do to dishonor tradition over something as mortal as dislike. Korthus followed and was led into the regal hall of his father.

*Boreans with the most ancient and esteemed lineages, they possess the greatest share of starspawn heritage and rule over the citizens of Borea as a noble caste.

*gelatinous plants that grow beneath the earth, they glow shades of bright blue in darkness and the tendrils are edible when roasted.

*A pale coloured powder frequently added to alcohol, produces visions and sensations of extreme euphoria

*While highly aggressive to anything mortal, Boreans possess the mother's blood and can interact with the Saggothi in a manner similar to a human engaging with an animal. It has been theorized that the Saggothi and Borean have similar scents due to both descending from the Star spawn.

*Tor’Ghuul, lord of the plains of light, slumbers with one eye closed, Borean myth states that when the slumbering eye awakes the end times will draw closer. His domain is a plain of blinding lights, a place where souls are said to be stripped of all save their rawest expressions.

*Ny’Holek sometimes known as the “dark sister” is a deity who presides over a domain of shadows, whispers, and the void between stars.

 

[North Timistania]

Borea

Continent of Myrrgol

The Imperial Palace of Yathgil’Loi

​

Sartumek led the way, cane tapping on the polished marble floor, Korthus followed and marveled at the palace he had long ago called home. The high domed ceiling was a wonder of obsidian mosaics and precious stones that glittered in the light of the braziers below. Vast pillars filled the entry hall, giving an impression of a room without end, shadows darkening the spaces between the great stone supports. The door to the banquet hall lay ahead of them, a familiar face waiting.

“Say whatever you need to and then meet me in the great hall,” Sartumek said understandingly before heading in through the doors, a brief blast of music and laughter escaping from the exposed hall

Jetrell was presently leaning against a pillar, the elder brother seemed nonchalant and disinterested in his surroundings. Korthus had not seen Jetrell in many years, the older brother having left to pursue the secrets of the warlock, it was a betrayal that Korthus had never truly forgiven. Yet here the eldest stood, waiting patiently for Korthus who now began to wonder if he should rebuke his absentee kinsman or embrace him.

“The years have marked you, brother,” Korthus said coldly

“You seem to have done alright for yourself; sorcery seems an excellent cure for age” Korthus replied his tone snide and laced with sarcasm

Jetrell was well into his second century of life and yet he appeared no older than he had the last time they had met, doubtless the unnatural powers he consorted with had altered him, preserved him against the ravages of time. Despite the white of his hair the older sibling was essentially untouched by age or infirmity, Korthus briefly wondered in disgust what price the would-be warlock had paid for his longevity.

“Longevity is a necessary element in my endeavors, there is much I must see to fruition,” Jetrell said his tone infuriating in its self-aggrandizement, Korthus wanted to strike the man dead there and then

Korthus rolled his eyes, unable to suppress his disdain for his brothers' pretensions any longer, had the bastard always been so consumed with self-importance? Korthus wasn’t sure but Jetrell was practically insufferable now. He felt a flurry of emotions rise inside of him, anger, irritance, perhaps even some repressed happiness to see his lost brother alive again, for now, it was the anger that held sway.

“Humble as ever I see, tell me, brother, these “endeavors” were they worth abandoning your family?” he asked anger filling every word

Jetrell sighed, where Korthus had expected a smart-arsed retort or perhaps some sort of defense, instead the warlock simply regarded his brother with a weary look of resignation.

“I am not blind to my failings brother, I made choices and walked paths that took me far from home and I allowed myself to be consumed by the visions I saw, but I assure you that my choices were only ever taken because I saw them as the only means of protecting you” Jetrell offered in a placating tone

“Protection? In case the armor and sword didn’t make it screamingly obvious...I NEVER NEEDED YOUR PROTECTION!!! YOU POMPOUS PRICK! I have spent the last half-century gutting infidels and in all that time I always did wonder, have my brothers truly forsaken me? Or was my exile to the eternal war simply an act of forgetfulness!” Korthus yelled angrily his voice echoing through the hall of pillars

He desperately wanted his brother to say something, to admonish or berate, he wanted his brother to justify his anger, to give him an excuse to strike him down on the spot. Jetrell said nothing, he regarded his brother with nothing more than calm and mournful silence and in that void, the anger began to suffocate without any target with which to unleash itself.

“When Nutamek told me of the prophecy I had always assumed he had done the same for you, perhaps he had his reasons and perhaps he....no perhaps I, was wrong all the same, I can't promise to simply erase the years of bitterness and anger brother, I can only promise you that the only thing I have ever sought is to protect our world from the dangers that threaten it” Jetrell offered in a resigned voice

Korthus raised his hands and groaned in exasperation, defeated by his brother's restraint the younger sibling resigned himself to the fact that he could not maintain his anger against Jetrell any longer.

“I am still angry at you brother, but...I have seen enough to agree that our land must be protected, things are changing beyond the borders of Borea and we will need steel and mysticism alike to withstand what is to come” Korthus said in a defeated voice finally allowing the accumulated rage to flow away

The two brothers stood in the shadows and shared a moment of agreeable silence, peace finally had revealed itself. Now there was just the matter of surviving the machinations and parlor games of the nobility within, the gentle born would be in absolutely decadent moods on the eve of a coronation and that meant dealing with their irritating plots, alliances, and grievances, it made the shadow realm seem almost desirable by comparison,

“Well glad we agree on that, a pity we must now play politics” Jetrell replied with a mirthless chuckle

“Bloody nobles, not happy unless there's an angle or a scheme to be had” Korthus replied making an exasperated gesture with his hands

“Finally, something we agree upon,” Jetrell said with a cold smile

They stood in silence and allowed the tension to slowly fade, the brief respite of a truce welcome after the eruption of recrimination and bitterness that had preceded it. Finally, after a long silence that lasted moments but felt like an eternity, it was Jetrell who broke the silence. The old mage stared at the great doors to the banqueting hall and sighed wearily.

“The last time I saw her she was small, I would take her to pick berries in the snow caverns and carry her on my shoulders like a beast of burden, now she will be a woman and I confess brother I am unsure I like the speed at which time has passed,” He said his tone taking on the rare sound of uncertainty

“She might not be a little girl any longer, but she is our niece and more...our empress...we serve her either way...come let us go to her, I suspect she will appreciate the distraction from her adoring court” Korthus offered in a conciliatory voice

With that the two brothers headed for the hall, eager to be reunited with their would-be empress.

*************************************************************************************Urgar Trelim was an imposing sight even amongst Borean’s, he towered over the rest of the court a feat engendered by a lifetime of mutagenic growth that had left him utterly changed. His skin was pale as winter snow and possessed a sheen that better resembled the flesh of some predatory shark, his eyes were pits of black nothingness that seemed to swallow the light when focused upon and he bore talon-like hands and teeth that better resembled razor-sharp fangs.

He was, by the standards of Borea, utterly perfect, the purest expression of the mother's divinity and he made no attempt at modesty. He stood before the court, naked save for a belted kilt of dark leather and seemed to drink in the adoring stares of the gathered nobility. At either side rested two sheathed kris knives and his belt bore the sigil of house Trelim*, the stamped sigil of a snarling harpy leering out at the world with cold hatred.

“A toast to our soon-to-be crowned empress! May she serve the mother well and Shepard our people until the mother wakes once more! We are whole!” he roared as he raised a goblet of spice wine with a clawed hand

“WE ARE WHOLE!!!” the court replied in a reverent voice

“Beautiful in form but so very predictable, for now they scrimp and bow but mark my words well, you must govern them with the guile of a snake if you wish to keep them so...pliant...tighten the nobles leash too firmly and they will chew through it, hold it too slack and risk being bitten in its stead” The mother's voice whispered, each silken word burning in Sayyona’s mind like uncovered fingers gliding across ritual candle flames

“A fine toast Urgar of clan Trelim, but let me speak plainly, what gift do you bring to Honor your sovereign” Sayyona said mimicking the silken venom of her divine mother

“Trelim stands before its empress in obedience! I have brought one thousand Sindrasill captives, seized during our raids across the border into the infidel lands! The strong shall fill your arena’s and enrapture the populace as they anoint the dirt with red and the weak.... I shall personally offer a slaughter in your graces honor upon the day of your coronation!” Urgar said his tone imperceptibly shifting from bewilderment to appeasing as his reputation was challenged by the new monarch

“You do me honor lord Trelim, you are a proud example that others would do well to follow,” Sayyona said her tone approving but laced with an undertone of expectation

“Well played daughter!” The mother whispered in an amused voice

Sayyona knew what she had just done, and so did the nobility, in one fell swoop she had both elevated and humbled Urgar. By demanding tribute, she had established in no uncertain terms her superiority over all other gentle-born, and by praising his example she had stoked the fires of jealousy in her subjects. The hall had soon descended into a theatre, each noble making more extravagant tribute and increasingly dramatic promises of fealty. Nobles strode forth offering everything from Pearls to exotic animals and in one instance a lord offered his wife, an offer Sayyona promptly turned down. Her trick had worked, at least for the moment, the nobles were eating out of the palm of their new benefactors' hand.

“My father once said that a gentle born was equal parts lion and rat, proud and fierce but all too eager to scurry and beg when the opportunity demanded, worry not mother, father taught me well” Sayyona explained to the divine voice swimming inside her thoughts

The feast soon began in earnest, great dishes of grilled tunnel boar* and fungal canapes soon graced the table carafes of ice wine were proffered to nobles with outstretched goblets and blue-netal* soup glittered as it was ladled into bowls of pure obsidian. But for Sayyona it was the arrival of the sauteed burrower grubs that she most eagerly anticipated, when offered first pick of the famous delicacy she speared the largest one with her silver fork.

“Exquisite!” she said with a broad grin before placing the grub in her mouth and biting town hard

The grub made the tell-tale pop that signified it had been probably cooked, the spices the larvae had been fed in the weeks before its cooking exploded across the tastebuds, hints of cumin, garlic, and aniseed mingling on the tongue as she munched on the creature's flesh with barely contained relish.

Her father had often served burrower grubs in the privacy of the royal apartments, those quiet family dinners a memory that Sayyona treasured even as she mourned their loss. The grubs she had been served were near perfect, if a little overly seasoned when compared to her father's recipe. Turning away from food, she regarded the assembled guests with an appraising eye, every clan of influence in the Empire had made its way here.

The faces that graced the banquet table were more than just pampered nobility, each representing a powerful cog in the imperial state, each family regent over one corner of the Borean empire. The Trelim lorded the evening, their patriarch reveling in his physical perfection but while the highest on the pedestal, the Trelim were far from alone. Alchemists and surgeons from clan Zapadu rubbed shoulders with the fearsome Leng head Takers of the outer plains, even the much-degenerated cultists of the Melakim* had come to pay their respects.

Though they appeared at peace for the moment, Sayyona knew a cheap illusion when she saw one, behind the veil of civility every toast was a move in a complex chessboard of one-upmanship. Each house was competing for influence, and they would plot, scheme, and murder one another for years to come as each family attempted to gain ultimate power. It was a great game that served the imperial family well, as long as the gentle-born schemed against one another they remained useful, non-threatening servants.

“My lady your uncles have arrived” one of the handmaidens whispered in Sayyona’s ear, she smiled for the briefest of seconds before nodding in approval

“Have them meet me in the study”

“Esteemed guests, I must take my leave for a brief time to greet my imperial uncles, continue the revels in my stead, and make merry! Oh, and if anyone touches the grubs, I shall have you disemboweled!” Sayyona said with embellished ebullience before rising to take her leave



*The Trelim are known as the “Cultivators” and are revered for their patience and devotion to long-term plans, their estates lie on the edge of the tundra, and they are frequently seen raiding Sindrasiil territory in search of sacrificial victims. Their algae farms and vast underyards produce some of the finest produce in the empire...but it is their slow and deliberate devotion to self-evolution that has earned them their moniker. The Trelim have carefully mutated over centuries, emerging as being of utter perfection, their bodies bearing the most stable expression of the star spawn heritage.

*a scaly-skinned creature roughly approximating a boar in both size and behavior, they are hairless and lack eyes after untold millennia of darkness. Despite these divergences they taste exceptional when fried, like pork but with a distinctly honeyed aftertaste. Borean scholars have suggested that the sweetness comes from pheromones that cause the beast to secrete a perfume of complex chemicals when threatened.

*The Blue-Netal an ancient cave flower that possesses bio-luminescent qualities their taste when boiled is comparable to a blend of maple syrup and coffee

*The Melakim are the opposite of the Trelim’s careful mutations, the cultists prefer to allow the mother's gift to evolve as it will, making no attempts to guide or restrain the changes they experience, they tend to be a mixture of hideous and debilitating mutations and occasionally beings of pure beauty who surpass even the Trelim.

 

[North Timistania]

Borea

The Pallid Tundra

Continent of Myrrgol

Twenty-four auroras before the present day



The great insect descended into the crater and urged on by the guidance of its rider, Sayyona sat at the back of the snow hornet's great saddle and watched as the jagged mountains of the heights gave way to the white snow and frozen lakes of the pallid below. She was tempted to reach out and try to catch the falling snowflakes, but she knew better than to take risks when in flight. Instead, she peered down and regarded the austere beauty of the frozen lake.

Y’Gril’s tears her father had called it, legends speaking of a great beast whose earthly tears had descended upon the frost and formed a lake whose waters had frozen instantly. The lake had been so named thousands of years ago and in all that time never once thawed. Sayyona gazed at the blue expanse and decided it was more beautiful in its frozen form, like a sapphire preserved in the eternal chill.

The Hornet landed with a loud thud, its furred legs digging into the snow as the flight ended, uncle Jetrell leapt from the saddle and caressed Barsek’s side with a gauntleted hand, the great insect chittered its mandibles in response. The creature had been stolen at great expense from the destroyer hive and bonded to Jetrell through the imprinting rituals, it was already as big as a large ox, and it would grow to many times that size before it stopped.

“Come Sayyona, the cave is just ahead!” Jetrell said with a rare smile as he helped his niece from the saddle of the hornet

“How did you convince Dad to let me out of the palace?” Sayyona asked curiously

“Who said I needed to? He practically encouraged the outing” Jetrell replied with a smirk “A future empress must know her realm!” he said puffing out his chest and doing a near-perfect imitation of Nutamek

“That is scary uncle,” Sayyona said between fits of giggling

“Accurate though” Jetrell chuckled

The outing was a rare indulgence for Nutamek’s heir, most of her life was spent in the shielded confines of the palace, Sayyona could have counted on the fingers of her tiny hands how many times she had been outside the walls of the palace. She would have needed only a single hand to calculate how many times those excursions had occurred without an armed escort.

Jetrell had convinced Nutamek of the necessity of varied experiences, an empress could not truly rule a place as unforgiving as Borea without understanding the world outside the vaults. foraging for Snow berries had proven an excellent teaching opportunity, providing a chance to tutor his niece on ecology and simply be a doting uncle.

“Look around you Sayyona, this is our land, frozen and cold on the surface but beneath the exterior lies all that is needed to sustain life” Jetrell explained moving his hand across the tundra for emphasis

They reached the move of a great cave and Jetrell whispered something that seemed to burn the air around his breath, a small green ball of void fire emerging and hovering around his shoulders like an obedient pet. Jetrell Leading the way they entered the darkness descending the snaking tunnel their path lit by eldritch fire that floated endlessly from one of Jetrell’s shoulders to the other.

“Can you teach me how to do that uncle?!” Sayyona asked excitedly wringing her tiny hands for emphasis

“Ha! One day you will be able to summon such things as naturally as breathing, but for now let me handle sorcery” Jetrell replied in a placating tone

Emerging from the tunnel they found themselves standing in the center of a vast cavern, there was a thunderous sound in the dark and the air had a dampness about it that seemed to infect every surface. The green flame rose high into the air, the Veridian glow revealing the source of the noise, a vast underground spring fed by a waterfall. The cave's stone was covered in fungus, moss, and strange vines that clung to the ancient wall; the scent of night flowers wafted in the dank air carried to the visitor's nostrils by the mist of the waterfall.

“There are places like this all across the empire, it is why we build our cities beneath the earth, closer to the mother embrace and the bounty of the underworld”

“Bounty like the snowberries?” Sayyona asked with a hopeful smile

“Haha, indeed, Sayyona and the ones that grow here are reputed to be the sweetest in Myrrgol, but you must be very careful, touch nothing unless I tell you it is safe, not everything that grows here gives life” Jetrell replied with a chuckle that faded quickly

Sayyona nodded at the ominous warning, she had always been a quick learner and at six auroras she was already aware of the world's dangers. Jetrell suspected that with such a keen mind already evident, Sayyona would be capable of wielding terrible powers when old enough, for now, though she was a child and Jetrell would ensure she remained unharmed, even if it meant summoning terrible things from the beyond.

They descended into the grove below, great fungal growths rising like organic towers as they passed them. Burrowers regarded the Boreans from the shadows with their claws clicking quizzically as they watched the newcomers, they did not attack however, olfactory glands recognized the scent of elder blood, and the creatures recoiled in fear.

The wall next to the waterfall glittered with the prize they had come so far to claim, the deep vines glowing blue like Ghost light. Upon each vine bloated bulbs of that seemed neither blue nor purple hung, the berries ripe for the picking. The phosphorescent glow of the plants seemed to repel every living thing in the cave, even the stinging insects that flowed across the undergrowth in clouds seemed to give the berries a wide berth.

“Why are the animals avoiding this vine” Sayyona said pointing to the burrowers with a confused look

“It is not of this earth Sayyona, the fruits that hang here are a gift from the mother, the lesser beings that seek to claim what is not theirs will find only death” Jetrell explained

“Poison then?”Sayyona asked

“Something like that, though not everything is fortunate enough to die after ingesting the berries” Jetrell explained

Death was almost a mercy compared with those maimed, creeping horrors that survived the berries, the mothers' gifts were potent and any not bearing her sacred bloodline were doomed to be colonized, warped, cell by cell by the fruits of her garden.


“So will it hurt us?” Sayyona asked nervously

“No, we can eat as many as we like, though too many make you feel rather ill” Jetrell explained with a chuckle

“Like the time I ate the whole plate of grubs?” Sayyona said with a grin

That had been a messy night, the royal apartments requiring a deep clean afterward, Jetrell was certain they still faintly reeked of vomit and stuffing. He hoped he was not encouraging a repeat with the berries.


“Like the time you ate the whole plate of grubs,” Jetrell agreed

He smiled, thoroughly enjoying his role as uncle, it was a rare joy amidst the growing chaos of life, soon these moments would grow rarer still as he was forced to journey further afield in his quest for knowledge. Today those worries were distant thoughts for the future, today he was simply Uncle Jetrell. His reverie was shattered by the sound of booted feet in the undergrowth and of loud, human voices.

************************************************************************************

Lord Oksandr had once been a man of renown, victor of a dozen campaigns on the marches, he’d killed men on three continents and drawn swords with Arkians, elves, and even stranger creatures still. Those days were distant memories now though, the anger of a jealous ruler and his own arrogance ending in a fall from grace so great he would never rise anew.

Now he was a mercenary, battered plate Armour, sword, and rusted shield his only source of survival and it was currently to a high-paying mage that he was pledged. The tundra was a place of fearful stories, rumors of dark empires, and madness beneath the earth, it was also fucking cold, and Oksandr Kreel hated being cold. He intended to collect the samples his current employer demanded and then find a fire and hope his balls unfroze.

“We shouldn't be down her milord, I am afeared” Borous whimpered the aged scholar ever frightened by the unknown

“Shut it! We grab the berries and then we leave, a task that will go a lot faster if you stop bloody whining like a Longrow strumpet! *” Oksandr growled as he stumbled forward

The cavern was impressive, Oksandr would admit that much, the barren tundra above replaced by a bizarre garden that seemed unnaturally alive. On some level he felt unnerved, this was not a normal grove and deep down in his bones he knew, even if he did not know why. There was a scent on the wind, something inhuman, like fire, tar, and coffee but a thousand times sharper. He gripped his sword tightly in response, his old hewer the only thing he trusted these days.

“shuelat alqadar*!!! What in Al-Tiraq's* name are these things!?” Sayed muttered as he caught sight of the burrowers, the Azaran* slotting a bolt into his crossbow fearfully

The beasts seemed to be waiting for something, they did not advance, and they made no attempt to attack, Oksandr didn’t much care why, he was simply glad for the reprieve. They came at last to a wall, something glowing in bright green and two strangers standing next to the very vine that Oksandr had been contracted to claim.

“Oi! We’ve come a long way for those vines, and we’ve got the salvagers contract from the guild! Piss off and we might let you live” Oksandr yelled as he waved his sword in the direction of the strangers

They were two, a man and a child and when the man turned to regard Oksandr he felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. The man regarded him with two black, pupilless eyes and his skin was pale as a corpse, the stranger had an expression that seemed halfway between irritation and amusement.

“I told you! The demons of the tundra! They are real!!!!” Borous wailed in terror

“Shut the bookworm up Jarev!” Oksandr snarled

The Ardenian stepped forward and cuffed the wailing scholar with the back of his gauntleted hand, Borous growing silent as he fell to the ground. Oksandr pointed his sword at the stranger and motioned for him to step aside.

“I won't ask again stranger, be somewhere else!” he growled in a low menacing voice

The stranger began to laugh

*************************************************************************************

Treasure hunters, scavengers, and vultures come to feed off the wonders of Borea, parasites that had become a perennial irritant to be squashed and stamped out, only for more to take their place. The legions killed invaders in droves every year, but the eternal conflict had spread them thin, and into those gaps flowed innumerable opportunists come to pick at the bones of the old tundra. Most died horribly and never returned home, these fools would be no different.

“You have no authority here this place was not meant for you!” Jetrell said coldly, eyes narrowing threateningly

“Alright then! Guess I'll just run you through and walk over your corpse yeah!” the armored human yelled back as he advanced

“Sayyona, close your eyes and cover your ears,” Jetrell said softly, the child obeyed

The knight took a swing at Jetrell with his longsword, the stranger whispered something and Oksandr felt his entire body seize up in quivering fear, Sayed fired his crossbow, Jetrell raised his hand and the arrow melted into nothingness as it seemed to phase out of existence. A strange black glyph hovered in front of the stranger, Sayed's eyes began to bleed as he gazed at it.

Jetrell snapped his fingers and the ball of flame hurled toward the panicking Azaran, it made contact with the man's flesh and then the screaming began as eldritch fire snaked across the now glowing man's body and his body began to smoke and crumble to superheated dust. Jarev stood in horror, blade falling from a trembling hand.

Jetrell whispered a dark invocation, summoning the power of the outer veil, Nalek the dreamers*' terrible delusions invading the waking world as the dancing eldritch glyphs burned into life and maimed the air, they hovered in. Oksandr began to weep and laugh uncontrollably as the arcane glow blinded him, moments later he was burying his own sword in his chest, gleefully forcing the blade deeper into his ribs.

Jarev was scratching at his eyes, screaming and wailing madly as he tried in vain to tear the ants from inside his own skull. He collapsed to the ground still tearing at his face, the once beautiful visage reduced to a Gorey collection of lacerations and empty sockets. The scholar was the lucky one, he remained unconscious and, in the process, safe from the horrors that blazed across the waking world.

Momentarily pausing to pick berries from the wall, Jetrell filled a small pouch with the hard-won treats and popping one in his mouth, led Sayyona out of the cave, her eyes still closed. Behind them, the screams echoed and slowly descended into sobbing and despairing moans.

*************************************************************************************”

That was not how I planned that to end” Jetrell said apologetically

“We did get the berries though, didn’t we?” Sayyona offered optimistically

“Aye, that we did” Jetrell agreed with a weary nod

“Who were those men?” Sayyona asked

“Humans...a lesser race with delusions of grandeur....and an annoying habit of laying claim to whatever they see” Jetrell explained in a weary, irritable tone

“They sound annoying” Sayyona exclaimed with the certainty only the very young possess

“very” Jetrell agreed

“So... will you teach me how to do what you did in there” she asked excitedly

The eldritch powers were her birthright, but they came with a terrible price, even calling upon the outer gods for but a moment was a risk-filled action, madness was only one of the gifts they might eagerly bestow upon the untrained. In time he would have no choice but to show her the sigils, the binding rituals, and the pacts, all those terrible steps which allowed one to walk the void relatively unscathed.

“When the time is right yes, you will need such power” Jetrell said with a weary smile


“Because of humans?”Sayyona asked

“Yes...but Sayyona, there are worse things than men and you will have to be ready to face them” Jetrell replied grimly

Barsek raised its vast head, mandibles chittering in excitement as its master returned, the great hornet's antennae rose hose and shook as though it was saluting its master's return. Jetrell caressed the beast's chitinous face with a gentle hand and then they were back in the saddle and rising high into the cold skies.

*************************************************************************************

Borous awoke to a scene so gruesome he had to fight every urge to soil himself, a battle he lost as a warm stream of shame flowed down his leg. Jarev lay near catatonic his face a bloody ruin, his eyes torn from their sockets...by his own hand, a pile of smoking ashes was all that remained of Sayed and Oksandr simply knelt, blade protruding from his chest as though he was some sort of oversized pin cushion.

Borous felt his heart pound as he detected the faintest sound of chittering mandibles and clicking claws, he turned and screamed as a vast burrower reared up on six stalk-like legs and impaled the scholar with its spear-like tail. Jarev began to laugh maniacally, he hoped in his broken mind that he would make a good meal.



*Ladies of the night from a particularly wealthy section of town, evidently having the means to dictate one's terms is considered “whining” by certain sorts.

*Flame of Fate, a common Azzaran expression

*Tor’ghuul’s name rendered in Azzaran

* A citizen of the port city of Al-Azar, a strange anomaly located on a peninsula on the Borean coast, strange magic appears to have created a desert climate around the port.

*The Eldritch god of dreams, madness, and visions

 

[North Timistania]

Yathgil’Loi

The imperial apartments



The servants led Jetrell and Korthus down long winding corridors, the very walls seeming to shift and bend with each new gaze, ancient mosaics deceptively alive in appearance. Led down the snaking passageways by the glow of murky green lanterns they came at last to a great door that extended to the ceiling and seemed to fill any who stared upon it with a sense of utter insignificance.

Great milky white tendrils carved into the obsidian depicted the descent of the eldritch gods to Sorras and about the Starfall thronged the twisted masses of the first men, long processions of wide skulled and wiry limbed beings surrounding the mother as they engaged in their rapturous worship. it was this great portal which stood sentinel at the boundary of Sayyona’s domain, only the worthy and the chosen ever permitted to pierce the depths beyond its imposing face.

“I see Nutamek retained our father's decor” Korthus muttered with the briefest of smirks crossing his lips

As if reacting to the sound of voices the doors opened in eerie silence, despite their size not a single groan or creak arose as the bastion swung open. The handmaidens bowed and retreated into the shadowy processionals, only the two imperial princes would be permitted to enter the empress's inner sanctum. The interior was surprisingly homely, countless shelves lined the walls, books on every subject from astronomy to political treatise graced the neatly lined rows.

“The library seems more diverse than when brother resided here” Jetrell noted approvingly

The sorcerer's appraising eye had quickly detected far more esoteric material amongst the more pedestrian tomes. Great codexes devoted to the summoning of eldritch power hummed darkly from their hidden places, whispering enchiridions entreated the reader to crack open their spines and delve into the forbidden pages therein. There were instructions on the path to other realms beyond mortal imaginings and sacred tablets that promised absolute enlightenment, for a price.

Merely standing in this place would have driven most mortals insane, the knowledge contained within too much for their primitive minds to bear. But Jetrell was no mortal, he was the mother's own legacy and his flesh and blood bore the unmistakable heritage of the star spawn. To him, the whispers were gentle songs gifted to him by a loving parent.

“I found Marshe's treatise on the nature of the void especially enlightening,” a gentle female voice said in amusement

Sayyona sat at a desk of pure obsidian, its face lined with countless scrolls and leather-bound tomes, she was presently inscribing notes into the pages of a vast diary, delicate glyphs danced across the papyrus as she wrote with a rapid but neat hand. When Jetrell had last seen her, she was a child who had passed only a handful of auroras upon Sorras, now here she was a grown woman and so much like her mother in appearance.

“I welcome you kin of my father; your presence makes this house complete once more,” Sayyona said with formal but warm tone

“We are whole” they all intoned reverently in response





********************************************************************************

Sayyona presently reclined in an ornate armchair covered in the stitched scales of a Saggothi, slender almost talon-like hands clutched a stylus as she continued to scrawl notes and her flesh retained the same snow-colored pallor that all Borean’s were marked by. Her face was thin and finely boned, beautiful by the standards of her species and possessing the unmistakable signs of the elder blood. Her eyes were an otherworldly black and her hair was carefully braided and dyed so that it resembled a collection of veridian tendrils.

As her uncles entered her sanctum Sayyona’s mind was awash with curiosity and countless questions, she longed to greet her kin and to hear of their stories and the things they had seen and done. But alas this meeting was to be anything but an informal chat, she felt the overwhelming power of the change begin to fill her as something infinite and terrible enveloped her mind and shaped her to its purposes.

Her fingers became claws and the glitter of scales flowed across her formerly pristine skin, great fangs sprouted from the corners of her mouth and her eyes seemed to grow as dark as the void, as though no light could pierce their stygian depths. It was from this reshaped form that words not her own issued forth, their tone possessing such power that her uncles were compelled to kneel.

“At last, you come to this place my children, behold the Immacula! My chosen vessel” the mothers voice boomed as it filled the minds of everyone in the room

“We are whole!!!” both brothers intoned reverently under their breath

“The time of revelation is close, we stand upon the precipice of great change, this world that I have chosen for my spawn is threatened by the one known as Salroth, for now, he burns and butchers the mortals, but soon he will spread across the entirety of Sorras, he is a threat to the colonization of this world, you will remove him, serve my chosen, serve the Immacula! Prophecy is at hand!”

With that the presence released Sayyona, she slumped back in the chair panting as though she had just run a marathon, a sliver of black ichor flowed down her nose and created a dark spot on the ornate obsidian of her desk. After a long pause that seemed to last an eternity, she leaned forward, sweat streaming from her face, the signs of the change vanished and her normal features were once more present.

“Forgive me, uncles, the mother's visits are becoming more frequent,” she said her voice breathless

“You have been blessed by the great old ones! There is nothing to forgive!” Jetrell said his voice almost shaking with astonished reverence

“Nutamek always believed you were chosen; my brother was seldom wrong,” Korthus said solemnly

“I....need to eat,” Sayyona said weakly in reply

The two men grinned and were soon escorted to the feast hall



*************************************************************************************

Sayyona ate ravenously, wolfing down plates of fried burrower grubs and washing that greasy fare with a pitcher of snow wine. The change always left her famished, the strain on her body of hosting the consciousness of an eldritch deity leaving her in desperate need of sustenance. As she gulped down her third glass of snow wine she lay back and smiled in satisfaction as the pangs of weakness and hunger began to mercifully subside.

“I see burrower grubs are still your favorite?” Jetrell noted with a knowing smirk

“Aye uncle, you will find precious little about me has changed in that respect,” Sayyona said with a smirk

“I beg to differ, I can sense the mark of the old gods upon your soul, you have grown into a powerful sorceress” Jetrell replied proudly

“I had an inspired tutor” Sayyona replied raising her glass in a toast before sipping it thoughtfully

The reality was that they would need all the eldritch power and dark sorcery of the void that could be brought to bear, the armies of Salroth were vast, dwarfing anything else in Sorras, and only with the power of the void would the children of the mother know victory. Sayyona had reached tomes of such dark heritage that they would make a mortal's eyes bleed and burst, she had communed with great and terrible entities, and she intended to summon monsters into the world that would sear it clean of Salroth's filth.

“We need to prepare for war, the humans will not provide us with a useful buffer for long,” she said in a cold and analytical tone

It was a calculation made with no empathy or malice, humans were simply lesser beings and Afterall did a mortal spend his days concerned with the feelings of an ant? They had their place as tools in a greater plan, but they were short-lived, temporary beings whose insignificance on the face of the cosmos was total.

Like dwellers on a solitary island, the races of the mortals were oblivious to the wider sea of dangers, they contented themselves with their assumed primacy and did not gaze out into the murky oceans beyond. It was precisely this ignorance that made them useful and in the right circumstances utterly dangerous, these fearful creatures had long served as food for the demon and other loathsome psychic phenomena, feeding them with terror and other negative emotions.

Salroth might be the result of the mortal's mass delusions, but he was no less dangerous for it, the parasitic horde that now marched across Myrggol was empowered by every soul they corrupted and every terrible tale. The screech of massed psychic anguish that flooded the world with nightmares and hatred was constant and it was engorging Salroth like warm blood filling the body of a leech. Left unchecked, this would render Salroth unassailable.

“I understand you captured a demon in Kingsmouth” Sayyona said thoughtfully

“Aye I did, odious thing, it's bound up in the cells” Jetrell confirmed with the slightest of nods

“I want you to torture it, get as much information as you can, we need to know everything about this invasion that we can,” sayyona said matter-factly

“It would be my pleasure” Jetrell replied with a wicked grin

The torturer of demons would soon have a new victim to practice his grim art upon.