The Throne of Skulls

[Kugar]

The cavern was suffocated by shadows, the flickering torches lining the walls and casting macabre silhouettes that danced like wraiths in the smoky abyss. At the heart of this underworld, enthroned upon an imposing dais made from tarnished obsidian, sat Lord Gray, an embodiment of torment and dread. His throne, a foreboding edifice forged from the very skulls of his fallen foes, whispered tales of conquest and despair. Each grim visage held a cautionary tale that served as a reminder of his insatiable thirst for power.

Draped in tattered robes sewn as though from the veil of night itself, Lord Gray pondered his next moves against the heroes of Illarion. Their past victories against his emissaries were vexing, to say the least. He stroked the cold surface of a skull, its once eerie grin now a mask of his enemies’ defeat, seeking clarity as he pondered the strands of fate woven around him.

“The fools still believe they can challenge the darkness,” he murmured, his voice a low, menacing rasp, echoing ominously against the cavernous stone. “But they only hasten their reckoning.”

Before him, the ground trembled slightly as the remnants of his undead minions shuffled about, mere puppets bound to his will. Their hollow eyes glowed with specters of unfulfilled desires, vestiges of their former lives lost to the inevitability of death. He relished their suffering—each twitch and shuffle a reminder of their failure to escape his grasp.

At his side stood Gloom, his loyal necromancer, draped in a flowing gown that shimmered with the whispers of deceased souls. His ethereal majesty belied the darkness within—the flames of ambition danced behind his deep-set eyes. “My lord,” he said, his voice smooth as the shadows, “the mortals grow bolder with each encounter. They hold the rod of Erlick, that cursed relic once said to repel the undead. Any and all attempts to retrieve it have failed. They are unified, emboldened.”

Lord Gray lowered his head, deepening the shadows across his gaunt skull. “Chsk...Then we shall turn their hope into dispair. They always rest upon their small victories; it is time we remind them of their mortality.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Gloom replied, his lips curling into a devious smile. “We could unleash the Cachexy Plague upon the settlements they protect. Imagine their faces when the very ground they stand on rises against them—a tide of despair, fed by their own hope.”

Lord Gray considered the necromancer's idea, his skeletal fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest of his throne. The thought of a spreading chaos igniting fear in the hearts of heroes played like a sweet melody in his mind. “Chsk... Not yet.”

“And the mortals?” Gloom inquired, somewhat disappointed.

“Let them maintain their focus on the immediate. Let blind protection be their guiding principle,” he replied, the cold edge of his voice sharpening. “While they grapple with their own mortality, I will work in the shadows. I possess the void flame; soon it will come into play.”

He leaned forward in his throne, the skulls beneath him creaking ever so slightly. Lord Gray’s thoughts slid towards the rod of Erlick and the ancient prophecies entwined with an object that may well match its description. If he could harness its power, drain it of its essence, the very fabric of Illarion would unravel in his hand. The wards weaken with each break of dawn; they believe themselves safe, but the gods will not protect them forever.

Suddenly, a bitter chill swept through the chamber, as a figure materialized from the shadows—a specter clad in rags, face obscured but unmistakable. It was Mogh the orc, a former minion who had failed him in life and now served as a wretched reminder of his past weakness.

“Muh Lurd,” Mogh rasped, seeming to emerge from the very shadow itself, “dah mortuls hab shoorly nub idea whub ta do! Ib yoo bring Mogh back, meh could kill dem!”

“Let them bring their own demise,” Lord Gray hissed, silencing Mogh with a mere wave of his skeletal hand. “Knowledge can be a pivotal weapon, but it can also be a chain. They shall discover what was meant to be lost. The tendrils of despair will wrap tightly around their throats, and when they reach for knowledge, it shall yield only madness.”

Gloom nodded approvingly, brightening at the prospect of adventurers unraveling ancient secrets, only for those secrets to become their undoing.

“Prepare the horde,” Lord Gray commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “Let them roam the ruins, feeding upon the hopes of those who explore. Their very presence shall instill fear, and terror must be the only legacy left for our enemies.”

As the necromancer moved to carry out his dark lord’s bidding, Lord Gray returned his gaze to the endless abyss that framed his throne. Plans unfurled before him like blackened petals of a withered rose, their fragrance rife with decay. Each minute was a heartbeat closer to the reckoning he craved, and he felt invigorated by the thought.

Plunged in darkness, yet intoxicated by the sweet scent of impending chaos, Lord Gray settled back into his throne of skulls, a sinister cackle oozing from his haunting visage.

[RonnyG]

Whispers. Visions. Whispers mocking the complacency abound, demanding action. Visions of decay, of the rotting features of many a face that had come into focus across time. Their skin and their arms stretching, dragging along the ground, and their tools, weapons and shields crumbling onto barren earth, rusted and chipped.

He allowed the darkness to envelop him. It consumed him and transported him to a place where he could gaze upon the full splendor of a mind free of fear. There were no desperate attempts at upholding the balance here, no obedience to the laws of the gods, and no urge to control the natural progression of this world. The formless black void suffocated and deafened him... and yet he was smiling.

One of the whispers fought to be heard, frenzied and without gaps of silence: "... angrykingangrykingangryking…". It spoke of a twisted soul in a mangled body, hardly human, full of hatred. His smile turned crooked, dry lips giving way to an uncompromising and gleeful grin, for he knew what was coming.

The other whispers reminded him who the real king was, and where the crown lied in waiting.