Moroch and Thraal

Edit: Condensed previous writings into a singular post for easier reading, added modestly named Chapters, and the blue text at the end is the latest addition to the end of this. (Last post before the new) To ease your reading pleasure. (ie: Read the blue, then the last post to catchup rather than hunt through the whole thing)

--Prologue: 5 Hours Earlier--

Moroch fumed, pacing the dark halls of his fortress in the lower plane city of D'ereth. Anger seethed inside his veins until he thought he would burst as he held a parchment tightly in his hands, the paper straining to hold itself together as his body trembled.

A massive stone hearth sat to one side of the great hall, spitting and hissing sparks up the flue, causing shadows to dance and whirl on the blood red tapistreys and paintings lining the halls stone pillars, making them seem to come to life in a mocking dance.

The humans had grown, with the help of this Deva from the higher planes, this Tabernacle of life had put hope into their hearts, given them a reason to resist his domination. Countless times he had defeated them in battle, his armies more than a match to dispatch the puny mortals, but still he was losing the war.

With a snarl he hurled the parchment into the massive stone fireplace, watching it turn instantly to ash from it's intense heat before stomping to a finely wrought table made of Elven redwood inlaid with gold scrollwork. His simple, midnight black robes barely making a sound as they passed over the smooth worn stone of the floor.

Leaning heavily on the table he looked to the only piece of paper upon it. A map of Daimonin, it's parchment yellow with age. A gaping hole sat in the exact center of it, as if part of the map had been cut... or ripped out. Moroch didn't care, he knew exactly what lay at the center of that map. His way to crush the human resistance. The grand empire city of Thrall.

His sharp ears picked up an almost indistingushable sound and he tilted his head to the side sleightly. "Come here Jehalem," he spoke, beconing towards a darkened alcove. Red mist coalesced into a shaded figure concealed in even darker clothes than Morochs.

"You always were one for theatrics Jehalem," Moroch sneered, turning back to the table as Jehalem approached. "We must end this war, these humans have troubled me long enough, I wish to make the prime my own."

Jehalem chuckled softly, moving to stand next to Moroch, "And how do you plan to do this?"

"We will destroy them at the heart, we will destroy Thraal." Moroch hissed, his anger gone, replaced only with cold, calculating determination. "Prepare the armies."

--Chapter 1: The vision--

The sun shone brightly over the lands of Daimonin, it's yellow rays glistening and reflecting off the crystal stone battlements of the grand city of Thraal.

Here and there peasants bustled with their daily lives as guards in pristine crystal mail laced with mithril paced the walls, ever weary and ever on the watch for advancing threats.

The massive wooden gates of Thraal stood open in defiance of the battlefield that lay but a scant league from it's steps. The mighty skull in fist banner floated lazily on the gentle breaze that stirred them, making them whisper hushly atop the many stone and granite ramparts.

Mages in the deepest trenches of the main citadel poured over spellbooks, seeking to unlock and master ancient Elven magic to aid their cause as vetran warriors covered in ritualistic scars stood guard around a pristine altar that glowed as if the very suns light was bathing it.

The scars marked them of the house Chin, of the clan hao, an elite group, dedicated to preserving the Tabernacle, christined and charged with its safe-keeping.

The Tabernacle of Life itself sat upon it's brilliant crystal pedestal, un-wavering, un-moving, a monument to the Devas scant directions, the last bastition of Humankinds hope, every so often flickering as if it momentarily lost power. Something that worried the Arch-wizard Albirth.

Sighing, Albirth moved towards the alter, his pristine white robes making a soft swishing sound over the marble floors of the citadel, outside the songbirds chirped, unworrying of the threats that lay beyond their seight and a soft breeze blew, rustling the leaves making them seem to whisper.

Raising his hands, he held them mere inches from the Tabernacle, sky blue bands encircled the cuffs of his robe, inlaid with golden, archaic runes of old Elven, his grey hair matted and gnarled, lines of worry creasing his face, and he closed his eyes.

Mumbling softly in old Elvish he cast an incantation of knowledge, the lesser acolytes he'd heard whispering, called it probing, hoping to gain some semblance of information from the Tabernacle, hoping to gain some hidden knowledge, or at least a glimpse of why it's power flickered as such.

He'd cast this spell many times, each time hoping to learn something, anything. Familliar images filled his mind, images of pure sunlight, of a benevolent divine force, he had seen these many times, though now, the vision changed.

The divine light he'd seen, so brightly, so many times before, seemed dimmed, as if a cloud was blotting it out.

More images flooded his mind, the vision turned to crimson, the color of blood, a sense of strain permeated his thoughts as he saw a battlefield littered with dead bodies.

The images in his mind whirled, showing him more of the landscape, a city, he quickly identified as Vorth. A small city at that, one near the farthest reaches of Thraals borders, one, besieged with Morochs troops.

The strain grew until he felt he would snap at the core, the divine light spreading over the fallen, breathing new life into them, brightening breifly, before fading, a little less each time a fallen warrior was raised, only to fall again to the blades of Morochs army....and he understood.

The Tabernacle was not limitless in it's power, and it was being drained. Each life it restored, weakened it's power, it's strength and reach.

Albirth felt fear, he knew the final battle with Morochs forces would be soon to come, would the Tabernacle be enough to save them? Or would it's power fade with the comming storm?

Albirth shifted his stance, as if to break his connection, but the power of the Tabernacle held him as if he was cast in stone and the vision closed in on Vorth, his eyes widening in horror as he could only watch events unfold.

--

The vultures circled over head, the battlefield lay deathly quiet as Verith wiped his rusted sword on the loin cloth of an orc, his feet slipping on the odd tiles that covered the ground, almost Elvish in design, as if it was a roof, burried within eons of sand and clay to form a road.

No bodies moved as far as the eye could see as the sun beat down on his studded leather armor causing him to sweat more from the heat rather than the thirst of battle.

His eyes darted about the battlefield as he shuddered. His entire company, 30 strong slain, the healing light of the tabernacle unable to repair the massive damage to their bodies.

It seems the Tabernacle was unable to repair a body ripped limb from limb, only those with a clean wound. Justly so he though, shuddering while thinking of returning to life such as a scarecrow.

"Let them sleep the eternal sleep," he muttered, his eyes continuing to scan the horizon.

The air shimmered and a portal appeared next to him, several orcs leaping through, a shaman behind them in the ranks. With a wordless roar he launched himself at them before they could fully emerge fromt he portal.

The first three fell with ease, the remaining three fanned out, hoping to flank him, but he was a master with the sword. The end blurred as he wielded it almost like a quarterstaff against the lead orc, sending it into a parry, it's curved scimitar barely deflecting the multitude of blows.

He arced it high, and then low, waiting for the orc to faulter as the other two jostled for position to flank him, it tripped over a corpse, exposing it's side, but Verith didn't take it, instead he dipped it low, as if to stab at the shins, and then arced it high at the last instant, slicing the orcs throat open as he was dimly aware of the shaman chanting in it's gutteral tounge.

Verith whirled left, moving the sword in a figure-eight, catching the next orc off guard, slicing it's belly open and pivoted on his foot just in time to barely catch the second orcs blade and slam it into the blood soaked earth.

The orc grunted, it's blade myred in the soft earth as it tried to free it, Veriths side split in pain, blood forming on a wound as the shamans spell slammed into him. He let out a howl, letting his blade slide up the orcs, breaking it's hilt and ripping it's chest open.

It fell with a spasm, and Verith turned to the shaman, it's hands a blur of motion, knowing it had to get the spell off or else fall like it's comrades.

Verith knew he could not reach it in time, and with a grunt and grimace, hefted the rusted piece of metal on his shoulder and threw it at the shaman.

The orc squealed as it impaled it in the chest, the spell dying at it's blood soaked lips as it sank to it's knees, Verith mirroring it in exhaustion.

The sun passed behind a cloud, as he stumbled backwards against the a struggling aspen that provided some respite from the burning sun, his blade left in the shaman and he closed his eyes in prayer.

The sun emerged from the clouds and the air shimmered again. Groaning, Verith grabbed at his belt, a long dagger hanging from it, and drew it with a soft whisp of metal on hard leather.

A figure emerged in long, dark robes, it's face indestinguishable and true body shape hidden by it's soft folds.

Its voice was full of mirth and amusement as it spoke, "Little worm, what do you struggle for? Don't you realize that it makes no difference? Chaos will consume all."

Verith, blinded by rage, and the loss of blood, however, did not hear his words, and charged headlong at the figure, his dagger held low.

Cackling, the figure receeded into the portal as a full fist, 50 strong, of orcs poured fourth, cutting Verith down without a second thought.

His body fell to the ground, in several pieces as more orc feet trampled it. Yet another corpse in the war.

They paid it no heed as they marched towards the walls of Vorth in the distance.

Albirth struggled to free his hands from the hold of the Tabernacles crystalline sheen, his eyes, locked on it's clear white glow strew tears across his face as he watched Verith fall under the hoard of orcs that marched upon Vorth.

The vision faded, and Albirth was left with sweat across his brow, his arms shaking.

What reason would Moroch have for attacking Vorth? It had a meager garrison and was of no strategic importance that he could think of.

Albirths brow furrowed as he tried to understand Morochs motives. The Chin-hao nearby shifted uncomfortably. What bode ill for their Arch-Magi bode ill for them all. Their tatoo'd faces showing carefully hidden concern.

Vorth was little more than an outpost, a listening post. Built upon aeons of dirt and grime fromt he previous cataclysm. Archeologists had once crawled through the ancient mineshafts that spanned for leagues under it's streets, finding the odd Elven trinket and traces of Elvish design.

His brow furroed, Vorth, was a city built upon an underground city, one of obvious Elven creation, one who's depths had never been fully explored.

Albirth gasped as realization danwed on him. The city was close to Elvish, believed to be Elvish, but was not quite, almost as if a race close to them had created it. From what he remembered of the reports, the designs were vaugly similar, but of their own style, one, he remembered reading about theories on.

A race of outcast Elves, doomed to live beneath the surface. Holding onto their ancient beliefs, yet twisting them, delving into the ground like the Dwarfs of ledgend..... the Drow.

What would Moroch want with the Drow? They hated everything....Orc, Human, Elf, it mattered naught, they would destroy all in their path as the old tales told.

He gathered his robes and ran from the chamber, "I must summon the Council of Elders" he muttered to himself, leaving the Chin-hao to wonder.

--Chapter 2: Wrath--

The air shimmered and a portal coalesced, the very air around it seeming to scream in pain as it fully opened, a rip in the fabric of the planes. Moroch emerged, his dark robes making almost no sound on the alabaster tiles of hall.

"Jehalem!" He roared, and a red mist coalesced from the corner of the room.

"You becon master?" Jehalem sneered.

"Do not baudy words with me Jehalem, I am in no mood." Moroch fumed, "These humans are bold, even if we obliterate them from this new dieties power, they still have faith."

Jehalem nodded sleightly, listening to Moroch.

"What good is this ancient Drow outpost to me? It is nothing but rubble and full of a few straggling remenants of Drow!" Moroch spat.

"You will see," Jehalem sneered in a hoarse whisper. "I have something for you that will please you greatly in your preperations for the demise of Thraal and the human race."

"Again you make empty promises Jehalem," Moroch snarled, "Again you plot and keep me out of the big picture. This time, you will tell me exactly what you plan to do with this outpost and you will tell me now."

Moroch slammed his fist onto the heavy table in anger, his black iron clad gauntlet scratching and denting it's surface.

"You, wish to know my plans?" Jehalem's voice took on a deathly whisper.

"You would dare to que-" his words were cut off as Moroch whirled, a sense of power permeating the air, and he cleared his throat, trying to hide the fear in his voice.

He could fight Moroch, the battle would be epic, beyond anything the puny humans had ever dreamt of, but he would not win, not yet, it was too soon, and Jehalem dipped his head to Moroch.
--
"Forgive me," his voice rasped, "I spoke in haste, used to commanding my own forces."

The aura of power faded sleightly as Moroch turned back to the table, his left hand flicking to the side momentarily, almost as if a shadow moved, and a servant appeared next to him holding a silver and gold inlaid crystal goblet filled with wine.

"Speak Jehalem," he growled, taking a draught of the crimon liquid, "I tire of this cat and mouse game."

"You know the humans have regained a formidible use of Elven magic yes?" Jehalem spoke, "They've learned the use of the old Rods and Horns, yet not the way to create them for themselves."

Moroch nodded, taking another sip.

"The city the humans call Vorth, is actually an ancient Drow city, deep underground, and kept secret. The lands surrounding it are more commonly referred to as the Ghazel lowlands." Jehalem continued.

"You tell me nothing I do not already know," Moroch spoke, cutting Jehalem off in mid sentence.

"True, but what you do not know, is beyond the Drow city itself, deeper into the ground, is even older magic, nether and etheral. A graveyard of the most ancient kings of the Drow, Elves, Dwarfs, and a host of other races.", Jehalem continued, his voice taking on a hushed tone. "One of immense un-tapped power, one, that we will very soon control, and a power the humans know nothing about."

Moroch nodded, he could see where Jehalem was going with this. Jehalem wasn't called the 'eater of souls' for nothing. His talents with Necromancy were un-parallelled, and at times Moroch wondered just how far he could trust him before needing to kill him.

He had obviously thought himself strong enough to stand on par with him. But his plan had merit.

"How soon until we control Vorth?" Moroch asked.

"By dawn, it will be ours." Jehalem replied, sharing a grin in the shadows with Moroch.