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Moonlight scathed across the jagged peaks of a crescent-shaped mountain range, casting a foreboding glow over the decayed remnants of a once-vast and thriving kingdom, formerly cradled in its protective embrace. Crumbled edifices, scattered debris, and the skeletal remains of its ill-fated inhabitants blanketed the land, stretching endlessly into the night.
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Amidst this desolation, the remnants of massive war machines—catapults, trebuchets, ballistae, cannons, and other martial apparatus—lay abandoned. Their dark silhouettes cast long, eerie shadows across the broken ground. The air hung heavy with the ghostly and haunting whispers of past battle cries, the clangor of steel, and the paralyzing screams of those who perished resonating across the forsaken ruins.
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Structures, whether crumbled or intact, lay ensnared in thick vines and sinister underbrush, as nature reclaimed the ruins with a relentless, almost unnatural grip. These creeping tendrils not only choked the echoes of former glory and purpose, but seemed to strangle the very soul from much of what remained, leaving behind only vestiges of rot and decay.
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In the midst of the ravaged and ominous buildings, several stood defiantly. Their spires, towering high, pierced through the dense, purplish-pink miasma that cloaked the landscape, curling with a faint, hazy neon blackness at its edges like the remnants of an otherworldly vapor.
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A vast mountain range stretched from the west, curving around the northern and eastern borders of the kingdom like a crescent moon. These towering peaks, shrouded in mist, acted as a natural boundary, trapping the miasma within the lands surrounding the city. The mountains rose high into the clouds, forming an unyielding wall that prevented the poisonous fog from spreading beyond their jagged slopes, while the southern border—the only open expanse—remained vulnerable to the encroaching wilderness.
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Though it was a mesmerizing and breathtaking spectacle, the miasma was a malevolent and insidious force that plagued various regions of the world. It birthed abominable monstrosities from nothing and perverted all living things into grotesque and twisted aberrations who spent copious amounts of time bathed within its presence. The true cause of the miasma’s appearance, disappearance, or movement remained a mystery, baffling even the most powerful mages, archaeologists, historians, and anyone who dared to investigate it. Its unpredictable nature often led to its presence outlasting the lives of those who sought to understand it.
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Across the realms, there are continents that have been permanently shrouded by the miasma since its first known appearance. Its sudden emergence in various regions has caused cities, towns, and entire kingdoms to collapse, leaving them in ruin as the miasma twisted both the land and its inhabitants. In the wake of its arrival, surrounding areas saw surges of migration as humans, demi-races, and monsters alike fled from its toxic influence or sought to escape its corrupting grip. This influx of new populations, driven by desperation, led to fierce territorial disputes, as overpopulated areas became battlegrounds for resources. The sudden surge in diverse beast races and cultures—forced together by the miasma’s ongoing presence—ignited wars, created economic collapse, and fractured societies struggling to maintain any semblance of order. The miasma’s unpredictable nature has forever altered the world, leaving chaos and tension in its wake wherever it appears and even after it has passed.
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At the heart of the ruined city stood a grand and imposing castle. Though parts of it had been reduced to crumbling walls, fallen towers, and was smothered in vines and moss, much of the structure remained intact, still radiating a marvelous and captivating aura—unlike anything constructed by mortal hands. Once the capital of Lesméra and a symbol of unity among humans, demi-humans, and beastmen, Enos and its surrounding lands now lay as a desolate wasteland. Twisted landscapes were home to abominable horrors birthed from the miasma that blanketed the area. Not only had the native fauna mutated beyond recognition, but even the plant life in many places had succumbed, transfiguring into sentient monstrosities. What was once a vibrant kingdom had become a nightmarish realm of decay and terror.
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Toppled gravestones, defaced and eroded by miasmic rain, lay sprawled across the shadowed remnants of a vast graveyard, nestled just outside the northern fortifications of the castle. Looming above the broken tombstones, a woman stood tall, her presence both commanding and unnerving. Cloaked in a dark, flowing robe with a hood drawn low over her face, she gripped a long, intricately crafted wooden staff. Atop the staff, an elaborate metal harness encased a gemstone of alluring size, fastened securely to the shaft. Dragons, their forms coiling and spiraling down the length of the weapon, were delicately engraved into the wood, their scales trimmed sparingly in gold.
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She stood over the grave, where she had carefully placed a small purple gem into the soil, right before the shattered gravestone. The faint light from the miasmic fog glinted off the stone’s jagged edges, slightly illuminating it through the translucent array of crystal fragments. Striding further into the heart of the graveyard, her footsteps muffled by the soft earth, she paused, surveying the graves that stretched endlessly around her. Each plot was marked with a purple gem, half-buried in the dirt, the faint glow from each stone flickering like the last remnants of forgotten souls that lay buried beneath.
With a decisive motion, she drove her staff into the ground, the gemstone atop it catching the dim light. From beneath her robe, she drew forth a tome—its pages worn and aged, the edges frayed from time. She flipped through the ancient book with practiced ease, finding the passage she sought. Holding the tome open, her voice rose in a dark, melodic chant that seemed to vibrate the very air around her.
"Pro meo sanguine, quaeso, animas hic viventes perditas vivifica!"
Swiftly, she drew a dagger from her belt and, with a swift motion, slashed her palm open. Crimson blood welled up, dripping from the wound as she advanced to the first gem. With steady hands, she anointed each gem, marking them with her blood. One by one, each small blood soaked stone absorbed the essence of her life force, their faint glow growing brighter with each drop.
When every gem in the graveyard had been saturated, she returned to her staff, still firmly planted in the earth, and grasped the large orb at its top. The gemstone atop the staff seemed to pulse in response, the dark miasma softly swirling around it. Her bloodied hand touched the orb’s smooth surface, and she whispered, her voice a soft, ominous hum in the thick air, “Reanimatus.”
With a sudden eruption, brilliant, blood-red light shot from each gem, piercing the miasma like fiery beacons, their glow cutting through the darkness and ascending into the sky. A swirling vortex of thick, suffocating dark miasma spiraled from the woman’s orb, its tendrils reaching outward, as though it were being drawn from the very depths of hell itself. The ground beneath her feet trembled violently, groaning as if it were alive, wracked with agony.
Without warning, the gems were drawn violently into the soil, sucked deep into the earth as tremors intensified. The light from the gems flared even brighter, the pulsing glow now mingling with the growing shadows, the earth itself quaking beneath the weight of the ritual. The air thickened, heavy with a malignant presence, as though the very land had awakened from a long slumber.
Within mere moments, all the commotion faded, leaving no trace of the fantastical light displays or earth-shaking cataclysms. The graveyard was still, its silence heavy and unnatural. An ominous zephyr rolled across the field, its chill brushing against the broken gravestones, as the moons—Luna and L’Verta, two of Gaia’s three moons—peeked between the clouds of the overcast sky. Their pale light slowly bathed the cemetery, casting an eerie glow over the disturbed soil.
From beneath the earth—fleshless, bony hands began clawing their way through the soil. With each skeletal form that broke free, the night seemed to hold its breath. Figures of hume, demi-hume, and beastman alike emerged in an erratic dance of rebirth, their bodies creaking and cracking as they rose, their movements grotesque and unnatural. Behind them came an assortment of twisted, ghastly creatures—once noble inhabitants of the castle and their beloved pets—now warped into monstrous, nightmarish forms by the dark energies of the ritual and the influence of the miasma.
A soft, flickering light from a low-level healing spell illuminated the graveyard’s edge, casting weak shadows as the necromancer tended to the wound on her hand, still dripping blood. She watched, an unholy glee twisting her features, as the undead surged from their graves. The air was thick with the moans and groans of the arisen, a chorus of misery that echoed through the forsaken cemetery. Her smile deepened as she reveled in their cries, knowing the dead had answered her call. The night, now alive with the sounds of the risen, seemed to grow darker, with every hallow echo into the creeping darkness.
“Children of Enos,” she called, her voice echoing with eerie resonance through the graveyard’s fog-choked air. “Rise and join my legion of the dead. Let us exact vengeance upon those who laid waste to this once-glorious kingdom and tore you from the stream of the Essence!” Her words slithered like serpents through the miasma, laced with sorrow and venomous rage.
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“A Lord of the Ethereal has granted me forbidden power—a second breath—in exchange for the souls of the wicked we cast down. Justice shall be our offering, carved from the flesh of those who betrayed us.”
She lifted her bloodstained hand to the heavens, the orb atop her staff pulsing like a heart of fire.
“The dragons who once soared above these skies, and all who dwelled within Enos, were butchered—your songs of peace silenced by cruelty and envy. But no longer. We shall bring ruin upon every kingdom that turned their blades against us. Let the world remember the wrath of the forgotten!”
The undead howled and shrieked into the cloud-laden sky, their ghastly cries a cacophony of unholy devotion. With hollow eyes and fractured jaws, they pledged their fealty to the necromancer, vowing to fulfill the vengeance they had been promised.
She strode forward with grim purpose, her robes billowing like smoke in the windless gloom, toward a towering archway wrought of obsidian and ancient darkstone. The gateway led out into the delapitaed ruins of the surrounding fallen metropolis. Beyond the broken and crumbling walls of the cemetery stretched a vast host—an army of the already risen, awaiting her command in restless silence.
Among them stood a harrowing legion: skeletons wreathed in scraps of decayed flesh and rusted armor, demi-humes and beastmen twisted by death’s cruel embrace, and warped, bloodstained beasts that once served as loyal companions in life. Interspersed throughout the ranks loomed draconic husks—undead dragons, wyverns, and other draconic kin, their bones draped in tattered wings and smoldering miasma.
The freshly awakened dead marched behind her, drawn to her power like moths to flame. Without hesitation, they fell in line, their shuffling steps echoing across the barren earth as they joined the ranks of her damned and eternal army.
She raised her voice once more, echoing across the lifeless air like a solemn bell tolling for the dead.
“I have granted you all the freedom of will and mind. You are not bound to me by chains of sorcery—you are no one's thralls. Each of you may choose your own path, and live—or unlive—as you see fit.
Should you wish not to march beneath my banner, then go. You are free.
But know this: I have raised nearly every soul felled in this once-glorious kingdom—warrior and child, noble and peasant, friend and foe alike. Even those who once stood against us, who perished beneath the banners of false kings and corrupt lords, manipulated by greed and blinded by lies... I have awakened them too.
And still, I would be honored to have you beside me—not as servants, but as kindred spirits of vengeance, as flames reborn from ruin. Choose freely… but choose wisely.”
As she rallied her legion of the dead, the air shimmered like a heat mirage bending the veil between worlds. From the ether, two figures cloaked in shadow emerged beside her, falling to one knee without a word—an unspoken vow of unwavering fealty. Their long, sable cloaks whispered against the ground, blurring their forms into the midnight gloom. They knelt like sentinels born from the abyss, their presence near-identical—an eerie symmetry that radiated both mystery and dread.
Yet one small detail betrayed their sameness: from beneath the hood of one, a single braid slipped free, a silken lock catching the moonlight like a strand of defiance—a quiet rebellion against the conformity of their grim and identical attire.
A voice, rich and resonant, shattered the silence like a clanging bell. “Your highness,” they began, each word steeped in solemnity, “we come bearing grave tidings. From the southern reaches, a vast host of mercenaries advances. It seems the spectacle of lights that pierced the heavens has drawn their curious and covetous gazes.” The air hung heavy with the weight of his words, foretelling a gathering storm on the horizon.
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The necromancer's lips curled into a satisfied smile, her eyes glinting with sinister delight at the news. “Perfect,” she murmured, her voice a melodic whisper laced with malice. “Let us see how much devastation our newly acquired brethren can bring.”
Turning to face the phalanx of undead gathered behind her, she raised her voice—a cold, commanding cry that echoed like thunder across the desolate graveyard.
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“I have received word,” she proclaimed, “that a company of soldiers dares approach—intent on reclaiming our stolen souls! Fools, all of them. Let us show them the true face of justice—vengeance reborn in death! And when they fall... we shall welcome them into our ranks!”
The undead army erupted into a vile, haunting cheer that echoed like the wail of damned souls across the windless plain. As the necromancer lifted her staff high into the ashen sky, a beam of otherworldly light surged forth from its orb, carving through the gloom with unnatural brilliance.
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Within moments, a veil of silence and shadow descended upon them. One by one, the soldiers of the dead vanished from sight, their forms shrouded by an ethereal cloak. The air grew still, and all sound was dulled to a ghostly murmur—no louder than whispers drifting from forgotten graves.
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Moments waned in eerie stillness before the silence was shattered—first by the thunder of heavy boots, then by the groaning clatter of wagon wheels grinding stone and bone beneath their crushing weight. The ground trembled as a formidable host of mercenaries emerged from the gloom, their approach heralded by the rhythmic din of disciplined movement and iron resolve.
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Within their ranks strode a diverse and battle-hardened phalanx, warriors hailing from distant realms, each adorned in distinct armor—some gilded, others scarred and blackened by countless wars. Their weapons glinted beneath the clouded skies, reflecting a cruel and unwavering intent.
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Six great wagons accompanied them, drawn by pairs of dragon rhinoceroses—towering, armored beasts whose breath steamed like mist from a furnace. Arranged in solemn symmetry throughout the formation, each wagon bore an enormous, radiant white crystal that jutted upward no less than fifteen feet into the sky. These towering stones, seemingly grown from ancient, petrified trunks of crystalline trees, pulsed with ancient magic—each beat of light a defiance against the creeping malevolence that tainted the land. The miasma recoiled from them, dissipating in waves, as though the very air feared what power still lingered within their glow.
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At the forefront of the battalion strode three imposing figures of the Duran race—towering above the common ranks like ancient statues brought to life. Unlike the more familiar, slender frames of the Civitan folk, the Durans were born of harsher blood and soil. Their thick, leathery skin bore the weathered hues of deep stone and burnt earth, their complexions darker than shadowed bronze. Their massive frames, broad-shouldered and iron-muscled, moved with the deliberate weight of creatures forged for war.
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Bred in the crucible of hardship, these warriors were as resilient as the mountains they called home. Their presence alone exuded a quiet menace, a reminder that not all strength lies in numbers—some is carved into the bone, and some etched in the soul by generations of endurance and pain.
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Among the Duran host, one figure emerged as a beacon of martial dominance—an unmistakable commander whose very posture demanded obedience. He was clad in resplendent steel plate, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the pale ambient light like liquid silver. A bright crimson cloak billowed behind him with each purposeful stride, the fabric whispering with the promise of blood yet to be spilled. Slung over his broad shoulder was a formidable double-bladed axe, its haft bound in darkened leather, the edge honed to a vicious gleam. His gauntleted hand gripped it with ease, as though it were but an extension of his wrath.
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Flanking him on either side were two warriors, slightly less encumbered by armor, garbed instead in reinforced leather adorned with glinting metal studs and plates. Though lighter in attire, their presence was no less menacing. Their crimson cloaks matched the commander’s, and their weapons were no less imposing—one bore a long, wickedly curved halberd; the other, a spear with a blade far broader and crueler than the standard issue carried by the imperial legions.
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All three bore hair as dark as obsidian, though worn in different lengths—windswept and wild or tightly bound. Etched into their armor, shining like buried fire, was the sigil of a diving golden hawk: the mark of Aurelior, a neutral southern kingdom whose past allegiance once lay with Enos. Though no longer sworn to his banner, the legacy of that loyalty lingered—now tainted and complex, like bloodstains that refused to wash away.
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A disciplined host of mercenary soldiers marched in formation behind the three commanding Durans, their numbers nearing two hundred. Their armor clinked in rhythm, boots crushing stone and soil with each synchronized step. The air hung thick with anticipation, pierced only by the soft growls of six great white dire wolves trailing the rear guard. Towering beasts with alabaster fur like moonlit snow, they moved with predatory grace, their eyes glowing faintly.
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Following in their wake, where the corrupted miasma flickered and danced at the very edge of the radiant crystal light, came a grand, double-decker wagon. It lumbered forward with slow dignity, pulled by four pairs of massive Clydesdale horses whose muscles rippled beneath glistening coats of soot-colored hide. Their breath steamed in the cool air like smoke from war-forged bellows.
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The wagon itself was an imposing structure of reinforced magicwood and tempered darksteel, its frame etched with protective runes faintly glowing in the dim light of the caravans crystals. A massive canopy sewn from the cured hide of dragon rhinoceros loomed atop its two stories. Within its enclosed walls lay an intricate interior—rooms tucked behind carved doors, each connected by a narrow central hallway that stretched the length of both levels. A slender spiral staircase of dark-stained wood rose like a twisting spine between floors.
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Halfway up the winding stair was a modest corridor leading to the coach’s quarters: a forward-facing alcove partially enclosed by the dragon rhinoceros hide canopy, its design reminiscent of the bow of a seafaring vessel. From this vantage, the reins extended out through slits in the structure, granting the driver both control and visibility. Though shielded from the elements, the space was still exposed enough to catch the acrid tang of miasma-laced wind as the caravan creaked ever onward into the heart of the cursed land.
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Each chamber within the twin floors of the great wagon was dedicated to the art and machinery of war. Along the walls, rows of forged steel weaponry and battle-worn armor gleamed beneath lanterns enchanted with soft, blue ghostly flame. Some rooms were overflowing with sealed crates marked in foreign tongues, brimming with gunpowder cartridges, musket balls, and the alchemical charges of flintlock artillery. Others bore racks of quivers, meticulously arranged by arrow type—barbed, flaming, poisoned, and quarrels of silver-tipped bolts designed for piercing enchanted hide and necrotic bone alike.
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A few chambers, sealed tighter than the rest, were insulated with thick padding and lined with arcane coils. These were cooled by a network of steam-powered condensers discreetly housed atop the wagon’s upper deck, hidden beneath its canopy. These devices hissed softly in ceaseless operation, venting chilled mist into the rooms, which clung to the air like crystallizing ghost-breath. Within these icy vaults, racks of butchered meats—elk, boar, fowl, and more exotic fare—hung from iron hooks, preserved alongside baskets of rare fruits and carefully packed perishables.
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At the far end of the second floor’s narrow corridor sat a smaller, reinforced chamber built entirely of blackened steel. Inside, a squat but sturdy stove crackled with life, its belly fed with coal and magically dried timber. It was the heart of the wagon’s arcane engine—a furnace that powered the cooling units above and the gentle thrumming steam lines that ran through the floorboards. The stove’s exhaust was cleverly routed: it climbed through the roof and beneath the canopy, eventually finding its exit through a rusted iron smokestack that jutted at a slant from the wagon’s rear. From its crooked maw, a thin, black plume drifted into the sky, reeking of burnt oil and iron.
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Marching along the desolate edge of the ruined city, the mercenary company cast long shadows beneath the ghostly glow of the twin moons—one blue, the other green—still partially visible through the swirling veil of miasmic overcast. In the distance, the crumbling silhouette of the former Enosian capital’s grand royal castle loomed, its spires eclipsing the jagged remains of the once-mighty military citadel that lay behind it.
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As the caravan drew near the decaying graveyard that sprawled beyond the city’s western reach, a small detachment of soldiers broke away from the main formation. They approached the cemetery’s most dilapidated wall, now little more than shattered stone and creeping ivy. The rest of the company began to fan out, flanking the graveyard’s northern perimeter where the walls—though timeworn—still stood firm and towering, impassable for the heavy, crystal-bearing wagons.
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From the lead wagons, the radiant white glow of the colossal arcane crystals spilled out over the land, bathing the cemetery’s border in a spectral light. The glow reached over the stone and obsidian wall, casting an eerie luminescence onto the earth beyond.
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Under its pale watch, the soldiers entered through a massive arched gateway now cracked and weathered by unrelenting force of time and war. Their boots crunched over jostled gravestones, decayed offerings, and plots of recently disturbed soil.
The light from the radiant crystals pierced through the miasma like divine spears, casting away the choking gloom to reveal a grotesque landscape once veiled by shadow. What was once a sanctuary of solemn rest had become a profane garden of corrupted beauty—an architectural splendor of Gothic design, now twisted and ravaged by nature's miasmic influenced rebellion.
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Towering, mutinous trees spiraled unnaturally high above the cemetery walls, their trunks warped and gnarled like the knotted limbs of forgotten titans. Their bark was cloaked in veils of sinewy, web-like growths that shimmered with an unnatural, luminescent hue—pinks and purples pulsing like diseased veins, forming pustules that throbbed with a life of their own. These flesh-like tendrils slithered across the native fauna, clinging to them as condensation moisture clings to the chilled glass of a freshly drawn mug of ale.
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At the bases of these abominations, a vile carpet of fungus choked the soil. Heinous mushrooms, bloated and slick with decay, clustered thickly around roots and spilled over the cobblestone pathways like exposed entrails. They twisted unnaturally, some gently pulsating, others gaping open to reveal toothy, spore-ridden maws, exuding an acrid stench that clung to the nostrils like rot.
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Two men clad in the sacred regalia of Aurelian white knights emerged from behind the crumbling remnants of a wall near the cemetery’s easternmost entrance. Their pristine armor, now dulled by ash and time, still bore the proud heraldry of a forgotten order. In one hand, each man held a drawn sword that shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight; in the other, they bore torches—not flame-bound, but crowned with radiant white crystals that pulsed like captive stars. These lesser kin to the wagon-mounted monoliths blazed against the encroaching gloom, casting a sanctified glow that forced back the tendrils of lingering miasma clinging stubbornly to the edges of the shadows.
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A low, continuous, unsettling murmur—carried on the air. It echoed like the distant din of a bustling town square, the indistinct chatter of a crowd teeming with life. Yet all around them, the world remained barren. Every direction they turned revealed only desolation—no villagers, no soldiers, no souls. Only the twisted, grotesque terrain met their eyes, pulsating softly in the torchlight like a slumbering wound.
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One of the men broke the silence. “That’s strange… it sounds as though a crowd has gathered not far from here, and yet—” he swept his torchlight across the desolate cemetery, “—I see no living soul in sight.”
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The other turned, his expression grim behind the glow of his crystal-lit torch. “Aye, I hear it too. But not so much as a beast or bird have stirred since we arrived. I still cannot fathom that this place… this ruin… was once the Great Capital of Lesméra.” He adjusted the weight of his breastplate and shifted his crimson-lined cloak. “Did you ever come here as a child, before the Purge?”
The first soldier’s tone grew sharp, cold. “Still your tongue. We’ve no time for memories of what was. These lights—these beacons—we tracked them to this very site, and yet all lies in stillness. No heat, no movement. Only this damnable air.” He exhaled slowly, his breath curling into mist beneath the chill of the Umbryth night.
He dropped to one knee, torch held aloft as he brushed a gloved hand across the soil. The ground was freshly disturbed, the graves unsettled—not just by time, but by something more recent, something deliberate. As he examined the loose, torn earth, his eyes moved across the rows of tombstones, noting the subtle, repeated signs: overturned soil, fractured headstones, clawed markings upon the stone.
From the gloom behind the two white knights, the three Duran commanding soldiers emerged. The two white knights straightened instantly, standing at attention as the armored titans approached.
The tallest among them, his long, obsidian hair spilling from beneath a heavy-plated helm, came to a halt beside the crumbling wall. His gaze swept over the nightmarish landscape before them—the twisted trees, the tainted mist, the grotesque gravestones tilting like crooked teeth. His voice was low, resonant, and tinged with disgust.
“There is a stench here…” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “A foul stench of witchery… one that was not present before.”
The iron clamor of his sheathed greatsword rang out as it knocked against his armor, hidden beneath a deep crimson cloak. He remained still, his presence as heavy as the miasma hanging in the air above.
The other two Durans stopped several paces behind. One, broader and darker in armor, bore a massive double-bladed battleaxe strapped across his back. When he spoke, his voice rolled out like thunder across a dead plain.
“This ground reeks of necromancy. The rot is fresh. These graves have been disturbed, and not by wind or rain.”
The third Duran—regal and imposing in her own right—carried a formidable staff-spear hybrid, its long wooden shaft carved with runes, and crowned where blade met wood by a gleaming, embedded crystal that pulsed faintly with arcane energy. She turned with measured grace, her cloak fluttering as she signaled to the two white knights.
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“At ease,” she commanded, her voice deep yet unmistakably feminine, a smooth echo of authority that contrasted the gruffer tones of her comrades.
Turning back to her Duran kin, she narrowed her eyes at the ground, then swept her gaze over the looming, miasma-wreathed cemetery. “There is a lingering presence,” she said, her voice sharpened by instinct and insight. “Something remains here—beyond the miasma’s veil. I can feel the residue of a forbidden spell… grand dark magic has been cast, and recently.”
With a sharp pivot, she addressed the two knights again. “You two—assemble the archers, musketeers, and battle mages. Alert the other factions. Have them remain aware and ready to engage.”
Without hesitation, the knights bowed and turned heel, their cloaks snapping as they vanished into the gloom.
The Duran with the double-bladed axe let out a low, rumbling breath, scanning the tainted horizon. “Have your spells ready, Morag,” he said, speaking to the spear-wielding commander. “Your blade is swift, your aim true… but if what awaits us is of the ethereal, your wizardry may prove more effective than any steel.”
Morag—her name now spoken with a blend of respect and caution—nodded once, gripping her staff-like spear shaft tighter as its crystal faintly continued glowing, swirling the dread-soaked essence of the corrupted land about it.
In the distance, beyond the cemetery’s ruined walls, a deep rumble rolled across the tainted earth. The Duran commanders turned their heads sharply, eyes scanning the horizon. Through the wavering veil of miasma and decay, a lone figure emerged—a woman, veiled beneath a long white cloak, her face obscured by its shadowed drape. She stood unnervingly still amid the desolation, a ghostly contrast against the corrupted terrain.
The long-haired Duran stepped forward, his instincts flaring. With a swift motion, he drew his greatsword from the sheath across his back. The steel sang in the stillness.
“You there!” he bellowed, voice commanding and edged with suspicion. “Stop where you are and speak your name and purpose!”
Something about her presence unsettled him. No sane soul wandered the former capital’s ruins alone—not where monsters roamed and the very land groaned with unnatural life.
But the woman advanced unfazed, her steps calm, deliberate.
“Who I am is of no concern to you,” she replied, her voice clear, cold, and laced with venom. “Turn back, or I shall destroy every last one of you.”
The air thickened. Her words were not boast—they were a declaration.
The Duran commander narrowed his eyes and raised his sword, pointing it directly at her.
“This is your final warning,” he barked. “Halt—now—or by my authority, I will order my archers, musketeers, and mages to reduce your defiance to ash.”
The woman defied the Duran commander’s warning, snickering underneath the darkness. With a subtle flick of her wrist and no change in stride, she stepped forward, ignoring the rising tension.
That was all the commander needed. He raised his sword sharply into the air.
"Loose!" he shouted.
A deafening wave of release echoed as every archer and rifleman unleashed their volley. Steel-tipped arrows and musket balls screamed through the cold night air toward their lone target.
But in the blink of an eye, her pristine white cloak darkened. A flood of shadow washed over her garments, as though black ink had been violently poured across them, crawling and writhing like a living thing. Her face lifted just enough for her mouth to be seen—smiling.
With a shriek of manic delight, she raised her staff high. A flash of deep violet pulsed from its crystal head. The storm of projectiles froze midair—suspended inches from her body as if time itself had been halted.
Then, spinning her staff in a wide arc, she twisted her wrist—and the air screamed.
The frozen arrows and bullets erupted into miasmic black flame, burning with a corruption unnatural to this world, and reversed course. They hurled backward like a fiery hailstorm from the abyss.
The mercenary line broke into screams. Some archers and riflemen dove out of the way just in time, but others were struck. The moment they were pierced, the unholy fire exploded outward—men igniting where they stood, convulsing as dark flame consumed their flesh and armor alike.
“EVERYONE, ATTACK!” bellowed the Duran commander wielding the battleaxe, voice booming through the chaos.
The soldiers charged, weapons raised, boots pounding against the cobblestone paths of the cemetery.
But before they could close the distance, the necromancer waved her staff once more. This time, it emitted a blinding pulse of white light—deceptively pure in appearance. The shockwave struck the charging soldiers like an invisible wall with a deep deafening roar, halting them in their tracks.
Out of nothingness itself as the light subsided, the undead were revealed.
Skeletal soldiers, cloaked in the filth of ages, rushed in from the flanks. Silent. Tireless. Unrelenting. They collided with the mercenary lines like a tidal wave of bone and hatred. Screams filled the air as mercenaries were dragged down. Some had their limbs torn off and flung aside. Others were pinned, their throats slit with jagged rusted blades or their bodies mutilated by ancient skeletal claws.
In grotesque acts of mockery against the living, some of the skeletons began grafting the freshly torn limbs of the fallen onto their own broken forms—reattaching arms, hands, and legs as if repairing themselves with sacrificial flesh. Others stretched strips of skin and muscle across their barren bones, as though trying to mimic life, slapping the wet tissue onto their exposed ribcages and hollow sockets. The battlefield had become a grotesque theater of undeath. The mercenaries’ formation shattered, overrun by the grotesque surge of dark magic and cannibalized bodies.
Men screamed as the earth trembled beneath the thunderous steps of monstrous undead. Towering over the battlefield, colossal orcs and trolls—resurrected from the annals of ancient wars—smashed through the mercenary ranks. Their bloated, rotting flesh clung to cracked bone like wet parchment. Eyes burned with pale green fire as they swung titanic clubs fashioned from petrified tree trunks wrapped in rusted iron bands.
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Each swing shattered bodies like insects. Blood sprayed in arcs across the carnage. Shields crumpled. Bones snapping.
“What the fuck is happening?!” one soldier shrieked, his voice cracking into madness as chaos closed in around him. A pair of massive undead dire wolves lunged from the shadows. Their jaws, filled with yellowed fangs, clamped down with brutal precision—one taking his legs, the other his upper half. The man's cry ended in a wet gurgle as the beasts tore him in two. They didn’t pause. They fed. The sound of crunching bone and tearing meat blended with the cacophony of the battle.
Among the swirling death, clusters of soldiers still stood their ground. Steel clanged against claw and bone. Mages chanted desperately, flames and lightning erupting into the night sky. Arrows pierced the air, sometimes finding their marks.
The long-haired Duran roared as he drove his greatsword deep into the throat of a massive undead orc, the beast still dripping with the gore of the soldier it had just crushed beneath its ancient granite maul. The orc staggered, choking on its own black ichor before collapsing to its knees—only to erupt into a plume of fiery ash as a blazing fireball ripped through its back, cast by Morag's gleaming spear mid-twirl.
Overhead, undead draconic entities soared through the miasma-choked sky, their skeletal and flesh torn wings flapping with thunderous force. From their twisted maws spewed a miasmic black magma, thick and bubbling, raining down upon the caravan’s remaining wagons. The radiant white crystals—once glowing like small suns—screamed under the heat, blistered, cracked, then shattered into splinters of dull stone causing the darkness to sweep in like a tsunami.
With the crystals destroyed, the protective light that had repelled the miasma vanished. A suffocating shadow fell across the battlefield while the undead ravished the living.
The long-haired Duran turned with urgency in his eyes, his voice rising above the chaos. “I don’t know where all these undead came from, but if we don’t retreat now—we’ll be annihilated!”
With a burst of speed, he charged forward, cleaving through one of the colossal trolls. His blade arced cleanly through the beast’s throat, severing its head mid-roar. He leapt off the falling corpse’s shoulder, landing in a roll behind another, slashing both tendons with practiced precision. The towering brute dropped to its knees just in time for the other Duran—with his massive battleaxe—to swing once, clean and fast, taking its head clean off.
“Morag!” the axe-wielder bellowed. “Get the rest out!”
Morag, now streaked with gore and ash, yanked her crystal-tipped spear from the pulsating chest of an unholy abomination, its body folding in on itself like collapsing sinew. Her eyes burned with urgency.
“To all remaining! RETREAT!” she cried, her voice carrying like a battle-horn due to her staves magic.
Across the battlefield, those soldiers still breathing reached into the satchels on their waists, pulling free tightly-rolled scrolls etched with glowing silver script. Bloodied hands clutched them as they raised them to the sky.
“Lanuae Magicae!” they shouted in unison, their voices desperate yet defiant.
The scrolls burned away in their grasp, curling into embers as a radiant blue light burst around each soldier. One by one, in flashes of magic and light, they vanished from the battlefield, escaping into the ether.
The Duran trio stood their ground for only a moment more, covering the retreat. Then, as more abominations closed in, they too each withdrew a scroll—Morag the last to speak the incantation, her spear raised defiantly as the skeletal remnants of the undead horde surged forward.
“Lanuae Magicae,” her voice rang out as only ember and ash remained blowing away with the wind.
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