Fable - Ask Evil and Wicked, Haunted and Twisted

The necromancer sat within a weathered, leaning building toward the center of the small outpost. She toyed with a glass of wine, though she seemed to have little interest in actually drinking it. Verdant eyes swept over those that played their table games while she pressed a tongue to the tip of a fanged tooth. That was when she felt it. It was a part of Arkhivom that created the very aura, the very corruption of her own line, and there were such things that reached out in those sorts of matters. That darkness was one of them.

By time Arkhivom made his way to the village's square, Larewen stood just out of sight. Close enough to taste her essence, and yet... it was different. It was stronger than it had been then. He would not have to go far to find her cloaked form. Beneath, she wore a simple, fitting green gown and soft leather boots.

"I see you," Larewen said quietly, the silvery sweetness of her voice almost venomous. Magic rolled upon her tongue, the woman always a breath away from casting a spell. There was a new smell to her presence, too. The rotting stench of death that permeated from her left arm--of which she no longer kept hidden beneath a glove. The woman raised that, skeletal fingers wiggling in a come hither manner as she turned to walk further through the small settlement.

At the edge of it, she finally came to a stop and said nothing until then. Where there were no ears to listen in. Finally, she drew back her hood and turned. In that instant, the source of her cursed limb became visible. A dark diadem graced the top of her head, an amplifier of sorts from which she could draw power, but it came with a cost. One she sought to bend to her will.

"There is a manse further ahead. Much time has passed, but I am certain the wards have held."

She said nothing more, though her expression turned bitter. It was once her home. Who would come searching for trouble at a creepy old house that creaked as it sunk slowly into the ground, inch by inch?

Arkhivom

The swamp was a mire of death, awash in its stench, black with its radiance, oozing with its malice.
If a being were so attuned, one might detect the permeation of negative magical energy that infused the rotted vegetation and stagnated lakes.
In all of his travels, Hedron Dol Fitz had seen precious few places like it or better.

The people that lived in these swamps were almost beneath his notice. Thorps and hamlets loosely occupied by vagrants and vagabonds, mere fodder of undeath for a villain such as he!
Once upon a time the subject of the anthropology of the inhabitants who learned to live here might have intrigued him, now, however, it couldn't have mattered less to him.
But Crossroad Mire still stood out amid the stories and rumors... The possibility of forbidden magical items or knowledge attracted him.
He'd been asleep for quite some time; he still didn't have a full grasp of how magical technology had advanced since he last brought destruction to the land of the living.
If he didn't remedy this weakness, learn from the mistakes of the past, he was sure to have a short-lived homecoming.

And so, taking a portion of his undead forces away from his hidden tower in the Reach, a squadron of skeletons in good condition equipped with padded armor, mounted on skeletal horses and armed with Longswords, Spears and Crossbows, he found a ship and made his way to Bayou Garramarisma.


A black robed vagabond holding a black wooden staff adorned with various markings and bits of stone or hair attached by threads, hardly dressed any different than the usual scum and villainy that called this place home, approached the village in the saddle of a skeletal horse that plodded tirelessly through the swampy muck.
A troop of twelve armed and armored skeletons astride equally grim mounts accompanied him, announcing him by their presence as a necromancer with at least a modicum of proficiency.

A jesters mask colored white and purple bisected down the middle leered out from under the hood, grinning like the fool it was at anything and everyone.

Already he could sense the power of this place... namely the two mortals that stood at the edge of the settlement in front of him.
While he had no active special senses that could detect how strong someone was, he did have a nose for necrotic energy and these two reeked of it.
Besides that, the monstrous giant clearly had an edge over him in strength.
The other one, whome he assumed to be a female of one of the humanoid races, had a distinct and familiar smell that came from her arm...
He nodded to himself in approval. Undead, or at least partially. Perhaps a graft or corruption?

The undead possy halted behind him at his mental command, regarding the two in deathly stillness while Hedron dismounted.
Instead of stepping into the muck and soiling his boots, he muttered an incantation and snapped his gloved fingers, casting a spell that caused himself to levitate and float towards the two.

As he approached he spoke from behind his merry mask.
"Greetings, and salutations. Apologies for the interruption. I am Hedron Dol Fitz. I have come all the way from the Allir Reach to find power and allies... Might one of you be able to assist me?"

Indeed, he could not repeat the mistakes of the past. Continuously he'd made the mistake of working alone, no competent allies or henchmen to assist him.
Time and time again he'd been surrounded by heroes and bested in spite of his power.
Not this time.
Even if he had to utilize the living, he won't fight alone again.

Like the much taller creature beside her, Larewen turned as well to regard the dismounting undead and the puppets behind his skeletal steed. She could smell the familiar, cloying stench of death upon him, her nostrils flaring just slightly. Those free of their makers' strings were few and far between, and perhaps that was best for the living. Life had given her nothing though, and in death she wished to take it all.

Verdant eyes watched the carnivalesque masked being draw nearer, a slight smirk touching upon the corner of painted lips. The sentient, free dead had a strange way of holding on to materialistic things--a fact the necromancer was aware of even if she were but a vampire. Flawed and slave to a thirst that was damn near impossible to slake.

Were it not for the dark aura that seeped from the corrupted vampire, or the skeletal appendage presently visible, one might easily mistake her as another pretty face in the tavern in need of a drink. A lethal drink, at that. Her tongue made a brief appearance, darting across her lips.

"Additional forces," Larewen answered for Hedron. She glanced back down the road that led further into the swampland. Her brow furrowed slightly. The elf knew quite well what lay ahead of them, twice as far as her family's manor. Arkhivom was, in many ways, her creator. More so than her ex-husband, from whom the vampiric curse originated. That was temporary; what Larewen sought was far more permanent.

"The better question is why are you here?" When this query left the elf's lips, a hint of venom coated her saccharine voice. Suspicion narrowed her gaze.

It was not exactly uncommon knowledge that there were ruins south of the Crossroads Mire, buried in the swamp and imprisoning power in its cold, dead grasp. It left Larewen wondering: was Hedron here by chance? Had he heard rumors of dark magic? Or whispers of the creature that lay beneath the vaults of House Dragana? The manor's library was nothing compared to the one buried in the sunken city's murky grave, but it did hold whatever records remained of Vokroth--aside from archives next to no one had access to.

Arkhivom said:

Then, before they had the opportunity to continue, the presence of another drew near. Their voice rose up. He turned to them.

The red light of his eyes poured from beneath his hood, their luminosity heightened in Arkhivom's sense of caution. He canted his head some, considering this Hedron Dol Fitz - a bold one, among other things from what he could tell.

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As the colossal creature turned those baleful eyes with their menacing glow, a rare flicker of something almost sparked in the empty cavity of his skull, a brief flash of curiosity as this utterly alien creature peered at Hedron from under the depths of his deep hood.

He had an instinctive urge to completely forget why he was there and simply study this beautiful unknown... But that flicker was nothing but a flicker, gone as soon as it appeared.

Arkhivom said:

His hand lifted and removed the hood from his head. His fanged mandibles hung loosely, and behind them rested a fanged frown, a stark contrast to the mask he faced.

"Power and allies?" he hummed the same deep hum as before, "what do you, Hedron Dol Fitz, offer to those who would be your allies?"

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When he pulled back his hood, Hedron took in the strangeness of the creature.
If he had to make an educated guess, the creature was adapted for violence. Whatever lineage it hailed from, whatever far-flung race lost in the endless jungles and mountains, they were a people of violence.

The hulk of muscle and teeth asked a fair question, but he wasn't quite ready to tip his hand until he had more information about this village and these two. He hadn't intended to be stopped before entering the village, but he couldn't simply ignore them.

Thankfully, the female spoke before Hedron could deliver his excuse.

Arkhivom said:

"Additional forces," Larewen answered for Hedron. She glanced back down the road that led further into the swampland. Her brow furrowed slightly. The elf knew quite well what lay ahead of them, twice as far as her family's manor. Arkhivom was, in many ways, her creator. More so than her ex-husband, from whom the vampiric curse originated. That was temporary; what Larewen sought was far more permanent.

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Distracted... the female was too relaxed. Perhaps she was just as clueless about him as he was of her, but she was looking past him into the distance, not as if she was blind but as if there was something more interesting than him further away.
He resisted the urge to look and turn his attentive gaze away from the monster.

There was something familiar about her that tipped him off, something that was almost concealed by her arm. A certain invulnerability, a confidence he's seen many times in his dealings with vampires.
It was a certain attitude of one who was confident in their ability to survive a fatal injury.

Arkhivom said:

"The better question is why are you here?" When this query left the elf's lips, a hint of venom coated her saccharine voice. Suspicion narrowed her gaze.

It was not exactly uncommon knowledge that there were ruins south of the Crossroads Mire, buried in the swamp and imprisoning power in its cold, dead grasp. It left Larewen wondering: was Hedron here by chance? Had he heard rumors of dark magic? Or whispers of the creature that lay beneath the vaults of House Dragana? The manor's library was nothing compared to the one buried in the sunken city's murky grave, but it did hold whatever records remained of Vokroth--aside from archives next to no one had access to.

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Another fair question, unfortunately, was one he'd answered in his introduction.
The empty sockets of the grinning mask moved to fixate on the half-zombified vampire while his voice echoed out of it in emotionally vague tones.
"As I said, my Lady, I have come all the way from the Allir Reach to find power and allies... To clarify, I've heard there's quite a market for items of power and teachers of illicit arcane magics here."

Hedron turned his mask to look at them both again, opening his arms wide and infusing his voice with a note of passion to lend weight to his words.
"Furthermore, I seek allies to consolidate power so that those who seek us out to destroy us can be rebuffed through our combined might! That those who would do us harm individually will find a unified force of unrivaled power!"

With his short but impassioned speech given, he lowered his arms, as if putting that much emotion into his words exhausted him, the head of his staff almost touched the mossy ground.
A gloved hand rose and touched the jester's mask. As a black mist washed over its foolish face, it began to twist and contort as the wooden mask began to rot, the paint peeled, and the strings holding it to his face disintegrated. The mess fell to the ground, revealing the bare bone of his face, the permanent grin of his fleshless face imitating the grin of his mask. Two points of red light, similar in color to the eyes of the massive strange monster, floated in the darkness of his sockets.

As a final theatric, the undead that did not need to breathe let out a sigh.
"Well, anyways, that's why I'm here... Now, perhaps you can tell me who you are?"

So Hedron had said, but on more than one occasion, Larewen had seen the answer change in less time. Offering a simple shrug of her shoulder, the necromancer offered a simple, "Larewen," in response. No titles, no formalities. It was something the necromancer once wore proudly, but now had come to spite her. Titles did nothing, without power over anyone or anything. Other than the dead, anyway. If there were any amusement to him too mirroring the sigh of living, breathing creatures, it showed only in the faintest uptick of one corner of her mouth.

Arkhivom's seeming approval was all the elf needed to turn slightly again and glance toward what served as a path through the bayou, leading southward toward the edge of the isle. She showed no intent on lingering any longer on introductions. One thing she could count on was that in the supply and demand of allies, it was far more difficult to women of her nature to find allies.

Once introductions were complete, the necromancer stepped forward onto weakening dirt that would soon squelch beneath her boots.

"House Dragana," she began, "rests just beyond the point of halfway to the necropolis. I suspect its wards should have held well enough beyond the sinking, but it will be a good enough place to... make camp."

Something akin to true amusement danced in her eyes at the mention of making camp in her own ancestral home, but it was fleeting. The manor would stand for far more than a good place to rest; there were many of their artifacts, of Larewen's own toys and tinkerings, held within the gut of that rotting home. Without another word, she began traversing southward.

Arkhivom Hedron Dol Fitz

Arkhivom said:

"Very well," he replied, and stepped closer, "I am Arkhivom, lord of Goeol Gathol, ruler of the Dark Army. And this, is Larewen..." though he offered no titles on her behalf, his tone was one of a certain respect, but digressed,

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Larewen Dragana said:

Offering a simple shrug of her shoulder, the necromancer offered a simple, "Larewen," in response. No titles, no formalities. It was something the necromancer once wore proudly, but now had come to spite her. Titles did nothing, without power over anyone or anything. Other than the dead, anyway.

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Arkhivom and Larewen. The accolades attached to Arkhivom's name were unfamiliar to Hedron, but Arethil was a big world, so he didn't doubt their veracity.
The lack of accolades attached to Larewen's name seemed to Hedron like a deliberate contrast, as if she were purposely making herself lesser than her hulking companion...

He was tempted to use his staff on them, to find out how powerful they really were, but without having an idea of how powerful they really were he wasn't willing to risk it in case they detected his scrying and took offense.
He'd have to find out as much as he could on his own first, then let the magic talk once he was confident.

Arkhivom said:

"Though this place may been of some use, where we go lies further beyond.

If it is power you seek, then that is where it will be found. If it is allies you seek, help us crush our enemies before us should they come, and you will have proved yourself to us."

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Hedron straightened as Arkhivom continued to speak, mentioning their own goals were beyond this village and true power resided there, that was what intrigued him.
The village will still be here, for now he wanted to know what secrets these two were interested in.

A human urge to smirk struck him at the mention of proving himself to them and only tainted his tone slightly when he responded.
"Should the occasion arise, I am certain you will not find me lacking. Though I hope to see you both living up to my expectations as well... Now then, what is this power you are seeking?"

Larewen Dragana said:

Arkhivom's seeming approval was all the elf needed to turn slightly again and glance toward what served as a path through the bayou, leading southward toward the edge of the isle. She showed no intent on lingering any longer on introductions. One thing she could count on was that in the supply and demand of allies, it was far more difficult to women of her nature to find allies.

Once introductions were complete, the necromancer stepped forward onto weakening dirt that would soon squelch beneath her boots.

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Hedron summoned his horse forward with a mental command and remounted it as they set out again.
The horses' hooves sank into the soft soil, but it trudged forward tirelessly to follow behind his new flesh covered companions.

Larewen Dragana said:

"House Dragana," she began, "rests just beyond the point of halfway to the necropolis. I suspect its wards should have held well enough beyond the sinking, but it will be a good enough place to... make camp."

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Hedron held his chin thoughtfully as he swayed on the back of his steed.
Mentioning a sunken necropolis in the area grabbed his attention, the promise of more corpses he could process into his army excited him, but a warded house? Perhaps there was an artifact there, or was it the magic itself they were after?

Though he had to look up in surprise at the last part.
"Camp? Oh, right... I forget that mortals and vampires still need to sleep. Will we be traveling nocturnally then?"
Another thought struck him, "... Or... perhaps I am misunderstanding... When you say, "make camp", do you mean to establish a base of operations?"