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Vel Orath - The Halls of Dead
This was not a city.
It was a graveyard.
Once upon a time Vel Orath had been a city just like any other. It had not been worthy of the title 'Vel', not within it's lifetime, but it had been the devastation wrought here which in solemn memorial had brought the name upon it. It had been two years after the second Elven war when the city had been turned to glass. It's fate wrought not by the Elves in their need for revenge, but they the hand of humanity.
Not because of rebellion or revolution, but by one mans end.
An Archon, whose name had been stricken from every record and history known to Aniria. His power great enough that even the Eldar of the Fal'Addas had feared his magics.
Madness had touched his mind, grief at the loss of so many of his companions, sorrow and misery at the lives he had taken distilled into psychosis. The City of Orath had been his home, and the site of his retribution. It had been an accident, or so many claimed, but the ending was all the same. Within the midst of the night, the city had burned.
Not a fire like anyone had ever seen. Not a flame of red and orange, or even blue, but one of black.
It had torn through the city streets and ripped apart the very souls of those remained. The City, once proud and great, it's buildings crafted of beautiful marble and granite was turned to a pale glass. Each building marked and reflective, scorched and burned until they were naught but empty husks. Thousands of lives were claimed within the snap of a finger, lost in an instant.
On the heels of the event, the King had declared the city lost to Elven retribution. Vel Orath declared a monument to those lost in the war, and left behind as a solemn memory for those who had died.
"Another great lie." Duncan commented quietly as the small group of Rogue Dreadlords stood on the hilltop overlooking the city of glass. The small patters of rain on their cloaks dulling the moment somewhat. Bathed in sunlight Vel Orath would have been beautiful, but with dark grey clouds above there was a sort of solemn detachment to the constructs below. The memory of those who had been left behind standing starkly within the darkened sky.
"Come on." He continued with far more cheer than was needed in a place like this. "I'm, sure he's down there somewhere."
They set off again as he finished, heading towards the gate. "Just have to find him."
This was not a city.
It was a graveyard.
Once upon a time Vel Orath had been a city just like any other. It had not been worthy of the title 'Vel', not within it's lifetime, but it had been the devastation wrought here which in solemn memorial had brought the name upon it. It had been two years after the second Elven war when the city had been turned to glass. It's fate wrought not by the Elves in their need for revenge, but they the hand of humanity.
Not because of rebellion or revolution, but by one mans end.
An Archon, whose name had been stricken from every record and history known to Aniria. His power great enough that even the Eldar of the Fal'Addas had feared his magics.
Madness had touched his mind, grief at the loss of so many of his companions, sorrow and misery at the lives he had taken distilled into psychosis. The City of Orath had been his home, and the site of his retribution. It had been an accident, or so many claimed, but the ending was all the same. Within the midst of the night, the city had burned.
Not a fire like anyone had ever seen. Not a flame of red and orange, or even blue, but one of black.
It had torn through the city streets and ripped apart the very souls of those remained. The City, once proud and great, it's buildings crafted of beautiful marble and granite was turned to a pale glass. Each building marked and reflective, scorched and burned until they were naught but empty husks. Thousands of lives were claimed within the snap of a finger, lost in an instant.
On the heels of the event, the King had declared the city lost to Elven retribution. Vel Orath declared a monument to those lost in the war, and left behind as a solemn memory for those who had died.
"Another great lie." Duncan commented quietly as the small group of Rogue Dreadlords stood on the hilltop overlooking the city of glass. The small patters of rain on their cloaks dulling the moment somewhat. Bathed in sunlight Vel Orath would have been beautiful, but with dark grey clouds above there was a sort of solemn detachment to the constructs below. The memory of those who had been left behind standing starkly within the darkened sky.
"Come on." He continued with far more cheer than was needed in a place like this. "I'm, sure he's down there somewhere."
They set off again as he finished, heading towards the gate. "Just have to find him."