Open Chronicles King of Kings

[Gerra]

The Domes of Ragash dominated the skyline for leagues in every direction. The great walled city upon the eastern bank of the Baal-Asha and through its gates streamed the most exotic of processions as beings came from all across Amol-Kalit to witness the coronation of the victor of Ninagal. They strode beneath the flowing ogee arches and minarets of the Alabyad Palace, marveling at the honeycomb-like muqarnas vaulting and blue, white, and gold tiles upon floor and ceiling that produced a mesmerizing effect upon the viewer.

At last they reached the grand audience hall, at the end of which sat the massive Sherdal Throne, all of glimmering gold and backed by a winged lion. Upon either side of the Sherdal Throne stood an array of white-robed priests, the Archlectors of the Annunaki, and old wise elven priests of Abtatu from distant Rhaqoum.

Steadily, the audience hall filled with Sereti Ogres, Chieftains of Ngonya Beast Tribes, the Emir of Mamsis and his retinue, Sorcerers of Thakath, noble Magya of Annuakat, and many dozens of Sheikhs from the tribes of the Sand Elves, generals and great warriors also stood among the crowd.

Taller than any of them was Gerra. He came forward clad only in black thawb, rubies backed in gold glittering in his ears, obsidian features austere. He walked through the gathered mass and they parted before him like ebbing tides. Drummers in the alcoves beat upon their instruments, marking the time with his footfalls, like the beating of a great heart. The sound filled the audience hall, permeated it, bringing forth emotion in every eye. Hope in the Abtati. Fear in all others.

When Gerra reached the assembled priests before the Sherdal Throne, Archlector Snaaib of Annuakat stepped forward. He held in his hands a simple band of gold. The drums stopped.

“Kneel.”

Gerra did so.

“By the blessing of the Annunaki, I name you Sultan of Annuakat and Shah of Ragash.”

He placed the crown upon Gerra’s head, then stepped back.

An elf took his place. Short of stature, with white hair and features weathered by sand and sun, he looked countless centuries old. This was him, the prophet who had convinced so many of the desert tribes to follow Gerra.

“Djinn of Rhaqoum,” he said, his voice strong despite his age, “Champion of Abtatu. I name you conqueror of the seven cities. I name you Sarmatsar, King of Kings.”

Then he sprinkled sand upon Gerra’s head.

“Do not forget where you came from.”

“Never will I.”

The old one nodded, then stepped back.

Gerra, Emperor of Amol-Kalit, rose to his feet amid thunderous applause.

Then he seated himself in the winged lion throne and swept out a hand for silence.

“Those who have been my enemies, come forward and be recognized,” he rumbled, voice filling the audience chamber with a deep, rich bass. “Let us put our enmity in the past and forge a brighter future.”

One by one, the vanquished came forward and swore fealty to him. The Emir of Mamsis presented him with a ring set with a yellow gemstone, to signify his vassalship. The Synod of Thakathi presented him with a golden armband. Two Ngonya chieftains likewise presented him with gifts of ivory fetishes, and so it went.

When all had come forward, Gerra spoke again.

“Those who have been my allies, come forward and be recognized.”

The Abtati Sheikhs of Al-Hadhra, Al-Qos, and Al-Dushar came forward, as did many more besides, and Gerra made each of them Viziers of the conquered cities and towns, in charge of implementing the new system of laws he had drawn up. And a way to monitor the ambitions of the surrendered.

Then, when they had withdrawn, Gerra spoke again.

“General Telenar, come forward and be recognized.”

 

[Zufar el Hassan]

"Our deeds still travel with us from afar, and what we have been makes us what we are."
-George Eliot​

'Ah, the crowning of a new leader, always such a festival affair.'

Zufar el Hessan, Captain of the Magnificant Liberator and leader of the Velvet Redeemers. Some might call him a pirate, a scoundrel, while the indifferent might call him a privateer or opportunist. Yet there are the few who'd even call him a hero...though proportionally, it probably wasn't many.

Lounging up top one of the buildings, tucked in a nook within the blind spot of any passing guards, Zufar watched the precession continue with a mild amusement. The captain's posture was laxed, laying upon a soft carpet that dangled from the thin resting spot. In his hands was a blade, The Sword of Kings, as it was called...which held some degree of irony...given who was currently being honored....

Zufar could only wonder: How many rulers in this world coveted the title"King of Kings"...how many of those titles were actually true?

Ah, but what did that matter? Mr. Emperor was certainly not reason that the good Captain was here today. No, he had a different objective today, which was why he was also here without his crew. Heck, perhaps given a little time, he'll already be in some indirect conflict with the new ruler's regime...but for now...might as well bask in some of that nostalgia.

Everything, the sun radiating the dry heat, the buzz of the crowds at the bazaar, the familiar shapes architecture...even the roughness of the sand...it all had a hint of home to it...least to Zufar....it was a nice feeling...which was why Zufar had done all in his power to try and stay away from Amol-Kalit. It was too much like home...a life time ago...back when Zufar was an entirely different person...with a life not to dissimilar to what he was witnessing here..

By no means was the man looking to go back to his old way of life...but perhaps he'd soon have a chance to finally make amends for the arrogance of his past...even if it be a little...it was why he was here today.

Zufar closed his eyes and smiled a little, leaning his head back and rested it upon the edge of his nook, he'd be listening to the rest of the precession. At the end of the day, Zufar still found this all to be rather amusing. If what Zufar had heard about Amol-Kalit was true, and given his own experience with such a matter... they'll all be back here again in a couple of years...months or even weeks...another so-called conqueror would sit where he sat...another to become the"King of Kings"...

 

[Infernal]

From the crowd he came, materializing as if from nothing. Things had been very busy for him since the battle of Ninagal.

Invoking such powerful magic had drained him and his forces, forcing him to be absent for many of the post fight celebrations while he recuperated. During that time though, others have come to try and join him, to become Shadow Hands themselves. Tales of the starry figures had been spreading like wildfire, and the promise of power had apparently attracted others to come and seek him out.

Few showed actual promise to becoming a fully fledged Shadow Hand, but that did not mean they were all useless to him. To build what he had envisioned required the talents of many, and so the echelons of authority were erected, to ensure things ran smoothly. Many were assigned to work trivial, mundane things, allowing the prospective recruits to focus on their path towards ascension. An Unseen Library was being constructed, secreted from Lord Gerra's attention, where tomes of powerful Arcane and esoteric inclination were to be stored for his machinations.

There was to be no doubt towards his loyalty, as the enchanting knight knelt before his king, darkened cloak hanging on his body so heavily it seemed. Power was such a tempting drug, but Telenar knew better. This kingdom was one he intended on supporting, one he would continue to support, for as long as he could. One day, fortunes may change, and Telenar might find himself as the master.

The winds of fate however, held the pieces as they are now, and Telenar would play his part, until the time came, of course...

 

[Gerra]

"Telenar, my general," Gerra said from his throne.

"Do you know much of sheepherding? I do not suppose you do. Shepherds often keep dogs to help herd and protect their flock. One such shepherd in the hills of Annuakat came to me, seeking counsel. He had a dog he had taken in and trained to herd sheep. But one day, the dog came limping back to him, blood upon its fur. The shepherd soon discovered that the dog had been wounded and chased off by a desert wolf, which had then killed and eaten several sheep. The shepherd helped heal the dog, then sent him back out into the pasture to watch over the flock. But a second time, the dog came back, limping. This time, the shepherd found signs that a lion had attacked, wounding the dog and slaughtering many of the sheep."

The shepherd asked, 'What am I to do? The dog is loyal, but twice he has failed his purpose.'"

Gerra leaned back in the throne.

"Tell me, Telenar, what advice would you give this shepherd? What should be done with his loyal canine?"

 

[Infernal]

Confusion washed over him, and for a moment, Telenar looked to Gerra, almost puzzled by his question.

"I...it sounds as if, my king that the dog needs more assistance. Wolves and lions cannot be defeated alone." Was he doubting his ability? Did he not witness what he had done on that battlefield, what lengths he had gone through to ensure victory for him?

"You are the Supreme ruler of this land, King Gerra. What more could you ask of my performance to you?" Sacrifices were made, so much pain was endured, all for his conquest, for his ambition.

 

[Gerra]

The sovereign's gaze softened and he nodded.

"Indeed you are wise, for those selfsame words are what I told the shepherd. It is not the fault of the dog that he cannot defeat the wolf and the lion, but the fault of the shepherd who sends him out alone. Take greater care with one so loyal to you, lest he die trying to accomplish impossible tasks."

Gerra's lips curled upward in the slightest of smiles.

"And thus, for you, Telenar, who was once my enemy but who now I count among those dearest to me, I give you whatever you wish. Ask and it shall be granted."

 

[Infernal]

In that crystalline moment of clarity, he felt the strings begin to take shape, and his face grew into a wonderful smile.

"Allow me to serve you, my lord. My wish to you is to not only be your general, but your vizier as well. I wish for the power of oversight on all magical matters within your expansive rule. With my wisdom and loyalty, I will insure that all your subjects and liege Lords are given ample counsel, loyal to you and your vision. Allow me to peel back the veil for you, and we will bring this kingdom to greater heights than could ever be conceived by mortal minds."

The spider's Web is intricate, but once caught within, quite inescapable.

 

[Gerra]

"This is well-pleasing to my ears, for I had hoped to grant such a boon. Vizier-of-Scrolls shall you be named and in your realm of responsibility do I place the construction of great libraries, the hiring of sages and scholars, and all affairs pertaining to research of both the arcane and mundane. Go forth, Telenar, and seek the answer to the unknowable. Bring the light of learning to this Empire."

 

[Ashuanar]

The enormity of the crowd served only to feed his excitement. Though on the outside he stood as still as stone, he and the eleven other assassins of his tribe who joined him were brimming with enthusiasm. They'd come to see for their very own eyes the Sultan, the Sarmatsar. They had been far off when he arrived as a strange djinn, and word reached them before he had proven himself to be the fulfilment. And true, there was much yet to be done, and undone. But with the news of Ninagal still fresh to their ears, their faith was made strong.

With his crowning they praised him. The Tribe of Mari'kuul swore undying fealty to Gerra, the Sarmatsar; King of kings.

Ashuanar looked on at him with sparkling admiration. After all he had endured in his life, the plight of his tribe and his people as a whole, their new lord was a beacon of hope to him. Hope that while his life and those of the ones standing with him may be wrought with grief, perhaps those to come would be spared such tragedy.

Gerra brought this hope.

And though he disagreed with the cessation of hostilities towards those who had trifled against him, he respected his benevolence. He and his brethren watched on, maintaining their vigilant posture as the King addressed one of his generals. He spoke with words that carried wisdom with them, and displayed great grace toward one who had served him, furthering their adoration.

He truly is King of kings…

 

[Halul]

Glimmers of a face, forged from metal, could be seen from between the pillars. Lifeless as it was, it served as protector to the once Sultan, now Sarmatsar. The soles of his boots lightly tread around the great audience hall. Eyes, a beautiful blend of green and gold, scanned the many notables that found themselves beneath Gerra. Outside of the hall amassed countless common folk, the air of anticipation emanating from the clump of bodies. The crowning of a warlord was quite the spectacle, indeed.

Uvogin patrolled the hall many times. The many peoples that gathered all swore loyalty to the great king. The mercenary temporarily halted at the entrance of the great hall, far from where the King of Kings sat atop his magnificent throne. To his side stood Grozkalla, and both watched in silence as the ceremony carried on.

Gerra spoke with one of his trusted generals. Uvogin patiently waited as the hulking being would speak individually to his trusted followers, granting them whatever honors they so deserved.

 

[T’suris Flameblade]

Dark blue eyes surveyed the grand audience hall from near one of the pillars. Pearly horns stood above all but the tallest in the crowd.

"We should not have come," hissed his companion, her tail thrashing behind her in agitation, "We do not confer with humans - half-blooded or otherwise."

"Shh," T'suris chided quietly as the general materialized before the newly crowned King of Kings.

"We should go back to the clan."

Navy eyes looked away from the Djinn to meet frowning, green, slitted eyes. His companion huffed, crossed her arms over her chest, and said no more. T'suris looked around - no one could stand within three feet of them due to her agitation.

"We will go back soon enough," he reassured her. She glared, but her tail finally stilled.

T'suris had been wary when the Djinn had called off hostilities. Was it a ruse to lure them in for the slaughter? It would not be the first his kind had been betrayed. Most of the Komodi had survived the battle, a blessing. He had left them to find their way back, if the victorious armies would let them between licking their wounds and pillaging the dead.

And so T'suris had come to the audience hall, by invitation, to see history being made.

 

[Selene Avar]

Selene did not stand in the entrance Hall, instead having been placed within a grand sort of waiting chamber with half a dozen other Emissaries from various out land cities.

She had taken no offense to being brought here, after all this was not her first try at politics. The chamber they occupied sat positioned in the Palace so they had been able to witness the crowning ceremony, and for most that had been enough.

Those around her now spoke in hushed whispers with one another. The topics ranged from Gerra to how the Harvest had been sown in their various natures. Selene listened with one ear, her other focused on the situation below in the great Audience Hall.

She, of course, had been sent here as an Emissary by House Virak.

Vel Anir had not been ignorant of Gerra's rise. It's spies had reported back for months about the movements of the great Fire Giant. The City itself had sent it's own emissaries, though they'd not used her own method of travel which granted her greater speed.

A fortunate fact.

It was unlikely for the Cities own Emissaries to arrive for days yet, and she hoped that she would be granted an audience with Gerra before they could even make the walls of Ragash.

That was why she had been given a key to the portal stones by the Patriarch of House Virak. Given one of the great treasures of the family in order to beat the Ruling Houses to the punch so to speak. Of course, what Lord Virak did not realize were Selene's own designs.

She just needed the opportunity.

 

[Amankh Kaltar]

'As sand turns to ice under footsteps long thought gone, there shall be a reckoning unlike any that has graced the Amol-Kalit before. Water drunk by traitors shall run dry, as all they have constructed shall return to the dunes from which they came. Walls shall turn to rubble as roads turn to sand; all shall know when flame and lava turns to dust and ash and when ash and dust returns to desert. The sands shall part under old footsteps, as a people once lost and disgraced returns to the grace of Abtatu, to impart His wrath and fury upon he who deceives His people.'
​

The Amol-Kalit was not the home he once knew. What was once a mass of cities and villages, unified in their beliefs and ideals, was now fractured and desolate. The grand towers and walls of his home had all fallen beneath the sands, appearing as little more than nameless rubble. Centuries of knowledge and history, all lost to an uncaring people. The Abtati, once the powerful masters of this land, the chosen graces of Abtatu, were now led under a false flag. A flag held by an outsider, an outsider claiming to be Abtatu's chosen no less.

The King of Kings must fall, and the traitors who continue to follow his deceptions shall join him beneath the sands they claim to belong to them.

~-~​

Dark shapes circled the celebration of this 'King of Kings.' Wings of bone and decayed feathers, letting out cacophonous shrill shrieks. Undead vultures, messengers of the death that should fall upon them. Their hissing, raspy cries continued with no end in sight, their numbers gradually growing until they were impossible to ignore to those outside the domes. They began to breach the open doors, quickly taking flight within the audience hall as they continued their discordant shrieks.

Should those within look out the windows to the horizon, snow could be seen falling. A few moments later, they would see rolling clouds of sand on the horizon. A single unyielding mass of dense desert, devouring the landscape before the city of Ragash. If they did not see it, then they heard it. The buffeting cries of vultures grew ever more present, as the sound of heavy winds pounded against the walls.

This was the wrath of Abtatu, this was His fury, this was His vengeance given permeable form, all directed towards the King of Kings.

As the mass of sand grew closer and closer, the sound of galloping hooves hitting the surface of the desert could be heard accompanying it, a low underlying constant to the rumbling sandstorm. Blue flashes of light swirled throughout like a trapped blizzard. The sandstorm continued to blast forward, first enveloping the walls before it spread throughout the city, covering streets and homes in its enraged snow and sand. It seemed unyielding, unceasing, uncaring as it made its way towards the grand audience hall.

The door to the audience hall suddenly blasted open, revealing a flurry of ice which scattered across the ornate floor. Ice which, despite the desert heat, did not melt. The full glory of the storm was in view to those within, the behemoth of ice and sand suddenly stagnant some distance before the doors. Within the sandstorm, dozens of eyes could be seen within, each watching those inside the hall. A stiff silence filled the room, even the shifting forces within the storm yielding, until a figure emerged.

Draped in robes, ornate golden jewelry adorning his form, was a mummified Abtati, the bones turned a frozen azure. Staff in hand, the undead elf walked down the hall towards the 'King of Kings.' Snow drifted behind him, following as though it was tied to an invisible tether.

"I am the chosen of Abtatu." The statement was succinct, a fact that was spoken as such. Beneath the calm tone was a wave of clear, unbridled anger. "I walked these sands millennia ago. I saw my people, the Abtati, as the rightful rulers of this land, the children of Abtatu. I will not be the one to see them disgraced as they follow the words of a false prophet." Though he spoke to the Abtati, his eyes remained on Gerra. The outsider king, the false prophet, the leader of traitors. Whatever name was truly his, he refused to see him lead the Abtatu astray.

 

[Gerra]

Outside, sand and snow swirled together obscuring everything. The doors to the audience hall burst open and the crowd gasped as a desiccated figure strode into the hall, staff clacking against the tiles on the floor.

Upon the Sherdal Throne, Gerra arched a single brow and leaned upon an elbow, stroking his chin.

"And who might you be?"

 

[Sathirena]

Behind the great sorcerer, a mouth, bony and jagged, gilded from sand and ice forced its way through the gate. It snarled and snapped between the portal. It's luminous violet eyes stared at the participants as if they were emotionless, lifeless pits of a great sculpture of sandstone.

 

[Amankh Kaltar]

"I," the figure began, an air of prestige and royalty in his voice despite his decayed appearance, "am Amankh. Herald of the Sands, Archmage of Abtatu, Prophet of the Old Empire." Eyes of glowing violet searched the hall. "What I ask, now, is who you are to be called the chosen of Abtatu?"

 

[Gerra]

"Ah. The Old Empire."

A mirthless smile twitched at the corner of Gerra's lips, which left as he saw what appeared to be an undead dragon stick its head in through the front gates.

It must have landed in the courtyard.

"And where have you been for the last three thousand years?"

The half-giant now rose from the throne and walked down the dais. Each step punctuating his words.

"While your people suffered. While their cities vanished beneath the sand. While they were enslaved."

He stopped at the bottom of the dais, staring along the gap in the crowd toward Amankh, and cocked his head.

"Where were you?"

Again, he smiled with toothless benevolence.

"But now you return, after millennia, smelling opportunity. To take from the Abtati what they have only just earned."

Gerra shook his head and the Sheikhs and Prophets of the Sand Elves let out hisses of agreement.

"No. Your kind are what destroyed the Old Empire. Your time is passed. You have no place here."

The half-giant studied the desiccated figure for a moment later, then waved a hand.

"Telenar, Jerik, remove this... thing from my sight.

 

[Amankh Kaltar]

The air turned frigid as Gerra stepped closer and closer to Amankh, sharp words laced with a poisonous honey. "I was with them. Dead." The voice came out suddenly, a finalizing tone encompassing his words. With every word, a mist of ice and frost further advanced into the halls, curling around the Archmage. "The only vulture I see here... is you. Picking at the shattered remnants of Abtatu's as though they were scraps of meat. Leading them under a false flag as you claim rulership."

"And who are you to say what happened to the Old Empire? You did not live it. You were not present for our last moments. I did. You know not what you speak of, King of Kings." The title was spoken with a clear mocking tone. "If you truly want what is best for the Abtati, then show it. I want you to kneel. Kneel before your subjects, kneel before Abtatu."

 

[Sathirena]

The massive maw tilted its head at the resonance of Amankh's voice. It backed off if only just a little before wedging it's maw between the door once more. A harrowing roar resonated through the room, chilling down the bones, vibrating the very skin of the living.

Glass windows along the room shattered one by one, splintering glass and letting through the outside rage of Abtatu. Raging wind and sand entered the palace hall, raising and ruffling banners and loose robes in an elaborate display.


A chill aura filled the room and fear begun to brew in the eyes of the onlookers.
The cool white 'sand' that began to litter the floor was particularly otherworldy. Glistening like the finest of crystals.

 

[Gerra]

In the silent wake of the dragon’s roar, laughter.

Booming, vibrant, like an earthquake that shakes free the last golden leaves of autumn.

Like the rumbling of a sleeping volcano stirred to life.

Like the avalanche of a mountain shifting in his sleep.

“Oh petty prince of the forgotten, you wish me only to kneel to you.”

Turning his back on the walking corpse, Gerra strode back up the dais.

“BRONZE CLAW,” roared Grozkalla, “Protect the Emperor.”

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Telenar, Jerik, remove this... thing from my sight.

He'd heard his middle-name - the name of his Master - and knew it was time.​

This was the first time he had left his bed-chambers since he had been healed by the Lector-priests. Although they did all they could, his appearance was still grotesque, a shadow of his former self. On Gerra's command, they'd brought an antique from the previous Shah's extensive gold collection; a mask, supposedly moulded from one of the greatest Sorcerers in the Shah's company. They crafted a helmet from it, so it could cover his entire head. Only after he looked upon himself in a mirror, and saw not himself, could he bear to walk outside those four walls.

Gerra had asked him to stay out of the limelight of the event, in case he was needed. Gerra had anticipated that there'd be an opposing force to challenge him on the day of his coronation, and made Sparhawk aware of this.

He sat on an upper-level, in a concealed section of the audience hall, meditating. During his training with the great Martial-Artist Heskan, he'd learnt to focus his life energy, what Heskan referred to as Ki, to help calm his mind, and strengthen his physical and arcane attributes. They'd also discovered it could help him sustain the form Imamu granted him in times of great need, without loss of his mind. He'd asked that if Gerra required him, he only needed to speak his middle-name, something only Sparhawk's closest would know of.

He wore a draped black robe, not dissimilar to the one Gerra was wearing, cloaking his entire body like a shadow, only the glimmer of his golden mask splitting through the darkness.

As he heard his name, his eyes shot open, taking a long, throaty exhale, grainy from his injured voice. He could feel his body glowing through his robes, and the crimson of his eyes bleeding through the eye-holes in his gold visage. It was time.

As he slid the catchment open, he jumped down, landing not too far from Gerra, using a simple soft-fall spell to help himself land, and not injure his damaged legs any further. The bronze claw, amassing around Gerra, noticing his gold mask, nodded, and left him be.

He saw those eyes - Amankh. A good man, if a dead one. He'd let him go after attacking the Eternum on Imamu's orders.

Oh well.

This time, he wasn't going to be foolish. He knew that simply throwing fire at an opponent and hoping for a different result was non-sense. It was time to use the Mastery of Pyromancy Imamu had provided him, and his research and knowledge, to good use. With Magic, Ki, and his wits by his side, he could achieve anything. Anything.

He used his clay hands to clip off each side of his robe, falling to his feet, revealing his horrifically scarred and burnt torso. Sparhawk felt strong. He felt empowered by the freedom this mask, this position bought him. He no longer had to be afraid of his power, he could embrace it. It could become part of him.

As his red glow revealed, a ring of fire appeared around his person, a perimeter surrounding his body. He began to take very deep breaths, the flames rising higher, and becoming hotter, with each exasperation. As he did this, the deep-red glow that usually makes it self very known retreated back into his body, his eyes seeming to become hotter and redder, with each scar that returned to it's natural, burnt skin-tone.

A path running down his chest and throat began to glow slightly however, but it seemed internal, deep under his skin, within his being. Soon, the ring of fire retracted into Sparhawk's feet, seeming to absorb back into him. He could feel the energy build within him, the feeling immense.

And, as he heard the last shard of shattered glass hit the floor, he felt a release, and as his mouth opened, a fire-storm erupted, like a volcano fit to burst, seemingly travelling at high-velocity towards the self-proclaimed Arch-mage, it's terrific colours painting the walls despite day-light, it's heat filling up the room.

Sparhawk thought he'd feel a fit of rage, but all he experienced was a cool-calm, among the searing heat of the flame, like a Phoenix rising from the flames;

Like a dragon incinerating it's foe.

 

[Aratus Seldomus]

Aratus had been sent as a emissary of Thelios, thanks to his recent travels. The Athallians were curious of their neighbors, and they relied on trade. So, any deviation, or massive interruption to that, was to be suspected to be something of import.

Now, what was once supposed to be a coronation- turned into something of a duel. Some left, some ran.

Aratus crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, smiling in his Wolfish way.

Now, he could get behind these proceedings, truth be told.

 

[Halul]

"The beast," Grozkalla stated after calling forth the mercenaries, "It is your task."

Uvogin acknowledged the Talon with a single nod and swiftly escaped the great hall and through empty halls to find a path to the second level, that of which matched the height of the dragon.

Bronze Claw mercenaries wasted not a single motion as they formed a line at the base of the dais, circular shields raised, the points of their spears aimed at the intruder. The Emperor towered over his mercenaries atop his chair, mighty as he was. The line did not flinch as the pyromancer spewed forth flame. The brilliant glow reflected off their shields.

Uvogin's long sword rasped against its sheath as he drew it, the sound of it echoing in the empty hall. He moved deliberately, the innards of the grand building etched in his mind. It took no time for him to locate the stairwell, and he ascended it with haste, leaping over five steps with each bound.

Sword at the ready, Uvogin kept to the shadows and waited for an opportunity to pounce on the great undead creature.

 

[Infernal]

It's always something, isn't it?

Power was a hard kept item. There was always another hand trying to wrench it from your own, the opposition never ending until finally, it is lost. One could only hope to hold off the tide for so long, and it was in this instance, Telenar knew he would not lose the power he had obtained so far, not without a fight.

Just as the king spoke, he was gone. Vanished in an instant, there was no sight of him to be found, not on the physical plane, that is.

Everything looked different in the spiritual plane, in a way that was difficult to understand. Pastels of vibrant color, unseen to the naked eye, flashed everywhere he cast his vision. Souls of great power were most visible within the kaleidoscope of Arcane energies, with Gerra, Jerik and the intruder shining respectively in orange, scarlet and cobalt. His own was an inky, purple darkness.

This one was just like the rest of them, so narrow minded in their vision for this land. Would he have been so quick to act so brash had he known who the real threat to his precious culture was?

I will take everything from you, and then, I will bring about a new age to this land, made under my vision.

Ethereal Chains of shifting darkness, three in all, moved to wrap themselves around Amankh's neck and wrists. Binding him will leave his body defenseless, but his spirit will be his for interrogation.

 

[Ashuanar]

From behind a veil of frozen sand this creature of undeath came forth. He and his brethren stirred uneasily as he spoke of the Old Kingdom, of times long past. He put forth an interesting proposition – that he, not Gerra was the true Sarmatsar. And while he possessed an image more like unto their own, there was a grave problem with this. Gerra had something else that was far more in common with them – he was alive.

This foul creature, bursting in here bringing his wretched cold proved himself to be one thing. Rude. Ashuanar would have spat were it not for his garb. He and his brethren shared few words, and then dispersed into the crowd to take up a defensive formation around their newly beloved King, awing the sight of their Lord’s mages powers. Ashuanar took up his polearm, affixed with a long thin blade at its tip, and prepared himself for the coming thrall.

Despite the enormity of the great leviathan, whose large head imposed an intimidating barrier in the midst of the great archway, he held his disposition strong. Unafraid. His faith in one, proven by fire and by the sword at Ninagal, would not be shaken by this… disturber.