Stories/VillainsStory
Story Notes
If your not a member of my campaign, this is going to make a bit less sense. However, these are basically a number of a short stories detailing what happened to the major Villains of the campaign shortly after the end of my campaign. It includes:
- Tears of Mourning, a Moonshadow Deathknight who had conquered and subordinated the Varang Capital with her charms.
- Yane itself, and the fate of the city after the conflict that felled the Deathlord.
- Chiaroscuro's fate, and the role of the Traitor Merkan -- a former member of the Circle, that had betrayed them to the Realm.
- The Butcher Exaultant in Cold Steel and the Witch in White's tale; two more Abyssal Exalted.
- Lastly, the last Abyssal Exalted, Blood Feathers.
Final Dirge\\ “I command you!”, the dark-haired temptress near-screamed, even as she found herself forced back into a dead-end alley.
The crowd of Varang were growing more and more bold, as it became apparent that the Deathknight that ruled over them all was all-but defenseless. One middle aged man stepped forward, a sword he’d taken from a fallen Legionnaire in his hand, poised to strike at the woman who had oppressed and killed so many.
“How dare you!”, the Deathknight retorted, but it had no effect on the attacker.
Thus, she carefully ducked under the blow and launched a carefully aimed strike at the peasants sword hand. There was a ‘snap’ as the bone broke, and she grinned slightly at her triumph, looking up at the rest of the peasants.
Instead of the fear she hoped and expected to see, though, there was only the dull certainty that, eventually, they would tear her down. The smile on her face died, and she took a hesitant step away from them.
“You will come to regret this,” she said, softly, matter of factly – her dark eyes glaring into the face of the leader of the group facing her.
That man, a blonde-haired Guardsmen, just glared back and took another step toward her, followed by the rest of the crowd. “Your reign ends here,” he said, simply. “Surrender, and we will see that you meet a fair and impartial justice.”
Tears of Mourning simply smiled, raising her head. Long black hair fell down around her, and the moonlight seemed to fall down around her perfectly formed body. Thick red lips parted, and her soft angelic voice began to sing a prayer-dirge that leaped out around from her in roils of Essence, reaching out toward the peasants that were arrayed before her and tearing at their life force with it’s soul-charring perfection.
A few of the Varang ran, others closed their eyes and covered their ears. The greater part of their number, however, yelled out a cry and rushed the Abyssal. Within moments, the woman that had mastered them all was dead – yet her Death-song still hung in the air, and no matter how far they ran they could not escape it’s sirens call.
The Ruin of Yane\\ Months of harsh occupation by the Deathknights. Back-breaking labor, in an attempt to construct the shadow of the Pyramid. The final days of preparation, as undead were raised and the Varang preyed upon. All of these things sapped at the people of Yane, and the outlying Varang States, who had failed to flee when their leaders were suborned.
The Death-march against the Legions of Del`Roh sapped even more strength from the people, and the blood of the fallen washed over the streets of the city.
Yet, of all these things, none were more devastating than the Rise. Just as the Exalted dueled with the Deathlord, atop the Stepped Pyramid, a chill and unhealthy green mist rose up out of the ground. Where it touched the living, they grew chill and frightened. The Legions of Del`Roh did curse the unholy mist, forming tight lines. The Citizens of Yane were less disciplined yet more wary, for their lives had been harsh indeed of late.
Where the mists touched the bodies of the fallen dead, the lower animal souls of the murdered did rise up. All over the city, everywhere anyone had died, the Hungry Dead rose with an unquenchable hunger for the warmth and Essence of the living.
The Hungry Dead fell upon whoever was nearest; the Legions, bunched together and already on the defense, faired best. Many perished, rising in turn, but just as many spirits were battered off into sleep or forced away from the men. Yet, were it not for the aid from above, the flashing lightning that forced away the dead and opened up a route to escape, the Legions would have fallen in whole.
The Citizens of Yane were not so lucky. A few managed to escape with the Legionnaires, but most were set upon by the Hungry Dead. They perished, miserably and painfully.
The Lands of Yane were reclaimed, taken into the care of the Rohans. Their fields were fresh plowed and planted and their villages settled. Those Varang in Talt survived, the city eventually becoming a full member of the Rohan Empire.
Yet, Yane, the one-time capital, was never…could never…be reclaimed. To this very night, some fifty years later, any who meet violent death within its walls rise again. The Legions keep a heavy guard near the doomed City of the Dead, for the thousands of cannibalistic spirits range out into the lands surrounding on occasion.
Always, they are beaten back by the Rohan Legions.
Never too far, however. Never into the city.
Crystal Towers Toppled\\ Chiaroscuro, the Jewel of the South, the City of Glass.
Once, it had been the grandest and most beautiful ruin of Creation. Majestic and beautiful, with it’s great towers of First Age Glass. Wealthy, a center of trade with its imperishable harbor of the same material, sheltered in its brilliant green breakwater. Powerful, home to the Del`Zahn nomads who had conquered the city in the dim past and settled there.
Now, looking out over it, Merkan knew that things would never be as they were before but none the less the city had days of glory to look forward to if he had anything to say of it. Most of the towers had been toppled; either left as rubble or melted down by some means, forged into weapons. The Father of Darkness had laid claim to the city, taken it as his stronghold, until his final defeat.
The Ivory Dragon had wished he could have been there, during the final moments, but he had made a promise long ago. A promise that Chiaroscuro would be reclaimed, that the dark months since it’s conquest would be ended. He had seen that promise through.
Kejak had been correct, in most of the details.
His forces had landed in Paragon, waiting for the news. It came one night, and Merkan had his men on the road to the City of Glass within moments of hearing it. The Father had fallen, and the time had come. Merkan and the rest of his Brotherhood had led the charge. The Earth-blooded 'General' piloted a Noble Warstrider, constructed of heavy white jade and chased with Moonsilver, which had been loaned to him by House Cathak. Two of his companions, Crimson Dragons, flanked you with their own striders. The three of them could have marched ahead, reached the city hours before the rest of their forces, but that would have been foolish and so the going had been exhausting and slow to the three Dragon-Blooded who were ‘strapped in’.
An Elder and Child of Mela had been with you as well; he knew that her Battle Sorcery would be no match for that of the Abyssals, if any still survived, but the Sidereals had refused to come on this mission and so he was left in the care of his elder. None the less, Merkan had some little faith in her own 200 years of experience in experimentation with Sorcery. If not in raw power, she could defeat her foes through age, knowledge, and cunning.
A half dozen other Dragon-Blooded were under his command as well, leading the three Legions that he'd had been given and the rag-tag force from Paragon and the Lap. Much of the plan, he knew, had relied on his reaching the City of Glass before the surviving Abyssals limped back ‘home’ from Yane. To his credit, Merkan had managed to accomplish that. Even so, the first day of the battle had been hard pressed. The Undead infested the city, and while the Anathema had largely left the city undefended, they had not left it entirely so.
Yet, by the time the two Deathknights came, Merkan had been ready for them.
The first, the Butcher Exultant in Cold Steel, was a true horror. Entire Scales of troops fell to his blade. Those scales then rose, more Undead at the command of the Witch in White’s foul necromancy. Yet, in the end, two exhausted Deathknights were no match for the raw elemental fury of the Dragons. The Sorceries of Merkan's Great-Aunt flayed and picked at the undead, and his own men pressed home into the press of corpses. The Three Warstriders managed to tie up Butcher, and just as Merkan had been told, he proved quite susceptible to such tactics. A faster and more mobile warrior would have dodged the blows easily, but the Butcher was forced to rely on his great Grand Daiklave.
It had not been without cost, however. Several waves of troops had died and had to be bloodily chopped down again, and the Butcher managed to slice off the legs of Cathak Neelus’s Warstrider and gut him, before Merkan and the other Crimson Dragon had forced the two Deathknights to retreat. However, in the end, the battle had been won.
So, now, in the risen-Manse that had formerly been inhabited by the Deathlord, the Dragon-Blood looked out over what was left of the city. The people were free; he were being hailed as a hero and a liberator; the promise that he had made had been fulfilled. Chiaroscuro was free. There was much rebuilding to do, and only five months to do it in before you had to return to the Blessed Isle.
Dead Gods Stir\\ A chill and deathly wind sliced through the narrow tunnels of the Labyrinth, as the two Deathknights proceeded onward.
One of them was a great warrior, outfitted in dented and battered soulsteel plate, helm off and at his side. Long gray hair fell down his back, matted with his own blood, and in his right hand he held a massive blade nearly as tall as he himself was.
The other was slender and petite, a form dressed in a white grave shawl, moving with a pronounced limp, only faintly able to hold herself up straight. She was bruised and battered as well but had washed most of the blood off some time ago, before even their ill-fated return to the City of Glass.
It was through her sorcery that they had escaped the Ambush awaiting for them there, saving them from death by cutting open a hole into the Labyrinth. Saving them from Death for the time being, in any event. They were not safe yet.
“Where are we going?” the larger warrior said, softly.
She just looked over at him, repressing a sneer. “Does it matter? The first exit we can find, we shall take. Hopefully we can find shelter, before something else finds us.”
The Witch in White knew, after all, that the two of them were in no shape to fight off more foes and it seemed likely that one more worthy adversary encountered would finish them. She knew her companion was aware of this well; she was not used to his silence, nor the lack of his good humor and gentle words.
“No,” he said, after a pause. “I do not mean now. He is dead. Where do we go from here, now that he is gone?”
For a long time, there was no answer…
Veil of Feathers\\ She had seen his final moments, when the starspark had consumed him totally. The others looked away, shielding their eyes from the glory of the God that they revered, but Blood Feathers did not do this thing. She watched, even as her eyes burned. She saw him suspended in the perfect sphere of white, watched as his form blurred and finally as the white overtook his form and he melted away. The Darkness had fallen.
Tears ran in streams down her cheeks, freely. She had already lost so much.
Even as she cried, with the suddenness of a veil being lowered, the chains of magical binding that had held her snapped free. She smiled then, free from her old perspective. Slowly, even as she watched the Legionnaires depart from the doomed City, she went over the last few months of her life and came to a single conclusion.
The Father of Darkness had been a fool.
With that realization, she left, climbing hand-over-hand up the wall absently, reaching the top and looking out on the dry yet fertile lands of Yane. She looked to the right, in the direction of distant Chiaroscuro. Then, to her right, where the lands of the Rohans lurked like a cancer stuck within the heart of the Southern Threshold.
Then, she looked out straight ahead, toward the furnace of the South. The open desert, which had once been her home.
The Father had been a fool to enslave her mind; she would have served him willingly, and been glad to do so as well. Yet, his foolishness in this was endemic; she would have been mistaken, to be taken in by his aura of invincibility and power. He had fallen, to her own foes none the less, and that lesson taught her much.
She knew what she was going to do.
With a smile, she gracefully leaped down from her vantage point on the top of the wall, landing without a sound and taking off at a brisk run toward the foothills to the South. She knew her destination, and she knew that – at long last – she was free.
