The Master of the Shadow Tower, the Fallen, the Forsaken

[Invoker]

Vendetta

The whirlwind of steel and forest green that was Mendel charged the horde of Walking Dead with avenging frenzy, decaying limbs and rotting body parts raining in his trail.
Whenever one of the life craving monsters was struck down, three more were taking its place...and three more were cut down in a furious dance of death.
Kind and just in times of peace, it was easy to forget the feral, inexorable killer within him, surfacing when his people needed the most.

First Wizard Ithilwen kept placing key spells with uncanny precision, minimizing the power expense and obtaining devastating results, her weaves so cold they could make even the dead shiver as testament of her skill level.
All the while, her face remained a blank, cold mask devoid of any kind of emotion in spite of the gruesome murder of their ranger brothers, the ghastly army closing in on them or the sheer size of the Golems towering over the scene.

The dark figure managed to get a glimpse of Amy using all her blessings, considerable swordsmanship and uncanny agility to keep countless walking corpses at bay while her sister Del supported her with her magical gifts, and of Gabriela blasting as many of the abominations as she could while trying to keep out of their reach...Then, eternal instants later, they came for him.

They rose out of the mud all around him, grabbing him, pounding on his wards, clawing at his life thread. He let them. He felt the strain on his defenses, mirror images shattering, barrier spells weakening...his anger rising.
When he was satisfied with the amount of them massed around him, he thrust his arms towards the sky, ancient Loross words coming out of his mouth as the trance every mage of power knows all too well took hold of him:

"Soul Sunder"

He chuckled darkly when every last one of the monsters fell limp, the bond with their master severed. With the dead Dharashan still vivid in his mind's eye, he turned his vindictive, burning glare towards his new targets as he stepped forward, hands raising, ready to weave again:

"And wait to see what I have in store for your master, puppets..."

A burst of magical energy was shaped into an inferno, engulfing the next attacking wave and leaving only charred remains in its wake...

[Invoker]

Foreword

Archmage Kael of the fallen Kalinor, Master of the Shadow Tower and Lorekeeper of Dharasha whispered sharply a few power words in the arcane language of magic as one of the Necromentals closed in on him. The hulking form lounged for him right before imploding, instantly crushed by the divine energy summoned by his weave.

He dusted his black robes off with nonchalance, his emerald gaze sweeping the killing zone. The Rift that had formed on their side of Boareskyr Bridge had been closed, obliterated by the power of steel and magic. The attacking Elemental army had been defeated.
His companions were all alive, and in excellent shape: the High Command of the Silver Rose had proven once more their incredible battle prowess, just like the last time he had fought alongside them to defend Doron Amar. His Dharashan brothers and sisters had been their equals, displaying martial and magical skills far beyond the level one would deem reachable by mortals.

As the negative energy residues across the battlefied began to wane like a dim match, he murmured in a long-dead language:

"Carry this word of advice to your "friends" as well: stay dead..."

Turning his back to the scene, he began walking towards the Portal Stones, the gateway to Dharasha, where their meeting was about to begin after the brief...distraction.

When would these liches, necromancers and plaguebearers learn? He was not afraid of the Undead...

It was the Undead who should have been afraid of him...

[Invoker]

The Angel And The Demon

"Finally!"

He grinned. An evil grin, sinister and joyous, in stark contrast with the reactions of his companions: Vincent and Deleniel's widening eyes...Raven's incredulous "what the...?"...Bathsheba's scream of terror...Ithilwen's frozen, blank mask, her attention all focused on the object lying in the long-dead Giant's grip...Nai's urgent "We gots company!!"...Faelwen's desperate "Oh Hells...really?!?!"....Nymmestra's hanging mouth...or even Eleanor's simple, level stare towards the monster.

Right beside him, with the corner of his bloodshot emerald eye he could see Mendel walking to his side, his own lips curved:"...finally?!"he repeated, a disbelieving chuckle escaping him. The Archmage's grin broadened further.

The creature's massive body emerged from the shadows, now fully visible despite the gaseous haze. Each of its booming steps a death knell, its huge wings scraping against both sides of the large cavern, its voice a guttural symphony of fear:

"AT LONG LAST. THIEVES BURIED AMONG THIEVES."

Cultists began to mass around it, pouring from its sides as if extensions of the long shadow it cast. Meanwhile, the Undead corpses of a large number of deceased explorers came from behind, cutting any chance of retreat. But the dark wizard had no intention to flee...

"THERE IS NO ESCAPE"

He heard one of his allies scream "No...NO!" as he replied:

"Yes..."no escape for you...small cave, your men all around you...I doubt you'll be able to run away, this time...

As the banter continued a while longer, he could see Ithilwen using her power over cold to break the skeletal giant's icy grip and recover what they were looking for...what EVERYONE was looking for...Everyone but HIM: what "Kor'Vain" was looking for stood right in front of him. It was massive, dead, rotting, ugly and winged. It was a monster, just like him. It was wonderful...an enemy requiring all of his power. Finally...

"YOU WILL ROT FOR AS LONG AS YOU HAVE LIVED. NOW. LIE DOWN, AND DIE"

As he lifted his hands, reagents already flying through the acrid mist, he whisperedYou and your friends are the only ones who are going to die...and you're already rotting...

The battle began. And it was brutal. Waves upon waves of crazed, bloodthirsty cultists and their leader, Brann, the Angel of Decay on their front...a relentless army of decaying corpses approaching their rear. Steel flashed, Nai's fangs snapped, destructive weaves followed one another on both battlefronts. Screams of agony, corpses shattered, immense powers bent to mortal will. It was glorious. It was perfect.

And then, it was over. The bodies, fresh and long dead, equally butchered. The Angel of Decay fell with its back to them, trying to flee. The Archmage moved towards it, stepping on its head and crushing it beneath his heel:

"As I said...nobody here is going to die, aside from you. You thought you were special, but you are nothing...just another disappointment"

He should have felt relieved, like his companions. Joyous for the great victory. Happy to breathe relatively fresh air again. But the only thing he felt as he walked away from the burning remains of Harrad's Rest, after having personally torched the place, was longing. He longed to meet this Blight. He longed to crush him underfoot, just like he had done with his pet...

"Soon enough...you can't hide from me forever...and then, we will see who's the real monster..."

[Invoker]

Crossroads

The ruined tower built on a hill overlooking the bridge was silent in its slumber as shadows began creeping around it like an eager, lustful lover's embrace, faster and faster as the dying day went to rest in its dark grave.

From one of the highest holes in the cracked walls which once had been windows, a humanoid figure stood silently, watching the bridge itself and the deserted landscape around it. His black robes stirred in the gentle breeze, and his emerald gaze stared towards the horizon from the depth of his cowl, his mind far away.

Despite every fiber of his being straining against the decision, he had accepted Duke Eltan's challenge and drafted a war plan to face the Blight's ever-growing army. Obviously, he had been absolutely right in the first place (as usual): it was a terrible idea for him to do such. The allies were divided, some openly opposing him due to sheer personal distaste, and others refusing to even join the discussion, no doubt on principle, purely because he was in charge.

He did not blame them for their attitude. He only hoped they would eventually unite against the common foe, be it the Walking Dead, himself, or both. After all, their very world was at stake: what would their gods say if they chose their pride over their very duty and reason of existence? He knew better than anyone else what pride costed. The thought brought a sardonic grin on his pale lips.

Regardless of tactics, strategy and politics, this war could most likely not be won by simply clashing with the plaguebearers. By now, they had assimilated too many creatures, expanded too much, grown too strong. They were not fighting mortals, thus he had for a long time already come to the conclusion that powers beyond mortal reach were needed. Beyond anything he had ever used so far, even the darkest, most powerful weaves he had to stain his soul with. Beyond darkness itself.

His memory brought him back to Kalinor, a village he once called home, not far from what remained of Myth Drannor, and that now was nothing more than a ruin, a husk, much like this tower...much like himself...

Archmage Kael, Loremaster and Defender of Dharasha, Master of the Shadow Tower and now apparently strategist and tactician in a war that should have ended months ago, and that by now was most likely beyond any realistic chance of victory, lowered his bloodshot eyes on the grimoire he held in his right hand. His gloved fingers lingered on the sinister engravings, representing all sorts of tormented souls and damned spirits a sick mind could think of and more.

The decision was made. Even he could see it was not a wise one. But then again, about four centuries of life and he'd never been wise...he doubted it would change. Even in the unlikely case he somehow managed to live through this.

"So be it..."

[Invoker]

Sympathy for the Devil

The moonless night enveloped the glade like a black, velvet shroud, perfectly attuned to the deathly calm of the forest life. Not even a light breeze was stirring grass and leaves, and any form of life seemed to have long since abandoned earshot distance, for the still air was also unnaturally silent.

The dark clad, cowled figure gliding towards the center of the glade could not blame them: every instinct was telling him to walk away too, which usually meant common mortal creatures would have ran away screaming in terror for a long while...Unfortunately, his Dharashan kin, the people he loved the most, were not among those. Ithilwen...Mendel...Nai...Dae...Nestarion...Erlidiathiel...even Tira, Tirion's sister that had so much of him in her...They were all there. All in danger, and about to witness the blasphemy he had planned.

Wonderful...

They voiced their concerns, but he would not listen. They tried to stop him, but he would not let them. They warned him not to go on, but he would not heed their advice. For he had promised himself to win this war, and he would do exactly that...by any means necessary, even at the cost of his own destruction. Not because he felt morally compelled to defend the weak, even though it was certainly on the bright side...not because he was particularly shocked at the injustice the plaguebearers were perpetrating, nor the destruction they left in their wake...No...he would do it, because they threatened and killed his people, treated them as mere collateral damage. He would do it because it had become personal. He would do it because they dared incur in his wrath, and he would make sure they'd regret their mistake tenfold. Could the Dead and their generals know fear?

Before I delete them from existence, I will make sure they learn its meaning...

As the tremendous energies invoked by the arcane formulas, combined with the reagents he poured on the ghostly blue flames, ignited the spellforms and glyphs of power surrounding the Summoning Circle, he let his mind drift, channeling his desires towards the pool of darkness expanding within the containment field he had prepared...And then, it appeared:

I AM LORD ARKZHOL, SUMMONED FOR A THIRD TIME TO THIS PLANE. WHO ARE YOU MORTAL TO DRAW ME HERE?

Despite the booming power of the Pit Fiend's voice, its gigantic, terrifying aspect and the sheer power it radiated, the Archmage found himself strangely only focusing on the insolent way the creatue had casually spat the word mortal out at him...Rage canceled fear, concern, doubts, regrets...in fact, he barely managed to stop himself from sending the clown to pack right away, with a few obliterating weaves aimed at the hole he would slam it in as a goodbye present...

How dare you?

"I am Archmage Kael of the Fallen Kalinor, Master of the Shadow Tower, Loremaster and Defender of Dharasha..." he paused "...and apparently now leader of men..."

Let the game of transient life and eternal death begin...

[Invoker]

The Game of Life

The ebony and ivory armies faced each other, perfectly balanced in numbers, waiting for the coming onslaught fearlessly. The Whites had always the right to the first move, a permanent, gods-given advantage...and yet, the Blacks never complained. There was no point: those were the rules. A small price to pay for the fairness of the Lanceboard, where no amount of luck, or underhanded tricks like spying, poisoning, betraying and the likes were going to have any impact on the final outcome. In the end, only the players' skill would tell...

Besides the Lanceboard, tactical maps and counters representing own and enemy forces were scattered all across the table. The Living and the Dead were about to clash, in an ultimate struggle to control the Sword Coast. The numbers were far from even: the Undead were countless, and rapidly closing in. Judging from how sure they were of themselves, they almost certainly had spies in the Living army's midst, or at least some wolves disguised as lambs and placed in vantage positions to report to their generals. Their power was vast, their commanders beyond mortal reach. Where was the aforementioned fairness of the Lanceboard, one might ask? What was even the point of playing with odds like these?

The bone-white chair creaked as he stood, black robes flowing as he stepped towards the table. He inclined his head, studying the Sharpteeth's representation and his intended deployment...and then, distractedly, he moved a pawn forward on the Lanceboard. At first sight, it might have looked like a very bold move, perhaps a blunder: the pawn could be taken by no less than two of the enemy pawns...indeed, the entire enemy strategy would have seemed aimed at preventing exactly that push, de facto making it impossible to perform...

But it was not a blunder...oh no. Not a gambit, either: gambits were daring attacking moves aimed at gaining momentum for the attack and open lines in exchange for a material investment. No...this was a sacrifice, but no simple gambit. To think of it, the reason of the move was quite clear, indeed...

What was the difference between eternal life and eternal death? Wasn't living like dying a little more every day...? Was it better to see the dark pit only too later, a moment before falling in, or staring into it every day, knowing it would be there forever, waiting endlessly for you to vanish into it?

Life without beginning...Death without end...

A blockade sacrifice...

"About time we start the game, Blight...I'm bored..."

[Invoker]

Enter

A dancing shadow, swirling snow in a gentle winter breeze, the elegance of a swan and at the same time majestic like an eagle. Fading in and out of existence, at times utterly invisible even to his supernatural sight, she moved with all the fabled grace of their People, and her frozen features were blessed with its legendary beauty.

The dark-robed figure kept watching as she vanished definitively from sight, away from the ruined tower. He lingered for long moments, the cold touch of her silky, frozen skin still in his mind, inebriating. Finally, he raised his bloodshot eyes towards the moonless night sky, took a deep breath and let it out slowly: he did not have much time.

Really? Are you still going to fight for THEM?! Even after what they've done?!

A sardonic smile touched his pale lips. Yes, of course he was. Some of them probably did not deserve it, but then, what would happen to their Doron Amar brethren? What of their trusted allies? And what of the ones fighting with valor for a cause they believed in? How could he abandon them all just because they understood nothing?

You're a fool. Even if you fight for them, they will not thank you. Even if you bleed to protect them, they will still hate you. If you win, they will blame you for their losses...if you lose, you will be their scapegoat...and if you die, even in their defense, they will piss upon your grave, party and dance as your people mourn.

Perhaps so. But was it so bad, after all, in the face of what was to come? How could anyone blame children for what they did not understand? How could he blame anyone for being scared of him? Besides...The Blight...Magmire...the Angels of Decay...this Netherese General...He was tired of them. Tired of their stupid requests, their nefarious plans, their growing power...Tired of their attitude.

He would teach them how to be awfully polite in the presence of their betters...especially his own good self. In a flash, six coffins in the Dharashan glade were before his eyes, the smashed corpses of their occupants when they found them, the pain of his loved ones as they performed the rites of passage.

You are a fool, Kor'Vain: you can never bring them back. And you cannot stop this enemy, either. They grew too much...they became too strong. It's too late. Of all people, YOU should know how necromancy works. Save yourself...you know what waits for you on the other side: if you die y-

"They should never have provoked me. I will destroy their creations, and kill them all: from those directly involved, to those who will try and stop me, and in general, everyone who will open their eyes at me. By the time I am done, they will wish they were as mindless as their puppets...

He stared defiantly, waited, but it seemed the cowled figure in the mirror had no further objections.

Excellent. I thought so...

[Invoker]

The Reckoning, Pt. I

The smell of acrid smoke, rotting carcasses, burning flesh, blood, sweat and other less easily identifiable substances was perfectly attuned to the devastated land right before the forces of the living's eyes. Countless Walking Dead had been shredded, bashed to a layer, chopped like muttons, used as pincushions, detonated, burned to a cinder, partially disintegrated and all in all, thorn asunder in the most diverse fashion, so much that it was actually raining long-dead body parts and pest-skulls' remains.

How many did they kill? Six hundred? Seven? More? Yes, definitely more...Even for his supernatural intellect, it was extremely complicated to provide anything more precise than a rough estimate. Most of all since they kept coming...
The rotting corpses gave way to the skeletal warriors, followed by the death knights, commanded by the fathers of corpses, and other various abominations one after another, all the while with countless pest-skulls diving on their ranks, trying to break their tight formation, forcing a weakening that would have meant being crushed by the sheer weight of the onslaught's numbers...

Shouting like banshees to keep a semblance of order, Lady Elvina, Sir Seth and their Silver Rose force were the commanding core of the few who dared stand before the Undead Horde, with Mendel, Kirias and his Dharashan and Doron Amar brothers and sisters, the legendary dwarven strategist Revenark with his kinsmen, as well as High Dawnknight Eldarian, Vendor, a certain shadow-dwelling elf that was an old acquaintance of his, Terri, a crazy dwarven pact-mage from Kraak-Helzak, an even crazier dwarf slayer, an earth genasi with an armor as heavy as your typical noble house, the mysterious Captain Greil of the Ebon Blades with his second in command and a huge Orc companion...and more. Many to remember and recognize in the chaos, dangerously few to face the tide of darkness.

When a number of unraveling weaves finally hit him, and a force spell blocked him in place, Archmage Kael of the fallen Kalinor, Defender of Dharasha, Master of the Shadow Tower and the probably insane mind behind this seemingly desperate plan, smiled wolfishly as his contingent wards snapped in place, deflecting the first attackers who reached him. Whispering in a forgotten tongue the long lost words of an ancient formula, he shrugged away the holding spell as if by simply willing it out of existence when he traced the glyphs of power that in mere instants began to intertwine into the destructive weave he invoked:

"Inferno"

Shaped by his mastery, the fire blast engulfed and incinerated all enemy forces in a several meters radius, leaving all allies untouched. His grin became a smile, then a sinister laughter. How many had they destroyed? How many would they have to? In a moment of crystal clear clarity amidst the hellish chaos, he suddenly realized one thing: he did not care at all.

He just wanted more.

"More. Keep coming..."

[Invoker]

A Change of Season

Moonlight shone through the cracks in the walls, criss-crossing the now almost empty room like a shining, ethereal spider web. The restless dust on the floor was stirred by the cold fingers of a playful wind, uninvited, lingering guest that abundantly overstayed its welcome.
The only furniture left in the chamber was an old mirror, right at the center of it.

Its frame opaque and worn like an old man's cataractic eyes, the light seemed to willingly avoid it, almost worried. Afraid...Afraid to be pulled inside, unable to leave anymore. Trapped with the dark figure within. The cowled, black-robed figure with the bloodshot emerald eyes, and a sardonic grin on his pale lips.

Leaving so soon, Kor'Vain?! Why...who could have EVER predicted this outcome...?!

A sinister chuckle.

So you led them into battle...you risked your life, and more importantly, the life of those you hold dear...of your allies...of everyone you care about...and how did that work out for you, hm?!

Silence.

How did they repay you?! By choosing to side with those who would want you dead over you. By forcing them by your side. By risking you and your people, while taking command of your forces and withdrawing from the chosen battlefield. By leaving you all to die...It was a miracle the Walking Dead steered away from your position, otherwise...

Another laughter, louder, more cynical than the former.

...aaand even now you're doubting. You're worried. Despite your fury...despite your contempt...all your resentment...you still worry for those fools. You're concerned they will not make it without you. That if you retreat to the Misty Forest, like you should have done long ago, and just take care of your own, they will suffer...maybe fail, be destroyed...be damned...

A long, uncomfortable pause.

You're useless. Where is your spine? Where is your hatred? You should KILL THEM yourself for what they've done! You should give the Amulet to Magmire, or to the Lord of the Pit himself...same end result...THEN, they would see the error of their ways...THEN, they would wail in desperation as you crush them underfoot, cursing the day they ever crossed you...Yes...

No response, nor movement, aside from dust in the wind.

You can't fight who you are, Kor'Vain. Give in to the darkness inside you...unlimited power is there, within reach...you just need to extend your hand and take it. Destroy the humans...use the weapon...It's your destiny. It's what you really want. You cannot lie to me...you cannot lie to yourself. It's inev-

A burst of energy shattered the mirror, its frame exploding, shards flying to every corner, a blackened circle where the structure stood the only indication there was something standing there.

"Interesting theory. However, I alone decide my destiny. Try to remember that, next time...if you manage to retrieve all your pieces, that is...

The dark figure turned away from what remained of the mirror and glided towards the door with almost supernatural grace, and considerable speed. He had someone to meet, and he did not want to keep her waiting.

"I am coming home, Moon and Stars..."

[Invoker]

Nightfall

The walls of the safest fortress in the Sword Coast were shining in the young moon's first rays of light piercing the dark overcast sky. The beauty of Great Seer Alaundo's tomb rivalled the importance of the immense treasure of knowledge it was built to gather and protect, and could not leave a learned scholar indifferent...even less so, when the individual in question was a Loremaster well within his fourth century of life.

After a last glance, he turned towards the Lion's Way ahead of him, and kept walking, his mind still dwelling on the encounter he had less than a quarter of candlemark ago. The bandits waiting for easy prey remained hidden, and the usually aggressive wildlife got out of the black-robed shape's way with unusual haste. Survival instinct, he thought distractedly: nobody really wants to die...especially by my hand.... The thought drew a fleeting, sardonic smile on his pale, thin lips, hidden under the mask. A smile that was destined to be short-lived. The meeting...

Master Smythe and the Guide raised very interesting points. They were probably right, even if they did not know for sure yet...He could have told them, but then, his involvement would have become as inevitable as it was necessary. Nobody really knew the true power of the Amulet of the Unburied...a power that could not only end wars in a moment, but worlds...

Oh, Magmire certainly knew...and her well-known (to him, at least...) living allies might, if they asked the right questions...probably nobody else, save a handful of Dharashans. He doubted even The Blight himself knew, blinded by his foolish quest to purify the world by burning it to ashes...

But of course, when such power is involved, the light at the end of the tunnel usually looks awfully like hellfire...

"Travel"

The brilliant white light enveloped his dark shape, and as it disappeared, so did he.

[Invoker]

Another Day

"I don't understand your anger"

The utter calm in her voice, a frozen pond in a still winter morning, kissed by the newborn sun's first rays...it always soothed him, even when he was furious. Which was most of the times.
He turned towards her, his cloak like living shadows all around him, his hood sliding off, revealing his fluent, white-golden hair. When his emerald gaze met her ice-blue eyes, he slowly exhaled the breath he had so quickly taken in without producing a single word.

"I do not mean to say it is unjustified, dear. I just wonder what the real source of it is", she continued.

In her silky backless dress, fitting snugly to her slim form and glittering like stars in a clear night sky, she was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen, including what he could recall of Arvandor itself. His pause gave her the chance to continue in her patient tone:

"What I mean is: are you angry because you think the Undead are winning, because even if the Council wins many will die, because they won't listen to you or none of these?

He sighed, feeling the energy fueled by emotions quickly draining away. As he shook his head slowly, she continued:

"And if it's the latter, does it have anything to do with your decision to retire from the war, or with the Amulet of the Unburied perhaps? Do you feel responsible because only we can carry it?"

"Don't." he objected, tiredly "Do not go there...you know we do not discuss that..."

"Why not? It's illogical to avoid discussions on points of interest, most of all when you are troubled by something. If anything needs to be done, then I can do it too. You know that I have more than enough power to d-"

She stiffened in surprise for a moment, as he took her into a loving embrace, his lips pressed against her. She relaxed and abandoned herself to it, as his black robes began to freeze. Protected by his wards, he was barely aware of the icy temperature...or anything else.

The Undead...the Amulet...the world itself.

They could all wait.

[Invoker]

The Reckoning, Pt. II

The air was so thick with pestskulls that it quickly became hard to see ten paces ahead. Close to the Western Wall's central tower gate, Mendel emerged from the shadows like a Displacer Beast with two long fangs of enchanted steel, and ripped a ten paces radius of them to shreds. He then nodded towards him as he dodged three more diving for him while sheating his blades and extracting two blunt weapons looking like heavy cudgels. He then unleashed a flurry of attacks so fast his movements became a blur, carving himself a path towards the edge of the walls. The Behemoths carrying the bulk of the Undead army attacking the human city were closing in. Good...

Already in proximity of the rampart's edge, using her elemental form to crush enemies by the dozens and subsequently wash their carcasses through the battlements' merlons so as to prevent them from hindering the defenders' movements, Nai fell in beside her beloved, using her formidable spells to ward him against any harm and incinerate everything approaching his blind spots, allowing him to unleash all his devastating offensive power in direction of his chosen attack vector.

On his right side, words of power summoned forth a burst of divine energies burning to ashes an entire cloud of the foul creatures. As the masked figure turned, the smoke cleared to reveal Kirias' shining figure, fully armed and armored, a beacon of light in the Gate's darkest days. He arched an eyebrow towards him, and the priest grinned back, before willing out of existence two more monsters. The Plaguebearers were going to have a bad time, and the thought brought a wan smile on the black wizard's pallid lips.


The chill in the air announced First Mage Ithilwen even before she materialized right in front of him. She had already snared the entire landing section in front of the Behemoths with multiple Web and Grease weaves, slowing to a crawl the invading forces.
"Sorry to disturb your elucubrations, dear. Are you going to stay there in your brooding mood for long? If you have time, it would be advisable to actually enter the fight. The Northern and Southern sections need our assistance. They are being overrun" Her beauty always got him, even when she was...like that.

Sighing deeply and muttering something about young, impatient people, the Master of the Shadow Tower turned towards one of the first few Rotting Corpses that made it through the southern defensive line and glided towards it in a cloud of dark robes. Not hasty. Haste was...well...undignified. What mage needs to run in battle? That reeks of poor planning, limited foresight and an INEXCUSABLE, overall lack of class.

"You"

The rotting corpse turned towards him raising one of its powerful claws to strike. However, the arcane weave enveloped it in its dark embrace right before it could act. The Walking Dead stopped, empty eye-sockets staring at the dark-clad wizard questioningly.

"Very good. Now, off with you: go back to your comrades, and start to hack them to pieces, yes?"

The Undead flanked his former allies, and empowered by its new master's weaves, it shredded a handful of them before they even detected it for the threat it was. In the mayhem, none of the living even noticed. Kael smiled sardonically.

"Come forth, Magmire. Come, and learn how a true Mage of power does battle..."

[Invoker]

Wasteland

"It's your money, and your life, old man...nice staff, by the way...if you hand it over now, I'll kill you quickly. I don't want to risk ruining such a piece...must be worth a fortune...". The man grinned.

The dark-robed, hooded figure calmly came to a halt mere paces away from the bandit blocking the way north. The war that devastated the Gate brought this kind of gifts to travellers, of course: the law enforcement assets and resources were focused inward, overseeing the restoration of the city and preventing pillaging and scavenging as much as possible...or at least, limiting it to their own good selves...As a consequence, the roads were left to the wolves. Well, cockroaches, really...

His hooded head raised slightly, two pools of emerald light pointed towards the brigand's face. The dark figure's shape's gaze shifted as he slowly moved his cowled head from the speaker, to the figure behind him. A faint arcane aura emanated from that one. A mageling of sort, then. How amusing...
Right behind him, he could hear the muffled steps of the two hidden ones closing in, almost within striking range now. His pale lips formed a thin, sardonic smile under the mask.

"Open your mouth, old man...don't force me to carve you another..."at that point, the mageling whispered something to his ear, and they both laughed"my friend, here, says you are a sort of mage...an unwarded mage...that would explain the staff, and those runed robes...Tell you what, if you give me all you have, AND your clothes, I am going to let you go...and only cut your tongue. But if yo-

The dark wanderer whispered something, then laughed softly to himself.
His eyes narrowing, the bandit's tone became less condescending, and more threatening:

"I think the grandpa has gone insane. Hey, old man!! Hello? Let me break this down for you: we are armed and ready, and you are alone and unprepared. We've got you. If you don't-

The black wizard raised his left hand, producing a dismissve gesture as he murmured some unintelligible words and the bandit's words died in his throat. Gurgling, his eyes bleeding and fluids pouring from all over his body, he fell to the ground and began contorting himself in excruciating pain.

"Enough".

Before the two aggressors behind him could recover from the sight of their agonizing leader in a pool of his own blood coming out from every orifice, he added: You want my walking stick? Why, of course...Here you go, friend and he let the artifact drop right on him. As soon as the blood-red gem on top of it touched the skin, the outlaw began to wither at alarming speed.

The mageling was the first one to react, using a wand to create an aura of silence all around him. "Good move...", he thought approvingly,...for an ant.. An instant later, the bandit caster exploded in a burst of blood, the dark wizard right behind him and casually adjusting his cape and robes. "Just not quite good enough..."

Finally, the two want-to-be backstabbers forced their weak-willed legs to move, their hearts beating twice as fast as before.

"When will you ever learn..."

Knowing they had been detected, they hastened their pace, now steps away from his spinal cord.

"...that crossing me..."

Their daggers and shortsword had almost completed their deadly arcs.

"...is a mistake that warrants extinction?"

The blades connected. Twice. Three times. The expert cuts and stabs, all hitting vitals, would have ended any of their usual victims, as they had in the years. This time, their target slightly staggered, no blood coming from the entry points. His hands raised once more, tracing a glyph of power as he uttered words of an ancient formula in the arcane language of magic:

"Curse of Years"

He turned towards the dessiccated husks that were his aggressors, stepping over them as he picked up his cane from the corpse of their leader. The Staff of the Invoker pulsed of a renewed, sinister red light. Hungry.

"Is that all you've got? Four cutthroats? Lamentable..."

The Master of the Shadow Tower continued his stroll north, studying the devastation brought by the Blight's invasion with critical eye, and pondering its deeper long-term consequences.

[Invoker]

Live Forever

"As you probably know, though the eras, countless arcanists of power have fallen in pursuit of supreme arcane mastery. Some of the mightiest mages in history, driven by greed, compelled by necessity, desperate to save their loved ones, or themselves, delved deeper and deeper into the secrets of weaving...boldly staring into the abyss until its darkness seeped into them..."

The dark-robed figure spoke softly, yet his voice somehow was clearly audible in spite of the furious roar of the creature behind him. Motionless and inscrutable in the glacial air of the Keep, the black wizard leaned casually on an exotic-looking ebony staff of exquisite make, decorated with crimson inlaid and a blood-red gem mounted on top of it, glowing with a pulsing light...almost hungry...
The dead bodies of the Frost King's retinue were scattered all around him, with his majesty himself blocked inescapably in the force vise he evoked. A wall of flames woven right under it was slowly melting the monster, the excruciating pain adding to his fury and outrage.

"Necromancers, Blood Magi, Demonologists, Diabolists, Witches, Warlocks...contrarily to common knowledge and what the ignorant and simple-minded believe, many of them embraced corruption, damnation and death for the greater good. A noble cause, of sort...but I digress. What does this have to do with me, you might wonder...?!"

The Giant screamed louder, his mighty limbs almost breaking free from the holding spell, the flames still consuming him. The dark wanderer did not seem to notice. He kept speaking in his low whisper, almost to himself

"Absolutely nothing. Yes, I do serve my people, and thus a greater cause. Yes, I turned to less...conventional means in order to increase my already vast power. And yes, some of my actions would probably be deemed...ah...morally questionable by a few overzealous individuals, but there is one huge difference between me and the others...

In the brief pause that followed, the Frost King managed to take two large steps towards him, moving away from the wall of magical fire and with the blade of his immense axe mere paces away from his cowled head. The mage turned towards his royal opponent, two burning pools of emerald light piercing the darkness of his hood's depths and locking into the Giant's eyes.

"The outcome. I will succeed. Unlike my more or less illustrious predecessors, I cannot be stopped. And this partly thanks to you, and your generous donation...ohhh, yes, I forgot to mention: it's full moon tonight..."

His gloved fingers expertly traced glyphs of power in the air, as the ancient formulas he pronounced ignited them with power. The scarlet gem on his staff grew brighter...
Radiating negative energy, the glyphs became a weave, and the weave enveloped the King, slowly starting to transfer his vital strength to the wizard.

Steal Life

Less than a candlemark later, a withered husk with an icy crown laid among his dead retinue. No trace of his treasures, nor his executioner.

[Invoker]

Entertaining Interlude

The ruined tower's room was barren, damp and dark, except for the shy moonlight rays penetrating through the cracks in the walls. Aside from a shattered mirror's pieces scattered across the floor, most of them drowned in dust like drunken sailors at the Bitch Queen's mercy, only a large armchair disturbed the chamber's perfect emptiness. On the armchair, a humanoid figure sat motionless, the silence broken only by the whispering wind as it hugged the tower in a lover's embrace, its lustful prying fingers reaching through the time-eaten structure.

His dark robes barely kissed by the occasional remnant of a gust, the figure could have seemed sleeping, or dead, if not for the two pools of emerald light burning inside the blackness of his cowl. His ghostly gaze was fixed towards the window right in front of him, seeing without seeing the familiar landscape. His mind was elsewhere.

He did not know this elven maiden well, the one Kirias was going to try and bring back from the dead, but it did seem odd to him that she would seek a gruesome death in the world below, the dark brethren's lair, no less. What madness could possibly possess one of their own to even think of going there? The Black Archer's followers were already reckless enough, but this?! She was already lucky she had been killed, either quickly or eventually...there are worse things than death...

"And you know them very well, don't you, Kor'Vain?"

He ignored the remark, as well as the blood-red pulsing light radiating from the gem atop his staff. As if that weren't bad enough, he had been asked to teach the gifted elven children coming from Baldur's Gate's orphanage. One of them was evidently talented, while the other's gift was as powerful, if less...conventional...but how promising they were was not the point. What c-


"What are you going to teach them, Kor'Vain? How to cross the line in becoming immensely powerful? How to become a corrupted husk of an elf? Will you teach them how to maximise their targets' suffering, how to control the Dead, how to feed upon life force? What about extending their cursed existence by feasting upon souls, hm? Teach them...teach them how to become monsters. Like you. A page from the Grimoire of the Damned, the Tome of Foul Mood or the Book of Desperation...you're the true master, after all..."

His laughter joined the voice's, and outlasted it.

"You know...to be a hungry, long-dead spirit trapped in a rock, you really are rather entertaining. Perhaps you should consider a career as jester. Meanwhile, I recommend you speak to me only when asked, lest I have you feed on rats for the next two centuries...yes?"

Long silence.