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[Grignag]

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Izrem's steps were slow and methodical as he paced around the walls of the Scholomance. He had always been a servant at heart, even as an Ancient. He had done his work dutifully and faithfully, no matter the cost. The entropic taint that even now ate at his soul now flowed from his hands. Raking his finger tips along the myriad of runes and sigils he had carved there years ago the wards became warped and fractured, each one crackling and flashing in one final breath of mana before falling silent. Rejection wards, obscuring wards, occluding wards, identification wards, cancellation wards... a lifetime of research, some of which stretched back to the work of the first incarnation of the Order of the Ebon Skull. Most of it, however, was his own work. And now, it was time to move on. The work in this place was done. So the wards came down.

As each ward collapsed, dozens of sibilant whispers begin to ripple from Charnel Hill. Another ward destroyed, another voice entering the horrific chorus of pleading, sobbing, enraged and broken cries. The people of Umbra were no strangers to these sounds, the whispers having followed them since the reign of the Lich Lord Admoreth Nazduin. But they had only ever come at night and at a barely audible volume. Now? The voices grew ever stronger and ever more desperate. As Izrem shattered the last and strongest ward in the Scholmance's now emptied reliquary, the voices surged again, the strength of their macabre chorus hindered no longer. Their voices began to spread far and long in the lands of Malas, flowing out past Sanctus and the Shattered Isle.

Izrem allowed himself a moment to listen to the voice as they echoed in his soul. What a... marvelous sound. After the moment's revelry, he turned his eyes downward, setting his eyes on a point at the lowest level of the Scholomance. The final prize awaited. Izrem continued his slow and methodical pace as he descended through the levels of the Scholomance, his mind wandering. Oh, the power the Order of the Ebon Skull had collected. The great wisdom...the great potential. All in glorious service to Oblivion. He thought of the artifacts of old that had been forged in Oblivion's service. Rings of power and control. The Ebon Skull itself. And, of course...

Izrem's final steps echoed through the lowest level of the Scholomance. Away from the probing eyes of most of the world, the ancient artifact that most enthralled Izrem lay before him. The Well of Souls. That fount of power created at countless cost. How many thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands had the Order slain and sealed within their own hellish realm? A dimension in its own right and a true land of the dead. The Well had meant many things to many people, not all of them of Oblivion's followers. In the past, some had come seeking a lost loved one or an ancient sage. Some had come to wield its power and drink deep of aggregate lore that had been gathered in that place by some of the greatest mages and necromancers to have ever graced the whole of Sosoria. Izrem had often mused that the architects from the first incarnation were true geniuses to have forged such a thing. The greatest repository of lore and power that Sosoria would ever know.

The effect of Izrem's destabilization of the wards was becoming apparent. The command obelisks which fed the power of the Well of Souls to the Entropy Field Generator high above, and by extension the whole of Charnel Hill, were beginning to fracture and twist as the forces of Entropy did as they always did: brought chaos to places corrupted by stagnated order. Soon the Well of Souls would be freed from the anchors that bound it here. And Izrem was ready for when they did. Drawing back the hem of his left shirt sleeve, up to his elbow, Izrem's arm revealed an impossibly complex series of whirls, lettering and layering of enchantments tattooed both superficially and deep beneath his skin. Stygian text written in lettering so small as to be almost incoherent was scrawled in meaningful patterns from shoulder to fingertip. Runic symbols so heavy intertwined the jet black ink had almost dyed the already dark complexion of his arm the the shade of the deepest void. Years of research and months of meticulous labor had brought him to this point and now it was time to see it to fruition.

Izrem understood that the Order had gone into remission once more. Perhaps for the last time, perhaps not. It didn't really matter either way. The Order of the Ebon Skull was simply one of many expressions of Oblivion's will. The most potent, no doubt, but not the alpha and omega. With many having returned to their crypts or gone seeking new avenues of power, Izrem had remained behind to see to the relics and the lore of Oblivion. The Well was worthless so long as it remained sealed in this place. While the touch of the uninitiated and the unclean was less than ideal, to have such a work of art languish in this place was unacceptable.

So, Izrem would move it. Such an effort in the past had always required the direct oversight of the Lich Lord and at least several high level necromancers. Izrem did not have the luxury of such assistance. He did, however, have access to the sum total of every worthwhile word and incantation that the servants of the Order had penned. Much had been found lacking in usefulness, but enough had given him insight into the Well's workings. Izrem's own notes now numbered over a thousand pages on the rituals and works of Oblivion. And now it brought him to this point. As the rising cacophony of whispers grew into shouts, Izrem drew his left hand upwards, holding the palm up as he closed his eyes and began to chant in the guttural intonations of Stygian.

"Dakt jevolath de sadalen. Kaez de bismallath paisalath yu ze ladil serak iuz terak. Tajeklath DAZHU!"

The air seemed to still momentarily and the voices pause in breathless shock. Opening his eyes Izrem gazed down into the depthless recesses of the Well of Souls. "Come with me. There is much to be done and so many that desire your wisdom, oh well of Infinite Meaning." Izrem drew in a last and long breath before smoothly kneeling and slamming his palm onto the superficial exterior vortex of the Well of Souls. A hideous cry rippled out from the well and spread on the entropic winds to every corner of Malas, touching all who were sensitive to its emanations. His hand firmly pressed against the lip of the Well, thousands of motes of pure black essence begin to flow into Izrem's skin like a mass of pulsing, black vericose capillaries. Izrem's body was struck by indescribable chill as the fathomless depths of the Void seemed to merge with his flesh. His characteristically purple and reddish irises flushed black and begin to bleed into the rest of his cornea till only black orbs remained, staring intently into the Well.

The last few spots of his normally dark flesh disappeared beneath a mat of pulsing darkness as the Well of Souls began to close. The sensation seemed to have lasted hours, but in truth could not have even been a full minute. A final dying scream erupted from the Well before it sealed completely, leaving only the low and rippling glow of a rift marking the Well of Souls previous location. Izrem had seen ones just like it in the first resting place of the Well as well as in the crypt yard where the Well had been moved when Lord Nazduin had reformed the Order in Umbra. The truth of the matter was that Izrem could not actually carry the Well of Souls. It was far too massive and powerful. Not even a Lich Lord could do such a thing. It could only be sealed away with a piece of the Well retained in the material world, which Izrem had dubbed the "Seed of Souls". He carried that seed now. And judging from the pulse of force within his arm, he would not be able to hold it for too long. Izrem was still considering his options for the transplant. Back to the crypt outside Umbra. Return it to it's ancient spot in the frozen and dead lands of Caina. Perhaps even descend into the depths of Deceit and pass it into the care of the Liches from which Lord Nizar had first drawn the secrets of Oblivion into Sosoria. There was even Enoch, though Izrem was uncertain if the young man was prepared for such a responsibility. He would have to speak with him at length.

Rising once more to the top of the Scholomance, Izrem gazed at his own creation and what had sparked his in depth research into the Well of Souls. The Entropy Field Generator was one of his gifts to the lore and power of Oblivion. A complex organic device which absorbed power from the Well of Souls and turned it into a form of entropic essence that could power all of the runic defenses that had been carved into every building upon Charnel Hill, as well as producing a constant miasma which spread over the whole of the Order's lands. So long as the generator had stood, no force of time nor light could ever destroy the structures there. But now, at least to Izrem, these structures no longer mattered, and the generator had served it's purpose. Izrem strode up to to center point of the Entropy Field Generator. A malignant heart, attached by long and sinuous veins to a corrupted tree that the Lich Lord Darrien Church had gifted to Izrem. A remarkable specimen, though now replaceable. Reaching out with his trembling left arm Izrem seized the heart and begin to chant again. It took no more than a few seconds before lances of entropic energy begin to flash from Izrem's fingertips into the heart. In a sudden exertion of force Izrem crushed the beating mass into pulp as blood ran up his arms and into the runic patterns there, staining them red against the utter blackness of his flesh. The corrupted tree instantly immolated as the heart was destroyed.

The miasma and mists would soon retreat from Umbra for the first time since Lord Church's reign had begun. The whispers in the dreams of adults and children alike would finally silence, having been a constant companion to the people of Umbra since Lord Nazduin had brought the Well there. Izrem stood, one last time, on the parapet of the Scholomance and cast his gaze over Charnel Hill and Umbra. Perhaps the Order of the Ebon Skull would rise again and Izrem would return to this place once more. Perhaps not. Again, it didn't matter. As for now, Oblivion would live on in the hearts of all those who believed and carried forth Oblivion's will. It was a matter of inevitability anyway, and all reality marched towards the ultimate end. Izrem, ever the devoted servant, simply played his part.
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