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[Dealthagar]

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"ENOUGH!"

Dealthagar rose with a start, tossing the stone table and the same dozen books he had read over and over during his year of incarceration. What could they do? NOTHING! He was the Herald of Oblivion, infused with more dark power and entropy than any of them could possible guess or even comprehend.

Meditating for weeks had been a distraction at first. Preying on the minds of the weak, luring them in, feeding, had proven to be a short entertainment. In the end, even a year was too long. He was the Herald of Oblivion, and tired of the lichling and his games. This council of impotence or whatever it was, was of no concequence to him, and he would answer to no one.

He had bigger fish to fry.

If the clone of him that his apprentice had brought to his home was truly as whole as it appeared, it would begin to look for allies, if for no reason than to try and kill him.

Plotting, planning and waiting was done. It was time to act. Time to wake the dead.



But riding into Charnel Hill was not what he expected. Before the arrest, they were at the brink of war, enemies on thier heels, surrounded and friendless. He expected the grounds to be flooded with soldiers. Undead raised by the Necromancers, warghouls and mockeries crafted by Zhaz and Zero. Technomantic legionairres crafted by Unity. An army of the undead host, deathknights and madness lead by the Order.

He found a lone undead. A ghost of an empire.

Abandoned...


Unused...


Overgrown...


Wasted effort...


A city of the dead, as silent as a tomb, as unchanging as a forgotten memory of a moment that never happened.

In the end, all his paths led him back to the beginning...the end...the beautiful source of his pain, his power, his joy and his sorrow. Reaching out, he touched the Skull, reveling in it's majestic, unholy and uncaring beauty. It was a fitting place to have the Skull out in the open, in the center of the City of the Dead. No one would ever find it...as no one bothered to come anymore.



Looking upon Charnel Hill, he crossed the gate, and climbed the stairs. Surely, the greatest monument to Oblivion since the mighty Golgotha tore across Cainan skies would be filled with supplicants and seekers of the Skull.

Entering the chamber of ancients, it was as empty and forgotten as the rest of this forsaken city. He crossed the Chamber of Ancients, his eyes locked on the iron maiden sitting across from his chair. He leaned close, gazing in bemusement at the inscription....



As if any of them had the power to do anything to him. As if any of them thought they could tame one as ancient as himself. They were all children, pretending to serve Oblivion. Pretenders and babes who tasted the scraps from Caina and thought themselves worthy heirs to the legacy of Oblivion.

His eyes crossed the room to it's end. Yes, this was where he belonged.



He sank into the throne, caressing the arms as he grew more and more accustomed to the feel of it. Why shouldn't he? Power comes to no one. Drayek and Kaelthir's mounds of notes and books he had gathered in secret told him the truth. One does not become a lich lord through Oblivion's blessing. It takes guile, power and the will to take it away. If you tell a lie enough times, anyone will believe it, even yourself. That's what the teaching's of Darrien's rise to power taught him.

Perhaps it was time to claim himself Overlord of Umbra. With the legions of the Order being nothing but forgotten dust, who would say otherwise? Perhaps it was time to mark his territory.

A thing to contemplate, truly.


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The Three Truths of Singularity
Do something to the best of your abilty or don't do it at all
Feel to the fullest of your ability, cutting yourself off from your emotions leads to spiritual death
Control your being, your existance, your destiny.
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