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[thecursed]

Part I

The crowd in the tavern had grown at the news: a bard, a wandering story teller, had arrived in the afternoon and he would only stay one night. It was a rare event in this small village, far from any major city. In fact, any event was quite rare, so this was a night to remember. Before long the whole village population would gather round the fire in the tavern, anxiously waiting for the sun to set and the stories to start.

The bard was a visibly old man, dressed in a sand coloured robe, with a hood and long sleeves. Despite the firelight, none of his face could be seen. In gloved hands he held a ornate staff, gold carvings running from the top to the steal pointed tip at the end. The gold stripes resembled snakes coiling around the shaft, joined into a scarab at the top. It was a truly magnificent artefact, and it clashed strongly with the ragged robes and hood.

As the light of day gave way, he started his tales, the villagers held to his every word. He spoke of lost kingdoms and of epic battles. Tales from the time of troubles and of the baalspawn saga. Heroes died and lived, foes were punished, others were not. His voice continued through the night, and as the moon was high on this winter night, many of the children had fallen asleep, their parents carrying them to their beds, some returning to hear the end of the story.

Dawn was a few hours away when one of the villagers, taking advantage of the end of a tale, pointed to the ornate staff, asking the bard to tell the story of that peculiar item as in all his years of blacksmithing, he had never seen anything like it. The hooded figure turned his head, and although the villager could not see his face he felt the glare of the stranger and was taken aback. After a time of silence, the voice spoke again.

-To tell you of its origin is to tell my own story, and I am willing to tell you this particular tale tonight. But know that all that speak is true, as unbelievable as it might seem to your ears. I will also pray that you not interrupt me during my telling. It will be the final story of the night.

The last few who remained around the fire, huddled closer, not to lose a single word of the tale that was to follow.

-After the fall of Saradush and the trouble of the five in the south, much of the area was in chaos and it was decided by the temples to organise a campaign, a crusade, to re-establish the order lost during the troubled times. I was an assistant to the lead engineer responsible for the new black powder weapons we called cannons. These were much like catapults except that their power was tenfold and could bring down the heaviest of walls. They were weapons of a new age and granted many a victory to our army.

We had been battling for 3 months and we had not yet known defeat. We were confident in our ability to extinguish any opposition in the name of the Gods. Our commander, the Paladin Sigismund had promised our safe return in time for the crops and his predictions were promised to be accomplished.

In the second month of spring we learned of trouble brewing south of the desert of Amkethran. Their were rumours of a major undead cult growing in power somewhere in the desert. The holy Sigismund saw this as sign from Helm and lead us into the sandy plains of the desert of lost souls.

I had never see the desert before, and there it lay in wait scorching sand in all directions, rarely a rock or a petrified tree. Never a cloud in the sky, no shade to hid us from the scorching heat of the sun. At some times, the desert seemed to be part of it, each particle of sand a small sun.

If the heat during the day was indescribable, the night chilled us to the bone. Fires were kept to a minimum as wood was a rare product in these parts. Food was scarce as well. And worse of all, water had to be rationed. We would often go a whole day on a simple canteen of water. The clerics had much to do, reviving those who faltered under the heat, curing those stung by scorpions or other desert creatures. Because if the day they hid under the sand, at dusk and dawn, they would come out to feed, and their hunger was such that they would often try and get into tents in search for food. Our few fires attracted scarabs and other such flying insects, who would often fly into the flames, setting them selves alight, much to the delight of most men.

But beasts where not the only things living in the desert. Men lived there as well, nomads, scouring endlessly the desert. Some where traders, others bandits, and we met both kinds. The traders were well met and many were relieved of the weight of their gold. I myself bargained a pretty wooden scarab amulet that I wore under my clothes to protect me from scorpions and deadly snakes. The bandits however were dispatched in due form. The first attack was a surprise as they jumped from the sand one evening. They were quickly cut to pieces. Many men laughed at this, saying that if that was the only danger this desert had to offer, they were safer here than in Amn. But the greater danger was not to come from them.

It was on the fourth night that the desert of lost souls decided to show us why it had named such. A strong wind from the south began to blow, lifting the sand into a thick cloud on the horizon. The cloud soon reached us and stopped us in our tracks. All we could do in such a storm is shield our eyes and wait for it to end. But it did not. The south wind kept blowing for two days and three nights, sometimes slowing down, but never resting. It howled in our ears, as if a hundred men in pain. The sand was so thick at some times that the sun could not pass through. At dawn of the third day, the wind died, and the sand cleared. We would at last move on. But some would never move again. Many had been lost during the storm, whether they had wandered off or the sand had covered them up it was not clear. But a good third of the army that had set off to conquer the desert had succumb to its voice. we spent the day scavenging what was left of the supplies. Many horses had dies as well, not used to such weather, and additional packs were distributed to all.

With now the wind out of breath, the heat was worse than ever, and with the weight of the packs, several men fell to never get back up. They were quickly covered up with sand and left. A full week had past since the storm, when we discovered our destination. There, under the silent sky, stood the pyramids of the empire of the dead, the fabled and feared city of Nehekhra.

Edited by thecursed, 20 June 2004 - 03:58 PM.

[thecursed]

part III is under construction as we speak, but you should'nt expect it for several days. enjoy part two

Part II

The city was immense, constituted of more than a hundred pyramids and temples. All constructions were made of yellow sandstone, with carvings on every surface. Images of animals and men were mixed with their writings. The smaller of the pyramids must have been a hundred feet high, but the larger ones where dwarfed by the imposing red pyramid in the centre of the necropolis. I had never seen anything like this. It was immense. Its shadow could shade our whole army. Even the fabled Watchers Keep was no comparison. Its sides were smooth and it was so well constructed that we could not find a single crack in the massif construction. When we camped that night, the usual noises of the desert were gone. The world had become quiet, because even the men stood silent. I can honestly say that that night, despite the hardships of the day, I did not sleep a wink.

At dawn, we were woken up by horn, but this was not the usual wake up call horn. No, this sound came from a distance and had a strange sound. Very grave and strong as if it was the wind itself that blew it. After the initial shock, we readied our forces in preparation of an attack. Even the officers had not been immune to the feeling of dread of the previous night. My master had been set atop of a rocky mound with his cannons and I was of course at his side. My role was to distinguish the range to the targets. It was once we had gotten atop of the mound that I froze in horror at the scene going on before my eyes. In the centre of the necropolis, at the very foot of the red pyramid, an army of undead skeletons was forming. Shapes were coming from all of the buildings, joining to form organized regiments, squadrons. All had their officers, noticeable buy the gold and azure markings on their armour.

We could not move. The footsteps being muffled by the sand, the skeleton army moved with out a sound. Without a single order. Only the horn that blew. Finally the army was complete. A thousand head strong, the undead army had archers, mounted warriors, chariots, even catapults. But this was not the worst part: they had also a pair of fearsome skeleton giants. These were massive bone constructs, over thirty feet high, bearing huge blades in each hand. This could not be happening. No one had ever heard of undead this organized. They stood immobile under the sun, seemingly awaiting for something to happen. On our side even the mighty Sigismund was stunned. And lacking orders, we did not move either. Both forces stood a hundred feet away, waiting for the other to make the first move. Several soldiers cracked and fled their ranks. Some were called back but most kept running. Those we never saw again.

Several minutes passed in silence, as the horn had died once the army had been completed. Sweat was starting to dribble down my back, and I knew the heat was not to blame. I felt that my doom was in this battle, that I would not come back unscathed as in the other battles. I turned to my master. He returned the same look right back to me. But I was the only one who saw it. he turned to the weapons servants and ordered to prepare the cannons for battle. The first targets would be the giants and archers. The catapults were too far out. Range and elevation were set, the fuses waiting to be lighted. The cannons could be set with different ammunition, but in this case a single 30 pound ball of iron would be launched.

A large crash drew our attention. The skeletons were now banging their weapons on their shields, in a rhythmic repetition. The pace quickened and suddenly stopped. Then they turned to the red pyramid lifting their weapons above their heads. We had no other choice but to look in the same direction. And there we say a large crack open in the flank of the pyramid. It grew to a size big enough let through a whole regiment of men. And then we saw, mounted on a gold and blue chariot, the king of the undead. His armour shun like the sun, upon his head he wore a strange crown, that fell on his shoulders. His face was that of a corpse. Grey and dry like parchment. He was armed with a mighty flail, with skulls on the end, no doubt those of fallen enemies. Besides walked lich priests, four of them, similarly attired. And behind them, heavily armoured skeletons. They were the royal guard. The red markings showed their rank and honour. Again they moved into position and waited.

Even from afar, it was easy to see that Sigismund was confident. He had prepared this type of adversary. The clerics and mages scattered among the army started to chant spells to protect us from the undead and fear. Every man was ready for the fight, moral boosted by the spells. Weapons were drawn, helms fastened, last orders distributed. This was going to be an easy fight: under the cover of the spell, the enemy did not even see us. We would end this cult and go back to our families without a scratch. But the enemy did not move. Something in my mind told me that the spell had not worked as they continued to look strait at us. But with those eyeless sockets, it was hard to determine what they were seeing.

The Tomb King raised a bone horn to his dry lips and the noise we had heard before was heard again. As if they could hear it, the archers raised their bows and fired. The sky went black with arrows. The arrows seemed to wiggle like snakes, moving towards their targets. They hit us with deadly precision that could only be due to magic. Before we had time to figure out how they did what they did, a second volley was launched. This time the shields came up. Losses where less, but we still lost men. It was time for us to hit back. Our archers where of no use, but they fired anyhow. Offensive spells were cast, grinding the undead ranks. But the skeletons did not move. Only did the archers and the catapults. The later were quite impressive. They launched what looked like skulls that would scream as they flew through the air. The effect was terrifying despite the courage spell.

In a thundering roar, our canons fired. one of the cannon balls hit the targeted giant, shattering him to pieces. The other two missed their targets and went crashing into the pyramid behind. It was only then that the lich priests and their king sensed that there was an unknown power on our side. They started their strange incantations, one after and other, some reviving lost skeletons, but the last one had a very devastating effect: in a second, every enchantment spell cast on us was lost. A wave of panic blew over us in an instant. Only our faith for our leader kept us from running. That and the imminent charge of the undead.

[thecursed]

sorry for the delay, and thanks to farsal for the spelling

Part III

They charged. Under the cover of their archers, they rushed into the fray, not caring for their losses. The soldiers that still had their wits, counter charged along with the clerics. Their battle cry helped the others into the conflict. The sounds of battle filled the air.

Something was wrong. In any battle, the sound of clashing weapons was never alone. The wounded screamed, opponents challenged, men shouted their victories. Those sounds were not heard that day. The men fought and died in silence, as did their adversaries. No ground was lost nor gained. The men fought for their lives, their fear kept them in the battle.

Never had I seen such desperation, and I have never seen such desperation since. There was no retreat that day. It was victory or death, all or nothing. I could see the massacre from our hill. The human corpses mixed with the white bones of the undead. The sand, red with blood, turned to mud.

Far as we were from the battle, our position on the mound had not been forgotten. Skeleton horsemen soon assaulted my master and me, and we fought for our lives. We could not let the cannons fall. We would fight to our death. The last man would light the powder kegs and destroy the weapons.

We were not defenseless, but soon the fight shifted to our disadvantage. We were killed off one by one, except for my master, and me and then we too were overcome.

When I awoke, the battle was over. The bodies of my fellow soldiers lay on the ground, the vultures picked at their corpses. I saw the lich priests walk among them. To my horror, shapes emerged from the ground, human silhouettes.

Instantly I understood what was happening. The lich were ?recruiting? their fallen foes. The bodies rose as humans, but with a touch from the lich, their flesh melted, leaving a clean skeleton, which then walked to the end of the battlefield to join his fellows. From what I could see, we had effectively destroyed half of the undead army. The new members now joined their ranks; there could be no doubt that they would rise to the same strength. There was no stopping this force of evil?

We did not wait long until our guards split their ranks and we saw a figure advance towards us. He was tall, and his armor shone in the light. The image of a scarab was engraved upon his breastplate and I could feel the magical aura around it. The tomb king was a formidable sight. He towered above us; my master whispered that the cannons could not fall into their hands. He was already an old man, yet never had I seen him act so quickly: in a flash he had pushed aside the guards and was reaching for a torch when one of the liches touched him, killing him on the spot. This was more than I could bear.

Grabbing a spear from the fallen guard, I rushed at the murderer, skewering him. The moment he hit the ground, he fell to dust, and all that remained was his ragged ceremonial clothes. The other guard quickly immobilized me, in spite of my fierce resistance. My goal was to force them to kill me. I had lost my master and avenged his death, but I had nothing to live for.

I was brought in front of their king and pushed to my knees. I felt his gaze on me and I returned it. I wanted to stand up to him, show him my resolution. And he felt it. He walked towards the place where his priest?s ashes lay. He picked up the heavy golden staff and threw it at my feet.

A sound reverberated from his throat sounding like an eerie laugh. He spoke to me. It was a strange voice that I could hear only in my head, but his words were engraved into my very soul. ?We shall meet again.? He then turned and his army followed, as he retreated into his pyramid.

I was now alone. The desert had gone back to its silent state. Only the scattered broken weapons were proof of the battle. The wind picked up, and sand covered the remains. Soon nothing would be left on the surface. I was left to wonder how many expeditions, how many battles had happened in this accursed place. For how many years had this king ruled over this dead kingdom?

How long I stayed there, I cannot truly say. When my spirit returned, all I could do was stand and try to get back to civilization. I started walking in the direction of the rising sun. Hoping I would cross paths with a caravan. I walked day and night. I found that I did not need to rest. It was the first change.

Three days after I left the shadow of the necropolis, I was out of food and water. I had seen several human figures in the distance, but for some reason, they avoided me. It did not matter. On the fifth day I found that I needed neither food nor water. That was the second change.

I arrived at last at a large encampment. There were many tents set in a circular pattern and in the center stood a massive purple tent. As I walked in the camp, people shunned me, fled before me, hid. I was an outcast to these people, but I needed their help.

The chief greeted me shaking in fear. I did my best to calm him. We sat on the pillowed floor and I was presented with food, water, even fruit. But I cared not. I did not even react to the appearance of several beautiful and barely dressed dancers. I had become insensible to all pleasures. The third change.

I interrogated him about my condition, telling him my story. He was baffled and sent for the sage. The old man explained what was happening to me. I was changing. As I had struck down the lich priest, his death had cursed me with old age. The king, in giving me the staff, created another situation. I had inherited the power of the lich. Through the staff, I was, little by little, changing from the man I was to one of the walking dead.

[thecursed]

Part IV (conclusion)

We spoke long of my transformations. The first had come quickly, but the others would come over a longer period. My body would shape itself, then my senses would change. Finally as the last of my humanity slipped away, my soul would be lost. I would then become a servant to the lord of the red pyramid.
During the several months I stayed in the camp, my body aged at a tremendous pace. I had already become an old man. those where days of teaching and discovery on my growing affliction. I had taken a new master in the person of the old sage. But with his death, I was no longer welcome, and ever since the road has been my life.
The changes continue. I have gotten used to them while discovering much about myself and my new inner power. The insects and snakes were mine to call, magic would not harm me. Many adventurers tried to destroy me and failed. I fed on the forces of many so called lichs. My power has grown. But for every accomplishment, my humanity slips away a piece at a time. All that keeps me attached to my remaining humanity are the memories of my two masters. But all things in this world fade away. Already my name has slipped away from my mind. And one day, I know, I will forget their lessons and return to necropolis to share the burden of protecting the pyramid.
The crowd around the dying fire was silent, the tension that had built up was almost a tangible thing. The skill of the bard was such that they had begun to believe. Whether or not the story was true no longer mattered. They were convinced the cloaked figure in front of them covered an undead mage, an abomination to nature and to the gods. What would they do, what could they do? If this creature was as powerful as it boasted, there would be not stopping it. But he did not move. He did not speak. The only sounds where those of the embers crackling. No one dared replenish it as he was sitting near it.

The failing light of the fireplace soon gave way to a new source of light. Dawn was upon them, and as one, all turned their heads as to welcome the rising sun. Including the visitor, who as the light shone upon him, uncovered his head in a slow motion to reveal a sight that no one expected. The face of a young man. His dark hair, fair skin, gentle traits were more of those of a young noble than a wandering story teller, but there was no way not to be charmed by these traits. Many sighed in relief, some laughed at their previous fear. He had played them well. The strength of his words and voice had made them believe in a fantasy. That alone deserved coin. And coin he did receive.

He left that afternoon for an other town, an other tavern, an other public. He would not be forgotten in the last one for some time. Luckily the charm spell had worked on all, and all would remember a fair looking young man. No one had seen the real face behind the hood. No one had seen the gray skin, the lacking flesh. No one had seen the face of the undead that hid under the spell. But one day, the spell will fail. Someone will see through. And the tranquil traveling of the cursed will come to a halt. One day, they will find out the truth. One day?