Robert Cooper's Story

A frigid gale blew through the ruins.

The door suddenly exploded in a shower of splinters, sending its defenders flying through the air like ragdolls. Darkness - pure, writhing, living darkness - filled the doorway. An ear-splitting scream intermingled with the whimpering wails of countless souls, and the blood of the island defenders turned to ice in its echo. Several of them dropped to their knees and added their voices to the chorus as they tried to tear out their ears.

The darkness poured into the room like a churning black fog. It squirmed with the rattling of chains as the writhing mass of dark tendrils, smoke, and shadows shot out like murderous hands. Three men fell apart with an explosion of gore and viscera. Blackened entrails and icy blood was spewed across the ground as a line of defenders were shredded, flayed, and cleaved like butter against a glowing hot knife.

A crossbowman shot his bolt at the darkness only for it to clatter uselessly against the back wall. He had little time to contemplate the futility of his weapon before he was sailing across the room like a toy tossed by an enraged child. Another brigand - a woman covered in tattoos and holding a musket - was hoisted into the air at an awkward angle by the living smoke. Half-frozen blood poured from her neck like a fountain. The firearm clattered to the ground and went off with a bang.

The smoke and smoldering shadows churned and solidified. Long arms and hands with clawed fingers materialized from the darkness. A monstrous demonic face formed from the smoke, revealing a sadistic grin filled with several rows of razor sharp teeth that sank deeply into the woman's flesh. Glowing crimson eyes glared, unblinking, at the rest of the islanders. They radiated with hunger for spilled blood, violence, murder, and for anyone - anyone - to dare stand against him.

"Unhand her, demon!" cried out one of the defenders. The man's dark blue coat trailed behind him as he sprinted forward with his pistol and rapier drawn. A three-corner hat sat on his head while piercing green eyes glared defiantly at the dark spirit. He slid to a stop and leveled the pistol at the creature's semi-corporeal form. His thick leather boots kicked up a small cloud of dust.

Captain Cooper fired his pistol at the monstrosity. It pounced like a viper, leaving its previous prey dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Cooper dove into a roll, narrowly escaping a swipe of the monster's shadowy claws. He retaliated with a thrust of his rapier, but the shadow twisted around the blade with a snarl. The creature's blood-red eyes burned with murderous glee as it snapped at the pirate with its powerful jaws. However, Nightgaunt merely bit into empty air.

Cooper ducked beneath the attack and drove his rapier deep into Nightgaunt's shadowy mass. The shadow unleashed a terrifying roar of pain and rage as the blade sizzled. His grip faltered as an icy numbness crawled up his arm, but Cooper redoubled his efforts and pressed the blade deeper into the monster's phantasmal chest.

Nightgaunt shrieked in fury and his fiery eyes narrowed like a predator. Ice coated the rapier's hilt and slithered up Cooper's hand. The King of Shadows sneered wickedly before grabbing the pirate's hand with his own and squeezing. His hand shattered like a bundle of twigs beneath the dark spirit's strength, and he fell to one knee in a suppressed groan. Finally, Nightgaunt swiped a clawed hand across Cooper's exposed back.

Captain Cooper screamed as the spectral claws rent flesh and scraped bone. They were like whips laced with razor blades being struck by a goblin slavedriver. An impossibly cold chill reached deep within him. It was colder than arctic rain of the northern sea and more oppressive than the darkest abyss. Nightgaunt's cursed claws were suffering given form - Death made manifest.

His claws drove deeper into Cooper's back and emerged through the front of his shirt. Blackened blood soaked the cloth as his scream was drowned out by the blood dripping from his mouth. Nightgaunt lifted his quivering body from the ground and tossed him several meters away. The rapier, with the guard currently entangled with Cooper's crushed fingers, slid out of Nightgaunt's chest and followed his trajectory.

"Well now..." Nightgaunt hissed as he watched the nearly-lifeless body of Captain Cooper struggle for breath on the ground. "I haven't had a decent fight like that in ages. I will save you for last..."

"Now..." Nightgaunt turned and sneered at the trembling survivors. "Where were we?"

"Heel, Nightgaunt." a voice caused the ruins to tremble.

Nightgaunt and the remaining islanders turned towards the shattered remains of the door. Shadows writhed and groaned as a massive humanoid figure stepped into the room. He stood nearly twice the height of a man, and an aura of pure malice and suffocating despair radiated from him. Tattered dark robes were draped over his desiccated body while he held a long black staff in his right hand. The burning skull of a demon lay impaled on its spear-like tip. Glowing blue eyes peered at each of the islanders through the concealing shadows that clung to his body.

"You have done well, my servant." he said. "Now go forth and ensure the rest of the island has been cleansed. Return to me when your task is complete."

"Yesss, Lord Deathweaver." Nightgaunt replied before vanishing like a whiff of smoke in the breeze.

"Now..." he addressed the islanders. "Which one of you is the leader of this little band of misfit children, hmm?"

None of the islanders spoke in their paralyzed fear.

None of them needed to.

"I'm... hurk... Right 'ere, ya waterlogged..." Captain Cooper groaned as he slowly stood up while supporting himself against a fallen pillar. "... Davy reject!"

Cooper's face was nearly as pale as the skeletons that now huddled outside the doorway. Blood dripped from his belly, mouth, and broken hand as his eyes glared at the lich with steely determination.

"Such spirit..." the lich sneered. "So much hatred... So much restrained rage... You will do nicely, but first..."

He stretched out his hand and pointed a skeletal finger at Cooper. "...You must be broken."

Captain Cooper's body suddenly went rigid. An agonizing hiss escaped from his mouth, but he continued to lock gazes with the lich. The lich in turn curled his finger back, and Cooper's stiff body levitated towards the skeletal abomination. His ghostly blue orbs met Cooper's defiant emerald eyes, and he sneered.

"I am Gro'chal Deathweaver," the lich began, "Master of the Ancient Dead, Bearer of a Thousand Souls, and the Voice of the Damned. Death itself kneels to my will. Who are you to challenge me?"

Deathweaver clenched his fingers into a rigid bowl and Cooper's chest lurched forward. He let out a loud gasp as his eyes widened to diner plates.

"Do you feel that?..." Deathweaver whispered as his clenched hand pulsated. "That is the feeling of your life at my mercy. Do you sense the fear creeping through your mind like a swarm of spiders? Do you finally realize how just frail you really are? Such a fragile shell..." Deathweaver stopped the pulsating for a moment, and Cooper groaned in agony.

"But I will make you STRONG!" he said before clenching his hand into a fist. Cooper let out a gurgled scream as his body convulsed.

Then he was still.

Deathweaver turned to face the other islanders.

The jungle drowned out their screams.

Dusk had come to Yggor's Island. Every other evening was marked by the gentle song of nightfowls, insects, and other nocturnal wildlife. The wind would whistle along the coast and cause the salty aroma of the sea to drift inland while the steady rhythm of the tide lulled the islanders to sleep. However, tonight was different.

Deathly silence gripped the island like a noose. Not even the wind or the birds dared to break the stillness. A blanket of terror laced with the stench of spilled blood and decay was draped over the island. The silence was broken by a distant wailing followed by an unnaturally frigid wind.

Gro'chal strode confidently out of the ruins with a dozen fresh recruits shambling by his side. The illusion of the phantasmal lich had dissipated, revealing his true alien form. His tail swayed as his brow furrowed in thought.

"The stars begin to align." Gro'chal said as he peered at the heavens. "They paint an interesting tale... Things are changing across the cosmos. What say you, Captain Cooper?"

The captain in question stood a few paces behind Gro'chal. His once-scarred living flesh had deteriorated into naught but rags draped over his skeletal form. Necrotic energy flowed from his eyes like smoke. Bony fingers clacked against the hilt of his rapier.

"Then we must act with haste." Cooper replied with a raspy voice. "I can organize patrols across the island while you execute the next stage of the plan. Your will permitting, my liege."

Gro'chal smiled approvingly at the captain's mixture of leadership and submissiveness, which amounted to his face tendrils flicking at the corners of his mouth. The captain would make an excellent commander of his forces on Gaia, but his true worth would be revealed at a later date. In the meantime...

"See to it that no one disturbs my work." Gro'chal commanded. "Have the dreadwraiths begin patrols through the jungle and along the coast, and instruct the ghouls and skeletons to begin construction of the bunker. Tell them to dig - and don't stop digging until their flesh is peeled away and their hands are dust. I will instruct Nightgaunt and his shadows to monitor the shore and surrounding waters as sentries. Dismissed, captain."

"Aye!" the skeletal Captain Cooper saluted and sprinted off into the jungle.

Gro'chal made his way to the village where he battled the wizard after relaying the commands to Nightgaunt. He could feel his presence, along with every single undead on the island. They were like links in a massive chain or nodes in a giant network. Their minds echoed within his own - telling their stories. Deathweaver listened to their whispers as he walked.

He could feel their pain and their sorrow. Many of them were victims of the pirates' barbarisms. Most spoke of hardships and discrimination from living under corruption and cruel masters. Others simply raved within their collective mind like madmen.

Gro'chal quickly silenced those.

When he finally reach the battlefield, Gro'chal took a calming breath and reached out with his senses. He could feel the ebb and flow of the islands energies, but he instead looked downward deep beneath the soil and stone. The Naacani stretched out his hand towards the ground and clenched.

The earth trembled as his psionic grip delved deep into the rock under his feet. He reached for the shifting tectonic energy that originally created the island - the lifeblood of the earth - and pulled. A cacophony of grinding stone grated on his ears, but he stood resolute through the pain. Gro'chal slowly raised his quivering fist as the ground quaked violently before a great chasm split before him. Magma spilled from the open wound and rapidly cooled in the night air.

Gro'chal waved his other hand and caused a wave of boiling lava to wash over the ground and create a basin. He leveled his hand and pressed it forward. The rock groaned beneath the unseen pressure while the lava frothed unnaturally.

This is going to take awhile... Gro'chal groaned to as he raised his hands - commanding another molten geiser to spring forth.



Several hours passed as the dark red glow of the natural forge lit the canopy for a quarter mile. The earth continued to shake from the forced tectonic activity while the scorching heat of the flames and lava burned away any vegetation for fifty yards. Finally, as the sun's rays crested over the sea, the quakes silenced.

Gro'chal fell to his knees and retched. A black liquid matted his mouth and dripped down his chest. He looked up through gasping breaths to behold thirteen massive stones and seven smaller - but still quite large - obelisks. Steam roiled off of their glossy black surfaces even as the ground cooled and solidified. Hundreds of runic symbols were carved into their faces like mosaics, but they were dull and lifeless.

Gro'chal rose shakily to his feet - supported by his staff - and examined his work. The dimensions appeared to be to specifications, and the rune-work was adequate. However, there was no magic in these constructs. They were more dead than the shambling skeletons that patrolled the island.

"That is a project for another day." he thought to himself. "It is time to check in on the construction detail..."

A quiet hiss was sounded on the island a bunch of trees, with thick leaves and, some of the areas contained grass while 90% of the ground of the island tend to have sand. It is an island after all, ariata felt like look around a nearly abandon island it had heard several story's about this place, and was filled with lots of gold, but it wasn't interested in gold, and any pirate stuff since witches are not fond to pirate like activity, but having to obtain gold could give ariata a lot of money that they could spend on.

"You seem to travel quite a lot lately ariata" Says the male that was walking beside it, the male contained blue yes, and jet black hair, he wore a black, and white stripped, half buttoned shirt, and some cargo shorts. The outfit was fitted for this humid weather. Ariata had worn a lengthy black hoodie with a skull planted on the right side, the hoodie had reached passed its secured area, also wearing socks that came to its knees.

"There's nothing wrong with a simple travelling ya'know, nobody wants to be stick in the same place, seeing the same things for the rest of their life ya'know" Ariata says carelessly. Their conversation broke the silent, another hiss sounded, and birds flew above them. "So many snakes...." The boy complained, ariata looked at him plainly, and came in a halt. "What is it ari?" The boy questioned. "I'm sensing too much activity in this island all of a sudden, I thought the old geezer said it was abandon."

"Well you're wrong, he really didn't say it was abandon" The boy corrected. Ariata glared at him, with its arrow pointing at his neck. The boy signaled him to stop in panic, as ariata's arrows went back to its skin, and the tattoos had shown.

Captain Cooper stepped out onto the rickety docks of Yggor’s Island. The sea was calm, its godlike fury quenched like the deafening silence that followed a thunderclap. Salt caked his reanimated bones, and he released a breathless sigh. To smell the ocean air again…

Cooper discarded the thought and gestured to several ghouls. They heaved large crates and carried them aboard the frigate like machines. Gunpowder, cannon balls, ballistae bolts, and all manner of ammunition and supplies were carried into the lower decks. Far more than normal, Captain Cooper thought, but he cackled as he remembered a lost detail.

The dead had no need for rum and dried bread.

Armed with cutlass and pistol, Captain Cooper boarded his new ship. He tipped his tricorn hat back and glared at the sea with baleful eyes - empty sockets filled with icy blue flames. His master demanded loot and fresh recruits, and so the captain would deliver.

A ghostly tune drifted through the mists as the ship set sail, heeding the song of the depths.

A dark ship slipped out of the Moaning Mists. Fog dripped from its stern like long ghostly fingers clinging to a departing lover. Tattered sails, soaked with salt-ladden dew, snapped in the wind while a faded rolly roger sneered from the center mast.

Captain Cooper stood at the forecastle with skeletal hands folded behind his tailcoat. A frayed tricorner hat sat on his head, partially covering the icy blue tongues of flame that seeped from his empty eye sockets.

“Helmsman…” He growled.

“...” A rotting ghoul looked up from its post stupidly, awaiting orders.

“Set a course for north-by-northwest. Let’s see what we can catch before the day’s end…”

A dense bank of fog arose from the waves around the viking longships. Tendrils of shadowy clouds lapped against the hulls like ghostly fingers as a dreadful moan floated through the ocean breeze. The waves grew silent, choked by the encroaching fog.

The fog engulfed the longships in an impenetrable veil that shrouded one from another. A foul miasma - the stench of rot, decay, and mildew - drifted through the air as the sea became deathly silent.

Somewhere in the fog, the creaking of a lone vessel stalked the herd of longships like a shark. It drifted through the water, presence felt but unseen like a phantom, and left a sense of wordless dread in its wake.

The shadow of a single ship peered through the haze. Cold ocean waters lapped against its sides even as a deathly stillness gripped its deck like a foul miasma. A black jolly roger, bearing a deformed skull, drifted in the chilling breeze.

A chorus of wails, dark and terrible and dripping with poisonous terror, fell upon the viking fleet. Ghostly apparitions materialized upon and below their decks. They glowed with cold blue auras, gaunt faces shrouded by spectral mist and cowls, but their forms were as transparent as sleet under the light of a full moon. The wraiths drew longswords from their sides, gripped them with both skeletal hands, and raised them in a vertical salute.

They waited a moment as an aura of dread fell upon the vikings, attempting to grip their hearts and minds with crippling terror, and then they struck. The wraiths swung wide but purposefully like reapers before grain - their phantasmal blades bypassing all nonmagical armor with ease - and they sang with a terrible keening howl as chaos would erupt within their ranks.

They killed without mercy or discrimination, cutting down all that crossed their paths.

https://youtu.be/6bWyhj7siEY