Artrea's Story

Artrea awoke. The surface of Eras bubbled as the light of Artrea began to shine down on Gaia.

Neodin floated in the void, standing between the raging star and the crippled planet. He leveled his blade upon the fiery titan.

“Thus says Leolik Ha’Ari, God of Gods, King of Kings, Father of Fathers, Weaver of the Heavens and Earth!” Neodin boomed, filled with the spirit of his deity. “ ‘Speak to the Star of Eras, and say unto him: Peace! Be still! Who is your father? And who is the one who formed your fathers from the dust of Creation - and what is His son’s name? - that you would dishonor them with your hatred towards your daughter Gaia. Great is your power, Eras son of Sirius, and great is your fury. Your radiance shines across the heavens, and your warmth once filled the land with life.

“But now your light is poison - your heat pestilence. You burn away in your wrath, but even your rage must come to an end. Just as the gazelle’s sprint gives way to the pursuit of the lion, so will you fall before Leolik’s outstretched arm! Why has your countenance fallen, O Radiant One? Why do you cling to your bitterness, you who was placed with honor in the heavens?

“Release your hatred, child of the cosmos, and I will remake you. Let go of your jealousy, and I will breathe life into you. Hear me, Eras, and choose life!' "

King Neodin floated in the void. Time had become meaningless to him as he stood between Eras and Gaia, bathed in Leolik’s Everlasting Flame. He neither ate nor drank, but he only sustained himself from the divine spirit of his god as he offered his prayers up on behalf of Gaia and her children.

The nebula of divine flame bloomed like the wings of a great phoenix, shielding Gaia from the brunt of Eras’s influence. To those on the planet’s surface, it would appear as a great aurora that spread across the heavens. Neodin’s blade sat at the center of the inferno, stoic and unrelenting as Time itself.

“So speaks Ha’Ari,” Neodin began to prophesy, filled with the Flame, “The heavens shall darken and the skies will weep. The earth will boil and the oceans will turn to ash. Stars shall wither; and all that was, is, and could have been will come to an end. Such shall be the Eternal Night - the Great Unweaving - as the Last Creation shall be undone.

“But the song shall begin anew! There will come one of whom I am unfit to wash the dust from His feet. He shall carry the blood of a divine king, and His spirit shall be white as snow - one with the Everlasting Flame! The mountains will tremble at His name, and the great cedars shall bow at His passing! The Children of Gaia shall lift Him up, and His outcry will shake the foundations of the world!

“It will be through Him that Gaia shall be redeemed and Eras will be forever silenced, for whoever will follow Him shall be reborn by fire and water - and those who deny Him will be consumed by the Eternal Night. May heaven and earth stand as witnesses and wait upon Him, He who carries the name of Ha’Ari!”

Eras, who was glowing a deep, deep, deep red, turned slightly pinkish brown as Artrea was weakened. Rapidly Artrea filled Eras in on all that was going on below- included the fall of the Iskjerne Vikings. Eras wasn't happy to hear that those who were of most use to him had fallen. He cursed the Champions of Gaia.

Artrea felt their rays obstructed by a construct of light stronger than them. While Eras grew enraged, able to do little to stop the blockage of his corrupting rays of Artrea to Gaia, Artrea began to grow weak. The spectrum of the Colossi's impact narrowed, sparing those with fire for complexion, or those who's leaves flourished red. These Children of Gaia were voids to Artrea- the Colossus could no longer see, hear, or touch them.

This caused Artrea to consider the powerful light billowing between Eras and Gaia. Eras, meanwhile, closed off his energy. Nightfall had begun but even a vengeful God was required to recuperate after a battle such as the one in days past. Not to mention his cover had been blown. He shut himself away- nothing but an eyeball and an ear to none but Artrea.

Artrea had an idea. It was a strange idea, but an idea nonetheless. They communicated this idea to Eras, who hadn't considered an idea such like that before. Eras, in all his greed for Gaia, knew that there was a slim chance Artrea's idea would work at all- but he was in no position to face the God force before him. Eras blessed Artrea.

Artrea emanated from the glow of the stones, down the throats of the dead, and attached itself to the corpses of the fallen. The stone in the mouth of the king cast a steady glow on the small circle of monks as their chants grew stronger. Artrea had gotten this far on the blessing of Eras, but would need the children of Gaia to finish. The corruption of the King had transferred to Trophonia. Now, for a second life as the light of Eras.

Power was seeping from here to all throughout the crypts. A faint glow became of gems and treasures. There was a rattling- ever so faint - as sinister bones stirred for the first time in centuries... Eras had touched the Crypts.

Bjorg ventured further into the crypts, keeping alert for anything moving that shouldn’t be moving. One hand on his torch, and his other gripping the hilt of his cursed blade, he stalked as silently through the catacombs as his armor and light source would allow.

Let’s see if anyone’s home…

”Las… yah’nir!” Bjorg’s Voice, empowered with magic and authority, whispered into the dark.

The words traveled through the crypts like a magical sonar, highlighting any living creatures with silhouettes of flickering red. Nothing would be safe from his senses - animals, people, constructs, demons… undead.

The red silhouettes of corpses at various cause of decay climbing from their resting places were too close for comfort. The rattling of bones, the sick whistling as those who should never stir again did, echoed throughout the crypts.

The chanting continued far off. The monks tried at their might, but still the stone in the mouth of Trophonia failed to illuminate like the stone in the mouth of the King. There was no true necromancer in their ranks, but still they tried.

Artrea grew impatient. The corruption had been transferred. The Oracle was no longer of ear to Gaia. However the corruption had to be truly set, and in order for Artrea to continue to survive, the colossi needed to feed.

The monks seemed to shift, stumble, and sway as their chanting continued with maddening pleas. The crypts seemed almost alive as spirits of long-dead warriors and priests seemed to lay at rest waiting for the right words to be spoken and eldritch symbols to be painted in freshly acquired gore.

Bjorg's magic would find something a bit revealing the further he made his way down into the crypts. The images of the auras of the monks would have been the only thing to have been revealed at first until two other auras made their presence known.

"You chant old words but lack the power or the understanding as to what they mean. You pray for magics to take hold and yet you do nothing to incite the cravings of cold dead flesh."

The words seemed to draw the monk's attention as Ulaerius slammed the butt of his staff against the cold hard stone floors of the catacombs. His presence was accompanied by a short old crone who simply gave a wicked grin and carried a massive cauldron which she placed before them.

"Ulaerius is rather skilled in the arts of necromancy."

The old hag muttered her compliment only to begin to cackle. Agatha waved her hands over the cauldron she placed before her only to then wave over to the monks to come and take a closer look. Ulaerius smirked a bit at the witch only to then reach down and pick a femur from the ground.

Elsewhere within the crypts , Eurander was about to make the biggest scores of his life as he found his eyes upon a couple of gem-encrusted rings sitting snuggly upon the fingers of a long-dead noble. All he needed to do was pilfer this loot and escape this dank and dark abode and find the services of a cheap wizard to see if the rings are mundane or magical in nature.

"Calm yourself......Nothing but you, this corpse, and a good meal within the Obsidian Halls......"

The Half-Elven rogue continued to mutter to himself as he slowly began to reach for the rings in order to properly secure them for payments owed and due.

Bjorg clenched the hilt of his sword tightly as scores of flickering red shadows filled his vision. He pulled the blade from its scabbard, a smooth and well-practiced motion - almost mechanical - and he set his cold eyes on his first foe.

Sinister violet flames danced across the Oblivion Blade’s edge.

The Dovahkiin strode forth. Daedric steel flashed. A mummified head tumbled to the ground.

Ysmir moved on, slashing his fell blade across an undead’s torso. A phantom wailed as the creature’s body burst into eldritch flames and its soul was wrenched from its body.

The Harbinger stepped over a third body, skull crushed by a fist reinforced by a dragonplate gauntlet.

Bjorg Folkvar growled into the darkness, his draconic aura burning strong, as the steady march of his boots echoed down the hall like drums of war.

Two of the monks broke from the group to wander towards the cauldron. One recoiled slightly at the femur, wondering it's use.

The stone in the mouth of Trophonia began to pulse. Artrea's light begged of the necromancer to release the flow of the light of the colossi through the dead oracle.

The Necromancer held the femur and began to whisper a few eldritch words as the bone began to glow with an ominous green aura. The old Hag seemed pleased as two of the cultist approached. It was evident that they had no understanding of the arcane and what little they did understand of the divine had to have been superstitions and rumors. Agatha reached for a wicked knife upon her belt only to offer it towards the cultist who didn't flinch from the bone.

"Cut your hand, Dearie. Offer that force of life which flows strongly through your veins and take your rightful place amongst those who would oppress and belittle you."

Ulaerius smirk as he made his way past the two monks and towards the bodies laying out for their ritual transference. The dead king was a thing of potential even if he was no longer host but the former Seer of Skyfall was something to behold. The Plaguebringer rested his staff against Trophonia's resting space and his hand dug deep into the fresh wound that the prophet suffered only to feel blood-soaked organs and mangled flesh between his fingers.

"She suffered, but not too long I presume a pity."

Ulaerius began to examine the body a bit further as he removed his blood-covered hand only to then bring it towards the crystal that was the focal point for Artrea and their corruption. He simply brought his hand up high over his head and began his own chanting as the eldritch nature of his magic began to manifest as a sickly arcane ring shimmered around the stone.

"Khepa, Khepa, Ra Asparuk...."

Ulaerius whispered his chant as he brought his hand down upon the crystal focus now. The corruption that would take hold would be that of Artrea's design and hopes but backed by the power that the necromancer offered. His chant was no ordinary spell but of a contract for something greater.

Elsewhere within the dungeon, Eurander would let out a sharp gasp as the corpse he was about to pilfer from suddenly began to stir and let out a guttural groan. The Half-Elf quickly pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt only to dig the blade right into the creature's skull and watched as the faint glow from its eyes slowly began to fade. However the thief was not out of danger yet as another pair of glowing eyes seemed to come to life within the crypts, and then another, and another.

Clomp…

Clomp…

Clomp…

“Reeaaagh-urk!” Sshhlick!

… Thud.

A steady march of heavy metal boots approached Eurander from further down the corridor. Amidst the phantasmal glow of a sea of soulless eyes, two flames emerged from the darkness. One was the clear red flame of a torch held high overhead, but the other was long, violet, and radiated a sinister otherworldly aura.

The violet flame spun and flashed, and one by one the sets of glowing eyes faded away. Bjorg appeared from the shadows like a wall of muscle and steel. He towered above Eurander, who came to his chest, as he shoved his way through the shambling corpses while barricaded behind a suit of black and grey plate armor that covered him from head to toe. A large shield, a double-bladed greataxe, and a bow and quiver hung from his back.

“Either you’re an incredibly lousy graverobber that had the bad fortune to wake up all these draugr, or we’ve got a necromancer on our hands. Ya’ve got two choices, boy. Run away like a milk drinker and follow my trail out into the mountains, or hold my torch so I can make better use of my other hand. I’ve got to warn ya, though. Things aren’t lookin’ too great out there, either.”

Trophonia's eyes flicked open, light flashing from them for a moment. She swallowed the stone with a grotesque gulp as she struggled to pull herself up-taking the time to marvel at her hands as she placed them firmly on the surface below her. It was rough, and hard, and firm - everything Artrea was not.

Trophonia grimaced. It was the attempt at a smile but the muscles of Trophonia's face had yet to relearn to function. Artrea, as an aside, had never smiled before. There was a first time for everything the Colossi was learning. Aches and pains began to present themselves across her body, disappearing with cracks and pops as she slowly contorted upward. Her eyes rolled around as they learned to focus. The glow faded but never truly went away, a sight to see when the pitch of the dark of the Crypts returned.

The stone in the mouth of the King faded to black, veins of the same color crawling across his skin. They webbed out from his mouth and blackened his face. They spidered down his neck in an intricate pattern.

Eurander simply nodded at the heavily armored man knowing his best bet was to keep with the warrior until they could both escape this crypt. This man was something of a terror to behold and the Half-Elf didn't hesitate to take up the torch in order to light the way.

"Yeah, I don't want to die here."

He muttered a bit more as he raised the torch high above his head to illuminate the tomb a bit more. The thief glanced back at the ringed hand and decided to make a quick decision as he brought his blade down upon the dead hand to retrieve the goods.

"But I won't leave without a little something to prove this trip worth the risk!"

More of the dead began to rise around the pair of adventurers and a few groaned and seemed to call out in despair as their bodies that once had rest began to stir and shamble forward towards the living who didn't belong.

Ulaerius and Agatha stood their ground as Trophonia seemed to stir awake. As Artrea began to test out her new faculties the necromancer simply smirked and moved past the now risen Seer of Skyfall to examine the dead king with greater interest.

"Tell me what is to happen with the corpse of Paul Elupitser? I and the old woman have a 'benign' interest in the body and soul that had once ruled Skyfall."

The Necromancer continued to seem pleased with his work whilst the old witch continued to wait patiently for the monks to comply. Agatha continued to hold her knife out for the monks to do as she bid and The Plaguebringer simply awaited a reply as more of the dead around them began to rise from their slumber and await further orders.

"With our arrival and the words spoken many a being from realms much like our own but distinctly different enough to be called bizarre and eldritch began to fill the dead with the clawing and screaming souls that had once departed. I bend both life and death using my understanding of the essence between the realms and shape it to my desire....."

The Couldronmaster turned slightly towards Artrea and eyed the body she inhabited only to shake his head and raise his staff slightly off the ground causing more spellwork to flow through him and the surrounding area.

".....Quintessence is a unique substance to work with but the very fabric of the plane of negative energy is the most malleable to work with. So what does a good servant like myself get in return for helping you inhabit the Seer?"

Bjorg handed the torch to Eurander and drew his shield. The shield, like the rest of his armor, was an intricate fusion of bone and metal. He held it high at chest level, leaned into his stride, and kept his sword arm pulled back. A skeleton rattled forward, sharp bony fingers reaching for the nord’s throat, but a swift shield slam bashed it to pieces.

He stepped over the shattered bones, crushing a skull beneath his heel, and marched onward without breaking his stride. Those that survived the initial shield bash found the tip of the Oblivion Blade poking the backs of their skulls after a sharp thrust. Bjorg felt the foul magic in the air. It left his skin feeling uncomfortably oily, and the stench reminded him of rotten meat.

“I think we’re getting close. Stay behind me. It’s about to get hot in here…” Bjorg growled. ”Zu'u dreh ni med nahgahdinok. Zu'u fen ag niin.”

The Couldronmaster and the Old Witch simply turned their attention towards the exit they had entered from. Agatha simply glanced over to her companion and then towards the cultist and the risen 'Trophonia'.

"You all have a choice to make. Ulaerius and I can offer aid against the interlopers who are soon to approach this chamber. Otherwise, we can leave."

Agatha sheathed her knife only to move the cauldron she carried closer to Ulaerius as the necromancer began to weave the eldritch energies in the air causing the dead to writhe and shift within the chamber the cultist stood. The dead who lay dormant in their alcoves stirred and took up arms with blade or club and shambled closer to the due.

Further within the catacombs, the graverobber took up the torch and simply nodded and stepped over the fallen zombies and skeletons that the nordic hero systematically seemed to take out. Upon hearing that things were about to get hot, however, Eurander simply held the torch up high to give the fighter more light as they traversed the dark corridors of the crypts.

Bjorg pushed his way through the shambling horde of undead. He was an unyielding mountain of steel and will, and the Oblivion Blade made short work of the decomposed obstacles that barred their way. Those that weren't subdued by the magical sword were crushed beneath his heel. His nostrils flared, and a plume of smoke came from the man's nostrils. A low growl rumbled from the back of his throat.

He felt the spirit of Ysmir stirring inside him. The dragon soul within drove him forward - unrelenting, indomitable, and without mercy. Bjorg's smarter half pushed it down, not allowing the arrogant and power hungry instincts to take hold. There was strong magic here. He could taste it.

Finally, Bjorg stepped into the antechamber and saw the cabal of mages (and was that a hagraven?) around the glowing cauldron. He grinned, and a pair of strangely reptilian eyes narrowed coldly upon them with draconic hunger.

Bjorg opened his mouth and Shouted.

"Yol toor... SHUL!"

An inferno surged from Bjorg's mouth, and more than half the chamber was filled with raging flames that melted stone and burned bone into ash. He roared like a furnace - no, a dragon - as the white-hot fire made the edges of his faceplate glow with an angry orange hue. The blaze burned for a mere few seconds, but it should have been enough.

Bjorg extinguished the flames, and he stepped onto the hot charred stone with shield and sword raised.

Eurander followed closely behind the bulky nordic hero. The Half-Elven grave robber simply watched and held the torch aloft as the deadmen who rose to maim and kill the living interlopers fell with each impressive swing from Bjorg and his sharp dark sword. It was upon their arrival into the antechamber a large grated gate fell between the rogue and the mighty warrior.

"Well, what have we here...."

Ulaerius smirked as he moved around the corpse of King Elupitser whilst the old witch began to look around at the group within. The cultist themselves each drew daggers and looked upon the nordic hero not knowing what would become of this man.

"...I suppose you have some gall to waltz right in here and...."

Ulaerius was cut off by the old hag who in a fit of eldritch words and phrases extended her hand creating a barrier between them and the Nord who suddenly unleashed a devastating breath attack. The walls, floor, and even the ceiling above seemed to melt against the torrent of flame and even the screams of the unlucky cultist could only leave to the imagination of burning flesh that seared right off the bone. Agatha gritted her teeth and her burning yellow eyes seemed to intensify as she continued to focus on the barrier against the strange magical breath.

Eurander could only watch in horror as the events played out before him. The death of a few undead had been one thing. This, however, was a completely different beast entirely. Instead of fleeing however the rogue quickly began looking over the gate only to find a rusty looking halberd and began to wedge it under the gate in order to pry it open.