The undead steed, its great ribs edging out around the dark plates of armor molded to its body, came to a canter, and then to a walk. A quick jerk on the reins made the bone-stallion stop alltogether, and Jodiah Ayreg peered up through the visor in his great, horned helm. To his left and right, ranks of his warriors -- in various states of decay -- marched forward. They were silent, which felt odd at the head of an army. He had grown accustomed to men bantering amongst themselves, particularly on the eve of a battle. Since coming in service of The Nihil, though, and granted power over the dead... well, the dead say nothing.
Most of the time.
Only the grinding of bone on bone echoed his army's march onto the fort. He wasn't even entirely sure who was in control of this place, to be truthful. As it is, however, what better way to cut an army's teeth than the slaughter of hundreds of innocents at the bony hands of his thousands-strong army of undead? He would need to see exactly how durable his army was, after all, before he reached the White Dragon's Hall. Then, and only when Tiari's blood stains the ground near his booted feet, and the ancestral home of the White Dragon's Vengeance lies a smoldering pile of ruin, will he direct his army to wash over the lands of Rhy'Din like a pandemic plague. An unstoppable tidal wave of blood, and terror.. his masters, The Nihil, will be quite pleased.
Catapults, roughly hewn of wood and lashed with rotting rope, fired enormous blocks of rock at the walls of the fortress. Arrows flew down in response, but an arrow is... quite ineffective against an army of bones. Not so for Jodiah, unfortunatly, still being of flesh and blood, though not exactly alive anymore, either. The general plucked an arrow out of his left shoulder, and frowned as he saw the tip was still inside him, broken off. Tossing the shaft to the ground, he wheeled his bone-stallion around and urged his minions forward.
Forward, by the power of the Truncheon.
Literally, the item was exactly what it was defined as -- a broken staff. Given to him by The Nihil, it jerked the life from his body while, at the same time, giving him control over the rest of the dead. And keeping him animate, no less. It was a rather powerful artifact, to be sure.
The walls of the fortress withstood the shots from the catapult a few more times, but the stones were begining to buckle. Also, unlike an army of living men, the undead could do things considered impossible by the living. A traditional army would have had to wait until the walls were breached, see, and then they would charge. The undead never stopped. Pressing against the base of the wall, they climb up atop one another, forming a ladder out of their own bones. Ayreg found it to be an easy matter, controlling their actions with his will, through the Truncheon.
As the skeletal ladder reached the top of the wall, minus a few setbacks from crushing rocks dropped from the battlements and a poor catapult shot that annihilated nearly the entire rising wave of death, Jodiah Ayreg retired from the field. Normally, he would charge in himself -- a whirling tornado of death wrapped in black-enameled steel. Not today. Other Death Knights -- lesser than he, though not lesser to a human, and twelve of them in total -- he had in his command that could direct and flow the tide of his undead army. Jodiah wheeled his bone-stallion about, and sat facing the north. In the distance, far in the distance, was White Dragon's Hall.
-----
Jodiah shot up from his bed. These constant dreams every night were grating on his nerves. Using the last of his coins, he had taken a room in the Red Dragon's Inn -- Doomhammer Keep, in its current state, was no place to lay one's head down. A cold sweat beaded down his brow, and he wiped it away quickly. The Truncheon was lost, and he was human again. He had died, true, but he still did not know how he returned to this place, nor even how long he has been gone. As he rolled from the bed and buried his face in his hands, the gaunt man, approaching middle-age now, wondered if he'll ever be able to truly be like Talomar again. Back in his own day, Ayreg could make the haughtiest ruler scramble in fear.. but, now, he simply felt..
...old. Sort of.. stretched. Like all the years he spent not aging as a Death Knight of The Nihil were catching back up on him. In a span of two days since he awoke, his body has aged tremendously. His cheeks, once healthy and pink, are now sallow and cling to his bones. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes where none were before. Gray at his temples, marring his otherwise long, raven hair. From the youth of no more than twenty-five, to damn-near going on fifty. Only now it seems to have stopped... could he have caught up with his true age? Was he gone for almost twenty-five years from the lands of Rhy'Din?
It would certainly explain why he doesn't recognize anyone. Or anything. Boots were pulled on over breeches, shirt tucked and coat buttoned, cloak settled onto his shoulders. He missed the feel of plate-and-mail. It was heavy, but it let a man know he was still alive..
Ayreg closed the door behind him, and walked down toward the common room. He had a trip to the forges to make.
Most of the time.
Only the grinding of bone on bone echoed his army's march onto the fort. He wasn't even entirely sure who was in control of this place, to be truthful. As it is, however, what better way to cut an army's teeth than the slaughter of hundreds of innocents at the bony hands of his thousands-strong army of undead? He would need to see exactly how durable his army was, after all, before he reached the White Dragon's Hall. Then, and only when Tiari's blood stains the ground near his booted feet, and the ancestral home of the White Dragon's Vengeance lies a smoldering pile of ruin, will he direct his army to wash over the lands of Rhy'Din like a pandemic plague. An unstoppable tidal wave of blood, and terror.. his masters, The Nihil, will be quite pleased.
Catapults, roughly hewn of wood and lashed with rotting rope, fired enormous blocks of rock at the walls of the fortress. Arrows flew down in response, but an arrow is... quite ineffective against an army of bones. Not so for Jodiah, unfortunatly, still being of flesh and blood, though not exactly alive anymore, either. The general plucked an arrow out of his left shoulder, and frowned as he saw the tip was still inside him, broken off. Tossing the shaft to the ground, he wheeled his bone-stallion around and urged his minions forward.
Forward, by the power of the Truncheon.
Literally, the item was exactly what it was defined as -- a broken staff. Given to him by The Nihil, it jerked the life from his body while, at the same time, giving him control over the rest of the dead. And keeping him animate, no less. It was a rather powerful artifact, to be sure.
The walls of the fortress withstood the shots from the catapult a few more times, but the stones were begining to buckle. Also, unlike an army of living men, the undead could do things considered impossible by the living. A traditional army would have had to wait until the walls were breached, see, and then they would charge. The undead never stopped. Pressing against the base of the wall, they climb up atop one another, forming a ladder out of their own bones. Ayreg found it to be an easy matter, controlling their actions with his will, through the Truncheon.
As the skeletal ladder reached the top of the wall, minus a few setbacks from crushing rocks dropped from the battlements and a poor catapult shot that annihilated nearly the entire rising wave of death, Jodiah Ayreg retired from the field. Normally, he would charge in himself -- a whirling tornado of death wrapped in black-enameled steel. Not today. Other Death Knights -- lesser than he, though not lesser to a human, and twelve of them in total -- he had in his command that could direct and flow the tide of his undead army. Jodiah wheeled his bone-stallion about, and sat facing the north. In the distance, far in the distance, was White Dragon's Hall.
-----
Jodiah shot up from his bed. These constant dreams every night were grating on his nerves. Using the last of his coins, he had taken a room in the Red Dragon's Inn -- Doomhammer Keep, in its current state, was no place to lay one's head down. A cold sweat beaded down his brow, and he wiped it away quickly. The Truncheon was lost, and he was human again. He had died, true, but he still did not know how he returned to this place, nor even how long he has been gone. As he rolled from the bed and buried his face in his hands, the gaunt man, approaching middle-age now, wondered if he'll ever be able to truly be like Talomar again. Back in his own day, Ayreg could make the haughtiest ruler scramble in fear.. but, now, he simply felt..
...old. Sort of.. stretched. Like all the years he spent not aging as a Death Knight of The Nihil were catching back up on him. In a span of two days since he awoke, his body has aged tremendously. His cheeks, once healthy and pink, are now sallow and cling to his bones. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes where none were before. Gray at his temples, marring his otherwise long, raven hair. From the youth of no more than twenty-five, to damn-near going on fifty. Only now it seems to have stopped... could he have caught up with his true age? Was he gone for almost twenty-five years from the lands of Rhy'Din?
It would certainly explain why he doesn't recognize anyone. Or anything. Boots were pulled on over breeches, shirt tucked and coat buttoned, cloak settled onto his shoulders. He missed the feel of plate-and-mail. It was heavy, but it let a man know he was still alive..
Ayreg closed the door behind him, and walked down toward the common room. He had a trip to the forges to make.