Sakalthôr,
The Throne-Room, The Inner Keep of Ymla-Myrrdhain,
Vaagenfjord, The Northwestern Mountains
The fortress was situated on the verge of the world, at the northernmost part of the continent. A number of miles southwest, past the icy coast that the island of Melhus bordered- was where yet another part of the lands under Sakalthôr's domain lay, and along a straight line to that island, across the cold lands, would be seen along the way, the shadow-ridden settlement of Hallowfell, in a valley amidst several formidable mountains. Though if one was in search for mountains, and not the more predominant fields of ice, and of fjords, then one would have a better chance looking in the vast mountain ranges to the east of these lands. There were still a good number of mounts in certain areas, though, most prominent amongst them was the seat of the Fire-Eyed One. The land around the wintry fastness of Vaagenfjord- a place sometimes referred to as the Maw, and which had a considerable amount of itself underground, was indeed a land of turmoil, of fire and ice, where the four elements waged constant war with each other. Winds filled with shards of ice scream like a horde of rapacious demons from the very heart of one of the worst demon realms, terrible enough to flay the skin. Volcanoes are in this land too, mephitic behemoths of incandescent fury that cough great pyroclastic clouds upon the seething ice fields covering the boulder ridden mix of plains and hills below. the odd road did snake through the mess, but in such areas of constant destruction, of change and revolution; sorcerous means of travel were much safer, and much preferred.
Only fools seeking glory and riches would ever come anywhere near such lands (other than those who followed the infernal will of the Lord of Shadows), and to get safely into Vaagenfjord interior, without encountering an array of defences natural or magical in nature, with denizens of all kinds lurking in such places, would be a great task indeed. Especially with chambers filled with magma, and fire-wyrms, ensuring a rather difficult time for those who wished to enter the inner keep. The way to get past those obstacles, would be to travel to a large mountain to the east, by the name of Ravenscairn. Within that mountain, was a labyrinthine temple complex dedicated to Sakalthôr, in which lay a portal that led directly to the Maw's inner-keep. This was a path not uncommonly used by Sakalthôr's followers. That was certainly much easier than making one's way through the outer parts of the fortress, eventually reaching the outer halls, before descending into Moghol, or the trough of the dead, which was a deep subterranean chasm separating Vaagenfjord's outer reaches from the inner. After that, there was a dangerous slope that once more lead upwards, and then came the extremely long and winding Smaulka-Degernerth, or Hall of Fire, in which an inlet of lava fills most of the colossal tunnel that almost entirely encircles the Inner Keep. The way past is extremely dangerous; if not the the lava itself, or creatures that reside amidst it, then the extreme heat is likely to be fatal, among other things, and the only relatively safe part of the tunnel is a ledge of questionable structural integrity that leads along one side, going along most of Smaulka Degerneth, eventually reaching the end, near the lava chute's outlet, underneath part of the ledge that widens out to become a bridge leading into Lubang-Nagar. That place, the name of which translates to the Drake Tunnel, possesses a number of resident Fire Drakes, which are extremely difficult to kill, especially in the environment around that area.
Eventually, one would reach the colossal inner keep. And if you were an intruder, you had to look out for a range of hosts demonic, unliving, and inhuman to challenge you, and in all likelihood, a powerful god, too. Odds were, death would soon turn out be the least of your concerns, that is, if you weren't crushed like an insect the instant you laid eyes upon the keep's denizens. Thus, was the nature of the fate those who would deny and resist Sakalthôr's will. The god in question, sat upon a dark throne, in the throne-room designed for such a purpose. Sakalthôr ran through some of Scathur's recent reports concerning happenings in the lands far to the south. Meanwhile, tall, cowled, humanoid forms armoured in dark plate armour wrought by inhuman hands, wielding a vicious looking array of weapons, stood watch nearby. They were silent sentinels, who at first glance, could have been considered human, were it not for the fact they were each ten foot tall, and underneath their cowls, glittered calculating yet emotionless eyes- emotionless, yet possessing a clear desire to kill, and from which emanated a strong crimson glow, which further suggested that their nature certainly wasn't what one might have initially thought.
Outside the throne room resided yet more creatures demonic and undead, yet there were also mortals, and creatures of other races that had seen with enough sense to swear undying servitude to the Herald of Annihilation. They feared the powerful demon in human form that was Scathur, Sakalthôr's right hand, nearly as much as the god himself, and so as usual, had displayed to effort to even attempt anything other than cower in terror when Scathur passed by, and entered the throne-room, with the dull thud of his boots echoing hollowly upon the stone passageway. Scathur had commented before, to his master, that he found the way in which all living creatures got out of his way, and recoiled, as if finding even the touch of the bone-pale cloak that fluttered around his tall form something to dread.
Redoubtable, untouchable, himself without fear, Scathur was the ideal commander for his overlord's forces. Unswervingly loyal to his master, he carried out his every command with unquestioning obedience, and had done so for longer than anyone could remember. Many generations of men had lived out their lives amongst this turbulent, chaotic land of ice and fire, and yet Scathur had always been there, unchanged, unchallenged. Few could guess at the powers that lay beneath his blank mantle of secrecy, or read the thoughts concealed behind his great-helm's impenetrable visor. Scathur confided in no man.
Here, in the Chamber of Sakalthôr, Scathur had come once more, to deliver reports of the world's events. As usual, upon entering the huge, echoing hall, he was met by sense akin to having intruded upon another world, even another time, some terrible plane of existence trapped in the mind of an ancient god. The blood-hued floor of polished marble seemed to marry the ghastliness of the ceiling above, with its grisly latticework of severed human heads spiked into every available gap and gaping down lifelessly at their tormentor below. And somehow the scarlet drapes that hung from the walls never ceased stirring, even without any movement of air in this vast room, as evidenced by the unwavering columns of acrid smoke that rose from tall black candles all around. Even the ziggurat dominating the centre of the hall radiated evil intent, like some silent watcher. In its hellish vastness this whole chamber, glowing like magma and reeking of death, felt more animated now than the master who dwelt within it.
Soundless still, the god, armoured in ornate dark plate armour, a dark metal mask possessing a silvery sheen encompassing his face, opened his eyes. Those eyes then moved to regard his foremost servant, like twin pits of flame, burning so brightly it was painful to gaze upon them, and if you did so, they would also draw you in, as if looking into a pair of gateways leading to an infernal, hellish nightmare realm. You wouldn't want to look, yet you wouldn't be able to tear your eyes away, either. A clearly malicious, vast intellect, shone in the flames of Sakalthôr's eyes.
A smooth, confident voice drifted forth, the air thrumming with power as Sakalthôr spoke. "Clearly, nothing of immense import has taken place recently, other than some minor affairs. I may investigate this empire directly to the south. Perhaps, starting with Equinox, being the northernmost major city of the Valdaran Empire. In time, I will know the strengths and weaknesses of both it, and its Althoran neighbour." The dark god paused, purposefully, before adding, "I take it you have successfully depopulated those minor villages in the mountains to the east?"
Scathur bowed. "Of course, my lord. Those captured were as usual transported to the sacrificial area, and those nearest to death have already had their life-essences taken and stored in the goblet, for your convenience."
"As expected. Congratulations, then. Since I shall soon be going, you can remain to handle things in my stead. Continue leading your forces to strike at those unaligned villages in the mountains, or assign an underling to do it for you. In this matter, I give you a choice to make. You may leave now, Scathur."
Scathur once more made a gesture of obeisance, before rising, murmuring. "Your will is my command."
As the demon-general retreated from the room, there was a sudden silence, a silence only broken by the footsteps of Scathur, resounding through the air- yet even that felt dulled, as if the very air was leaden, as he went off to engage in various activities, and issue certain orders.
Sakalthôr rose, then. He extended his right hand in a grasping motion, and an obsidian chalice, filled to the brim with what could only be described as liquefied life-force. The Lord of Ravens quickly drank of the chalice, depleting it of its contents with alarming speed. He let a kind of euphoria drift over him, perhaps a little too literally "drunk with power". Once the goblet had been emptied, he let it fall, with the object once more fading from view.
The entire chamber, most importantly the ziggurat, acted as a kind of amplifier for the magic Sakalthôr used whilst he remained within the confines of the place. He moved forward, off the top of the ziggurat, and hovering fora moment, in mid air. A aura of flickering shadows swirled around his form, before the Lord of Shadows descended, landing softly on the smooth marble.
Sakalthôr made an almost imperceptible gesture, and six of the silent, demonic sentinels standing guard emerged from shadows cast by the braziers that lit the huge hall. They took up position near him, whilst an ornate black longsword with a hellish hilt and handle, a blade which seemed to absorb light, and issued smoky black trails whenever it moved an inch, shimmered into view at his side. The blade, C'threk Goru, in a form a little smaller than usual, was sheathed in an even more ostentatious black scabbard featuring woven gold, silver and inlaid jewels. Sakalthôr held out his right hand once more, though this time, a long, elaborate black staff appeared. A serrated blade at the bottom served one purpose, whilst demonic claws grasped a jade orb.
Once he had summoned both weapons, he raised the staff above his head, and twirled it. A circle of green light appeared, encompassing the demonic guards, as well as himself. Sakalthôr lowered the staff, feeling a little of his energy going into the teleportation spell he had begun. The light shimmered and swirled, growing stronger. A sound beyond human hearing erupted from all around, and then Sakalthôr, accompanied by six armoured demons, promptly disappeared from view. The light gradually faded, a sound strangely like a soft breeze the last remnant of the sorcery that had taken Sakalthôr and his cohort from the place.
Sakalthôr, Equinox,
Valdaran Empire
They reappeared in the elaborately decorated hallway of an estate in the city of Equinox. The place was owned by a rich noble; a man whose allegiance, and those of a considerable deal of his ancestors- though not all, had been to Sakalthôr, for around several centuries. It had started when a nobleman had first acquired the the building, and had come across a certain underground section that had been sealed in for quite some time. When he had found a way into the sealed chamber, he had been able to communicate with Sakalthôr at an altar. It hadn't taken much for him to give his soul, and those of his bloodline, forever in service to the Lord of Shadows. In a wave of green sorcery which was the manifestation of the spell at the desired destination, Sakalthôr and his six demonic guards quickly adjusted to the change in surroundings.
Nearby, a dark haired, grey-green eyed man in rich silks, just short his middle years stood stock still, staring at a moment in the direction of Sakalthôr and his entourage. Then with a cry, he began grovelling. "My lord! You have returned! Command me, and I will do so!"
Sakalthôr turned his fire-eyed gaze towards the mortal. He recognised this follower of his. The man bore the name of Ullen Radok, and some of his relatives happened to have certain shadier activities as assassins. "Very well. I may reside in this city for a little while, as I investigate the Valdaran Empire to a little extent. Among other things."
"I understand, my lord. I shall go now, to prepare some things?" The questioning tone at the end of that sentence plainly showed that Ullen was asking for permission to leave.
"You may." Sakalthôr replied, a tinge of amusement entering a voice that seemed to possess a strange warmth, and a confidence that in itself seemed to assure his every spoken wish would be carried out, yet also a cold reassurance that refusal would mean death. And in that assurance, also came an eagerness, almost daring someone with those thoughts to challenge him, and regret it for what few moments they could, of a life that would soon end. Ullen bowed, before quickly scurrying off into another room.
Sakalthôr glanced once at the doorway that lead outside the estate, and then at the ten foot tall demonic guards he'd brought with him, hunched even in the tall hallway. An irritated gesture, and the six sentinels flickered, and shimmered, before changing into swirling clouds of dark ash. Those clouds drifted through the doorway. Outside, they paused, before swirling and solidifying once more into the cloaked, cowled, wickedly armed and armoured figures with eyes like glowing red embers. The six calmly stood guard, deadly, inhuman intent glimmering in those eyes, even as they constantly tracked the slightest signs of movement, or the slightest sound issuing from the high-walled front gardens of the mansion. A pathway wove past a finely arranged array of plants and shrubbery, obviously well maintained by the owner of the manner and his servants.
The Lord of Shadows stepped made his way to an upper floor, soon entering a room, and making his way to a balcony. Sakalthôr surveyed what he saw of the city, with the intense, indeed, burning gaze he so commonly possessed. I may as well get started, he mused. Soon, he would get his answers from the place. And likely, it would be that he would have to spill blood to do so. The Lord of Night would do so gladly, and those who dared to oppose him would be forced to know their place.
