RP:Speaking of Skeletons...
Part of the The Lesser of Two Evils Arc
- Disclaimer: The authors would like to make it clear that while the prayer is what prompted the mass raising, we do not presume to use the power of a god. The spell could equally have been powered by the participants' belief, as most priests' magic is presumed to operate, through their combined magical force, or through the undead themselves hearing the prayer.
Redhale made quite the grand entrance into the temple of Vakmatharas, his arrival bringing light and clamor to the otherwise still and dark place. Behind the robed figure marched a squad of armored undead all clinking and clanking and each of them having traded their arms for gifts to the dark Lord. Plates of jewels and glimmering ingots, bowls of fresh meat and, at the back of the ranks, slaves held in chains, bound and gagged so that only the muffled humphs of their cries would be heard, at least for now. It seemed that the masked man had quite the request for his deity.
Tiphareth follows closely behind the procession of Redhale, his entourage not nearly as impressive, merely two small Drow children in chains, they appear to be badly beaten and are each carrying what appears to be a keg of some ten gallons capacity. The Eldermage issues no commands, barks no orders, merely points as the two slaves comply without question, marching to stand on either side of the altar. He looks toward the masked illusionist, offering a nod of acknowledgment for the eminent task. Finally, as the Lichdrow himself approaches the alter, he removes a large tome from his satchel, The Forsaken Book of the Dead itself, this marking its first time in public since the Patron had 'acquired' it some time back. Calmly he sets the aged compendium of necromancy down upon the bone structure and opens its pages to the principle devotion of Vakmatharas.
Redhale stepped forward to stand beside Tiphareth, the cold leaking out of his bones likely unfelt by the Lichdrow, who surely emanated a similar aura which was similarly unfelt by Redhale. His own tome of power was away without official leave, but he would recite his prayers by memory or simply as they came to him. The dark being bowed his head and on signal the phalanx at his back began moving once more, splitting to walk around either side of the pair by the altar as they set down their gifts to their god, some of those who still had conscience of their own leaving personal offerings afterwards: A tired necklace, several small daggers and even a limb or two were left amongst the glittering offerings made by Redhale and his people, and all soldiers filed solemnly past until those holding prisoners came to stand to behind Redhale as his prayers began.
Tiphareth stands before the ancient tome, reciting the words as they appear upon the aged pages. Death rides upon the waves of his voice as the otherworldly emanations spill from his lips, words of praise and devotion rising to the heavens and down to the depths on the tide of the Drowlich's verse. A stillness takes grip upon the venue, necrotic force permeating the very walls as decay and petrification spreads with torrential force through the area. As if by unseen cue the two Drow slaves lift their kegs high overhead and dump the contents over themselves. Thick, crimson vitae spills over their wounded frames, covering them head to toe in a feast of fresh warm blood. Only moments pass before the blood's life force is drained away by the unseen presence within the unholy Temple. Tiphareth smiles a crude and evil grin as he feels the presence of dark divinity among them.
Redhale's own prayer was a little more freeform, and spoken in Elven tongue, as he had made his prayers a long time ago, though this was perhaps the first time he had addressed death itself in Elvish. The collection of oaths and tributes were florid and well spoken, and even though he plucked the words from thin air each was placed where it seemed it had meant to be as if the prayer had been carved in stone, though such was a small feat for a practiced illusionist like himself. As he finished a long verse the man moved back to stand by his men, who immediately removed the gags from their prisoners so that their wails would fill the halls. The screaming could not, however, down out the words of the dead man, which were now ringing from the stone floor itself. As he finished his second verse he stretched two hands of black bone out to either side of him, gripping the faces of two prisoners firmly in his spindly fingers. Instantly a purple shadow began to mottle their skin and their clamorous voices became whispy as the air was sucked out of their lungs and the life was pulled out of them. Their eyes glassed over and burst in their sockets and blood ran from their noses and ears before freezing like dark smears of snot on their faces. Even after they hung dead in his grip Redhale held on, squeezing their skulls until the flesh had fallen completely from them and they had snapped free of the necks and their bodies, still mostly covered in meat, slumped to the floor. This way Redhale continued down the line, reciting another verse between each pair of terrified prisoners, handing their bruised skulls to the soldiers who guarded them so that they could be delivered to the shrine.
Tiphareth feels the building of death around him, more tactile than any feeling he'd experienced since the unnatural transformation some months passed. He could hear the very voice of death within the air, coaxing him to offer more... gladly the Lich complies with the unquenchable desire within the sanctified hall, reaching outward the Eldermage places his index finger upon the foreheads of the two children, the Lich's touch of death instantly pulling their very essence from within the disheveled bodies. Lifeless, the two corpses fall unceremoniously to the floor, decay overtaking their body within mere seconds as a pile of children's bones becomes their only remains. The innocent flesh wafting dark energy into the air as it's consumed by the vicinities lust. Tiphareth begins speaking aloud, voice booming with stentorian power, aided not only by his vast arcane strength, but by the sheer volume of nefarious energy which fills the musty air. "Accept these, our sacrifices to you oh dark and holy one, that you may listen to our tenebrous requests. Grace your humble servants with malevolent favor and bequeath upon us that which seek... in your unholy name oh mighty Vakmatharas."
Redhale stalked back down the aisle created by his men to stand at the altar with Tiphareth once more, giving the lichdrow a slow nod before taking to his knees rather awkwardly and sitting in silence. The temple itself grew silent with him, even though the thick layers of necrotic energy felt as though they should have filled the room with noise. The world outside was silent too, breeze and gusts notwithstanding, but it was from outside that all silences were broken. The grinding of earth shook forth first, mincing dirt and rock and bones; then came an unmetered chorus of hard cracks, the popping sounds indicating the liberation of those who had been entombed under and within stone; following was the muffled but piercing sound of the awakened ambling across the graveyard, stomping on earth and dragging withered limbs. Finally the noise came inside as the first few members of the long-dead in the graveyard peeked into the temple to see who had awakened them. Their new life had given them eyes to guide their bodies with: Hard little orbs of icy blue. They had also been given voices to question with and so it was that the hall became filled with the hissing and grating of ancient languages, howling accusations and grinding speech that would have put the cries of the sacrifices to shame.
Tiphareth takes obvious note of the huge crashing and rubles from outside the divine chamber, looking back toward the door then rapidly down at the book to which he'd been devoting so much time. Cold ebon fingers rush down to the pages, flipping them rapidly to a second set of verses, marked by a dark ribbon for this very occasion. Immediately upon reaching the desired page, words of ancient origin begin flowing from his lips. Dark and melodic in nature, as if a dirge were serenading the dead his defiled commands rain down upon the newly raised forces... No breaths required, no pauses in speech, as he continues the marathon of semantic manipulations translating the words of the forsaken tome into a fury of arcane formulae. Finally, the esoteric words fall silent, the Eldermage speaking in the tongue of commoners as he addresses the risen dead. "Turn now to your new Masters... question not our intent... waver not at our command. Heed these words until your bodies refuse to move, upon loss of flesh, pain of the holy light, and until your corpsen bodies rot away from the ages... you shall serve unwavering in the honor of Vakmatharas' name."
Redhale stood behind Tiphareth as the spells were cast. While he had much power in him and surely could have staved off a great onslaught from the bony beasts he surely had not nearly as great a command over necromancy as the lich did. He had, however, been dead a fair while longer, and was not surprised by the stubbornness of the ancient ones. While the younger corpses might have fallen in line normally they had more powerful brothers to lean upon, and so their voices came combined and were spoken through the twisted jaw of the being at the front of the pack, "Your magic binds us, but our mind is strong." His stony voice paused, as if for breath, "No master, living or dead, would pull our reins." A dry gasp seemed to punctuate every sentence, "Luckily for you, Vakmatharas is neither."
Tiphareth looks down upon the crowd of rowdy summonations from his place at the altar, it seems the powers of Vakmatharas exceeded what he had expected... the creature's minds were sharp.. Far greater than any he'd seen for such long deceased corpses. They would be unruly to say the least, but their sentience would serve well to creativity on the battlefield. The Eldermage struggled to maintain a semblance of control over them, feeling the ebb and flow of their compliance like a tug of war upon his being. Elongated digits reach down to collect his tome, feeling the energy of the ancient artifact bolstering his own power as he holds it to his chest. A string of arcane force pulls decidedly upon the will of the undead as he speaks to them, hoping his ensorcelled words will calm their raucous nature. "You are strong of body, and of will... and have been brought here tonight by the very power of the unholy one... raised to serve the dark Lord... to serve his land. We are merely conduits through which his will be done, he asks nothing more of you than he has asked of us.. and as you will... so have we complied to Vakmatharas' desires.. My immortal soul belongs to him, and he is my Master."
Redhale thought Tiphareth spoke well, but made sure to raise his own voice lest the ruler of the Underdark think to rule his people too, "You have been called to aid in battle, brothers. Our land lies broken, and our kind are being forced to kneel at the feet of precious blood-suckers. My people and I require your aid to liberate ourselves and resurrect this land for the walking dead. Vakmatharas has seen fit to bring you to the surface for this purpose; once our enemies are given their final sleep you too may go back to rest." The amount of spindly, leathery bodies in view was growing, filling what space could be seen beyond the entrance, though none of them peered curiously; each eye in each head belonged to all of them. Their speaker roused his voice once more, "We will fight for our dark Lord, and for the land we are part of." Another grating breath was exhaled, "The earth itself shall rise up to devour the enemy," and a finger was lifted to point at the pair of worshippers, "But if you think to continue to disturb our rest when you need help, perhaps next time the land shall swallow you." The hand was slowly lowered and the voices of the individual undead were given back to them, each muttering to themselves as they turned and walked back to the graveyard and necropolis, where they would prepare alongside restless soldiers and dragon corpses.
Tiphareth narrows his eyes upon the creatures as they shuffle out the doorway, he did not appreciate threats, and would generally respond in kind... but he wished for this plan to go off without a hitch, he had given his word to Kasyr that he'd assist this land, not to mention it would serve his needs far more than exacting any kind of ego-based vengeance. Nay, he would stay his wrath and work toward their unified goal of defeating the upstart vampire. With that, the Eldermage collects his book from the alter and packs it away within the satchel. A glance is given toward Redhale, nodding as if to signify that the Lichdrow's part here was fulfilled before he suddenly blinks from view, disappearing to god-knows where.
Redhale let out a rattling sigh of relief. He had been almost sure he would have to put down a good number of the raised before the rest would agree to help; perhaps it had been Tiphareth's knowledge and his ancient tome which had calmed their minds, or perhaps Vakmatharas had truly blessed them all. If the latter was true then there would be no defeat in the coming days. The dark man decided he ought thank both who had helped him anyway, and gave a final bow at the front of the temple before sweeping out to help ready the men, his armored squad following with a clattering march.