The distorted purple sun of the void beat down on the ruins of the citadel. Huge blocks of cursed stone lay scattered randomly on the blood-soaked ground, as the decaying bodies of those who had fought against the evil emitted their foul corpse-gas. A disgusting stench arouse from the vile pools of acid, slime and blood that had collected in the many depressions littering the landscape. Discarded weapons and armor from millions of fallen warriors, some still coated in blood and acid, some shattered and broken, as if by monstrous hands. The bodies of the mighty dragons littered the battlefield were reduced to almost nothingness, as well as its riders, ravaged by the hordes of the Undead that they faced.
It looked like a battlefield soon after a battle, except it has been fifty years since that epic war.
A lone figure paced back and forth, surveying the landscape. Once a mighty paladin of the Holy Light – a respected warrior who smote the Dead with the brilliance of the Light – he now had fallen from his lofty station, corrupted by the dark powers of malevolent gods. His once benevolent countenance was mutated beyond recognition, wiped of all distinguishing features – sightless orbs where his eyes once had been, nose stripped away entirely, fanged maw uttering vile incantations. He cradled a book crackling with arcane energies, brimming with foul magics, and seething with corruption – the Grimoire of the Dead. Although clothed in runed violet robes, his skeletally thin features were betrayed by his spider-like hands, which caressed his arcane tome as if it were a baby. A staff floated in midair alongside him, topped with the screaming visage of a paladin's skull, and adorned with the skeletal relics of past victims. Exuding an aura of fear and terror, the necromancer disdained walking. Rather, he was carried along by a slithering carpet of gruesome hands. Standing slackly at attention alongside him were two undead monstrosities – abominations cobbled together from the ragtag remnants of many disparate corpses. He was the greatest necromancer since Nekros the Black, the right hand of the Dead King, the harbinger of the Darkness. His eminent corruptness, the Lichemaster Amnenar.
"My Lord Amnenar," something addressed the Lichemaster, "The Elven Prince escaped from our grasp," it humbly reported, its head bowed down in respect, perhaps waiting for a punishment for its failure. This being was equally as terrifying as its master. It was clothed in some sort of tattered cloak, shorter than that of his Lord's and of a different color. Its arms were glued together by a slimy substance. Its flesh, an icky shade of pink, reeked of rotten, decaying bodies, enough to make a person faint. It was called Sabbatier.
"What?" Amnenar hissed, "Find him! Find him at once! I want that artifact!" he commanded, his voice soft but deadly, flecks of saliva spouted out of his mouth. "Summon the fiend if you must, but find him!"
Sabbatier bowed once more and left in haste, to fulfill his master's order, leaving Amnenar alone.
"So it begins," the Lichemaster mumbled, his head bent down on the Book of Unholy Scriptures, as he resumed his reading.
Tens of miles away, the Elven Prince armed with his gelded, silver bow and arrows paused to rest. He had been running restlessly from the legions of Undead that chased him nonstop. His pale hand was clutching the one thing that Lichemaster Amnenar wanted. He carefully put this precious artifact inside his pack, and at the same time bringing out a stained, old map. His striking, green orbs, stared at it for a while then glanced back up to land stretching before him. Nothing was there, nothing except for some dead trees and dried shrubs. He was looking for telltale signs of the direction he was heading for, the Empire, there he could seek help and perhaps get a few winks of sleep. The wind blew his fair hair while his pointy ears wiggled this way and that, trying to detect footsteps approaching. There were none. He jogged onwards to his place of destination unhindered by his tough armor and stealth cloak. A few hours passed, yet still no sign of the Empire, the Elven Prince paused once more to catch his breath. He was weakening as the bloody gash on his forehead continued to sap away his already depleting energy. Unable to take it any longer, he fainted into unconsciousness.
At around the same time, a wandering girl was traveling in the same direction. She was whistling a random melody without care while tying her wispy, silver hair into a ponytail. She was known around the vicinity as the Goddess of Fire, the only human pyromancer left in this age of darkness. Strolling by her side was her childhood friend, a human Knight notorious for his unwavering determination and dedication. Hanging from his waist was a worn-out leather scabbard that hid an iron sword with a gold hilt from plain sight.
"Oh!" she exclaimed in surprise, her ringed hand covered her mouth, as she stopped herself from stepping on something, rather, someone.
"Lysanna, be careful, he might be dangerous," the Knight warned her.
"Don't be silly Adras!" she replied back, taking no heed for her friend's concern, "He's unconscious for heaven's sake! How can he be harmful?" She bent down, and poked on the Elven Prince's head, in hopes of him waking up. "Help me carry him," she suggested to Adras. As kindhearted as she is and after assuming that the elf was a good guy, she draped one of his arms on her shoulder as Adras did the same on the other. Both carefully stood up. But before they could move on forward, Lysanna sensed a hostile presence. Quickly making a shield of fire around herself and her two companions, they were able to quickly avoid a huge gas explosion that appeared directly on top of their heads.
"What the-" Adras started to say, sweeping his black hair away from his face, as he spotted a bulky figure heading their way. As the suspicious stranger got closer, the Knight started observing his rather strange and peculiar attitude. This person wasn't walking. He was actually skipping from one foot to another, unaware that the many vials strapped around him were in danger of falling due to his actions. The unfamiliar person's eyes were covered with huge goggles and his bright orange, unkempt hair was sticking out in all directions. In his hands was a large purple cannon. Despite its weight, the new arrival was clutching it with ease.
"BOOOOOM!" the mister chuckled uncontrollably as he walked towards Adras, Lysanna and the cataleptic elf. His face contorted into a twisted smile. "Don't you just love it when things go a-splish a-splash because of your grenades?"
"Look mister, I don't know who you are, but you'd better apologize," Lysanna said, effectively putting a halt to the man's gibbering, her hands on her waist.
"Hmmm… I think I have a potion here somewhere with me…" the mister began mumbling and searching his many pockets for something, perfectly avoiding Lysanna's piercing gaze. "Ah! Here it is!" he announced brightly, brandishing a potion that gleamed in rainbow colors. "There! Let him drink it!" he pointed to the elf. Without waiting for Adras or Lysanna's consent, the mister laughed out loud, as if possessed by a mad ghost. He forced the Elven Prince's mouth open to pour every drop of the mysterious liquid into the elf's throat. Miraculously, the elf stirred and slowly opened his eyes. The elf went into a coughing spasm, disoriented, as he rubbed his eyes until his view became focused. Immediately he was on his guard. He gracefully drew three arrows and aimed it at the mister, the girl and the knight. "Thou hast stolen my belongings," the prince coolly deduced.
"What? What belongings? We didn't see anything!" Lysanna vehemently denied. Before she could say another word, an arrow skimmed her cheek, leaving a small wound, embedding itself on the ground behind her.
"Thou shall not lie, give it to me," the elf demanded once more, impatience clearly expressed in his icy voice.
"We don't know where it is," Adras calmly spoke up, but the elf was stubborn and did not listen. He prepared to shoot another volley of arrows towards the three. But before the situation could get any worse, a heavily tattooed man roughly half the size of a six foot man suddenly arrived to the scene, he was from the race of the dwarves. His appearance was extremely intimidating. With a bushy dark brown mustache and curly beard that reached up to his midriff, a double bladed axe was strapped to his shoulder. Iron gauntlets gleamed in the light as it proudly showed off around the wrists of this individual. In addition to this, iron weights were also present around his ankles. Giving off a superior air despite his huge difference in height, his deep, gruff voice echoed through the wasteland, putting a stop to the developing battle between the four beings.
"Who owns this un sack 'ere?" the dwarf gruffly announced to the four.
"Thou shall give it to me. It is rightly mine," the elf replied, lowering his weapons in a blink of an eye. The dwarf tossed the elf his belongings.
"Haharr! Young 'un, you must be careful! Leavin' yore things like that out in the land, you must be crazy!" the dwarf laughed heartily, his behavior completely not fitting his image of a berserker. "People call me Logar, Logar of the Bloody Axe," the dwarf went on, caressing his precious weapon.
All of a sudden, the air grew still. The sun's rays faded away. The sky suddenly turned black, and a foul stench heavily filled the air. Logar spun around and squinted to the south, and so did those with him. The Undead were just a few miles away.
"By the way, before we fight them, I'm Lysanna Majeux" the pyromancer introduced herself with a smile.
"I am Adras Wildheart, I am from the Imperial Army," her companion followed suit."And you are?" he gestured to the man with the cannon and the elf.
"Razzil, Razzil the alchemist," chuckled the mad mister, "I LOOOVE explosives, oh yiss yiss! How Razzil loves pretty smoke from his precious grenades!"
"Ae'tharion Windrunner's my name. Thou hast been kind enough to return what is rightfully mine. Thou need not fight the Undead. They are after me, not thee."
"Don't be such an idiot!" The four yelled at the elf. "We're all in this together!" The five then twisted around to meet the hordes of undead.
"Get them!" hissed Sabbatier who was in the lead. "Kill the others, leave the elf alive!" The Undead made chattering noises in reply. Their deafening sounds echoed through the barren wasteland. A loud explosion claimed the lives of the first two lines of the Undead. Razzil had fired two consecutive bombs out of his own cannon in precise aim. The next few were annihilated by the Dwarf Berserker, Logar. His bloody axe became an arc of death to those near him. On the other hand, Lysanna was busy burning the dead and sending them back to hell. Sparks of fire flew from her fingertips, as well as the tips of her hair. Adras was dealing with the Undead single-handedly. Wielding the heavy blade with only one hand, he was wreaking havoc amongst his foes. The force of his blows shattering the bones and heads of those who dared to go his way. Ae'tharion was also faring well. Setting loose twenty arrows in a minute, he was slaying the Undead faster than any of his companions. Maintaining a cool composure and moving with such agility, he was able to eliminate a hundred or more enemies. Sabbatier smirked. He snarled in such a terrible voice "Charge!" and so the Undead did. Their numbers were so overwhelming that the five couldn't do anything else but escape.
"There! Over to the mountains!" Lysanna pointed at the peaks of the Mountains of Ul'shagara, leaping over the corpses of the Undead to the direction she was going.
"It's the shortest way to the Empire, are you coming or not?" Adras remarked, running past Ae'tharion who slowed down. The elf looked at him, puzzled at the way Adras read his mind.
"Ae'Tharion! Hurry up! Razzil's getting impatient!" Razzil shouted. He took a careful aim and shot it right at the middle of the Undead coming after them, buying some time "Hurry!"
"Thou don't have to say it twice," Ae'tharion replied. At this point the Elf lived up to his last name. Dragging the dwarf with him, he used the wind to propel himself up the mountain. As he was speeding by, Ae'tharion took hold of his other companions and the five reached the peak of Ul'shagara.
"They're still right behind us!" Adras roared out, referring to the reinforcements of the legions of Undead, as he fought the others off. All of them felt shivers in their spine as they saw something. It was hideous beast! A black entity exuding an aura of pure evil and death was right behind the masses of the Undead. Purple flames lined its figure; and black, flaming orbs were in the place of its eyes. It howled to the heavens, an unearthly noise of pure terror. Sabbatier, on the other hand, was up to something. Sensing the great need of the situation, the slime binding his arms together slowly melted off. Black leech-like creatures chewed away his pink, rotten flesh. From this, an abomination emerged slowly from its chest. Lysanna screamed in disgust as the inhuman being strode towards her. Razzil, noticing the maiden's distress, threw his last remaining stock of explosives at the creature with such accuracy that it hit right on its head. Flecks of slime and bits of pieces of the creature's body flew and landed in all directions. Sabbatier was dead. The Undead noticed that their commander was taken down. Filled with rage and hatred, they charged with more ferocity than before.
"GO! Leave them to me!" Lysanna shouted to her companions. All four men were stunned and could not move by her proclamation. "I told you! Leave! You're wasting time! You still have to get that to the Emperor!" At this, Ae'tharion snapped into action, dragging with him the other men; he used his control over the wind to allow them to sprint to the Empire. "It's killing time," she muttered to herself as the black entity approached her.
"Fool, do you seriously think an insignificant insect such as yourself could ever hope to defeat me? I am Gorgannath the Desolator!" the entity spoke, its voice came out raspy and dripping with malice. Lysanna didn't answer. She simply brought her hands together. There was a great bang, and a huge fireball shot into the heavens. A muffled explosion followed, lighting up the scene for miles. The gruesome silhouettes of the vile dead hissed and snapped at the sudden flash of red light, and were still staring up at the heavens as brilliant meteors of living fire rained from the skies, engulfing the horde and incinerating thousands.
Gorgannath the Desolator looked upon the charred ruin that had once been an undead army. Screaming the foul battlecry of the Void, it turned upon the pyromancer, unleashing its full power upon her. Spheres of crackling corposant riddled the air as black portals ripped the fabric of the universe asunder. Dark energies swirled around the Desolator, extinguishing all light and sucking the very souls from all those in the vicinity. Black flames enveloped the pyromancer, encasing her in a sphere of pure darkness, slowly sapping her power and withering her flesh.
But Lysanna Majeux was not finished. A flash of red flames bloomed out from the darkness, and a ray of hope shone forth as a hauntingly heart-rending cry rent the air. The sphere of darkness burst asunder, and from the shattered remnants of Gorgannath's incantation, a brilliant phoenix surged forth: Lysanna had put forth all her remaining power sacrificing herself to summon the ancient demigod. The stones melted as the phoenix shook out its blinding red-and-gold wings, its beautiful plumage dripping with living fire. As it took the skies, screaming its hunting cry, the very air burned behind it. Gorgannath the Desolator recoiled from the elder phoenix's holy power, and only had time to stare up at the spectacle before the phoenix dove down on the void-creature, banishing it back to the netherworld in a searing explosion of cataclysmic proportions.
The Desolator was finished. The horde of the Dead was vanquished. The heroes were safe. But of the pyromancer who gave her all to save her friends, no trace was ever found. Remember the fallen, proud soldiers of the Imperial Army. Remember those who gave their lives to save us all. Remember those who barred the pass, and who made our glorious Empire possible. Remember Lysanna Majeux. Remember.