Post by Morsereg Dîndaedel on Jan 7, 2006 21:32:13 GMT
The land of Haradwaith was compiled of many tribes and provinces, no two completely alike. Fairly southeast from Umbar, the city of the Corsairs, the land of Kârna was once a mighty land. In time, however, it had fallen into decay. Kârna is now a forsaken city, layered with decay and ruin. This would not stop it from being inhabited, however, and ruthlessly guarded. In the past years, Kârna had had few visitors, or, moreso, few who lived to tell the tale.
The entire border of the ruins was patrolled by guards, lightly robed in a tan color to blend in with the rolling sands. The robes were reinforced from within to act also as armor. Most carried swords or pikes, although guards with bows and arrows patrolled rooftops as well. They were not protecting the inside of the ruins from the outside, however:
They were protecting the rest of the world from the inside of the ruins.
For within these ruins lay the Dîmlokhi, foul ghostly creatures who serve no master. They are violent, and afraid of nothing, making them perfect soldiers, but in the same respect they have no loyalties. If the armies of the Haradrim tried to bring them into their fighting force, as they had tried numerous times in the past, they would find themselves on the wrong end of a double-sided massacre. The Dîmlokhi, as with all spirits, could only be controlled by those who practiced Necromancy, or, as had been with the men who dwelt under the White Mountains, by those they held an oath to. The Dîmlokhi promised no oaths, and there had not been a Necromancer in those vile paths for centuries.
Yet that was all about to change...
A shadow grew on the horizon as Morsereg walked through the desert, wind lashing sand into his eyes. His hair was hidden well, and he was robed in black. He had departed from Angmar and was on his way to Pashaar to sign up for the Great Games, but at the same time he was determined to make a quick pit stop.
There stood the Ruins of Kârna, before his very eyes, yet still a ways off. In the dark moon shone down on his back as if watching with a dissaproving eye, he came into the sight of patrolling guards, whose call could be heard throughout the ruins.
"Intruder on the horizon! All men at the ready!" The call rang as Morsereg approached, and in due time he was met by a greeting party, surrounded by pikes. "What is your business in these forsaken lands?"
"The Dîmlokhi...Are my business here. I am here for the Dîmlokhi." He locked eyes with who seemed to be the leader of the party, the one who had spoken to him.
"The Dîmlokhi are none of your concern." He waved off the suggestion.
"Oh, but they are..." Morsereg's mouth curled into a smirk. "You are afraid of them, are you not?" He spoke, waiting for the reply he was not to receive, "I can control them." Now, he was replied to. By laughter.
"Oh, he jests Mârdat!" Many of those surrounding him called out.
"Indeed he does," Answered the leader, apparantly named Mârdat. "You do not think you are serious, do you? The Dîmlokhi have no master."
"Why do you worry so?" Morsereg rose an eyebrow, "Let me into the ruins. If I can indeed control them, then you need not be scared of the Dîmlokhi. If I cannot control them, then you will be rid of me." He obviously seemed to be making some sense of progress, for murmurs of consent echoed around the circle.
"Fine." Mârdat stepped aside, to allow Morsereg passage to the ruins. "You may enter. Do not trust that you can control them, for they are ruthless, and serve no master."
"I'll see to that," Morsereg whispered to himself as he entered the ruins, silently walking. He had not been in there five minutes before a ghastly looking Haradrim warrior burst from a wall, horribly disfigured in the face, swinging a spectral sword. With the reflexes of a feline, Morsereg rose his hand to grab the sword in mid-swing, sustaining only a slight cut to his palm. He grasped it, tossing it into the air, where it dissipated in a puff of smoke.
"Bow to me." Morsereg ordered, receiving no answer save an increase of Dîmlokhi. "Bow. To. Me." His calm order turned into a growl, and his eyes opened wide. The Dîmlokhi seemed to struggle as they were pushed to the ground to kneel before Morsereg by an unseen force. "I am your new master." He talked to them all at once, receiving only one growl in reply. He spun around and dealt a swift kick to one particularly disgruntled Dîmlokhi.
"Necromancer..." The disgruntled Dîmlokhi muttered to himself in realization as he lay on the ground after Morsereg's kick to the spectral demon.
"Let it be known to all. Kârna is a province of Angmar. You are all my servants." Morsereg stated calmly, words flowing out as sleek as a serpent moves before he turned on his back, looking to the demonic Haradrim that stood behind him. In moments he had exited the ruins, and some time after that he could be seen no more, after seeing to it that the guards still keep their patrol.
The entire border of the ruins was patrolled by guards, lightly robed in a tan color to blend in with the rolling sands. The robes were reinforced from within to act also as armor. Most carried swords or pikes, although guards with bows and arrows patrolled rooftops as well. They were not protecting the inside of the ruins from the outside, however:
They were protecting the rest of the world from the inside of the ruins.
For within these ruins lay the Dîmlokhi, foul ghostly creatures who serve no master. They are violent, and afraid of nothing, making them perfect soldiers, but in the same respect they have no loyalties. If the armies of the Haradrim tried to bring them into their fighting force, as they had tried numerous times in the past, they would find themselves on the wrong end of a double-sided massacre. The Dîmlokhi, as with all spirits, could only be controlled by those who practiced Necromancy, or, as had been with the men who dwelt under the White Mountains, by those they held an oath to. The Dîmlokhi promised no oaths, and there had not been a Necromancer in those vile paths for centuries.
Yet that was all about to change...
A shadow grew on the horizon as Morsereg walked through the desert, wind lashing sand into his eyes. His hair was hidden well, and he was robed in black. He had departed from Angmar and was on his way to Pashaar to sign up for the Great Games, but at the same time he was determined to make a quick pit stop.
There stood the Ruins of Kârna, before his very eyes, yet still a ways off. In the dark moon shone down on his back as if watching with a dissaproving eye, he came into the sight of patrolling guards, whose call could be heard throughout the ruins.
"Intruder on the horizon! All men at the ready!" The call rang as Morsereg approached, and in due time he was met by a greeting party, surrounded by pikes. "What is your business in these forsaken lands?"
"The Dîmlokhi...Are my business here. I am here for the Dîmlokhi." He locked eyes with who seemed to be the leader of the party, the one who had spoken to him.
"The Dîmlokhi are none of your concern." He waved off the suggestion.
"Oh, but they are..." Morsereg's mouth curled into a smirk. "You are afraid of them, are you not?" He spoke, waiting for the reply he was not to receive, "I can control them." Now, he was replied to. By laughter.
"Oh, he jests Mârdat!" Many of those surrounding him called out.
"Indeed he does," Answered the leader, apparantly named Mârdat. "You do not think you are serious, do you? The Dîmlokhi have no master."
"Why do you worry so?" Morsereg rose an eyebrow, "Let me into the ruins. If I can indeed control them, then you need not be scared of the Dîmlokhi. If I cannot control them, then you will be rid of me." He obviously seemed to be making some sense of progress, for murmurs of consent echoed around the circle.
"Fine." Mârdat stepped aside, to allow Morsereg passage to the ruins. "You may enter. Do not trust that you can control them, for they are ruthless, and serve no master."
"I'll see to that," Morsereg whispered to himself as he entered the ruins, silently walking. He had not been in there five minutes before a ghastly looking Haradrim warrior burst from a wall, horribly disfigured in the face, swinging a spectral sword. With the reflexes of a feline, Morsereg rose his hand to grab the sword in mid-swing, sustaining only a slight cut to his palm. He grasped it, tossing it into the air, where it dissipated in a puff of smoke.
"Bow to me." Morsereg ordered, receiving no answer save an increase of Dîmlokhi. "Bow. To. Me." His calm order turned into a growl, and his eyes opened wide. The Dîmlokhi seemed to struggle as they were pushed to the ground to kneel before Morsereg by an unseen force. "I am your new master." He talked to them all at once, receiving only one growl in reply. He spun around and dealt a swift kick to one particularly disgruntled Dîmlokhi.
"Necromancer..." The disgruntled Dîmlokhi muttered to himself in realization as he lay on the ground after Morsereg's kick to the spectral demon.
"Let it be known to all. Kârna is a province of Angmar. You are all my servants." Morsereg stated calmly, words flowing out as sleek as a serpent moves before he turned on his back, looking to the demonic Haradrim that stood behind him. In moments he had exited the ruins, and some time after that he could be seen no more, after seeing to it that the guards still keep their patrol.
