Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

Nitok, King Of The Dead, Undead King, Prince Of Death, Skeleton Monarch, Leader Of The Undying Legions…

He was known under many titles, but only one of those became the name he was known as by the living.

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Another day, another noon, another evening, the inhabitants of the continent all led their usual life, the greater majority oblivious to the machinations happening underground, unaware that the world they knew would soon be changed, the status quo they had believed was the only way of this world would be shaken, knocked off its foundations.

A brilliantly silent lull, one of the most heavily defended cities in the entire continent knew nothing else, geared for war, but having never tasted it, guards, soldiers, casters, knights, adventurers, paladins and various clergies, what could possibly happen?

The walls were high, and ran even deeper where the eye could not see, fortified by the efforts of expert craftsmen, mages, runesmiths and all professions that could possibly help thoughten them up, a veritable aegis, a shield that none could pierce.

And indeed, it was strong, but what good was an immovable object that one could simply walk around and avoid entirely?

Ever so subtly, the ground shook.

Once, twice, thrice, the rumbling began to gain strength, increasing cadence, tremors and crumbling, waves of shattering travelled through the air, deafening the people, only the watchmen up at the height of the walls were able of bearing witness to the scene occuring outside, seven perfect circles, growing in size as they got further from the edges of the city, chasms of unimaginable depth, spitting Bougliotte from the outside, one of those ravines would have been enough, but nothing was left to chance.

The last rays of the sun retreated under the horizon, and without allowing reprieve, in the very center, right down the middle, a web of cracks formed right underneath the feet of gobsmacked guards, incapable of even widening their eyes in response, the ground exploded upward, sending shrapnels of earth into a dome shape, tearing flesh and buildings apart without distinction.

Red mist of blood intertwined with risen dust, all was quickly blown away as an immense sword was swung, revealing countless figures to those lucky enough to have been outside of the radius of the blast.

With a swing of his sword, Slotriig bisected countless constructions, sending still unprepared livings flying into the air, limbs flailing powerlessly, broken and bent.

An adventurer witnessing the scene, thrown back by the winds stirred by the powerful blow did not stop to think about what was happening, readying his crossbow, he aimed randomly toward the invading crowd, shooting without hesitation.

The bolt never left, in fact, the string pushed nothing, his projectile instead in the hand of a most horrifying monster that now stood right next to him.

The living could have sworn that this thing had been amidst the rest just a moment ago, he had not blinked and yet, missed the approach of what was naturally assumed to be a devil, bolt crushed in an overwhelmingly large hand, something pierced the back of the adventurer's nape, rendered to the state of corpse drained of all blood, met with oblivion.

This man would miss the rest of the show, as the countless troops of the undead king flooded the streets of Bougliotte, clogging all escapes route, forming a stampede, breaking down doors and windows, hacking, slashing and stabbing all that dared to leave in such proximity to their king, none were spared, soldiers and guards were unable of shielding the ones they were supposed to be protecting, their bloodied and tumefied corpses crushed by the stomping of the dead.

The more habile of the living climbed up onto rooftops, able of noticing the endless waves of putrefied flesh, bones and rust, ethereal hands weaved threads of despair in many, but none were ready to give up their lives even in the face of such odds.

A pillar of earth hoisted up a robed skeleton, Unacunerra lifted himself up to the level of the livings posted up on the walls, slamming the end of his stone staff, the perfect number of shards were made with a single spell, sharp projectiles of earth just about the size of a man's head, which it was directed at, the skulls of the many guards looking up from the height of the walls.

None missed or was successfully blocked, their headless corpses, just strands of skin still attached to the neck if they were lucky, all fell over in a mere instant.

The people further away from the epicenter of the invasion were luckier, many managed to reach the gates, pushing them open, all running for their lives, they were only met with the sight of insurmountable ravines, as well as the draculian knights and soldiers waiting for them, blades and armours forged out of bleak iron, weapons ignited with fire of the blood, the draconic bloodflame of Lord Dracula, cleaving and igniting the blood of the victims.

None may escape, none may flee.

All shall perish, all shall serve as sacrifices for Nitok's reascension to the throne.

Loimos was running on the rooftops, jumping in between them, wings sprouting and vanishing from his back without stop, having left behind a humongous miasma generator at the breach he had come from with the rest, the purple haze was spreading at wild speeds, devouring life and transforming the environment.

His focus was not on the fog however, but on slaughtering those standing in the way, jumping off a building, manifesting one wing from his left arm, pushing himself into a narrow alley, taking a sharp corner using a wall as footing, he smashed through a window and then through the ceiling, emerging right underneath the feet of an adventurer.

Clawed hands ripped the unfortunate soul right down the middle, the skeleton taking that living's spot in the middle of his party, they made the dire mistake of not foreseeing his approach, with stomp of his foot, spikes of bone came from below, impaling their legs, knees and thighs, some perfectly straight, others resembling ribs.

Gasping for air, pain assaulting them, bone claws stabbed through the undead's fists, swinging, easily tearing them all apart.

Not wasting any time, Loimos got into movement again, flying up into the air and forsaking flight, landing straight on an unsuspecting priestess of Phanes, rending her to mush garbed in tainted robes, a wave of black blood engulfed a nearby rookie paladin, melting him and his armour together.

Loimos turned to another, probably more experienced one, who brought a mace down toward his skull, simply ineffective, Loimos caught the head of the weapon, surrounding it with rot, pulling the weapon and its user along, the undead grabbed the paladin by the head, sending miasma directly inside of the man's helm, who uselessly moved around as though he was attacked by bees. Explore hidden tales at empire

The undead kicked him off the building and into the sea of his fellow undeads, together, they did quick work of the impaired living.

For the first time in a long time, long, long time, Loimos was able of making full use of his capabilities, not having to conceal his undeath and the results, were about as expected, the unprepared, shaken young priests, paladins and adventurers were messes of hesitations and mistakes.

Such weaknesses were readily put to use, and any actions from the putrid undead were intended to bring victory.