Perched upon the bank’s rooftop, Mortimer’s feet swayed rhythmically, a pendulum of anticipation. From this vantage point, he surveyed the chaos unfolding below—the clash of mortal valor against the relentless tide of Azamul's minions. Each mortal, a flicker of courage in their eyes, fought with desperate determination. Swords clashed, spells crackled, and shields strained under the onslaught. Yet, despite their valiant efforts, the outcome remained uncertain. The air hummed with tension, and the rooftop trembled beneath Mortimer's weight.
Amidst the cacophony of clashing steel, he reveled—a dark symphony of violence and desperation. Each metallic clash echoed through the air, a discordant melody that resonated in the marrow of his bones. The squelching sound—the wet, visceral punctuation—was a gruesome underscore to the scene.
Flesh yielded to metal, yielding secrets and stories. It was as if some giant carrion book lay open before him, its pages stained with crimson ink. Each wound, each life extinguished, etched a chapter in this grim narrative. The battlefield became a library of suffering, and he, the reader—an insatiable hunger for the macabre.
His senses drank it all in: the coppery scent of blood, the heat radiating from severed limbs, the anguished cries swallowed by the chaos. He reveled not in victory or defeat, but in the raw essence of existence—the fragility of flesh, the brutality of survival.
He was satisfied with their performance, they’d grown so much since he first started following them. “So strong..” He mumbled to himself, looking down from his Birds Eye view. “You will all serve Him well, as I have.. But it is not strength I need now, it is numbers.."
He looked around at the corpses that littered the alleys and courtyard of Edana. Some could be salvaged, he thought, with their blood still warm in their veins. However he needed more than what he could scavenge from the carnage here. He needed to go elsewhere. He pushed himself to his feet atop the roof and closed his eyes, when he opened them again he was stood in the courtyard in Arandor.
The few Elves that occupied the courtyard gasped as they looked at the shrouded intruder, attempting to move away from him, tripping over the benches and their own feet.
As he threw open his arms he said in a calm voice, “Come, my brothers.. Collect these mortals, for Him.”
All at once the tranquil sky above Arandor grew dark and clouds of dark amethyst swirled about. Black smoke began to rise sinuously from the earth and from the plumes walked the Aggregators of Azamul, they surveyed the Elves with a detached curiosity.
Mortimer’s grin widened, a twisted reflection of the unfolding chaos. The Aggregators of Azamul, their forms shifting like smoke, moved with deliberate purpose and subdued the helpless Elves. One of the Elves nearest him pleaded for mercy. He laughed, his laughter—a maddening crescendo—filled the void. Mercy? A quaint notion. Chaos? His birthright.
“You!” Mortimer’s voice sliced through the charged air, towards an Aggregator. Before the shrouded figure could turn to see who called him, Mortimer had appeared behind the Elf the Aggregator had captured.
Mortimer wrapped a hand around the back of the Elf’s head, entangling his fingers into his short red hair. He smirked as he looked into his eyes. “Fear... Good.” He mused as he took a finger and pressed it into the Elf’s chest.
He felt the two bony ribs as his finger slid between them and into the Elf’s flesh burying itself deep into his lung.
A small sliver of black travelled from under Mortimer’s sleeve and out onto his hand before finding its way into the Elf’s chest. “For you..” He said with a maniacal grin, his voice a venomous caress.
The Elf groaned and ground his teeth as Mortimer withdrew his finger from the Elf’s chest, his bright red blood coated Mortimer’s hand. Mortimer brought his bloody hand up to his face and dragged it slowly in front of his nose. He breathed it in deeply, soaking as much of it in as his own lungs allowed, before dragging his his finger, laden with the Elf’s fresh blood, across his tongue. “Ahhhhh..” he moaned with delight. “Delicious..”
Tendrils of smoke arose once more from the earth, coiling around the intruders. Suddenly they were gone without a trace or evidence of their invasions, save for the few bodies of those that dared put up a fight. The red haired Elf shambled out of the courtyard towards the cities bank as the pounding footsteps of armored mounts thundered past him as though he wasn’t there. He tried to speak but blood filled his mouth. A cough misted his blood into the evening air as he felt an arm catch him underneath his own.
“Where.. were you..?” He managed as he looked around at the warriors.
Another cough, another bloody mist.
He didn’t hear their replies over the ringing in his ears and the burning in his chest. He felt the healing magic of several of the onlookers at they attempted to help him, but I did not seem to matter, he knew whatever magic slid from under that black sleeve into his chest was much too strong.. much too evil..
“They came.. from no where.. They took them.. or killed them..” he managed. His voice grew faint as his breath turned to a wheeze.
Another cough, though this time not red, not misted. Black blood oozed from his mouth into his hand.
He held his hands out towards those gathered as though presenting some macabre gift.
“He cursed me!” He tried to scream but his words garbled in his mouth, like he was under water.
He felt is airway tighten, his hands launched towards his neck and his eyes grew wide with panic. The air making little more than a squeak as it passed into his lungs.
Darkness began to fill his vision. He felt his body weaken from whatever evil was growing inside him. As he looked frantically around the group, he stopped as he spotted the shrouded figure standing several paces behind all those gathered.
He felt a cool breeze pass over his cheeks and through his hair before collapsing to the earth.
As his final breath escaped his lungs, so too did a torrent of black blood which poured from his open mouth.
As he laid unmoving on the cold stone of the street, he felt the warm grasp of sticky fingers wrap around his head. “Familiar..” he thought as he felt himself be pulled into the dark ooze.
Looking once more to the shrouded figure, he heard the figure whisper quietly and calmly, “More Thralls for Him.”
And he was gone.. into the blackness..