Regisfall

Way past the witching hour and under a shroud of mist, the Drowned, a ship from Kamella, glided into the ruined harbor of Tilverton. As the vessel docked at the crumbling pier, a horde of undead poured out. Skeletal figures moved with eerie precision, their hollow eyes glowing faintly, as they hoisted crates of iron, granite, sand and timber from the ship’s hold. Overseeing the operation were several cloaked figures in dark green robes, their whispered chants commanding the silent army. Among them, Zoma stood, their scythe crowned with a pulsating halo of green light that dominated the harbor like a second moon.

The horde surged through the desolate streets of Tilverton, past crumbling walls and abandoned homes, their macabre procession unbroken. The undead emerged from the long collapsed city gates and onto the pradarie beyond. In the distance, a colossal tree rose from the earth, its twisted branches stark against the dark sky. Beneath its branches, the construction site awaited. The cloaked figures positioned themselves along the procession, ensuring the cargo wagons, pulled by undead oxen, reached the meadow intact. Zoma led the way, their eyes fixed on the ancient tree.

At the base of the tree, the necromancers gathered as the undead formed orderly lines, unloading their burdens and arranging the materials for construction. Zoma stepped forward, their scythe striking the ground with a resonant thud. Their voice, low and commanding, carried across the pradarie. "Here we raise Risencrantz," they proclaimed. "Begin." The skeletal workers fell into motion once more, their labor silent but inexorable, as the first stones were laid in the shadow of the great tree.

The final stone of Risencrantz settled into place with a deep, resonant thud, its weight vibrating through the ground. The buildings loomed under a pale, overcast sky. Undead laborers stood motionless, their task complete, the faint green glow in their eyes dimming as Zoma lowered their scythe. The silence that followed felt unnatural, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

Zoma stepped forward, their dark green robes trailing behind them as they ascended the central hall’s steps. They reached the pinnacle where a single obsidian pedestal waited, its surface carved with shimmering runes. With a careful motion, they placed a glowing crystal into its cradle. The fortress pulsed to life, the runes along its walls flaring crimson in unison. A faint hum filled the air as the magic binding Risencrantz solidified, anchoring the structure to its bleak surroundings.

From their vantage point, Zoma surveyed the finished stronghold. Its walls stood unyielding, its gates impenetrable, and its walls cast long shadows over the pradarie. The fortress was no longer just a construction; it was a symbol. With a faint nod, Zoma turned to descend, their work finished. Risencrantz was ready.