Stale air clung to the world below; a land that had spat in the face of death, forgetting the bonds that chained them to the mortal realms of the living, casting the whole world in a suspended perversion of life, twisted and grotesque, some have become, others just eking out what meager life they can in a land where power reigns and no rules remain but the rule of strength and ambition.
But Death waits for no one. It comes for all, persistent as time itself.
And for this world, Death has arrived.
The Black Ziggurat, spiraling through space eternal, has found its target. The planet below ripe for invasion. The Citadel of Death, black stone carved unknown millennia ago descends upon the world, gracefully dropping down upon a mountaintop, crushing the stones below until it nestled into the natural quarry. Boulders tumbled below, careening down the mountain, crushing plants and wildlife unable to escape the avalanche of earth.
The trembling terrain settled. The inner sanctum of the Black Ziggurat sprung up in a twisted life. Incense drifted throughout the air, wisping about as obsidian robed monks traversed the black stone corridors. Barren feet slapped against the cold floors. Faint purple and green light illuminated the figures as they shuffled limply along to Death’s Sanctuary, their bluish lips whispering psalms of death, black cracks spiderwebbing across their mouths as they grew louder in their awakening.
Cadaverous brothers entered the sprawling room ahead, ceilings higher than the reaches of heaven, lined with a thousand sarcophagi, all opened and empty, void of champions, all save for one. Purple firelight lit the endless room, torches birthed to new life, row upon row, faint light traveled far above. A lone monk broke from the pack, walking up to the centerpiece of the sanctuary; the massive skull of a god long forgotten from this world; its mouth agape, holding an endless, colorless void within.
The ancient monk took a deep breath through his nose, twisting his white rope belt tight around his slender waist. Stale air, incense could not blot out the stench of death here. He smiled, his blue lips cracking more, oozing a black ichor. His skin was stretched out across his face. If not for the flesh there, he would be more at home in a bone yard than Death’s eternal monastery. His smile unaltered, he gazed out across the skull, his black teeth grinding in glee of his new mission.
Unvoiced words entered his ears, caressing his mind, filling his soul with a calm delight. His voice dry and dusty, ancient with the weight of time, “Ah, yes, yes my lord. Your words give us meaning beyond our selves.”
“Father Morbos. The ritual is ready to proceed.” A monk bowed to his superior, stepping back to join his brethren around the last sealed sarcophagi that was lowered from its suspended slumber.
The ancient monk lifted his hood. His head was bald with age, white tuffs of hair managed an existence on his plain head. Wispy, wiry beard hair jostled about as he conveyed his Lord’s direction upon his brethren, “Necroth has spoken! We have authority to bring death to this defiant land. Now, we must awaken his lone champion. The last of our Lord’s arm and sword. My brothers, come, let us begin the ritual with haste.”
He joined his brothers around the sarcophagi, his dead, white eyes taking in the last hope of Death. Faint light bouncing off its ornately carved surface. Symbols long forgotten to mortals, but fresh in the mind of every brother here. His hands, thin and boney, barely contained by sickly, pale skin, grasped a black prybar.
He thrust the bar into the lid, levering it once. It jolted open, tsssssss, hissing as ancient air escaped the stone prison. Chill air swooped down on the group, their robes fluttering in the wind, hoods blowing down around their thin necks, revealing morbid monks not unlike Morbos, but none as ancient as he who speaks with Death.
The group of monks pulled the lid aside, dropping it to the black floor. Boom, with a massive clang that resonated across the room, bouncing about the walls in an endless echo. After several raspy breaths and prayers of the monks, the sound finally subsided.
Morbos’s whitened eyes scanned the contents within with reserved glee. A Death Knight of Necroth, donned in black plate armor, spikes jutting from his pauldrons, black rusted chainmail dripping from beneath the protective plates. No face, save for a skull facemask, slumbering closed eyes behind.
Another obsidian robed postulant entered the sanctuary, holding a leash tied to a woman dressed in black, wrapping around her tender pale neck. A black veil was covering her face. She confidently strode to the freshly opened sarcophagi. Father Morbos raised his frail hand to help her atop the sarcophagi.
She stood amongst the last Death Knight of the Black Ziggurat. An honor no maidens had received in thousands of years. Joy filled her soul, her breast lifting as air filled her lungs. She would give birth to a champion that has not been required by Necroth in so long. She would be granted a place next to the Lord of Death. She knew it.
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The monks began chanting along as she stripped her black dress from her body. She was healthy, young, and her belly protruded with life. She rubbed impregnated belly with a smile, looking down on the knight below her. She was ready for this moment. It was the highest honor Necroth could bestow upon her.
Chains dropped from the ceiling, clattering about as they dangled around her. Sharp hooks tossed and turned, awaiting their purpose to be served. She carefully held each hook, dark and lifeless, cold to the touch, and pressed it against her skin, sinking the sharp point between her ribs.
The point ripped into her skin, looping around her rib bone. Blood trickled from her delicate skin. She winced at the pain, allowing the sensation to fill her senses.
One by one, the pain filled her body, but not her soul. With each hook placed in her body, she could feel one step closer to her Lord.
A monk bowed to her, his hands held high, a dark knife in his palms. She carefully held the knife high, “Now, I give life to you, champion of Necroth, so that you may bring death to a land who disrespects our Lord. Rise, my child, and do what he hath destined you to do.” She could barely contain her joy as she whispered, “Make your family proud.”
She plunged the knife down into her stomach, cutting upwards to her chest. She grunted at first, the pain a momentary discomfort, soon overtaken by a sense of pleasure and peace. The hooks tightened and ripped out, splaying her ribcage open. The sensation unbearable, yet strangely comforting, knowing she would soon join her Lord in death.
Blood gushed out over the body within the sarcophagi, filling the resting place inch at a time with precious blood. The woman finally went limp, all life now drained from her body. The monks pulled her aside, unhooking her, and drug her off to the mouth of the eternal skull, tossing her in the void, and saying one last prayer as she joined their master. A twisted smile plastered across her face as she tumbled within.4
Morbos watched the woman descend into the void to be with their Lord. What a place it must be to stay at the side of Necroth, to embrace his throne for all eternity. One day, he too would join them in the halls of death, but for now, he still had work to do here in the mortal realm, and nothing could keep him from completing what Necroth had chosen him to do.
He turned back to the sarcophagi. The blood was gone now. The Death Knight gazed back at Morbos with milky, white eyes, void of any vibrancy. The knight lifted his stiff arms, joints cracking as he grabbed the sides of the sarcophagi and lifted himself upwards, bending his knees with loud cracks as he stood among the chanting monks.
The monks staggered backwards, gasping, bowing, and hailing the knight with praise. They dare not anger one of the chosen.
Morbos smiled, baring his black teeth, “Welcome to the land of the living, Champion of Death, Necroth’s chosen! Come, see your father! Join me, Death Knight! Receive his blessing so you might slay all unbelievers and restore this land to its rightful place.”
The Death Knight glanced around the chamber, his eyes taking in the priests burning incense, the empty sarcophagi all around the sanctuary, finally landing on the massive skull at the center of the room, and the Death Priest beckoning him.
The sweet smell of death filled his nostrils. He gave a snort as he stepped down, his metal boots clattering against the black stone below. His body stiff and rigid as he took each step forward, vigor quickly returning to his limbs. He stood at the edge of the pit inside Necroth’s mouth.
Morobs lifted his right arm, “Now, speak with your father and Lord. Let him grant you the power to do his bidding. His blessing for you to send the denizens of this world to their graves.”
The priest stepped back as the knight stood with his arm held high. The Death Knight’s eyes gazed deep into the mouth’s void, then up to the empty eye sockets above. His head was filled with the words of Necroth. A chill, calming feeling washed over him. His body throbbed with purpose. He nodded at the skull.
A whooshing sound filled the chamber, emanating from the skull’s mouth. Far at first, but soon the source of the sound emerged from the mouth. A black metal axe, used by an executioner of old, ender of thousands of lives, flung right into the knight’s hand. He gripped it tight and looked it over. The blade sharp, its edge glinting even in the dull purple light of Death’s Sanctuary. It felt right in his hands. It felt familiar.
Father Morbos raised his arms in victory, “Necroth has chosen his champion!”
The monks let out a chant as Morbos shuffled over to the Death Knight, “You have been tasked with killing a defiler of life, a twisted being known as the Bone Doctor in these lands. Follow the southern star to where he lurks, defying death and spitting in our Lord’s face with each passing day.”
At the front of Death’s Sanctuary, a massive drawbridge began to open. Small rays of light began to spill into the Black Ziggurat for the first time in centuries. Dust and smoke trails lingered in the air as the door finally landed against the rocks below. Air came rushing in, swirling around the Death Knight.
Father Morbos led him forward, “Now, go forth and deal death to this world. You are Rigor Mortis, named and chosen by Necroth. March forth, and spread fear to the land below! Kill hundreds, thousands, as many as you need for the heathens below to feel the power of our Lord.”
Rigor Mortis brandished his black executioner axe, gripping it tight in both hands. He stepped into the light, his eyes burning but never blinking. His boots rapping against the drawbridge and into the unexpecting world below. Behind him, the drawbridge rose, closing with a loud bang.
Morbos stood in the dark behind the door, proud. He knew Rigor would complete the task. Bodies would pile up into mountains of dead. If not, they would all be in a dire plight. He bowed his head and prayed for the Death Knight’s success.
Rigor’s eyes adjusted to the light outside. He stood amongst some sparse trees and boulders. A small stream trickled down the mountain nearby, a simple path beside it. He had his mission. Now, he would do what he was born to do.
He trudged forward, following the path, not knowing what to expect below, but knowing what he must do.
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