NationStates Jolt Archive

Krahgun stared blearily towards the fires burning under the twilight, his mind pleasingly addled with drink and the day's victory. The beating of drums pounded rhythmically in his ears, and his nostrils twitched as the scent of roasting flesh reached him. He lurched upright, suddenly overcome with the desire to gorge. He kicked out with a heavy, cloven hoof, sending an orc sprawling. The creature turned, a snarl contorting its twisted features, but it flinched as its gaze met the Great Uruk's, picking itself up and slinking into the surging mass of the celebrating.

Bursts of harsh, bestial laughter and roars echoed throughout the ruined city. Black, coiling smoke rose from dozens of fires into the night sky, filling the air with the cloying stench of burning fat, bone, wood and asphalt. Shoving his way towards the closest fire, Krahgun saw the mutilated bodies that had been hurled onto the flames alongside crumpled petrol cans as fuel. They burnt furiously beneath the body of a spitted cow that was being butchered crudely by a pair of trolls. Krahgun snarled as he grabbed a leg bone from one of the massive creatures, laughing contemptuously as the thing turned away cowed. He sank his teeth into the poorly cooked, blackened flesh, rivulets of searing blood running down his hand and jaws. Snatching up a wine-skin he upended it into his maw, washing down the flesh with alcohol, unknowing and uncaring that he drank the finest imported Nenyan wine.

A great Darkness had fallen upon Joseph Seal.

In the beginning a frightened tide of humanity had fled out to the liners and ferries and the gravships from Menelmacar, but soon the tide dried to a stream, and the stream to a trickle, and those who did escape told tales of evil and debauchery unequalled since the Rape of Nanking, their hearts shrivelled and eyes frozen wide and terrified.

Some said that Emperor Arfus Sealous, appalled at the horror he had unwittingly unleashed upon his people in foolish defiance had taken his own life before the twisted beings from the Black Land could make him their creature, others that the wraith lord himself had sought the seal out; had made him crawl and lick and commit unspeakable acts of abasement before casting him to the mob for the sport of their wargs.

In the beginning the resolve of the men and women of Joseph Seal had been strong, even though the clouds churned and the skies were wracked by unnatural storms. Heedless of these dire portents they had hardened their hearts and awaited the coming of the invaders with an anxious anticipation. But when they finally came…

The Seal navy had not put to sea to face the fearsome craft of the Enemy and the towering barges from the dread isle of Kalessin, its personnel determined to be of more use adding to the strength of the army on the ground than dashing themselves hopelessly upon the face of the dark armada that approached them on tempestuous waves. The storm had cleared in front of this doom-laden fleet as it reached the coast, a wave of fireballs hurtling inland from great mortars mounted upon the golden decks of the Kalessini barges, backed by a terrible fusillade from the gravships of the Dark Lord that smashed down skyscrapers and levelled city blocks. Then, with a resounding crash, the gates of the barges had opened, and thousands of Kalessini troops poured out onto the shore, led by their infernal princes, the many-hued armour they clad themselves in glittering so brightly that most of the waiting soldiers could not bring their eyes to look on them.

This vast army, each warrior clad in a hardened black leather breastplate, greaves and helmet and armed with an AK or simple spear and sword had met determined resistance, and the shores of Sealtropolis had fast become a nightmare vision of hell, mud, horror and war as the corpses piled on one another. Soon though the Dark Lord’s minions had put down alongside the Kalessini, orcs and men and their horrific masters, supported by blasphemous demon-engines and things with no sane right to exist in the world. Every street, every building, every foxhole became a desperate battleground as the conquerors swept inland, and wherever the Deceiver’s forces passed a trail of ruin and devastation was left smouldering in their wake.

General Maddox, sick with despair at the rapidly deteriorating situation, finally felt his hand had been forced when presented with the public and stomach-turning execution of four Seal soldiers captured prior to the war on the Panteran isle of Braavos for acts of sabotage at the hands of the haemonculi of Raem. His unathuroised rescue operation had started this war, and he turned himself in in hopes of appeasing the invaders. All the poor man achieved in doing so was to fall prey to the tender mercies of Comorragh’s denizens himself - it was too late for the Enemy to turn back. Dark Eldar raiders soon became another fixture in Sealtropolis, striking at night, making off with the young, the aged, the weak and the wounded; the screams of their victims often the only indication of their presence.

The greatest irony for the Seals was that far from saving the elves by the act of piracy that had stirred Sauron to anger, most, if not all, ultimately fell back into His clutches, supplemented by the deportees the Seals had taken and a portion of the Confederation's native elvish population. The human populace shared no lesser fate; most of them would likely find themselves doomed to toil and die around the great slave fields of Nurn, screaming out the remainder of their lives in the fell city of Comorragh or being dragged off to supplement the brutalised populations of Kalessin’s terrible realms.

Neighbouring countries had watched from afar, unsure how to act, fearful to intervene lest they attract the Eye's terrible gaze to themselves. An eerie black pall had spread over the artificial island. Out of it peaks of skyscrapers jutted like crumbling tombstones, as if the sickness had infected the very fabric of the buildings.

And beneath…

Beneath, hidden from view, the Dark Lord’s servants continued their ghastly work, like artists shielding their canvas, guarding their secrets until the moment should come to reveal to the world their creation, their masterwork…their Necropolis.

OOC: Stems from "The Braavos Concessions" and "Racial Tension Erupts in Pantera!".

OOC: Thelasi Military Intelligence TAG, because I'm too lazy to figure out the subscribe thingy

Of course, now and then, one finds particularly strange beings in nations that are conquered. While most were fleeing Joseph Seal, one man, a strange character who seemed quite calm at the prospect of invasion by the hordes of Sauron, made his way in. Of course, he didn’t exactly come in via customs – it’s hard to pass through most people’s customs services with ancient armour, swords and more bizarre devices. However, none noticed his passing into the doomed nation, none cared but for the defenders, and those who questioned the stranger soon regretted it.

He was Herumor, former Necromancer Lord of Vinyaangmar, architect of the Murder of millions, and the destruction of five hundred thousand Thelasi soldiers, and, most importantly, former Mouth of Sauron.

As the invasion happened, Herumor did very little for either side. He joined the many nameless things that stalked the streets and nightmares of the residents in the darkness of the perpetual night that fell over Joseph Seal, waiting until the time was right. The things he ‘amused’ himself with were perhaps not as intricate as the calculated, measured sadism of the Dark Eldar, but they were certainly more creative and intense than mindless cruelty of the orkor.

As time passed, however, Herumor sensed that his time had come, and he left the shadows to seek one whom he remembered from ages past, Khamûl, The Shadow of the East, now Captain of the Ringwraiths…

OOC: Cleared this with LSR and I apologize for it being rushed. As well, are these elves the same as those normally found in Arda or are they of different stock? I can always edit. The passenger liner is civilian and can carry about 1300 souls not including staff.

IC:

The small flotilla was diverted from Panteran waters due to the general instability of that region. The attacks upon the open seas caused alarm among the Vrakians and they hoped that they were not targeted. However, unlike most nations, they did not decide to send a massive fleet to pick up the elves and were frankly astounded that any nation could move hundreds of thousands of elves in such short order. Now, after receiving word that Arda intended to utterly crush the nation of Joseph Seal the mission of getting some elves suddenly became urgent.

The lead destroyer VNF Kraken eased into the territorial waters of Joseph Seal protecting the cruise liner V.M.M. Golden Vulpix. After receiving the okay, the ship was loaded with panic stricken elves. More tried to board but were ruthlessly turned away less the ship sink under the groaning load.

At last, the Vrakian ships pulled away and possibly would have been picked up by any far ranging Ardan scouts or spy satellites. Of course, their position was also tracked by Vrakian sats and their status was continually being monitored.

Tagged.

Somewhere on the West Coast of the Imperial Seal Confederacy, 0120 hours.

His heart pounding in terror, Sam Phocid ran down though the streets of the city toward the docks, dragging his wife with him through the crowd of humanity that thronged every road and avenue, his seven-year-old son, Simon, flung over his shoulder like a rag-doll. The rush of blood through his ears drowned out the terrified sobs of the child, but the stench that flooded into his nostrils from the seething mass around him caused them to flare, and his eyes to open wide in sympathy, for it was the stink of pure, animal fear. Something that had not been known in the land of Joseph Seal for many a generation. And with every white, staring face that he pushed past as he battled toward his boat, the same image flashed into his mind. The image that had been broadcast on every screen in the Confederacy. The image that had led to this mass-panic. The image of the great Emperor Arfus Sealous, his fat, usually ruddy-cheeked face pale and his eyes wide, sweat streaking his clothing, informing his people, his voice shaking, and tears welling in his eyes, that their doom was upon them, and that only in flight could they find safety.

Finally breaking through to the edge of the mob, Sam ran down the slipway toward his waiting boat, stumbling down the coarse gravel slope upon legs that felt as if they would give way at any moment, and collapse into a heap of boneless jelly. Eventually reaching his small vessel, he lifted Simon up over the side, before clambering in himself, helping his wife in after him. Soon after, they were heading out into the open sea, their fears soothed by the steady chuntering of the boat's engine, the steady beat of the gentle waves upon their hull, and the warm sunlight that shone down upon them through a clear blue sky.


Twenty miles out from the West Coast of the Imperial Seal Confederacy, 0200 hours

Sam stood at the helm of the boat, staring appraisingly at the seemingly endless mass of solid black cloud that had come up suddenly from the West. Despite the apparent lack of wind, the clouds seemed to be moving rapidly toward Joseph Seal. Behind him, his wife and child dozed in the midday sun. His eyes narrowed.

Hmmmm.... is that? Nah, can't be. Almost sounds like music.... Hmph - probably just hearing things.

He shrugged, and looked back at his slumbering family, a gentle smile appearing on his face, as he relaxed for the first time since seeing the Emperor's broadcast.

Ah well, a bit of stormy weather's nothing to worry about. I've been though plenty of that in my time. All that matters is that we've escaped whatever's going to happen back home. We're safe now.


Twenty-five miles out from the West Coast of the Imperial Seal Confederacy, 0205 hours

Silence. Not even the slightest breeze disturbed the calm seascape, and not a bird was to be seen in the sky. Even the crashing of the boat’s prow through the gentle waves seemed somehow muted. Yet though there was almost no sound as such, the music had begun to grow. It seemed almost as if it was welling up from the depths of Sam’s stomach, growing louder and louder in its strange mixture of serene melody and alien cacophony until he felt fit to burst with tension, his nerves tingling and limbs trembling with each noiseless chord.

Suddenly, a dark shape flew though the water, hurtling past the boat toward the land of the Seal Confederacy. Within seconds, another followed, and another, and another, until a whole shoal of fish had shot past them. A bright, glistening shape, its body flexing powerfully, leapt up into the air as it went by, sending a splash of seawater spraying up toward Simon’s sleeping face.

The boy screamed in agony as the water touched him, jerking awake instantly and leaping back from the side of the boat, as the fish, its skin puffy and blistered, plunged blindly back into the sea. As the scream split the air, Josephine awoke instantly, and moved swiftly to her son’s side, wiping his face with a handkerchief, before turning to look over the side of the boat. As she did so, her face went pale, and she jumped back involuntarily. She turned to her husband, her voice barely more than a whisper, weak and quavering.

“Sam…. the water… it’s… bubbling… the water… it can’t be… it’s boiling!”

He stood and stared at her, as the water began to hiss and spit against the hull, and the clouds started to swirl and rumble up ahead. Then, a warm breeze started up, and the stormfront began to accelerate. The breeze rapidly became a wind, then a squall, then a gale, and then a raging hurricane, all in a matter of seconds, and the engine of the little boat began to grate and grind as it fought against the now raging elements.

Appearing over the horizon was a seemingly endless wall of dark cloud and fog, stretching from the troughs of the ocean waves, up to the highest heavens, where the last breaths of air caress the empty vacuum of space. Unearthly lightening, in every shade from pale green to bright, fluorescent pink, criss-crossed this gloomy mass, and huge, dark shadows lurked within. And as this horrific apparition climbed up the curve of the Earth, the music began to float across the furious sea, no longer merely some half-imagined echo resonating through Sam’s mind, but a strident, very real, sound, cutting through the howls of the wind and the crashing of the waves like a scalpel through rotten flesh, evoking a series of feelings and images, half-remembered dreams and long-distant memories. The buzz of an angry bee, driving down with its long sting upon a fearful child. The pitiful sobs of his mother, set against the remorseless roar of the storm that had claimed his father. The music mocked him and scolded him, scorned and threatened. The only thing that bound it all was an all-consuming fear. Fear for himself, and for his wife, and, most of all, for his young child. Fear for the Confederacy, and for all who lived within its rule. And this was not the kind of fear that arouses one to stand up, and fight like a cornered bear. This was a fear permeated with despair, and the sense of inevitable doom.

Sam froze for a moment, his muscles locked in helpless terror, gazing into the eyes of his family, which were now moist with tears. Their eyes pleaded with him, begged him to find a way to save them. Then, bracing himself against the music, he grasped the wheel in nerveless hands, hauling the boat around, and sending it hurtling back toward the comparative safety of the Seal Confederacy. Behind him, the storm continued in its relentless approach, and the music grew.

OOC:

To be continued!

OOC: making a few adjustments here via discussions with Kal. Will post as soon as I can.

The great golden barge bore down upon the Vrak lead destroyer VNF Kraken at an incredible speed, the ocean itself seeming to aid its progress as it swept onwards, its immense bulk shining like a miniature sun, and the air seeming to thin before it, so as to offer minimum resistance. The ornate decoration which covered it was of a quality of artistry which no being of this age could ever hope to match, yet it was as strange as it was beautiful, and those who looked at it felt repulsed by its alien nature as much as they were awed by its beauty. Over the crashing of the waves and the howling of the wind, both of which seemed to quiet at the serene approach of this strange vessel, the crew of the Kraken faintly heard the strains of music, though it was no music that any of them had heard the like of before, and those that strained to hear it could not quite focus on it, as if it were only a passing dream. From each of its many graceful towers, arching and curving up toward the heavens like serpents dancing up from its basket at the call of a pipe, flew a banner displaying a stylised green snake on a black field.

A voice called across the water, soft and calm, without the strain that accompanies shouting or the ferocity of a sailor’s bellow. It was quiet, gentle almost, and strangely melodious, although the inflections were strange and alien, yet it carried clearly and cleanly across the many hundreds of yards of rushing air and crashing water that separated the small Vrak flotilla from the glowing Barge, cutting through the roar of their engines, and the rustle of conversation, and it seemed to speak to each and every being, officer and sailor alike, on board each of the two Vrak vessels in a tone both kindly and warm, benevolent, and, most of all, immensely wise and sincere.

“Greetings to you of the noble Young Kingdom of the Vrak. We trust that you were not inconvenienced by the recent disturbances in the area formerly claimed by the so-called Emperor of Joseph Seal? We are sure that Sauron will be quite happy to compensate you for any losses suffered.”

The voice paused for a few moments, as the gigantic golden palace continued to draw nearer the Vrak ships.

“Oh, and one more thing. May we enquire about the nature of your business in that area. Are you carrying any cargo collected in the former confederacy, by any chance?”

OOC:

re: Vrak: Thanks! Keep your above post safe somewhere - there's a good chance you'll end up being able to re-post it later. Would like to discuss where we want to go from here on IRC.

Ooc: Tag

unknowing and uncaring that he drank the finest imported Nenyan wine.

Awesome, I love that article, "Graktar still strong whelp". BTW, is this modern tech?

((Still wondering what Vrak's up to with those elves. And doubtless, observing him with those OTT spy sattelites of Siris.))

OOC: Just for reference’s sake. I have one destroyer – Sovremenny class, one frigate – Neustrashimy class, and 3 Molniya-class patrol boats. As well, one repledishment ship is accompanying them and the civilian cruise ship is along the lines of an Amsterdam cruiser liner.

http://www.ship-technology.com/projects/amsterdam/specs.html

The maximum speed for each ships are as follows: cruise liner; 24.5 knots, destroyer; 34 knots, frigate; 30 knots, patrol boats; 38 knots (I’m assuming here some kind of sprint speed).

IC:


The speed of the oncoming…barge…filled the destroyer captain with dread. The tactical officer estimated that the ship was traveling between 48-50 knots. Inwardly, the captain groaned and thought that there was no possible way they could outrun them. He was about to order the comm officer to transmit an emergency message to military command when suddenly the milky sweet voice radiated from the barge. Sailors and officers alike on all the ships paused and craned their necks to gaze at the odd yet beautiful stately vessel. Some of the officers shook their heads and then began barking orders to the crew.

The captain was understandably shaken at even how the message was delivered. No radio cackled to life. No flag signals were given nor any flashing lights transmitted anything in Morse code. It was damn weird how a voice could just travel that far cleanly across the water.

The captain strode out of the bridge onto the superstructure and to the nearest signal lamp and operator. The captain spoke in his native tongue to the ensign who quickly flashed this message:


-......... ..... -..... -.-..-.--.-.-..-. ---..-. -..... ...--...-. -.-.-..--.-.-..-.-.- ---- .--....----- .--- .. ....--...--.-..-.--. ----..--..




THIS IS THE CAPTAIN OF THE VNF KRAKEN. TO WHOM AM I SPEAKING TO?


Inside the opulent cruise liner, the elves huddled with fear at the last sentence from the alien ship.

====

High above, one particular satellite did notice what was transpiring but did record any type of conversation. The ship positional information was passed onto the duty officer who made a call to upstairs. A certain desk officer who was tasked to monitor this operation took the call and immediately inquired as to whether the VNF Kraken captain put in a call and frowned when the answer came back negative. His left eyebrow raised in concern as he looked at the size of the barge in comparison to his ships. He leaned over and depressed a button with his flipper.

-Get me SATCON. Order a higher resolution scan of that large ship and patch me through to the captian of the Kraken. I want to know what we are dealing with. As well, task Archives to do a search. I don't recognize the design.

The Lord of the Nazgûl's abiding place was bleak, dark and silent, shrouded almost completely in the smoke from the many fires that burned nearby and the unearthly Shadow that had settled on the island. It was a place no man or orc would tread if he could help it--and even the wraith lord's lifeless servants had withdrawn into the darkness at Herumor's approach, leaving it utterly devoid.

As the hideous edifice hove into view the eerie quiet gave way to a frightful, droning buzzing sound. Khamûl's makeshift citadel, once the site of Jospeh Seal's Imperial Palace, stood tall, grim and covered entirely with huge black flies; constructed, as it was, from the meat and bone of those who had defied his master. Crude, yes, but nothing greater had been deemed necesarry to cow this limp-wristed people. The cavernous door of the place stood unguarded, and as the necromancer stepped over the threshold countless of beady, lifeless eyes looked down on him, brimming over with fear and madness even in death.

Herumor looked up at the monstrous conglomeration of corpses built into the structure, his own dying lips curling up under his archaic helm in a grin that pulled them back over cratered teeth that boasted visible cavities running down to the marrow. It was endlessly annoying to Herumor that he could not sustain a human body for more than a few years. They had to be, of course, dead, before he was able to take their bodies over, and unfortunately, although his presence was able to keep the body in a semblance of life, it eventually ran down into decay from those systems that never quite worked when possessed.

He approved of the concept of the tower, but it did not quite suit his sense of… secrecy. Herumor had always been most fond of the idea that letting little whispers of the truth reach the ears of the common people was more productive. They could imagine, in their dark, still moments, what horrors thirsted for the sweetness of their suffering, but they could retain the hope that by compliance and placation or even dedication and collaboration, they would be allowed to live unmolested lives. He had been fond of the idea that secrecy was essential to a productive tyranny.

Of course, he was undaunted by the display of carnage; he knew that if Sauron the Great wanted to do something unpleasant to him, there were infinitely less pleasant things that could be done than such crude manipulation of the flesh. And so he walked into The Easterling’s lair, simply contemplating the creativity displayed in some of its features.

Striding through the silent, gory citadel, boots digging into a carpet of slack-jawed faces, Hermor was quick to come upon a yawning opening in the floor, a staircase of fused bone spiraling down into impenetrable fastness like the reverse spire of some Satanic church. The air grew chillier the farther into it one went, 'til eventually blood-slick flesh gave way to walls of cut stone. Further down in the abysmal depths the staircase came to its end, and there in its frozen sepulchre the wraith lord dwelt, hunched on its dark throne in a pool of shadow. There the sorcerer stopped at last, kneeling with head bowed in supplication.

The Nazgûl was much as the necromancer remembered him, faceless and unfathomable, its phantasmal form cloaked in black robes and baroque armour. Its gaze, when it lifted it to him, had in days long past been difficult for Herumor to hold--for a normal man such was impossible. Here was a truly forsaken creature, drenched in Shadow more than even the similarly ancient sorcerer who stood before it. The voice, when it came, was harsh and guttural yet shrill and piercing all at once, not seeming to issue from the wraith itself but rather bubbling up from some dank and primordial place within one's own mind; the overpowering sense of dread that sprang unbidden at its sound enough to render a lesser man unto madness.

"So, Herumor. You return to us."

The thing rose, then, its black robes making a sound like parchment crumbling, and it beckoned the Númenórean forward.

"Long have you been expected."

Herumor smiled, broken lips pulling back painlessly over burnt gums. He saw the Easterling not simply as the cloaked wraith before him, but also as a pale figure clad in long grey robes, with a pale, not dead but deadened face of bleached white skin from which stared eyes that had long since lost any aspect of humanity, leaving only a chilling, fixed gaze that stared out at the world with what could have been anything from hatred to anguish, but which Herumor imagined as a depthless malice. “I have. Greetings, Khamûl East-Shadow. Long indeed has it been since I saw thee last, nor had I expected ever to do so again. I trust that He has profited well of late adventures.

“It has of course, been arduous and inconvenient to reach this place, but I see that my arrival has been anticipated. As I am yet standing, I presume it has not been anticipated with asperity. So then, what does He demand of me?”

The former emisarry's over-familiarity rankled briefly on Khamûl--in some remote, once-human place. But the feeling soon passed. Such barbs were beneath it, and the Númenorean was too useful a tool to discard over so trifling an offence.

Others had been more disposable.

"You are never beyond His sight, Herumor. You know that." The wraith was already sliding back into the shadows even as it spoke, moving soundlessy, drifting over the flagstones like a ghost. The necromancer knew what was expected of him. The Lord of the Nazgûl was not one to spend hours in fruitless banter with His Lordship's minions. "This place is yours to care for in His Lordship's stead. We know you will remember your fealty."

The creature disappeared fully into the dark corner at the rear of its chamber, then. For an instant, time stopped--then it was simply gone. leaving Herumor to brood in the stygian depths of his rotten citadel.

Khamûl's business in Jospeph Seal was done, and so Herumor had found that the ordeal he had been dreading was over almost before it began.