600 years ago...

There were few places Rath’Mel could remember from his vast travels that had taken his breath away. The Enchanted Forest of the Elves, which had been hidden away deep in an untamed jungle, home to trees as large as mountains with hundreds of little buildings adorning each one. The Home of the Gnomes, residing atop a perpetually drifting cloud, being held together with a staggering amount of arcane runes and the technomancy they had invented. Or even the deepest caverns of the Kobolds, massive chasms in the earth lit up only by the gems and minerals the Kobolds thought were beneath their notice.

But even with such sights as grand as those, it was always the Dray’Mel Gardens he thought of in his lowest points. Of quieter times, planting the rare and unique plants and nurturing them by hand from tiny seedlings. What had started as a simple bed of flowers had grown into a repository of truly one-of-a-kind horticultural phenomena. The hours he had spent and the love he’d put into this place only hurt all the more, as he watched his apprentices finish clearing out space for his upcoming spell.

In the place of life-saving herbs, fresh blood was being shaped into the formation of a variety of runes. It was fortunate that they still had a few prisoners languishing in the dungeons to drain, as each rune they sprawled out used the entire lifeblood of a human male. Standing amid the rapidly growing formation, Rath’Mel channeled his Mana flow deep into the runes, attuning himself to the upcoming spell.

With placement finished, loyal soldiers stepped forward kneeling all around him, ready to give their lives for their cause. Taking a moment to look at each of them, Rath’Mel reached deep inside of himself, drawing forth the power of his Pact. The spell he intended to cast was beyond even him in scope, requiring a sacrifice and a portion of his soul to fuel the missing link.

Devour…

Imbuing the spell with his Crux, he slowly began to drain the life of the sacrifices, using their life force to power the spell needed to destroy the invading army, once and for all.

As the torrential power coursed through him, he struggled to contain the sheer joy he was beginning to feel. With each drop of Mana he felt undulating within his very soul, the desire to lose himself in the magic grew and grew, almost overpowering him as he began to channel the mana into the air above him.

The amount of mana being conjured forth began to twist the very air itself, the world seeming to pull down on the castle as it grew laden with power. Each of the ritual sacrifices fell to the ground, desiccated corpses drained entirely of blood. Even his apprentices began to fall to the ground, their life force being wrested from them. The spell Rath’Mel was beginning to cast was taking a life of its own, just as he had intended.

The spell would drain each living soul in Dray’Mel, killing all of them in a last act of defiance. The only survivor of this battle would be the Dreaded Archmage, and with the dying gasp of the city, he would advance himself once more along his path to power. Leaning heavily on the power inside of him, he cast the Mana he’d accumulated throughout the city.

Devour… Devour… Devour…

As the spell billowed through the city on foul winds, the defending army and the invaders began to feel weak. Their weapons dropping to the ground, the average soldier could barely resist as their life force drained away, leaving thousands dead or dying, falling on top of one another like so much meat on the chopping block.

Even as the spell took away those lives, however, it gave back more and more to Rath’Mel. The channeled mana swirled and churned, the faces of the dead screaming out in pain above him. With it burning through his veins, the once decrepit mage could feel laughter bubbling up inside of him as his flesh seemed to revert through time, the years falling off his bones. Infused with life, he began the final steps of his spell, drawing the wild mana into a single bead of power.

Sitting atop his palomino steed Briarwave, Arthur Brighthammer stared at the sight of his men storming through enemy territory. His fingers itched to join them, and he shifted restlessly in his saddle. With every death of one of the soldiers, his heart bled for him to Aid them. He was one of the army’s most decorated and revered Captains.

Born to a noble family, he’d shunned the airs and graces he’d been expected to adopt and had spent his youth around the stablehands and the local blacksmith. When his peers were learning how to eat soup without spilling it down their fine clothes, he was involved in some rough and tumble with his wooden sword. It had broken his dear parent’s hearts when he had announced that he was to join up and serve The Order at the tender age of seventeen.

But, even that rambunctious scrap of a boy who would spend his days cleaning out dirt in the stables for a free ride of a steed, had always known the military was his destiny.

As such, the Hallowed Pilgrim had been forged in the crucible of war and he knew that so far, the battle for Dray’Mel had been too easy. The conscripted soldiers in his army had talked about the great swell of power and death that had opened the battlefield, but Arthur knew enough about his enemy that it was but a prelude of what was to come.

Instead, they had managed to breach the city walls on the first push of the army, their ballista allowed to fire with impunity. One Chosen had flown forth to stop them, but he had flown alone, and died to the Stalwart Paladin’s maul. And while the White Mage had come into contact with a second Chosen and paid the ultimate price, the inner city walls would soon fall completely.

All of this with no answer from the ruler of this grand city, the Dreaded Archmage himself. And it was that which told Arthur he would need to hold off. Who else but he would stand a chance at slaying the foul creature masquerading as a man, once and for all?

Briarwave dug his left hoof into the ground as if sensing his master’s restlessness.

“Steady boy,” Arthur said, patting the faithful stallion on his neck. Briarwave shook his mane and whinnied impatiently.

Arthur’s left hand touched the chest of his plate armor. Underneath it, hanging over his heart, was a silver chain with a drop of rose quartz hanging on it. It was certainly not the usual attire of a decorated soldier but Adelynn had insisted he wear it.

“Rose quartz, my brave captain, is the stone of unconditional love.”

She’d hung the stone around his neck and tucked it down underneath his armor before he’d set out with his troops. Beautiful Adelynn Dorrel, eldest of the Dorrel sisters and his future bride. He had told himself on that first night away from the city, that he would marry her as soon as he was back in Chersetra. He’d already been away from her for too long and his heart was sore with longing for her sweet face and the scent of her Lilfage perfume.

It was almost a relief, therefore, when Arthur finally began to notice the Mana bubbling forth from Dray’Mel’s keep. Finally, the counter-attack was coming, but the sheer scope of it took him by surprise. Feeling the Mana in the air building to a ruinous crescendo, he immediately headed towards the source.

Clicking his stirrups, Briarwave let out a whinny and unfurled two beautiful white wings from its equine back. Taking off into the sky, the Pilgrim had a first-hand view, as the foul magic began to ripple through the soldiers, perverting their life force and draining their souls.

Flying overhead of the open Gardens, he took in the sight of his hated foe, the Mana accumulating above the decrepit Mage. An errant wisp of the Mana touched Briarwave, who immediately began to scream and writhe, the magic draining the Pegasus into a disgusting lump of rotting flesh in mere moments.

Letting himself fall to the ground, there was no time to mourn the loss. He was immediately bombarded with pure malicious energies, seeking to inject itself into his very soul. With his limbs degrading before his very eyes, Arthur raised his hand to the sky, pushing forth with his all his might.

Aid…

Flying down from on high was the very basis of his faith. Once during his very first war, his eagerness to prove himself meant that he had taken a sword to the chest and nearly died. Left for dead by his band of brothers, he’d been taken care of by the old man in the infirmary for weeks. And as he slipped in and out of consciousness, he had seen what lay in store for him in the afterlife. An endless battlefield, with creatures beyond comprehension battling each other relentlessly. Mortal souls at their feet, being crushed and reborn, just to be crushed once more.

And from that dreary hellscape, a being of endless power had rescued him. Lifting him and healing his body, the Hallowed Pilgrim had spent his life in service of the Gods of Order, and the Angels who served them.

Descending once more before him, Arthur hoped for an equal miracle, rewinding the damage done by the Dreaded Archmage’s spell. But even as he felt the Angel’s power repair his body, he felt the two opposing Mana’s clash with one another, each smashing against the other like the ebb and tide of the sea. Finally, the two sources of Mana hit a tipping point, and rather than fight, they seemed to merge. One spell to save lives, one meant to drain them. Melding together to leave the inhabitants of the city neither alive nor dead in a strange purgatory.

Retreating before the overflowing magical energy, the Angel fled without a single glance towards Arthur, as the Pilgrim coughed up his last breath. Laying on the Gardens soil, he looked up one last time to see Rath’Mel frozen in place, the flesh and blood of his body peeling off his bones. The last thing Arthur saw before his last living moment though, was the Dreaded Archmages eyes, blazing in empty sockets with an unquenched fervor. Arthur raised a trembling hand to his chest and was still.

Standing once more, Fang’Mel could only stare at his hands. One moment, he was falling, the next he was whole. All around him, the infantry of both sides began to stir.

It was only when he tried to take a step forward that he noticed the change. Broken and mangled as his body was, it had needed more flesh to recover. Choking on his bile, he stared down at his body, as he realized that everything below his torso had merged with his gargoyle mount.

Casting his eyes around him, looking for salvation, the only thing he saw was the dead men rising, throwing themselves at each other in desperate hunger. Small pockets of surviving soldiers pushed to escape the swarms of undead, but the unending nature of their foes doomed them to failure.

With a wail of anguish, the Gray Fox took to the skies with bat-like wings, watching as the city of Dray’Mel came back to life, and died once more. Stuck in a cycle of rebirth and decay.

Forever locked in a state of undeath.