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(Co-Written by Kutulu, Veral, Greaver, Menele and Machiavelli)
Nothingness.
Pressing. Cold. Unforgiving. Ancient.
Dark Lords slip like forgotten nightmares....
Called back to the point of origin....
The nothingness that predates all creation....
The chaotic abyssal depths....
The inner sanctum and council chamber of...
THE UNHOLY LEGION.
From the eternal blackness..... sounds echo..
They are muffled... like a woman's screams heard from within a coffin, as it is covered with dirt.
A slight glow.... blood red.... flickering....
Candles smelling of sulfur flicker within charred skulls set upon columns of obsidian.
A long table is illuminated.... made of rotting wood.
HERE SIT THE DARK LORDS OF THE UNHOLY LEGION.
What starts as the sound of wind passing through a field of tombstones, becomes the wails of countless cries of terror. Rising amidst the cacophony, a wretched and emotionless voice takes form and speaks as a whisper that dulls all else to silence:
"From the depths.. a blight upon all creation.. a fear never forgotten by the light.."
"We bring eternal misery to what fools would dare to hope. We are the fist of entropy."
"We are the Unholy Legion."
"Dark Lords; Generals; Masters of Fear and Suffering:
We sit in the inner sanctum of the Unholy Legion.. beyond time.. beyond space.."
"Let our words fly as poisoned truth into the hearts of those that would long for peace. How next shall we break innocence upon the pain of chaos? Where do we sow the seeds of rot and ruin? When do we reap our harvest of suffering?"
A shadowed figure moves to the head of the maggot filled conference table and sits upon what seems to be a throne of thorns. Leaning forward in his throne, Kutulu's eyes reflect the crimson glow of the candles.
"It is time for the next phase of our plan. All hope, all dreams, all love will be ripped from existence. Come- there is much to discuss."
A silent figure emerges into the shadowy foreground from the walls of darkness that permeate the room. He watches Kutulu as he speaks his peace, and silently shakes his head. With a sigh, he makes his way to the table of putrid wood.
"Can't we ever have conversations like civilized people? I mean really, who the bloody devil chose this table?"
The figure sits down and faces Kutulu. Reaching into his robe, he pulls out a flask of liquid, and proceeds to drink greedily.
"So then," he sets the flask away and smiles at the horned orc, "let's 'discuss' whatever matters of 'evil' we have here," Machiavelli chuckles, amused.
Dark silent hymns and tunes from a harp can be heard from the hallway slowly comming closer, and closer until it seems to come from every direction when it finaly stops.
The door opens and in comes Menele "The Bard of Doom", he slowly makes himself comfortable and begins to speak.
"Dark Brothers!! At last the moments of my dreams are becomming true, once again shall we raise in power! May my songs of your enemies sufferings strenghten us and further weaken the weak!" (spits out of spite)
"I shall find great pleasure in getting to know your ways new one." (looking at Machiavelli)
"Now to more pressing matters, where is General Greaver!!!?" Menele grins wickedly and gets lost in thoughts of their deeds long past.
After the echo of Menele's voice faded. A deadly chill filled the room, shortly followed by faint footsteps and the sound of metal scrapping. As the noises grew louder and louder, a battleworn figure emerges from the darkness dragging his sword.
"I'm here Menele........"
*cape blowing to one side* Greaver sets his blood soaked sword against the wall and walks over to Kutulu.
*Bows*
"You summoned me, my Lord?"
Rattling noises grow as someone walks the ancient stairs in the Lair of the Unholy Legion.
A shadow grows in the inner sanctum as a Dark Knight aproaches.
As the knight walks into the faint light of the inner sanctum his black armor, deep red cape and bloody sword become visible to the figures already sitting at the table.
The knight turns to the figure in the throne of thorns, as the knight looks up two deep red eyes burn behind the visor.
"Master. I've been waiting for this day, for too long! I have come to answer your Whisper of Darkness."
The knight looks at the other figures.
"My brothers, if I could feel emotions, I might have been touched by this reunion.
I am sure my hunger will finally be answered, now that the Unholy Legion has risen again."
The knight walks to an empty seat near his master and sits down.
"That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die."
- Abdul Alhazred, Necronomicon
From his Throne of Pain, the ancient Kutulu observes the arrival of the Dark Lords. In the palm of his left hand, two smoke filled crystal spheres move in a rhythmic orbit... each containing untold numbers of lost souls.
As the Dark Knight Veral takes his seat.. Kutulu silently rises and violently slams the crystal spheres upon the putrescent table! With an eruption of black flame, the table is no more.
"You see? Creation is the dream.. and we are the nightmare that brings certain finality."
Where once the table stood, the Dark Lords now watch the formless ash shifting in the shadows. With a gesture from the Ancient One, the Dark Lords watch a grim vision unfold through this veil between worlds.
"There.. watch as those pathetic fools create their.. bah.. civilization." Kutulu's face sours, and it seems as though bile may drip from his mouth.. "There they sell their wares.. there they gawk over new shiny armor.. Such accoutrements will not keep their souls from our harvest!"
"But look there; watch as they make war.. the simpletons fight with fear.. as if too righteous to soil themselves."
Kutulu smiles
ominously, and even the shadows pull back in horror.
"Yes. Yes, my riders of the apocalypse. Yes, my harbingers of chaos. There lies another world ripe for our.. careful attention. As we have passed through the countless veils between so many worlds.. As we have left destruction and suffering in our wake.. So, again, we shall work our craft. Once again, we veil our true, unholy natures; don the flesh of this virgin world; and bring a reign of writhing torment to the unsuspecting weak! For them, the end is near... but the agony has just begun."
With that.. Kutulu returns to his throne. He reaches over and lifts a candle filled skull from a near by column. With nothing left to say, he hurls the skull into the pile of ash and shadow! In that moment, all candles go dark. There, upon the formless ground, amidst the soldiers of darkness.. blood seeps from the cracked skull.. and it burns with a purple flame. The flames dim, and in the embers these words appear:
Always Remember these Laws of Unholy Chaos:
* Do only those things which benefit yourself.
* Always exercise efficiency, prudence, frugality and patience.
* Never let the enemy know you'll be attacking.
* Out-number the enemy when possible.
* Be always on the offensive.
* Honor is a waste of energy.
* Love is a waste of energy.
* Enrage the enemy to the point where they HATE you with a passion.
* Drive all spirit & hope & heart from the enemy.
* Replace it with hate & contempt.
* The more death, destruction and chaos you bring - the less hope there will be in the world.
* When all hope is driven from the world, when the comfort of order is gone...
Then, we shall know Power!
Veral reads what the purple flame has to tell.
He smirks for a moment, but his expression turns grim a moment later.
"Master, we all know the cost of travelling between worlds." The knight speaks.
He looks at his sword and continues to speak. "If I were to travel to this new world of fresh meat and souls, it would require all of my energy and would destroy my equipment. I would have to start as a weakling again, but if you wish my assistance in this world, the sacrifice is but a small payment compared to the reward it will bring."
Veral smashes his sword in the ground and kneels before it.
"At your command I will open a portal to that world for me to travel through."
Veral looks into his master's eyes, waiting for the command to come.
Turning his lifeless gaze upon Veral, Kutulu commands:
"Make it so."
Then, after a brief contemplation....
"And never forget... the power of chaos.... the might of the Unholy Legion... is predestined... think not of armor, nor sword, nor flesh.....
Through the suffering of others, we are made to rise... and the eternal pain of our prey is transcendent....."
"Then so be it."
Veral starts to chant in a dark language.
His sword catches a thick black flame and vanishes, leaving but a small orb hovering in front of him.
Thick strings of black smoke now left from within the armor Veral was wearing and disappeared in the orb.
The armor falls apart and exploded into the nothingness of the abyss, to feed the awareness with new forgotten memories.
A moment later a man with blonde hair takes shape from the orb, in normal clothing,
looking just like any other human.
"It is done." Veral says.
After a moment of silence, Veral speaks.
"I reckon the time has come to spread out to the regions our new forms belong to.
It would be best to leave messages here at the sanctum if needed for others to read until we have gathered in this new world.
If you wish to talk to us in person, master, give us the sign."
Veral chants once more and vanishes in a black flame.
Machiavelli watched in silence as all these events transpired. A wry grin appeared of amusement appeared on his face. Still smiling, he inclines his head towards the Ancient Evil that is the Dark Lord Kutulu.
"So then, lord," he bowed his head respectfully, "your time of reckoning has finally arrived, I see. I know full well you have been awaiting this eagerly, biding your time in the other realms whilst waiting for this Gathering to draw nigh." He set aside his cloak, revealing the arterial purple armor made entirely of the bones of his enemies that covered his regal form. "My time, however, has not yet come. My spirit walks the realms for you, straddling this new world and that to which I am currently bound. For the moment, I must bide my time. Meanwhile, my darker side shall lay dormant until the Blood Fortune that is my destiny arrives."
He nods respectfully to the others present. "Serve Kutulu well if you truly value the darkness. If I hear in the world of my soul that any of you are of questionable loyalty, I shall personally castrate you with your own teeth. He may be absolutely hideous and of questionable hygene," Machi stifled a laugh, "But he is worthy of all respect that any evil can afford to give another.".
His peace spoken, he bowed deeply to the dark lord, all the while an eerie smile hidden within the shadows of his face.
"May the blight flourish." The floor beneath the necromancer suddenly burst into a soft green glow in the easily recognizable shape of a pentagram. In a cloud of green smoke, he disappeared.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The lair of the Unholy Legion, a place beyond time and space, lurking like a cancer in the living fabric of the universe; Deep within this abyssal realm, a solitary figure appeared from amongst the shadows. Within this dark haven of timelessness, the many lives of a single soul are meaningless; the spirit is free to revel in whatever karmic glory of chaos it has earned throughout its existence, no longer bound by lifelines.
 The figure emerged from the shadows into the light of a single, ephemeral torch. In the blood red glow, the soul's distorted image was made clearer. His body was an ever-shifting void of features. Occasionally, shapes and colors would manifest, only to be quickly overtaken by others completely different. One moment he was a majestic long-haired elf clad in an eerie cloak of gray and black. The next, he was a relatively small human being in a green robe, and sometimes a regal, yet unsettling man with ungodly pale skin, his frail body housed in a suit of purple armor. He was youthful and tall, yet within his eyes was a look of simmering disdain, of one sickened by life- or perhaps just the living.
"You have returned," an ominously deep voice resounded throughout the chamber.
He nodded. "You are, as always, a master of the most blatantly obvious," he chuckled, his voice the one constant about him.
"State your business, Machiavelli," the voice resounded once again, its throaty drone unwavering in its authority. "I doubt you came here to exchange pleasantries."
"Pleasantries would require pleasant company," Machiavelli sighed.
 A sickening snort of amusement echoed through the room. "Evil is more than pleasant to those who recognize its potential." The massive form of an orc appeared directly in front of Machiavelli, his eyes burning with infernal hatred that rivaled the torchlight with its glow.
"Kutulu."
"You are a master of the blatantly obvious, Machiavelli," Kutulu let loose a throaty cackle.
Two thrones made entirely out of charred human remains appeared, and the lords sat down across from one another.
"I say again," Kutulu's inhuman eyes focused intently on the wayward soul before him. "State your business. There are souls to be claimed, and we have no time for unnecessary chatter." His orcish face furled into a frown.
Machiavelli's body fully manifested into its most comfortable form; purple armor and jaundiced flesh appeared once more. "As you know, lord," he held back laughter at the last word, "My soul remains anchored in the land of Tyria. The time is not yet ripe for my departure. There is," a sinister smile spread across his face, "further business for me there. I have already stepped into your new playpen of a world and been reborn into a new body, but I will not anchor myself there just yet."
The orcish sorcerer gazed ominously at his companion. "You would wander the realms?" He laughed. The shadows quivered with terror. "Not very strategic sounding."
"I would consolidate what power there is to be gained. Don't think me indecisive, you ridiculously hideous beast of a creature!" Machiavelli's eyes began to gain a shimmer of their own. "Think not that I owe any shred of loyalty to you, Kutulu. You of all souls should know that you are but a tool for my own objectives."
"How fitting, is it not? You are of use to me as well. Why else would I have called you forth from Tyria upon my departure? Or from Vormis?" Kutulu smiled, revealing rows of fangs. "You desire power. That is fine. I desire the spread of the blight. Life itself is a disease, and we are the cure!" He pounded a massive fist against a table that wasn't there a moment earlier.
"How do you do that??" Machiavelli glanced at the table.
"Do what?"
"You just- nevermind," he shook his head.
Kutulu shrugged and took a swig of orcish ale out of his stein.
"There! That wasn't there just a second ago!"
"What wasn't?" Kutulu raised an eyebrow.
"That beer stein!"
"What beer stein?" Kutulu wrung his hands along the neck of his hammer.
"Uh-y-you- you.. um?"
Kutulu chuckled.
"Anyway, you were saying something before your disdain for reality and physical law showed itself," Machiavelli took a deep swig from a bottle of rum. "Where'd this come from?" He muttered to himself.
"In your search for power, there is much destruction to be left in your wake. This pleases me," said the orc. "Do what you must to 'consolidate' your strength from beyond the grave, necromancer. Your place in the council of the dark lords is insured by your usefulness. The fires of your ambition are but further kindling for the greatest of flames that is the Unholy Legion!" He let loose a thundering cackle.
"I see." Machiavelli wrung his hands together tightly. "Then let us make a pact, you and I." He rose to his feet. Kutulu rose as well, kicking aside the table and sending it flying against the wall with a resounding crash.
"For the sake of greatest gain, I pledge to you my manifold powers of death in this world and the next, as long as it is to my advantage," bulging veins on the necromancer's forehead formed a pentagram as he spoke.
"For the glory of darkness, I pledge to you the path to power, as long as your strength may plague the righteous," an identical symbol burned itself into the forehead of the dark lord as he spoke.
"A pact of pain," the two spoke in unison.
"Kutulu must first suffer," they said once again.
 Machiavelli's will stretched out to the underworld, filling him with power from the eternal void. His body quaked with raging flow and was lifted into the air by an unseen force. He arched backward like a serpent, and then thrust his arms forward. The lord Kutulu was instantly surrounded by a vile swarm of pure evil, forming concentric pentagrams around him. His body was inundated with the shockingly cold touch of the abyss. He cried out in pain, his frozen skin breaking with sores across his body. The swarm disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, leaving the lord to catch his breath by the time Machiavelli touched ground.
"It is the caster's turn," they said once again in unison.
Kutulu's symbol disappeared, his part of the pact fulfilled, and his wounds healed. Silently, solemnly he lowered his head and closed his eyes. What few lights there were began to dim... the shadows reached out like hands from the damned, surrounding the pair. Screams of pain, the agonized wails of enslaved souls pierced the air. As Kutulu began to chant, flames of blood red erupted from the ground at his feet.
Machiavelli lowered his head. "This is going to bloody hurt," he muttered.
A sulfuric charge of black magic crackled and sparked from the depths of Hell through the shadowed ground, surging through the Dark Lord's body as he slowly raised his Hammer of Doom into the air. The flames instantly turned black - in that instant, all screams were silenced, and the might of chaos hurtled from high... striking the Necromantic Prince in his left knee.
Machiavelli howled in pain. Pieces of armor splintered and flew threw the air like shrapnel as he was forced to one knee, bringing him kneeling before Kutulu. "Bloody hell!" Machiavelli gritted his teeth. With his end of the pact fulfilled, his symbol disappeared and his wounds healed.
He glanced up at Kutulu; the orc was grinning with pride at the fallen necromancer.
"Get down here!" He reached out and jammed his hand against the lord's right knee.
Kutulu cried out and fell to his knees as well, clouds of green smoke rising from where Machiavelli had struck him. He laughed despite himself.
"A pact it is."
"A pact it is."
The prince of undeath reverted to his weaker body, the one that he tolerated for this latest world. "I shall see you when it suits me- later." He nodded to Kutulu, and then disappeared into the darkness between worlds.
"An amusing tool," Kutulu rose to his feet as his knee instantly healed. "His soul shall make a lovely trophy." He burst into hysterical laughter, shaking the foundations of the infernal fortress. "Now where did I put that beer?"
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