Assault on Darkshire [Staging]

[Roger Smith]

Travel had been aided, after a time, by the summoning of a steed to convey him. His loathing to rely on the omnilium of this realm and its infuriating child-god, snatching away the ever-living source of evil like a mere pawn, was no less strong for this act. He despised making use of power that was not his own, or that given him freely by his generous masters. But he was no fool; he had lost much of his power, and a connection to his dark masters was to be an arduous one to form, at best. A ready source of power, regardless of where it came from, was not to be ignored. It was to be exploited, and used to further his own ends and re-establish his connection to the power he knew so well. He would use the wretched Omni's own freely given gift to gain enough of his old power back to make the arrogant creature pay.

...but that was for the future. There were other matters to tend to in the immediate sense.

His journey through the Pale Moors was not an uneventful one, nor was it a short one. For well over a day had he traveled already, and more than a few encounters had he run across with the monstrous denizens of the verse. By day, as well as by night, he was assaulted as he made his slow path through the misty, fog-shrouded wilds. Each time the effort proved fruitless, serving only to briefly waylay and exhaust him. His cloak, already ragged and shredded from age, sported innumerable additional tears and the marks of claw and fang shredding it. The ancient, fraying bandages wrapping his dry, decaying husk of a body were torn in places, the sickly blue flesh beneath scarred and slashed, pierced and gnawed until ancient, brittle-looking bone lay exposed to the chill air, gleaming whenever the dim light of the moors struck them. Such injuries would have no doubt have spelled the death of any normal man, or at least greatly slowed him as his precious blood and strength bled away in equal measure.

But such things were little more than irritants to one such as Mumm-Ra. He had suffered far greater injuries than this in his life, and his body was sustained and kept whole by the grace of his dark masters. His lifeforce was far too potent to be snuffed out by such pitiful damage to his physical form.

It was in such a sorry state, his desiccated flesh mostly mended but his ragged clothing still in pitiful tatters, that he finally reached sight of his destination. A river, running swift and strong, flowed down from distant mountains. It carved a path sharply through the blighted lands, meandering along until it vanished into the misty distance. But situated there, along its banks and just within sight of the mummified sorcerer's perch, he spied the object of his interest. The edifice ancient and crumbling, and looking like little more than relic of some forgotten age, it stood there. Defiant and strong, in spite of its weathered appearance. It seemed a fitting enough place to organize an army to march.

After studying the structure intently from his distant vantage point, the sorcerer was satisfied. He nudged his steed forth, sending the pale horse trudging down the hill it stood on. It was time to meet the so-called lord of this gathering army.