A Dark Descent...

“Keep the damned bag over your head, prisoner.”
“Please…. Please! What have I done wrong?”
What had the man done wrong? Not even the cruel escort knew the answer to such a pertinent question. He was leading the man to a grim death, surely such information was necessary? No. Not in this case. Truth was as useful at this point as the broken cobbles the escort and his prisoner traversed. All that mattered was survival, and time was waning.
The prisoner shuffled forward, his elbow gripped tightly by his escort, begging with his captor for release. The nerve in his humerus was being pinched by the unnecessarily tightening grasp of his afflicter. The surges of pain caused him to stumble. The burlap sack upon his head shifted as he fell to one knee, coming loose as he scraped his cap against the jagged cobble.
The odd duo came to a thick, iron bound door. Beyond it laid yet another impenetrably dark corridor. The one in control spoke, “Still yourself, vermin. I’ll need to light the lamp.” As the man with the mask about his face stood, he could hardly keep still. The murky air of the corridors had begun to decline in temperature with every blind step. “Damn thing, light, won’t you?” The captor muttered as he struggled with the oil lamp in the damp place; it would only get worse.
The masked man tentatively reached up with his right arm to loosen the sack on his head ever so slightly. He had been doing this every time they had stopped on their descent. If he could only slip the cap off so as to see anything, anything at all, he might be able to escape. Testing his luck once again, he spoke:
“You still haven’t told me your name, boy. I can tell you’re a young fellow, by your voice that is.” His voice rattled as the words came out. The combination of exhaustion and a steadily progressing virus filling his lungs with fluid took their toll. He shivered audibly, perhaps, in some way, he might count on some good nature in the man that had yet to arise.
“Be silent, prisoner. My name is unimportant. You know Alexander and you know what you’ve done and that’s all you need to know.” The man’s demeanor was cold and unforgiving. He could have made things at least a little easier. “Listen to me very carefully now. We’re coming to a barred gate and beyond it is a ladder. The rungs are somewhat rotted, so you’ll need to step carefully. I will alert you when we come to the descent. Come.” The man jerked the helpless captive’s arm, the sign to move forward.
As they moved awkwardly through the corridor, the masked man spoke again, “Could I ask a question, sir? When in the baron’s prison, I walked, shackled, to an interrogation room. The haunting screams from the dark did not frighten me so much as… that light that seemed to pour forth from a crevice in the corner of the prison. I swear on my blessed mother that the baron carted a few of us downward with his elevator. The descent took minutes… there’s… no way light could come through so deep a place as this. How is it so?”
The rattling voice of the man seemed to drone on for an hour, its irritating bate bluntly stabbing the silence. What manner of question was it anyway? The two took a few more steps before stopping abruptly.
“The master’s secrets are with him alone. He is… very old.” The captor thought hard upon the question, like he had never done before. It seemed to escape him, but all he could think of in that moment was the orb. Sighing, he spoke up again, “It’s said that before the world…” he trailed off. “Let’s go, and don’t try anything funny; the master’s servants are close.”
At the mention of the word “servant” the man lurched with a wet gasp. Tears began to well in his covered eyes as awful memories flooded to his mind. Those noises. No voice of man could utter them. Perversions poured from their maws, yet no forms could stand upon such abstractions of sound. Not words, but guttural bellowing, a clarion of horrors; could they be close? Or was it simply a ruse to keep him in check?

The Legend of Zelda: Genesis (Part 1)

Genesis

The iteration of the Church of Hyrule; concerning Genesis.

Upon the cresting waves of the chaotic vortexes, naught was. From that which was naught was brought forth that which is by they who were. They, the Three, unleashed their breath upon the Void, and at their Word chaos was cosmos.

Immortally existing beyond the fabric of Law, the Three are the contingency for the Laws for the Laws find their image in the Three. Eternal beings incapable of equality save in themselves and gloriously existing in harmony, transcending need or want. Absent of conflicting wills, the Three tamed the whirling Void by their soothing songs. This is their song:

Din: Hear, O Void, silence calls. Wispy notes of ephemeral eternity, cascading, colliding, touching, flowing, pouring: Nothing.

Faerore: Discern, you Emptiness, Order seeks thee. Lilting scores of wisdom wonder, are you satisfied?

Nayru: Empty; lifeless; do you fear, O Void? Lone, destitute, forlorn; does Silence seek a Song? Shall we oblige thee?

Din: These things I shall do unto our glory: Hear, O Void, and tremble! No longer shall you fleet, your ethereal trails shall be as one. Hear me, for I am Din, and my fire shall consume ye that obey not; may it be done.

Faerore: These things I shall do unto our glory: Hear, you forméd Void and gather before me. Order shall be your governor as we shall soon depart. Hear me, for I am Faerore, and my winds shall afflict ye that obey not; may it be done.

Nayru: These things I shall do unto our glory: Hear, you ordered Void and see! Motes of life and sparks of divinity shall tread your shape in our stead. Hear me, for I am Nayru, and my love shall depart from ye that obey not; may it be done.

And thus it was.

Sapphiron, Lord of the Frozen Wastes

"Who dares violate the sanctity of my domain..."

Kel'thuzad

Sapphiron: At last, it is I, mortals, Sapphiron. None may come to the Master except by me. Who am I, that I should be the prime guardian of the Great King’s elect? He was the first, you know. When the clarion resounded from the depth of the glacier, it was he who responded. Forsaking all for the service of the Great King, my Master is chief among the servants of our King. What memories of bliss! It was he, our King and Father who sought me out within my wretched existence, within the cavernous space of infantile life! What joy had I in guarding the inanimate relics of ancient kings long past to the wiles of time? Did I glean happiness from fellowship with my brethren, the Blue Ones? What a joyous day it was when he came, seeking my soul that I might be blessed in his service. That blade, my surrogate mother, carved my rebellious flesh and excised the malignant tumors of my banal desires and my base life. My life began anew that day, and I count all as loss against the unsurpassed glories of my King’s service. When the Master ascended to the heights of lichdom, it was I whom he chose to safeguard the sanctity of his holy domain. It Shall Not Be Spoken has become by home; It Shall Not Be Spoken has become my very life and I grant only whom I will to partake of an audience with the Master. My cold and lifeless bones I animate with my undying soul, and those who seek the Master’s downfall shall incur my wrath unabated. I was a prince in my former life, a lord of frigid magic. Though no match for my King in battle, I shall not allow any to live a single moment who seek the Master’s fall. My gargantuan form is not easily harnessed, nor blithely felled. In my former life, I was father and patriarch of my brood; all bowed before me, the preeminent in strength and vigor. Mortals, you too shall quake before me! My claws shall rend your flesh into ribbons; my vicious jaws shall rip the marrow from your bones; my tail shall crush your puny frames upon the cold walls of my sanctum. What of my icy breath? Who shall stand before me? The hoar that pours from my maw brings the very soul to a halt. There is power in my breast to still the stirrings of a thousand souls. I can rain shards of ice upon your fragile heads and spill your insignificant brain matter upon my floors. You desire still further to die? Proceed, mortals, invoke my wrath! An edifice of ice I shall create with one of your bodies. Quickly! Scurry behind the frozen corpse and look into the tortured eyes of your compatriot. His blood is stopped up; the soul has departed unto judgment before the King. Only a small portion of your number can fit behind it; choose this day whom shall live but a few moments longer! The end is upon you! I shall expel a mass of frozen energies the like of which you have never seen. At consummation, none but the few behind the edifice shall be left alive. They too shall fall. I, the prince of Naxxramas shall escort all who desire death to the throne of the King by my deadened wings. None but those whom I will survive my wrath.

Highlord Alexandros Mograine, the Red Rider of War

"The Master's will be done."

Highlord Alexandros Mograine: The last of the Four Horsemen is the most terrible of them all. The Red Rider of War, symbolizing the heart of the Lich King’s consummate hatred of the living is none other than the Highlord of the Scarlet Crusade, the Ashbringer. Once the most potent enemy of the Scourge, Mograine’s will was shattered by the diabolical machinations of Kel’thuzad. Having been run through by his own sword at hands of his own son, the blade he used to conquer the Scourge became corrupted in untold measure. Mograine now wields the Corruped Ashbringer in battle, serving as the preeminent military guard in Naxxramas. His crimson armor decks his rotting flesh as well as that of his mighty steed. Mograine is the most cruel of the Four Horsemen, having been broken beyond repairing by Kel’thuzad’s domination. His black heart drums to the beat of serving only his master the Archlich, allowing no mortal to pass his deadly combat prowess. A master of the blade, Mograine wields his two-handed claymore with astounding prowess. Imbued with the powers of the Scourge, the Corrupted Ashbringer wields the elements of shadow and unholy magic. A paladin in his former life, Mograine wields also the powers of the Light. As the supreme creation of Kel’thuzad, Mograine wields the powers of each of the other three Horsemen. His combat exploits are numerous, though he often lags behind the other three Horsemen while they cut the ranks of the Argent Dawn to pieces; Mograine will emerge to challenge the Champions and heavy infantry of the Argent Dawn. His utter cruelty will also goad him into massacring the weaker infantry as well. His presence spreads disease and his blade brings death. No battle has been lost when Mograine charges the field; he is the Rider of War.

The Mark of Mograine: Mograine’s mark blasts his foes with Unrighteous Fire. His former power of wielding the Light have become corrupted, similar to Sir Zeliek. Empowered by Kel’thuzad himself, Mograine wields also the powers of Unholy and Shadow magic. His mark targets the bodies of his foes in entirety, shattering minds and searing flesh alike. His presence is intolerable to weak souls; only the most devout champions of mortality could hope to stand before him.

Ultimate Power: Reaping—When presented before the Lich King as a choice gift from the Archlich, Mograine was taught a very potent melee attack by his King. The Lich King’s own move is infinitely more powerful, but Mograine’s is nothing to be trifled with. With an arcing slash of his Corrupted Ashbringer, the unholy powers housed within will spill over onto his foes, inflicting them with a concentrated form of his Mark.

Thane Kor'thazz, the Pale Rider of Death

"Cease yer snivelin' or I'll cease it for yeh!"

Thane Kor’thazz (Kor-thaz): Unlike any of the humanoid fiends at Kel’thuzad’s beck and call, Thane Kor’thazz is a Dwarf. Kor’thazz’s previous lot in life is unknown, but his affinity for death is the terror of the killing fields of the Plaguelands. Kor’thazz is a prime example that the Lich King’s merciless crusade extends to all races. Kor’thazz delights in keeping grisly trophies from his kills, often keeping the skulls of his victims. It is said that the blunt mace that he wields in battle is capped with the skull of his own father; truly a brutal legend. Kor’thazz bears a set of pale, white-green armor and a similarly colored hooded cloak on his back. His gray beard and crooked nose protrude from the hood and his glowing white eyes are often the last terrible sight that many see. Kor’thazz’s skeletal steed is likewise dressed in robes and armor plates of sickly greenish white color: a symbol of the life strangling nature of the Scourge. Kor’thazz employs a mix of fire and unholy magic in his attacks, often launching bolts of flaming bones at his foes. If these bullets do not make their mark they will animate and begin to attack Kor’thazz’s foes.

The Mark of Kor’thazz: As Kor’thazz employs unholy fire, so does his mark afflict his foes. The Mark will target the bones of his enemies, spreading a poison that eats the bones from the inside out. He calls this poison Wormwood.

Ultimate Power: Meteor—Kor’thazz’s unholy bolts of flaming bones come from his stockpile of trophies. The nearly unlimited amount of ammunition at his disposal is a testament to his record of evil. When he comes to a particularly worthy trophy or collection of trophies, he will unleash them all at once in a massive meteor like formation, crushing and incinerating its targets under the weight of its awful gloom.

Lady Blaumeux, the Black Rider of Pestilence

"We shall have all manner of fun with this one!"

Lady Blaumeux (Bleh-moh): Existing as a sort of counterpart to Grand Widow Faerlina, Lady Blaumeux is the only female of four in her coven, just as Faerlina is the only woman of the four Grand Necromancers. Lady Blaumeux represents the pestilential nature of the Scourge and her ruthlessness thusly knows no partiality. Perhaps more cruel than even the Red Rider, Lady Blaumeux revels in suffering, calling out in her seductive feminine voice as she wreaks havoc. A black veil covers her facial features save for her piercing green eyes. A river of silver hair comes out from her helmet in a pony-tail braid. Her armor is revealing to her rather tempting form but provides protection nonetheless. Her armor is a shining obsidian color as is the armor and dressing of her steed. Wielding the powers of shadow magic, Lady Blaumeux delights in inflicting sustained agony. Like the pestilence she represents, her methods are drawn out and excruciating. When she has had her way with magic, she will decapitate the drained foes with her razor sharp hand axe, forged in Sarronite flames and imbued with the blackened blood of a Faceless One.

The Mark of Blaumeux: Lady Blaumeux is a soul drain. Her ability to harness dark, shadow energies gives her also the ability to afflict souls painfully and continually.

Ultimate Power: Void—A woman of quickly changing emotions, Lady Blaumeux will become easily and intensely incensed. When thoroughly angered, she will unleash a concentrated pool of shadow energy upon her foes. Travelling like a vapor, the energies will suck corporeal beings into it like a vortex, suffocating them in its torturous hands. Like a thousand barbed hooks tearing at flesh, the Void will eviscerate any and all flesh within its bounds.

Sir Zeliek, the White Rider of Conquest

"I have no choice but to submit!"

Sir Zeliek (Zel-ee-ek): A Paladin by class in his former life, Sir Zeliek wields the power of the Light. Zeliek has proven to be a difficult soul to break by Kel’thuzad. Because of his stubbornness, he is the weakest of the Four Horsemen, gifted least by the Lich King. A formidable combatant nonetheless, Zeliek’s body fights voraciously for the Scourge while his mind and emotions betray his members. Donning a suit of shimmering white-silver, Zeliek is capped with a diadem of hardened diamond, bearing two wings of victory on each side. Zeliek’s skeletal charger is adorned with jewels and white dressings; all symbolic of the Scourge’s immanent victory over the mortal races. His ability to harness the potency of the Light is of particular use to Kel’thuzad; it is his ace in the hole. The crusaders of the Argent Dawn will not expect to be beset with attacks of Light magic, and will be duly unprepared to face Sir Zeliek. Above all, Zeliek is the sad testimony of the dominance of the Scourge and the unrelenting assault of the Lich King’s forces. Zeliek will often confuse his opponents as his voice and emotions cry out for his foes to flee his attacks. Inexperienced crusaders fall easily before Zeiliek’s flanged morning-star.

The Mark of Zeliek: Zeliek’s Mark is a burning sensation that increases over time. The twisted power of the Light that pours from his being breaks and flays the souls of his foes.

Ultimate Power: Holy Wrath—Though a stubborn soul, Zeliek’s spirit will eventually collapse under Kel’thuzad’s pressure if battle goes on too long. As his body tears and slaughters his enemies, his soul will not be able to bear the pain. Once Zeliek the Paladin succumbs to Zeliek the Death Knight (for a short while), he unleash Holy Wrath. This spell is a massive explosion of holy energies in intense proportion. Those caught in the blast will be consumed or severely burned by the last vestige of a Paladin’s power turned to evil.