The Lich Queen Of Drell

Snow crunches under foot as the wind howls, a spirit of frost that threatens to sap the energy from the bones of mortals.

The Lich Queen looks on with supreme satisfaction as she feels that wrathful spirit weave amongst the ranks of her troops, their stiff, rotted bodies not doing so much as shiver.

She cannot help but feel excitement as she looks on the horizon at her destination; the walls of Satastaren, the city of stone and steel some call it, she can almost see it, shivering men manning the walls, numb in all of their extremities as rime and snow paint their frigid armor sapping their courage with each passing moment.

9 times has siege been laid to Satastaren, and 9 times has humans of Satastaren pushed them back, forcing the attacking parties into a full rout.

The dwarves sought to undermine the walls with mining brigades, only to have their tunnels collapse down upon them, confining them to the earth they love so dearly.

The horde took a direct approach throwing mountains of troops from all sides in an attempt to overwhelm the defenders with sheer numbers until finally their innate cowardice took them, thousands of troops retreated, gimping the siege and leading to their defeat.

Even the tides of the abyss were shattered upon crashing on the rocks of Sarastaren, they wished to bypass the walls in their entirety, simply teleporting their troops directly into the streets before they too were broken as well, demons by their very nature are driven by their desires and upon reaching the streets they succumbed to their vices, war parties began looting, succubi took prisoners and fled, only their general had the strength to stay on mission until he too was slain by the lady of the keep and her defenders.

It’s said that Satastaren is the ultimate symbol of mans resilience, the beacon of hope that will never fall, that will persevere in the face of impossible odds.

That is why it must fall this night, so that the nobility in their mighty keeps will know that nowhere is safe. The barbarian tribes will know that no measure of strength, physical or spiritual, can stop **** from taking what she’s owed.

In the distance she can hear the horns of war, the moon is full this night, casting a hauntingly beautiful light over the Samche Plains, though she cast off her humanity long ago she can’t help but appreciate the way the stars dot the inky black sky, like precious diamonds.

Her army trudges along the plains, powdered snow and the ancient corpses of previous challengers litter the landscape that is, before they rise from their icy graves to begin marching as well, carrying rusted and broken swords, much of their armor having crumbled away at the sudden disturbance.

Only a 100 yards separate the dread host from the great walls which stand mighty and defiant against the darkness, the light of its torches only illuminating the leader of this macabre army, sat proud atop her rotted steed, wearing the tattered raiment of an ancient academy, one that’s lost to time.

All remnants of flesh had been wiped clean of her visage, leaving only pristine bone, white as porcelain, green flame slowly swirls in the vacant pits of her eyes, one that’s shared by the many members of her dread host.

A command is heard from the wall and the quiet air of the night is disrupted by the sound of a thousand bowstrings suddenly letting loose, fire streaks across the sky like comets, passing well over head of the host, illuminating all that lay beneath in fine detail, allowing the men on the wall to see precisely what has come for them.

The Lich Queen can practically taste the fear in them, drinking it up like the finest of wines as the dead howl, their rotted throats and necrosis ridden lungs producing a feral, war cry, one that spells the doom of every last man on that wall, **** has come for them and they’re people.

With that the order is given, one that needn’t be said, the legion of the dead surges forward, past their mistress and across the field, clawing and scratching in a **** attempt to ascend, they wind up climbing atop each other like ants, their hunger instilling them with a feral determination as they growl and cry, those atop the wall can do little but fire their puny arrows at the horde, hoping beyond hope that it will stem the tide but it’s all for naught.

Only their magi have the ability to slow the inevitable, calling down lightning from the clear sky and conjuring balls of flame that char vast groups of the undead and blacken their bones.

Though it does bring her some glimmer of satisfaction, watching the fruits of her labor sprout before her as her minions scale the walls, she has greater purpose this night.

She focuses her energy inwards, her form slowly evaporating and dissolving into a ghastly green mist, rising from her steed and flowing up, up, up, swimming past the ravenous clawing of the attackers and the **** arrows and spells of the defenders.

That nauseating smog travels high above the cities twisting streets and winding alleyways, over the rooftops upon which the second line of defense lie in wait, silently preying that they’ll never be called upon to defend their home.

It lands upon the front steps of the keep, booming outwards and dissipating, revealing the skeletal visage of the Lich Queen of Drell, come to claim what’s due.

With but a gesture of her hand the massive doors of the keep fly open as if the wind itself served the side of the invaders, unbarring her entry.

The keeps interior is both obnoxiously tacky and sickeningly indulgent, the path of the keep decorated by a blue and white carpet intended to remind visitors of the proprietor’s wealth and splendor.

Each wall is adorned with family banners and lofty, grandiose portraits of lords and ladies both past and present, displaying power and dignity in each waste of pigment.

Even the guard is a massage to the ego, each clad in silver armor and bejeweled with sapphires, not that it did them any good in the end, they threw themselves at the shepherd of **** like brittle knives to a mountain face only to find their life **** ripped from them, leaving them quite literally husks, desiccated and almost mummified.

She travels further, up the stairs and past the lobby, finally arriving in the throne room, the chamber normally full with minstrels and hangers on is now empty and lit only by the moons light that cascades down through the sky light.

There, standing in the center is the lady of the keep and bane of dwarf and demon alike; Cynthia Milendra lll.

“For 1000 years the city of stone and steel has stood, unbroken by dwarven war crafters and demon blood hosts… and now you, a creature of rot and bone seek a pound of flesh…” She begins, her voice full of venom.

“I will hold a feast tonight… and the people of this city will point to the sad trophy under my boot and they’ll ask… who was that..?” She says deluded into thinking she’ll have the opportunity to boast later.

The Lich Queen responds with a voice that seems to echo throughout this glorious chamber yet her jaw never moves.

“I am not a frail coward hiding behind sprockets and gears, I am not an undisciplined whelp of an upstart clan”

“I am not a madwoman howling at the moon or pampered noble high off the fawning admiration of parasites”

“I am Wendara Ful Aldori, I am **** and I have come to take from you everything”

The Lich Queen enters the moonlit circle, only 10 feet separate her from her quarry, energy slowly builds into the palms of her hands, green as the flames that dance in her empty skull.

Her opponent though pitiful is not without merit, it’s known far and wide that House Milendra prides itself upon its mastery of the blade they even gained their noble status that way, serving as the champion of a long dead Empress.

She wears minimal armor, enchanted no doubt but the trifling magic of humans is flimsy at the best of times. No, her goal is to simply not get hit at all with her armor serving as a defense to protect her from the unavoidable.

Cynthia is first to strike, lunging forward with her rapier in an attempt to prod her foes defensives.

The Lich evaporates, allowing the dualist to have her fun, poking at the cloud of **** smog, eventually forcing her retreat.

It would have been all too easy to destroy her with the power of her magic, to **** the life from the girl in her smoke form but that would have been too fast, no for this to work she needed to break the petulant noble.

The Lich reforms, sending small shocks of energy through the noble, her armor absorbing much of necrotic energy but it’s not enough, some of it oozes into her skin and begins to fester.

Her form becomes progressively more sloppy as she struggles to move her feet with the required energy, her hands become shaky and a cold sweat creeps along her forehead.

The fatigue starts to take her after some time, coursing through her blood and marrow like venom, sucking the power from her until simply standing is a Herculean task.

Seeing her opponent so fragile shows the queen of bones that the end is near, it’s time to break the last heiress of House Milendra.

She moves in as the girls hands shake, she knows it’s over but her pride refuses to let her surrender, which, only makes this sweeter.

She weakly stabs the rapier into The Lich, piercing through the fabric of her robe and passing into her ribs which locks the blade in place.

The Lich leans in, whispering in the humans ear, pouring poisonous words laced with subtle magic, if she had lips she’d smile like a cheshire cat as the little whelp succumbs to the enchantments that wrap around her mind and squeeze like a constrictor snake.

Her small frame shivers as she’s struggles against the mental webbing of the spell, fighting tooth and claw to resist, to scream to do anything at all but she just can’t, she’s not strong of mind, not enough to disobey.

It doesn’t take long, 3 minutes at most, the Lich Queen backs away slowly, allowing the rapiers blade to scrape out through her ribs before falling to the floor, the dualist having gone limp in the arms.

The Lich Queen watches with almost childish glee as the dualist walks away, face blank like she were merely sleepwalking, but she knew better, she knew her mind was locked in that sad prison of flesh and bone, her body no longer hers as she walked down the steps and into the streets.

The soldiers atop the rooftops didn’t know any better, from their prospective, their brave commander had been heading towards the walls with intent to join the fight, the poor fools never looked her in the face, never saw that dead look in her eyes.

She walked up the stairs of the gate house, where not a single soul stood guard, truly the arrogance runs from the top down.

With the pull of a lever the gates lift, by the time the soldiers come to stop her it’s too late, 2/3rds of the host were already inside, rampaging through the streets, their only motivation being to eat, something that served The Queen well as she stood over the city in one of the many windows of the keep.

The second line of defense tried to fight but it didn’t matter, all they had was arrows with all the spell casters upon the walls.

The screaming don’t quiet down for hours, each soldier or peasant that falls, rises moments later, a new addition to the carnage, from here she can even see some people dive off the walls or rooftops to escape the teeth of the dead.

The Queens Pet returns amidst the mayhem, a small smile on her face as she knelt down at her betters feet, seeking approval for her betrayal.

The only survivor of the massacre would be Cynthia Milendra lll, allowed to walk away with a simple order, one she could never refuse.

“Tell all that you meet that Satastaren has fallen and that it is all your fault”

Her only reply is a small, serene smile, happy to serve as she trudges out the door and out of the city she so proudly protected.

And then, with a sigh The Lich Queen settles into her throne, taking a moment to soak in the glory, word of this night will travel far and fast, it will only be a matter of time before her sisters hear of this.