Vartus origins

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Vartus origins

Postby Gordug Bonechwer on Sun Jun 03, 2012 3:36 am

A very old story I once wrote that I would enjoy getting some critique on:


The origins of the Lich.


When Lord Barov sold his soul to Kel'Thuzad, so did this young man. Being merely a butler he quickly joined as an eager acolyte and undertook his studies with the current teachers. The headmaster was Kel'Thuzad and he was proud to serve such an influential magi, known by many from his time in the Kirin Tor.

They cleared out the the crypts and renovated them to become the new School of Necromancy. The school became an epicentre of cultist training and activity. Vartus was one of the first few acolytes to attends so in turn he became one of the first few "graduates". Present at the fall of Caer Darrow he gladly accepted death, grabbing a knife and plunging it into his own stomach he crumpled to the floor with a smile on his lips - And of course ressurect him.

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Now continuing his studies with the necromancers who travelled with Kel'Thuzad, he continued learning about the bending of will of others, destruction and creation of life, warping the shadow and spirit realms to his own use, and manipulating the living to his own desire. Year after year, day after day, Vartus learnt and was taught, rarely putting any of his knowledge to use as he continued travelling, eventually ending up in the Citadel of Kel'Thuzad, Naxxramas.

Here his training increased, as he was flung into the military quarter and attacked by zombies and ghouls, until they were all decimated or bowed to his will.
The liuetenants of Kel'Thuzad understood that disciples such as him, were not destined to be mindless death knights, but potential and cunning agents of the Lich King.

When Gandling was only Head Necromancer of a certain school, Vartus was a student. When Gandling was sent to Scholomance to become the headmaster, Vartus remained.
He witnessed the complete and utter anhiliation of his master the Dark Lord. Having time to escape the will of the new one, he made his way to Kalimdor.

Fleeing to Kalimdor, he had stolen a few books and something else. A raw phylactery not destined for him. Committing the ritual, he gave it his soul.
Lying on the floor, in a jungle unknown, he began to take on the characteristics of the dead — hollow eyes, shambling gaits, pallid and sunken skin, foul odors.
As his eyes began to glow, his laugh echoed around the jungle, scaring the wildlife away.

It had worked, he had ascended. Shaping his phylactery into the form of a ring, he tied it to a chain and hung it around his neck, as long as the ring remained he would regenerate, and heal from any injury sustained in combat. He will now use necromancy, shadow magic, to twist the world to his own desire. Corrupt the living, and rule as a Lich while furthering undeath upon the enemies of his former master.

His magic began to unravel as he was capable of much more in his new form. Capable of summoning festering disease, harnessing shadow into 'incendiary energy' and 'chilling the living with the power of undeath.'
Slowly he began building himself an army, reconstructing the dead and the undead for his own means, allowing them to function after destruction.
He became a dark champion of the dead, using his minions to incite fear and terror into all who crossed them, creating rumours and myths.
He was hungry, devious, and vicious, ready to destroy, and preparing to destroy. As years passed, his hold over some land increased, and the minions which served him were in the number of dozens. Yet he had none to take as his students and teach them ways he had once followed. In his mind he slumbered, and in his mind he came to a realiziation, Kalimdor is unfit for his reign.

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The Eastern Kingdoms where it all began for him, and it must be where he will begin again. Disguising himself thoroughly he boarded a ship from Ratchet, and of course couldn't refrain himself from slaying the prostitute offered.
Ressurecting her in the cabin he gave her certain instructions. His time in the Eastern Kingdoms, had begun. Choosing to walk in his newly acquired illusion he travelled through Duskwood, hearing only rumours of others, hearing rumours of darkmasters, necromancers, shadow benders. So the time of his peers was not over. As he came to Raven Hill, it struck him that the aura around the cemetary felt distant, and unlike that of the Lich's he once served.

The magic around the place, seemed to be connected far more to the Twisting Nether than that of Arcane. Thinking deeply and dragging his black travelling cloak across his back he continued along the cemetary, watching the lumbering undead circle the graves and look out of place. The traitors perhaps. Ah yes that could be the only logical answer, traitors. As the Scourge fell, many escaped and began to build up their own bases of power, Scourgelords, Liches, necromancers, hundreds of them.
This was yet another who had pledged himself over to the pathetic dreadlords who -attempted- to usurp his dark Lord. Grinning slightly he turned around and walked out of the cemetary, following to road to Darrowshire he walked alone. The Undead did not attack him that night.

Arriving in Darkshire close to the morning, the tired guards eyed him wearily as he made his way across to the Inn. He never made eye contact and they never approached this lone traveller, leaving him be to do whatever he may have been doing.
The inside of the Inn was empty and dimly lit, the embers of the fire close to the oak table were dying down, tankards and cups stood on all the tables, implying a merry night had been had. He had no time for this -


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Walking across to the butchers he again saw none here, picking up the carcass of a recently ( or quite old ) pig he chewed on it hungrily, his razor sharp teeth ripping it to pieces, feeling the cold flesh go down his stomach.
This orb of illusion was quite good. As he was standing there, a maid, or a bartender walked in on him eating it, she was laughing, but as her eyes caught sight of him her expression dropped, and so did her jaw.
Those pale blue eyes of Vartus turned right on her, staring deep into her soul and sending a shiver down her spine. Her life flashed before her eyes as she collapsed to her knees, her heart had stopped. Whether Vartus was involved, one will never know.

Stepping over her body he walked out of the Inn, and turned left right out of it to follow the road that led to Deadwind Pass. As he walked up the hill a guard with a torch appeared infront of him, an old man in his sixties, yet cautious as a hawk.

"Where ya 'eaded stranger? The pass 'p ahead be no place for a lone traveller"

Vartus did not respond, as his hand went up the man collapsed into him, coincidentally, his heart stopped and his very eyes began to bleed.
Heaving him over into a bush next to the road he continued walking, yet from a distance it almost looked like gliding steadily along the floor, using the shadow magic to support him.

Two souls consumed, and I have yet not even begun. Grinning to himself, the handsome features of his makeshift face, those pale blue eyes and the flowing brown hair.

This, is only the beginning.
Gordug Bonechwer
 
Posts: 18
Joined: Wed Dec 21, 2011 11:13 pm
Character: Gordug
Realm: Defias Brotherhood
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