SirDerpingtonIV
A Campfire at the End of Time
Eleven Days Prior...
It was quiet at the frozen shore. The air was biting and the water filled with chunks of ice, snow falling gently upon the land. This accursed northern land of demons had hardly seen visitors in the past few hundred years, for this was realm of the horde. At least, it was.
From the frozen waters arose iron, the shape of accursed armor rising from the waves. Water poured down from the Dark Lord's armor, cascading overhis chestplate and pauldrons, down through the armor and onto the snow below as Malagar took the first steps into this blasted land. His boots, heavy and iron, crushed the snow beneath them as Malagar moved effortlessly out of the surf. The Dark Lord rested his mace, Eon, upon his shoulder, and looked out over the dark of the night, baleful energy coursing through his armor, blazing inside his helmet. He could see them out there, demons that skulked in the dark, hissing and snarling at the sight of him. They did not matter.
The Dark Lord turned to his right, gazing upon the distant outline of an abandoned town, and to his left, seeing the coastline stretch on endlessly into the west, frozen and desolate. This land offered nothing to the living, to the mortal, yet it offered everything to him. No place was there more ideal for the beginning of his dark reign. Malagar trudged forward, crushing his way through the three feet of snow upon the ground with little effort, as more shapes rose from the water behind him, silent in the night. Four of them, his soldiers of iron, crafted from accursed metal similar to his own, and guided by the enslaved souls of those foolish enough to try and stop the inevitable march of destiny. They were silent, the wraiths wielding swords of cold metal as they eyed the demons beyond. There was no doubt that the creatures would attempt to waylay him as Malagar sought out a suitable location to begin his set up. He did not fear this inevitability; in fact, he relished it. The might of these demons would be trialed against the strength of Iron, and from their ravaged bodies, he would experiment, and see what servants he could raise from their flesh and bone.
Malagar strode forth, leaving the ocean behind, marching forward into the land that would be his.
The eleven 'days' had been dark beneath an ever-present moon, for this arctic land was hidden from the sun for much of the year. All of the soul-possessed warriors that he had brought with him had perished to demons, yet he had not. Malagar had marched for three days straight, forcing through snow and demon alike as he strived for a place to call his own. The demons attacked constantly, coming in hordes, clawing and biting and hurling fel magics that washed over his hulking form to little effect. They were testing him, as he tested them. The Dark Lord met them with the swing of his mace, the brutal weapon crushing through their bodies, shattering bone and sundering souls from flesh. The souls of these lesser demons were of little value, but he collected them all the same. He lacked the time and resources to drag their broken bodies behind him, but the Dark Lord worried not for the waste. The demonic horde would throw many more at him once he had settled down, and their bodies would fuel their demise.
Eventually, as Malagar made his way through the blackened foothills of the Titan's End mountains, he found it. A valley in the mountain range, barren and icy. The way in was rugged and narrow, and the Dark Lord found himself a shelter in the eastern side, a small cave, around fifty feet deep. Therein, Malagar would begin the forging of destiny.
The days after the march were filled with labor and warfare, as Malagar spent hours at a time at the back of the cave, casting spells and carving out a hollow in the earth. Malagar remembered perfectly the way in which this was done, as he had done it centuries ago. The creation of a Molding Pit, where the Dark-Born would be made. It was but a simple thing, a pit carved into the earth and lined with magical inscriptions and runes, and from within this pit, materials of the earth and body could be combined, and a living being drawn forth. It was a forbidden magic, known solely by the Dark Lord, and it was highly effective. However, to work the pit, Malagar would need to dedicate himself to it for hours on end. To provide protection during those times, Malagar set himself to raising the demonic dead that assaulted his dwelling, forcing the demons to attack their undead brethren. Occasionally, a particularly strong attack would come, and Malagar owuld be forced to abandon the pit to fight alongside the dead, but after such encounters, all those who had fallen were risen again, and those too broken to rise were harvested for their materials, dragged into the bowels of the cave and used to form greater undead monstrosities, or thrown into the Pit to create the first generation of the Dark-Born. They would be ready to serve upon creation, but they lacked weapons, armor, the machinations of war. The Molding Pit was too small to draw forth beasts of war, but that would come later. Malagar needed what he could get as soon as he could get it, after all.
The dead would serve as soldiers for now, and the Dark-Born as laborers, mining into the earth to draw from it the metals they would need for war, and the stones needed to build an Empire.
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Battle raged at the entrance of the cave, where demons, living and dead, clashed. Malagar could hear demonic speech, enough to recognize that the demons this time, had come with a leader, a mind to guide their slavering jaws. The Dark Lord knew they would break through his undead lines, and already he prepared himself for such an encounter, as he assembled the form of his first Dark-Born within the pit. Clay, flesh, mud and bone combined and assembled, forming the first automaton soldier of the Dark lord. Mind and matter fused into one under the Dark Lord's hand, granting the thing limited intelligence, enough to follow orders, but not enough to know anything of fear, doubt, or want. Before this one and its kin would be soldiers, they would be slaves.
The body and mind were finished, the automaton needed only the spark, the fire to light up its eyes, the will to drive its limbs. As Malagar began to cast such an incantation, footfalls were heard behind. Malagar turned, lowering the Dark-Born back into the Molding Pit, facing the demonic interloper. The warriors of the grave had all fallen, and the Dark Lord stood alone against the intruder, facing the wind that howled and screamed as it flowed into the hollow in the earth where the Dark Lord had made his steadfast. It was only one, a man of blazing blue hair and pale skin, with eyes of sapphire. The demonic slave clad himself in bizzare, impractical armor, and wielded a jagged blade, wreathed in helfire.
"So I finally meet the fool who steps upon the lands of demons! Your undead were nothing before my power, the power of the demon, the only power!" The demon smiled, jagged teeth sitting behind crimson lips.
Malagar did not response, as he extended a hand, and Eon rose off the ground, caught in the iron grip of the Dark Lord. There was only the clang of metal on metal as Malagar gripped the weapon in both hands, metal gauntlets tight about the weapon as he stared down the demon.
"Oh? Think you're too good to talk to me? Think you're too powerful and strong for me, the strongest lieutenant of the Demon King, the one and only Okina Yami?" the demon hissed, impotent rage burning in his slitted eyes. The demon stepped forward, blade in hand as it sized up Malagar, boots falling on dark stone as he advanced. Then, with startling speed, the demon flash-stepped behind Malagar, blade raised. "Sapphire Demon Dragon Slash!" Okina cried out, his weapon ablaze with demonic light as he cut down towards Malagar's back, the roar of a dragon echoing through the cave, shaking dust from the walls. Okina heard the scream of metal on metal and saw a shower of sparks before he flash-stepped again, to stand once again before the juggernaut of iron. "Inner Evil Shadow Blast!" As the words left his lips, the demon raised his hands, and a beam of demonic fire leapt forth, striking Malagar's helm, and bathing Malagar in light. "Ignition!" The beam of light exploded then, a shockwave shoving Okina back from his opponent, smoke and shadow spilling out to fill the cave.
Okina stood, panting, as he looked into the inky clouds of smoke that filled the cave before him. He began to cackle, hands upon his knees as he rocked back and forth, giggling with glee as globs of spit sprung from the excited demon's lips. "You couldn't even react to me, didn't even have a chance! Didn't you know? You were nothing before my strength, nothing to the power of Okina Yami! You weren't even worth my time! And to think, I-"
There came the sounds of metal thudding on stone, as Malagar stepped forth and out of the smoke, wispy trails of gray clinging to his armor. The Dark lord fixed Okina with a disdainful glare, and Okina squeaked, any color he had left in him disappearing as he went sheet pale. "H-how? How!? You're supposed to be dead! That can't be, no one could have survived that!" the demon stammered, stepping back from the iron goliath as it moved towards him, as unstoppable as the very march of time. The demon began flinging balls of fire at the Dark Lord, the flames spilling across his armor and dissipating the instant they struck him. There was nothing flashy to it, nothing exaggerated. Malagar simply strode forward, towering over the trembling demon as he did. The Dark Lord's glowing eyes grew only brighter for a moment, and the demon was stopped in his tracks, a powerful spell seeming to hold him where he stood, an icy grip held on every part of his body.
Malagar's hand reached out, slow and methodical, as the Dark Lord set the points of each iron finger against the demon's skull, and lifted him sharply off the ground. Okina gasped and struggled against the spell, yet his limbs disobeyed him, enthralled by the Dark Lord's will. "L-let me go," Okina gasped, the pressure building on his skull, trapped in the vice grip of the thing before him. With a trembling voice and wet eyes the demon begged and gasped, looking into Malagar's eyes, searching for something that would pity him, something that would take mercy on him. The demon lords always had mercy, always enslaved the weak. "I'll s-serve you! I'll never question your orders, I promise!" Okina squeezed out, nodding his head furiously as the pain mounted in his skull. "I'll l-lead you to them, I'll tell you their secrets! I'll - I'll-!" the worm struggled and pleaded and promised as Malagar's grip only tightened.
"SILENCE," commanded the voice of Iron, before the hand closed into a fist like the jaws of a great beast, eviscerating the demon's skull within those fingers of metal. Blood and grey matter splattered out from between the gaps of the Dark Lord's fingers as the demon's kicking feet went limp. The demon's corpse hung from the grip of Malagar for but a moment before the invader cast him upon the floor disdainfully, tossed aside as if he were garbage.
The demon's soul attempted to flee, to slither away as if it were a snake, to slip into the cracks of the earth, yet Malagar would not allow it. With one hand, Eon was extended, and the demon's last notion was one of terror, as its soul was sucked into Eon, another insignificant thing to give the Dark Lord power and knowledge. Okina had made one fatal mistake, and that was to presume Malagar needed him alive to extract knowledge from him.
Malagar turned, disregarding the corpse entirely as his baleful gaze turned once more to the Molding Pit. Malagar opened his bloodied hand, crimson ichor dripping into the mixture below, sprinkled atop the Dark-Born's limp body as if it were the final bit of seasoning for a meal. Malagar rose his open palm, and the Dark-Born rose alongside it, eyes flickering open as it jolted to life, dropped beside the Molding Pit, naked and seizing upon the ground like some pathetic grovelling rodent.
"RISE."
The thing ceased its convulsions and forced itself to its feet, beholding with newborn eyes the shape of its master. "What do you wish of me, Lord of Darkness?" the thing asked, standing straight in the darkness and taking in what it could of its surroundings.
The first Dark-Born, the first of many, the first step on the road to come, the first soldier of a great host who would trample the very sun beneath them, and subjugate all the world.
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