Introduction

Styphon is not sadistic or cruel; neither bloodthirsty nor a tyrant. He is unlike the demon-kind, who frolic in grotesque and bloody flesh rending rituals. He is unlike the Fae, to whom all creatures are playthings, to be discarded when their novelty has faded. He is no oppressive politician, or an executioner lost in the ennui of untold murders. He is not like Malagant, who foolishly sees Necromancy as an end, but not the means.

He is far worse. These comparisons and words, they are just concepts – ideas and imagery concocted by the mortal races of Arthos in a meaningless attempt to understand what He truly is. Beyond all concepts of morality and empathy, right and wrong, good and bad, Styphon is a creature of endless and uncompromising Evil, on such a scale it can no longer be conceived by sane, mortal minds. In the common tongue, the word ‘evil’ itself is derived from his own name, dating back to the original languages spoken in the first mortal city. Every culture on the Maud’Madir has a word for something unthinkably abhorrent, something truly unforgivable. Each of these words can find their root in his ancient name: Ealdor-Banum.

From the Donjon of the stronghold Atol-Gyryn, built from the basalt and granite bones of Mount Dracos, Styphon wages an endless war of attrition against the mortal kingdom of Tiefanue. Armed with the Orb of Power, Thade, The Army of the Black Wyrm, and his unending legions of the undead, the Ealdor-Banum prosecutes an eternal battle against the deceitful Gods, and the so-called delusions of the Light and Dark. Within the heart of his mountain is a chamber of unknown size and depth. No soldier of the army will speak of it, and no ambassador or spy will even admit it exists. It is a place that even the Gods cannot peer into. Many mystics have tried to peer within, only to be taken over by madness, screaming in terror. Powerful mages have dedicated their lives to understanding what lies within, and die of old age as confused as when they began. The most advanced and sophisticated scrying stares into that forbidden place, but finds nothing. It is a hole in reality – a blank void in this plane that crosses with no other. The Black Tide does not wash upon its shores, and with the Shadowlands it exists as a vast void of light that even the great Darkness fears to approach it. From the outside is constantly guarded by only the most loyal and dedicated of Styphon’s Army, and even then only the Dragon himself is permitted to enter. Should a Champion or Cleric be captured in battle, Styphon will personally take the prisoner into the dark tunnels leading within, and for reasons unknown, the Gods will immediately abandon any of their followers that are dragged into its depths.

The Black Dragon needs neither a war council nor a cadre of sycophantic advisors. Every assault ordered is remembered, every strike is planned well in advance. The sheer scope of his ambitions include factors from across the entire continent, and how they will most efficiently be used. Every city on the Maud’Madir has envoys, and there isn’t a corner of the world left untouched by his spies.

When not personally leading his armies, Styphon has a strong need for order and stability within his lands. The Atol-Gyryn is an impeccable example of refined military efficiency. Undead and Living alike are constantly on patrol routes, each step measured and accurate to the second. A full quarter of the entire Army is stationed within these walls, and even the rotted Undead seem to take a measure of pride in the newfound purpose the Black Wyrm has given them. Grim and proud, the Dragon walks his fortress looking for any sign of weakness or failure amongst his troops. By his edict, should any falter even in the most minor way, they are quickly replaced with a new Soldier, and Syphon only knows what happens to those deemed less than perfect. Should he ever receive a visitor, the guard is doubled, Undead crawling from unknown places in the mountain to ensure his security remains intact, but also to provide a morbid honour guard and reception to receive the guest, after his own macabre fashion.

Beyond the walls of the stronghold, Styphon walks as a benevolent King. All who have seen the hidden side of Atol-Gyryn find themselves utterly perplexed. To the south lay extensive villages and farmlands, all encompassed and unassailable from the jagged mountainsides.  It could be considered picturesque: the sprawling fields of wheat, fruit orchards, and well maintained dwellings, replete with its own small waterfall and coursing river. The landscape is dotted with peasants, walking to and fro, completely free from harm and enjoying a peaceful life. Occasionally a well armoured guard – typically a humanoid Undead of some variety – patrols up and down the streets, and is greeted warmly by the populace, who show no sign of fear or dread. Should a fire break out, Undead seem to swarm from thin air to assist the town in their time of peril, and help rebuild. Any injured peasant is treated to the very best medical care and magic healing. It is a place free of want, danger, and suffering.

In reality, it is mummery of the highest order, where even the performers don’t realize they are part of a play. This is the Theatre of the Ealdor-Banum. Upon this stage is Styphon’s view of mortality, both as it should be, and should have been. There is no violence, for those that would raise a hand in anger are quickly taken and replaced, without anyone being the wiser. The same is true for any other violator of the unspoken laws that exist there. And even in this paradise of illusion, those too sick to heal or those that must be taken away for “discipline” are in fact taken deep into the mountain where they are harvested as new recruits for the Army of the Black Wyrm. The Theatre, containing exactly five thousand souls, is almost entirely human. Those few not of the human race, and stolen from other cultures, have had their identities so entirely rewritten that any racial features are happily dismissed as birth defects. Those who live within know that they live in a paradise, for they are also told of the outside world. Occasionally Styphon will go down into the villages, and is received as a beloved monarch. The people come out in throngs, and he grants them a warm smile, strangely contrasted on his bone face, but still making idle chatter about the weather or the fine quality of apples this season. He will visit the many pubs scattered about the Theatre, talking to old men of “the better days”, and sharing bawdy tales with any that might listen.. To the women, he is as gentle as can be, and generous to those with children. In Styphon’s Theatre, there is no strife, there are no poor or oppressed women, and no child goes unfed. “Hail the Ealdor-Banum!” the people cry, grateful to their Lord, hailing from the great stone tower, who gives them a perfect and harmonious life. They have been taught of the World, and know all too well what exists beyond the mountain ranges, and remain forever grateful to be kept safe from it. Ealdor-Banum the Kind! Ealdor-Banum the Generous!

Ealdor-Banum, the Murderer. Beyond his Stronghold, beyond his Theatre, Styphon is another creature entirely. When not at home, he stays with his Legions, the Army of the Black Wyrm. Day in, and day out, he pours over conspicuously old maps, looking for new or re-established settlements from Tiefanue or the Church or Light. He doesn’t seek a great battle (at least not yet). For the Black Wyrm, every day must have a death. Styphon believes, nay, knows, that Arthos and all mortal races owe him a terrible tribute. When humans first settled in his domain, he prevented the Gods from giving the nascent race immortality in exchange for an eternity of worship and service. Even now, thousands of years later, he still holds them in contempt. So he exacts his toll by claiming at least one life with each passing of the sun.  Perhaps this day, he and his honour guard will assault a small holdfast of the Citadel, with Styphon killing but a single soul, and then departing. Other times, he is content to enter an encampment by night, murdering but a single child. When the mood hits, he will enter a peaceful, quiet hamlet, and by morning every sentient mortal will have disappeared. Though he has been known to spend great periods of time in deep slumber, his Army still maintains his tally of death, every day until the Black Wyrm awakens.

Appearance

The form of the Black Dragon has always been the subject of much conjecture, as it is reckoned he only shows himself maybe once in a century. Even during the most auspicious of times and most pivotal of battles, he is rarely seen in his true form.But just like vivid memories of a childhood nightmare, history has retained a very accurate image of him. He has often been described as the darkness in the absence of light. His colouring is so completely black that his features cannot be made out, save by a bright noon day sun. His eyes, though, glisten even on a moonless night, like the reflective black orbs of a deep sea shark. They sit in a wide, elongated head, bearing a sweeping frill, serrated with dozens of hooking bone claws. A set of heavy and barbed dewlaps hang from his throat, which rip apart the ground beneath them should Styphon walk with his head low.

Compared to most dragons, Styphon is relatively large. Were he to walk relaxed and at ease, head high in the air, he would measure thirty-five meters in length and sixteen meters tall. Straightened out and in flight, he would easily be over fifty meters in length from snout to barbed tail, while supporting a wingspan near one hundred and twenty-five meters.

Despite his great size, Styphon is most memorable when fully illuminated. His scales are heavily keeled and double overlapped, armouring him in the most remarkable way – though each scale is at least a handspan in thickness and heavier than a full bar of gold, they slide with an unsettling fluidity when the dragon moves about, gently clacking against one another. The sound is often likened to the whisper and roar of wind on a late Fall day, or the sharp clattering that announces the coming of a landslide. Considered unique amongst dragons, Styphon also boasts nine sets of legs. All limbs are thick as bundled oak trees, ending in wide feet bearing large curved talons. It has been said that to see Styphon move across the ground is like watching an impossibly fast serpent, which gave birth to the term “The Black Wyrm”. He crosses the landscape like a vast ribbon of darkness, leaving swathes of destruction behind him. Historical illustrations show images of him wrapping his entire body around castles and fortresses of great size, and crushing them to dust like a constrictor.Fortunately, it is very unlikely that one would ever see this shape of Styphon. In his mortal form, he originally appeared in the finery of a middle-aged human noble, though dyed black as pitch and with minimal ornamentation. He had long, dark, braided hair, and the fine features of a patrician. Since being chosen by Thade, the necromantic Orb of Power, his appearance has changed somewhat. His face is forever obscured by bone, shifting either from a featureless face the colour of porcelain, or a viciously contoured and hooked rictus skull. His clothing retains its rarified quality, but can instantly melt and reform into a suit of armour, composed of thousands of interlocked and twisted bones. From his sides protrude two bone swords, curved and reminiscent of ancient elvish smithing. Riding the fuller of each blade is the word “Eadom”. It is believed that this metamorphosis is not so much magically summoned bone as it is the physical essence of Necromancy itself.  When Styphon chooses to bring Thade with him (or perhaps when Thade chooses to accompany him), the thirteen inch sphere is held in front of where a human heart would be, pressed against the chest. Tendrils of sinew and hooks of bone protrude from his chest, and wrap themselves around the orb, but leave an ominous gap on the surface. Thade casts no reflection, and no light that touches it is ever returned. It seems utterly and infinitely black, like a night sky without stars or moon. Though if one were to get close enough, and held senses canny enough to notice, they may hear a deep, rhythmic thumping like a heart, and perhaps see dark purple flashes from within, like a cloud illuminated by lightning.

Temperament

Styphon is a creature that demands absolute and unwavering Order, bordering on the obsessive. This is not the order spoken of by Rolandites, or the order of mortal law. The Order maintained by Styphon is that all must be in its right place, as ordained by Him, and that all must proceed according to His plan. Only He has the knowledge, insight, and power of Will to rebalance Arthos, and see the Gods utterly destroyed. The Black Dragon has been known to leave a council of his Generals after a single dissenting opinion, only to return a moment later in an unspeakable fury, leaving not behind but the combined effluvia and viscera of those he must now replace. There is no debate or equal opinion with the Ealdor-Banum. Those that would seek to emulate Styphon should keep their world in a similar state. Everything you do should be methodical and precise. All engagements set to a precise and inarguable time, daily training exercised with utter scrutiny, your mind and conviction as inviolable as Mount Dracos itself.

To accomplish his grand visions, Styphon has honed his mind to a level of strategic mastery that only a being that has existed since the beginning of time could possibly achieve. There are many powerful creatures on Arthos, Gods and Firstborn alike, who consider themselves the greatest amongst strategists. Yet no lifetimes of experience or assistance from the divine can aid them. All fall both before the mind of Styphon, who began his own strategy back in the mythological Age of Reverie. Every day must be strategized to best maintain control and influence; all must be planned and executed with precision. Every decision, every ambition, every word spoken must be calculated to result in triumph. Potential aspirants of Styphon must spend every waking (and if possible, dreaming) moment planning on how to win. To win over a local council to your opinion, to best your rival in combat, to ensure that you are always on top. But the wise remember that to abandon a plan in action is to show weakness of the worst kind, and to admit failure is tantamount to consigning yourself to the grave.

To understand the true nature of the Black Dragon, one must understand that he knows, not believes, that the tolerance of the mortal races as a whole has been a mistake. They have spread across Arthos like an infection, and with them follow the false Gods. Were it not for the Celestials, the Dreamleaf would not have been destroyed. Were it not for the mortal humans, the Grey Elves would not have been cast down and scattered. Were it not for his intervention, the Gods would have already won.

All peoples of Arthos owe the Black Dragon an unpayable debt, for it was He that saved the nascent mortal races from the true horror of the divine.

On the western beaches of what would one day become Tiefanue, the remaining humans from the Thalan rebellion were met by three Gods of Light: Roland, Kael, and Cassandra. Wishing the new race to reach its full potential, the Gods offered to raise the humans above all other races and grant them immortality. They, of course, accepted.But from far away, Styphon could feel the presence of the Gods, and could feel the truth behind their schemes. These Gods of “Light” would indeed make the humans immortal, but only if they swore to worship them, and spread their tenets across Arthos. The Black Dragon knew that all Celestial creatures used worship to grow in strength, so the human race would not be given eternal life as an altruistic act, but instead to make them an everlasting food source.

The Ealdor-Banum flew in a terrible rage to where the Gods and humans had met. The Gods of Light knew they were trespassing on the territory of a Firstborn, and that Styphon’s power could be great enough to destroy them. They quickly disappeared, leaving the humans to face Styphon’s ire. Using the power of his draconic breath, the Black Dragon stripped them of their immortality, and left them with a warning – should the human race ever give themselves over to the Divine, he would return and exact a terrible vengeance.

Passion

Above all else, Styphon craves the death of the Gods, and the mortal beings that worship them. Yet the Black Dragon is open minded about how this is achieved. Were such a task so simple, he would have done it himself thousands of years ago. Killing a God takes time and patience. But removing their power – their mortal flock – is far quicker, and can be incredibly effective.

For his hoard, Styphon seeks all manner of things which erode the strength of a God, and make them vulnerable. He seeks items infused with Divine magic so that he may deprive their servants. To appeal to his strategic mind, offerings of knowledge and methods to strike at the Gods are well received. But great care must be exercised in how these gifts are offered. Back alley deals and tavern rumours will not suffice. For a mortal being to gain favour from a Firstborn that fundamentally despises mortals takes effort. Each attempt must be greater than the last. An aspirant must be willing to do anything, even killing themselves if necessary, to please Styphon.

With every piece of intelligence that allows the Legions to strike where the Light is weakest, with every precious artifact filled with Divine magic that keeps the people protected, with every flayed corpse hanged from the door of a church, Styphon grows in strength. The ultimate goal of these offerings is to set an example for all to see, and further work towards the destruction of the Gods.

In the end, however, the Black Dragon simply prefers sacrifice. Styphon revels in the murder and degredation of those who would dare follow the Gods, let alone serve them. For the crime of divine influence, only great suffering and death is sufficient. Killing a Cleric in the midst of a pitched battle and offering their holy symbol to an altar or pillar would be considered a minimal effort. Burning a church down with people inside of it, perhaps adequate. Killing an entire community of light following peasants and nailing their children to the walls of a town center, marks of Styphon carved into their flesh, all while the Weaver’s eyelids have been removed to better appreciate the view? A likely appeasement.

Affinities

Styphon views himself as the inheritor of all mortal races, but with a strong preference given to humans. More specifically, he wishes to witness them die. He does not seek the extinction of the mortal races, however. He wishes to remind them that their very existence is owed to him, and it is a debt which may be called in whenever he chooses. Death is an all encompassing drive to the Black Wyrm, which may be manifested in magical, arcane, and brutally physical forms.

The common misconception about Styphon is that he is “the Dragon of Necromancy”. This can be understood, as the Undead are undeniably his favoured tool. The Army of the Black Wyrm is, by majority, composed of Undead creatures, many of which have been in service for decades, if not centuries. It is his practice to harvest the remnants of any battlefield, regardless of size. Experience has shown that a special brand of horror can be found in using the animated remains of a father to do battle against his son. The simple fact is that Styphon is incredibly skilled in the arts of Necromancy, to the point where one may think he is the Draconic embodiment of it. Styphon being the dragon of Necromancy is no more true than Rathenoch being the Dragon of Gold. It is a deftly wielded skill, perhaps unmatched, in the same way a peerless sculptor is with their chisel.

As the mortal races continue to grow, Styphon has also become a skilled politician. The Army of the Black Wyrm is filled with not only soldiers, but seemingly endless retinues of Ambassadors. They travel the length and breadth of the Maud’madir, on journeys to recruit, convert, and gather favours.

Breath Weapon

Unlike other Dragons, the Breath of Styphon is not lost to history; no skeptical bit of folklore, or a grave secret hidden away by frightened scholars. It has been used to great and terrifying effect, and is responsible for the routing of entire armies. It can be incredibly versatile, being able to target a single individual, or covering a thousand square meters. Depending on how great an expanse Styphon wishes to effect determines how long he will take in air. To cover an entire field may take up to a minute, whereas hitting one person would take no more force than blowing out a candle.

As the Black Dragon inhales, a terrible cold suffuses the area. Sweat on a furrowed brow suddenly freezes in place, dew on trees turns to bitter hoarfrost, and even the sunlight seems to diminish and fade. This is the only warning of what is to come. There is no sound or rush of air – only the all pervading chill.When the Dragon exhales, a thick and languid black pitch sprays from his mouth, and quickly falls from the air, coating what it touches. It then flows across the ground like a heavy, viscous fluid, but can wrap itself around and up trees, pour itself down into tunnels and trenches, and slide into the thinnest gap. Seeing it the first time, one could easily confuse it for being alive.

Though neither alive nor sentient, the Breath can hunt, and seems to do so with pleasure. The spreading waves of the tar-like substance flow directly towards every living creature it can find, and begins to feed. As it slides across flesh, the skin begins to immediately begin to blister and burn as the liquid turns into a potent acid. Inside helmets faces boil away, popping bubbles of gore splattering to the inside. Those shocked and dismayed look to their melting hands, fingers falling to the ground even as their bloodied stumps cauterize into a jellied greyish green mass, right before the eyes pop open like cysts and the vitreous humours flow down the remnants of their face like tears.These, of course, are the lucky ones. To have died quickly by the breath of Styphon is a gift. Those that flee soon discover the Breath has not given them permission to leave.

As someone turns to run, the dark acid seems to boil and cascade over itself, and then suddenly bursts forth with dozens of swift moving tentacles, moving like snakes through the air. It is possible to outrun them, but unlikely. One would be better served by throwing a friend in their path, even though another swarm of them closes in from the sides. The tendrils grab a hold of whatever they can, which is most often the running legs, and lash around them like the arms of a Kraken. The acidic liquid then burns with a terrible fury, not content to slow the one in flight, but to incapacitate them. Within seconds the tendril eats through the skin, calf and bone. As the defenseless victim collapses to the ground, the rest of the spawned tentacles catch up. There will be no quick death, though. Almost as if incensed by the target’s temerity to run, the tendrils slowly drag them back to the pool of vitriol, still expanding, and begin to burn away body parts in a fashion not dissimilar to plucking a live chicken.

Soon the acidic tar has spent itself, and evaporates like morning dew in the sunlight. It is then that Styphon takes to the air, and casts a vast shadow over the corpses, and heralds the coming atrocity. Cradled in shade, the sluiced bodies begin to reform. Skin reknits itself imperfectly over skulls, flesh pulled taught and unsightly across mangled frames. Some begin to moan, some begin to growl. Some even begin to laugh a piercing cackle. A pale purple light begins to emanate from the surviving eyes, or the gaping sockets, and those slain by the Breath are reborn as Undead. As one they slowly stand, seeming distracted, and then stare towards the form of Styphon, awaiting their maker’s command.

Despite this atrocity, there is another aspect of the Breath of Styphon – the creation of a Wealdath.

The Wealdath is an Undead creature unlike any other, neither Greater nor Lesser in classification. It is something entirely different, and so much more. It is Undeath, perfected. It strips the target of their very mortality, and leaves them in an impossible state somewhere between life and death. Not bound by the fundamental rules of Necromancy, a Wealdath is not burdened with the state of Undeath, or the restrictions of Life. It exists in balanced harmony, somewhere in between them.

When the body enters this state of perfect Undeath, the spirit is utterly annihilated. Unable to anchor itself to the material plane, or be taken by the Black Tide to its afterlife, it crumbles into nothingness, as if it had never existed in the first place. The Wealdath is a shell, animated by the will of Styphon.  It needs no food, but does not wither away. It retains full intelligence, which never fades into madness. It craves no flesh, and is unaffected by the touch of the sun. It has no memories, but retains a twisted version of their previous personality, and has the skills of a hundred lifetimes.

It is, in fact, all but unkillable. With no spirit, it cannot be affected by spells, save those of an Elemental or Draconic origin, and even then it’s resilience may render it immune. It cannot be cut with mundane weapons, and even the most potent Chemistries slide off of it. Should the Wealdath take some form of truly catastrophic damage, it will pull the life from the nearest mortal, no matter the distance, to reanimate itself. Despite this, it can be contained; the Wealdath is nearly invulnerable, but is not immensely strong. There are three ways for it to be truly destroyed: by the will of Styphon, the Breath of any other Dragon, or being taken into its antithetical realm – the Plane of Healing, whose elementals will try to contain it on sight. But even with these small weaknesses, it is totally and unwaveringly loyal to the Black Dragon, and stands as his ultimate creation.

But there are limitations to this power, otherwise all of Arthos would be populated with the silent Wealdath. There may only ever be two in existence at one time. To attempt to make a third would cause the instant destruction of the other two. At this time, however, only one exists – The Baleanith, or as it is more commonly known, the Word of Styphon. Never one to debase himself to the point of speaking with unworthy mortals, Styphon can project a small part of his consciousness into the Wealdath, for when his presence is needed, but not deserved. The Black Dragon has chosen to not make another at this time. While this is undeniably a part of his grand strategy, he has made it known that he plans to create a Wealdath from a God.

Style of Governance

While being in the very heart of Whiteraven territory, Mount Dracos rises like a dark tear in the sky. Styphon’s land stands unassailable and unconquerable to the surrounding faction, and the impotent Church of Light. To the outside observer, there is absolutely no form of government, or even control. It is a desolate wasteland littered with burned buildings, salted fields, and wandering hordes of the Undead. His military leaders and army are nothing but mindless automata, willed by the Black Dragon to kill everyone they see, and lay waste to anything that opposes them. For approximately fifty leagues from any border or occupied land, this belief is entirely accurate. Styphon grooms the lands to be barren and tortured wastelands, and leaving behind a few hundred thousand Undead to wander aimlessly is no more a loss from his stocks than grains of sand from a desert. Past these vast fields of death is something rather unexpected – civilization. The Black Dragon maintains a large and well organized kingdom, far from the borders of war. While boasting no major cities, there are over a hundred villages spread across his territory, which is nearly all of the land on the western shelf of the Maud’Madir. And for the most part, the peasantry is content. It would seem that given enough time, anyone can become used to the presence of the Undead.

There are other places, though, not often spoken of by those living under the protection of the Black Wyrm. Vast quarries, almost appearing as villages, reeking of decay and pestilence, and encompassed by high walls. No real defenses can be seen – such things are not needed in such places. These are the Foundries of Undeath. In the center of each pit is a small mountain of innumerable corpses, each awaiting a destiny as either another soldier in the endless ranks, or paving material for new roads crossing the wastes. Tunnels lead deep into the ground, breaking off into innumerable paths, and completely filled with row after row of the Undead. But this is no charnel house fit only for the dead. In the houses that ring the pit live perhaps the most devoted followers of Styphon. They live in a state of absolute luxury, with abundant drink and exotic foods, but that comes with a cost – to be welcomed into the Foundries, each mortal must be “altered”. Using a mixture of chemistries and small portions of Styphon’s acidic breath, the body of the new resident irrevocably changed. Skin begins to sag and slough off, hair shrivels leaving a patched and piebald appearance. Gender is stripped away, replaced with redundant hermaphroditic organs, taking the form of patches of seeping external cysts spread across the body. In the end, the transformation leaves the person resembling a vaguely humanoid grub worm. From then on, their only task to the Black Dragon is to breed. The Foundries are ironically brimming with life. The “mortals” therein spend the remainder of their lives in an endless cycle of copulation and birth. They are fed potent alchemies that keep them invigorated, and speed the gestation to a little over a month. At any given time one can hear the wail of a newborn child, shortly followed by the trundling of a wagon pulled by horses. Before the wagon driver has even dismounted, babies held by their legs for inspection are presented. An acceptable newborn is doused with a fortifying chemistry, and placed into the wagon amongst the others. Those seen as unfit are left outside the door, to be collected as food for the Undead masses beneath their feet.

These lands, from the most humble village to the most vile Foundry, are known formally as the Demesne of the Black Dragon. Styphon rules with absolute and unquestioned authority as a dictator. His only official title is Ealdor-Banum, but it’s usage isn’t strictly enforced amongst the common folk. All roles are personally granted by the Dragon for achievements, great victories, exceptional talent, or even as a prize for winning the Harrowing of Bone. Despite Styphon ruling as a dictator, the society leans strongly towards a meritocracy. One’s progress and elevation in society in the Demesne is based entirely on competence and accomplishment. There are three branches of Governance, of which Styphon personally oversees, even when asleep. The first is called Senescal, or more commonly known as Civil Service. It is virtually indistinguishable from anywhere else in Arthos – tax collectors, mayors, magistrates, and all other ranks that maintain the efficient governance of a Kingdom. Very few people seek a civil posting, even for something as luxurious as a territorial Baron. Life in the villages is surprisingly peaceful and well ordered. Tithes to Styphon are only in food and goods, as the people operate only on a rudimentary system of trade. While common currency is easily found, it is not hoarded as with everywhere else in the world. A cow and a cart of grain is of far more value to a family than chunks of gold. A blacksmith of great skill can be assured of a life of comfort and social position. Instead, the people seek appointment to the Legions.

The second branch bears a name that everyone in Arthos has heard of – The Army of the Black Wyrm. Styphon’s Legions are suspected to be the largest force in all of Arthos. The main reason for this is the presence of untold thousands of Undead, and that none who enter the heart of Styphon’s mountain return to speak of his hidden forces. To be appointed to the Legions is often considered the highest honour one can obtain, regardless of rank. It is the promise of (potentially) eternal glory, and being an extension of the might of Styphon himself.

But this is no mere swarm of mindless undead, howling screaming for death and blood, the likes of which are most often used by pretenders to the power that is Necromancy. The Legions are filled with undead that stand side by side with those devoted to Styphon. Many fail to realize that unlike Malagant, the Black values the mortal races in his plans. It is wasteful and counterproductive to kill a mortal who may still have some use while alive. Only when a soldier is utterly spent, and every last mote of value has been expended will they join the ranks of the Undead. Unlike his rival Malagant, Styphon sees all of his resources used with complete precision and brutal efficiency.

While maintaining control over an Army with so many Undead may prove problematic to even the most skilled General, such is not the case in this Army. When the Dragon takes the field with his Legions, Lesser Undead turn from drooling corpses into countless ranks of fully alert and highly skilled soldiers, each ready to take orders from their appointed commanders. These officers are typically an equal mix of the Living and Greater Undead, and each follow a strict command structure. Though the term “Legions” is generally used to describe the immensity of the Army of the Black Wyrm, it is also literal. Each Legion in the army is composed of nearly 8000 “individuals”, be they living, undead, or colossal monstrosities. One can only approximate the size as with every victory, the Army grows. But even with such an unstoppable force, the Army of the Black Wyrm has one major failing – once the undead step foot beyond the boundaries of the Demesne, the magic that keeps them animated begins to fail. Some may last a day, some may last five minutes, but their fate is tied to the very ground of Styphon’s territory.Despite numerous attempts by enemies of Styphon (and even loyal census takers), no one has ever been able to take a precise body count of the combined Legions. All that is known for certain is that at any given time, the Atol-Gyryn is protected by no less than four Legions, or nearly thirty-two thousand soldiers. Generally, there usually at least ten legions wandering the Styphon’s lands. Rumours persist amongst fearful Tiefanue of sleeping soldiers beneath the mountains, equalling no less than one hundred full legions, waiting for the call of their master.

The third and final branch is that of Ambassadors, representing the interests of Styphon across Arthos. In large cities, it is entirely possible for entire districts to bear the black pennant and mark of Styphon, such can be their popularity. Many of those who have gained Syphon’s favour find themselves appointed to the Ambassadors, and are either sent to far off kingdoms or kept in their homelands to maintain His presence. These agents often serve as facilitators for “martial assistance” to the local populace and governments, suppliers of rare goods, or simply spreading the teachings of Black Wyrm.

These three branches combined under the watchful eye of Styphon results in the Demesne being a serene, peaceful, and entirely controllable populace. When all one’s worries are addressed, and the greatest achievement one may gain is a place in Styphon’s army, you’re left with a remarkable result – a people who are entirely willing to accept the Undead, ignore the atrocities committed in Tiefanue, are one and all fanatical supporters and aspirants of the Black Dragon.

Temple Structure

In the very core of his being, Styphon believes there is something fundamentally wrong with the mortal races, and that the cause has been the interference and unchecked influence of the Gods. Somehow they have expanded too quickly and gained too much power. Creatures, in his mind, that should be best used to counter the works of the Divine, often instead flock to them, and become a threat to the established and natural order. They have brought nothing but disarray to the Realms, seeming to try and become as dangerous as the Gods themselves. It was soon apparent that the mortals had to be controlled. To this end, he created the Army of the Black Wyrm – a near endless force consisting of the Undead, and some few loyal mortals that “see reason and know their place”.

The lands of the Black Wyrm are governed by absolute and unconditional order. Everyone has their place, everyone has their duty, and everyone is working towards the same goal – service to Styphon. But few understand what Styphon is truly trying to accomplish. The Temple of Styphon is not a grand structure, a group of questing aspirants, dusty books, or an archaic stratified ranking system. There is no pomp and circumstance or ego-polishing, no trying to outdo one another for His favour. The Temple of Styphon is philosophy, which each follower must ask themselves – “What is my purpose?”

Styphon teaches that there is no answer to that question. Though their existence seems to be little more than being born, passing some time, and then dying, He sees them as having a far greater potential. To transcend from being the playthings of the Thalan, or food for the Gods. Instead they could represent ideas and philosophies given physical form to evolve into entities of unparalleled beauty and thought. And with such creatures at his disposal, Styphon himself can try to recreate the paradise that was the Dreamleaf by eradicating the Gods.

If the temple of Styphon itself is the question “What is my Purpose?”, then the key to entering is to hear this tale. The teachings of Styphon say that all mortals know, deep in their heart and spirit, that the Gods have brought terrible ruin to Arthos, and offer nothing but slavery and unfulfilled destinies. By casting off the corrupting influence of the divine, they may become something far greater, and that somewhere, in all the Realms and Planes, in all of Arthos, they will have the chance to truly change things for the better.Styphon calls out to all – to the confused, to the cowardly and forgotten, to the bygone heroes withered by age, to the angry and dispossessed, to those that wish to be part of something so much bigger and wondrous, and of course, to the lost. For all that would join together under the banner of the Ealdor-Banum are welcome in the Army of the Black Wyrm.

If the Temple of Styphon is a philosophy, then the Legions are the practical application, and there is a place for everyone, with every imaginable skill set. The Army is far more than just a military force – it is intrinsically tied to the governance of the Demesne, the logistics of trade, and continental politics. Fundamentally there are two aspects to the Army – the physical army itself, and the Ambassadors.At any given time, there are a minimum of fifteen active Legions, some of which remain as guards at Mount Dracos, while the rest are spread across the Demesne, engaged in battle, or being transferred from one location to another. The size and composition of the Legions has long been ordained by Styphon, as well as the associated hierarchy. The only deviation from this standard is when specialists are added, which can only be approved by the Black Dragon himself.The second branch of the Army of the Black Wyrm is the Ambassadors. Though nowhere near the size of even a single Legion, these agents of Styphon can be an even more influential factor across Arthos.

There are two roles within the Ambassadors: The Spalraca and the Runath. The Spalraca is the term given to those who serve as Styphon’s political agents across Arthos. Despite the constant warring with Tiefanue, Styphon can always afford to send a few dozen soldiers from the Legion to perform certain tasks for leaders of everything from countries to camps. Styphon’s agents work tirelessly to ensure there is a presence of the Black Dragon in every city and town on the continent, often with excellent results. Envoys are known to be incredibly respectful of the culture and nations they visit. They will often become integral parts of local government, and aid the people in whatever ways they can. Once they were driven off with sword and spear, but in these dark days, many folk simply spit at their feet while secretly being grateful for the arrival of banners bearing the mark of the Black Wyrm.

But long before this procession of dignitaries arrive, the Runath will have been long embedded. These agents serve as the spies of the Black Dragon. Never content with the short-term, entire families of Runath are bred in Styphon’s lands, specifically designed and educated to infiltrate a society, and gently push it towards a favourable disposition towards the Black Wyrm. Stories are told amongst Ambassadors of generations of the Runath that have been living in sprawling cities since they were little more than a collection of hovels. Typically it will be these spies that inform Styphon of potential aspirants to his favour, or those that may be swayed with the right incentive. In almost all cases, a new aspirant will be approached by the Runath in secret, and coach them on their way to gaining the attention of the Ealdor-Banum. The one who operates the Ambassadors is called the Baleanith – or more commonly known as the Word of Styphon. This is the highest rank that any creature, mortal or otherwise, can achieve in the Army of the Black Wyrm, and perversely enough, they must have been one of the favoured of the Gods during their life. The Baleanith represents the ultimate sacrifice one can make for the Black Dragon – their mortality. Neither alive, dead, nor undead, all Baleanith are turned into one of the two Wealdaths in existence, and has had their very spirit carved away by the Breath of Styphon, leaving only a shell of their identity behind. Once created, the Baleanith shares the same resilience of a Wealdath, but none of their martial capabilities. It is a literal vessel for Styphon’s words to echo from. While the creature maintains a very small amount of their original self, they are filled with but a shadow of Styphon’s strategic mind, which is more than enough for them to survive and talk their way out of any encounter. The Word of Styphon is the only entity permitted to treat with the true rulers of a Kingdom, be they Kings and Queens, or the hidden power behind the throne. To speak with the Baleanith is to both literally and figuratively speak with the Black Dragon himself.

The current Baleanith is a female Savar’Aving, appearing mature in age. Once she may have had a thick Calico coat, but it has been long since charred black and marred by the mark of Styphon. Wearing no armour, she strides across battlefields and court alike, exuding a cold and foreboding presence. She dresses much like her master, in well tailored finery of deepest black, and carries a single basketed rapier on her hip. Her voice is methodical and precise, and speaks only to those of import or high station. Any others are beneath her station.

There is a role for every person, from every walk of life, within the Temple of Styphon, for any willing creature may choose to fight against the corruption of the Divine. Every skill can be used, every talent employed towards this singular goal. And should someone truly exemplify the ideals of the Black Dragon, one day someone will approach them, someone they never would have imagined, and they will guide them along the road His favour, and a place in the Army of the Black Wyrm.

Historical Highlights

An Ajaunti Tale
Veshengo caravan encampment
45 leagues north west of Antioch

It is a summer night that the caravans dream of. The sun has set and a cool rolling breeze flits through the trees, bringing a pleasant chill to those that have spent a day in hard labour. All around the colourful Ajaunti enjoy a peaceful reprieve from the road; groups huddle around the dozen campfires, baudy laughter fills the air. Children chase each other across the camp with sticks, quickly borrowed from the kindling piles, imagining themselves daring fighters, growing bolder with each unsteady parry. Wood hits tender knuckles, and a flurry of vulgarity spouts from the mouth of one not four years of age, and the area is filled with happy, contented laughter – the sort that brings a joyful tear to the eye. Even the guards, doubled as they are, grim faced and suspicious, find reason to smile and steal sips from hidden flasks. For this is the Aja way. They know where they are going, and they know the road is long, but a night without merrymaking is a poor night indeed.A woman comes out of an ornately carved wagon, clothed to make a peacock shy. Bright pinks and magentas wrap around her, pearls and hammered gold inlaid on every hem and stitch. Beautiful flower embroidery, worthy of the finest tapestry, descends across her loose sleeves like a garden brought to life. In her hand a polished cane, threaded with silver, and engraved with countless names. As she gracefully steps to the ground, her presence is felt around the camp. Men quickly scatter, returning with bottles of wax sealed wine, meats still crackling from the spit. A heavily padded chair is set before the fire, soon joined by small tables bearing the goods. Her skin is dark and wrinkled, but still she exudes an aura of beauty and majesty. Those that dare to help her walk receive a quick smack across the head with her walking stick, and the laughter which follows fails to soothe any injured pride.

She sits, smiling kindly and without pretense. This is family, she thinks, this is the truth of the world – but the world has other truths, and many are not so kind. It is an old story to tell, but perhaps the most important. Unbidden, the children begin to approach.“Cha! Cha! Come, sit my darlings, sit and warm your feet. How big you have all grown since we were last sitting together, no? It is a lovely night for a tale, and such a tale I have for you. It is older than your mothers and your fathers. It is older than their mothers and fathers. It comes from before we were Clans, and the long road our home. Before …. Panash! Stop poking that poor boy! He is too young for you! Don’t give me that look, or by the Ancestors I will throw you in the river. Yes? You are good now? Good, you’re very clever. Shut up. Where was I?Ah, yes, yes. I tell you this tale because this is the first any of you have crossed this river, into the dark lands beyond, and your little spirits must be made as steel. It was the place that we Aja first turned away from the Gods and the Dragons, and instead turned to our ancestors who came before, who guide us and give us wisdom. Ancestors! Beloved Ancestors! I, Jhienve Giorgescu Veshengo, swear upon my First Husband Bexhet and my First Wife Kezia, I swear by my children, my grandchildren, and family yet to come, that this story is true.”

In ages long since past, the last of the human race were fleeing from the fires of the First City. Their rebellion against the Grey Elves had been successful, but the cost had been high. Their remaining numbers fled to the sea on stolen vessels, and let the tides and fate take them where they will.After what could have been months at sea, the weather beaten boats beached themselves on a calm shore. The sun here was warm, and the landscape welcoming. Small patches of forests dotted the horizon, and vast fields of tall grass lay before them. Even fresh water trickled down in small rivers from low mountains to the north. But they were low on food, and never truly had to fend for themselves. The humans, using what tools they could fashion, broke apart their meager fleet and made crude shelters. That evening, when hunger was beginning to set in, the Light arrived.

The God Roland manifested as a vision, descending from the sky. He approached the frightened humans, and spoke with them for many hours. He taught them many things, including how to survive in this new land. He created food and drink for them, and clothing and blankets. As the sun was just setting, he spoke to them once more, and offered them a gift. He wished to truly free them, so that they may also do as they wish, go where they want, and experience the world, forever. He offered them Immortality. He gave them the night to consider their choice, and would return in the morning to hear their answer, and departed.

Unknowingly, in making themselves known to the humans they had inadvertently awoken a terrible evil from its slumber. Far to the east, the Black Dragon had been roused by the divine presence. Such was Styphon’s fury that the land in his Demesne shook with his anger. Mountains suddenly cracked and split, and these newborn volcanoes erupted their rage into the sky as he burst from Mount Dracos and flew with great speed to the shores of his lands.

As the sun rose, the human race stood by the sea and waited. Soon the bright form of Roland descended from the sky, golden wings spread wide. As he landed, the people clamoured to him – their answer was yes. They told of their dreams to live and grow, and to one day be even greater than the Grey Elves who had betrayed them. Roland smiled, and again food and drink appeared. The God told the humans that for all his strength, even he was not great enough to grant the gift himself, and would need help from his brother and sister.

A blinding pillar of sunlight touched the ground, and the God Kael stepped forth from it. A single robin flew to a nearby rock, and another flash of light revealed it to be the Goddess Cassandra. The Gods of Light gathered themselves before the bewildered humans. A dark spot appeared on the horizon.

The Pantheon of Light, occasionally glancing cautiously to the sky in the east, detailed the price of their offering. They would teach the humans all there was to know of the world. They would gift them the knowledge of metals to defend themselves and magic to heal themselves. They would live forever, as long as the Gods themselves. All the pantheon asked was they following their teachings, swear service to one of the three, and Immortality would be theirs. Once again the humans happily accepted, and the Gods smiled and began their ritual. The dark spot on the horizon had become much larger, with vast wings beating the air.

As the humans accepted the gift from the Pantheon, their bodies began to glow with dim white light, slowly building into radiance. But their eyes seemed to dull, as if lost in thought. Mindlessly they walked before the three Celestials, each choosing their preferred patron, and fell on their knees in abject supplication. The trio’s smiles soon faded though, as a terrible sound approached.

It began with the clattering of pebbles on the beach, and the whisper of wind blowing towards the sea. The whisper soon became a deep rumble, which became a deafening roar as hurricane winds hit them with incredible force. The three Gods quickly threw up shimming wards around themselves and the humans, but their protection was soon sundered. The terrible form of Styphon was closing, his speed causing the winds to flee before him, uprooting forests and crushing hills. As the Firstborn came closer to the cowering mass, the ground shattered in a violent explosion of soil and rock, and followed him as he crashed into the Divine defenses.

As the wind died, the only sound to be heard was breathing. A breathing so deep that it shook the humans with each exhalation. Standing before them, and far above, was Styphon, and he glared down at the Gods in such complete fury that it caused the shocked humans to hide behind their new patron deities. Styphon spoke. His voice was unlike any other – the words were not so much intoned as they were emanated from his entire body. It was like the sound of granite and obsidian shards grinding against a wall of flesh; the scratching sound of a thousand bodies buried alive, and the promise of bloodied hands and broken fingernails, desperately scratching against the grain of a rough coffin lid.

You have been lied to. Your “gift” is nothing but a curse. For all time they shall devour you, for your degradation only makes them grow stronger. Never will you feel the relief of death. Never will you experience what your other mortal kin – joy, love, sadness, pain – the sensations which define a life lived. Though small and wretched creatures, there is a great plan for you, where you and the other races may live in the harmony of mortality. It is not your place to seize eternal life. 

Styphon turned to the cowering Gods.

And it is not your place to grant this, vile creatures. I will speak of this transgression,  and all Firstborn shall know of your attempt. And now as I undo your works, so to shall you be undone.

The Black Dragon took in a tremendous breath, and expelled his wrath on those before him. The acid crept quickly, and soon began to climb over the humans. The Gods immediately flew into a panic, tossing aside those humans that clung to them, dashing them against the ground, and vanished in a burst of light. The humans, now abandoned, huddled together as the breath of the Ealdor-Banum washed over them. But there was no pain, only a brief cold sensation, and then it passed. They looked over themselves, seeming unharmed. A sudden cry went up, however, and soon the people were scrambling away in fear. In their hundle, exactly one tenth of their number had been changed. Their friends and their family had become Undead.

Raising his wing to shield them from the sun, the Undead twitched and clawed at the air, but were held in place by the will of the Black Dragon. He spoke one last time.

I have returned your mortality to you. And it is right that you should die, for you are a foul and tainted race, for on this day you have let the influence of these creatures blight your very spirits, and this weakness will spread to your children, and to theirs, and this corruption will follow your race for all time. See how quickly your “Gods” have abandoned you. Enjoy this gift I have given you, for things may only have eternal value if they can be forever lost. Treasure what has been so dearly given to you, creatures, or I shall return and show you the true cost of Immortality.

With those final words, Styphon took to the sky and flew back to the east. All around the beach the people were screaming as the Undead erupted into flames under the sun.Jhienve stretched her back, and gently folded her popping arthritic hands across her lap. She looked across the gathered children and wondered what they might be thinking. Some faces seemed thoughtful, others impassive. The little boy Panash had been poking seemed to be crying. “Take this story, my most beloved darlings. For tomorrow, we grow close to the border where that Dragon lives. Keep a bent copper in your pockets to ward away the words of the Gods, and a piece of burnt tree bark to hide you from uncaring Dragons. Now go to your beds, the sweet moon is high. And someone call for my wife, as I think my husband has passed out playing dice… again.”

The Journey of Thade
Location Unknown
Date Unknown

Atop a large, rocky hill, the morning mists were fading in the spring sunlight, and Styphon sat in a low chair, staring intently into the distance. Even with the target of his gaze leagues away, his mortal form could see what was occurring with clarity and precision. Idling beside him stood the Baleanith, staring down, expressionless, at the new grass growing in between the pebbles.“That will be the end of it. What a foolish reason to cease. Not surprising for the Thalan to break combat. The fickle humans, though – we must observe them. Where can they run to though? There is nought in the west but… Hmm. Baleanith, their retreat will lead into my land, and even now their wounded begin to falter. What may be reclaimed once they arrive?”Styphon needed no assistance in assaying the dead. He could sense the presence of those near death, and once within his territory, raise them to his service with a thought. But all the same, he projected a memory of the scene into the mind of his servant, and awaited its report. He mused for a moment that the Wood Fae did not seem to be best suited to the position of Baleanith. This one was forever staring at the ground, or distracted by a fluttering leaf. The Dragon had already chosen a new candidate in the time it took for the current to finish its tally.“Two hundred and forty-two will perish in your borders, Ealdor-Banum. Thirty-five will only be suitable for building materials and decoration. This number will replenish the 1st Aidum to acceptable levels.”“Acceptable. Dimnessa Illyeth!”

Within moments, a soldier in black plate armour jogs up from behind the hill, falling to one knee as it comes within ten paces of Styphon. It remains utterly still and silent, with a faint purple glow radiating from behind the visor of the metal helmet. “Assign three of your Anfeald to retrieve the retreating wounded. The rest are to gather the spoils for sorting.”“By your will, great Styphon” the soldier rasps, and returns over the hill. Shortly after, one hundred and thirty undead begin to crest the hill, marching in perfect unison, tirelessly dragging a score of heavy wagons, stained black from dried blood. Far above, the pealing cry of drakes fills the area as twenty descend and begin flying in tight, overlapping circles. The effect casts a massive shadow, completely covering the unit of undead below. With perfect timing, Styphon stands and is walking beside the Dimnessa, followed closely behind by the spiritless Baleantith and a small horde of the Undead.As the sun began to set in the west, the undead horde of Styphon was finishing its tasks. The fleeing soldiers had paid their toll for crossing into the domain of the Black Dragon. The weak and bloodied died where they fell, and those still clinging to life received a sword in the belly for the crime of surviving. Soon twenty stout wagons were now filled with the reasonably fresh corpses from the retreat.. Styphon would occasionally look up to the sky and nod, content at the timeliness of the exercise. The Dimnessa was coordinating the ungainly wagons to return home, when it heard a crack and rumble in the ground nearby. Wheeling on its heel and pulling out a wickedly curved sword, wrapped in dark purple energy, the officer stopped short. The ground beneath Styphon was trembling and ripping itself apart. The Ealdor-Banum’s face was one of intense rage. As the Dimnessa cautiously approached its master, Styphon exploded from the ground and into the sky, instantly taking his Dragonic form and flew to the East. The distance was short, as it saw the shape of the Dragon dive into the ground with a cataclysmic explosion of purple fire.

The Firstborn Styphon had crashed into his target with such force that the land around the impact was sundered, reduced to little more than gravel. All trees and shrubs within one hundred feet of the landing were reduced to smoldering mulch. Little flickers of purple flame wisped up from the ground and dissipated. Yet standing before him was a ten foot dome of what appeared to be melted bone, and it radiated a pulsing purple light. Before the sheer size of Styphon, the protected area seemed no larger than a marble. He reverted back to his mortal form and paced the perimeter, curiosity colouring his face.“I can sense you inside there, Celestial filth. But this magic is not of your doing. It is too pure and focused for your kind to wield. Leave your cowards redoubt and accept the consequence of your transgression.”For a long moment, nothing happened. The carnage had caused every bird and beast within a league to flee, and the only sound was the wind scattering the rocks across the ground. But a faint sound began to come from inside the ward. The words could not be picked out, but the tone was heated. There was a muffled yell and the dome collapsed into a pile of charred bones.In the center of the was the fallen form of an imposing figure. It laid prone, wrapped in robes as black as pitch, with the hood pulled down. Beyond the hood no face could be seen, and far too dark to be natural. But what truly drew the eye was the Orb. It lay a few yards away, the outstretched  pale hand of the faceless creature still reaching out for it as it collapsed. Necromantic energies radiated from the Orb in an impenetrable black haze, crackling with thin purple lightning and turning the soil beneath is putrid with Blight.<<Greetings Styphon, I am Thade. You may have heard of me. I have been waiting a very long time to reach you. >>Anger and confusion filled Styphon’s face. He adjusted his black brocade jacket, and cautiously approached.“What have you done to that Celestial filth? Have you killed it?”<< No. He couldn’t maintain the wards I provided him. Such was the strain that he just… collapsed. >>The Black Dragon opened his coat with a flourish and quickly drew two elegant swords, inscribed with the runes of the Grey Elves. He placed the tip of one against the small shell of the orb, and the other over the heart of the faceless creature.

“Then you have performed a great service to the Ealdor-Banum, Thade. You have brought me a weakling God ready for slaughter, and you have my gratitude.”<< I am gratified to please you, great Styphon. My… “courier” here, well, he’s very upset. Very angry indeed. He has been wronged, and in his intoxicating outrage, he will see Arthos flooded with an endless ocean of Undead, and all who draw breath shall fall to their knees and worship him.  And inside him is the power to wield my Art like none other. Why, he may even be better than you. >>At this slight, the temper of Styphon broke loose for a brief moment. He twirled on his heel, raising both swords in the air to strike the Orb of Power. Just before contact, they were pulled away in a flash, steel catching the setting sun making them appear like brands of fire. In an instant they were resheathed, and the Dragon began to compose himself. He took a long smell of the air, and sighed in a way that gave no hint of his intentions. He straightened his long sleeves, placed his hands behind his back, and stood with the sort of imperiousness that could make a whole kingdom fall to their knees. He tilted his head downwards to stare into the blackness that was the hood of the Celestial being, giving a dismissive scoff, and turned away. His gaze returned to Thade. Unseen behind him, thin wisps of black vapour began to curl upwards from beneath the hooded God.<<Thank you, Styphon, for your offering of respect. I have spent an age looking for someone worthy of my… gifts. For a brief, fleeting moment, I had thought it to be this one. He is so very eager, you see? His potential is almost tangible! But then I thought of you, my good Dragon, and all that you accomplished. You, who have already taught the people of Arthos what terror really is! Take me up, and together we shall accomplish even your most impossible dreams. >>Styphon straightened out the fine silk ruffles of shit undershirt,  gently brushing away the settling dust of his arrival. Leaning low, he grabbed Thade and brought the black orb close to his face staring into its depths. The moon had now started to rise, but no reflection was cast from Thade’s dark surface – it floated like a hole in reality, and then it set to work. A thick bone coloured sludge began to seep from the surface of the Orb, coating the Dragons hands. Seconds later it began to stretch itself out, and wrap itself around Styphon’s body in intricate, overlapping patterns. Within moments the liquid solidified and cracked, like the sound of a tree tearing itself apart in a storm. The fluid was replaced by dense plates of bone, forming an elaborate suit of armour over the Dragon. Clusters of muscle fibres squeezed out between the cracks, joining with one another like putrid tongues wrapping around each other. With a loud snap the pulsating muscles pulled tight, creating a flawless fit.

The hooded God began to rise, the dark smoke wafting from his black robes. Soon he stood, taller even than Styphon. He raised a single pale hand into the air, and the ground at his feet began to tremble as a dozen undead clawed their way to the surface. They slowly trudged into a circle, and turned towards the Dragon. No sound came from God – his servants would speak for him. As one they cracked open their emaciated jaws, the stench of grave dirt filling the area, and spoke.The sound was like the grating rasp of a field of dried leaves crushing themselves as they tumble in the wind. “What… What is the meaning of this? You are mine! You belong to me!”Styphon turned, looking up at the towering figure, ignoring the meager chorus of the undead,  Orb still clutched in his hand. Beneath his helmet of bone, a snarl began to form on his face, but it was Thade that acted first.<< It is time for us to part, and thank you for your help. You are good, Malagant, and one day you may be great. But you will never be Styphon.>>

Though no emotion could be seen from beneath Malagant’s hood, but his anger filled the air like a toxin choking out life. Holding his arms out to his sides, his hands overflowed with necromantic magic. Dark violet bursts of lightning began to spark off the barely contained power, and he rushed at Styphon and the orb as fast as one takes a breath.  The lighting arced, spreading out in waves like a nightmarish spider web. The God crashed the blast after blast of his magic, but each strike exploded against an invisible barrier, sending out showers of the purple sparks that darkened the ground where they fell.<<Good bye, Malagant. >> the orb pulsed with necromantic light, <<One day, maybe. But not today. Take us home, Styphon, there is much work to do.>>

Obeying without question, and no small amount of pride, the Black Dragon turned on his heel and began to walk away. He had taken exactly five paces before the shockwave hit. A wave of crackling darkness burst outwards from Malagant, as solid as any fortress and just as unyielding. Such was the sheer force of the attack Styphon dropped Thade, and he was sent hurtling into the distance and out of sight, his bone armour crumbling to ash. Malagant hung in the air, suspended by and whirling streams of pure and uncontained necromantic energy. It crackled black and purple over his body. Full bolts of dark lightning flared wildly from his form, carving long, vicious ruptures in the ground. Clouds gathered overhead, blotting out the thin moonlight and plunged them into a darkness only illuminated by the primal storm of hellish power brought forth. The unstoppable tempest that was the wrath of Malagant slowly moved towards the orb. With a faint gesture, the God levitated it from the ground and brought it forward,  and stared deep into it.“Hear me, Thade. I am Malagant, Master of Autumn and Lord of the Undead. If you will not bend to my will and freely give what I desire, then you will be broken by it and I shall take it from what remains of your body.”The expanding darkness around Malagant began to curl, and then crashed inwards creating a crushing cocoon of death. Inside, Thade was in agony. Whatever unknowable strength the orb possessed over Necromancy, it had no power over the cruel depths of the divine. The intelligence within was being torn apart like thin paper, and it felt every probing touch as Malagant absorbed the hidden secrets of Thade’s knowledge of Undeath. Thade could feel elation from the God with the passing of each secret, each forbidden branch of Necromancy never meant to exist within the planes. And just as the orb felt its life force begin to fade, he was released into a Maelstrom of destruction.Styphon dove down onto Malagants cocoon of Undeath and Dark magics. Now in his Draconic form, his fury was unmatched and carried the wrath of the Firstborn with it. The three hundred foot long Wyrm collided into the Gods barrier, shattering it like an eggshell.  Acidic Breath and massive claws bore down onto the exposed God. Invigorated by the energies taken from Thade, Malagant deflected each strike with waves of Necromantic power, and wildly threw up barriers of celestial magic to defend against the tides of the Dragon’s breath. But the Master of Autumn knew that even bolstered with this new strength, he could not last long against such an attack within Styphon’s own land. Searching for any way to break off from the fight, he found his opportunity. Even in his rage, the Black Dragon would not give up the chance to reclaim the orb. With an unseen grin, the Lord of the Undead hurled the sphere from the cataclysmic battle, and his gambit was rewarded.Styphon immediately broke his attack and lunged after the Orb of Power. As he approached the sphere, he reverted back to his mortal form and grasped for Thade. Firmly with his hands, he curled his body around it like a snake would protect its eggs, and crashed into the forest below. Some hours later, a tattered and torn Styphon emerged from the woods. He walked with incredible care, Thade intact and cradled in his arms. For a moment a familiar anger welled up inside him, but as he glanced to the distance, Malagant was gone.