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As a young warrior, Barramon had fought his way to head the Fighters' Guild in Drakeshire, but he soon wearied of the peacekeeping. Having successfully driven the horde into the south, forcing them to out through Gallow’s Passage into Salzear, he then barricaded the western reaches, securing the orc and troll menace behind nigh impenetrable fortifications. All that remained was desk duty and civil disputes. Barramon was highly regarded among the elders of Drakeshire who believed the young man to be a gift of the Divines, in particular the Dark Mistress, goddess of the night. This belief led Barramon to seek out the Dark Mistress so he could personally express his gratitude and offer his body in service to her. In his quest, he had unearthed things about the Dark Mistress others would not believe. She was indeed a dazzling raven-haired beauty with emerald eyes, just as the priests in Kelross had told him. But there was so much more about her they did not know. He had found where her earthly palace was located and was determined to get there and seek an audience with his divine mistress. Barramon's only obstacle was that living flesh could not enter her domain in the Cavern of Souls, not without a forfeit. And so Barramon sought out mediums and necromancers, seeking the lost wisdom of the dead. Eventually learning the skills for himself he proclaimed himself First Knight of the Necromancers, and thus was the Brotherhood born.
Meeting under the shadow of night in the misty glade buried within Blade’s Rock, the Brotherhood would gather together, calling upon the dead, not knowing that the dead to whom they spoke were the demonic servants of Accuson, chief among the Divines. In order for the Brotherhood to gain access to the Cavern of Souls they would have to travel north across Mor, traversing the Dragon's Teeth before crossing Meregith. From there, they would have to ford Everstill River and face the trolls of Gamran Thorn before they even reached the border of Northshire.
Hunted by the Mage Guild, the band of brothers fought their way through forests, across mountains and meadows, laying waste any that stood in their path. Undeterred by their losses, the Brotherhood ventured on until they found themselves standing on the banks of Everstill River. A ragged assembly of rotting corpses refusing to lay down and die, Barramon ordered two of his minions forward into the icy clutches of the river, believing the enchantment upon it would only affect the living. The two warriors walked out into the waters, as they had every other river and lake. Usually they would sink to the bottom where they would simply walk across to the other side. But not in the Everstill. This time two warriors bobbed up to the surface, looking at one another confused. Then, as they tried to swim, the water hardened around them, crushing them with their own armor. Everstill slowly increased the pressure until their gurgling cries could no longer be heard. A moment later the pulverized remains of the two soldiers were spat out onto the same shore where they had first set foot in the water. Everstill was at peace once again.
Barramon glared out across the open river cursing. Turning, filled with rage, he shoved his men aside, sending two more sprawling into the river. Bellowing his fury he stormed back into Meregith.
Days later, Barramon and his remaining crew reached the Wailing Cliffs, all but beaten. The lagartos and critts had taken their toll on his men, leaving no more than a handful to complete the journey to Northshire. A small reptilian creature sat at the foot of the cliffs picking the heads from bull rushes, eying them warily. Its long pink tongue flicked in and out, shuddering as it turned toward the cliffs.
"First to spear the toad gets first choice of the next loot," Barramon declared, attempting to boost the morale of his party.
Each of them grabbed a handful of bulrushes and began hacking them into rough javelins. The little creature leapt nimbly aside avoiding any harm.
"You leave Icthus alone or he get angry," the creature squawked.
The undead laughed raucously, snatching another handful of rushes, fashioning more spears.
"Icthus warned you." The spines on Icthus' back sprang out from his body, curling around to face his attackers.
Barramon laughingly mocked, "Aw, ain't he cute," and prepared to throw another bulrush.
Icthus clenched his fists hard. The front row of spines shot forth, sticking into Barramon and his men, piercing their rotting flesh and lodging in their bones. The warriors staggered then collapsed to their knees, pulling desperately at the spines.
Barramon, gritting his black teeth, glared at Icthus. Snapping off the barbed spike he waved it at Icthus, spitting, "That it, toad?" Seething he added, "Is that all you have, needles and pins?" Barramon collapsed to his knees in the pool.
Icthus walked slowly through the shallow water until he was standing right in front of Barramon. Gently pulling the spine from Barramon's hand he said, "You are mine, dead one." Lifting Barramon's chin with a muddy hand he stuck the end of the spine into his nasal cavity. Icthus snapped the spine in two removing a tiny, sparkling purple gem from the inside. "This," he said waving the gem under Barramon's nose and holding it between a finger and thumb, "is a tie to your soul. When you are killed I get your remaining years. This gem is worth much to a warlock." Icthus jumped around Barramon, laughing merrily. Barramon stared blankly up at the sky, his vision turning milky as knelt rooted to the spot. "Bye, bye." Icthus leapt out of the water onto the cliffs. "Your men will recover in a while from now, but you, I fear, will take longer."
Icthus scuttled up the face of the Wailing Cliffs safely out of reach. Barramon could only wait for the numbness to subside from his limbs. Black silhouettes wheeled, stains on the late sun. No matter how much his men tried lifting him, they could not. They were left with no other choice, but to wait out the night in the swamp.
As the morning mists cleared, Barramon and his men began the long walk home. Climbing was not something the undead were adept at, and he was rapidly running out of men. They would have to find another way into Northshire. The pleasure of the Dark Mistress' company would have to wait a while longer. Barramon decided to lead the men along the foot of the cliffs, keeping within the foothills of the mountains as they entered Meregith. He chose to avoid the central lowlands altogether until they reached the safety of the Dragon's Teeth mountains. He did not have enough men to take on both the Fighters' Guild and the mages who were still hunting them.
It was on the long journey over the Dragon's Teeth where Barramon’s fortunes were about to change. Hidden beneath an overhang, in on old cave, which had evidently been home to someone, the solution to life was discovered. The small cave was well stocked with all manner of dried foods and utensils. Barramon's attention was caught by the neatly stacked papyrus scrolls; each one had been rolled up, tied off with a black silk ribbon and neatly arranged on small stands keeping them off the damp floor. Whoever owned them had not been dead long as the corpse was still intact at the table as though it had died during dinner. With luck, the creature was also the author.
"Drok, the vial!" Holding out his hand, Barramon fixed his eyes on the corpse. “Let's see what this orc knows,” he murmured, closing his hand around the tiny glass vial.
Barramon removed the cork and pushed the whole bottle inside the huge, fanged mouth of the dead orc. As one the undead cried out, “Mistress of Dark. Raise this fallen brother to walk among us. Put life in his bones and keep his flesh from rot.” A purple-black vapor boiled up out of the orc's mouth to form a death shroud about its corpse. Slowly the gas began to penetrate the rotten flesh, restoring life. The eyes opened slowly looking around at the gathered men.
"The Dark Mistress welcomes you," Barramon said, bowing slightly. "I am Barramon..."
"Yes, of the Brotherhood," the orc said as it sat up pulling the knife from its stomach. "You seek the Cavern of Souls."
"How do you know this?" Barramon smiled, sensing his good fortune; at last something good had come from this useless expedition.
"I am Jourell," the orc replied, rising slowly to his full height, a full head and shoulders over Barramon. "I see from your expression that you have met my kind before." He w
alked slowly around the table, his heavy armor clanking as he moved. "I am," his deep, rich tones resonated through his nasal cavity, "a seer. I see what is about to be."
"Who killed you?" Barramon circled the orc slowly, admiring his ornately engraved, armor. "They must have been very strong to defeat someone of your stature."
Jourell laughed. "I took my own life, in preparation of your coming." Barramon stepped back, eyeing the orc with suspicion. "I watched you from afar. You have lost over thirty of your men, and your soul is tied to a tattlejack. That is most regrettable."
"Indeed you have been watching us. You have no mount that I can see, so you must have other means. Unless you can fly." Barramon's men all laughed. "So what is your secret?"
Jourell walked over to the entrance of the cave, where he spread out his huge muscular arms. "Jumtak throg nar," he growled, smacking his hands together. A tiny, shimmering light appeared; a small portal, but no ordinary portal.
"What is this?" Barramon approached the light, keeping himself at safe distance.
"A watcher." Jourell lowered his arms allowing the watcher to float in the air. "Ask it to show you something."
Staring at the watcher, his mind filled with thoughts of the one thing he desired the most.
"Show me the Dark Mistress," Barramon requested, licking his lips in anticipation. He waited. "It does not work for me." He pointed his blade at Jourell.
"Look," the orc replied, pointing at the watcher. "It is seeking her."
The watcher changed to the image of a cave entrance whose floor was littered with bones. Changing, quicker this time, to an outline of a woman, slowly the details began to emerge. Barramon stared amazed at the watcher, transfixed by the beguiling beauty of what was now before him; the face of the Dark Mistress.
"I see her." The face smiled back at him. "Can she see me?"
"No." Jourell stood next to Barramon, averting his eyes from the gaze of the Dark Mistress. "You are quite safe. To look upon such a being is not always wise."
"I must have her, but I cannot cross the river or climb the heights of the cliffs." Barramon's voice trailed to a whisper.
"There is another way." Jourell swept his hand through the watcher to close it.
"How?"
"You will have to get someone to open a portal directly into the mouth of the cavern where she dwells," Jourell explained, "but such a portal can only be opened by those with breath. They will have to do it willingly as you cannot force a portal open against the will of a key master."
"Whom could I get to do such a thing? The living do not trust the undead." Barramon's joy at seeing the Dark Mistress was swiftly swept aside.
"We will find someone, but it may take a long time. How long have you been dead?"
"But a handful of years." Barramon walked out into the fading light of day. "Why do you ask?"
"You look far older. Do you not know how to cheat decay?" Jourell reached for a scroll.
"No I do not. I did not know that it was possible." Barramon sheathed his sword.
"What you need to perform is the dragon rite." Carefully unrolling the scroll, Jourell read out loud, "The rite of dragon's life. All that is required is to drink the blood from a living fire born dragon. The creature must not be slain. Once the blood is drunk, those who consume it will share in the longevity of the dragon. For as long as the beast lives, so too shall the imbiber. The blood must be drunk every seventh year on the anniversary. Those who fail to do so shall turn to dust." Jourell rolled up the scroll. Slipping the ribbon up to its center he placed it back on the pile.
"A fire born, I know where such a beast can be found." Barramon looked at Jourell, life shining in his eyes. "Are you with us?"
"I am. I trust what you gave me was bane elixir?"
"It was." Barramon was impressed, not an easy thing to do. "You know much about the undead?"
"There were many in my homeland, especially after the plague." Jourell picked up his shield and axe and took his place at Barramon's side. "It is time for us to leave. We will need an adult dragon. A juvenile will not last long once we begin to milk its blood."
“I know of such a creature. It often comes to forage at the cutting. If we could lure the creature into the river then perhaps we could overwhelm it.” Barramon paced back and forth across the cave mouth, scanning the mountains as though he were searching for ideas. “These mountains were once the home to hundreds of dragons. I remember seeing one of the last pups before...” Barramon's eyes shone brightly. “The pup! We can get the pup. It often drinks from the river. If we can capture that then the mother will come after it.”
The game was on. As soon as they returned, Barramon would call his forces together and capture the dragon. There was much work to be done.
Barramon had taken Jourell to the misty glade in Blade’s Rock where the Brotherhood first began. There they had built a vast pyre.
"Have you brought all I requested?" Barramon asked his men as they filed into the glade carrying all manner of clothing, saddles, and bodies, some more alive than others.
"Put them all on the pyre," Jourell said, pointing toward the huge pile of wood, branches and gathered mosses. "Tie the people together and make sure they are all awake, then give them this to drink." He handed the minions jars filled with viscous purple syrup.
Barramon watched excitedly as the minions went about their tasks. "Why do they not resist the elixir?"
"They cannot." Jourell, smiling as best an orc can, swept his long black hair back over his head with one hand and tied it into a pony tail. "The potion becomes a vapor when it touches living flesh and removes all resistance." Jourell took a torch from a sconce and walked over to the pyre where he handed it to one of the bound humans. "When I am gone, light the fire.”
The sounds of crackling timber filtered into the air as the pyre began to burn. Flames devoured the dry timbers, hungry for more. Soon the whole wood pile was blazing with a rich red flame tinged with the deepest blue. A heavy pall of choking black smoke spread across Drakeshire, drawing a veil of death across the land.
"It begins. The sun will never again kiss the earth of the shire. The darkness that covers the land will remain for as long as the pyre burns. All living flesh that enters its embrace will become like us." Jourell turned to face Barramon. "By this time tomorrow there will be no mortal flesh remaining in the shire and soon the dragon will be ours also." The two of them laughed the night away, celebrating long into the morning.