Black Mass
A call to mourn, a summons to praise, a herald to new ways. A grand procession tramples over beds of fragile snow. In the gray half-light of the misty moors, the kingdom’s fate weighs heavily on all.
foreboding menace. A solitary eagle soars above the moors of Galt, and beneath its gliding wings, the kingdom gathers in the tens of thousands before the walls of Castle Galt. Wagons transport the young, elderly, and sick, while legions of soldiers and the strong stride ahead, kicking up powdery clouds of snow.
The subtle aroma of warm baked bread and roasting meat wafts on the headwind. In the distance, inviting fires beckon as warming beacons. Melodies and joyful laughter carry on the wind, and bliss engulfs all.
The masses continue to pour in, forming untamed rivers from every corner of Galt.
Trumpets resound in exuberant welcome as the people of Galt establish makeshift camps and light fires. Thick woolen cloths make flimsy shelters, propped up by tall sticks hammered into the snowy earth. Families, relatives, and strangers huddle together for warmth beneath the shelters. Small crackling fires burn, pots bubble, and meats roast over the flames. Wooden pitchers and trenchers clink together. Ale spills with guzzling chugs, and toasts are made to the new king. Arms clasp as friends old and new unite beneath the castle’s main northern walls.
Music pipes from bags with reeds, and the people of Galt sing and dance together, shoulder to shoulder, strong, proud, and free.
King Madon, draped in mourning black, carries a somber yet proud demeanor. He graciously smiles and nods, waving from the rampart to the gathering kingdom. His gaze, regal and dignified, sweeps over an ocean of rejoicing subjects, basking in his moment of glory. A modest golden crown rests on his head, reflecting the countless firelights of the crowds far below.
Queen Morana stands a divine figure, beside King Madon, majestic in her deathly black silks. Her face, unveiled, radiates a serene warmth as she bestows gentle smiles upon her people. With a graceful flick of her hand, she blows kisses that seem to float down like blessings, carried on the night’s breeze. Her long, raven-black hair glistens under a slender band of silver, as if crowned by the very stars.
The crowd below erupts into chants and prayers, their voices rising in reverence for Morana, the Blessed Mother. Some weep with joy, others extend their hands toward her, desperate for her gaze or touch to grant them good fortune.
The King and Queen of Galt absorb the adoration of all. A god king, and his goddess.
On a lower raised dais to their left and right stand the lords, nobles, and figureheads of Galt—the Accession Council—declaring their unity and support. They smile and nod to the masses below. Lord Elfric waves with a broad smile, while the young Lord Luglow holds his head high with lofty pride, gallantly waving to all.
Lady Lochber strives to appear at ease as the sole woman on the wall besides the queen.
The Black General stands behind King Madon. His ranks consist of a dozen Umbal knights concealed within black armor, adorned with Galt’s dragon crest on their breastplates and capes.
Black as the night, silent as the grave, the armored Umbal remain as still as stone statues. Their gauntleted hands rest on the pommels of their brutal black broadswords. On every rampart battlement, the flag of Galt—the winged dragon—sits on a cloth bed of moorland green.
“How many, general?” King Madon questions over his shoulder, waving down to the greatest gathering of Galt since the Golden War.
“Nearly forty-eight thousand, my king. More still come,” his hollow monotone voice emanates from behind his closed black helm.
King Madon peers up to the bright, starlit sky. The Dead Moon hangs above his head, while a gathering of black clouds drifts toward the bright Great Moon, shrouding its light. He raises his arms, calling for silence.
The trumpets sound with a long, hollow call. All hopeful eyes look upon the castle’s great walls as the kingdom of Galt jostles for a better view.
“People of Galt,” King Madon’s voice resounds, echoing throughout the masses as the royal criers repeat his words for all to hear. “My friends, my countrymen, my great people. I stand before you, with the full support of the Accession Council, to sorrowfully announce the death of my beloved father, Eiden.”
The masses below erupt into mutters and murmurs—bewilderment, somber acknowledgment, or complete disregard.
The trumpets sound a resounding blast, signaling for silence.
King Madon bows his head, humbled and modest. “My father’s reign was unequaled for times of peace, and in his reign, we united and forged bonds as strong as iron.” His voice swells with pride and triumph as he lifts his head to the darkening heavens. “As I grieve, I give thanks to my father for this most precious gift.” The king’s echoing voice booms through the masses. “We stand united as one kingdom.”
Fifty thousand Galt’s—men, women, and children—burst out in exuberant cheers and celebration. People embrace, clasp arms, and stand shoulder to shoulder.
King Madon calls for calm, lowering his arms, and the royal criers calls for silence echo throughout the crowd.
The masses, entranced, stare up at their new king, their eyes filled with anticipation.
“I understand this great inheritance and the duties passed on to me as your new king. A united Galt must thrive and prosper.” King Madon looks up to the sky as murderous black clouds block the Great Moon’s light.
In an explosion of amethyst splendor, a new celestial entity emerges from the clouds, flying on giant starlit crimson wings with a vaporous tail. The nebula dragon’s wings beat and shimmer in the colorful ethereal light, and from the dragon’s astral body, a thousand sapphire stars explode. Ana’s predatory eyes stare down, ever watchful, on the masses below.
Galt stands in awe-struck silence, gazing up at the new nebula, the immense starlit dragon in the heavens, and baptizing the prophetic night sky in celestial glory. Prayers to the old god mutter from superstitious mouths, while most simply gawk in amazement at the morphing, luminous omen.
The trumpets call for calm as King Madon addresses his kingdom. “The old god, Ana, witnesses my rightful reign,” he says, throwing up his arms to the nebula in the sky. “It is written in the stars, carved in ancient lore. Let all Galt stand shoulder to shoulder, strong, proud, and free.”
“Strong, proud, and free.” fifty thousand Galt’s roar, falling to one knee in fealty, heads bowed in willing servitude and deference to their new king. Calls of fealty rise from the kneeling masses; “Long live King Madon, King and Protector of Galt.”
Morana whispers in King Madon’s ear, her glance drawn up to the gathering night sky. The oppressive darkness hangs like a thick curtain of unknowing black; the wind starts to whip and bite with cold lashes of coming fury.
All light fades as all-consuming darkness steals the light. There is only unyielding darkness, and only darkness remains.
A violent gust of wind whips through the crowds’ camps, lashing with torrential rain that extinguishes the camps firelights.
The people of Galt grumble as they attempt to rekindle fires and take shelter from the torrential rain.
The trumpets call all to attention, and in the malevolent darkness, all eyes search the night, looking up at the king on the wall.
“People of Galt, my kin, my countrymen, loyal servants,” the king’s voice booms out, the criers echoing his calls. The masses cheer in response, gathering for comfort and warmth. “Strong and proud, but not free.” Madon’s molten eyes burn like furnaces shrouded in black.
One by one, the rain and wind extinguish the torchlights on the rampart.
All is silent; all is dark. A heavy anticipation hangs in the air, along with the skittish desire to take flight.
“Hear me, Kingdom of Galt.” The king’s voice rings in every ear, loud and commanding. “My father, your king, was murdered on Thielian soil, on their orders, by their command.” The king’s voice hits like a hammer blow. “Are we to sit idle and do nothing? Is the price of peace, servitude, and poverty?”
Fifty thousand Galt’s stand still as stone, their world enveloped in chilling darkness as Madon’s words pierce their hearts.
“Too long has Galt served as slaves.” King Madon’s voice seems to echo from the heavens above and from the earth below. “Too long have we suffered at the hands of Thiel.” King Madon’s cry thunders, washing over the kingdom below him. “We live like dogs, begging for food from Thielian hands. Caged in our own kingdom, like feral beasts, while they thrive in our rightful lands. They farm our golden fields and harvest our crops. They dwell in luxury on our great ancestral lands. Where is your pride, children of Galt?”
Galt erupts in raucous clamor, words spat, and curses uttered. The bitter crowd screams for vengeance, young and old, roaring in anger and hate. Malice boils as envy scuttles its way into the purest of souls. Their eyes blaze, spitting vehement words in disgust. They plead for war, vengeance, and death.
Death comes quietly, creeping into the unholy night.
The cruel Umbal slithers in the veiled darkness, weaving between the crowd’s feet, a vast rolling tide of black shadows lapping at their ankles. Silent as death himself, the treacherous Umbal rolls like a shallow mist, floating upwards in cognizant wisps, seeping into mouths, and screaming with hate.
“We mine and toil; our children are put to work, bred as Thielian slaves.” King Madon’s voice slices through any remaining pride and strength.
A roar of defiance shakes the castle’s foundations from the twenty thousand miners.
“We are slaves, caged dogs who beg and borrow.” King Madon’s words fall like a great battle axe, felling dignity like twigs, cleaving through all remaining honor. All decency shorn. In the drowning darkness of the moors, beneath the castle walls, the Kingdom of Galt erupts into violent chaos as the soldiers and common folk alike beg for vengeance and war.
“Savages. We are nothing but savages, beggars, and cowards.” Madon’s invasive voice screams, turning the purest of hearts as black as the night.
The Umbal’s insidious influence spreads like a contagion. They whisper in violent discord, weaving wisps of hate through the furious Galt’s tainted hearts. Hatred, cruelty, and loathing course through the kingdom’s veins. The Umbal seep into mouths that scream for vengeance, begging for death and retribution.
The trumpets sound, and Galt falls into an eerie, light-starved silence as the people of Galt breathe as one giant mass, inhaling the toxic rot of the Umbal.
“No longer will we beg at Thielian hands. We will not suffer, starve, or yield to oppression.” King Madon’s ambitious words tug at the strings of desire. “We will reclaim our rightful lands and wield the hammer of war.”
The Umbal’s putrid rot crawls into willing minds, hatching ideas of bloodshed, vengeance, wrath, and ruin.
Galt ignites with blood-curdling roars, baying for death, screaming for blood.
The Umbal taint binds their souls, knitting itself to their flesh.
“Light the forges, wield the hammers, forge our armor, smith our blades, and carve our bows.” Madon’s defiance ignites retribution as the Umbal taint devours every shred of humanity, leaving behind only malice. “I shall lead Galt to war. I shall lead Galt to victory.” Madon’s voice resonates with power and pride. “People of Galt, strong, proud, and free.”
“Galt! Strong, proud, and free,” euphoria merges with bloodlust. "Hail, King Madon.”
Galt submits, feeding the Umbal taint, fueled with the desire to burn, break, and wage war. The churning ocean of Umbal is swallowed whole by a kingdom corrupted by fear, greed, wrath, and ruin.
The deathly clouds above part, and pale, ghostly moonlight pierces the intense darkness. Ana’s living nebula illuminates the murderous night.
One by one, the torches on the rampart burst back into fiery existence.
“Welcome, my children.” The black iron gates of Castle Galt swing open. “Find lodgings within my walls.” King Madon welcomes them with open arms. “Light the hearths and tend to your kin.” His voice echoes as the masses file into his castle. “Claim every spare space, rejoice, and find rest within my keep.” King Madon’s cunning eyes shine with a golden glint. “Claim the courtyards, make your camps, and light warming fires. All are welcome, for we are united as one.”
The masses, soldiers, men and women, young and old, weakened and obedient, enter Castle Galt, coughing and spluttering inky black, corrupted.
The Accession Council stands in awed silence. An insatiable itch festers deep beneath their skin, beyond their reach. They sense it burrowing into the core of their existence, sending icy shivers down their spines. Cold sweats drip down their pallid faces. They cough and splutter, spitting inky black blood and loose teeth from their bloodied gums.
Algwain stands atop Merefen rampart, staring upward at the new dragon nebula in the sky. Merefen is empty; save a dozen loyal men. Nirtesh, Eindred and Eifear stand to Algwain’s left, gazing out into the dark abyss of the night.
Silence reigns.
Algwain's eyes are filled with sorrow. “Send a raven to General Aiseld in Ossan. His brother, the king is slain. Galt has fallen. Galt is going to war.”