The Umghul
The oppressive grip of suffocation tightens, and the taste of searing flesh, irony blood and putrid decay invades the senses. A fevered furnace consumes the body, blistering the skin from the inside out with sores that rupture with oozing pus. Teeth forsake their roots, yielding jagged obsidian needles better suited to severing throats than chewing on soft fruits. Muscles spasm, convulsing into a sallow paralysis. The corruption takes hold, festering from within the mutilated remains. A web of spidery, black veins weaves its intricate pattern across the entire body. Long, clawed fingers twitch in anticipation, beckoned by consciousness. Death relinquishes its claim, and a wicked resurrection emanates from the tainted madness. Repulsive, oval pools of ink-black eyes behold his awakening world.
through a dome of shattered glass; the razor-sharp fragments hang in the air like suspended blades, swaying to create eerie, chiming melodies. Tiny specs of dust drift down onto a malevolent altar, settling on the twisted and ashen form of the once, Lord Stenness. His dull gray flesh merges with the dark, blood-stained wood of the enormous butcher’s block altar.
The shadow demons, the Umbal horde, skulk in the dungeon’s darkest shadows, shunning the beaming light. The dank and oppressive atmosphere of the dungeon blends with the sulfurous stench of filth and decay in the dank air.
Death clings to every surface, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the putrid odor of festering wounds. The chamber writhes with malevolent energy, its stone walls oozing like sweat from a fevered brow.
“Arise, Umghul, your creator approaches.” Morana whispers as she places a delicate hand upon the brutish brow of the Umghul, which is cold as ice, hard as stone, and covered with a layer of slimy sweat.
King Madon strides through Castle Galt’s dungeon with predatory golden eyes. “Unbind it.” His voice cuts through the air like the crack of a whip.
“As you command, my king,” Morana releases the taut leather straps that bind the Umghul to the wooden butcher block. “Arise Umghul, do you remember the man you once were?” Her voice sings in a see-sawing melody.
The once Lord Stenness's soulless black eyes flicker with a distant glimmer of recognition. In the shadowy void of its vacant gaze, a distant memory is consumed by a tumultuous sea of writhing black as the remnants of humanity slowly fade away. The vibrant colors that once adorned every facet of existence now bleed into a monochrome palette, shrouded in oppressive shades of black and gray. The Umghul's gaze sweeps across the chamber, absorbing its surroundings. It shifts its attention to the fragile dome of shattered glass, shielding its eyes from the ice-cold light where the pale first sunrise beams down onto its vacant face.
"The man you once were, is no more," Morana declares, her voice echoing through the dungeon. She takes a step back and begins to circle the butcher's block altar, her eyes fixated on the foul creation.
The Umghul looks down at the palms of its ashen hands, where fingernails once were, are replaced with sharp brown claws that rattle against each other. His vacant eyes scan his sallow, leathery skin, the most corrupted shade of gruesome gray. His hands stroke over his transformed arms and legs, which ripple with thick slabs of muscle.
“You are born anew, an Umghul.” Morana's fingertips glide across the Umghul’s broad, green-tinged back, then she steps in front of it and places her fingertip under its chin. “Do you know whom you serve?”
“I serve Ana,” the Umghul’s harsh voice grates like gravel on a whetstone, stinking black drool dripping from its filthy needle-fangs.
“Then kneel before your god and bow to your maker.” Morana’s melodic tone rises in a whipping command.
The monstrous Umghul stretches its massive back and rolls its hulking shoulders. It licks its fangs and lowers its powerful legs from the altar and onto the dungeon’s stone floor. The diabolical Umghul rises to its full height, towering over Morana.
King Madon surges forward in a sudden blur of explosive shadow. The Umghul levitates, dragged upwards, hung by an unseen noose. Its arms splay wide open, and with a flick of Madon’s forefinger, the Umghul’s head snaps backward, so it gazes through the dome of shattered glass where the second sun’s bright light beams on its face. Roiling clouds gather to block out the sunlight.
The chamber descends into an unearthly darkness. King Madon’s voice echoes from the walls, resonating like a giant boulder clattering down a mountainside. “Umbal, behold your future—shadow made flesh, the Umghul.”
The shadow demons, the Umbal, slither toward the levitating creation. Their vile words chittering and chattering from broken mouths, their demon shadow claws, raking against the stone floor. Their ink-well eyes gaze upward at the suspended Umghul.
“Umbal, no longer will you dwell in the shadows.” King Madon rotates the suspended Umghul for all to see. “The Umghul do not fear the light of the sun. They are faster, stronger, and deadlier than any other mortal being.”
The chamber erupts in elated cries—high-pitched chitters, shrill chatters, and filthy squelches. The dungeon floor writhes like an ocean of slithering snakes as the Umbal pay homage to what they will become.
King Madon’s body pulses with power as dark amethyst swirls of plasma form a violent tornado around him. His eyes burning like a smith's forge, as an impenetrable darkness descends upon the dungeon and consumes all light. Thick plumes of acrid smoke and shadows billow and swirl, coiling around King Madon's body until he is engulfed in shadow and flame. His skin peels back, like bark being torn from a tree, revealing the raw, pulsating flesh beneath. He writhes in unbearable pain his bubbling blood turns to raging fire. His veins stream like lava flows as the fire erupting from within explodes into a cloud of ash.
Madon's human facade flakes away in plumes of ash and dust, disintegrating; it falls like searing-hot black snow. In a moment of peace, the ash drifts together on the gentlest breeze, each particle knitting together until it forms the shape of a colossal dragon, from which Ana emerges.
Ana's colossal umbra wings unfurl with a deafening beat, casting a shadow that engulfs the dungeon in a suffocating stranglehold, defying the laws of light and life.
Morana and the Black General fall to one knee, heads bowed, before their master.
“Rise, my queen. Arise, my general.” The chamber falls into deathly silence. “Look at what I have made.” Ana’s voice rings with proud arrogance as he admires his twisted creation, the Umghul. “No life exists without my great works.” His self-proclaimed words echo throughout the dungeon, bouncing off the walls. “Now, I have created life fit to thrive in my domain.” Ana’s voice slithers into a gastric roar, rumbling with lofty pride. “Behold me, Ana, the first and mightiest of all things—the Grand Architect, the Life Bringer.”
Ana rises on his shadow haunches and looks down to his shadow demons. “Umbal, in humanities hide, you will manifest and seize their mortal lives. You will pour all your hate and malice into their wretched sacks of flesh, infecting them with your essence and corrupting their fragile souls.” Ana rises on enormous shadow legs and stretches to his full height. He fills the entire chamber with his terrible power. His shadow head touches the broken domed ceiling, while his outspread wings brush against the furthest walls. He looks up through the shards of the broken glass dome with one molten eye. “The darkness is coming—my darkness.”
Ana looks down at his faithful Umbal demons with a puff of shadow smoke from his flaming nostrils. His words drip with vehement hatred. "Umbal, you will be reforged as Umghul; you will wash away the filth of mankind, and I will reclaim all that I first created.” Ana’s giant shadow tail smashes onto the dungeon’s bleak stone floor. “The hammer of war will fall, and all will burn. We will crush them and grind them down to naught but ashes and dust. On their shattered corpses, we will lay the foundations of my future.”
Ana rises onto his powerful haunches and commands, imperious. "Umbal, you must prepare yourselves and feed your essence. Gorge on fear and hate, for in five turns, under the sacred light of my first moon, you will bend the Kingdom of Galt to my will. Once transformed, you will be bound to your mortality; you must spread your seed and multiply, for your essence will reside in all the mortal life you create. The time of man is ending; the reign of the Umghul begins.”
The Umbal cry out in devilish sounds of jubilation, growling and barking like feral dogs on leashes at their master’s taloned feet.
“Crown my mortal form, this man, Madon, as the King of Galt.” Cinders and raging flames fly from Ana’s fiery mouth as he issues his vindictive orders. “Summon every man, woman, and child to witness my great coronation. Gather them from every corner of my sacred land, and upon my crowning, you will corrupt their very beings. Spread your essence to all, consume their souls, and merge with their flesh. All will perish and long for death, and from death’s embrace, a vast army of Umghul will rise.”
“General,” Ana descends in a whirling shadow to face the Black General. “You must guard my mortal form, for it will grow in strength and power as the world of men falls.” The Black General nods in silent acceptance. “Take a reserve host of the Umbal to serve as my personal warrior elite. Choose only the strongest and most deadly, for they will face those who wield weapons of light.” Ana gives a thunderous snort, releasing a plume of smoking clouds of soot and ashes. “The remaining Umbal will take hosts as their own. Our numbers are few, for the Umbal are but a few hundred, while they will infect fifty thousand.”
Ana’s blazing eyes fix on the Black General, “In five turns, under the light of the Dead Moon, you will crown me King of Galt. Summon all to rejoice on this great day.” Ana lets out a mischievous laugh that rumbles through the dungeon’s foundations. “Vengeance,” he spits his words in a vicious flame. “Wrath. Ruin. Fear and greed. I’ll inflame the people until they cry out for blood, their hearts ensnared with the desire for war and retribution.”
The primordial dragon coils like a snake around his own gigantic umbra form. Ana’s cruel dragon face comes an inch before the Black General’s great pitch-black helm. “Once the Umbal are transformed into Umghul, you must light the forges. Call every smith and worker of metals to forge the weapons of war. Swing the hammer and whirl the mace. Shields, bows, axes, blades, and armor. Build me an army worthy of my creation.”
The Black General, Azat, falls to one knee in a silent bow, his forehead resting just above his bent knee. “My master, what of the old mage? He wields the power of light, and I cannot defeat him.”
Ana gives a roaring, malevolent growl. “The Elim are no challenge to my power. They are flesh and blood, like all mortals.” Ana gives a mischievous canine grin. “Fear not of the Elim; the Elim bleed like all men and I will deal with them.”
The levitating Umghul falls from its suspension, landing on the hard stone floor on one knee. Head bowed, the wicked Umghul looks up to Ana through sparse strands of filthy black hair, waiting for command.
“Rise, Umghul, the first of your kind.” Ana lowers his head and coils his tail around the kneeling bulk of shadow-made flesh.
The Umghul stands to its full height, licking its lips with a crude, forked, black-tongued predatory smile. Its ears twitch as its stunted half-nose sniffs the air.
“My master, what do you command?” The Umghul’s voice gurgles like oil spat from a well as deep as the world’s core.
Ana’s shadow claw scratches a glyph into the Umghul’s chest. The glyph glows like molten rock and then sets into the black sigil of a flying dragon. “You wear my mark, you fly my banner, and you will captain the Umghul army to victory.” Ana blows out a long, smoking puff of boastful pride.
“As you command, great master.” Inky, foul spittle drips from the Umghul’s foul fangs.
"Serve me through this mortal man, King Madon. March forth and lay waste to all. Burn the world, spare none.” Ana’s voice booms his command.
“Yes, great master.” The repulsive Umghul bows with a bestial growl, licking needle-sharp fangs.
“Do not fail me, captain, or you will answer to General Azat. He is the purest of the shadow horde, forged from seven Umbal, and his flesh is empowered with my great force. He is the great power that rules the night.”
Ana rises and faces the Black General. “What of the half-life?” Ana snorts a searing breath into the Black General's great helm.
"He fought well, my king. I spared him to serve you, as all do. The half-life lives between worlds, neither flesh nor shadow; he roams without purpose until the corruption takes him,” The Black General says, his gravelly voice echoing from behind his helm.
“Bring the half-life to heel, general, or send him to the void.” Ana’s voice cracks like a slaver's whip, slicing through the air in a trial of flame.
“As you command, great creator.” The Black General falls to one knee, head lowered in obedience.
Ana then glides to Morana. “In a great ages of time, you age but a single turn. You are still as beautiful as the first moon and as bright as my magnificent starlight.”
Morana leans into the delicate touch of Ana’s shadow claw, her cheek pressing against it, until her jade eyes roll back and turn a shade of ghostly white. She begins to slither like a serpent, moving to an unseen rhythm. Her body sways with otherworldly grace, executing slow, swirling movements. Her arms extend, her fingertips pointing to the heavens, creating fluid arcs that sweep through the air. Morana’s black silk gown ripples against her skin, shimmering like a mystical mirage flowing over her body. Under the silken sheen, her body glows like embers. Her long legs form a shadowy coil of serpentine magnificence, shifting and rippling as she levitates. Her fingertips trace intricate patterns into the air, forming symbols of flame that summon the energy of the divine. The serpentine dance continues in rhythmic undulations as Morana pirouettes and twirls, her body writhing in a state of orgasmic pleasure. She then falls into a grounded stance where her back arches like a spitting cobra. Morana gasps in ecstasy as her eyes widen and roll back in their sockets, transcending the physical realm. Her entire body ripples—the endless tattooed scales of green, black, and gold shimmer with a conscious splendor, moving as one, alive. The alchemical glyphs, the language of Ana, glow with the essence of dragon flame. She cups her breasts, then strokes her body, her wet hands descending her legs and back up to her chest. Morana bites her bottom lip and takes a shuddering breath as her eyes pop open, wide in premonition.
Morana’s words manifest sweet as honey, as intoxicating as the poppy flower smoke, "Your darkness rises, heralding a time of unparalleled brutality. The taint spreads, and fear and greed reign supreme.” The air surrounding Morana crackles and pops, thrumming with power. “Your servants work veiled in plain sight, spinning treacherous webs of deceit and bloody betrayal. The stability of the kingdoms is unraveling, and the gates of Eldriven seep like an open wound. The last of the Elim seeks to rekindle the fading light, yet he is consumed by darkness. The Elim’s power is fading, yet he gathers those who will stand against you.” The air settles into an anticipatory stillness. “The Umbal will corrupt all life in Galt; none shall be spared, and from death's embrace, the Umghul will rise, my god-fire. The hammer of war will first strike against Thiel, and the battle will be bloody, with heavy losses on both sides. Yet, I see the victor, a colossal black figure standing upon a mountain of shattered bones and decaying corpses. Thiel is rubble beneath your feet, yet there are those in the heavens who still look down upon you. Your time is coming, great creator; your rebirth is foretold in the skies.” The echoes of Morana’s prophetic words linger; she then falls to her knees, exhausted, her jade eyes regaining a semblance of normalcy.
Ana, the great deceiver, rumbles a low, contented growl as his shadow claw delicately stokes through the strands of Morana’s hair. Ana’s voice whispers in the gentlest plume of shadow smoke. “You must guide and shape my mortal form until my power grows and Madon and I are all but one, spirit, flesh and bone.”
“As you command, my love.” Morana’s voice purrs in hungry delight.
Ana rises on his haunches, and dust and debris fly throughout the chamber as the shadow dragon transforms into a shrinking, turbulent cloud of smoke and ash. A final hot breath scorches the chamber, and a flicker of a molten eye blinks out from a small ball of fragile, dissipating fire.
Ash swirls in a small whirlwind of unsettled clouds. The pile of hot ash comes to rest before the wooden butcher block altar. King Madon rises from the embers in a cloud of sparking cinders. Covered in black soot, his skin sizzles and hisses in the cooling breeze. King Madon's molten eyes blaze, commanding, from his pitch-black face. “Announce the coronation. Summon all. Galt is going to war.”
The Great Eye of The One weeps for all.