Out in the wide world of Azeroth, a bird flew overhead, swooping down to the ground to pick up a stray worm. The worm was just barely poking its head out of the sand, in the hot and humid section of the land. Uldum, land of the Egyptian-esque, full of Pharaohs, tombs, and mummies. But it also lay one of the more dangerous undead of the land, an undead from a completely different section of the world. Born in the haunted forests of the Tirisfal Glades, Vynathlon Darkblade ruled over the few who lay in Uldum, ruling with an iron fist.
Well, he did at first anyway. As a Lich, his primary goal in life was to fulfill all other priorities from his previous lives. Most of that consisted of surviving at any cost, and tertiary needs such as gaining new power, gaining status among his fellow undead life-forms, and learning new forms of knowledge. Currently, he had fulfilled much of that already, within some definitions of which. To that end, he had died a total of four times. First was when he had been converted into a lowly zombie, second when he had been turned into a death knight, third when he underwent the voluntary transformation into a Lich, and fourth when as a Lich, he felt his connection with the undead weaken and he had been sent into the world-after briefly, forced to endure the sufferings of a Hellish world.
If Vynathlon still had feelings, he would shudder. He did not. He did not feel much of anything any more. His soul had been placed within a sentimental piece of furniture that he had used when he was a child. Chairs do not feel pain. Chairs do not feel guilt. Chairs do not feel suffering. In some ways, he was free from the mundane sufferings of everyday life. On the other hand, he had not. He had transcended ordinary humanity, becoming one with the unknown. Though he still likes to consider himself a human, categorically, he was completely different.
To that end, he had taken up an old Mogu tradition: Fleshshaping. Fleshshaping worked in well with his old knowledge of Blood magic. It is exactly as it sounds. Using the powers of the Lich, he was able to control the minds of other bodies, that had been infused with his essence. Currently, that number lay in the hundreds, close to a thousand. He was able to place his essence inside of an ordinary human traveler. The Traveler had died, leaving behind nothing but dried entrails. A while back, he placed his essence within this body, and then channeled old runic magic into it. He had effectively created an Avatar of his former self. He looked as he did after his second death: a mere Death Knight, with all the powers of one, albeit in a weakened form.
Vynathlon the Death Knight peered outwards at the temple. It was dark, like painted stone, with fire-lit torches surrounding the encampment. He did not feel fear at the obvious. If one of the torches fell onto the chair that held his soul, then he would cease to be. Firstly, the stone around the room was not capable of being set on fire. And secondly, even if the torch were to come into contact with him, it still would not burn, as the torches themselves were made out of soulfire, not actual fire. Soulfire was lit by his very essence, with the power of his very soul. Being a Lich, all he had left was a soul, and by using forbidden magics, he was able to overpower most others with his very being.
Vynathlon the Lich reached out with his very being, and felt the body he was inhabiting reach out his fingers and flex. The dark magic running through them. He peered out through his helm. The armor set had originally been made in the Saronite mines of Icecrown Citadel, but after being converted into a Lich, he was able to create a cheap knockoff using his advanced knowledge in mining and blacksmithing. This knockoff was able to materialize around his body whenever he decided to create a new 'Prime' body of himself.
Anyway, Vynathlon got up from his sitting position and began to stand up. His lair was quite clean. Though he had created much out of the sand magic he often employed, this was the area that encompassed his phylactery, his very being. In the center of a large octagonal room rested a dark wooden chair floating above the floor. There were a few small steps leading downwards onto the platform that lay the floating chair, and meanwhile, there were a number of dark purple crystals around the room, serving as crystalline protectors of his essence. Attached to the chair were dark tendrils of energy that went into the floor, ceilings, and walls. The tendrils obviously weren't holding up the chair due to its positioning, but they were obviously doing something. To the unknown mind, the speculation was endless.
Vynathlon knew of course. Since the chair was his very being, and much of his hidden base had been made up of sand magic, the magic swirling out of the chair and into the walls was then sent through a type of transmitter that maintained everything in the building, as well as a huge group of undead outside of this room. In essence, this little base of his had turned into an underground Naxxramas, but in the middle of Uldum, on the other side of the world.
Vynathlon smiled at this fact. He had always admired the Scourge, the now deceased members of the undead on the planet. Currently, only two sides existed that posed too much undead might: The Forsaken, and the Knights of the Ebon Blade. Vynathlon Darkblade was fortunate enough to say that he belonged to them both. The Scourge was now just a remnant of the past, a dark reminder to most of the world, a warning to avoid when trying to rebuild a dying world. To Vynathlon, it was the opposite. Power, attrition, envy. He willed himself into that very direction. He did not forget the atrocities placed upon his very being, but he did not live in the past. He looked forward to the future.
Placing runic magic into his body, Vynathlon willed himself into the direction of the exit, a large stone door that opened up vertically. The door slid downwards, until a large purple gem above the door shined with a bright green. He walked through the doorway, noticing the door behind slide back into place. The gem above the door turned from a bright green back into a dull dark purple.
Breathing air into his lungs, Vynathlon gazed upon the sight before him. What he saw filled him with pride. Abominations, Gargoyles, packs of ghouls running around, banshees, undead nerubians, even desiccated humans lay in the background on some of his lab tables. All of these minions were controlled by the Master, and that Master was himself.
Even with his fourth death, he still lay skeptical of his surroundings. He may have escaped death many many times already, but he was committed to one thing only: survival at any cost. To that end, his supreme being had absorbed many knowledge into a type of database. Power was always within his grasp, and whenever it was not, knowledge was. As the saying goes, knowledge is power. But knowledge also leads to enlightenment. So over the course of time, after investing much time into reading and books, Vynathlon realized something very clear: he did not want to be the bad guy. If the power to destroy everyone else on the planet were to roll into his hands, he would never use it. While his powers lay in death itself, he eventually realized that he is a part of the natural Life and Death cycle. In other words, with no Life, there can never be Death.
A few months back, this heavily alarmed Vynathlon, to the point that he tried cultivating the natural surroundings. Uldum was just a desert, and after all the civil wars between its people after the evil dragon Deathwing tried to destroy the world, now there lay a desert paradise, air elementals, and titan relics, but not much else. The few humans who come through here are mere traders. Nonetheless, it balanced a precarious situation before Vynathlon. If he tried to cultivate more community, it would expose himself to the world, causing more danger to come to his being. On the other hand, if he succeeded, then there would be more recipients to receive his Curse of Undeath. Choices, choices.
Nonetheless, Vynathlon had decided to take a bird in the hand and send out his undead armies, and become friends with the local community. This unfortunately had dire consequences, as the Ramkahen were unwilling to accept aid from monstrous creatures, and were more likely to slay them on sight. This led to a small impromptu war with the former Titan watchers. Though they were flesh, and not stone, their physiology remained unusual for fleshshapers. One of Vynathlon's incarnations, a blood mage was unable to properly dissect and then reproduce a Tol'vir without strange consequences. Namely, a type of abomination that used four legs instead of two. For every twenty killed, only five were resurrected into these four-legged abominations.
Vynathlon was sickened by all this. To this end, he sought the appropriate knowledge to better reproduce his own armies. He left the gymnasium-esque area and went through a side corridor. After following a string of tunnels, he arrived to the outside. He felt sand begin to enter his being, and the damnable sun above mocking him. Gone were the soulfire lighting the way and here lay before him the natural light that guided most humanoids through life and to death. Even though he agreed with the logic that he needed to protect and guide the living into his hands for better protection, he still despised the sunlight. It was a core mechanism: to hate the living. It was a core principle being brought up in the Scourge, while he was training to become an effective Death Knight.
He breathed in through his nose and felt sand fly into it. He had entered into a sandstorm. He looked out on the balcony that lay before him. Though he was outside of the temple, he seemed to be in a part of it that belonged to the old Tol'vir. The living had strange fascinations with beauty, and nature and such things. To that end, there used to be a large pool of water at the base of the temple. Nowadays, it was a decrepit hole in the ground filled with sand.
Vynathlon sighed in annoyance, at even the thought of what the living did or would like to do. He summoned up a bit of blood magic and guided a number of sand particles together into a cohesive mess. The sand particles seemed to guide themselves, until it seemed to form a black-winged object with glowing red eyes. He had formed a bat. The bat was able to see better in this sandstorm, and to see what the living were doing. Using echolocation as well as seeing through its unholy eyes, Vynathlon was able to see into the mind of his own creation, as it hovered above the village of Orsis, a newly formed village of the Tol'vir.
Orsis had originally been a Tol'vir village up until Deathwing decided to recruit any Tol'vir into his cause. When Orsis denied his cause, he summoned the Air Elemental of Al'Akir to destroy the village by summoning up a sandstorm. After Deathwing had been defeated, the Ramkahen had sent its own troops in to save the city of Orsis from complete devastation, and now with nowhere else to go, the former Orsisians returned to their birthplace and rebuilt their city. Now, Vynathlon had the misfortune to build the place of his phylactery right next to this place, and they were the ones who were unwilling to accept aid from monstrous creatures made out of bone and sinew. They had started a war with Vynathlon that he was wholly intent on avoiding!
As the bat hovered above the landscape, the Tol'vir were trying to shield themselves from the incoming sand, but otherwise weren't very bothered by it. To them, this was a regular occurrence. Vynathlon couldn't help but concur. These sandstorms definitely were annoying but nothing that couldn't be handled. In fact, this posed a perfect opportunity for him. He raised his hand upwards, and through the eyes of his bat, he saw a dozen or so skeletons rise up from the desert sands. Their soulless eyes peering into Orsis and filling with hunger. Hunger for death and pain!
Unfortunately, the Orsisian guards were adept to this. They could see past the sand-wall far better than Vynathlon could, and were able to form together a fighting group of Tol'vir. The men and women in the village below heard the incoming gongs and horns of war and hid inside of their houses to wait out the fighting. The guards quickly engaged Vynathlon's dozen skeletons and slaughtered them without mercy. Of course, Vynathlon wouldn't be coy enough to think that this was over.
He raised his hand upwards one last time, and suddenly the broken bones began to swirl around and eliminate two Tol'vir guards. The rest of the group called out a battle cry out of anger and desperation in their native tongue, and then got into a defensive position. Knowing that the guards would not go down easily, the broken bones continued to swirl around narrowly buzzing past their heads. That was when he became desperate. Channeling some runic magic into the bones themselves, they all came together to form a massive beast. Easily the size of a three-story tower, the bones formed what resembled a Murloc, made out of bones. With a shriek, it began to attack the guardsmen. This unfortunately proved to be unnecessary, and Vynathlon knew this.
The guardsmen were not stupid, neither was Vynathlon. Both sides knew that this bone-murloc was going down. It was surrounded 10-1. As the guards swiped, it began to destroy the bone-murloc's hands and as the bones detached, they reformed the swirling mass of a storm around the guards' heads. Using a bit of magic however, they were able to destroy the swirling bones. Eventually, the murloc's body came to a close, as it once again turned back into a mass of ten small bonestorms.
With 9 guards still alive, albeit wounded, they wandered back to their village to get treated. Meanwhile, a group of hands were able to pull the dead Tol'vir down into the sandy depths were Vynathlon's army was able to take control of them.
Vynathlon breathed in once more. It was unfortunate. Everything had not been going according to plan. For every three that he kills, a dozen of his own gets killed off. These new abominations that he's creating will not be enough to complete kill off the village before him. That said, this probably would not be a problem if they did not distrust Vynathlon either. They were basing his own appearance on the fact that they were monsters, and it makes a bit of sense. If Vynathlon were an ordinary human, he would not trust himself either. This was more a matter of life or death though. If they stormed the temple and destroyed his phylactery then becoming friends with them would mean nothing. This little war of theirs is doing nothing but exasperating things. All that lay between the two was a small mountain, a maze of entrances, and finally his army, and then his own soul would be mincemeat.
This made him angry. All this anger had contributed to week after week of attacks. He still could not fathom why they had attacked him in the first place though.
A few hours passed, and all Vynathlon did was watch. The guards went back to the temple, while the mummified hands in the desert delivered back the bones and bodies of the Tol'vir back into his hideout. Various necromancers that Vynathlon created with his fleshshaping magic began working on creating new minions out of dark magic. Vynathlon meanwhile was fed up with it and decided to hitch a ride down to Orsis. Using a nearby Gargoyle, he slowly began to lower off of the temple, and down the mountain dividing the two.
He then got off of the Gargoyle giving him a lift down, as the Gargoyle flew away back to his perch atop the temple. Remembering something, Vynathlon performed a simple hand gesture, raising a humanoid from the sand. He wore a simple eagle mask and dark robes. As Vyn began to march forward through the desert, he put away his scythe to mean that he really did come in peace, as the dark-robed man followed closely behind, without saying a word.
Vynathlon got into position behind the gates to Orsis. "Citizens of Orsis! I, Vynathlon Darkblade command that you listen to my call!"
The masked man behind Vynathlon began yelling out in a strange tongue. That tongue was in the language of the Tol'vir. The almost foreign language to grace Vynathlon's lips. Due to the strange language, he decided it was not worth the time to learn, but instead grew a whole new person with the right tongue and facial anatomy to correctly identify language and accent. Vynathlon was able to channel his own language into Tol'virian, so that all could understand his call.
A couple of guards heard him and his strange follower, and began to inch their way to the front gates. With javelin in hand, they looked posed to eliminate Vynathlon at a second's notice.
Vynathlon continued, "We have had the chance to cooperate. You have slain my allies in battle when I wish to have peace. If you keep up with this silly war, then all you will have left is more casualties."
One of the guards growled at Vynathlon and then spoke in his strange tongue. Vynathlon's follower translated, "Ha! If you wish to have peace, then why did you dare to attack us?"
Vynathlon glowered at the guard, but responded, "I am not the one who provoked this mess. You and your guards have assaulted my armies before out of nothing more than sheer discrimination."
As Vyn's follower translated his words into Orsisian, the guard's face got menacingly angry. "You dare to state that we were the ones who started this conflict? That we were the aggressors? Why, I'll have to—"
"Hold!" came an unknown voice.
The gate opened as an important Tol'viran official stepped outwards with a band of two other Tol'vir guards. He approached Vynathlon while still remaining within the distance of the guard towers, in case that something happened.
"I am sorry. We are unaccustomed to visitors," the official said to Vynathlon with his translator. "I am known as Itesh, the civilian leader of Orsis. You are currently scaring my people with all your yelling. If you wish to talk about peace, then please come inside and we shall talk in my chambers."
"But General—" the guard exclaimed..
"That's enough out of you," Itesh said, glaring at the guard, "We will not turn away talks of peace, no matter how dangerous the enemy. The number of casualties lost is too high."
"Yes, General..." The guard said lowering his eyes. He then turned to Vynathlon with a look that said 'if you harm my people, you'll regret it.'
Vynathlon avoided his glance and began to walk inside. Only Vynathlon was allowed inside however. His translator was not allowed to go any further, as they closed the gates behind him. Itesh continued speaking to Vynathlon before realizing that the reason why Vynathlon did not respond back was because of the language barrier. He called in a nearby civilian Tol'vir to begin translating.
"Ah, I'm sorry Vynathlon. I did not realize that your follower had been your translator."
"It is fine. All in the name of peace. Where shall we go now?" Vynathlon asked.
Itesh led them into a large square building. The doorways were much larger than Vynathlon had been used to, likely to accommodate for the Tol'virs' larger body-frames. They were led to a couple of chairs. Vynathlon sat in one, feeling awkwardly too small, whereas Itesh sat in his at the perfect height.
Fairly soon, a different Tol'viran came in with a pot and poured some liquid into a cup he had also been carrying. Vynathlon realized the hot liquid that came out was a kind of tea. There were two cups, he presumed there was one for him, and one for Itesh. Itesh didn't take a moment to let the tea cool, as he began drinking the hot liquid, until there was about a fifth left. After the servant left, Itesh poured himself another cup of tea. The tea seemed to simmer as steam seemed to rise out of it. Based on whatever nasal receptors that were left in Vynathlon's nose, he could tell it smelled sweet, like jasmine. Nonetheless, Vynathlon let the tea sit on his side and didn't touch it.
Itesh seemed to notice, "Aren't you going to drink the tea?"
Vynathlon waved a hand and said, "Thanks for the thought, but I have few taste receptors left. The purpose of tea is gone amongst the undead."
Not content to take no for an answer, Itesh merely crossed his arms in annoyance. Vynathlon got a disgusted look on his face, and picked up the tea cup. It had a beautiful design on it, that of a Tol'vir picking from a tree of flowers. He took a sip, feeling the boiling hot liquid begin to fall down his throat. He felt the superimposed pain on his throat, but then had an afterthought of enjoyment. "Tasty." Vynathlon said, before putting the tea cup back down on the table.
Itesh removed his arms from his chest and put them on the table. "So what is it that you wanted to talk about?"
Vynathlon took that moment to speak up, "Itesh, it is my privilege to speak with you in the name of peace. As you likely already know, I have set up my base in the nearby Temple of Uldum, however I wished to speak with you in the name of peace. Your guards have been ruthlessly slaying my undead, and I would like for that to stop. I can understand past grudges, but I came to this land to get away from all the pain and violence. I do not want to die, and neither do you presumably. All this pain, war, and death needs to stop. Surely I am not the only one who thinks this?"
Itesh rose a hand to tell Vynathlon to stop speaking. Stroking his neck, he said, "If this is true, then why did you attack us today?"
Vynathlon looked guilty, "I want this war to end at any cost. If that means by killing you, or by securing peace, I'll do it."
Itesh merely laughed in response. "You attacked us because you thought us to be an easy target? It was the sandstorm was it not? You believed if it was hard for you to see in it, then it would be hard for us to see too?" He took Vynathlon's guilty face in before continuing, "My boy, we have lived on these lands for millennia at a time. I have watched the rise and fall of civilizations of the 'lower-races' as they tried in vain to take us over. The deserts are our homes. The sand is the equivalent to your forests. These sandstorms are nothing more than a mere rainstorm."
Vynathlon was about to talk, but Itesh continued, "Now I can understand where you're coming from. You try in vain to find peace with the lands, and when you can find none, you try to destroy, to pillage, to conquer. That will not work on us. I have been in your situation before Vynathlon and all I can say is I sympathize with your attempt to survive, I really do. I will give you one last chance: peace. If I issue a ceasefire, would you agree to do the same?"
Vynathlon merely nodded in response.
"It is agreed then!" Itesh placed his paw outwards, and Vynathlon shook it.
With nothing more to talk about, Vynathlon stood back up out of his awkwardly huge chair and began to leave. Itesh called back, "Do you want the rest of your tea?"
Vynathlon glanced back with a strange look on his face. He didn't want to offend on the off-chance of war, so he said, "Sure."
Itesh used a bit of magic and turned the liquid inside the cup frozen solid. He then picked up the ice and placed it within a faux-gold container and gave it to Vynathlon. "Thank you," Vynathlon said wordlessly as he left out the front door. Itesh's guards escorted them out of Orsis, as if Vynathlon were nothing more than a prisoner. Vynathlon found his translator waiting at the gates. Wordlessly, he performed a hand-gesture on his translator, and he turned into bits of dust as they blew in the wind back to Vynathlon's hideout.
Itesh watched, staring at what Vynathlon might do, as he called for a Gargoyle to come pick him up. As a large Gargoyle, twice the size of Vynathlon's body swooped down from the sky, Vyn got aboard. The guards of Orsis looked alarmed started to point their spears at it as if to throw, but Itesh merely rose a hand. Itesh's face showed one of skepticism. They looked ready to attack, but held off on it. As the Gargoyle began to fly away, Orsis merely closed its gates in response. Itesh wandered back to his home, with much to think on.
By the time Vynathlon returned to the Temple of Uldum, he returned through the temple balcony. Golden urn in hand, he walked through the corridors until he got back to the gymnasium-esque area that held many of his troops. Vynathlon telepathically commanded for his troops to begin preparing for war, expecting the worst to happen. The ghouls began attacking each other in anticipation, while banshees stood focused on the task at hand. Abominations began to get shined by mad scientists, their entrails being coated with poison, and the new four-legged abominations stood, poised to attack anything that would attack through the doorway, even though nothing would.
Vynathlon took the urn to a small room next to the gymnasium, where he found a cupboard and a small black table made out of decrepit old wood, similar to his phylactery. He took the time to open the urn. Inside, he discovered that the liquid had already melted and turned back into tea. What's more, the urn seemed to have an enchantment upon it, making it just as hot as it was back at Itesh's encampment. On the side, attached to the urn was what looked like a belt that had two faux-gold cups on them. Vyn unhooked one of the cups and just sat down at the table. He poured himself a drink and raised his glass to no one else in the room, before taking a sip.
He had to admit, the Tol'vir did have a good taste in tea. It may have been a terrible feeling at first, but liquid had not graced Vynathlon's lips in a long time. He simply was not used to it. As he raised his glass for his fourth cup, he realized that he was already running low on tea. Troubling, very troubling.
Nonetheless, it was late in the night, Vynathlon decided that now was a good time as any to collapse into a rest. He had to admit, while he didn't need to sleep like most other mortals did in the world, he still did so on occasion because of the social benefits of them. Dreams for instance, were simply manifestations of his mind.
He awoke from his bed, realizing that everything had simply been a dream. He breathed in relief to this fact and looked out the window. Everything had been fine: the villagers had been fine, and the wonderful sun that brought life to the land had been perfectly fine. Vynathlon got up out of his bed, and landed on his four feet. He went to the bathroom area and admired himself in the mirror. He had to admit that he was rather handsome for a Tol'vir, long whiskers, orange fur, black stripes, yes he admired himself.
Nonetheless, he didn't take much time admiring himself, as he went outside and into the garden. There was his precious wife.
"Vynathlon! Have you been treating to those potatoes as you said you would?" Hadassi said to him.
"Yes I have!" Vynathlon yelled in response. "This sandstorm hasn't been nearly as bad as the one five years ago! These potatoes will grow up to be big and strong and we'll have them by next harvest!"
"Good, good, that's good," Hadassi said in reply.
Vynathlon returned to his gardening, noting the rather large radishes and turnips in his garden. He put his hoe to the ground and admired the nearby countryside. Itesh was such a wonderful leader. He got along so well with Ammantep, the leader of the military forces of Orsis.
"Have you heard, love?" Hadassi said to Vynathlon. "There have been awful awful creatures spotted nearby at the Temple of Uldum. The guards say they're made out bone and sinew, rot and ash."
Vynathlon began to sneer. "What!? That's awful. Have they been confirmed to be manifestations of the Neferset, the followers of Deathwing?"
Hadassi merely shook his head, "Not yet. They will though. Our guards will make sure of it."
Vynathlon continued, "I remember the last time the Neferset came by with their Air Elementals. They searched and searched, and searched for our Scepter, the Scepter of Orsis. Our beloved culture forbids non-Orsisians from getting their hands on it."
Hadassi nodded, "If that scepter were to fall into the wrong hands, then the kingdom of Orsis would fall for sure."
Vynathlon nodded, before looking out at the horizon. Suddenly a giant cloud seemed to be rushing toward the city of Orsis. It seemed to have come from the direction of the Temple of Uldum. "That's strange, the shaman didn't forecast any weather showers today."
Hadassi pulled out his spyglass and looked in the direction of the cloud. He lowered it, and had a pale look on his face.
"Baby, what's wrong?" Vynathlon said to him.
Hadassi said nothing, handing the spyglass over to Vynathlon. Vynathlon was about to raise the spyglass up to his eye when he heard a scream.
"It sounded like it came from the nearby guard-post, let's go!" Vynathlon yelled.
Hadassi yelled after him, "Vynathlon wait!"
Vynathlon ignored his love and ran after the guard post, that was when he saw it. A dead guardsman, laying on the ground with his throat ripped out. The spear was laying on the ground nearby and Vynathlon picked it up. He could hear some crunching sounds nearby, so he raised the spear in defense.
That was when he saw it: the biggest bat he had ever seen. It looked like a mix between a horse and a bat, with massive wings. The body was a dark gray everywhere except for the eyes, which shone with a bright-green. He looked down at the ground and saw what the chewing sound was. There lay another guard with his throat ripped out, and the massive Gargoyle was eating the flesh that lay within.
Suddenly, the Gargoyle yelled a bone-piercing cry and rose up into the air. Unfortunately for it, this was a closed building, so it did not have much to fly in. Vynathlon raised his spear in frightful defense and successfully stabbed the creature. Bright-green blood oozed out of it, and the Gargoyle realized that it had no chance. It flew to the closest window and flew away. That was when Vynathlon saw it. His home. His beloved home had been in flames. He saw the gargoyle rush back in with a flock that came to invade the village.
Vynathlon felt his neck crane upwards. The cloud that he had seen? The massive cloud was of these monstrosities. He felt his stomach get sick, as he perched down and threw up, seeing the bile land on the dead guard, it just made him more sick. He had no energy left. He couldn't do anything other than vomit. Why did this have to happen? WHY?!
Vynathlon woke up from his dream. He looked over at the table before him; he seemed to have spilled his tea cup...
He couldn't help but sigh. Inside the urn, the tea was still perfectly intact, and the enchantment on it still had the tea boiling hot. It was just the cold tea that was in his tea cup that had spilled.
He sighed once again, before picking up a piece of parchment and placing it on the table to clean up the mess. That was when he started to read the parchment. Intrigued, he looked over to where he got it. He read the title "Orsis: A Biography of Time and Culture, by Brann Bronzebeard." So that explains where he got the information about the village from, doesn't explain the strange dream he had.
That was when he left the room and went out into the gymnasium area. He saw one of the four-legged abominations still staring at the wall, eager to strike, and suddenly realized it. His mind was connected to all of his undead, and that included their brains. He currently has about 7 of these former Orsisians under his command, so they must have transmitted their thoughts to him, while Vynathlon's subconscious mind was silently searching for thoughts relating to the Orsisians, so they must have come through as a coherent vision. It seemed to make perfect sense to Vynathlon as he thought this. He began to ponder on what this might mean.
The next day, Vynathlon exited his fortress and went back to his balcony. He peered across from it as the city of Orsis. Taking his traditional Gargoyle down, he walked to the city of Orsis. Once again, the guards were suspicious but let him inside their gates anyway.
"Ah, Vynathlon! Nice to see you again so soon." Itesh said to him, with a translator on hand.
"Yes, it has." Vynathlon said. "I wish to apologize for how I acted before. I was ignorant to your ways, and I tried to make war upon your lands."
Itesh merely rose a paw in response. "Do not think anything of it Vynathlon, but I suspect that is not why you are here."
"No, it is not." Vynathlon steeled himself. "I've been reading about your culture from the famed Brann Bronzebeard—"
"Ahhh, Brann Bronzebeard. Yes, we remember that Dwarf, asking all sorts of inane questions and the like. Please tell me you're not here to ask any more?"
"No I am not," Vynathlon said. "I realized now that it is within your culture to protect your land against evil invaders. How right you must be to protect your land from the invaders of darkness, when I come here with undead armies."
"Yes, this is true. We must protect our most sacred of treasures." Itesh said.
"But that is not why you protect it isn't it? You wish to protect the Scepter of Orsis, do you not? I—"
"Where did you hear that name!?" Itesh yelled. Gone were the smiles and good-natured behavior that were here two seconds ago. Now was a menacing dog of hate.
"The book I had been reading, by Brann Bronzebeard explained that 5 years ago, Prophet Hadassi had been defeated by the forces of Deathwing, and in order to protect the nation's most valued treasures, heroes recruited by the Ramkahen had been able to retrieve the scepter and protect it from Deathwing. Then when you were able to rebuild your city, you had been given the scepter back. Trust me, I want peace just as much as you do. I do not care about your valued items. If I had been given the ability to destroy all life, I would not take it. It goes into simple mathematics. If I kill off everyone in the world, that's a few billion creatures? Then that removes the ability to reproduce. No reproduction means that I can never have more dead. This is just as apocalyptic as it is for you. Therefore, it becomes advantageous for me to assist in the reproduction of life, to help those around me, so that their cultures can grow up big and strong, all the while dropping a few members to the dead. It becomes a win/win for us both."
"Hmm." Itesh said, his paw scratching at his chin. "You certainly have a good point Vynathlon. I will consider what you have said. Our ceasefire still stands, but would you like to take a tour around our village?"
Vynathlon smiled. "Itesh, I would love to."