The Gatekeepers
Whispers still tell of a story long forgotten, a great betrayal that doomed and desolated a feudal lord mad with divine power. This crusade spawned a trio of wicked, hellbent creatures who wrought revenge on their once sworn leader. Yet, these details become forgotten by time, the lesson learned from these three lost by naysayers, diminished by technology, denounced by rival religions. A tale to worn others of folly and pride, the zealous nature that may consume one until they are unrecognizable even by their devote followers. Come, learn the fate of the ones who would bring judgement to the Damned Duke.
Ordained by the new god to carry out the spread of its coming, Duke Maxwell Lox began a crusade across the barbaric lands between his state and the furthest kingdom, buried deep in a snowtop mountain far in the north. His march began peacefully, early in his service to this new power, eager to earn praise and glory, echoing the message given to him by the celestial being that brought new magic to this world. The first few villages were treated rightly, the Duke himself visiting and proclaiming this new faith, rallying the lost souls to his cause without bloodshed or harm. It was the fifth settlement that his demeanour began to be altered, a few nonbelievers challenging his will, his hand fully of fury and righteousness, none opposing him as he cut down the youthful rabble. Each place after suffering a worse fate than the last, the further he marched, the more horrid the punishment.
Word of these atrocities spread across the land, warning the northward outposts of the coming tyrrany, spurring them to defend their lands against this sinister saint. Outbursts turned into conflicts, exchanges turned into battles, until there was all out war gripping the muddy lands south of the final fortress. A great siege took place on the Dukes camp, suffering heavy losses, nearly crushing this foreign foe who attempted to seize the lands above. This defeat caused a ripple in his own forces, many turning against him as he drove them into the arms of destruction, words of mutiny and disloyalty filling the Duke with a paranoid rage. As rations began to run low and his men fell ill, he summoned the cook before him, charging him with sabotaging supplies, allowing the soldiers to weaken until they could not fight. Next, he judged his finest warrior, acting commander of his forces, berating him for failing at the frontlines, punishing him for his defeat on the field. Finally, he turned on his own advisor, his trusted confidant, whom had lent him his own cloak during the winter months to keep warm while all was to be burned for warmth. He handed down harsh words to the man who he blamed the most for this disastrous exchange with the false believers of the snow. These three were thrown into the dungeon until the day of their execution, by which each was served a death most fitting for their crimes. The cook was boiled alive for his crimes. The commander burned alive at the stake for his cowardice. And the advisor, sent out into the cold night, stripped naked, forced to shiver and freeze until he no longer drew breath. After these deeds were enacted, the Duke left this domain, not returning to these lands for many years, this time with more troops, more supplies, and more zeal.
A strange sight awaited the Damned Duke and his devoted army upon their arrival, a great gate erected from stones larger than anything each man had ever seen, a portal blocking their route up the mountain which would allow them to lay waste to the final fortress. Setting up camp amongst the walls of the former frontline, the Duke ordered a scout to inspect the erected gateway, ordering it to be destroyed after the all clear was given. At the foot of the stone doors, markings eteched upon its exterior unknown to any man present, the scout surveyed the structure, finding nothing of import, only an impedence for his lord and master. Turning to leave, a crackle of embers leapt from the doors as it opened, the figure of a solitary man emerged, wreathed in flames and heavy armour, wielding an axe, eyes burning through a darkened helmet. With one motion, an explosion traveled across the ground, incinerating the scout, carrying on to the walls of the camp, setting it ablaze and sundering its reinforced skin. For three days, this lone warrior bathed in blood and fire, stamping out soldier and servant alike, leaving the battlefield scorched and stained by these trespassers. And then, he returned to the gate, doors opening to reveal yet another shrouded figure, the new one stepping out while the unrivaled warrior returned to whatever shadowed place he hailed.
Masked, this shrouded second had a different pace, a far slower approach than the battlemaster before. With each step, the ground fouled below, festering any corpse nearby, each breath turning the air noxious, acrid. Those still alive from the battle before began to fall ill, a great sickness stemming throughout the area, putrid rains suffocatinng the ashes and embers, releasing a wicked cloud that choked those caught in its aura, causing them to claw at their throats and eyes for relief, seeking death rather than writhe in agony. The Dukes forces waned, beaten in battle, plagued by diseases and famine, breaking beneath the weight of this hell seeping from the gate before them. As they gathered their strength to flee, the suffering worsened, yet not by the masked menace, but by his return to the gate, revealing another to take his place, a heavily cloaked figure flowing out from the nether, followed by chilling, bitter winds.
The sky blackened, snow fell hard upon the surviving few, impeding their retreat, forcing them to weather this supernatural storm released from the yonder chiseled doors. Swirling winds and ice caused them to lose sight of the newest arrival, each person left having dodged destruction and disease now left to face desolation, death itself. Slowly, one by one, each was claimed by the coming cold, taken in their sleep, in violent shivers, or in bitter silence. Sitting upon his mobile throne, with only his faith to warm him, the Damned Duke defied this disaster, still crazy with devotion, blind to the evils he had unleashed upon the land all in the name of his new god. Cold air rushed through the doorway as it opened, the frost covered form entering the lords court, lumbering towards him with no urgent pace. There, upon the seat he dealt so much justice and judgement, Duke Maxwell Lox gazed into his former advisors eyes once more, returned to this world by way he had left it, bringing with the spirits of the wrongfully slain cook and commander, crushing his army, their spirits, and their divine will. With one breath, a blood stopping cold slithered into the room, washing over the wicked warlord, freezing him to the core, down to the soul, stealing his life here and in the after with one chilling blow.
Returning to the gate victorious, with vengeance dealt, the icy apparition met his damned brothers, the burning, blood soaked warrior and the masked plaguebringer, each man completing their pact with the god hiding behind the doors, an oath born in the darkest dungeon of that broken camp. In return for their gifts, they would serve as the gatekeepers for the void where death dwells, visiting those that defiled the world, trespassed on sacred ground, and defied powers deepseated and forgotten. Some say that the final fortress in the northlands still exists, blocked by a large gate, built by hands not of this world, guarded by three lost souls that ward off wanderers and welcome only death.
Whispers still tell of a story long forgotten, a great betrayal that doomed and desolated a feudal lord mad with divine power. This crusade spawned a trio of wicked, hellbent creatures who wrought revenge on their once sworn leader. Yet, these details become forgotten by time, the lesson learned from these three lost by naysayers, diminished by technology, denounced by rival religions. A tale to worn others of folly and pride, the zealous nature that may consume one until they are unrecognizable even by their devote followers. Come, learn the fate of the ones who would bring judgement to the Damned Duke.
Ordained by the new god to carry out the spread of its coming, Duke Maxwell Lox began a crusade across the barbaric lands between his state and the furthest kingdom, buried deep in a snowtop mountain far in the north. His march began peacefully, early in his service to this new power, eager to earn praise and glory, echoing the message given to him by the celestial being that brought new magic to this world. The first few villages were treated rightly, the Duke himself visiting and proclaiming this new faith, rallying the lost souls to his cause without bloodshed or harm. It was the fifth settlement that his demeanour began to be altered, a few nonbelievers challenging his will, his hand fully of fury and righteousness, none opposing him as he cut down the youthful rabble. Each place after suffering a worse fate than the last, the further he marched, the more horrid the punishment.
Word of these atrocities spread across the land, warning the northward outposts of the coming tyrrany, spurring them to defend their lands against this sinister saint. Outbursts turned into conflicts, exchanges turned into battles, until there was all out war gripping the muddy lands south of the final fortress. A great siege took place on the Dukes camp, suffering heavy losses, nearly crushing this foreign foe who attempted to seize the lands above. This defeat caused a ripple in his own forces, many turning against him as he drove them into the arms of destruction, words of mutiny and disloyalty filling the Duke with a paranoid rage. As rations began to run low and his men fell ill, he summoned the cook before him, charging him with sabotaging supplies, allowing the soldiers to weaken until they could not fight. Next, he judged his finest warrior, acting commander of his forces, berating him for failing at the frontlines, punishing him for his defeat on the field. Finally, he turned on his own advisor, his trusted confidant, whom had lent him his own cloak during the winter months to keep warm while all was to be burned for warmth. He handed down harsh words to the man who he blamed the most for this disastrous exchange with the false believers of the snow. These three were thrown into the dungeon until the day of their execution, by which each was served a death most fitting for their crimes. The cook was boiled alive for his crimes. The commander burned alive at the stake for his cowardice. And the advisor, sent out into the cold night, stripped naked, forced to shiver and freeze until he no longer drew breath. After these deeds were enacted, the Duke left this domain, not returning to these lands for many years, this time with more troops, more supplies, and more zeal.
A strange sight awaited the Damned Duke and his devoted army upon their arrival, a great gate erected from stones larger than anything each man had ever seen, a portal blocking their route up the mountain which would allow them to lay waste to the final fortress. Setting up camp amongst the walls of the former frontline, the Duke ordered a scout to inspect the erected gateway, ordering it to be destroyed after the all clear was given. At the foot of the stone doors, markings eteched upon its exterior unknown to any man present, the scout surveyed the structure, finding nothing of import, only an impedence for his lord and master. Turning to leave, a crackle of embers leapt from the doors as it opened, the figure of a solitary man emerged, wreathed in flames and heavy armour, wielding an axe, eyes burning through a darkened helmet. With one motion, an explosion traveled across the ground, incinerating the scout, carrying on to the walls of the camp, setting it ablaze and sundering its reinforced skin. For three days, this lone warrior bathed in blood and fire, stamping out soldier and servant alike, leaving the battlefield scorched and stained by these trespassers. And then, he returned to the gate, doors opening to reveal yet another shrouded figure, the new one stepping out while the unrivaled warrior returned to whatever shadowed place he hailed.
Masked, this shrouded second had a different pace, a far slower approach than the battlemaster before. With each step, the ground fouled below, festering any corpse nearby, each breath turning the air noxious, acrid. Those still alive from the battle before began to fall ill, a great sickness stemming throughout the area, putrid rains suffocatinng the ashes and embers, releasing a wicked cloud that choked those caught in its aura, causing them to claw at their throats and eyes for relief, seeking death rather than writhe in agony. The Dukes forces waned, beaten in battle, plagued by diseases and famine, breaking beneath the weight of this hell seeping from the gate before them. As they gathered their strength to flee, the suffering worsened, yet not by the masked menace, but by his return to the gate, revealing another to take his place, a heavily cloaked figure flowing out from the nether, followed by chilling, bitter winds.
The sky blackened, snow fell hard upon the surviving few, impeding their retreat, forcing them to weather this supernatural storm released from the yonder chiseled doors. Swirling winds and ice caused them to lose sight of the newest arrival, each person left having dodged destruction and disease now left to face desolation, death itself. Slowly, one by one, each was claimed by the coming cold, taken in their sleep, in violent shivers, or in bitter silence. Sitting upon his mobile throne, with only his faith to warm him, the Damned Duke defied this disaster, still crazy with devotion, blind to the evils he had unleashed upon the land all in the name of his new god. Cold air rushed through the doorway as it opened, the frost covered form entering the lords court, lumbering towards him with no urgent pace. There, upon the seat he dealt so much justice and judgement, Duke Maxwell Lox gazed into his former advisors eyes once more, returned to this world by way he had left it, bringing with the spirits of the wrongfully slain cook and commander, crushing his army, their spirits, and their divine will. With one breath, a blood stopping cold slithered into the room, washing over the wicked warlord, freezing him to the core, down to the soul, stealing his life here and in the after with one chilling blow.
Returning to the gate victorious, with vengeance dealt, the icy apparition met his damned brothers, the burning, blood soaked warrior and the masked plaguebringer, each man completing their pact with the god hiding behind the doors, an oath born in the darkest dungeon of that broken camp. In return for their gifts, they would serve as the gatekeepers for the void where death dwells, visiting those that defiled the world, trespassed on sacred ground, and defied powers deepseated and forgotten. Some say that the final fortress in the northlands still exists, blocked by a large gate, built by hands not of this world, guarded by three lost souls that ward off wanderers and welcome only death.