Sepulcrum

Dark Halls

He was finally there. Having descended the Floating mountains to get to the only sealed entrance to Vak'rall. At first sight it looked like nothing special, just another cave that covered the porous war torn landscape of Vicar. But he was sure this was the one. He could feel it. Like a dark clawed hand reaching out from the caves depths. Emperor he wish he would have know what was to come. He would have told the Prime Akul to go to the Old Realms.

But he didn't, and he ended up there, and he could feel it, a primal sense of terror. At that time he had only heard legends of what was sealed in the underground world of Vak'rall. Demons of steel and flesh that steal the body's of our dead, and sometimes if unlucky... alive. But it's different than hearing storys. Actually seeing it is... it is... worse than words can describe.

Nevertheless, he descended as he would for the rest of his life, till the end. The cave was dark, wet, and smelt as something had left the material, in the distance you could hear drops of liquid over his lonely foot falls. The deeper he went, the more scrawls he saw on the walls. Depicting the Mortis War. Soldiers of clean cut stone fighting hordes of black inky obsidian. The more he walked down the more desperate the battles depicted were. Until finally he reached the bottom of the cave.

A large flat slab of rock with a golden man carved into it. He held a huge Red sword above his head. The walls around the slab was covered with the obsidian monstrosities, having murdered there way to what the legends say was the Hero of all Vicar. Vaga.

How times have changed. We thought that sword our salvation, and now he wore it on his back, covered in holy seals and chained as if it were the Malum incarnate.

Before he descended he found a mirror smooth pool of water, and looked at a man that knew what he was sent to do... die. A fierce angular silver steel feathered helm sat on his head. Weary brown eyes looked back through the slits in the helm. A haphazardly wrapped black fur cloak covered his torso. A leather belt crossed his chest to fasten the ancient cursed blade to his back. His pants were a thick leather and fur to weather the cold. With that he wore plate boots, and gauntlets. Shinning wing like puldrons dawned his shoulders. At one of his sides was a blue crystal dagger that gave off a dim glow. It was given to him by the Prime Akul, to make the seal mark, it is a strange feeling, to have the weapon that will end your material at your side. Live by the sword, die by it I suppose. At his other side was a black Hydragareum sword, a metal that Draws magic power, and can expel it rapidly. It had been turned black from the outside air. Around his waste was a satchel belt that contained food, water, bandages, torches, lighter oil, rope, a thin blanket, and a leather back book with no markings.

The satchel had been given to him after he completed his NRT, or northern regular training, and then saw him through his Akul training, as well as the battles that followed in the wars after the blade he carried horrible powers were unleashed. The book however had been with him sense he left to join the NR. It always giving him faith in dark times. The book was a log of his family's experience in the military. There great victories to massive defeats. And everyday he... I added a new page, even if mine where filled with more defeats than victories. I unsheathed my broadsword, and dipped it in the stagnant pool, sending ripples through the mirror still water. The black soot from the outside air was washed away leaving an unnaturally clean blade behind. The corrupt air of the surface was the only thing I knew of that could sully Hydragareum.

After a moment of cleaning the sword I resheathed the blade, and reached up for my helm. There was a quiet clang of steel on steel as I took my helmet from its place apon my head. Setting it on the rock floor with a small echo, and looking at my worn face. Patches of black hair grew at the back bend of my jaw, the hair atop my head was dark blond and roughly cut, having been done via dagger, the makes of frown lines on my face and stubble on my chin. I was only 23, but still you could see the tiredness in my eyes, the loss. This would be my last Quest, given to me by the Prime Akul herself. I ran my rough calloused hand over my face exhaling deeply, then falling back on my haunches, afterwards drawing in stagnant air. Nevertheless it was cleaner then outside. I thought to myself, this was it, we had finally pulled the sword out of the former heroes grasp, and now I have a chance to make Vicar a place people would want to bare children in again. But I would not be remembered for it, this Quest was as secret as it got for the Akul, there would be no legends of me, or monuments built in my, or my family's name, to the rest of Vicar the sword just, disappeared.But that is fine I suppose, I just hope my son will have a better world to grow up in then the one I did.