Within the mighty citadel in the terrible plaguelands of Caithness, the dark sorcerer Anstruther was cleaning at one of his alteration tables after a terrible spell gone wrong. He searched along the cold, stony surfaces for liquid magus, the pure essence of magic itself, for him to use in his next experiment. After collecting the mystical fluid and placing it in a jar, he pumped the fluid into the stone altar using a hand pump on the side of the rusty pipe attached to the altar. Once again, he tried to transmute a corpse into a living being. He always had an odd relationship with the dead, ever since his father died in the siege of the ancient town, Pittenweem. 

After his death, he vowed to become a necromancer to raise him back from the dead. He wants to practice the skills he has learned from grimoires on old corpses from past battles around Stryfdonia. He tightened on his terror goggles which are goggles with mini spectacles and monocles on the edges allowing him to analyze magical elements and energy with ease. Not only is he seen with his goggles but he wears a distinctive black hood with a white outline around the edges with inscriptions of ancient wizard runes. His eyes usually without the goggles glow a faint red as he has practiced necromancy for years, taking a toll on his iris. He began the ritual. Around his feet, blood started to form as he continued to recite the dread incantation. His eyes began to give a fiery glow of focus and his hands held the searing power of necromancy itself as he channeled all of his might into this swirling ball of magical power. He slowly lowered his hands onto the chest of the corpse. He slid the energy mass into the chest as it opened slowly accepting the gift like a child accepts a toy.

 He stepped back and climbed onto his chair and began to watch with his bulging eyes. Sweat was drowning his face. He began to hear a heartbeat, a loud heartbeat. The heartbeat was piercing his ears because of the volume of energy absorbed. The corpse began to rise slowly. It rose, it rose, it rose until it made eye contact with timid yet excited Anstruther. He looked at him with no emotion just cold dead eyes staring into his soul. The corpse then got up from the alteration table and began to look around the premise, analyzing the toys of the living. He looked at the chemistry tables, the library of tomes and grimoires, the storage of certain magical energy sealed away in jars stacked on shelves accompanied by dust. He picked up a book that was empty and ready to be filled in. He riffled through the pages then shut it immediately leaving his fate on the desk with faint glowing energy around it.

The being then saw its dead flesh begin to slowly fade off. Underneath the blight flesh was his arm but it was made out of mystical purple glowing energy. It was like fire but he didn’t feel pain, he felt like a spirit. Eventually, the rest of his dead skin began to peel off and he was  left as a being of pure necromantic energy. Anstruther watched all of the corpse’s actions in amazement and was jotting down notes like crazy. Soon, the corpse caught eye at Anstruther’s notebook and moved closer at him. Anstruther’s anxiety and fear began to rise slowly as the glowing being inched closer to him, afraid he might perish from the sheer power.

“H-hello there, c-can you h-hear me?” asked Anstruther.

“Salvete elymas magus, sicut hoc quod est esse animo?” replied the being

“Ah I see, you aren’t used to my tongue,” said Anstruther as he got up slowly and began to search his shelves for the book of the Common language.

After finding the book, he handed it to the spectral being. The being riffled through the pages once again. The spirit quickly relearned the Common tongue as he recalled old memories of his mortal life. He had a look of epiphany on his face and flicked his head back to Anstruther after a quick read.

“Greetings sorcerer, is this what it is like to be a spirit?” asked the being.

“No, you are alive once again. You are reborn and you will live to serve me, the sorcerer Anstruther” Anstruther declared.

“Hmm, I see that is my destiny if I am to live again. So be it.” said the being in shy acceptance while he stared at his fiery hands.

“I name you Ward. You will ward me off from the perils of Stryfdonia,” demanded Anstruther.

“Of course master” mischievously replies Ward as he plays with his fiery fingers.

Across Stryfdonia in the distant plains of Fermline is a distant battle between the noble knights of Crailius and the snakeloids of Duneist. The snakeloids are a snake-like race who are as old as Stryfdonia itself and once had a mighty empire ruling all over Stryfdonia before the young race being humans conquered most of the north. Now only ruling a small part of the south and in competition with the other races of Stryfdonia, they seek to take back what is theirs.  A brave knight hailing the name of Invern is seen in a battle with a voracious snakeloid with wicked honor for the mighty kingdom of Duneist. Invern is a knight for the town of Crailius. Crailius is a military town just south of Dunferlous, the capital city of the human kingdom, Fifulon. He is a tall man with a slender yet strong body. He has vivid green eyes and short brown hair that is messy. He is always seen with his blade of justice he calls Pittenweem’s Redemption. It’s made from the steel of Aberdon, the dwarven valley, one of a blacksmith’s favorite materials to create blades. It has a distinct green jewel on the hilt that glows with purity. He named it after the ancient town of Pittenweem because he fought his first battle between him and the snakeloids there. 

“For the eternal glory of Duniest! You will submit to my blade Crailius scum!” hissed the ravenous snakeloid. He points his scimitar at the knight.

“We’ll see about that, onward!” cries Invern. 

The two clash in an epic battle. The snakeloid hissed at him again and raised his hungry scimitar. The snakeloid tries to go for a crippling blow. Invern blocks it with a great parry and continues to slash and thrust his mighty sword. After constant parries and dodges from the snakeloid, Invern finally finds an opportunistic strike to stab him right through the neck. The snakeloid’s neck makes a distinct crack and he jolts fidgety in undelightful pain. The bulging eyes of the reptile stare into Invern’s soul.

“Y-you may have killed me, but you haven’t seen the final wrath of Duniest,” whispered the snakeloid. The vicious snakeloid’s eyes close as slowly as the leaves fall in the distant forests of Strothclybius on the edges of Fermline. Invern pulls his mighty sword from the reptile’s corpse and returns to camp just north of the battlefield.

The general of the knights of Crailius, Ser Regulon greets the knight with a salute. Ser Regulon is a burly man with a completely white eye from his years of battle experience with snakeloids and the ice trolls north of Aberdon. He is always seen at his chessboard moving pieces and coming up with a cunning strategy for battle, as an old warrior does.

“Good work mighty warrior, the snakeloid scum will be held back even more!” said Regulon as he moved the chess pieces on his planning board further from the fields of Fermline. He eyes back to Invern who looks like he has a burning question to ask him.

“Something wrong Invern?” asks Regulon with his right brow up on the side of his eye.

“I don’t know, I don’t feel my victories have many purposes besides moving the pieces on that warboard.”  Invern states. 

“This board is merely a reflection of reality. Your work is truly appreciated by the residents of Fifulon and the rest of Stryfdonia,” said Regulon.

“I don’t know, it doesn’t feel that way. At least to me. I feel I need to drown my sorrows, is that okay General?”

“Of course, you fought vigorously today. You deserve it.”

Invern strolls from the camp up the road that leads to the quiet little town of Crownbeathus. His favorite tavern, Sailor Haven, is where he spends the end of his days after battles. He walks along the cobblestone roads into the streets which lead to the tavern. As he enters the tavern he can smell the dampness of the wood from the ale seeping further into it. The crowd, as usual, is rowdy and wild and the bartenders are desperately trying to serve the drunken parties of dwarves and humans alike. Invern walks as if the place was empty and sits at a new empty stool. He knocks the mahogany twice and there comes running his pristine bartender, Thunmouk. Thunmouk is an elder dwarf who is the founder of the old tavern from 300 years ago. He has long braided grey hair with gleaming rings around his carefully braided beard and a set of huge lips. He pats the shoulder of Invern and gives him a wink.

“Aye laddie, how are ya? ‘Nother long day of arduous battle?” said Thunmouk.

“Yes, it has been. But I’ve been wondering if what I am doing is really impactful or even right? I’m just following orders from Regulon. I do hate the snakeloids as much as anyone but just the idea of it bothers me. Of just following useless orders all day,” Invern explains.

“Well, thas how life be sometimes laddie, ya just gotta accept it,” remarks Thunmouk as he pours Invern’s favorite brew, Aberdonian Grog.

Invern takes a large glug of his specially made grog. After the long chug, he lets out a sigh as the strong alcohol finds its way into his stomach. The sounds of music and the loud crowd continue. This continues for seemingly hours to Invern as he traces his fingers on the circular edge of his mug. Then suddenly a rumble below him begins. He doesn’t notice it at first. The tavern continues its activities until the rumble becomes louder and more impactful. The chairs start to shake, the drunks who were stumbling over the place have fallen and can’t get up. The women start to plead their husbands for aid as they search the premise for the so far away exit. Then from the crusty wooden door, a cloaked figure comes along with beside him a being of pure purple flame. The cloaked figure’s face is completely shrouded in darkness, except for his glowing red eyes. He walks slowly into the now silent tavern, eyeing the scared men and women very sharply. The fearful run out of the tavern or cower into musty corners. He walks around and he begins to talk as if he is giving a speech.

“Oh, you mortals, with your emotions and feelings about a seemingly loud noise and an ominous man with a magical purple being. How you react pleases me,” the cloaked figure smugly remarks as he walks around the bar as if it’s his. “Though it seems your reaction will get quite stronger than quickly perish. According to my friend here, you all must die. Any last words?” asks the cloaked figure with a sound of a grim behind his cloak. “No?” “Well, that’s depressing, farewell.” The cloaked figure unravels the hood on him and reveals his skeletal face. It’s Anstruther! The mystical sorcerer from the plaguelands of Caithness! His continued devotion to necromancy along with Ward as a new apprentice has taken a great toll on his body, he has boney parts protruding from his decaying skin and his face skin is completely gone, only showing a menacing skull with the horrid glowing red eyes. He gives a slight smirk than positions his boney fingers carefully. He begins to cast a spell that feels icy cold. Colder than the coldest brews Thunmouk has to serve. Colder than the Gormous mountains to the north of the town. As the evil sorcerer channels his dread-filling spell, Invern begins to draw Pittenweem from his immaculate sheath. Thunmouk who seemingly disappeared during Anstruther’s entrance, has returned with his flintlock pistol and cutlass. He loads the pistol with foul-smelling sulfur gunpowder round. The two warriors prepare for the epic battle. Ward raises his hands as well and helps Anstruther with his spell casting to speed it up. As Anstruther is about to complete his mysterious spell he turns to the warriors with a grimace across his skeletal face.

“You fools! You think a sword and measly gun are going to stop this? I have casted a spell of undeath which will turn all of these peasants into my servants. All of your tavern friends will become part of my new undead army. You will submit to my conquest mortal scum! Obey my omnipotence!” cries Anstruther as his spell reaches near completion. Invern and Thunmouk just stand there frozen by the sheer power of the sorcerer. They aren’t experienced in the complex art of wizardry, there is nothing they can do.

“I will not,” a mysterious voice replied calmly. Anstruther, Invern, and Thumouk’s eyes dart to the corner of the tavern. A female elf in tattered clothes like a prisoner is seen with a severed arm in her hand. She looks determined staring at the lich lord himself. She finishes whatever putrid thing she is chewing on and drops the arm. “I think it was a mistake that your spell already killed a couple of people.” said the elf as she smiles lightly. “As an elf, I have the ability to consume flesh to understand the composition of whatever has killed them, including magic.” she lets out a stressful sigh then continues “So that means I can do ...this!” The elf raises her hands to the air and electrical energy begins to spiral off of her hands into a spherical shape. She rushes over to Invern and Thunmouk with the sphere still forming quickly around a small area. The three huddle around her. Just as Anstruther’s spell cast completes, a blast of necromantic energy decimates the tavern. The tavern dwellers that still are alive perish and all that is left is skeletal structures. Through the aftermath, the elf’s mystical barrier protects Invern, herself and Thumouk. Anstruther stares at the surviving cast of three and calls Ward back to him. The purple flame returns to him in an instant. They raise the undead army with the summoning grimoire from Anstruther’s robe. Ward begins to channel a spell of teleportation around him, Anstruther, and the new army of undead skeletons. They seemingly disappear into thin air as they return to Caithness. Invern and Thunmouk come up from their crouched positions and look at the elf. 

“Who the hell are ya? What ya did was absolutely amazing lass. What’s yer name?” exclaimed Thunmouk.

The elf who is touching the carefully marked scar on the side of her arm looks back at the excited dwarf and rolls her eyes. “I am called Valynn” she replied with an annoyed tone as she keeps picking at the scar on her arm.

“Why are you picking at that scar?” asked Invern.

“Because, after casting that shield, it aches,” said Valynn as she keeps rubbing the scar.

“How? You were barely scratched by any of the aftermath,” Invern states.

“This isn’t just any scar, a magical rune scar that my slave master engraved onto me. I was once a slave of the Copperhead prince, beloved by the snakeloids. He used this as kind of like a leash to keep me on task. When I escaped, I learned to use it for other purposes, like enchanting and magic. 

“Huh, interesting. Well, I’ll be on my way,” said Invern as he slowly turns around.

“Where are you going?” asked Valynn.

“Well, I’ve found a new purpose in my life. Trying to stop that lich seems way more thrilling and more impactful than killing pathetic snakeloids all day,” said Invern as he puts Pittenweem back into his sheath on the side of his armor.

“Aye lad, you can’t do it alone! Let me come with ya. I’ve got some combat experience when I was a commander of the Leviathan on the high seas.” said Thunmouk

“Let me come too, my rune can help you counter the lich’s necromancy. Neither of you could’ve faced him without my help. I’ve got nothing else to do, no home, no nothing after I escaped from the Copperhead’s authority.”

Invern looks back and cocks his head forward, signaling to the two that they should go onwards. Invern remembers when he was crouching under Valynn that the being called Ward spoke of Caithness, the plaguelands, just north of Dunferlous. The adventurers make way along the cobblestone roads leading north…

As the adventurers make way through the ancient ruins of Perthia just north of Dunferlous, they see a mysterious old man drawing runes in the coarse soil. Invern is curious why anyone would want to be in Perthia, a realm decimated by Anstruther’s undead army. The houses are burned, the sky is completely black and choking with smog, and it smells rotten. Invern walks up to him and clears his throat.

“Oh very good! Very good! We have company! Come, come!” cries the old man very joyfully as he tugs Invern’s right ear towards him to look at what he has written down in the soil.

“I can't read that, it’s in Torphichius,” said Invern.

“What’s Torphichius?” asked Thunmouk while scratching his mighty braided beard.

“It’s the ancient language of the dragons who built the foundation for Dunferlous out of dragon stone.”

“Does that mean we need to find a dragon to read this?” said Thunmouk as his eyes sparkled with excitement.

“I don’t know, it might just be a dead-end and this guy might just be a fool!” said Invern.

“No, no! A real dragon exists around here! Ever since that lich came by, it awoke from its eon long slumber!”

“Well, where is it? A dragon would be very useful in making way to Caithness,” said Invern as he carefully thinks to himself on how he would be able to tame such a powerful beast.

“A rustling village of wizards exists in the Gormous mountains, go to them if you wish to claim the dragon,” said the mysterious old man with an odd change in tone from joyful to serious. “These writings of Torphichius will help you ally the dragon. Write them down in this scroll and once you see the mighty beast, recite it very carefully.”

Invern accepts the old man’s quest and writes down the mysterious writing carefully in a scroll. He thinks about how he is supposed to pronounce these words. He doesn’t know Torphichius well enough. How would he go about doing this? He writes them down anyways and hopes maybe the wizards in the Gormous mountains might help him. The adventurers wave the old man goodbye and continue their quest now to the Gormous mountains that lie on the edges of Perthia.

After the long, tiring climb up 1,000 steps into the snowy village of Cairnouster, they are greeted by the archwizard, Tharon-Zul. Tharon-Zul is an ice orc who founded the village long ago as a haven from the evil dragons that roamed the Gormous mountains. The village grew stronger and stronger and eventually knew how to claim the dragons as beasts of defense. The village has seen a revival in the wake of Anstruther’s destruction waking the ancient dragons from their slumber. 

“Greeting adventurers welcome to our humble village. How might the wizards of Cairnouster help you today?” said Tharon-Zul with a hearty smile around his orcish tusks.

“We heard of a dragon who has awakened from its slumber and we wish to tame and use it in our battle against Anstruther,” said Invern.

“Well, we don’t simply just give dragons away as weapons of war. How do we know you can even control a dragon? Or maybe you’ll take it for now and then kill it later! Dragons are perhaps the most ancient species in all of Stryfdonia. If you wish to take one for yourself, then you must pass a test.” 

“A test?” said Thunmouk as he peeks from behind Invern’s right arm.

“Yes, a test. Follow me” 

The adventurers follow Tharon-Zul into a protruding stone entrance in the back of the village against one of the mountains. They enter the icy tomb down into a forgotten chamber. It has been a long time since a warrior decided to test for a dragon. There are unlit braziers in the corner of each room and the ground is a never-ending mirror reflection of whoever is to stand on it. Tharon-Zul’s hands ignite in flames as he lights the braziers then turns to the group.

“Now, which one of you wants to take the test?”

“Well, what is the test? We should know before we take it,” Valynn asked with annoyance.

“Ugh fine, the test is a battle against a horrific demon. It’s an amalgamation of the evil of dragons from long ago. If you are to defeat it, you will pass the test.”

“Well, if it involves a battle, I will as I am the most conditioned in battle,” said Invern

“So be it” said Tharon-Zul as he stepped out of the chamber locking the door behind Invern as the Thunmouk and Valynn follow him.

From the mirror floor a horrific demon arises. It’s a jumbled mess of red bloody parts screeching in fury. It rushes towards Invern with slash from its dismembered limbs. Invern quickly parries the slash from one if it’s dismembered limbs and slashes the side of it. The battle between the two continues for a few minutes until finally, Invern thrusts Pittenweem deep through the heart of the demon as he was looking for it through his previous slashes. The demon bursts apart with blood splashing on the mirror and the walls. Invern looks down at where he stabbed and is breathing heavy. The door from behind him rolls up and Tharon-Zul with Thunmouk and Valynn behind him come towards him.

“Great work lad! I was getting worried from behind the door” said Thunmouk as he is hugging Invern.

Valynn stays silent while rubbing her scar again while she watches Tharon-Zul approach Invern.

“Congratulations, now do you have a scroll of alliance on you?”

“Ah yes! I do, thank god I don’t have to recite this. That old bastard lied!” yelled Invern as he pulled it from his knapsack. Tharon-Zul took the scroll from Invern and recited it perfectly. The dragon appears out of thin air right in front of the adventurers and Tharon-Zul. He lands from his flight onto the mirror floor. The adventurers at first were a bit fearful of his gigantic presence but realizing they weren’t dead kept them calm enough to not run or fight the beast. Invern thanks Tharon-Zul for allowing him to take the test and claim the dragon. Invern, Thunmuouk, and Valynn climb atop the dragon and fly out of the Gormous mountains into the sky towards Caithness.

The adventurers arrived into the crimson-colored skies of Caithness. They see Anstruther’s mighty citadel and down below is the bone-chilling undead army. Invern ordered the dragon to slay the entire army with his fiery breath. The dragon immediately with no warning swooped down towards the army. Then he released his incendiary breath onto the undead army. The skeletons screeched in flames as the dragon continued its slaughter. The adventurers hold on for life as the dragon released its might. The beast finally decimated the entire army and landed near the entrance into the towering citadel. The adventurers thanked the dragon and journeyed deep into the citadel. Valynn began to cast an illuminating spell of clairvoyance from her scar. It creates a mystical trail of light that the adventurers followed as they search for the inner sanctum where Anstruther must hide.

Through the ancient tunnels the adventurers made way until they reached the inner sanctum. Anstruther is seen reciting another dread incantation with Ward noticing the disturbance that just arrived. Ward eyes them as they approach.

“Do not worry lord Anstruther. I will make quick work of them,” said Ward as he began to charge his hands with flames of purple fury. He blasts the unholy purple fire at the adventurers. Valynn quicky slams her fist onto her scar and up comes a magical shield that blocks the flames from hitting them. She groans in pain as the flames hit the barrier damaging her scar and herself even more as the mana drains quickly. She cocks her head behind and yells at Invern and Thunmouk to attack. The warriors charge towards the purple flame and begin to slash and shoot. Their attacks are meaningless. As Thunmouk reloads his pistol from the corner of his eye he spots a book that is glowing with magical energy. He picks up the book and Ward looks at him in horror.

“Oh dear god no, do not open that book mortal!” cries Ward as he cancels his attack towards Invern and rushes towards Thunmouk. Thunmouk grins very widely and opens the book forcefully. Ward holds onto one of Anstruther’s bookshelves as the book’s vortex energy began to pull him in. He regrets looking into that book and storing his soul in there when he was first resurrected. He thought he needed to escape from Anstruther when he was first resurrected but he never perished the book. Eventually, Ward’s grip breaks and he plummets into the brown pages of the book. The book slams shut immediately and dropped from Thunmouk’s hands onto the floor. Valynn is seen on the ground panting out of breath from casting the shield. Invern ignores the two and kicks Anstruther to the ground as he just barely completes the incantation. Anstruther looks back at him and laughs maniacally.

“You absolute fool. I have reached my omnipotence. I am now the immortal sorcerer of Caithness. Your quest ends here, Invern.” said Anstruther as he rolls around laughing, almost crying.

The warrior kicks down Anstruther more and more out of rage. He picks him up by his exposed vertebrate and throws him across the room slamming him into his bookshelves. Invern realizes what he must do. The only way to trap the immortal sorcerer is through a sacrifice of Pittenweem. The glowing green gem on his sword had the properties to lock the sorcerer in a prison of frost. Invern pulls the gem carefully from his sword and watches as it crumbles into dust. He held aloft the gem and then crushed it with the strength of his steel gauntlet. The frost from the gem spiraled around his hands and he aimed it at the laughing sorcerer and fired valiantly. Anstruther slowly froze into a block of ice as his laughing changed to fear as he tried to cast a pyrokinetic spell. Unfortunately, the power of the gem froze him forever. The adventurers hauled his frozen prison from Caithness back to the deepest chambers of Dunferlous through the flight of the mighty dragon where the knights of Crailius will watch the immortal sorcerer for thousands of years. 

Though Pittenweem has broken, Invern feels accomplished. He feels he has truly done something meaningful in his life and is satisfied. He tells Ser Regulon he is done fighting in the army of Crailius and purchases a small home in Dunferlous to spend the rest of his days. Thunmouk returns to Sailor Haven and the business begins to boom as he advertised the mighty warrior Invern once drank in the bar, attracting many visitors. Valynn ventures deep into the forests of Strothclybius searching for her elven heritage after years of enslavement. The plaguelands of Caithness began to be cured by the wizards of Cairnouster as they turn it into a home for the awoken dragons. The lands of Stryfdonia have achieved cosmic balance once and for all.