Wraith Lord's page

23 posts. Alias of Charles Evans 25.


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The White Knight wrote:

The bony jaw of the knight clicks, and puffs of something which might be dust emerge. It's possible that had the knight voice, it might be laughing.

And then, meaningfully, it lowers its lance.

So be it then.

Spectral steel should not rasp as it is drawn, yet the great-sword of the wraith lord does as it is unsheathed. The phantom stands upon a tumbled stretch of wall, waiting to receive the knight's charge, and to swing back as the knight passes.


The White Knight wrote:

The knight tugs on rotting leather reins and brings his travesty of mount to a halt. He seems to be considering something, turning his head from left to right, surveying the scene.

You fought in the battle of the plains of Gehenna some five millennia hence, and were vanquished by an alu-fiend squire of an Abyssal lord. Your time of exile is not yet done. The rites deny it.


Aaaah. YOU! You have no place here. This is not your moment.


Chance Encounter wrote:

Somewhere in the background an orchestra is playing a tune which could be taken for the fourth movement of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique. Mist swirls through ancient ruins of what was once a magnificent castle. There is a remote clatter of hooves on the cobbles of he worn road, and eddies in the mist resolve themselves into a shape.

Haaaalt!

Who goes there?


<And now, the servants of the goddess know exactly where you currently are... you have told them; and you have carried out a truly worthy act of worship of her, in this destruction, which will help to bring about her return.>
The thunderous detonation of something akin to a gigantic roman candle rocks the palace. When the smoke and afterglow clears, there is no sign of the Wraith Lord or the undead pokemon.


A flicker of dark energy siphoned from the Thieving Wasp elsewhere, dances into the room, and comes to rest in a dark nimbus around the Bookkeeper.


In this place of shadows the blast of energy swirls around the Wraith Lord, darkening, and flowing into him, invigorating the undead lord.
<Did you think I killed the oracle for merely petty revenge, Wasp? It was satisfying, yes, but he was a long time companion of Kobold Cleaver and had learned and gained much during his travels with him. You are allied with Candle Lighter whether you realise it or not, flying around like a maddened gnat biting desperately at anyone other than him, distracting attention from him and his plans for the Goddess. If you wish to weaken and exhaust yourself attacking this place, and weakening those who muster here, do so by all means. I shall amuse myself elsewhere, perhaps, whilst you frenzy around berserkly killing undead.>
The Wraith Lord rejuvenates the destroyed pokemon with a wave of his hand and turns to go, leaving a detachment of several dozen to menace the Thieving Wasp, whilst he draws off with the rest.
Most of the other undead of this place resume their advances upon the Thieving Wasp.


<This is quite enough>
Surrounded by a horde of spectral pokemon, the Wraith Lord emerges from the shadows, sending zombies, ghouls, and other undead fleeing in all directions; there is something about the palpable evil of mockeries of such creatures that scare even the dimmest of most sentient undead, and the non-sentient undead don't seem to have much choice as to obedience.
<Were you aware of what your erstwhile 'ally', Candlelighter is doing, Wasp? I would suggest that you consult with him, and give regard to the larger picture, instead of interesting yourself in petty acts such as this. I am currently in two minds whether you are more useful alive, than as a spectral minion of my entourage and I would recommend you take your leave before I decide otherwise.>


With the restoration of Kobold Cleaver, the Wraith lord is sucked back into some nether dimension for now, leaving countless slain Pokemon, a large number of trees reduced to kindling, and a very frightened Rio, who was inches from death as the Wraith Lord was banished.


In the forest, the undead lord fights, and laughs as he does so. Trees fall, spells sent by the flyng kobold ricochet to help or harm her allies, and pokemon die as they desperately try to keep Rio safe.
All the fury being diverted at him is attention and power being distracted away from the main battlefield, where Candle Lighter must surely appear, any moment now, and ensure absolute victory.

Edited; I thought Grey Mouser and fafrhd were in this part of the fight.


Whilst the undead lord seems impervious to the vrocks, and many of them flutter headless to the field below, eventually his mount succombs, and fades away.
Like some ill-omened falling star , the Wraith lord plummets into the forest below, sword outstretched before him, and moments later the tragic wails of dying pokemon can be heard.
As fate would have it, he has come upon the trainer and his friends.


The Wraith Lord gives a vicious snarl at the old kobold priestess and wheels his mount away, flailing at any eagles or kitten riders that come within reach, but does not flee the battle, instead withdrawing from the vicinity of Aunt Esmerelda.

In this place of carnage, it would take a hero of your nephew's character to drive me away, hag.

If Aunt Esmerelda wants to, she can keep on chasing the Wraith lord all over the sky, which will keep him away from the battle, but will probably keep her away, too.


Dropping out of the sky, in best undead-lord fashion, and waaaay out of reach of Aunt Esmerelda's normal ability to turn undead or her most dangerous spells, the dread lord comes, riding on a fell beast and laying about him with a great two handed sword.
Injured kittens and eagles start raining out of the sky, until they fall back to the middle air, trapped in the narrow zone between him and the wendigo.
The casualties are not as bad as it first seemed, but the mobility of the kittens and eagles has been greatly hampered.


I know you, crone, and where your 'heart' is hidden. Keep from things which do not concern you if you do not wish for a fate far worse than that of the nephew whom you mourn.
He struck me down, and made me so much more, with the passage of time, than he could have possibly imagined.
With his fall I am loosed.
If you cross my path again in a place of my liking, you will be the worse for it.
With the muffled ring of antique armour on the forest floor, and a lingering promise of winter perhaps to come, the awful shade is gone.


A waft of cold corruption breezes through the outer fingers of the forest for a moment, a creature of supernatural malevolance, stirred from its grave by the current fate of Kobold Cleaver. When a lord of the boards is dethroned in such a manner, strange portents occur, and creatures which are an abomination to the natural order of things begin to walk the lands.
As of yet, the dread undead lord has not the inclination to molest this ancient and hoary woodland - but this is something in the way of a scouting expedition, and perhaps a warning of worse to come if the balance of things is not soon restored.


The Wraith Lord sweeps out of the club, leaving the helpless Acme and the dead oracle behind.
Eventually the magical webbing dissipates, freeing the Acme if he hasn't already worked himself free by then.


Neutral Zone? This is a temple to Callistria, a goddess of trickery and revenge.
What I do, she should regard as an unholy act of homage to her.

The sibilant laughter rings around the room. The armoured figure turns to go. The Acme is able to identify various details of the armour as matching a style which went out of fashion seven hundred and thirty three years ago, when a group of heroes led by a mighty kobold overthrew a tyrant in the Sulwin Mountains.


Heedless of the Acme, or the holes that any stray shots that punch holes right through the armour, without seeming to trouble it at all, the Wraith Lord rushes forward with unnatural speed to deliver a swift, precise, blow to the old man. The old man tries futilely to fend it off with his bare hands but fails. He crumples to the floor.


You fool. No unliving construct may hinder me.
Too long have I waited to be revenged for the battle of Tuln's ridge.

The armoured figure stalks forward, his footfalls tolling like bells on the cub's floor.
The Oracle mumbles some words and flicks a small pellet at the Wraith Lord, but he bats it away with his mace, contemptuously, sending it flying towards the Acme, an expanding net of sticky spiderweb strands.


The seven foot tall figure stands in the doorway, mace raised.
Me, old man.
The voice reverberates strangely from within the armour, as if the armour were not actually occupied by anything physical.


The undead lord stirs from his position at last, reaching to retrieve his mace. Quietly, with only the lightest step, he begins to make his way towards the club.


The great and terrible lord of the undead has sensed the power withdrawing from the club; the goddess' attention is turned elsewhere, with her champion on another field. The wards are weak, those who remain slow and foolish.


Outside the club, from the deepest darkest shadows, a dark and terrible figure surveys the scene as the club's defenders stream away for the battle elsewhere.
Dressed in tarnished but still serviceable field-plate armour, and with a great black mace resting quietly at his side, he is waiting with the un-nerving silence of one who is not truly alive.
The grass is shrivelled by the hoar frost that has accumulated where he has been standing, a portent of the terrible chill which surrounds him.