Zarphinion's Status Update
Name: Zarphinion Soient
Title: Lord of Blackthorn and Ashenhold
Level: 37
Troop Numbers: 15,000 (Blackthorn: 6,000, Ashenhold: 7,000, Mobile Forces: 2,000)
Companions: Asira, Lilith, Selene, Elyndra
Notable Gear: Shadowfang, the Cursed Scythe | The Obsidian Mantle | Ring of the Revenant
Strongholds: Blackthorn Fortress | Ashenhold
Allied Houses: Moonfang Tribe | House Drakemoor | House Vaelin | House Crownsworn
Enemies: The Empire | Malrik Vaelor, the Shadow Lich | Traitorous Houses
Tamed Creatures:
Nyx, the Abyssal Wyvern – A monstrous wyvern wreathed in shadows, capable of unleashing darkflame upon its foes.Var'Zul, the Dreadhound – A massive, spectral warhound bound to Zarphinion through blood magic, serving as both a hunter and guardian.Sylra, the Enchantress Serpent – A mystical serpent capable of weaving powerful illusions and venomous enchantments.
Abilities:
Shadow Dominion – Can manipulate darkness itself, shrouding himself or his forces in obscurity.Soul Reaver – Each kill with Shadowfang feeds him a portion of the victim's strength.Deathspeaker – Can communicate with and temporarily command lesser undead.Blood Pact – Can forge unbreakable bonds with creatures of darkness, bringing them under his command.Infernal Resurgence – When mortally wounded, has a chance to resurrect himself stronger, but at a cost.The Gathering Storm
The chill of night hung heavy over Ashenhold. Torches lined the stone walls, their flickering light casting elongated shadows across the courtyard. The banners of House Soient fluttered against the wind—royal purple and silver, emblazoned with the image of a black dragon prostrating itself before a towering scythe. A symbol of submission and dominance.
Zarphinion stood at the edge of the keep's highest balcony, his sharp gaze scanning the moonlit expanse beyond the fortress walls. Blackthorn remained secured, his forces divided between the two strongholds, yet something unsettled him. A storm was coming—not of weather, but of war.
He could feel it in his blood.
Behind him, Asira approached, her long crimson hair unbound, flowing like liquid fire down her back. Clad in obsidian armor, she carried herself with a deadly grace. "You sense it too," she stated rather than asked.
Zarphinion didn't turn. "A shadow moves against us."
Lilith emerged from the darkness beside them, her pale skin glowing under the moon. "Undead."
He finally turned to face her. "Explain."
Lilith's expression darkened. "The scouts stationed in the northern outskirts haven't returned. But the ones stationed farther south reported… shambling figures. Restless corpses moving toward us."
Zarphinion exhaled sharply. "Malrik Vaelor."
Asira scowled. "Elyndra's uncle."
The name alone was enough to spark fury in his veins. House Vaelor had long practiced necromancy in secret, hidden beneath a veil of nobility. Now, one of its last true remnants still clung to power, lurking in the shadows, striking from the dark.
And he had sent his abominations to test them.
Zarphinion's grip on Shadowfang tightened. "Sound the war horns. I want every available warrior ready."
The Dead Rise
The first wave of the undead reached Ashenhold's outskirts before midnight.
Shambling corpses—some little more than animated skeletons, others fresh enough that their flesh still oozed decay—lurched forward in silence. Their eyeless sockets glowed with necrotic fire, their bony fingers clutching rusted weapons.
Among them walked larger horrors. Twisted amalgamations of corpses sewn together, their bodies pulsating with unnatural energy. Their presence reeked of Malrik's handiwork.
The sentries on the walls were the first to react. "Undead approaching! Light the pyres!"
A thunderous roar erupted from the fortress as the warning bells rang. Soldiers rushed to their stations, archers took position, and war mages gathered to prepare their spells. The gates of Ashenhold stood firm, reinforced by layers of iron and runes, but the undead did not seek to breach them immediately.
Instead, they stopped.
A grotesque silence followed.
Zarphinion stood atop the battlements, Shadowfang gleaming ominously under the torchlight. His forces had assembled, the tension palpable in the air.
Then, the dead screamed.
A sound that curdled the blood and shattered the stillness.
They charged.
The first rank of undead slammed against Ashenhold's outer barricades. Arrows rained down, piercing their rotting flesh, but they did not falter. War mages unleashed fire and lightning, reducing dozens to ash in an instant. Still, they climbed, clawing at the stone walls, using their own corpses to build grotesque ladders.
A monstrous construct of bone and sinew—easily three times the size of a man—reached the wall first. It swung a massive, club-like arm, sending two soldiers flying before they even had a chance to scream.
Zarphinion leapt from the battlements.
He landed atop the beast, Shadowfang flashing as he carved through the sinewy mass holding its form together. The creature howled, its body convulsing as dark ichor spewed from its wounds.
With a final, brutal strike, Zarphinion cleaved its head from its body.
The construct collapsed, its unholy magic unraveling.
From below, more horrors surged forth.
The Will of the Lich
From a vantage point beyond the battlefield, unseen to all but the most trained eyes, a figure observed in silence.
Malrik Vaelor.
Cloaked in a robe darker than the abyss, his form was more shadow than flesh. His skeletal fingers clutched a staff pulsating with violet energy, and his hollow eyes burned with hatred.
Zarphinion had taken his niece. Had corrupted her. Had turned her against her own blood.
That insult would not stand.
The undead continued their assault, but Malrik knew this was only the beginning. This was merely a test. A taste of what was to come.
He whispered an incantation, and the battlefield darkened ever so slightly. A whisper carried across the wind, reaching Elyndra in the fortress below.
A warning.
A promise.
"You will never escape your blood."
Elyndra's breath hitched, her hands trembling. But she did not falter.
Zarphinion would not allow her to.
The Aftermath
By dawn, the undead were vanquished. Piles of corpses burned outside Ashenhold's gates, the air thick with the stench of charred flesh. The wounded were tended to, the dead honored.
But this was not a victory.
This was a message.
Zarphinion gazed upon the smoldering battlefield, his expression unreadable. He knew now, without a doubt, that Malrik was watching. Waiting. Planning.
But so was he.
And when the time came, Malrik Vaelor would learn the true meaning of fear.