Dark days dawn across the world of Veen, as kings and lords cave and crumble to the whispers of demonic agents. Small, petty wars spring up across the lands, as nations and races clash in blind fury, weakening themselves without even knowing the true enemy. At each other’s throats and unable to comply or hear the will of their gods, the mortal children of this world, help to fuel their own coming destruction. Evil they cannot or will not see, gathers it's strength, to strike against them, an almighty blow, that will crush all resistance. If anyone was to see the danger, they would find no hope, no chance, to stand against it.<br/><br/>Zruloh, a powerful demon lord, paced around the edge of his massive war room, inside a grim fortress in the frozen northern wastes. About large tables, leaning over maps, pointing at small models and talking softly stood dozens of warriors, planning campaigns in the south. Humans, who’s bodies were slowly succumbing to mutations caused by contact with demons, talked with goblin chiefs, who had been forced into the army or tried to get hulking giant chieftains to understand the very basic of plans. Here and there, lesser demons stood, uncaring for the plans of such creatures. Cringing slaves waited in the alcoves, ready to offer the finest of wines or crudest of liquors, depending on the taste of those who summoned them.<br/><br/>“When” demanded the demon, in a deep, unearthly voice, as he suddenly stop his pacing and glared around the room.<br/><br/>“Soon milord” answered General Thaddeus, a muscled human in plate armor, his hair graying and a pair of curling, ivory horns protruding from his brow. It was he, a mortal and not only of the lesser demon minions of their lord, who would be leading the destruction of the free world. A strange choice, given the fact that demonic beings rarely consider even the long living mortals, never mind those that rarely make a century old, to be idiots at best.<br/><br/>“A few more months and we’ll have the greatest army ever assembled” the human continued, as the others shrank behind him, “Even if those fools manage to stop trying to stab each other in the back and work together, we’ll outnumber them ten to one. Victory will be assured with a little more patience.”<br/><br/>“I have had centuries of patience” growled Zruloh through a maw of wicked fangs, “And it wears thins but…a few more months, I can wait.”<br/><br/>-------------------------------------------<br/><br/>“Then our bargain is made” rasped the undefined, ethereal black mass, which was the representation of death. A twelve-fingered hand emerged from the darkness, made from the bones of every living animal on Veen. It seemed to float there, unattached to a wrist or arm, hovering there. Clenched within those terrible digits, were several spheres of different colored light. They pulsed faintly, in the grasp of cold bones, almost in the same rhythm, as the breathing of a deeply sleeping man. It was like, if they were simply tapped, beautiful, strong light would shine out from them, to fill any room they were in or dance about, catching every eye.<br/><br/>“The souls” the voice rasped, sounding like a wind among dead leaves, holding the hand towards three shinning, vaguely humanoid shapes.<br/><br/>“Thank you” said a definitely female being, although her form seemed to waver between human and elven features, as she gently cupped the spheres in her hands, “Brothers, I will take them back to the mortal realm, hopefully we are not to late.”<br/><br/>-------------------------------------------<br/>Weak sunlight filtered through a heavy cover of depressed gray clouds, which seemed to always hang over the Barrowlands. A mournful breeze drifted through the tall mounds of earth and stone, rustling among the long, dead grasses, which covered them. Everything felt heavy, as if the very air was pushing down upon the dead. Here and there, patches of flowers lay wilted, their colors faded and dull. There was an unnatural lack of bird song or the chirping of insects, as if nothing lived in this land, only the cold, uncaring of those that past on from life. From time to time, across the massive graveyard, there was the faint crackling sound, as weather worn stone finally gave into the unyelding power of time. Nothing lasts forever, not when  no one maintained it.<br/><br/>Two day’s travel from the borders of the realm of the dead, something living stirred within a mound. A human male, muscled and dressed in clothing from ages many many years passed. He shifted about in a burial chamber, as though he stirred from slumber. With a groan, he woke suddenly to the darkness, clutching at his left side, above his waist but below his ribs, as if he was trying to hold in his guts or lifeblood. Tears flowed from his corners of his eyes and soaked his braided mustache. For a moment, he looked around, seeing nothing, feeling at his side, until he was convinced there was no terrible wound there and the strange tears stopped. He blinked, clearing his eyes and and unable to shake the feeling, he began to pat himself down, trying to find the source of this fear.<br/><br/>Instead, he found a smooth, thin, rectangle tucked under his tunic, resting on his stomach, just above the belt around his waist. Having no other course of action, he pulled it from the checkered cloth and stared at it, as a soft glow issued from the piece of ivory, dimly forming a pool of light around his hand. Holding it up, he discovered the edges of his rectangular prison. A slight panic built in his chest, He couldn't say in this small, tight chamber. His breathing quickened, as eyes darted back and forth. He beat and kicked at the walls, mighty fists and powerful legs slamming fruitlessly against stubborn stone until the panel at his feet broke away under the blows and crashed to an unseen floor.<br/><br/>Sensing freedom, he madly wiggling and writhed, until man fell out into a rough passageway, leading through the heart of the mount. His panic continued to grow, as he stared around at walls lined with stone panels, marking the places where bodies were stored for their deathly slumbers. It was a driving, primal need, causing his heart to pound on his ribs and his lungs to suck in quick breaths of stale air, tasting of rotten flesh. He had to get out! Picking a direction at random, he raced down the crude hallway, his booted feet stirring the dust, his eyes unnoticing the slight lighting of the gloom, until he ran into a massive, if off center and cracked slab of stone. With a grunt of pain, he bounced back and slammed his shoulders into the wall. Like the rest of the rest of the corridor, the wall was line with evenly spaced slots, each to hold a body but unlike the those deeper in the mound, this part of the wall had been heavily exposed to the elements, the stoned thinned and worn.<br/><br/>And as he slammed back against it, the wall gave way around him and he fell into the disintegrating graves. Chunks of stone, bones, parts of bones, scraps of clothing and small personal items rained down upon him. Something jabbed into his bicep and he grabbed at it, finding a dagger, the steel dull. Scrambling to his feet, and slamming his free hand hand against his body, trying to dust himself off, he looked around wildly, until his eyes finally caught on to the slivers of dim light cutting through the darkness, allowing him to calm down. Breathing slow, he spotted the glowing tablet, where it had fallen among the rubble. Picking it up, he turned to the door and began to prob the edge, feeling the earth and worn stone crumbling away under his touch. Seeing his chance, he beat away at the door frame, until he could get an arm through a hole but he was unable to loosen any more. Tucking dagger and tablet into his belt, he grabbed the door slab with both hands and pushed. Muscled flexed and his skin flushed red, until there was a moan, like the very bones of the earth were moving and slab slammed down to the ground.