Blightbark

Lord Blightbark slept fitfully on his ebon throne. The dark, twisting, rotten roots of its frame caressed him, melding to his form like he was part of the wood, yet this did little to ease his discomfort. A pitted, skull-shaped backrest gazed balefully over his shoulder as he tossed and turned. Outwardly young in appearance, the ancient elf trembled and coughed in his sleep, his breath crackling like the ghost of autumn leaves upon the ground. His birch-white skin barely seemed to contain him, and where his courtly robes parted, you could see dark black veins worming underneath.

With a choking gasp, he awoke.

Lady Blightbark rushed to his side with preternatural speed. “Are you well, love?” Her lavender eyes shone wide with worry in her pale, human face. Though heavily armored, she strode through the room as if she were wearing silk.

Her heavy black armor drank the moonlight that filtered through the window as if it were crafted from shadow itself. One arm was armored, the other was not, and helmets were for those who were in danger of taking a blow.

A skull with pointed teeth was emblazoned on her breastplate, and a skeletal tree was tattooed along the length of her bare arm. As she hurried along the length of the room, her travel cloak streamed out behind her. It had seen better days. Small rips along its length flapped in time with her hurried gait, causing her to hiss in annoyance. A quick pull at its bindings left the once-regal cloak puddled on the floor, forgotten.

The cold winter chill clung to her armor, but her movements were warm and tender as she gently placed her unarmored hand against Lord Blightbark’s forehead. Her blood-red lips, wet from her latest hunt, twisted with concern.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice a surprisingly rich baritone with only a hint of rot at the end. His moss-green eyes fluttered open and met hers.

“Fine? This is fine?” Her fingertips traced the shadows of his blackened veins. Only a hint of extra pressure revealed her anger. “You are like a hollowed-out tree, strong on the outside while you crumble from within. If you would just let me turn you…”

“Violet,” he grabbed her hand and raised it to his lips, “I love you more than anything in this world, but becoming your thrall would be more than this old oak could bear.” He breathed in deeply—fortifying himself with her scent of iron, blood, and night-blooming flowers—before pulling himself upright, the coiled roots of his throne shifting with his will.

“We will conquer death together as equals.” His voice softens, “It’s what you love about me.”

“It is,” the Vampiress said softly, bowing her head. Her dark purple hair covered her face, leaving her in shadow. “But we are running out of time.”

“About that—I know where the last piece of the puzzle lies.” His voice shook with feverish excitement. “I had a dream, Violet…. Or, a calling? There are whispers in the dark that try to fracture in the light of day, but they were no match for me. I have cultivated those seeds and now I know how to complete my transformation. We will make it. I will become a lich before it is too late.” Each word that stumbled out of him was like water in the desert, filling him with new life and purpose. He straightened his crown of twisted wood, gripping the tines till his fingers bled.

His throne reared up on coiled roots as skeletons, held together by thorny vines, began pulling themselves out of the soil. Tattered banners flapped in the breeze—four skulls and a rotted tree. With a creaking groan, the throne began to shamble forward on twisting limbs, carrying Lord Blightbark with it, his undead army trailing behind.

“Court is now in session!” he roared, his gaze turning northward. “We have a long way to go.”

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