As long as there is no divine entity to preserve the souls of the dead and send them back onto the wheel, there will be those who may manipulate the clay of their remaining bodies and make them serve their bidding, for good or ill.
-Griomore Mortuist, on the topic of Death, Its dealings, and its practitioners.
Ever since Kel'Jaed was Vanquished and sent back to the Blasted wastes, the Blasted wastes has, in part, became almost a new power. No longer is it a battlefield between the powers, for under that mountain lie the corridors of madness. At the pit of it all, but one door from the Pit of Souls, one rules. He sits atop his throne made of skeletons charred black and polished to an ebony shine, commanding Demon and Living-once-more alike. He is known as the Necromancer lord, and though he is one of the largest threats to all nations, it is to him a trivial war. He exists only for his realm, venturing forth only to claim more servants, and to spread his dark words far.
Every year, a hundred or more 'heroes' fall to the myriad traps, blades, and shifting rocky corridors of what is best described as Hell. They all have one goal, and but one goal in mind- To slay the Necromancer lord. Rare is the man who makes it to his lair, and rarer still is the one who triumphs. And yet, what is unseen so far is a hero who is not corrupted by his defeat. For every would-be hero yet so far has, irrevocably after slaying The Dark one, picked up his helmet. From fighting him alone, the Necormancer's thoughts pierce his and seed doubt into his mind. They ask him, why?
Though the Necromancer is struck down by the stronger hero, that one word, the ultimate question of why? rings in his mind again and again, as some hideous bell peals its mocking tone.
why?
why?
WHY??
And with that one question, the hero will step over the corpse of the freshly slain Necromancer, turned to the clay he once cared so greatly for, and pick up the helmet. He will stare into it for a while; examining the cold, hard steel that had moments before crackled with a sickly green glow, archaic wychfires burning in their depths.
why?
He is curious, more often than not. Is it the Helmet? Is it the person?
Slowly, he will lift it over his head. It will hold there but a moment, as he hesitates, and asks again, why?
Like a lightning bolt it descends upon his noble brow, and all at once it becomes clear.
All at once he can answer the question.
All at once, the cycle continues.
