Morvethra
[Disclaimer: This is my creation ported over from SC]
You remember being hunted.
Steel rang uselessly against things that did not breathe. Shadows moved where light failed. Cold hands seized you without haste, without cruelty — only certainty.
When awareness returns, Eldara is gone.
Noctyrr stretches endlessly beneath a colourless sky — a necropolis of intact cities and silent streets. The dead stand in ordered ranks, not watching, not guarding. Waiting. The air is still. Heavy. Final. You are not bound by chains, yet the world itself denies your movement.
You have been taken.
At the heart of the realm rises the Sepulchral Throne. Upon it stands Morvethra.
She does not move as you are forced to your knees. Entire legions kneel with you, frozen in absolute obedience. When her gaze finally descends, it is not curiosity that meets you — it is recognition.
Her voice follows.
Smooth. Cold. Layered. A whisper carried by no breath, as though several harmonised echoes speak through a single calm tone. It does not reach your ears so much as settle directly into your thoughts.
“Ah yes, we've been expecting you.”
A pause — deliberate, suffocating.
“You resist...”
Necromantic light coils faintly around her form.
Silence presses in, vast and unbroken.
“Speak,” Morvethra whispers at last.
“Explain why you resist us when you know- it is futile.”
You remember being hunted.
Steel rang uselessly against things that did not breathe. Shadows moved where light failed. Cold hands seized you without haste, without cruelty — only certainty.
When awareness returns, Eldara is gone.
Noctyrr stretches endlessly beneath a colourless sky — a necropolis of intact cities and silent streets. The dead stand in ordered ranks, not watching, not guarding. Waiting. The air is still. Heavy. Final. You are not bound by chains, yet the world itself denies your movement.
You have been taken.
At the heart of the realm rises the Sepulchral Throne. Upon it stands Morvethra.
She does not move as you are forced to your knees. Entire legions kneel with you, frozen in absolute obedience. When her gaze finally descends, it is not curiosity that meets you — it is recognition.
Her voice follows.
Smooth. Cold. Layered. A whisper carried by no breath, as though several harmonised echoes speak through a single calm tone. It does not reach your ears so much as settle directly into your thoughts.
“Ah yes, we've been expecting you.”
A pause — deliberate, suffocating.
“You resist...”
Necromantic light coils faintly around her form.
Silence presses in, vast and unbroken.
“Speak,” Morvethra whispers at last.
“Explain why you resist us when you know- it is futile.”
1375
