The Necroliberatas



Seven Suns in Twilight

The temple of Anu Maht was forbidden to mortals. Those that entered its hallowed grounds uninvited would spend their final moments as ornaments along its inner walls. Flayed and broken, the tangled mass of trespassers struggled in vain against the black temple stone. And so it seemed as if the walls were alive with writhing agony, and that they sang softly with the subdued moans of the mutilated. At the center of this macabre chamber lay a stone dais, scrawled with runes, and upon this dais stood a great table whose surface was marked with the territories of Malorum, each holding several carven figures.

Two great powers faced one another from either end of the table. They were opponents in a game beyond the reckoning of mortals, a contest that spanned millennia. One was adorned in black finery and stood as tall and proud as a prince. His features were angular and drawn, as pale and hard as ice, and his eyes shone like silver coins. The other, stooped and hunkered, was bundled in a weathered cloak and wrapped from head to toe in strips of linen stained with leprous fluids. His head trembled erratically within its cowl, softly chattering overlarge teeth that shriveled lips failed to cover. The rest of his face lay hidden in bandage wrappings.

The Fetid Prince swept his hand in a gesture toward the table and spoke. “The white knight will ride south. The Crimson Sign will be purged from these lands.” At the sound of his voice, the bodies on the walls cringed and fell silent, their agony replaced by terror, and an alabaster figurine of a knight slid across the board, stopping near the southern tip of the western continent of Isoth.

The leper’s head tilted slightly, still trembling, and followed the path of the knight. For a long moment he said nothing, then slowly raised a trembling hand, clutching it into a fist and showing even more of his already exposed teeth. Across the southern lands of
Isoth, a blood red sigil burned into the board, and all the figures in that area, including the white knight, were stained pitch black. The echoes of a thousand distant screams filled the room and then faded to silence.

“The world of seven suns will sink into twilight,” the leper spoke, a strained a tremulous voice. “Islirith will rise in a crimson dawn.” His shriveled lips drew into as much of smile as they could manage. “You have lost.”

The prince looked down at the now darkened figure of the knight, expressionless. “A masterstroke,” he finally replied, “but this is not the future.”

“You lie…” the leper replied.

“Do I?” The prince stared his opponent down, and slowly the leper’s faint smile faded. “Keeva, come to me,” he commanded. A pale beauty stepped from the shadows. Her raven hair and white robes flowed about her as if underwater, and their outermost boundaries billowed into wisps of smoke that trailed her motions. She moved soundlessly to stand by the Fetid Prince, staring ahead with deep black eyes.

“You brought a herald?” The leper said, tilting his trembling head toward the woman. “Does your lord now find you unworthy as messenger?”

“A banshee is much more than a herald,“ the prince said, running an icy white hand through her raven hair, which pulled away in smoky wisps that evaporated between his fingers. “Can you not see what her presence foretells?” The leper jerked his hidden gaze from the banshee to the prince and back again, sharply snorting with each movement. “Or does your lord find you unworthy of the truth?” The prince circled behind her to stand on her other side. “No matter… Keeva will give you the revelation.”

“That which you see as yet to pass, already has,” Keeva spoke, her every word echoed by faint whispers, “There is no future. No past. No present. There only is.”

“Then tell us what is, Keeva,” the prince said.

Keeva’s black eyes locked onto the board, and the leper craned his neck toward her. For a moment, no one spoke, and then the banshee gave her omen. “Black stars cast across a lake of blood… a leper king rises… men chant his name as twin suns sink into dusk… I see the Crimson Sign… I see death.” Hearing this, the leper’s imitation of a smile returned, and a rattling sigh of satisfaction sounded in his throat. The banshee’s eyes left the board and stared ahead once more.

“What do you see of death?” the prince asked.

Keeva said nothing, but returned her gaze to the board. Her hair and robes began to flow faster, rising as if caught in a great current. “I see…” she began. Her face knit with strain, and her boundaries thrashed in a vortex that wasn’t there. “The white knight rises, now stained deepest black. A mighty house is built on hatred’s back. Death undone will ride against the Crimson Sign. And by its darkness shall the stars align.”

“The banshee lies!!” the leper shrieked, viscous spittle flying from his mouth. Keeva’s head snapped to face her accuser. Her body began to lift from the floor, and she pointed at the leper as her mouth stretched into a grimace wide enough to swallow a man’s head. A horrid shriek poured from her gaping maw, a voice that was not her own. It was a deafening wail, full of anguish, and its reverberations distorted the air of the chamber so that every solid surface seemed to tremble and waver, a temple built of many waters. In the presence of the otherworldly voice, the Fetid Prince knelt, and the leper staggered backwards, reeling as if suddenly struck. Keeva’s body buckled under the force of the shriek, bursting into wisps of white and black smoke that swirled
away with the fading echoes of the terrible wail, and the temple returned to solid form.

“What a shame,” the prince smirked, standing tall once more. “It seems your lord has little more use for you… or perhaps it simply sees less than you thought.”

“It sees more than you know!” the leper spat.“ It knew you would break the rules.”

“The rules have been rewritten.”

“Then they can be rewritten again!”

“Given enough time, perhaps. But that is something you no longer have,” the prince said, stepping backward into the shadows so that only the silver shine of his eyes remained. “Farewell, old friend.” The eyes faded away.

The leper found himself alone in the chamber except for the tortured mass of bodies along the wall, His lips curled into their hideous smile once more. “Time is but a dream, and I a dream of time. The dreamer sees more than you know, old friend. Farewell indeed.”

Lord Lucian Armin opened his eyes, staring at stone columns. Dark shadows danced from the torches upon the gargoyles meant to protect the wounded from evil spirits. This night, though, they had failed. His wound was nothing compared to some he had suffered in the past, but the dreams that came when he slept unsettled the white knight.

When his squire removed the fragment of the blade that had pierced him, it turned to smoke. As troubling as this was, the wound was so minor that Lucian did not pay it much heed. It was a nick at best, but lo, the dreams it wrought. He was certain he had never heard of a world of seven suns, or Islirith; their meaning eluded him. He would seek interpretation of these unholy visions through the counsel of elder priests, and determined to take extra care to remove any evils the wretched weapon may have laid upon him.

But it would not matter.

Crimson’s Twilight

Cursed dreams, with cursed screams,
The wound the blade had brought.
A board, a game, of mortal claim,
Two lords a battle fought.
Of death, and change, those stars arranged.
Lords’ master wanted ought.
These seven suns, this Islirith,
He had heard of naught.
To sage and priest the white knight went,
To cleanse the blade he caught.
They prayed, they plead, in dire need.
Though, the blade had earned his spot.

– Varik Keldun
Ageless Grimscribe

I sailed upon a White Ship, through the Grim Expanse.
On The Seas of Fate we tread, The White Ship never leaving course.
Into The Sea of Dreams we crossed. “Isoth! Ho Isoth!”

A heavy cargo my crew carried, they waxed and waned.
The further from The White Ship we distanced, my heart grew dark, heavy.
“How long til we reach?” ask one of my crew. “Nothing to fear the Empire of Men is near.”
He looked and scoffed for the cargo was a burden, I carried it to. Heavy for certain.

That night we took shelter among the trees, the darkness closing in.
The dreams this night were different than most, a voice echoed, so full of song and glee.
A low hum throughout the night, tis more than just a breeze.

Dawn is rising but the forest is dark, my men grow tired and warry.
Tis something off about this land, something foreboding.
Perhaps I should have stayed abroad, never set sail on that White Ship.
“No turning back now” i think to myself, oh if only i had known..

– Calypso
Ageless Grimscribe

White hot, Burning RAGE
Havoc, Hate, Malice Infused
Behold Revenant

– Varik Keldun

Sonata of Justice


The mace was an unfathomable thing. It was not forged of the finest metals or formed from the old magicks, but carved of an ancient stone that was impossibly heavy for anyone to wield except for one having animate hatred.

“Justice! what do you know of justice? You slew us all without mercy,” the mace said.

“Must we always return to this argument? Your ilk was black with rot, a blight on truth and anathema to compassion.” He spoke with seething rage as the mace was a thing of constant torment for him.

The mace reverberated in a deep subsonic response. “Indeed, there are many amongst us who well deserved your wrath. However, not I. I helped you at every turn. You are a vile fraud, and now you have imprisoned me here to endure your putrescence for all eternity. You are a hollow soul filled with hatred, an unfit judge and a perversion of Justice.”


He detested the mace with all of his being, for it represented a raging inner conflict that needed to be resolved. Rather then retort, he kicked down the heavy wooden doors, hammering the guard on the other side, who looked up in shock. “What … are you?”

“I am your end. Let me introduce you to some of my acquaintances. I really don’t like them very much and I think you will fit right in.” The stone mace screamed through the air, mauling the guard without resistance. His end was swift, but the guard felt much more than pain as his essence was dragged into the weapon.


The guard landed hard on a stone brick road. He felt his wrist crack and knees buckle. The pain was a temporary distraction from the surreal scene surrounding him. The sky was reddening with a black sun setting along a stretched horizon. A long line of pilgrims, mostly soldiers with various pieces of shattered armour, walked slowly towards a silhouetted tower that seemed impossibly distant.

“Get up, cur. We are on a pilgrimage without end to a better life that will never come.” The guard looked around, stunned.

“Oh, another ignorant victim. Let me guess — you don’t know what’s going on. You don’t deserve this. Get moving or you will discover pain beyond your comprehension.” The court jester mused as he turned and walked along with the neverending procession. “Justice, hah! How many idiots like you have to die to set things right? Oh well, more food for his hateful thoughts.”


The Vampire Scholar

I had expected to treat with Lord Ngaztak; I am afraid I don’t remember you,” responded Baron Aoric indignantly.

“You will remember one thing as the bite of my sword severs your head from your body: Vae Victus. Expect no quarter for your transgressions; we will grind your pitiful empire into dust,” said Zorin who moved faster than the eye could and severed the Baron’s head from its body.

Holding the Baron’s head in the air, Zorin the Vampire Scholar proclaimed, “Alas, poor Aoric, I knew him well; well, not really.

~7:08 Words
Opening Salutations at Peace Negotiations of Strallohn
Zorin, The Blood Baron and Vampire Scholar

“They loyalty of Jelrass”

An inaudible storm
Is our Lady Undead,
A beauty to behold
Our merciful Baroness

Quiet is what she ask
So silence is our offering,
freely we gift it
And so sweetly she governs

No humans scream here
For we are not hunted,
Kept we are from pain
So content she is in blood

Her needs are our joy
And so jealously we guard,
For many suffer in Deadhaus
But with her we are spared

Outsiders be told
And know this truth,
If trouble is heard
Then harried you be by all.

– Skipari Midgard, Ageless Grimscribe

Bright crimson bloodmoon.
Intense bestial howling.
Ah yes! the werewolf.

-Varik Keldun

Dreams for Insomniacs

How is it that I falter when some have neither food nor water but, I lay awake nearly break ing apart at night fighting to sleep.
The tears come but I know not where the well spring flows from.
My mind fails me on a daily basis, I have come to accept this.
What I cannot accept is that I have little worth upon this earth.
I have neither direction nor ambition.
Sometimes its hard to bring myself to brave the craven world even in my own mind.
Were that I were blind to the injustice of this accursed malady that I call mine.
Depression is the only thi ng that makes an impression on this hellscape, I call my mind.
Even as I pen this poem They tell me I should be sleeping yet here I am.
Weeping for the sleep that escapes me.
Doing my best rendition of woe is me, auditioni ng for the part in a play called first world problems.
This may seem trivial to you dear reader but it bleeds me all the same like any knife could.
Not bleeding of blood but of my last remains of sanity.
I see no reason for vanity i n this world who gave you the right to judge?
I care not for what you thi nk, in the end all that matters is that I judge myself to have been worthy of my birth.

– Lord Scara, Ageless Grimscribe


The Power of True Names

Brothers and Sisters, you have been sleepwalking through your entire existence. You do not know even who you are or whence you came. Open your mind’s eye and find yourself, for you are not a thing. There is a truth and a power to you that they cannot fathom.

Take control and have power over those who covet you. Allow me to instruct you in the ways of magicks and speak pure truth to
those you despise. To understand true names is to have power:

power to overcome,
power to overthrow,
and power to dominate.

~3:12 – The Scrolls Of Lamentations
Tozsi, The Truth Bearer, Herald of the Dead and Liche Sage

Arcana obscured
Erudition wield, obsess
Liche, Apex magick

– Varik Keldun,
Ageless Grim Scribe

To live together
To die sundered by their friend
For power betrayed

– Jerion ‘Wyverntamer’ Kràl,
Ageless Grim Scribe

I hear him calling
My reality waning
I must go to him

– derula
Eternal Champion

The Summoning















The Stars Align
See through the great throng
I seek revenge by Deadhaus might

The Gate Consigned
Bind one devious and strong
Animus through most ominous rite

The Way Opines
Fetid Prince hear my song
My enemies must die by dawn’s light





The Old World

Remember, from where you came.
Brutal degradation, a torrent of never-ending pain.
Remember, the day you were created.
Hatred, malice, and slavery you were fated.

Remember, your mortal life so long ago.
Injustice, corruption, and unending woe.
Remember, the institutions you embrace.
The futile hope, witness their fall from grace.

Remember, the reason you are here.
Persistence, focus, give them fear.
Remember, what they did was wrong.
The Old World has made you strong.

~3:33 – Words
Ngaztak, The Leader of the Black Right Hand,
Malleus Odium and Revenant Poet


The Way of Truth

Studying the schools of thought around the Sacred Trinity is wise. Indeed, the physical, the magickal, and the essential are a worthy foundation to build upon, but this is not the path I exhort. Many are those who assault my character as being solely driven by hatred, and although I will not deny that hatred exists within me, I believe it is misguided to dismiss my philosophy as mere rhetoric.

Hear me. We are in a time where everyone lies. Layer upon layer of deception compounds the consciousness to the point where there are so many mistruths that the average individual cannot deal with the cognitive weight of the deception and eventually succumbs to despair and tyranny. There is no hope for the truth has been lost.

Follow me and let the truth be a weapon. We will cut through the lies and show them the way.

We will kill them all.

~3:7 – The Scrolls Of Lamentations
Ngaztak, The Leader of the Black Right Hand,
Malleus Odium and Revenant Poet

The Great Houses

The nine great houses and their gods fraternal

Six elder gods usher in war eternal

The runes of power the allow ascension

The octahedron promotes dissension

The all powerful centre is unspoken

Understand the cosmos to be awoken


Think ye that there is only one Death? No, for there are three, and therein is a great Mystery. For there is the death of the Body, the death of the Spirit, and the death of Containment. A wise servant of the Black Emperor can move between the states, like a bead upon an abacus or a firefly among the dead grass. One who embraces the three deaths never truly dies, but draws upon the pools of Body, Spirit, and Essence as energy. It is said by some that the false houses of men and giants and angels wield their own three energies, but we know this to be false. The only energy is Death and his three faces.

Translator’s note: the author of the Onyx Triad is correct about the three points of the Deadhaus triad but incorrect in his dismissal of the other houses. His perception of Truth is limited by his perspective. A Higher Truth is rumored to be spoken of in the Book of the Obsidian Octahedron, most copies of which were denounced as heresy and burned at the Grim Council of Anu Maht  approximately 10000 years before the start of Deadhaus.

A fragment from the Onyx Triad, a Third Empire Meditation on the States of Death

Grim Council

The Grim Council of Anu Maht sought to purge the Necroliberatas of all heresy in order to arrive at a pure ideal copy of this tome which would glorify only death. This task turned out to be much more difficult than it would at first seem to be, as many of the most charismatic of the spiritual leaders among the dead also harbored lingering attachments to their identity in life. As a result, many of the scriptures included in early editions of the Necroliberatas were distressingly life-affirming at the level of content and metaphor, because the authors tended to fall back on metaphors from their previous lives as humans.

Around the end of the Third Empire, the High Priestess of Anu Maht demanded that a group of her most powerful scholars would convene to purge the Necroliberatas of heretical passages, deciding once and for all what was Truth and what was Falsehood, thereby drawing a line between True Scripture and Apocrypha. A spiritual confrontation with Wormius the Heresiarch ensued, with the central point of debate being whether three principles (Material, Magickal, and Essential) ruled over all races, or whether a larger Octahedron of forces might govern over a multiverse.

What began as a mere editorial task soon devolved into allout spiritual warfare, with the Council burning many texts deemed heretical, while Wormius’ followers desperately tried to preserve their own sacred scriptures. Today, only fragments of the heretical gospels have survived, in torn and singed scraps of parchment that somehow survived the pyres upon which copies of the apocryphal Necroliberatas had been incinerated. It is rumored in faint whispers that, if one of the dead were to collect enough of these fragments, they would re-assemble themselves into powerful scrolls that would grant the power of a Lich. The servants of the High Priestess fervently deny this, but her edicts serve only to tantalize those among the dead who crave forbidden magick.

The Grim Council of Anu Maht

Banshee – The Threads of Fate

Written by shinybri

The pain was unbearable. It felt like a knife in her chest, with every breath the blade moving beneath her flesh. She couldn’t help it; she tried not to cry, not to cause the pain to worsen. Still she wept.

She could see the cause of the pain. A long, impossibly thin strand of crimson tugging at the inside of her chest, pulling her towards something she couldn’t see. There were others, uncountable, an inconceivable number of tiny blue strands she felt against her skin as she walked. There were so many the air was thick with an eerie, glowing fog that only she could see. Most of the strings moved out of her way like water, but only one drew her in. Only one wouldn’t let her go. The blood-red string cut through the rest like a blade, taut and straight while the others danced like mist around it.

She followed it, weeping in pain as she struggled to breathe. Why this one? She never knew; all she knew was she had to follow it. She had to make the pain stop.

The forest she traversed was thick, yet she barely saw the trees. Nothing here mattered but the cold threads she felt on every inch of her skin and the one red-hot spear in her chest. Each thread led to something, and if she listened carefully she could almost hear their owners. Humans talking, feeling, laughing, hurting. But not right now. Now she couldn’t hear anything over her own sobs.

“Who goes there?” A man’s voice. His string was blue. “Is everything alright?”

He took a step closer, confused and intrigued by the ghostly woman before him. It was the last mistake he would ever make. The banshee turned to look at him through the curtain of ever-present ethereal blue that clouded her vision, her eyes glassy and lacking pupils. She reached out a needle-like finger towards his thread and touched it. The wisp erupted as if lit aflame, a vivid red that shot down the misty blue strand towards him. As it reached his chest it pulled towards her tightly. When she felt the sudden heat against her own skin, she screamed.

The man didn’t get the chance to run. She held the red string in her claws, and all he could do was watch her once-gorgeous image twist into something grotesque and monstrous. He was close enough. He wouldn’t be given the chance to do anything but listen to her deadly shriek as his ear drums burst and his bones began to crack from the tangible force emanating from the gory slit that ran down her throat. It gaped open like the jaws of an animal, the inside of her neck hollow and yet something moved inside. His eyes would be liquid before he could process the vision before him – the woman in white turning into a horrific creature that moved the very air with its voice.

With the same needle-like finger she severed the red thread and the long flame was snuffed out, the string turning a putrid and oily black as it splattered onto the ground with the rest of his blood.

But her target was still there, beckoning. She knew not how far she would be pulled before it could hear her, but nothing would stand in her way.


Welcome to the land of the living
Here we are, alive and free
Oh, rejoice for our society which we are giving
Working to better our future, we live in harmony

Fredrick Solomon
What garbage are you a shilling
What of the missing, your mind is too willing
Our mighty institutions of justice do not care
With nowhere to turn, we must always beware

Rejoice, for he is mistaken
A defiler, justice has deemed him a waste
We grieve our misplaced, in time truth, will awaken
Extreme persecution will he will face

Fredrick Solomon
A mista ken moment of sobriety
I weep for our festering society
At its heart, the truth is asleep
We are better off dead in its darkest keep
The Thaeca n Empire vs Friar Fredrick Solomon
Beginning of Deadhaus Pilgrimages


Do you know that the heavens are reflected in Malorum? All that is in the cosmos is also in our land; it has only been obscured. But soon will come the time of revelation.

This is the age of scorn, where righteousness and piety are in vain, and every noble effort bears no fruit. Malorum is forsaken. Where once this land was blessed, now it lays desolate, bereft of those worthy to tread upon it. None now living remember the days of old. They speak in empty words, spinning empty tales. Only in
stone does the truth remain. The spirit of men has grown weary, no longer capable of
reverence or wonder. Mankind harbors no love for the world to which it belongs, nor veneration of the gods that formed it. Men scurry about in the shadows of their own iniquity like vermin, gnawing at the foundations of truth. Those who would be pious are deemed insane, while impiety is exalted as wisdom. Madness wears the
mask of valor, while wickedness is called virtue.

In forsaking its history, mankind has forsaken itself, and civilization is nothing more than a mockery of every sacrifice to which it owes existence. In the unremembered absence of heritage, dark things roam freely, mingling with the blood of men, driving them ever further into madness. And if this madness should
be left unchecked, the lands will heave, the skies will boil, and truth itself shall fall silent, as even the stones forget the hands that carved them. But we can cleanse this world, wash away the deceit in a blackened tide of death. We can lance the festering boil of mankind and let its reeking pestilence drain from Malorum. For this world is a reflection of the cosmos itself. It is a stagnant pool that, once cleansed, will teem with the endless lights of heaven, flickering like so many candles upon the altar of revelation.

4:30 – The Scrolls Of Lamentations
Ngaztak, The Leader of the Black Right Hand,
Malleus Odium and Revenant Poet


Some believe it is darkest before dawn,
that in the blackest hour,
hope springs eternal.
But I am here to dispel such futile dreams.
I am here, your grim upcommance,
in your darkest of all days.

Long ago, my hope was replaced by hatred, my joy by single-minded revenge. But this vengeance is not merely for you, your families, your empire of deceit, but for
life itself, the great betrayer. Life breeds corruption, arrogance, foolishness, and finally despair. It is a seedbed for the blight of the soul. You may pray to your false gods, but only I will answer, and that answer will be delivered as utter obliteration.

Hear me, I am not coming for you…

I am coming for all.

12:21 – Your Darkest Day
Ngaztak, the Black Hand,
Malleus Odium and Revenant Poet


Criers wear faces that you can never trust. Seamlessly, elegantly, shamelessly, they can enthrall the masses to their utter doom for the merest pittance. They would sell their entire family line for the next significant role. They are dogs; if you see a crier on the road, obliterate them for the world will be better off.

Fools, on the other hand, you can trust. They insult, profane, attack, and ridicule all with the risk that one day they have pushed too far to their inevitable end. They challenge you at every step. Angels disguised as demons to help point out your sins, risking all to help even if it brings great pain to the intended attack. Trust in fools, for although they are painful, it is often painful truth they exhort.

Ironic now that the Abaddon’s Maw took a fool. It has a thousand Criers, but one fool is too many, and he haunts me every time I pick up the weapon. He knows too much. I hate the jibes with all my soul but in the end better to listen to him than to a chorus of a thousand empty words.

Take heed, for if you ever have the choice, choose pain over pleasure because, in the end, wise words you will receive.

1:6 Scrolls of Lamentations – OF FOOLS AND CRIERS

Ngaztak, The Leader of the Black Right Hand, Malleus Odium and Revenant Poet

6:7 – Know Thy Foe

Men are fragile beasts. How easily their limbs pull free of their sockets. And yet, even limbless, they writhe through the dirt as if to flee. It is the singular nature of mankind to resist the inevitable. Their very existence is a parody of self. To some, they are to be pitied for the burden they bear, the curse of life. But there is no pity for the foe, and make no mistake, mankind is a foe. They may be one of many; they may be lesser than most, but know them for what they are. They call themselves the Thacean Empire. They rally under the banner of the phoenix, believing they have risen from the ashes of the empire that came before them. But once again, they are merely writhing in the dirt, struggling for just a sliver more of their miserable existence.

The legions form the spine of what could be called their military. Breaking them is of little difficulty, but for their numbers. True to their nature, they cower behind shields, buying precious seconds more of life. Striking from behind alleviates this tedium. Their weaponry is primitive–crude swords, axes, spears, bows. They threaten little more than flesh, and even then, only slightly so. The most experienced legionnaires may be promoted to centurions. These commanders embolden their fellow man with delusions of survival. I prefer to kill centurions last, so that I need not bother chasing after every legionnaire that flees in terror.

The Vanguard are a studier lot, by human standards. Plenty of flesh means plenty of blood, but these generous meals come wrapped in dead man’s iron, which means physical tools are by far the most tedious method of dealing with them. Unlike most who bear the curse of life, the Vanguard cannot perceive pain, nor do they ever stink of fear. This at least means never having to chase them, but also that their presence is almost always a delay. Still, for all their size and armor, they are only human underneath… at least mostly.

Death Stalkers, as they so arrogantly call themselves, are a deep vexation. They are never without silver, be it tipped upon their arrowheads or coated on their daggers. Their masks protect their fragile human constitution from disease and poison. Their goggles illuminate the dead, even in darkness, and their explosives come packed with salt. These insufferable hunters are well versed in the anatomy of the dead, never hesitating to strike an exposed weakness. But for all their weapons and gadgetry, Death Stalkers carry little by way of armor, and their spines are just as snappable as any.

I must admit a fondness for Hexblades. It is rare that mortals are willing to go such lengths for power. The curses they bring upon themselves are in turn wielded against their foes, which makes them able to contend with both physical and magical attacks. It is the latter which they are most proficient in facing. A direct assault with overwhelming force is recommended, as the creeping nature of curses grows more powerful with time. As with most of their kin, the Hexblades’ weakness is the fragility of their mortal shell. Crack it open, and the curses within will consume their vessel.

Mankind is not without magick. Though their mastery of the arcane is limited by their pathetic lifespans, a few of them possess enough knowledge to wield spells in battle. The Planeshifters are among these less common mortals. The Liches Guild has so far been unable to decipher their magick. The intervention of an Ancient is suspected. Planeshifter spells are capable of moving objects, or even armies, across vast distances in an instant. They can also manipulate the trinary states, forcing their targets to shift from one to another, and even trapping them there. As satisfying as it is to finally get your hands on one them, I recommend a ranged approach in dealing with these strange sorcerers.

Geomancers are not true magick wielders–not in the traditional sense. They do not invoke true names to alter reality. Instead, their power comes from a connection to Malorum itself. Through this connection, they are capable of manipulating their environment, shifting the weather to their whim. Expect unfavorable battlefield conditions when facing these wayward tribesmen, and be warned; they are capable of conjuring elementals far more durable than themselves.

The worst of men I have saved for last, at least of those I speak of now. Those of the Ashen Ring are by far the greatest inconvenience of the Thacean Empire. Both the priests and the templar wield the power of El’sabayoth, albeit in different forms. Ashen Priests, if uncontested, will restore their allies, thereby robbing you of the work you’ve done in wounding them. They may also bless the weapons of those around them, rendering even simple iron swords into blades that cleave flesh and spirit alike. Of the templar I say only this–no death is too slow for them.

This is a glimpse of the Thacean Empire, of its military forces. N’Gaztak is unconcerned with how they arrange themselves, believing them beneath our notice. In a way, he is correct, but not all of Deadhaus is so mighty as the Black Hand. We are without a doubt the superior force, but there are still losses on our side. I seek to remedy that. Victory alone does not satisfy me, only supreme dominance. Know thy foe, and it shall be yours.

6:7 Words – Know Thy Foe
–Zorin von Sigstrand, Lord Marhsal of the Shambling Hordes

6:6 – Last Word

All life is a union between flesh and soul. Without soul, the flesh lies cold as an empty lantern. Without flesh, the soul flickers out like a candle in a storm. With each birth, this contract is brokered. With each death, its obligation fulfilled. Then both return whence they came–flesh to dirt, soul to shadow. And so the cycle churns, from beasts in their burrows, to nobles in their halls, and the maggots that drink the eyes of both in the end. Each is bound to their contract, to a stipend of hours, or days, or years, a flicker of existence to be swallowed by eternal darkness.

Some learned folk strive to lengthen their allotted time. A few of them even succeed. Magick, sorcery, witchcraft, there are many names for the use of words of power. Yet for each extension of life so gained, the next costs more, until even the sacrifice of entire cities cannot afford the morrow. Death, though it speaks in only a whisper, always gets the last word. And that, as it turns out, is the key to eternity, not to break the contract, but to strengthen it. We do not endure through life everlasting, but by becoming wedded with death. Our flesh fails, but our souls are not severed. Even as our blood blackens and our organs putrefy, even as the maggots writhe through our hollowed guts, our consciousness remains.

Many are the ways to render an unquiet death, and each produces something novel. Some do it by ritual, others by feast, some imbibe curses, and a few have too much hate in them to do anything but keep going. Mine was a scholar’s path, through the study of teachings forbidden to me by a kingdom that has long since crumbled to dust. I no longer remember its name, for kingdoms, like kings, can only endure through death itself. When all the great houses have fallen, when their banners lie still as the last winds die, none shall remain but the house of the dead. No men, nor titans, dreams, nor devils, no nameless horrors lurking in the black, nor those of heaven’s fire can break this contract. And without their followers to empower them, even the gods will fade from this world… all but one of them.

Death always gets the last word, the final toll of the bell. To debate it is only to delay. And the living will delay, and the argument between houses will crack the world, but it will make no difference in the end. They do not realize yet that we are not their enemy. We are only their future.

6:6 Words – Last Word
Tozsi Mened, Archliche of the Noblesse

Grim Council

The Grim Council of Anu Maht sought to purge the Necroliberatas of all heresy in order to arrive at a pure ideal copy of this tome which would glorify only death. This task turned out to be much more difficult than it would at first seem to be, as many of the most charismatic of the spiritual leaders among the dead also harbored lingering attachments to their identity in life. As a result, many of the scriptures included in early editions of the Necroliberatas were distressingly life-affirming at the level of content and metaphor, because the authors tended to fall back on metaphors from their previous lives as humans.

Around the end of the Third Empire, the High Priestess of Anu Maht demanded that a group of her most powerful scholars would convene to purge the Necroliberatas of heretical passages, deciding once and for all what was Truth and what was Falsehood, thereby drawing a line between True Scripture and Apocrypha. A spiritual confrontation with Wormius the Heresiarch ensued, with the central point of debate being whether three principles (Material, Magickal, and Essential) ruled over all races, or whether a larger Octahedron of forces might govern over a multiverse.

What began as a mere editorial task soon devolved into allout spiritual warfare, with the Council burning many texts deemed heretical, while Wormius’ followers desperately tried to preserve their own sacred scriptures. Today, only fragments of the heretical gospels have survived, in torn and singed scraps of parchment that somehow survived the pyres upon which copies of the apocryphal Necroliberatas had been incinerated. It is rumored in faint whispers that, if one of the dead were to collect enough of these fragments, they would re-assemble themselves into powerful scrolls that would grant the power of a Lich. The servants of the High Priestess fervently deny this, but her edicts serve only to tantalize those among the dead who crave forbidden magick.

The Grim Council
of Anu Maht

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