The city of Midrod -part 1

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In the history books the year 1127e2 is often called the ”Dark Year”. The year begun with Mes'Okreber spitting out fire. Ash and smoke filled the sky, covering the whole known world in darkness. The world of Helitheren fell in a coma like state. Hunger and sickness spread like wildfire. But in the North a city seemed unaffected by these circumstances.  That city was like in another world. There was enough food produced to be exported to the hungry masses in the South. But in the streets of southern cities rumors and conspiracy theories filled the minds of people. The source of the high amount of food in the North must be produced by magic, and surely the mountain's rage was produced by the same people, for the food was not free at all. Someone in the North was making a huge amount of profit. To have that much food could only mean the Northern people were prepared for the year of darkness. So most historians recorded the Northern people as responsible for the misery of the people in the South. In the same history records the following year marked as the beginning of a new era. The year begun with the Southern people standing united at the gates of the Northern city Midrod, demanding the control of all the food storage. What happened next was a blank page in history. Our story take place at the seventh year of the third era. A lone man, standing at the ports of the same city. His name was Myrosi.

A Necromancer's Disciple

          In the far east of the Dwarven Mountains, where the Black Ridge stretches south-east, casting its shadows upon the Old Alliance-Road, rises a high menacing dark claw. Mag-Ogor, the Mountain of Darkness, has always been home to a large variety of terrifying creatures and the 2^nd era was no different. Back then, when the Alliance had recently been forged, living corpses roamed its highlands and lurked in its many caves, all answering to their master; Arthom, Garfereas a'Har.

          The winds were howling outside the mountain and their screams reached the heart through all the cracks and openings in the mountain's slopes. Through one of these tunnels a man walked, shadows played with the light from the torch he was carrying on the walls around him. Tall with black hair, proud posture and a longsword in his belt, a thin face with determined eyes, all these descriptions could fit any noble of the Indorim but there was something darker behind his cold eyes. He walked as if he knew the dark caves like his own home. He knew he was followed, and now he also sensed a presence in front of him, but he did not stop.

The cursed cave

“You will die today!” A voice echoed in Fenoam's mind. He was sitting in a pitch dark cave, leaning against a rock, barely breathing. It had begun as an ordinary day, and an ordinary hunting trip. He had hit a deer, but his aim had been a bit off and the wounded game ran into a cave. A cave that was regarded as cursed by many in Fenoam's village. There were rumours that those who had gone in there returned insane, or they hadn't returned at all. But Fenoam had considered the rumours as nonsense, nothing more than fairy tales to scare children from going into the cave, protecting them from cave-ins and such. So, without a second thought he went inside.

A Necromancer's Path

         During a harsh winter in the early 2^nd Era a boy was born to the widow Ameni in the small village of Deepwell. Being as pale and cold as he was, no one expected him to survive his first night. But as a late spring reached Deepwell and as it turned into summer the young boy Keemon seemed as healthy as any other of the children around him. But everyone knew something there was different about him, something that was wrong.

         As he grew up he never lost his pale skin or cold blood. He was a skinny boy with two tired ice-blue eyes and a thin face, framed by light grey hair.

         It took several years until something happened.