Darkness. Death. Decay. The cruel and inevitable passage of time. The unforgiving fate, the very doom which the Tower sought to bring to the decreped heretics of a blasphemous new era, the very harbinger of plague and disease, fallen to the fates, and now at the mercy of the gods. It was not long ago the Great War was fought. The unquenchable thirst of darkness filled with the lust of destruction as the legions of Minax consumed the lands of Britannia.
Side by side, the Tower and Minax fought against a pestilence that had consumed the lands of Sosaria, and that had broken the ties of the dark brethren. Married by the same vows to end the reign of Lord British and to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, The Cabal and Na-Krul aided the generals of Minax. The battles were long and fierce, blood was spilt, and the souls of the pathetic heathens were claimed in the name of Darkness, in the name of the Tower.
First in the South, Na-Krul led his minions of darkness against the newly sprung alliance of liberation, aiding the lich Juo’nar, and solidifying his reign by hunting down the paladin lackey Dupre. Then in the north, as the orcish hordes were fed by the hatred of their enemies, Lord Blackwolf conspired with Keeonean, bringing the downfall of Yew, and the raiding of Avalon.
Victory was ours, and all fled from the might of the newly formed alliance of darkness. British was defeated, and the world was once again Sosaria, our Sosaria. There was never a time the Tower stood so proud, its walls filled with the satisfaction of blood shed, the spreading of enlightenment, and the boastful preaching of dark ones. The wails of the tormented echoed throughout it, the well of souls overflowed with the drunken rage of all who had felt the dark justice of Na-Krul, yet the void was still there, the need, the revenge.
The lackeys of Virtue, the followers of British, the heathens that once stood against the Tower, they would not escape the wrath of a thousand years oppression. The forces of Darkness were once again called upon. The remaining forces of the alliance of virtue had gathered within Avalon, Na-Krul’s conquest had not yet been completed. Once again, Lord Blackwolf led his "ominous cloud of doom" towards the war-torn lands of the north…only to find defeat.
Now, as night once again falls upon the Tower, the shadows of the past can again dance on our blood stained walls. The dim flickering light of the candle reveals the waste, the decay, and the illusion of the Dark Tower’s present grandeur as if mocking it with every gasp of air it can consume.
The library is now barren and destroyed, its knowledge scattered to the Four Corners of the world. The once great pentacle, the very circle of ritual that accepted the blood of the innocents, empty and yearning for souls. The only sound now heard is the echoes of the ghostly apparitions haunting the present with the damnation of the past.
This has become the fate of the Dark Tower. I can only mourn the fate that had befallen the once mighty legion of Darkness and the temple of Na-Krul. Abandoned and betrayed by the wench Minax, the forces of Lord Blackwolf were routed and slaughtered within the lands of the north. The very force that helped guide Minax to victory was left to rot as the overwhelming numbers crushed the then dwindling life of the Dark Tower. It was after the defeat the body of my master was discovered resting upon the great pentacle, his glorious arms stretched out embracing the death they yearned for.
His hands were twisted like that of a daemon’s claw attempting to clutch the last bastion of power he had possessed. His chilling glare, staring into space as if beseeching the very heavens to reign a fiery death upon the world, finally satisfying his thirst for destruction. Na-Krul, my master, was dead…
Side by side, the Tower and Minax fought against a pestilence that had consumed the lands of Sosaria, and that had broken the ties of the dark brethren. Married by the same vows to end the reign of Lord British and to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, The Cabal and Na-Krul aided the generals of Minax. The battles were long and fierce, blood was spilt, and the souls of the pathetic heathens were claimed in the name of Darkness, in the name of the Tower.
First in the South, Na-Krul led his minions of darkness against the newly sprung alliance of liberation, aiding the lich Juo’nar, and solidifying his reign by hunting down the paladin lackey Dupre. Then in the north, as the orcish hordes were fed by the hatred of their enemies, Lord Blackwolf conspired with Keeonean, bringing the downfall of Yew, and the raiding of Avalon.
Victory was ours, and all fled from the might of the newly formed alliance of darkness. British was defeated, and the world was once again Sosaria, our Sosaria. There was never a time the Tower stood so proud, its walls filled with the satisfaction of blood shed, the spreading of enlightenment, and the boastful preaching of dark ones. The wails of the tormented echoed throughout it, the well of souls overflowed with the drunken rage of all who had felt the dark justice of Na-Krul, yet the void was still there, the need, the revenge.
The lackeys of Virtue, the followers of British, the heathens that once stood against the Tower, they would not escape the wrath of a thousand years oppression. The forces of Darkness were once again called upon. The remaining forces of the alliance of virtue had gathered within Avalon, Na-Krul’s conquest had not yet been completed. Once again, Lord Blackwolf led his "ominous cloud of doom" towards the war-torn lands of the north…only to find defeat.
Now, as night once again falls upon the Tower, the shadows of the past can again dance on our blood stained walls. The dim flickering light of the candle reveals the waste, the decay, and the illusion of the Dark Tower’s present grandeur as if mocking it with every gasp of air it can consume.
The library is now barren and destroyed, its knowledge scattered to the Four Corners of the world. The once great pentacle, the very circle of ritual that accepted the blood of the innocents, empty and yearning for souls. The only sound now heard is the echoes of the ghostly apparitions haunting the present with the damnation of the past.
This has become the fate of the Dark Tower. I can only mourn the fate that had befallen the once mighty legion of Darkness and the temple of Na-Krul. Abandoned and betrayed by the wench Minax, the forces of Lord Blackwolf were routed and slaughtered within the lands of the north. The very force that helped guide Minax to victory was left to rot as the overwhelming numbers crushed the then dwindling life of the Dark Tower. It was after the defeat the body of my master was discovered resting upon the great pentacle, his glorious arms stretched out embracing the death they yearned for.
His hands were twisted like that of a daemon’s claw attempting to clutch the last bastion of power he had possessed. His chilling glare, staring into space as if beseeching the very heavens to reign a fiery death upon the world, finally satisfying his thirst for destruction. Na-Krul, my master, was dead…