Four figures had climbed this treacherous mountain, edging their way along dangerous paths and narrow passes. Their robes were torn and tattered by the cruel winds, their arms and legs shaking, their limbs wrapped up and bloody from the rain and snow. Their suffering though was coming to an end. They had finally reached the peak.
From the top of the Rogmi Tis Moiras, the tallest mountain of Thenta, they could see almost the entire continent of Moira. Or at least, they would have been able to if it wasn’t the middle of winter and the encroaching snow storms had reduced visibility to a minimum. They hadn’t wanted to come up here. But they had no choice.
The Mireovok weren’t well known. They’d always kept to themselves, living on their own little moon, barely keeping themselves together. The Mireons were vaguely related to the Vohra and other, larger Panvok races, but millions of years of isolation had changed them into something else. Small, humanoid beings, with clawed hands and hoof-like feet. And unusually for a Panvok species, they had long, thing wings, with membrane attached to a long, thin blade. While their organic plating across their arms, chest and thighs may have been varied, their cold, dark skin made them look almost diseased and unhealthy.
As if they had a death-like appearance.
Maybe that was why other races avoided them. Or maybe it was the fact that the Mireons were known to suck blood out of their prey. Or maybe it was because they worshipped death and other nasty things.
Death was one of the reasons why the four beings had climbed that mountain. Normally, the Mireons would be at each others’ throats. Their four factions, the Pestilai of the North, the Polemi of the South, the Pinasmni of the West and the Phantaii of the South, had been warring for years. They would all be vying for territory and resources, trying to keep their people happy.
The other reason was desperation.
An alien threat had landed on the shores of Moira and had been slowly advancing across the little moon, enslaving the minds of adults and hatchlings alike. Golden monsters, harvesting the Mireons for their souls. Everything the Mireovok had thrown at the invading threat, from torrents of magefire to volleys of cannonballs and alchemaic plagues, to swarms of insects and entire armies, had failed. They were running out of options.
The leaders of the four factions were forced to work together, sending their four best priest-warriors up the Rogmi Tis Moiras. The Four Deathvok. The Horse-Riders of Victory.
Many Mireons had considered the plan insane. As powerful as their spiritual warriors were, there was no way they would be able to complete the ritual at the top of the mountain. Not in the middle of winter, where the storms would ruin their potions, high winds would blow away their smoke and their stamina levels would plummet. And even if the Deathvok did manage to complete their ritual, their Lord of Death would not come down and save them, would he? Would the Thantophor come now, in this time of need, when he had been absent for so many millions of years?
The Deathvok had prepared for this. Prepared for failure. Prepared to die. It was likely they would never return to their homes and families. Despite their acknowledgement of what may come, their hands shook as they prepared their potions and recited their incantations.
With the last of their strength, they dug a small hole into the very peak of the mountain, pushing away the snow. Their dark potions had been completed. Their voices were gone, stolen by the cruel gales.
One by one, they poured their concoctions into the snow-ridden hole and closed their eyes. The dark liquids hissed and bubbled, melting the snow, burning downwards. Plumes of black smoke began to appear, billowing up and spiralling off into the clouds.
The sky grew dark. Lightning flickered by, briefly illuminating nearby mountains.
The Four Deathvok stepped back, uncertain what was going on. No one had ever gotten this far. None of them knew whether they had done everything correctly.
Out of the darkness, something even darker clawed through. As it did so, the light began to return and the skies began to clear. But the darkness remained, clawing and spiralling around the mountain, before finally settling on a fixed point, hovering above the warrior priests.
The darkness finally took form, a form almost like the Mireons. It hissed and growled at first, unsure what had happened, before looking down at the Deathvok.
Whatever it was, it laughed as it raised its horrible bloody claws and spread its horrible black wings.
–
The Four Deathvok awoke in their homes, surrounded by their loved ones and their superiors. Their injuries had been taken care of. Their illnesses and frostbite had healed up and faded away. But a dark echo rang in the back of their minds.
That hideous yet glorious laugh.
The laugh of the Thantophor.