The Legions of Manzahar rise..



  • Each night they rise. Each night they stalk forth, baring the flags and banners of House Manzahar.

    From the North the trees twist and come alive, stomping forward to claw at walls and caravan.
    alt text

    From the swamps, the mummified pariahs and outcasts rise, leaking the decay of the once grand wood.
    alt text

    In the east where the outlaying farms have been attacked with ice and death. The sarcophagi of ancient graves are opened by black clad hands. The Knights of The Forgotten House rise surrounded by undead peasantry, some old, some.. fresh.
    alt text



  • The legions of Manzahar have gone quiet, in the face of the rising smoke of burning corpse pyres there is a calm. Like that before a storm.



  • It started at midnight. The final week before the attack on Tilverton, the promise of a brutal combat, a bell tolled once upon the Isle of Undeath and Count Manzahar was seen to stride with purpose afield.

    All across the North, the dead rise. Knights baring the Iron Raven that had fallen a dozen times or more, clamber to their feet picking up rusted swords. Like a black plague of death they become a frequent sight, those dark clad knights whom stalk for fresh soldiers for their master. The burning red of their eyes, wraiths in the night. Travelling alone comes with new risk.
    alt text



  • The woodlands surrounding Easthaven and the Moonsea Ride crawl with undead..

    alt text

    The hunt begins..

    alt text


Log in to reply