Consolidation An Ascension Beyond the Veil ( T.H.E. TvM Upgrade )

[TheThird]

Location: Western Borderlands of the Four Summits
​

The wind here did not howl. It groaned, long, low, and ceaseless. As though the mountains themselves resented the gash torn open in their western flank.

The wasteland beyond was a plain of silent ash, littered with slag-bones of creatures long dead, the life of this province had been sucked away, what remained was a husk of its former self. A wasteland of death and horror. It stretched endlessly, a grey wound under a choked grey sky, with no sun to mark time, only a faint orange glow that never shifted, as if cast by a fire too distant to warm.

At the threshold of this gap, where stone gave way to ash, a convoy waited.

A modest assembly by Eshkin standards: a spiked iron carriage, wrapped in rusted chains, its wheels half-buried in the dried-out dirt below. Flanking it, a cluster of Clan Metus infantry faces veiled, armour pitted from past campaigns.

A Warmaster of Clan Metus, hunched over and uneasy beneath a windless sky, stood watch beside a warded carriage. His armour was crude, bone-plated and bo, its joints stitched with chain cords made of scavenged loot of the last raid. A lantern hung from his back, dimly pulsing with the flaming light of a doomstone-powered lantern. He stood like a forgotten soldier left to weather in the elements, watching the horizon where the ash met the sky.

He was waiting for the outsiders.

Around him, a handful of Metus soldiery held their ground, silent, veiled, weapons unsheathed but still. They knew better than to speak too often here. The wastes had ears, and sometimes the things that listened remembered.

The Warmaster’s gaze held to the far edge of the breach, waiting. Two were meant to arrive, outsiders, not Eshkin, not known, not trusted. One of the soldiers shifted. “They should have reached-arrived us by now-now, yes-yes”, he muttered. The Warmaster did not reply. His gaze remained fixed westward.

In these lands, time was a suggestion, and death, a certainty.

@Seraphina Ivory @Naexi

 

[Seraphina Ivory]

She’d seen bad lands before. Burnt villages, razed cities, pest-ridden border towns. But this?

This was worse.

The wind here didn’t scream—it groaned, like something ancient mourning beneath the surface. A dying breath that never quite left the throat of the world.

Seraphina stood near the edge of the breach, boots planted firm where stone ended and the wasteland began. Her cloak whipped in the hollow gusts, ash clinging to the scales of her neck and cheek like it had a claim on her. Her scythe rested over her back, gleaming faintly despite the sky’s refusal to shed proper light.

Everything was wrong here.

The air tasted like rust.

The sky looked like an open wound.

And the land beyond was as lifeless as memory.

Behind her, the Eshkin convoy loomed—a rusting procession of cruelty and superstition. The central carriage squatted like a beast in pain, all hooked iron and war chains, each link etched with wards she didn’t recognize and didn’t want to.

She glanced toward the Warmaster.

Big for a rat, but still hunched like all of them were—like they knew some greater weight pressed forever on their shoulders. His armor was a patchwork of bone and metal, stitched together from past sins. The doomstone lantern hanging from his back pulsed dimly with orange hate, the glow flickering like a heartbeat in its death throes.

They’d hired her for security. Not for goblins, not for beasts.

No, the Eshkin didn’t fear what lived in the wasteland.

They feared what remembered it.

She turned her eyes westward again, across the ashen plains. The breach yawned like a split in the world’s skull. A rift, they called it—something ancient, maybe sacred, maybe cursed. And beyond it, things waited.

Things she didn’t believe in.

Not yet.

But she’d be the first to put a blade in whatever dared try to change her mind.

A chittering voice to her left snapped the silence.

“You—scythe-mercenary—quiet-lurker, yes-yes. You watch the breach, mm? You keep-kept us from death-stalkers, yes?”

Seraphina didn’t turn. Didn’t blink.

“I was paid to watch your backs,” she said coldly. “Not wipe them.”

The Eshkin hissed softly, but retreated. Smart.

She shifted her weight slightly, fingers brushing the artifact beneath her coat—a charm of grounding, her only ward against the warp of the lantern-light. The rat-kin didn’t trust her, and she returned the favor with interest.

Still, she had a job.

Keep the Warmaster alive.

Keep the convoy whole.

Get them to the other side.

Whatever that meant.

She let out a slow breath, steam hissing between her sharp teeth.

“Whatever’s on the other side better bleed,” she murmured, eyes narrowing.

Because Seraphina Ivory didn’t trust portals.

And she never walked into one without her blade drawn.

Tag; @TheThird

 

[Naexi]

"That's what I was thinking," A sultry female voice gave reassurance to the rodent guard of unusual stature. "I wasn't sure how many other, uh, experts you were hoping for when I heard about this mission, but you can bet I have been in and out of a few tight spots before," she mumbled to the rat thing in front of her and laughed nervously... but she could barely be heard over the sound of chain clattering over bone armor as the ratmen shivered - even while trying to make herself known she was apparently invisible. Naexi sighed, and walked between the assembly and up behind the head honcho, a Warmaster he claimed to be. She admired his glowing lantern for a moment before tapping

"Ahem, Mister- ah, Sir, Metus, was it? Pleasure to meet you. I am Naexi, clanless, as you can see," she unclasps the silver spider holding her navy colored cloak tight, and reveals that she has no outward affiliation to any nation or creed among her equipment, just the identifying splotches of grey that blend in with the ashy environment anyhow.

"I'm just the scout you hired, but you'll soon know all about these tunnels ahead of you. Now, is this all you brought as retainers?" the blue-skinned elf wondered. She had been through the underworld on occasion but these rats seemed like they were going much deeper, and she already knew that such delving would come at a cost.

From across the way Naexi saw a slithering creature, who seemed rather angry and prone to grudges. She allowed proper space for the time being, while she got up close and personal with the statuesque Eshkin, as she thinks the Rous like to be called. Curious creatures indeed, she needed to test their sanctity of personal space right away. From what it looked like out there, she had hardly any idea what she actually signed up for, hopefully this wouldn't be a wild griffon chase and shifty contractors like last time, she was finally broke if it came to that... She might even have to sell the dagger, a shame.

The first order of business would be finding some way to clean these filthy bastards, but she also forgot to pack soap. Their stench is going to be a problem... not just for her, but it stands to reason a perceptive demon will smell their putrescene from a mile away. The snake seemed to have a rather muted, alluring scent however, to Naexi's surprise. She shook her head and tried to make sure the rat kin had not already fallen prey to some evil spell, poking a stitch in his armor just to provoke any response at this point.

"And another thing, what exactly are these upgrades you kept scribbling about over and over in your correspondence? Could they perhaps make your pack less, rank?" she couldn't keep her mouth shut now that it had started yapping, but she tried to say the loud part louder and the quiet part quieter this time, as not to offend the warriors.

 

[TheThird]

The light was fading. Above the grey sky, beyond the thick, choking clouds, the sun began its slow descent, a red orb bleeding light across the distant peaks. Though unseen, its waning presence cast a subtle pall across the ruined landscape, as if the world itself exhaled in resignation.

The mountains loomed taller in the fading light, their jagged forms merging into a single black ring of stone and silence. The wasteland stretched vast and unmoving, the ruined remains of the Four Summits encircling all but the west. Jagged mountain ribs cut into the sky, towering and cracked, their shadows growing longer and deeper with every passing moment. Dust rose in slow, lazy swirls across the broken terrain, ash and cinder, stirred by nothing.

A slow turn of the head. A subtle shift of weight. The metal plates of his armour groaned like old stone. The Warmaster of Clan Metus spoke to the newly arrived ''We go-go now, yes-yes''

At his words, the convoy stirred. Lanterns were snuffed out, their dull glow killed. Veiled soldiers, still as statues moments before, now moved with practised coordination. The warded carriage creaked to life, its chains chiming faintly, filling the eerie silence. The Doors were opened, and the visitors would be invited to enter the vehicle. The Warmaster spoke again ''Strangers-Outsiders, I's am Warmaster Krik-Krak of Clan Metus my-my Master-Lord Hazak, the Father-Lord of Clan Metus, sent-ordered me-me to bring you-you to him, yes-yes, follow quickly-fast and we shall depart-leave, yes-yes'' He spoke rather quickly yet direct and with a tone of authority; he was no meagre slave rat who would be pushed around.

A Eshkin up front let loose a shrill shriek, as if he was calling to something, and moments later, a small tremor could be felt underneath their feet. Suddenly, the ground broke, and a horrific and ugly beast slithered out from underneath. This abomination would be fastened to the front of the carriage, and with its pull, the convoy would move across the wasteland swiftly.

He then looked at Naexi, the strange elf that had suddenly appeared, without them noticing. An attribute that could come in useful later on in their expedition. ''Stop-Stop with your touching, before you cut-hurt yourself, yes-yes'' he stared at her earnestly with a serious demeanour. ''Ask-tell Lord Hazak when-if you see him-him, yes-yes, I's don't-won't be able to tell you much-much, my mission-order is only to-to take-bring you both to Hell Pit-Home, yes, yes'', with that said he turned and entered the carriage, awaiting the two outsiders, so they could begin their track home.

The convoy turned southward, away from the gap and deeper into the shattered interior, toward the spine of the old world, where the soul of the Summits had once thrummed with power. Now, only the husk remained.

As the procession moved, the very air thickened. The wind, though soundless, pressed against the skin like memory, heavy, familiar, and unwelcome. Behind them, the breach to the west loomed like a mouth left open too long. And before them, the path bent downward, toward Hell Home, the heart of the hollow, where the flesh of the world split and the air felt heavy with death and corruption. A place of ash, of silence, and of truths better left buried.

@Seraphina Ivory @Naexi

 

[Hazak the Unfed]

In the lowest of all holes in Hell Home, in the darkest of levels. He stirred and mumbled, the world was changing, it had changed, it was no longer the place he left it. Dust clung to the stale air like rot to bone. Shadows hung limp across the stone, refusing to move even when the green-tinted flames from above flickered in the brazier cages. His single remaining eye, dull and blood-fogged, scanned the cavern. All was washed in muted greys. The world felt dim, like looking through smoke. The air was still, thick, not hot, but stagnant, as though time itself had gone sour. Soon the expedition could begin; he would serve his master's bidding and deliver to him everything he wanted. Serve and Obey. Those words, scratched at the edge of his mind like rusted claws, at every moment. Even when faced with the decrepit idea of returning to that place, that wound he was stuck in for so many years, he questioned nothing; he only followed. Before him loomed the corrupted pillars, etched into the black heart of the caves themselves, carved with ruins forgotten to most, and enchanted with spells none would dare speak. A doorway to the netherworld, a place of lost and damned souls crushed under the heavy weight of the ever-raging sands. He was one of them, a single soul, a fragment of hate made flesh, bound to torment.

Now he was free.

Cast upon this mortal realm once again, ready to spread havoc and chaos. It seemed Erovia had not finished its business with the Father of Clan Metus. The undead Eshkin stepped closer, studying his master's creation. The surface shimmered, thick like oil, rippling with each breath of the cavern. This portal, which had swallowed dozens of rat slaves and warriors, none had returned. Was it the portal denying them their return to Terra, or was it something inside the hellish landscape of the netherworld that was preying on his kin. Soon, he would find out for himself. He closed his remaining eye, the world turned dark yet so much clearer. Hazak saw what lived behind the portal: tangled forms moving just beyond the veil, writhing like worms in the carcass of a god. This was the truth. In the dark, he saw clearer than any living thing. He smiled, dry and hollow. The beast would walk into chaos. And chaos would know him.​

 

[Naexi]

Naexi did not dawdle, making sure to join the foot soldiers and the serpent woman as they marched. She wanted to get a sense of the tunnels that the Eshkin seemed to be already keenly familiar with. They seemed to be leading her to their "hell home," which did sound rather inviting. She wondered how the other mercenary was taking all this, for better or worse, Naexi attempted to make friend.

"I love your scythe, it looks rather brutal," she imposed her bipedal cloaked figure on the crimson cobra, the vibrancy of her red mane made the sun look a dull yellow. "I take it you slay pretty well-good with that blade-weapon." she pokes fun at the repugnant Rous once she had the snake girl out of earshot.

She opened her cloak to flash her own sheathed dagger with a frosted silver hilt and dual sapphires, though one seemed to have lost its shimmer especially in the dust and fog that descended upon them. She closed her cloak and tucked her ivory hair back behind her sharp ear, saying, "Let us get to cover, wherever it is they are taking us..."

 

[Seraphina Ivory]

The snakewoman did not like being followed.

She liked being watched even less.

So when the elf with too much cloak and not enough silence stepped up beside her, grinning like a child at a market stall, Seraphina’s hand flexed by instinct—not to draw, but to measure. Distance. Weight. Intent.

The scythe over her shoulder stayed sheathed, but her eyes flicked toward the elf’s dagger the moment it flashed beneath that gaudy cloak. Sapphires. Delicate things, dulled now by travel and poor maintenance. Likely more decoration than weapon.

Naexi, she’d called herself. Scout. Clanless.

Too bright for this place.

Too loud.

Seraphina’s tongue flicked against the roof of her mouth, subtle but deliberate—a rasping sound like wet sand being ground between teeth. A warning.

“I don’t slay well-good,” she said, voice as smooth and slow as pouring oil. “I slay finally. There’s a difference.”

She let the words sit like rot, turning her head just enough to meet Naexi’s gaze with one pale, reptilian eye. There was no hatred in it—just caution, laced with the patient disdain of a creature accustomed to solitude and silence. She wasn’t interested in friendship. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“And don’t poke fun at things that twitch in corners,” she added, nodding subtly toward the Eshkin ahead, “unless you’re sure they can’t smell your blood humming.”

The rattling of chains and the groan of shifting armor filled the quiet between them again. The Eshkin marched like ants—purposeful, tireless, deaf to all but orders and rot. Their stench wasn’t just putrid—it was loud. Naexi was right about that, at least. But Seraphina didn’t plan to voice agreement. Agreement led to familiarity. Familiarity led to weakness.

She gave a curt nod toward the carriage and the breach they moved toward.

“You want cover?” she hissed, her tail coiling tighter beneath her robes. “You’re walking into the belly of a beast that forgot it was hungry. Cover’s an illusion. So is safety. Don’t ask for either.”

Her gaze lingered just a moment longer, then turned ahead—watching the Warmaster as he barked orders in that strange, guttural cadence. The thing that had burst from the ground now slithered before the convoy, pulling them into the deeper dark. Seraphina did not flinch. She’d seen worse. She’d been worse.

Behind them, the breach remained. A mouth, unclosed.

Before them, Hell Home. A throat, waiting.

“Just don’t walk too close,” she murmured at last. “I bite back.”

Then, without another glance at the elf, Seraphina pressed forward into the ash-choked dusk, her silhouette swallowed by the shifting shadows of the Summits.

Tag; @Naexi @TheThird @Hazak the Unfed

 

[Naexi]

Thoroughly disappointed - but not surprised by the snake woman's curt responses - Naexi sighed again and stopped in her tracks. Some of what she said was true; there is a difference between finally and good, and cover did reveal itself to be a trap at times... It was nice of the slayer to give such a pertinent reminder, as Naexi hadn't realized just how desperate she had become in recent months. However, the rest of what the snakewoman hissed at her seemed to go over Naexi's head, or just didn't make any lick of sense, she wasn't sure.

She watched Seraphina slither ahead with the rest of the Eshkin retainers. Naexi hoped their pace wouldn't get any slower. She trailed behind until she was dead last in the marching order of the caravan, and watched behind them to make sure there was nothing out there on the horizon as the Metus soldiers and Seraphina kept toward the tunnels. She did consider brushing away the carriage tracks and dozen sets of footprints with an illusion, but the ashlands seemed like they were seldom traveled through as it is, and Seraphina may find that just another futile attempt at cover.

"Just what I get for trying to use flattery on a cold-blooded serpent brain, Naexi you dimwit..." she breathed to herself, and tried to match the dramatic sway with which the Eshkin walked. With her hood pulled back down to the ridge of her brow and the spider brooch clasped tightly against her collar, she used the cloak's Disguise ability to make herself appear as one of the clan - once she had a small sense for their marching patterns.

 

[TheThird]

The journey had come to an end, yet it was only the first step in a far deeper descent. Beneath the choking sky and the flicker of doom-forged flames, the Warmaster stood motionless, his gaze sweeping over the convoy. His warriors, though worn by the wastes, stood firm. The two outsiders, hand-picked for their resilience, were present, or nearly. One was missing.

Gone without a word. A desertion, or something worse. Perhaps she had never intended to arrive at all. A spy, maybe, hiding behind false purpose, using the Maw’s invitation as a key to breach their heartlands. A costly mistake.

If she’d fled into the wastes, the wild things would find her. They always did. Horrors that howled beneath the dunes. If not them, then the tunnels would claim her, miles of winding dark, humming with madness, hungering for the minds of the weak. She would wander until she forgot her name, her shape, her purpose, until all that remained was a husk, hollow and weeping in the black.

The Warmaster felt no anger. No concern. She had made her choice.

The tunnel spat them out like phlegm, wet stone, rusted rail, and the heavy groan of carved earth echoing behind them. The convoy rolled from the subterranean dark into the ashen twilight that hung perpetually over the crater's lip. They had arrived. Hell Home them in its hideous glory.

Ahead of them, the land broke and fell away, a monstrous wound in the earth where once stood the dwarven capital of Krag-Duraz. Now, only a smouldering abyss remained, blackened by ash, tainted by warp-sorcery, and alive with movement. Smoke curled upward from unseen furnaces. Shifting silhouettes moved far below, swarming like ants across a charred wound.

The Warmaster dismounted first. His boots hit the stone with a dead thud. Around him, the air was thick with toxin, a flickering fog that reeked of burning metal, wet fur, and scorched marrow. The soldiers behind him covered their faces, but it was of little use. The doomstone haze here was dense, disorienting. Already, one scout was muttering to himself, eyes wide with shapes only he could see.

Quickly, an Eshkin slave rat would approach the convoy, and amidst his belongings was a bag filled with makeshift gas masks. Made of grafted leathers and crude tubes, these would be given to each member of the newly arrived. ''Wear them or don't yes-yes, some like the visions-horrors that come-come they say-speak it shows-open them the future-past'' The Warmaster uttered their way before moving to the lift ahead, without a mask.

Before them stretched a labyrinth of bridges and scaffolded tunnels, jutting from the crater’s black walls like iron bones. Chains thicker than trees hung across the chasm, suspending cages, war platforms, and clusters of Eshkin hives like tumours. Some cages swayed gently in the wind. Others convulsed.

There were no gates. No road to pass through. Only a spiral descent into madness. Below, Hell Home pulsed, its forges and birthing pits alive with movement. Monstrosities skittered across scaffolds. Furnaces vomited pale green fire. The deepest levels stirred, far beyond sight, where even the Maw’s maschinists whispered of things unaligned, forgotten by all gods and demons alike. A banner was raised. Rusted, frayed, but unmistakable, the Maw’s jagged sigil, daubed in something too dark to be blood, too thick to be ink.

The Warmaster turned once more toward the others, voice ragged from the journey. “We’ve reached-arrived the edge. What waits-waits beyond is Hell Home. Step-Step carefully-slow. Speak less-less.” Then, he stepped forward onto a makeshift iron platform, a lift of sorts. The path would take them downward now, into the heart of the crater, where sanity bled away like warmth from bone.

And somewhere far below, something stirred. Watching. Waiting. Hungry.

@Naexi @Seraphina Ivory