A small, shambling noise. A quiet, nearly inaudible shuffling from the side of the room. A figure, small in stature, emerges from the left of Iron; inside the shadows. Iron, already dismayed at his situation, cared not to even bother giving this apparition a second look; Korinthine couldn't stop staring. She instantly recognized what it was. A small, lowly undeath runt. It walked, ever so carefully; Korinthine stunned in it's presence. Korinthine, nearing the fiend reaching Iron, lashed out and flung spell after spell, flame after flame, weapon after weapon towards the beast, to no avail. As it reached Iron, the small creature touched Iron's arm. Korinthine, upset and bewildered by the existence of a remnant from the long dead Nhaulik, charged the beast. She steadied a flame and blew it into the creature, only to be met with burns upon herself. The creature slowly dissolved into nothing but a puddle. Her eyes burrowed through the earth in rage, she bore into the ground with feverish contempt to grind every last remnant of the creature to dust. As she awoke from her rage, she began incanting another spell unto Iron, only to be met with an injury upon herself once more. From the far corner of the room, in the dark, thirty lights awoke from the murky shade; Korinthine suddenly pressed into the floor. A ghastly, pained voice rung from the darkness, stepping forth into the light.
"YOU. CANNOT. KILL. WHAT. IS. ALREADY. DEAD."
A sharp, blackened blade slices into her back, pressing harder and harder until she was nearly part of the stone ground. Iron, now clad in necrosis, fell from his imprisonment upon the wall. He coughs, a pained ring from inside, yet nothing he hadn't felt before. He stands, now with his armor half tainted black. As his vision came to from being drained of his life, he recognized the coat of souls. Nhaulik. He fervently asked what had happened to it for all those years, with a cold, solemn response it answered:
"ONCE. REMOVED. TWICE. RETURNED."
Despite how much Iron wanted to know about his fellow God, he left the scene with his men in an attempt to break free from Korinthine's grasp. As he left, he heard a small fraction of conversation:
"You were imprisoned! Tortured! Cast aside into the flame of Izalith!"
silence.
"Why can't you even die correctly?!"
once more, silence.
"How are you here?! What are you?! What are you made of?!"
A pained, shaky voice broke the silence:
"GOOD. PEOPLE."
Iron blacked out.
Unto present day, after my collapsing of the ASVR, I sit here. Regaling & transcribing the story of this tired, Old God. Let it be written, from the mouth of Iron, these were his exact words.
I am Wes. Current ruler of the Astral Sea, furtherer of ranged weaponry. As my weary hand lay dormant on these now filled pages, so to does Iron's weary eyes. I am no more but a humble aspirant, wishing to here and tell forth the life and times of the Old Gods. As I wish to write the history of Nhaulik, Korinthine, Luwarin, some stories are meant to fade into the black, murky shade of the night; forever to be remembered in legend, grandiose and bright.
However long I may live, I will tell these stories, to adults and children far and wide. Iron: whom now can not speak, nor hear: I will.
Forever & Always.
~ Wes R. Sigismund