The teleportation circle deposited Amithaera in her tower with all the grace of a sack of potatoes being hurled through a window. She stumbled forward, caught herself on the altar and false anchor that she used for correspondence… and immediately began sneezing.
"Bless you, m’lady," squeaked a nervous voice from the shadows.
“Agh… Thank you, Veratreez," Amithaera managed nasally between sneezes, dabbing at her nose with a silk handkerchief that materialized in her palm. "And don’t bless me anymore. Who’s doing the blessing? Magli-Bagli, or whatever your goblin deity is?”
A small nervous goblin emerged from behind a pillar, wringing her clawed hands nervously, “Ah, forgive me, m’lady… No more blessings…”
Amithaera sneezed once more, harder, bowing her head like a piston and groaning out in pain, “Ohhh… What in the sulfurous Hells have you all been up to in here? Why am I sneezing so damned much?!”
"We... We cleaned, m’lady. Just as you instructed before your… your trip,” the little goblin girl mumbled out the last word, smiling anxiously at her mistress.
The Necromancer looked around, pulling up the collar of her green dress to hide and protect her sinuses from further assault. Skeletons scrubbed down the pillars of her throne room, zombies swept the floor, one little goblin pushed another atop a stool so that they could dust the sconces. The place was immaculate, the effort of a few painstaking hours, and completely against what she had ordered.
Her eyes settled on Veratreez, narrowing.
"I can see that you think I said to clean," Amithaera mumbled from behind the dress collar, her tone breathless as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “But what I said was clean up, because of the dust affecting my allergies, not… not to go and do this!”
Veratreez looked across at the throne room, mouth half-ajar as she tried to ascertain her mistress’s meaning, brow in confusion. Finally, she asked, “But what about the adventurers that are coming?”
“Do you think that adventurers want to come and fight in a spotless throne room? Have they come to kill a diligent housewife, or The Terror of the Darklands?” Amithaera asked, shutting her eyes and jolting as she sneezed again. “Agh… And that damned smell… Pine again? You know…”
Her eyes strained as she resisted the urge to sneeze. It didn’t help, nearly doubling over with a hard jolt.
“... what pine does to my sinuses, you… you bad goblin!”
Just the mention of pine was making her want to sneeze again. Veratreez was curling up every time she did, trying to stay composed instead of afraid, and failing miserably.
"But m’lady, you commanded that we-”
"Yes, yes, I know what I commanded," Amithaera waved dismissively, dropping the dress collar and then immediately regretting her decision as the scent invaded her once more and sent her into another sneezing fit. "I didn't say to turn my tower into a domestic paradise!”
The little goblin bowed her head, one claw picking at another in a nervous tick, “It has… been a while, m’lady. This new batch of minions are only just so excited to please…”
Amithaera glared at Veratreez and then surveyed her entrance hall some more as the aforementioned minions moved around. A growing dismay built in her stomach. They’d been too good at cleaning.
Even the bloodstains that had given the floor such character were gone. The scenic cobwebs that had been properly cultivated were ruthlessly swept away by a grinning goblin. Perhaps worst of all, the strategically placed bones of her foes had been... polished?
"Veratreez," she said slowly, a finger coming up to point at the trophies, "are those the bones against the wall there?”
"Yes, m’lady. I had the skeletons buff them until they were shiny. I only just figured a skeleton would know what a good bone looks like… Oh, and Taravin organized them by size,” the goblin girl quietly stated, unsure now as to how her mistress might take this information.
Amithaera closed her eyes and counted to five in Ancient Elvish. It didn't help. She tried counting to ten in Infernal Script. Nope.
Veratreez had an inkling the elf might explode. A single-stepped retreat later, the reprimand finally came.
"Where," she began, her fisted hands coming up as if they held back the tide of fury, "is the atmosphere, hm? Where is the dread? Where, oh, where… is the foreboding feeling of death that comes from ascending the fortress to the most ultimate evil… on this side of the Darklands..? Hm, Veratreez?”
"We... We left the chandelier dusty?" Veratreez offered hopefully, pointing up.
Amithaera looked up. The massive iron chandelier, shaped like a writhing mass of skeletal arms, hung above them gleaming like it had just been smelted and buffed this morning, "That's not dusty, Veratreez. Not even close. It looks like we just had it commissioned, little goblin.”
"Oh, um…” the goblin deflated, pursing her lips. "The new vampire might’ve gotten a bit carried away in the hard-to-reach spots…”
"A bit… carried away," Amithaera repeated flatly. There was no time for this right now, not when Amithaera still looked like Nyssa.
She began walking toward her private chambers, to the staircase behind the far wall of her throne room, her footsteps echoing in the disturbingly clean space. Things would have to be adjusted before the adventurers got here, "Veratreez, how long until our... guests arrive?"
"Boros had said they’d just arrived in the graveyard, m’lady. I scryed the raven immediately when I learned of the news. Perhaps an hour and a half before they reach the outer gates?” The little goblin girl answered, estimating the time it would take to progress through a hundred vicious zombified creatures.
"Good. That gives me time to prepare properly. Very good," the Necromancer commented before pausing at the foot of the spiral staircase that led to her chambers. "And Veratreez? Gather the others. We need to… discuss some things.”
The goblin scurried away, her footsteps surprisingly loud in the acoustics, growling out in Gukliash to the other minions.
Amithaera climbed the stairs with growing irritation, noting that someone had apparently decided to polish the centuries-old handrails as well. How was she supposed to maintain her reputation if her tower looked like an estate for a pompous lady? Hells forbid she was slain and the adventurers found the place spotless…
Her private chambers were, thankfully, less aggressively sanitized. Amithaera silently flew across the spacious room and toward her wardrobe; a massive armoire carved from deathwood and protected by defensive runes that would obliterate any nosy individual that tried to steal her garments.
Beside the wardrobe, a collection of mighty staffs and staves. Those were less protected, more keepsakes from her kills than cherished possessions.
She threw open the doors and contemplated her options, giddy with the possibilities.
There was the classic black robe with the dramatic hood. That brought back memories, happy ones, of her early days as a Necromancer. The recollection of giving new life to her dead suitor would never fail to make her smile. Master Vernon, that cretin, was so proud that day.
Perhaps it was a bit predictable. Dare she say, maybe even too played out?
Her hands reached for a dazzling midnight blue ensemble, silver-trimmed robes cursed with eldritch dimensional pockets that would reach out and drag any unsuspecting fool into their void. The stars within twinkled in such a lovely manner, but perhaps they would be too distracting during monologues… and sometimes the tentacles grabbed at very inappropriate places on her.
Amithaera’s mouth opened up in a reverent inhale as she beheld her newest addition to the wardrobe of madness; a pitch-black dress with trailing sleeves, sewn together by a hellion that used only the purest soul essence as threads. The sleeves moved like liquid shadow behind her, creating a dark godlike appearance.
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The dramatic potential was extraordinary. Five foolish, dirty, sweaty, nasty, ugly adventurers against the most beautiful monster they’d ever laid eyes on, commanding an army of undead and empowered by her affinity for the legendary void magic.
"Decisions, decisions," she murmured with a low chuckle, then caught sight of herself in the enchanted mirror beside the wardrobe. She was still the villager.
Oh, the evil glare just didn’t sit well on her…
With a flick, Nyssa's illusion vanished, revealing Amithaera's true form.
Her auburn hair had lengthened and darkened to a colorless void. That sun-kissed skin, perfectly tanned, had paled to the reflection of moonlight while her ears had elongated to elegant elven points. The Necromancer’s once warm brown eyes had shifted to a deep violet like her late mother’s, and her late-mother’s late-mother, and… no, actually, Meewah Ylva was still alive, enjoying her bachelorette lifestyle in Solcairne. Good for her.
Amithaera was still beautiful, but it was the terrible beauty of violent storms approaching, uncaring and unyielding, with only one goal in mind: destruction.
"Much better," she said to her reflection, then selected the pitch-black dress, rushing to her bathing room to touch up her features. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it properly.
As the Necromancer prepared, she could hear commotion beneath her. There was the sound of furniture being moved, objects being dragged across stone, a few curses being thrown around as the minions no doubt argued about how to make the place… less appealing to the palette.
Amithaera, with her eyeliner sufficiently redrawn, grunted as she slid the dress down herself, exhaling out all the air in her lungs to slim down her form. She turned to glance at her side profile, hand on her stomach, groaning in disappointment and disgust, “Damn you, Hanvaro. May you choke on your delicious sweets, you… cur.”
It would do for now. At least the heels fit perfectly. The diet would have to wait.
Now that she was dressed, Amithaera descended to her throne room, where she found chaos in progress. Dozens of her little monsters were rushing to and fro, to and fro, some trying to scuff the floors with their boots while others drizzled bones on the floors.
A skeletal warrior was arguing with a dark smoky wraith by one of the grand pillars that lined the path to her throne from the entrance, chattering out, “No! No, no, you fool! Chains to the walls! Do not drape them around the pillars!”
"But theeey look sooo much mooore elegant this waaay," the wraith protested in its wispy voice, ultimately relenting to the advice.
"Crayma! You old coot," Amithaera called out to a hunchbacked goblin who was attempting to hang dusty spun cobwebs from the ceiling. "What are you doing?"
The goblin, the older specimen, yelled out from his place atop the ladder, “Creating the ambiance, m’lady! Treez recounted that you wanted the place to be scary!”
"Okay? So why are you hanging up cobwebs when…” the Necromancer began to look around for a special type of minion. “Where are the poison spiders?”
Crayma chuckled out nervously, slowly climbing down the ladder, “M’lady, they… the spiders are nesting… A temporary leave for maternity. They're expecting a clutch of a hundred!”
"Agh… Stop… Everyone stop," Amithaera rubbed her temples, turning away from the goblin and looking at the chaos behind her. "Everyone stop what you're doing and gather around."
“EVERYONE, STOP! GATHER ROUND!” Veratreez screamed to get the word out, directing the entire room's attention to her mistress.
Amithaera walked to her throne, where her minions had begun to assemble, whispering to each other and being shushed by others. Among them all, bone titans and goblins and skeletons and wraiths, a few zombies shambled slowly to formation, and a small teenaged vampire materialized out of a bat to nestle himself atop a bone behemoth's shoulder.
"Let me be clear," Amithaera began, settling into her throne and leaning back, crossing and uncrossing her legs when she remembered the dress's flaws. "I appreciate the enthusiasm for cleanliness. I truly do. It's just that we have certain... professional standards to maintain."
"We thought we were maintaining them, mistress," ventured one of the new skeletons, bowing his head as he took a step forward. "Everything is very organized now."
"Organized, but… not terrifying," she gestured at the room around them. "When adventurers enter this chamber, they should feel the weight of centuries of dark magic. They should sense the malevolence that ages of evil leaves in its wake. They should at least slightly fear for their immortal souls…”
"Ohhh!” Many of the minions oh'd out in unison, nodding in understanding.
Amithaera continued, “Now, I know many of you are new to the Tower. I fully understand. In fact, I blame myself, and even more importantly, I blame Veratreez for not properly disseminating instructions on how to prepare this throne room when there are adventurers afoot.”
All eyes and eyesockets turned to look at the small goblin girl, making her shrink down in unbearable anxiety.
“Shall I prepare the laceration whip, m'lady?” Crayma asked, grinning that sharp toothy smile of his.
The Necromancer shook her head, smiling warmly, “No, no, dear Crayma. There's no need. It's far too late for corporal punishment. I'll just add another decade to her eternal servitude.”
Veratreez's face became a massive frown, even as her eyes tried to hide the disappointment, “You are too kind, m'lady…”
"I know,” Amithaera admitted, and then commanded. “Veratreez, I want you to switch those lit torches in the sconces. Real flames, not those magelights you had installed. They're too cheerful for the occasion."
"Yes, m'lady."
"Petyr," she addressed the vampire, who had only just begun to pay attention, having been focused on sharpening his nails, "please go down to the dungeon and accrue some soot and skulls for the floor up here.”
"At once, mistress,” the vampire bowed his head, transforming into a bat through a puff of black smoke. The behemoth he was resting on began to cough in response, even though it had no lungs.
"Crayma, by the doors. Cackle when the adventurers come through,” she continued, and the goblin took off in a hasted waddle. “And someone, anyone, please tell me we still have Hilfrey.”
There was an uncomfortable silence between the remaining minions. They were hesitant to answer, so it fell to Veratreez to say, “M'lady, about Hilfrey…”
Amithaera sighed. Another little hitch just as she was getting into a flow, "What is it..?”
“He was, uh… outside by the meadows picking nightshade when the Talons began their assault. He's, um… currently dispersed,” she explained, her little hands opening up and mimicking a falling twinkle.
“Dispersed?” The Necromancer asked to confirm.
“Obliterated, even..,” the goblin elaborated, shrugging, narrowing her eyes and smiling sheepishly.
Amithaera frowned, "And his harp?"
Veratreez scrunched up her face, as if she wasn’t sure whether to speak or not, but repeated, “... Dispersed?”
"Wonderful. Just wonderful..,” she leaned back in her throne. "Well, I suppose I'll have to resurrect him after this is all over. Again. And retrain him on the harp. Again."
She looked around at her assembled minions, "Does anyone else play a musical instrument?"
Another uncomfortable silence. One of the zombies groaned out, “I can whistle.”
The Necromancer beckoned him to try. A whistling zombie was a curious thing.
Taking a shambling step forward, the zombified creature puckered his lips and blew air, his rotten lips flying off and landing with a squish on the ground, leaving him with nothing but an exposed yellow smile.
“Oh, ne'er ‘ind..,” he sadly added. Another failure. This was the worst rotation of monsters she'd had in a long time.
There was a time that she could count on her minions to be an effective force. Heroes used to come to try their luck against the great, and absolutely disgusting, Vernon Soulsword's final acolyte and her army of the undead.
Those were fond and distant memories, the golden age of legends and villains, conflict and showdowns, allies and rivals, with the occasional longing look across battle lines to some hunk warrior the size of a mountain.
Now these adventurers were coddled and soft, raised on slime dungeons and expecting to slay some sleepy-headed drake or a corrupted troll for easy coin and loot.
One of the wraiths by the great windows overlooking the approach to her tower suddenly seemed alarmed. He sank into the floor as a puddle of shadow and squirmed toward Amithaera, appearing before her and speaking, “Mistreeess… the adventureeers are upon uuus.”
It had taken them long enough.
Without further delay, Amithaera conjured her accursed crystal, her scrying companion that allowed her to spy on anything within range of her anchors. Just as the wraith had told, five bloody figures were rushing toward her tower to confront the great Necromancer. Their confidence was soaring after defeating her wandering monsters, surely. The pride before the fall.
The Iron Talons.
She'd been tracking their progress in the Darklands for weeks. They were a formidable little party of a Paladin, a Rogue, a Cleric, a Wizard, and a Warrior, banded together to deepen their pockets and rank up in their little guild. Amithaera was proud that her bounty had finally caught someone’s competent attention. It had been ages.
The Necromancer wondered if she was at five-thousand, or even ten-thousand coins nowadays. Their guild obviously knew she was still a threat if people were still picking up the challenge to find and kill her. Five-thousand coins, at least. Anything less would be a direct insult, and in this economy, it would be absolutely nothing to scoff at.
“Places, everyone!” She yelled out, clapping her hands. The curious minions continued to glance out the window at their upcoming foes.
Veratreez clapped her hands louder and repeated with a mighty roar, “PLACES!”
That lit a fire under their feet. As her minions scattered to their positions, Amithaera settled back into her throne and activated the smaller scrying crystal embedded in the armrest. The adventurers had burst through the entrance downstairs, and even now she could hear the battle occurring with the behemoths. It wouldn't be much longer now.
“Let's test that mettle, Talons.”
