Even here, in the deepest chasms of the ancient dwarven city of Kraz-ke-dum, the taint of the unmaking could be felt in the air, in the very stone of the city underfoot. Despite it’s stench, the song of thousands of voices echoed in the great chamber, countless languages from the throats of nearly as many different races in perfect harmony. Magic hummed through the air, slowly coalescing in diaphanous pools against the stone walls.
Orik Hammerbeard the bold, King of the Undercity, gently lay his hand on that of a granite statue. “Even here, in the holy of holies things it’s all wrong. The Unmaking has corrupted this glorious vault, in which Ardenkul himself woke my ancestors,” He spoke softly, sadly. His mail-clad finger lightly traced the outlines of a carved rune.
“At least your people are going to be safe, dwarf.” The massive armored Orc at his side spoke, his voice surprisingly soft, though still harsh, as if spoken by a stone.
“Aye, everyone’s going to be safe.” Orik agreed. “I needed the reminder, my friend.” The Dwarf let out a short laugh. “Friend. It’s still strange to be calling you that. If anyone had told me two years ago that I’d count Grothmorg, Scourge of the North and Warmaster to the Blood Horde, amongst my closest friends, I’d have called them mad.”
“Hah!” Grothmorg boomed with laughter “And if they had told me that I’d be standing here, in the heart of the greatest vault of the dwarven kingdoms without having had to plant your head on the end of my axe, I’d have had them thrown to the dogs for lying to me, but here we are, Dwarf and Orc alike, friends standing in the face of something horrible.”
“I do wish we could bring the statues of the ancestors through, though. Its wrong to leave it all here to be unmade.”
Grothmorg sighed “When we had to abandon the eternal fires of the temple at Drosh Khaleen, I felt my heart was being torn from my chest. I know some of the crones are keeping brands of that eternal flame a lit, but I’ll never see those beautifully blood soaked walls again, those spiked minarets shine in the light of the burning sun. And the elves will never see their beloved trees again, nor the Imperials their yellow city... Everyone’s leaving everything behind.”
Both Orc and Dwarf stood for a moment in silence, listening to the slowly increasing chanting.
The sound of a horn tore through their melancholy revery. Grothmorg slowly blinked in puzzlement, glancing at the Dwarven King. “Who’s that? I thought everyone that was coming was already here?”
“Don’t look at me, I did too. We haven’t had any new refugees in months... I half thought the world outside was gone.”
They made their way through the crowded streets, dodging snapping gnoll pups good naturedly playing a ballgame against a veritable horde of Halfling children, Steaming Gnome contraptions, and human priests preaching to their followings, before finally arriving before the immense doors to the city.
As they ponderously creaked open, a crowd gathered, Elf, gnome, human, troll, dwarf alike, awaiting whoever was coming, awaiting whatever news could be had from the outside. A blast of cold air swept in, smelling of corrupting dead things and decaying magic.
A regal figure in faceless black armor strode through the doors. Behind him an entire army of similarly clad stood. With a voice that sounded like the claws of a fell beast scraping against smooth stone, the figure spoke.
“We, The Eternal Servants of the One Queen, come to seek hospitality from you, King Orik, as the world holds nothing left for us.”
“By the Gods, the Lich Queen? What was it she sent back with the head of our envoy? ‘The Might of the One True Queen lays waste to all before it. The Unmaking shall be Unmade before us?’ And now she wants our help?” Grothmorg spat at the emissary.
“She acknowledges that she acted in haste, and hopes that these matters can be put behind us.” the Emissary spoke, bowing slightly, though the arrogant tone never faded.
Grothmorg stepped forward, reaching for his axe, but the Dwarf king put his hand out. “Peace, Grothmorg, we promised sanctuary to all.” The Orc grunted, but stepped back, his hand still clenched on the handle of his great axe. Orik’s voice boomed “I welcome the Lich Queen and her people into this, the greatest of the Vaults of the Dwarves!” With a crack of lighting, the ancient wards embedded into the doors flared before fading back into nothingness.
“The Red and White Courts were bad enough, but the undead too?” The ork muttered as the lich army swept through the doors. Rank after rank of identically clad soldiers in black marched in, dragging a large wheeled wagon, the size of a palace, behind them. Behind them, a veritable army of men and women and children of every race trailed in as the doors started to close.
“Who are they?” The Orc asked the Emissary.
“Refugees of the unmaking to whom my Queen deigned to show mercy. We brought all we found here, the unmaking nipping at our heels as we marched.”
“Just in time, then. The Ritual should be finishing any minute now. Those doors aren’t opening again, I’m afraid. Ah, there we go.” A loud drumming sound, the beating fists of countless trolls against tanned leather, echoed through the brightly lit caverns, signalling for all to gather what they could and meet in the great vault chamber.
Side by side, orc and dwarf walked through the quickly emptying city.
“This is it, my friend. I’ll see you on the other side, I hope.” Grothmorg, Scourer of the Eight and Terror of the West, paused for a moment, and leaned down to hug his friend, the Last Dwarven King. “I still don’t understand why we can’t all go through in the same place.”
“You know how wizards are, all full of portents and wise words that mean nothing. They say that by opening the portals all over our new world, they will be able to seed the whole thing with magic, and keep the portals open longer. The longer the better, I guess.” The dwarf shrugged.
Grothmorg grunted, and walked to the front of the crowd of orcs assembled before a great glowing hole in reality. He turned to his assembled people, a hundred thousand strong, but still barely a fraction of what he had once ruled “This is it, friends. On the other side of this portal is a new world with nary a soul on it, empty, fresh for our taking. We’ll have our pick of the richest spots. we will make ork-kind great again! WE WILL BE REMEMBERED FOREVER!”
As his horde cheered, he stepped forward, pausing for a moment in front of the portal. Glancing about, he made eye contact with Orik, who winked at him, before stepping through. With a Grin, Grothmorg stepped through.
His first step was into darkness, and his second was onto soft grass.
It was a crisp night. The stars in the sky shone in strange constellations, and a single bright moon hung in the clear sky. Grothmorg took a deep breath, and sighed in relief. There was not a hint of the taint in the air. The Unmaking was not on this world, his people were safe. Already, he could feel magic starting to seep into the fabric of this world, and, as his horde stepped through, Grothmorg knew that this would be a new beginning for his people.
Behind him, his people stepped into their new home, many sighing in relief or simply falling to their knees. As the flow slowed to a trickle, the portal hummed for a brief moment, before bursting like a soap bubble.
“Alright! I need a count! I want to know how many made it throu...” Grothmorg stopped, stunned.
“Looks like almost everyone got through, boss” one of the many captains of the army spoke, before also pausing, stunned. “Umm... Boss... I thought you said this world was empty?”
In the distance, formerly hidden by the glow of the portal, were the distinctive lights of a city, a city larger and more massive than any he had ever heard of.
Just an Idle thought in my head for an interesting setting for an IOT. I have 0 thoughts on rules, mechanics, anything like that, and if anyone wants to take this idea nad run with it, go for it!