[b]Collaboration with Sicarius and Inspector[/b]

Despite the size of the Underkeep, the doors were large enough and the orcs arms strong enough, that some part of the echo of the pounding reached the ears of Bawzel directly. The Necromancer knew it was Vrikdarok. He didn't need telling. However, a few paces into his journey to open the gate a particularly attentive and eager to please Farrg ran towards him mouth ajar "Lord, it's.." 

The guard lost his train of speech as his body was flung backwards as if his chest had been impacted by the swing of a troll's club. The damage though, had been done by a simple flick of Bawzel's wrist and motioning of his energy. 
He was impatient as it was, deeds needed doing and he was not in the humour to suffer fools.

Still, even now, months into his reign, as he saw it, he was surprised at how idiotic some of his soldiers could be. What surprised him the most was their incessant belief that he somehow cared, or thought something of them? Bawzel was not some nameless dark lord devoid of a character or personality, but nor was he a king seeking to expand his domain. He was an agent of death, his followers simply served the process of speeding things up and allowing him to attain his ultimate goal. He knew that much of his seduction was arcane in nature, and as such some idiocy was to be expected.

The little ghoul barely dodged a flying Farrg as it stepped out from a small archway, dancing out of the way and watching the creature groan as it lay on the stone floor. There was a spark of delight as Mizat listened to the man’s labored breathing, noises of pain & weakness with every breath that left him; it was a radiant sight to the small ghoul’s eyes. The creature snapped back to attention, weaving its way to its towering master’s heels, its feet making a small thump noise with every step unlike the silent Bawzel. 

“You called?” Mizat chimed, swinging his head to stare up at the porcelain mask – finding it pleasant but always preferring what lay beneath. Swaying ever so slightly as it kept it’s time with its master “Off to deal with Vrikdarok, we are?” He nodded, not really needing the answer but enjoying the verification nonetheless. The swaying stopped the wisp of a smile on his knotted features. 

Bawzel was pleased that Mizat had joined him. The little creature existed outside of the realm of normal living things and was the closest thing to having a child the Necromancer would ever come.
"Indeed. I am going to deal with this orc. I think subtlety is the order of the day though. This one seems smart and headstrong."

“Subtlety” It spoke the word as if foreign, slowly and pronouncing each sound distinctly. His gaze leaving to stare up into the ceiling as it thought seemingly displeased. “As master orders” He brought back grey eyes to stare at Bawzel’s back, nodding as it took in the movement of each fold of obsidian fabric. Mizat didn’t like it, making negotiations and agreements with the likes of orcs but master knew best. Bawzel always knew what the best course of action was, that was what made the necromancer so great, so feared, he was intelligent along with powerful.

Making his way through the halls of the Underkeep, Bawzel reached the main foyer, Mizat still in tow. Stopping before the massive gates of the keep, Bawzel outstretched both arms in front of his waist.
"Let's greet the orc shall we?" He said to Mizat.
The room, in its cavernous entirety, suddenly went dark. The dozens of oil lamps which had illuminated the walls simply seemed to vanish. The hulking gates swung up and open quicker than any natural force could of pulled them. No light from the outside penetrated the darkness of the Underkeep despite the gate being open. Vrikdarok now stared into nothing but oblivion.
"Do not so lightly scorn the Dark God little orc." boomed Bawzel's voice out through the gate.
"You have come to this place seeking answers haven't you?" the voice carried no hate or anger, only seductive undertones and deceptive waves.

"And do not think that we 'orcs' fear the dark," Vrikdarok's voice carried strong, though he was no fool; the doors were opened with a force of magic, not bipedal hands. Axe in hand, he strode inside. "You seek to provide answers but hide yourself? You are no dark god. Just a child playing warlord." The orc's body was swallowed by the darkness, but the fire of his eyes was not suffocated. They burnt through the dark, surveying what could not be seen. "I smell you, Necromancer," the orc snarled quietly, "...and your pet." 

Though his footsteps once thundered across the ground, they were as quiet as an armored beast's could be. It was a fruitless attempt, though; Vrikdarok let the tip of one of the crescent shaped blades drag across the ground, screeching and throwing sparks behind him. "What do you want with our land, Necromancer? You raid and pillage and set seige and we know it is you. Yet you have shown no face, you stay shut up in this fortress like a coward." Vrikdarok spat the words into the dark, though his eyes were starting to see shapes. He had come to a stopping at what he assumed was the epicenter of the vile stench, the location of Bawzel and Mizat. 

His breathing was heavy. Not because he was winded, but because he still seethed with anger. 

"Coward?!!" exclaimed Bawzel. He moved and confronted the orc directly, bringing the pale lifelessness of the mask up to Vrikdarok's face.
"You traipse your win into my domain, and call me coward."
Bawzel shot a hand forward and attempted to pick the orc up by the throat.

Bawzel was closer to the orc lord than Vrikdarok expected and he had to backstep clumsily just to keep himself from the necromancer's grip. Nails raked across the gorget of his breastplate. Even still, they deflected off and caught against the orc's exposed skin, digging into the flesh like it was warmed butter. Hot pain shot through Vrikdarok's nervous system and relayed it to the creature's brain. While his opposite hand reached to clasp his throat, the other extended the axe in an upward strike, a feeble attempt to lop the creature's hand from its body. The attack was slow and unsteady. 

As he drew back a step into the darkness, the white of Bawzel's mask still displayed clearly in the orc's mind. It was lifeless, blank and nearly frightening. It were as if it was alive, somehow, piercing the veil between inanimate and sentient. He spat the words through clenched teeth, "Only a coward attacks from the dark! Only a coward attacks the emissary of a neighbouring clan when he has come to discuss negotiations for.." the orc hesitated, choking back bile at the thought of the word he was about to say, "peace." 

Bawzel had expected the orc to swing back in retaliation, much as he had anticipated that the orc would not be so easily caught. Predictable creatures, mused the Necromancer. 
Letting his hands fall limp to his side, the darkness subsided somewhat as the oil lamps seemed to come back into existence and illuminated the room partially.
"Peace?" remarked Bawzel. This orc was a clever one for his race, the Necromancer would have to thread correctly. For now, Vrikdarok would be of more use alive than dead.
"Peace isn't an option, as peace implies two separate entities."
Through the porcelain, Bawzel's eyes caught the orc's stare. Invisible tendrils lashed out from the Necromancer's mind, attempting to latch on and corrupt the orc's thoughts.
"What you mean to say it you wish to join under the banner of despair which will soon sweep the civilized world. Do not front me with such brash nature; admit your desires, give into your desires."

Matters of magic were lost on Vrikdarok. Matters of willpower, however, were not. The orc was of strong mind and stronger body. His desires were well known to him. The fuzziness of the necromancer's magic washed over his brain, trying to flog it into submission. The orc's willpower fought back, as was seen on his face: A strained visage, gritted teeth, a look of a battle weary veteran who had but one foe left to slay. 

The orc raised his axe, the pointed barb on its end levelled to the face of Bawzel, "What," The orc's words came carefully, hard to express as he fought the need to let the tide of corruption wash over and devour him, "I mean is peace for the strong. We have no reason to fight. There is no glory in death at the hand of a caravan guard. Give assurance that my people will not fall for a few silver coins and my army will fight with your bannermen." 

The orc's axe fell, the point digging into the ground. The words of the necromancer stung deep and the inner desires began to rush forth, his fortitude beginning to wane in the presence of such power. "Know this. My thoughts are of my people. The treasures I hunt down are for them. My inner desire," the orc closed the distance between Bawzel and he, coming face to mask, "is to watch Enduwin burn to the ground. I care not for riches or women. They can all die. Every man, woman, and child can turn to ash and be washed away to Ifreann." The voice growled from Vrikdarok's throat, but originated deep in his belly, where any supposed soul may exist. The eyes grew bright at the thought, dancing with the flames of the war to come. 

"Hahaha." laughed the Necromancer in a self-gratifying manner, full of malice.
"Then it seems we seek much in the same thing."
Bawzel reached up and carefully gripped the mask, and took it, holding it against his chest.
His bare skeletal face now confronted the orc. It was both a skull and a full head, almost intangible and beyond description and as black as the darkest cave. Catching the orc's gaze the Necromancer extended his free arm and placed it on the back of Vrikdarok's head and pushed slightly bringing their skulls into contact. 
"And burn it shall orc. Along with every soul that inhabits it."
Stepping back from the orc warlord Bawzel put the mask back in its place and it sat firm there.
"Mizat, take Vrikdarok to see Celabrin. She can inform him of our current movements. I have business that needs personal attention. I shall return shortly."
Turning back to the orc the Necromancer spoke more harshly than he had before, yet spoke softer words, "You and your kin shall be greatest swords and axes in the wave of despair. I would see you command a mighty brigand, much greater and fiercer than any single orcish war band. There is much to be done Vrikdarok."
With those last words Bawzel turned and strode away back into the heart of the Underkeep leaving the orc and ghoul alone together.

The touch of Bawzel's fingers, if they could be called that, were unnaturally cold. So much that they stung the orc's bare head. He rested his head to the necromancer's and a smirk crept over his lips. And then the warlord was gone. To the darkness, Vrikdarok whispered, "We shall see." 

His attention turned to Mizat, or as Bawzel called him. Vrikdarok took a step to him, the axe's tip dragging behind him on the ground. "You smell foul, creature."