Dusky soot fell down upon Soros. The welcome smells of sulfur and ash were prevalent in the air, as they were everywhere within the Ashmarch. However, here they were accompanied with an even fouler stench...the reek of rotten flesh. They were nearing their destination, the great tower of Morvos the Necourge. You could always smell the decay of the undead that inhabited that place long before even setting eyes on the black fortress.
As they approached the bastion, a rattling sound became increasingly audible over the ever-present rumble of the nearby volcanoes. Soros topped a hill, his minions following on his heels with the shackled ice witch being dragged along over the ash on a makeshift sled of sorts. Upon reaching the top of that hill, the fortress come into view, its imposing walls a meager half mile away. The fortress took the form of a great castle hewed of basalt as dark as the soot from burning coal. A tall, looming spire reached up from the middle of the keep, extending towards the heavens like the bony finger of a dead man abandoned by the gods. The tower proper was made of glassy obsidian that shined ever so slightly from what dismal sunlight pierced the ash clouds above.
As in for the incessant, resounding rattling, one needed to only look at the castle's battlements to discover its source, and be both horrified and awed at once. Hanging from the top of the battlements were the remains of hundreds of sacrificial victims and useless slaves, their bodies in various stats of decay. Hanging by rotting ropes and rusted chains, the grisly things writhed, twisted, and howled as the unholy magic that animated the corpses tossed them about like marionettes.
Atop the wall were hundreds more skeletons, though these clutched bows and stood still as statues, vacantly staring off into the distance. Soros knew that these skeletons were mindless constructs, capable of following simple orders but not of higher tasks such as distinguishing between a friend or foe. That was why a lone warlock stood vigil over the tower gates, able to order an entire army to be perforated with arrows with the utter of a single command, or simply have the gate opened.
"What fools would dare enter the domain of Morvos the Necrouge?" cried out the wall's watcher as Soros and his demons approached.
Soros and his minions tore off the heavy fur clothing that they had worn since venturing into the icy wastes, and tossed the garments aside into the ash to reveal the black robes that they had worn underneath, identical to those of the warlock standing in the gatehouse. Soros pulled back his hood, his visage instantly recognized by the acolyte on watch.
"I a-apologize for my arrogance, my Lord!" he stammered before quickly ordering the skeletons to open the gate and raise the many portcullises behind. A small grin appeared on the face of Malak, the demon amused by the effect that his father had on the lesser warlocks.
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