Once, there was a fertile land with no equal in the lands of Tenaria, known locally as the Onyx Coast.  It was called Irrenor, and its rich dark soil was strong enough to cultivate life of any type.  In the beginning, before it even had a name, only the plants lived there.  They were varied and many, some which have not been seen since that time.  The climate through the lands varied; and each bore life of varying types.  The temperate lands of the western plans were well suited to grapes, olives, and vines of all nature.  The warmer, more humid lands to the south were home to a great forest, lush with leafy vegetation and foliage.  The cooler lands to the north and east were rolling grasslands, filled with bush and shrub of all kinds.

Over time, the lands changed, but the soil remained strong.  Eventually the foot of Man walked the lands of Irrenor, and named it as such.  One of the first of these was Kephan Irrenor, who claimed the lands and gave them their name.  He was the father of Kings, the cultivator of the lush and great beauty that is Irrenor.  His line was blessed by the lady of the Earth, to always bear true so long as they kept the land strong.  They did so for many generations, even through the twisting of the Spine, the wars of Men and Gods, and the Chaos that followed the Exile.

Alas, the beauty of Irrenor grew too great.  During the time known simply as the Great War a young prince named Phentos Irrenor, Thirteenth of that name, was born.  As is the way of things, this young prince eventually became a young King, his father falling to the indefatigable strength of time.  His reign was seen as a time of great glory for the Kingdom of Irrenor, now grown powerful and wealthy as a result of her fertile soil.   This young king was visited by an old man, far older than he realized.  This old man had the tongue of a serpent, and it tickled the king’s ear.  It whispered that he should be the king’s advisor, a source of wisdom to help temper his youth.  And the king heard this and thought it was well.

This king, at the behest of his advisor, did decide that the Sigil of Irrenor – a crest whose origins were lost in antiquity – was no longer a fitting symbol for his powerful empire.  His advisor knew a man, though from whence it was never clear, who was skilled in the mystical art of Runes.  He would carve for this king a Great Rune, one to last the Ages, to serve as Sigil for the new Empire of Irrenor.  This king thought that it would be fitting, and so brought the man in to begin his work.

For a decade the Runecarver did work, the beauty and intricacy of his work apparent to all.  Each year, he would come to the King and ask him what his desires for the Rune might be.  Each year, it seemed, the powers demanded of the rune were greater.  “I would have strength and power to those of my Line, may it last into eternity”, “I would have those who serve show unending loyalty, like we were brothers in blood.”  Greater and greater grew the requests, each accompanied by a few drops of blood which the Runecarver used to link the power of the Rune to this king.

Finally, the Runecarver returned to the king, no longer young.  He told of the need for a guardian, one who would grant power to the requests and protect them through the ages.  He asked the King, grown impatient for results, what type of guardian he would have.  “One who is powerful enough to see you finish,” the king snapped, clearly impatient “One who will finally be able to demonstrate the greatness of my line throughout the ages”.  The Runecarver nodded, smiling, and did as the king asked.  On the 10th day, of the 10th month, of the 10th year of his work, the Runemaster – a carver no longer, with his work of this day – did complete the new Sigil of Irrenor.

Nothing is known of what happened this day, even those who live on were consumed by the force of the magic.  When it was finished, the Runecarver was gone, and the Irrenor King had been changed.  His advisor, still with him, did whisper into his ear once more.  He told him of the results of his efforts; he disclosed to him details that filled the newly transformed king with Horror.  The Rune to which he had bound himself, his line, was the Final Rune.  Its meaning, as all Great Runes, was all of the many and varied ways in which its root could be described.  And at its root, apparent only to those bound to it, was the sigil of Oblivion.

——-

The Throne Room of Irrenor was pitch black, as it has been for millenia.  No torches burn; none are needed by those present.  Though there is no light, they can see.  The darkness clings to them like a familiar friend, soothing with its cool touch.

The King, now old – much older than he ever thought he would live to see – stands before his great throne, dressed in his finest clothing.  Atop his brow rests a crown, the same crown which his ancestor Kephan had forged for his coronation.  Though he had many crowns, this one best suits the days intent.  It weighs heavily on him, a reminder of the kings who had come before.

Only one other is in the throne room with him.  Kneeling at the foot of the stairs is a strange man.  Running smoothly down the center of his body is a seam, which connects two halves.  On one side, his skin is pale; as if he has been bled of all the vitality within him.  He looks like a common born man, his face carrying the weight of a life spent out in the sun. On the other, his skin is black and smooth, as if carved from a pitch black stone which had been carefully polished.  Throughout this smooth flesh are a number of ridges and small spikes, lending a sinister look to his polished exterior.

The man on the floor wears fine clothing as well, which accentuates the differences.  Dressed in dark colors which appear almost black in the darkness, it is styled in such a way that it looks like the dark half of his body is encroaching upon the light.  A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth, never on the human-seeming side, always on the other.  His hair is the only part of him which seems normal, draping down his skull to hover just above his shoulders.

The Old King sighed as he looked down at the man.  He did not look right without his armor – this finery did not suit his greatest warrior.  He started to smiled at the thought, but stopped the expression from reaching his face.  The time had come.

“Hagan Glack, you are a welcome sight to these tired eyes.  I sat, alone and asleep, for more than a millenia after my knights disappeared.  I had much time to think, about the past, about the future.

I am immortal, of that I have become certain.  The power of Garesh flows through my veins.  Yet I am tied to this place, to my home.  None dared visit me before you came; I was the Last of Irrenor.

Since you have started on the path that led you here, you freed most of my great Knights.  You have become Duke of Merrow, and my most trusted advisor.  And you have demonstrated that you are immortal as well – that killing you simply makes you stronger.  This, more than anything else, marks us as kin.

Yet you have also helped to bring life back to Irrenor.  I hear the stirrings, in your distant land.  I feel the soil, turned once more at the hands of men.  We will continue to rebirth our great empire, and you are the catalyst for this rebirth.

In order for an Empire to grow, it must have a leader the people can see.  I cannot be that leader.  In order for a kingdom to continue, it must have an Heir to follow if the King should fall.  I do not have such an Heir.  Today, we will right both of those problems.

Hagan Glack, Duke of Merrow and Istengal, servant of Oblivion, I do hereby adopt you into the House of Irrenor.  You will henceforth be known as Hagan Irrenor, First of the Name, Prince of Irrenor, Heir to the Throne.  Together, we shall regain that which Irrenor has lost.  In addition to my name, I share with you my gift – the touch of Oblivion which has kept me alive all this time.”

At this, moving faster than Hagan can react, the Old King appears at Hagans side and lifts his head.  He bends his head to Hagan’s neck and bites hard with razor-sharp fangs.  The pain in his neck is nothing compared to the pain throughout his body, as the King injects poison into his veins through the bite.  The poison tears what little remains of his human life from him, and the pain is so strong that it feels as if every piece of him is slowly being torn apart.  He goes limp, held up only by the strength of the King.  He sees the darkness which comes only when he dies, and surges toward its soothing relief with an enthusiasm he has never felt before.

The body in the king’s hands turns to black sludge as Hagan Irrenor, First of His Name, Prince of Irrenor materializes within the Sigil of Oblivion carved into the floor of the Throne Room.  As with each of his deaths, he has grown closer to true oblivion, losing some portion of the Humanity he had once valued and gaining some strength from the creature he has bonded to.  Looking down at his hands, he sees that his once pale side has turned a light blue, as is sometimes seen in those who suffocate to death.  His other half has grown, and he realizes the seam along his body is no longer directly in the center.

A slow and steady sound from behind reaches his ears as he stands inspecting his body, and he looks up in surprise.  His newly formed eyes suddenly pick out dozens of creatures standing in the Throne Room with him, each as if made of the darkness itself.  Their mouths are open as if cheering, and the eerie whisper he can just barely hear is the sound of their cheers.  With a flash of insight he recognizes as coming from his other half, he realizes they are there because of him.  They are those who are further along in their transformation than he is, closer to oblivion.  They are like the thing which he has been bonded with – something which can only experience life with the help of a willing host.

He smiles, revealing a small set of fangs which he did not previously have.  There are many on his lands who are strong, willing, able.  And those who are not willing – could be persuaded.

The young Prince turns to the Old King, who is slowly settling onto his throne with a look of seeming satisfaction.  With a dark glint in his eye, the Black Prince says “I think the time has come to let the People know about your new Heir…”

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