A monk of the Old Order makes the journey to the gates of Darkhold. With a gentle smile, he tells those at the gate that he is there at Tarina's invitation. The monk, perhaps anticipating skepticism, shows the gate guards the bottom of a letter which includes Tarina's invitation, signature, and seal. He is careful to keep the rest of the letter hidden underneath a fold of his robe.
...If such is in your pleasure, I invite you to enjoy the hospitality of Darkhold. If such a location is too far or of too ill tidings for you, then there is a nice waterfall in Corm Orp where we may meet.
The peace of Eldath be with you.
Regards,
Lady Tarina, the Witch of Darkhold
Mi-Le (彌勒) -"Meditate, monks. Do not be negligent, lest you regret it later." ((-Saṃyutta Nikāya 35.146)) -Monk of the Old Order and the Way. Will not kill.
-[IC Journal]
-[Bio]
((Feel free to reach out to Mi-Le for RP!))
Wendi - The Witch of the Wide. [Bio] Samuel Meredith
Days ago, a monk of the Old Order entered Darkhold Keep. He stayed for several days as a guest, and was seen conversing with Tarina at least once over a cup of tea.
He now departs Darkhold, leaving a lengthy scroll behind in his guest room. The scroll is addressed to Tarina.
Mi-Le (彌勒) -"Meditate, monks. Do not be negligent, lest you regret it later." ((-Saṃyutta Nikāya 35.146)) -Monk of the Old Order and the Way. Will not kill.
-[IC Journal]
-[Bio]
((Feel free to reach out to Mi-Le for RP!))
Wendi - The Witch of the Wide. [Bio] Samuel Meredith
Some place beyond the Dark Vale stood the tall dark castle known as Darkhold. Careful whispers barely over a harsh tone would behold rumors of recent visitors. One whom looked like a man with a Calmshite heritage, the other an old dog of a sailor with white hair where the descriptions. Along the lines of those very rumors, speak of how one them dared to attack the Master of the Darkhold upon her very seat on the throne of thorns. But the Master of Darkhold neither wavered nor coward only responded in kind unleashing offensive spells from her very seat. The attacker after rounds of attacks, and a butler bleeding out, had laid before the throne of thorns nearly dead. "I want it alive and watch him!" were the only thundering words heard soon after the grunts of fighting since the Master had yelled out loud with an annoyance anger.
"You want my name? Fine I shall give you my name if it appease's you before your death"
What eyes keep watch on the grim castle of Darkhold report of a swiftly assembled host of some two hundred men on foot and horse. Their destination is unknown, and indeed no sign of their passage is marked in the lands of the Sunset Vale nor the rest of the Western Heartlands. The force rises within the castle's walls, and then vanishes without a trace.
Tarina — The Witch of Darkhold, a dealer in spirits and black magic
In the depths of Darkhold, the Lady Tarina has grown increasingly absent of late, making fewer and fewer appearances at court. Rumor among the common soldier is that she has grown increasingly at odds with several of her advisors, and despondent over affairs in the west. In her absence, the Pereghost has assumed more authority over the day-to-day affairs of the castle.
Tarina — The Witch of Darkhold, a dealer in spirits and black magic
Change is in the air, a promise of dread delivered on the wind. Fear and uncertainty begin to spead as rumors circulate among the mountainous region of Darkhold Vale: a new Dreadlord will soon rise to power. Under the iron fist of The Peheghost, Zerros Ozmir has stepped out from the shadows to publicly confirm his place among the Zhentarim and claim the dark throne, taking the title of Lord Regent and, in time, Dreadlord.
But it is not ambition alone that drives this rise - it is something darker, something twisted. The once calculated fire in his crimson eyes now burns more cold and unyielding. His silences carry an unspoken weight, laden with an undefined tension. As the newly named 'Age of Terror' grips Darkhold, tales emerge of the tiefling's dark deeds with the promise of more to come.
Zerros's ascension comes at a time of uncertainty for the Zhentarim of the west, as Tarina's increasing isolation over the last few months has turned to complete absence. Where the witch has gone is unknown. But rumors abound of a collapse in relations between Tarina and Zerros when the Abyssal rift threatened to swallow the Sword Coast, and that Tarina has absconded with a tome of great importance to the tiefling.
Without Tarina's moderating guidance and careful scheming, which had focused Zhentarim efforts on expanding smuggling operations across the Heartlands rather than conflict, Darkhold seems poised to enter a more cruel and hostile era under its new overlord.
Tarina — The Witch of Darkhold, a dealer in spirits and black magic
Zerros sat upon the throne, his back rigid and posture tense, as though every fiber of his being was coiled tight with suppressed rage. His crimson eyes burned with an intensity that seemed to darken the very air around him. The shadows in the room felt alive as if they too were drawn to the storm brewing within him. The room was silent but the stillness only served to heighten his simmering anger. His thoughts raced, his fists clenched, his grip tightening around the armrests, knuckles pale. The weight of his resolve felt like an anvil pressing against his chest, but his focus was razor-sharp.
The Pereghost would come. Zerros could feel it, the tension in the air thickening, the creeping shadow that lingered at the edge of his consciousness. He wasn’t afraid. No. But he was impatient. He was ready for the consequences.
He will come, Zerros thought, his gaze hardening as he stared into the dark void ahead of him.
It is rumored that Manshoon himself paid a visit to Darkhold. Rumors of the speech and what has been told immediately begins to spread across the Coast.
Standing before the gathered masses in the Courtyard of the Keep, Manshoon's commanding presence draws all eyes.
His voice carried effortlessly to every corner of the space before him. The black knights and soldiers all were kneeling before him and the Pereghost. He started then a speech, and a declaration for the Coast itself. "Rise." The assembled crowd stood in unison as the man ordered to do just so.
"Look around you. What do you see? Merchants? Spies? Warriors? Mages? No. I see something far greater. I see the Zhentarim. I see the Black Network that I built from nothing into the most powerful organization in all the Realms." He steps forward, his dark robes sweeping across the platform. "Recent... changes in leadership have apparently left some of you confused about what it means to be Zhentarim. Allow me to illuminate you." A tense pause, as he slammed his staff on the ground.
"We are not common thugs scraping for copper in the gutters. We are not mindless zealots serving at the altars of Gods. We are the architects of power itself. Every trade route from the Moonsea to the Sword Coast exists because WE will it. Because WE allow it. Every secret in every noble's chamber reaches our ears. Every significant transaction in the Realms fills our coffers." His voice softens momentarily, though loses none of its intensity. "Look at those around you. These are your brothers and sisters in the Black Network. We are a family – bound not by blood, but by something far stronger: ambition, power, and absolute loyalty to our cause. To show weakness is to betray not just yourself, but every member of this family. To falter in your resolve is to stab your brothers and sisters in the back."
His tone hardens again. "And make no mistake – I treat betrayal of our family as any father would: with swift, merciless punishment." A spell is cast, as pure shadow concentrates on the skies above the Keep. The shadows then coalesce into the symbol of the Zhentarim, as a lightning strikes, lighing the sky.
"Some believed the Zhentarim had gone soft. Comfortable. Lazy. Limited in our thinking. That ends yesterday. The Black Network demands more. I, demand more. Instead of asking what the Zhentarim can do for you, ask yourself what you can do to make the Zhentarim even stronger." His voice takes on a colder edge. "Look to your left. Look to your right. Are you certain those standing beside you truly understand what it means to be Zhentarim? Are you certain they place the Network's goals above their own petty ambitions?" A pause, letting the tension build. "I am always watching. My sight penetrates every shadow, every whispered conspiracy, every hidden thought of betrayal. The price of disloyalty is steeper than your limited minds can comprehend." His voice rises, filling the courtyard, with authority. "We are the storm that reshapes the landscape of power! We are the invisible empire that binds the Realms together! In our unity lies our strength! In our discretion lies our power! In our ambition lies the fate of all Faerûn!!" The dragon from the symbol begins to twirl among the soldiers, growling, as if threatening to devour them.
"Let all who stand in Darkhold today understand – you are Zhentarim. You are the harbingers of the Age of Terror." With a gesture, the dragon vanishes, plunging the courtyard into darkness for a moment before the normal lights return. "And to those who are not of the Zhentarim – tremble. For we are coming. There will be no mercy. No quarter. No hope. Either bend to our will or be broken by it. The Age of Terror officially begins today." The very stones of Darkhold seem to pulse with dark energy as the assembled warriors raise their weapons in a cheer that sounds more like a war cry. A new era for Darkhold and the Zhentarim was about to begin. The age of terror had begun.
Zerros sat upon his throne, reading a letter branding the sigil of the Harp. He crumpled the parchment and with a careless flick of the wrist, shoved it into the fire nearby, watching it turn into ashes.
"Harpers. Such impostors that you are. To be the self-proclaimed masters of the art of collecting intelligence, you are no more but a band of idiots and fools. Your empty threats are no different from the lies that spew forth from your lips, and your fearfulness reeks of desperation. Your cat and mouse game with I now and your empty threats are over."
"What fools. I want the lot of them standing in front of I. If you think that you are going to interfere with I or touch the people that matter to I, be prepared for the kind of retribution that no one of yours has ever experienced. I will destroy the lot of you and give you a lesson that will brand itself into your psyche till the only thing that remains are the embers of your arrogance."
He got up from his throne, looking to Nigel, speaking in a rough and annoyed tone.
"Send word, send warning to everyone who can hear it. "Harpers, you think you are going to threaten I after the veil of darkness lifts, you are but foolish people. I am the danger, and I am the sovereign here. Your empty words are no match for the force that lies within I. You bunch of insignificant shits."
He then walked off from the throne, a scowl on his face.
"It is not just them. It is all of them. I'm tired of the lies, tired of the charade, and tired of the individuals that are brave enough to threaten members of my kin. Enough is enough."
An allegedly mentally unbalanced silver hair woman bearing the sigil of Her Lady and Savior the Frost Maiden was seen roaming the northern realms in a quest for …[checks notes] …"cookies". For reasons only known to her, this quest would lead her to the Zhentarium citadel of Darkhold where it’s rumored she aimlessly wandered the halls to the consternation of the guards in search of her desired treat. Apparently she eventually found her way to the citadel’s kitchen and requested cookies - however none were available. It's said the kitchen staff instead offered her a plate of scraps often reserved for hounds - mostly just to get her to go away. Partially satisfied the silver haired lunatic woman was then witnessed wondering the halls devouring what morsels off the plate the kitchen staff offered her while admiring the tapestry and statuary that adorned the interior of Darkhold. Noticeably there were no ranking officials present at the Keep to greet her, or perhaps they just purposely confined themselves in their chambers to avoid her until she left.
The woman last came to the dining hall where she took note of the throne perched at the center head of the room. She would approach Majordomo Nigel who she addressed as ... [checks notes] .... "Carl" asking if she could situate her frosty rump on the throne where “Tony” also allegedly” perches his rear end. When "Carl" denied her request it’s said she departed Darkhold with a pouty face still no closer to finding the cookies she so craved.
Solaris Cult - Master Strategist and Tactician ... or something Bellatrax- Ze! [Bio Here]
A Kelemvorite wearing a dark blue cowl, a local mine worker, and a Hillgiant worked together to stop a fire that suddenly broke out in the Darkhold Vale cemetery. No major damage was done save for a few spots of grass that were now charred or covered in dirt.
Late in the evening, an odd sight would be seen. A lone courier wearing Mystran insignia on a horse would arrive at Darkhold. They would in turn speak to one of the guards there. The conversation would be brief, and a small object would be handed over. The same courier would then later depart from the area hastily.
Player of:
Damian Pascal, - Run away/dead. - Background - Corruption from Within Amenthes Serb, Knight - Gone missing/Supposed deadBackground Tamzim Renima, mercenary - Handed over to the fist. Background Kiran, Golden Wheel - Presumed dead
Althalous Fenwick, Paladin of Mystra. - A memory lost
A letter would be sent in return - delivered to the temple by a rather unremarkable man, bearing no identifying symbols or affiliation - leaving it to whoever was available at the time of the delivery. The man spoke a single name - just enough for the recipient to know who it the letter was for and left without another word.
The heavy iron doors of the Darkhold slammed open, the force echoing like thunder through the halls. Zerros Ozmir walked into the keep with heavy heals, his crimson eyes burning with fury, the air around him crackling and sparking with his own eldritch powers. His cloak flared behind him like a banner of war as he walked forward.*
"Why wasn't it destroyed? It should of been destroyed - then and there. That was the promise. That was the plea. What use do the gods have for such a relic? Why lie to I? . . I kept my word."
*He then broke through the throne room doors like a like beast, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone floors. Walking over to the throne, he took a seat with a heavy thud, his teeth gritting and his brows furrowing. He was not simply angry, he was fuming, he was in a rage. His voice dropped lower, carrying a heavy weight as he continued speaking.*
"If it still exists, we will go to war over it. I will not risk such a relic existing to be used against I."
A bitter breath followed - it was sharp and unsteady, images flickering in his mind of the broken bodies of Tieflings - dead kin - used as subjects, used as toys - like they were wild animals to be experimented on.
"All our kin, butchered and left to rot - and they wonder why I am what I am.”
*He bit his lip and another thought passed through his mind: The lich couldn’t even hold it. Not even the lich. That thought pulsed like a heartbeat through his skull. The artifact could not be held by anyone but him. Not because he was righteous. Not because he was good. But because he was the only unworthy one who could carry it. The words echo'd through his mind of what was said: "Even the undead have more more mortality than you. Didn't you figure it out Zerros? We're all better than you." - Then quieter in a bitter, wounded breath.*
"Trusted by no one and hated by all for trying to protect someone. . . Very well then. Then this world deserves the fire - and if it must burn a thousand times over to learn, then so be it."
