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Nazzig had never spoken to the Bad Moon, it did not call to him, its glow did not warm his skin or taint his magic, its song did not stir his cold and withered heart. The Bad Moon simply hung up there, distant and moonlike whilst the fires still raged in the ruins of Skumfenn Sump. No he had never heard the Bad Moon but a voice did whisper to the Shaman from deep within the Ghoulmere.
Already a Shaman of some repute by the time the Necrotic Legions descended on the Ghoulmere, Nazzig atop his dire wolf was among the packs of Snarlfangs to engage in the border sorties against the Dire wolves and Vampiric shamans of Death. Whilst early battles favoured the Grot wolf riders, with their knowledge of the region allowing for ambushes and swift retreat, as time dragged on and reinforcements were delayed by bitter infighting they were soon outmatched by the unrelenting and seemingly unending tides of dead as their own fallen mounts joined the dire wolf packs assailing them.
In the aftermath of the skirmishes and with his own mount now amongst the undead Nazzig found himself staggering half blind and lost into the Deepmere in search of Skumfenn Sump. The very wasting spell that had claimed his mount now ate away at his flesh as his own arcane powers struggled to hold it at bay, for days he shuffled increasingly fatigued and unknowingly moving further from the plunderpost into uncharted regions of the mere before he succumbed to the spell eroding at his life thread. Surrendering a battle for life fought far longer than grot resolve ought his lifeless form slumped forward into a pure black festering pool of mere-water, its oily mass enveloping the fallen shaman as he slipped below the surface.
It wasn't a bad death, if he’d been a human there might even have been a song written about valour and the strength of the soul, but Nazzig was a grot.. and apparently as fortune would have it one that even death didn’t want to stick with for too long. Days passed and far away the clamour of battle began to fade as the dream of Skumfenn Sump was left to ruin and as the smoke plumes joined heavy clouds above even the light of the Bad Moon was ushered away into total darkness. As the last rays of light faded a wizened hand erupted from the inky black waters, grasping blindly at the slick muds surrounding the pool for purchase until it found gnarled root with the fortitude to pull upon without breaking.
Inch by painful inch Nazzig clawed his way through the mud and quagmire until he was free of the blackened water that had birthed him anew. Coughing and wheezing as he retched up what felt like half the contents of the pool upon the shore its unnatural form cascaded down the banks racing back to join the mass in a disturbingly sentinel fashion. The spell that had sought (seemingly successfully) to claim his life had robbed the Shaman of his vision, yet his arcane strength had returned with an intensity he had not felt for many seasons. Every twitch of his aching hands send flutters of blackened magic cascading through the clearing that even his sightless eyes could behold.
Nazzig knew power, he had seen it before in the warlords who had earned fealty from his tribe, but perhaps for the first time in what had been a fairly miserable life he felt it. Even with robes sodden from the mere and a chill upon the air his lips curled back into a malicious grin that exposed ranks of sharpened yellow teeth in anticipation of conquest to come. Still, he mused, his mount had perished at the hands of the Necromancers and without panic clouding his mind he knew himself to be far from the Sump, even dwelling on that idea the Ghoulmere seemingly unfolded within his minds eye.
He had been in the region a while of course but this was no mere memory but a whisper from the mere itself charting far more than any grot had yet to behold, and as he mused on what this might be a screeching cry from overhead sent him diving belly first into the muddy banks of the pool once more in a natural cowering pose.
Far above the Lioness of the Parch flew against a blackened sky, eyes scouring the burning ruins of Skumfenn Sump as she scouted the battle that had raged around the city of Greywater before turning once more back toward Hammerhead and the warmer climates of Aqshy. Ears twitching Nazzig listened to every wingbeat her manticore as it turned away from his position, now safe from any presumed attack his mind freely returned to scheming as the watery mass behind him began to shift and bubble.
In the middle of a particularly malicious scheme Nazzig finally took notice of the shifting noises of the water behind him he turned his sightless eyes in their direction, reaching out with a twitching hand he grasped through mud until he found the waters once more to feel its shifting vibrations resonate with arcane potential. The water resisted his touch, not simply relenting and shifting he had to dig his nails through its seemingly skin like oily texture, digging frantically the sense of power within spoke to a void deep within him until blackened water gave way to the feeling of fur. Grabbing a fistful the Shaman began to yank upon the matted fur of the beast, taking step by step back as he became increasingly aware of the size of the unnatural beast until eventually falling back upon the dirt. Shaking, as much with anticipation as far he lay still for a moment, though he could not see the beast its presence resonated and with a guttural roar the dark manticore marked its arrival in the realms.
The Gitmob tribes had scattered following the demise of Skumfenn Sump, and bitter recriminations had claimed the life of many war chiefs thought to be to blame for the loss of loot and life their bickering discord had wrought upon the city. Leaderless and beleaguered by plague and hunger they would have been easy prey for any to seize power from, when Nazzig emerged form the Deepmere borne forth by the dark manticore Infortunii he did not have to reach for power it was thrust upon him.
Many had witnesses the wasting curse cast upon him on the outer reaches of the mere, to have survived that would presumably require arcane power beyond that of a mere Shaman. But the break a beast the size of the Manticore, alone and in the aftermath of a battle that had claimed the lives of so many supposed legendary warlords of the tribes spoke to the part of the grot soul that seeks to ride on the coattails of power.
Those war chiefs who had been spared the stray blades that sought their through sought to court the shaman for their own tribes, though by the time they sought to leverage position they had no tribes of which to speak as every common grot in the region seemingly flocked to the beast breaker of the Deepmere. The chiefs found little choice but to swear fealty to this rising power that they might find opportune position within his council to exploit if he should suffer an “accident”. The tribes were much diminished from the peak of Skumfenn Sump, their beasts spread far and wide and their warriors a shade of their former selves yet Nazzig had done what no warchief had managed in the decades they had clashed in the Ghoulmere, Unity.
In the seasons that followed Nazzig grew into his rising power both arcane and political, his legend spread from grot to grot drawing more to his tribe and earning him a litany of names:
-The Voidskulka, for he had faced the nothingness beyond life itself and clawed his way back to them.
-The Monarch of the Mere, after all who could contest his claim for dominion over the Ghoulmere as it whispered to him.
-The Kruel King, for his foes would come to learn that whilst he would not court death himself he was all too happy for others to face it.
The true nature of his companion Infortunii remained hidden to all save Nazzig, it served him well for the war chiefs to stand in awe of his ability to break beast far beyond their skill. Even as he led his tribes further into the mere to fortify the pool that had proved location of his rebirth it spoke to none save the Voidskulka much to his amusement.
Nazzig had never heard the Bad Moon, but the Ghoulmere… that he heard.
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