Atropal: Whispers of the Soulweaver
Within the shadows of a realm bound by mortal chains, there lies a veil that separates life from death… a boundary I mastered. My awakening in the mortal realm was the dawn of an age shrouded in darkness. With whispers, I summoned legions that swept across the land like a plague, and the world trembled under the weight of despair and ruin.
Yet, hope is a stubborn flame. A cadre of mages, armed with arcane secrets, ensnared my essence into a ring, an ancient artifact of formidable power. My reign of terror halted, and thus began an era of fragile peace, the land slowly healing from the scars I had inflicted.
This ring, crafted not merely as a prison but as a vessel of my will, whispered its dark urges to those who dared draw near. Hidden away through the ages, its influence was stifled until the winds of fate blew once more, and the ring found its way into the hands of a mere mortal, Ragnar. As the cold metal clasped his flesh, he heard my promises of power, my whispers weaving through his mind like a dark melody.
Driven by visions of dominion, he sought my phylactery in the chilling silence of the realm of the dead. With a mere touch, the seals were shattered, and I was unbound. I bestowed upon Ragnar the dark gift of necromancy, his ambition fulfilled as he turned his gaze towards the dominion of the living. Meanwhile, I gathered the remnants of my strength, biding my time. As the mortal realm remains lulled in false security, they remain unaware of the gathering storm.
Now, as the threads of my plan draw together, the world shall once more tremble at the mention of my name. This return shall be marked not by chains or seals, but by conquest and subjugation. No mercy shall be found under the cloak of night, as they will soon learn that the whispers they fear in their darkest moments are the echoes of my will.