Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-3293219-20140525223412/@comment-5735114-20140526125533

During the six relatively uneventful months, the Shadows thrived within their new kingdom. Mikasa was currently the strongest weilder of Shadow magic still alive, and now that she was on the throne, the Shadows gained the same link with the mages that Mikasa did. However, the Shadows were of course much more capable with their magic, and so the connections served a second purpose. Not only could the Shadows see all of the Adamantine Empire through the eyes of the mages, they could slowly sap their magic, fueling their own. And that was what the Shadows had sat doing for six relatively uneventful months.

With the small number of Shadows that were left, only around 40, it took them a long time to regain their former power; the power they held when Tyranil was alive. But their lack of emotion made waiting into a petty inconvenience, and now they'd finally returned to the way they were. However, this was not enough for them. They were weak without a strong ruler; Mikasa wouldn't cut it, she'd still had her sights set on the good of the people or whatnot. If the Shadows had emotions, they'd feel disgust. However, there was one who was still capable, and the Shadows had waited six months for his return.

The Shadow Leader stood near the top of the Adamatine Tower, looking out the window with a large room behind it, Hammerfell's deserts stretching out towards the east, and High Rock's landscapes to the north. The Leader slowly raised his hand, and 38 other Soldiers appeared behind him, excepting the one that was tasked with guarding Mikasa. It wouldn't have that task for long.

"We've waited long for this...", spoke the Leader, for no particular reason. "Forced into hiding, we were weak and pituful... But that ends today."

The Soldiers all formed ranks behind the Leader, 5 lines of 7 with three soldiers forming their own line at the back.

"For today, we regain everything we'd lost; strength, numbers, and pride! Lend your weapons, that our strength may be everlasting!"

The Soldiers raised their weapons, a large collection of swords and one bow. They all melted away, and became somewhat of a shadow puddle on the ground which slunk behind all the Soldiers.

"Lend your bodies, that each may gain ten!"

The Soldiers themselves this time melted into a puddle, and slunk back to the already existing one, forming a large black circle that took up most of the floor.

"And lend your spirits, that our pride may live on past any form of death!"

The puddle that was black now became a deep purple, and the Leader turned around, looking down at the large shadow of nothing on the floor. It balled its right hand into a fist, and began raising it slowly and deliberatley. The puddle seemed to react, as it warbled a little. As the Leader kept raising his fist, the puddle seemed to want to jump out of the ground. Eventually, it did, and a large shapeless blob now floated before the Leader.

Now holding out its left hand, it waited until a scythe materialized within it, and raised the weapon. Quickly, it slashed downwards, and a pair of arms seemingly grew from the blob and caught the scythe. Now that the rest of it had some frame of reference, the blob rapidly began changing shape, until the figure that stood before the leader was the one and only Tyranil, scythe in hand.

Now, this wasn't the true Tyranil, who was alive the first time he was around. This was an echo, a shade, a hollow copy. The Tyranil Shade lost most of its emotion, only the most prevelant one appearing within him. Anger. He could have wiped out all of the Thalmor, shaped the world to his whim, until he was cut down by a gang of lowly adventurers. This was an outrage to him, and a blow to his pride. He left the world with a vengeance, until his soul was finally summoned back to the physical world. But now, there was no one to stop him.

"Bring me... the Empress...", Tyranil growled.