The Dark King

The Dark King is the mysterious and feared sovereign of Rak’nar, the once-proud mountain fortress of the Mountain Dwarves. His true name is unknown beyond the borders of the fallen city. To outsiders, he is spoken of only in hushed tones, a figure more myth than man. To the dark elves who dwell beneath his rule, he is a father, a prophet, a tyrant, addressed always as “Our Lord” or “Father of Shadows.”   Little is known of the Dark King’s origins. The earliest mention of him dates to the eve of the Fifty Year War, when emissaries from beneath the mountain delivered veiled demands to the dwarves, speaking of their lord with chilling devotion. The dwarves scoffed, considering it a bluff. They did not yet know that the entity claiming dominion over the deeps was not a mere warlord, but something altogether different, a shadow-wielding strategist and unrelenting force.   Over five decades of brutal subterranean warfare, the Dark King orchestrated a campaign that blended precise military strikes with horrific magical experiments. Captured beasts and elves, even fallen dwarves, were twisted into monstrous hybrids to serve as vanguards. Dead dwarves were raised as silent laborers and sentinels. Those who met the Dark King on the battlefield described him as draped in regal robes, moving with cold elegance, wielding a massive, lithe greatsword. He rarely engaged directly, but when he did, he fought with clinical grace and terrifying power.   Even now, more than a century after the war’s end, the Dark King has never emerged from Rak’nar. He remains within its walls, ruling in seclusion. Though his ultimate goal is unknown, the city under his reign has not decayed into ruin. Quite the opposite, dwarven scouts whisper of activity, construction, and strange ceremonies. Rak’nar pulses with unholy vitality.   The Dark King refers to his subjects as Sons and Daughters. He is said to offer praise, gifts, and elevation to those who serve him faithfully. But to fail him, to disobey, disappoint, or displease, is to become a subject of his experiments. Many of his creations, stitched from elven flesh, shadow, and metal, began as dark elves who once bore his favor.   He wears an unadorned iron crown, austere against the splendor of his garments. It rests above a face never glimpsed by outsiders. His heraldry is the spider, its legs forming a black halo, a symbol now carved over dwarven murals, etched into once-sacred halls.   The dwarves of Aranath curse his name in silence. The Dark King stole more than a city, he desecrated their legacy. Yet none know what he truly seeks, why he does not expand beyond the mountain, or what monstrous design festers in the depths of Rak’nar under his watchful eye. He waits. And the mountain, ever so faintly, pulses with his breath.