Zenith

Mortals are phenominal creatures. Among them, humans are something exceptional. They learn quickly and live short lives, and are never content with what they have. Give a human ten gold pieces and they're happy. Give someone next to them eleven, and they're jealous and angry, forgetting the joy they felt only a moment ago. Humans so often want what others have, what they can't have. They have such powerful desire, but so few have the skill and perseverance to achieve that desire. Many are content to simply give up and settle for what they have after a while, but so many are willing to lie, cheat or find an easy path to what they want.
Orcus leaned back in it's throne, and stretched it's legs. If it was being honest with itself, it loved humans. Even those whose desire did not lead them to his door had their use. That powerful drive made them into strong undead, with will and grit and unfulfilled dreams pushing them forward.
It loved the Valley too. That terrible mess was home to hundreds of thousand souls, living in suffering tinged with hope. It was the hope that made it beautiful, when hope was broken mortals so often gave into rage, cruelty and let their morality blow away in the wind. The Valley was a vast machine that manufactured hundreds of willing souls to become priests, acolytes, zealots and soldiers. The violent and miserable conditions killed so many that there were always corpses and bones around when you need them.
It gently closed its eyes. It could feel his crown out there in the world, and could feel the mind beneath. It was not one of his worshipers, nor really a worshiper of anything one could call a proper god. Lorvious had warned him that the crown-bearer and her companions would try to disrupt their plans.
Orcus was old and wise, and while it knew that its plans were beyond the power of mortals to disrupt, it had to assume that they were going to try. Perhaps they had a trick or two up their sleeve, and it couldn’t take the chance. It reached out its mind, and felt the minds of thousands of worshipers, zealots, cultists, mad men and demons of its own creation. It lent them all a fraction of its power, feeling muscles strengthen and neurons surge. Miracles and profane power flowed their them, and demons coalesced from the air. It hand selected a few, and ordered them to arm themselves and take defensive positions.
Soon, a vast swatch of the prime Material would be under his control. Not destroyed, as Tsathogga would have it, nor subjugated as Muir would have wished. Just The Valley, stretching out over as much of the galaxy as he could grasp; that sad, broken mudhole stretching for a billion billion miles in all directions.
Softly it spoke into the minds of all who could hear his voice: “Ready yourselves. Our time of glory is at hand.”