Empire

## Empire **Edit**

* Blank
* Positions
* Chests

## Description

The Lost Souls have opened portals through time and devastated the past of Lyr. Two Skylords will fight in the past to undo the damage, their success will restore defenses in the present. Meanwhile, two Skylords in the present must close the time portals of the Lost Souls. Rogan, Mo, Jorne and the Ragged King must reach and ignite the Cloudfire Beacon in the north to finally stop the invasion.

## Speedrun Rankings

* ≤ 4
* ≤ 3
* ≤ 2
* 1

### Difficulty

Expert

**Empire** is a 4-player PvE scenario that can be played on Standard, Advanced and Expert difficulty. It is part of the campaign story **The Hunt for Blight**.

Fight in the past and in the present of Lyr to undo an invasion of the Lost Souls.

## Story

### Plot

It was a few months before Mo and Blight met for the final time at Raven’s End. Only a few hours ago, the guns of Lyr had roared once more and the Twilight invasion had finally been stopped. A freshly-crowned Rogan Kayle went for his first ever morning stroll. As he directed his strides toward the shattered remains of the palace gardens he felt memories wash over him; it had been a day not unlike this, crisp and clear, that his journey had begun. Below their new king, the city slept on as dawn breathed a tiny spark of gold into the night’s dark blue.

Kayle had never in his wildest dreams imagined he would become a king, though with his new role came new responsibilities; just hours ago he had stood beside countless deathbeds, bringing what comfort he could to soldiers and friends in their final moments.

He had held back tears as he watched too many die from the vile wounds wrought by Twilight abominations. His thoughts moved to an orc he had met, one of the wounded from the Treasure Fleet. In the heat of battle he had fought like a creature-possessed, a huge grin on his face despite the terrible wounds that decorated his body. Afterwards, he had faded away on a simple linen cot, using his last breaths to sing about juggernauts and blood soup. Rogan shook his head, hoping the brave orc was somewhere better.

A soldier approached, stumbling slightly. Perhaps one of the new recruits, still unused to the weight of full armor, Rogan mused. He stifled a smile that had started to creep over his face and tried to assume a more dignified manner. Rogan was about to hail the soldier when he spotted the trail of blood being left in the snow behind him. The man lifted an arm in what seemed a warning gesture as, behind him, reality opened. A creature leapt from the shimmering rent; the size of a grown man, it was a twisted creation of vile magic and jagged claws. It howled and sprang at the soldier, shredding steel like it was paper and tearing him apart in one quick motion.

Rogan opened his mouth to shout the alarm, but before a sound could leave his lips, the creature became a blur that tore off his left arm as it passed. He stared numbly as crimson life spilled onto the pristine white that blanketed the ground. His mind formed one word as blackness took him. Beautiful. Then Rogan Kayle, king and hero of Lyr, died. Through the crack in reality more vile creatures appeared. Tendrils of ghastly blue light writhed around them, the glow casting an unreal shine against the morning’s fragile light.

Bren Morhold stared at the clock, just as he had done for the past three years. His eyes followed the steel hands, noting each mechanical spasm as his mind waged war against insanity. This was how he passed each day. Deep in the dungeons of Lyr it was the tradition to gift each life prisoner a clock. What better way to force them to witness time’s crawl, hear their lives sliding away, unspent. The kobold device was a tightly sealed contraption, securely fastened to the cold stone, some said by magic. In the past prisoners had been found curled in the corner of their cell, fingers bleeding and nails broken from trying to pull the cursed things apart; tick-tock the clocks whispered. The minute hand moved once more, Morhold listened to the delicate blade part the air like an executioner’s axe.

The guards had long since fled, screaming something about twilight swallowing the sun. But the dungeon’s kobold doors and locks had proved too good for the abandoned prisoners to break. For a year now they had been left to their own devices. At first Morhold had led them, for on the surface he had been known as the Ragged King, ruler of the northern outlaws, a rogue challenged only by the infamous Shane Blight. Tick-tock.

But as the weeks slid by, as food ran out and the guards had still not returned, Morhold became something far worse than a rogue; in the harsh light of the kobold lanterns he evolved into a hunter of man flesh.

While he had lost count of his victims, he still kept count of the minutes, days and months that had passed. Blessed be his little piece of kobold genius. Tick-tock. The minute hand snapped forward again. Then jerked back.

Morhold held his breath. He had heard the sounds of battle above-ground last night and wondered what was happening on the surface. His instincts told him something above had changed. Slowly the huge man got up from his stool and moved towards the dungeon entrance.

Moments later the thick, steel doors glowed blue and exploded. Creatures born of nightmare quickly overran the few screaming prisoners who had gathered, hoping for release. As the beings tore aside thick iron bars, their glittering eyes glowing in the semi-dark, Morhold smiled and ran at them, hungry for different game now.

Emerging from the shattered entrance into weak sunlight, Morhold inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, savouring the breeze on his face. All below was quiet now. Tick-Tock whispered the clock inside the Ragged King’s empty cell.

### **Conclusion**

Jorne held his bleeding side, breathing heavily. The Giant King knew he was dying. Had all their valiant efforts been for naught? Their hard-won victory over the Lost Souls in Lyr and their crusade here, to the ash deserts of the Wailing Lands, to open the Gate of Akylos and allow the dead to pass into the Peaceful Light?

Jorne remembered striding through the raging ocean as it hurled wave after wave against him. In each of his massive fists he’d grasped dozens of huge chains, each attached to a landship. In a show of might worthy of any ballad, he had hauled the fleet of Lyr and the Ragged King’s corsairs through the impassable storm, across the bridge over the Maw of the Earth and into the realm of the dead itself.

Now the same powerful hands had lost their strength. Jorne’s huge hammer dropped from numb fingers.

He had fought alongside the mortals, carving a passage through the Lost Souls until they felt the tide of raging dead might overwhelm them. They had awoken the Amii spirits and so had brought the Skylords for help. Finally, they had managed to reach the gate. But now Jorne’s mighty legs felt frail and spent, he dropped to one knee and closed his eyes.

It had been an epic journey, hate brewed over the last thousand years had been swept away in the face of this new threat. He had fought side by side with those he had once called enemy, they in turn had shed blood to protect him and his Stonekin.

It had been Rogan Kayle who had possessed the key to the most potent knowledge of all, how to forge primal ore; he had unlocked the mystery of Gnaur. With the ore they had been able to create a key to open the Akylos Gate, allowing them to make peace with the Lost Souls who realized they could now journey to the afterlife. For a heartbeat all had seemed well once more, yet they quickly discovered the Lost Souls were not their most dangerous enemy.

The Assembler towered over Jorne. Reaching high into the sky, its long chimneys belched black smoke into grey clouds. Whirring blades spat lightning and plunged downwards biting deep into Jorne’s shoulder.

The Giant King roared in pain. Why had the Skylords abandoned them now, when their need was greatest? As soon as they had opened the gate and seen the way was clear to the Peaceful Light, their armies had vanished. It was at that moment the Assembler had stepped from the portal and attacked.

“The trade is broken! The Assembly will not tolerate this violation!”, it had boomed over and over again.

Once more, the living fought desperately for the right to exist.

Shells rippled across the Assembler’s chest as Morhold’s corsairs unleashed another barrage, granting Jorne a brief respite.

But the giant knew the battle was lost for none could face this creature of smoke and fire and hope to live. His new friends already struggled. Morhold’s landship, the Midwinter, had just been struck by Assembler lightning and Jorne was not even sure if Rogan Kayle still drew breath. The White Juggernaut had been the first to charge the Assembler and the first to taste its fury. Now the brute lay still, his white flesh streaked with blood. As the Giant King felt his final moments draw near, he knew he could do his valiant allies one final service.

Mo was adrift in soft honey when he heard a familiar voice.

“Wake up, you big oaf!”

Annoyed, he had waved a hand as if swatting a fly.

“Shadduup, Twin,” he mumbled.

Suddenly Mo’s eyes flew open.

“Twinaxe?”

“Get your chunky white behind off the ground!” commanded the voice.

Mo rose slowly, blinking as he searched for his friend.

“I’m a mess!” he said, looking down at his wounds.

Jorne threw himself forward and, using the last of his strength, grasped the metal legs of the Assembler. As his arms locked, he spoke the final phrase each giant utters should he meet his end.

“From stone I was born, to stone I return.”

With these words the oldest being on Nyn died. The Assembler howled and trumpeted in rage, spewing steam and black smoke as it tried in vain to free itself from the now-petrified grip.

Mo stood, swaying slightly.

“Where are you, Twinaxe?”

“Right here,” called the voice.

“See that beautiful, fancy light?”

Mo blinked, admiring the bright figure visible behind the Assembler, through the Gate of Akylos.

“The Peaceful Light,” Mo rumbled, his voice full of longing.

“It’s an amazing here, old buddy,” said Twinaxe.

“Lots of pork and blood soup, no harpoons and no one hunting you for being what you are or are not.”

“Sounds like the kinda place I want to be,” said Mo, his face contorting into a smile, though the effort pained him. Twinaxe chuckled.

“Well, dummy,” he said.

“... just go there.”

The White Juggernaut nodded grimly and felt a wave of power surge through him. His journey had been long, but knowing only one last enemy stood in his way lent Mo’s exhausted form strength.

He barrelled forwards, fuelled by a burning desire to end this, be with his friend and protect a world he had come to care for. He sped across the Ashland, vaulted onto Jorne’s petrified head and smashed headlong into the Assembler. The huge construct screamed as its midsection shattered beneath the Juggernaut’s powerful assault. As the Assembler exploded, hurling debris in all directions, the White Juggernaut hurtled into the Peaceful Light’s warm embrace to join the soul of his friend, Twinaxe.

The battlefield was quiet now. All that remained was the dying creature before her. Mo, Jorne and all the other heroes had earned their rest and songs would be sung of their deeds for eternity, but tears would have to wait.

The damage to the Forge was great; it had taken the Skylords too long to realize there was a dangerous creature of potent magic contained within its walls. They had never waged war in their own home and for the first time since their ascension they had fought for their own lives, summoning armies within its very halls. This terrible being called itself an Assembler, here in response to a broken trade. Many Skylords had been needed to stop him, small wonder, given it was one of the Forge’s creators. Now the thing lay shattered. Moon approached it.

“What do you want? Why build the Forge?”

The Assembler’s eyes flickered with a wan light and its saw-like jaws began to whirr.

“For all our might and wisdom, we lack something your people take for granted. An afterlife. When we die, we cease to be.”

“You bought yourselves an afterlife?” said Moon.

“Our afterlife?!” She stepped back, horrified.

The Assembler’s eyes grew dim.

“You are a child and cannot imagine the weight of countless millennia. We yearned to rest. The Amii understood.”

“So you traded them the Forge?”

The eyes of the Assembler were only tiny, flickering sparks now.

“Not just them. The living’s wishes granted in exchange for your souls’ haven. You are the first to break the trade. We must set an example.”

The creature’s eyes lost their light, steam and smoke began to seep from its mouth and eyes.

“We will be coming for you,” it hissed before becoming still, Moon stumbled backwards, away from the mechanical horror.

They had brought salvation to the Lost Souls but summoned an ancient cosmic evil instead.

They had to prepare. Moon looked at the portal through which the Assembler had entered; within its flickering light she glimpsed hallways similar to those of the Forge. Could it be? Another forge on another world? How many terrible bargains had they made? Moon spun and hurried back through the Forge, her fatigue forgotten; she had to prepare the Skylords of Nyn to face a new enemy, one more powerful than they could imagine.

## Gallery

* Minimap
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## Patch History

Patch #400031 - Mid-Patch Update (06 January 2022)
* Fixed a typo in the English text of an outcry.

## See also

Maps (Number of players)Storylines (Campaign scenarios only) Flip Sorting