Long ago, in eons past, the dawn of an age shrouded in darkness began. This was an age in which demons walked the earth freely; monsters of hideous strength plagued the peoples of the world. The souls of an ancient madness clouded the minds of the kings of old. No one could withstand the power and might of the Legions of Death and their master, The Dark Lord Orgoth. The terrors of the Dark Lord swept throughout the masses, bring all who apposed them to their knees. As Orgoth’s power grew so did his greed, his want for dominance soon mutated into a need for it. Kings of the world pleaded with Orgoth to spare their people, offering him gifts and land, but his thirst for supremacy fueled his anger against the humans. His might and power gave him great courage; it made even the most formidable demons cower before him in fear.

But his power also made him blind to what his own slaves conjured in the darkness of his lands. From the mire of the enslaved arose rebels, men and women willing to lay down their lives to end the bloodshed of their kin. Orgoth was in awe of the slaves’ stupidity when he heard of their uprising, his gluttonous mind twisted his thoughts, and he deemed their fight futile. Orgoth summoned his forces and marched through the shadowed countryside, daring the rebels to show their faces in the presence of his might. But when he reached the slave camps he found no remnant of them, no cloth nor warm coals, no evidence that people once lived there. He arrogantly believed that they had fled when they heard he was coming… he was sadly mistaken. When the dawn of the next day had begun Orgoth awoke to the sound of battle. Rushing outside of his tent he found his army slaughtered across the field. Orcs, goblins, demons, and creatures of the deep places, all bathing in their own blood.

He was surrounded by the rebel slaves; he had no choice but to fight his way out. Orgoth summoned his Royal Guards of Shadow and he began his evil butchery. No human could defend themselves against his unholy might. His blade fell upon the people, their carnage could not be stopped. But from the host of slaves came a warrior named Immanuel. His sword had lain to rest more souls then any other on the battlefield that day, he beheld no fear in his eyes, and his strength outlasted all who engaged him. He taunted Orgoth, daring him to raise his blade against him. Orgoth, filled with rage from Immanuel’s defiance of him, lunged into combat with him. They battled for two days; no one knew for sure who would emerge the victor. But on the third day Orgoth grew weary, and his attacks became less threatening with every swing. Immanuel took advantage of Orgoth’s fatigue and struck with vengeance. His blade landed true and pierced Orgoth’s heart. Pain seized Orgoth’s body, he began to shake violently, and with his last breath he cursed Immanuel. Although this great plight was in an age that no one remembers, Immanuel’s descendants have lived in peace to this very day, for demons still fear his name.