This time the Great Necromancer was going to claim the power of death itself. The Dark Gods were moving, and Nagash realized that unless he returned to thwart them, Chaos would finally conquer all. He envisioned the world filled with the silent, unthinking undead, a realm where only his will and thoughts can think freely and without challenge. Nagash vowed to bide his time, not returning until his powers were regained in full, until he was ready to reign supreme against all life. Īlways, he steered them towards his reawakening, his final apocalyptic rebirth upon the world. Though he may be gone, death itself could never truly claim his soul, and for centuries after his demise, his eternally damned spirit has since recovered his power, whispering to the ears of all those that had served him, and those that soon will. Now, many generations later, his name became little more than a legend, his dark whispers echoing eternally upon the Wind of Shyish. This dark, evil being came close to ultimate domination, but if not for the sacrifice of an unsung hero, this world would've been lost millennia ago. His every actions and deeds is self-serving, his achievement horrific and loathsome, and his every whim are bent solely to ensure that no one shall ever deny nor challenge his right to rule ever again. Nagash is darkness and unreasoning hatred given form, the father and creator of foul Necromancy and lord of all Vampire-kind. Nagash, known by many names such as the Great Necromancer, the Great Betrayer, the Usurper, the Undying King, the Supreme Lord of Undeath or simply He Who Shall Not Be Named, is the ultimate personification of death and the undead, an ancient, evil being who sought to conquer this cruel, chaotic world and bring about an age of undeath that will rule for all eternity. They whisper the name, Nagash." - Extract from the Liber Necris, translated by Mannfred von Carstein. The name of the one who cursed them to their existence, more than death but less than life. And sometimes, in ghastly dry voices, like the rustling of sun-baked reeds, they whisper the one word they remember from life. They haunt the shifting dunes of the breathless, windless night, brandish weapons of bronze in mocking challenge and bitter resentment of the life they no longer possess. " In that dread desert, beneath the moon's pale gaze, dead men walk.
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