[WP] You've been hired as a professional cleaner for the most powerful wizard in the world... but when you arrive at his house, you discover that he's a bit more of an old kook than people let on, and he hasn't cleaned his house in DECADES.

...

Orcs and Goblins alike milled about in gangs and gaggles, hissing and growling with violence and festering bloodlust as the small robed figure passed them by. It was more than just an ordinary stroke of luck that misfortune was avoided by the tiny human. It was well known all of the cleaners summoned in recent memory to service of the Blackened Spire, had met tragic fates before they even made it inside, and this day could quickly come about with similar tragedy.

Indeed, it might be worse than normal for an ordinary human living inside the realm of the Dark Lord. Those with heads and necks still in order on their shoulders often made the best living possible shut away in small villages, walled with spikes. So long as the Dark vigil was attended, and the flags of loyalty raised, the creatures of the domain were instructed to abide their presence lest they incur their great master's wrath.

Such was rarely enough to stop a horde of hungry Orcs lost to bloodlust, but it was at least some small protection for the minor clusters of humanity that remained. There was little chance of a better life in the badlands, outside of the Dark Lord's immediate favor this is. Riches meant nothing when another could take them without fear of justice, only power.

The laws and rules of the Western territories bowed only to the strong, and beside never-ending hordes of orcs and goblins, small villages of humans were far from powerful.

Breath sucking in with great unease, just as they were trained: The cleaner made their way within the keep. Two perfect bows in traditional forms for direction of the undead Guards and armored figures posted to either side of the great doors, and then another two for those within the spire's entry hall. Eyes watching from beneath a thick woolen hood, they wondered if those wicked black spears clutched beneath cold dead hands, might fall.

The sucken pits where eyes once held provided no sure answers, as the cleaner made their way further, summons of dark parchment clutched in two clammy hands.

"The Third Floor, await further instructions."

No questions were to be asked, not with such simple language. The true commands would follow, in time. Once a cleaner was brought to the tower, they would never leave. For as long as they lived, they were a part of the system- just as the Grave keepers and the architects, or even the dreaded positions of the Mage Council: Reduced to dregs and fearful youth, waiting for their lives to be spent on the Dark Lord's projects of curiosity.

Still, the young cleaner knew it was much better to live within the tower than outside it, and as they scaled the polished steps of ivory and inlaid bones, they felt some small glimmer of hope for their future. The Blackened Keep had never fallen, and the Dark Lord had never lost.

The Mage of Death himself resided upon the spires uppermost levels, a force more powerful than any other in the world. Why, just the other day, the cleaner had witnessed a great beast come to bring ruin upon the Master's lands: And the Dark lord had crushed it into dust with a single spell.

Still, there was a war coming on the horizon. Armies of Doterra Soldiers were gathering along borders of the black-lands, and hordes of creatures under the Lords banners were drawn to do the same. Masses of creatures that might be more than willing to eat the poor young servant outside the keep, should their rations run low. A similar fate for any who happened to have the misfortune of being born in the West, and not the East.

Much better to be within the tower, than outside it. Such was simple reasoning.

The young cleaners steps came to a pause, standing at the third level of the tower, eyes admiring the artwork and carvings. Statues and paintings, each imbued with magic of preservation against the stands of time: How old they were, how old they might one day be; beside them the young cleaner was nothing but a speck of dust. These were pieces that had witnessed his ancestors. Holy or unholy in its purpose, this was sacred ground.

"So cleaner, you finally arrive." A deep voice ran through the halls, but no further sounds were heard. The young cleaner's eyes darted, seeking for the source among the relics of legend within the hall. Was this a mage? Were they invisible to his sight? A strange groaning announced the presence once more, and with sudden clarity, the youth saw the truth as it shifted to life.

The Armor was speaking. Deep, black armor. Dark and rusted with the scent or iron and blood. He recognized it immediately, falling down to the deepest bow possible.

Rodrick of the Blacken Sword, Right hand of the Great Lord and overseer of the Spire, stood before him, massive warrior's frame looming like a colossi on the plains; just waiting to step upon the cleaner's tiny form. It was all he could give not to whimper at the sight.

"What is your name, human?" The glow of two dark eyes stared out from beneath the blackened helm, questioning with the voice of rumbling thunder. "It has been a long time since one of your kind has made it this far."

"My name is Julius, Lord Rodrick. My village received the summons, and so I was sent." The young cleaner felt his nose touch the polished floor. A heavy step approached him, until giant armored boots rested beside his face.

"Rise, Julius." Julius complied without question, watching in horror as the massive gauntlet extended to pluck the parchment from his trembling hands. Slowly, but surely as Julius could ever have known: The rumble of laughter.

Was he misinterpreting? Julius dared not stare beneath the dim shadows within that charcoaled visor, but still it boomed from the Knight's horrid chest until slowly settling, back down to the slow wheeze.

"It is a blessing bestowed, young one. The Great Dark Lord will not remember this request."

Julius blinked, stunned by those words.

"Not remember?" He couldn't believe his own voice had the strength to reply, knees shaking beneath his robes.

"No..." The Black Knight crumpled the parchment between armored fingers, grinding the papers to dust as Julius watched in horror. Beneath the helm of pitched metal, he could swear there was a glow: Blood red lurking in the fires of hatred.

"You will work for me now."