Something is wrong.
Three men stood in a building, surrounded by death. They were smiling, intoxicated by victory and drink alike. They boasted proudly of the massacre, all the while careful to step over their handiwork. “He will be pleased!* they claimed, “More and more money with each raid!” His boast was replaced by a slight hum, a single fly drifting past his scarred head. The drunken mercenary spared nothing more than an off handed swat at it.
I need to fix it.
Another fly crawled its way into the room. Then another. And more, many more followed. The mercenaries paused to consider the phenomenon. As they looked around the war torn room, the room’s burnt walls were covered with sheets of flies. They hummed in annoyance.
That one. It will suffice.
The insects dove in a frenzy towards one of the corpses, one of the mercenaries losing his stomach’s contents as he watched the display. As he wretched onto the floor, several creatures began to slowly climb out. Worms, millipedes, and other such vermin. All of them singularly focused on the corpse. It possessed a strong frame, one belonging to a worker. It did*’t merely suffice, it was
perfect
.
Why am I alive?
A simple question with a complex answer. Perhaps the simplest explanation was that a mage had died, one that did not take too kindly to their fate. Their dying wish forming their last, potent incantation: the creation of some otherworldly force seeking retribution for ending a life before its time. A form of necromancy? Perhaps, but the darkest hour necessitates dark methods.
Answers will come, friend. You need to act.
The mercenaries abandoned their revel and fled into the night, shouting warnings to their comrades. “Help!” they cried, “Magic! Dark magic!”
I need...I need to stand.
Cower, worship, or beg. All are valid choices.
05-Nov-2015 03:07:45
- Last edited on
05-Nov-2015 03:12:01
by
Quick5ilvr