Idly, Vyrl speculated as to the nature of the temporary insanity he seemed to have picked up during the battle. It wasn't all that uncommon -- the stress of significant necromatic efforts could do strange things to the mortal mind. Perhaps he had gone too far. Perhaps it was already too late.
Such thoughts fled the moment his fingertips brushed against the Staff. On the instant of contact, his mind cleared in such a way as he wouldn't have imagined was possible. He was aware of the battles raging throughout the castle, but he was no longer burdened by the knowledge. It was as if his will had been given a life of its own, independent of his body, but not of his consciousness; it writhed and flexed as though his own, somewhere else. It controlled hordes of undead, while he looked around, aware of his surroundings, and thinking his own thoughts.
He closed his hand around the staff, and the undead strengthened in unity, empowered by his will, if not his attention.
He knew he was atop a tower, pummelling against resistance fighters; he knew that elsewhere, Balta's dragon roamed; he knew that the battles being raged had taken their toll. He also knew, as if by miracle, where he was, and what was around him.
"I suppose I should thank you," he said wryly, not knowing if any were receiving his praise. "I don't honestly know. What it means to be a master of necromancy changes with this. I can't claim to know how to feel about that."
He hesitated, and then sighed.
"I wish I could stay, and hope to find you again..." He wasn't exactly lying, but in truth, he wanted to abscond with the Staff more than he wanted to assist other vampires. "...I imagine we have much to discuss together. Thank-you for this. This changes... everything."
20-Jan-2020 00:57:50