McIan
Journeyman
The blurred, unfocused, images in his field of vision coalesced at last. His eyes were open but he was shrouded mostly in darkness. Only the flickering flames of a burning torch ensconced on a far wall shed any light around him. He could discern the outlines of objects: a decrepit bed, a black rug made of animal fur, a decaying wooden bench. The odor of death and putrescence filled the air.
He was alive!
Magnus steadied himself. He observed his body, what he could see of it clothed as he was. He was dressed in crimson armor and wore a hooded robe over all of it save his gauntleted hands. In his left he held a wooden shield at his side, also dyed red. In his right was a long lance, glowing blood red, humming with unknown, but likely lethal, power.
He was not alive... not... entirely.
For one thing he did not need to breathe; his chest did not heave. He had no lungs necessary to pump life-sustaining oxygen into his body. His body. It was his own, yet not his own. He sensed a change, not subtle, in that he felt stronger, his muscles more sinewy, taut. He felt strong, powerful, yet... limited. And then he saw the solitary door, barred.
Panic seized him for a moment but he quickly calmed himself. He was in the castle, what was it called? The castle of blood in some obscure tongue? Was he a prisoner? If so why was he armed as if prepared for battle?
The door opened and in stepped a man cloaked in black, wearing a deep purple cape. Magnus could see skeletal hands and two points of light couched in the shadowy recesses of a hood. They gazed upon him. "Welcome home, Magnus," a crackling, watery, voice intoned. "It has been a while but ye have returned to us at last. Come on out and we shall talk."
Magnus followed the man into a large chamber filled with all manner of the signatures of death and decay: bones, full skeletons lying on the floor, skull rugs, braziers sizzling with coals, and two thrones, one of bone and the other of green crystal, side by side. The robed figure walked slowly to the former and sat down. He motioned for Magnus to approach, and he obeyed.
"Ye are a Death Knight, Magnus, as I foretold. Thy gods have cursed thee for thy sins. Now ye must serve my will, the one who took thy life."
"Then it shall be so," he replied. "As long as it serves me," he added.
The Elder's eyes flared. "Ye are doomed forever Magnus! There is no escape from it."
Magnus was not deterred by the threat. "There is, and you know of it. You, too, were once a paladin so you know these things. I have been sent back to be punished, and serve sentence for my crimes, but I was told you will suffer worse when the time comes. I have a way out of this living death, but not you. I know now why, as the stories say, you became a vampire; why your soul did not remain in the Abyss; why when you returned from it you were dying and were aided to become the lich you are. You must avoid death at all costs. You know dire, merciless, punishment awaits you. But you are no god and you will die as all do. You pity me but I pity you more," he commented, as confident as any teacher who knew his material well.
It was rare that the Elder was shocked by anything. It was not the Knight's impertinence - he expected that - it was the insights into his own mind and heart, revealed, laid bare in precise detail from beginning to end. He was speechless, musing over, and dreading, the truth of his words.
Magnus continued. "Yes, I will serve you. I must. But I will choose how and when. You cannot kill me now, not again, and you cannot harm me like before. I will discover the means to end my curse, and then I will come for you and put you down, send you into the deepest hell where you belong."
Scaramandine cackled. "I love this. Ye wish to play a game with me and that is good." He leaned forward. "I never lose games my friend. But there is time for that." He leaned back. "There is someone who ordered me to bring ye back and I have obeyed. She is nearby. I will send word to her and she shall come. It is my will that ye obey her foremost."
Magnus' own glowing eyes flared briefly. "Virani," he muttered.
He was alive!
Magnus steadied himself. He observed his body, what he could see of it clothed as he was. He was dressed in crimson armor and wore a hooded robe over all of it save his gauntleted hands. In his left he held a wooden shield at his side, also dyed red. In his right was a long lance, glowing blood red, humming with unknown, but likely lethal, power.
He was not alive... not... entirely.
For one thing he did not need to breathe; his chest did not heave. He had no lungs necessary to pump life-sustaining oxygen into his body. His body. It was his own, yet not his own. He sensed a change, not subtle, in that he felt stronger, his muscles more sinewy, taut. He felt strong, powerful, yet... limited. And then he saw the solitary door, barred.
Panic seized him for a moment but he quickly calmed himself. He was in the castle, what was it called? The castle of blood in some obscure tongue? Was he a prisoner? If so why was he armed as if prepared for battle?
The door opened and in stepped a man cloaked in black, wearing a deep purple cape. Magnus could see skeletal hands and two points of light couched in the shadowy recesses of a hood. They gazed upon him. "Welcome home, Magnus," a crackling, watery, voice intoned. "It has been a while but ye have returned to us at last. Come on out and we shall talk."
Magnus followed the man into a large chamber filled with all manner of the signatures of death and decay: bones, full skeletons lying on the floor, skull rugs, braziers sizzling with coals, and two thrones, one of bone and the other of green crystal, side by side. The robed figure walked slowly to the former and sat down. He motioned for Magnus to approach, and he obeyed.
"Ye are a Death Knight, Magnus, as I foretold. Thy gods have cursed thee for thy sins. Now ye must serve my will, the one who took thy life."
"Then it shall be so," he replied. "As long as it serves me," he added.
The Elder's eyes flared. "Ye are doomed forever Magnus! There is no escape from it."
Magnus was not deterred by the threat. "There is, and you know of it. You, too, were once a paladin so you know these things. I have been sent back to be punished, and serve sentence for my crimes, but I was told you will suffer worse when the time comes. I have a way out of this living death, but not you. I know now why, as the stories say, you became a vampire; why your soul did not remain in the Abyss; why when you returned from it you were dying and were aided to become the lich you are. You must avoid death at all costs. You know dire, merciless, punishment awaits you. But you are no god and you will die as all do. You pity me but I pity you more," he commented, as confident as any teacher who knew his material well.
It was rare that the Elder was shocked by anything. It was not the Knight's impertinence - he expected that - it was the insights into his own mind and heart, revealed, laid bare in precise detail from beginning to end. He was speechless, musing over, and dreading, the truth of his words.
Magnus continued. "Yes, I will serve you. I must. But I will choose how and when. You cannot kill me now, not again, and you cannot harm me like before. I will discover the means to end my curse, and then I will come for you and put you down, send you into the deepest hell where you belong."
Scaramandine cackled. "I love this. Ye wish to play a game with me and that is good." He leaned forward. "I never lose games my friend. But there is time for that." He leaned back. "There is someone who ordered me to bring ye back and I have obeyed. She is nearby. I will send word to her and she shall come. It is my will that ye obey her foremost."
Magnus' own glowing eyes flared briefly. "Virani," he muttered.