Keir

Keir knelt on a cushion surrounded by runes carved into the asphalt. Most of them where fairly ordinary, similar to ones commonly placed on weapons, tools and buildings. Others were far more complicated, done in a pattern that was so detailed and intricate it was nearly impossible to follow.

Around him stood three mages, including Von, ready to donate their power to him one after the other. They'd be resting in shifts so they'd be able to continue for the four day ritual. While only one of them was needed at the moment, all of them wanted to see how the ritual worked. Past them stood a ring of dead guards, keeping the curious onlookers well back.

Ropes, some made from old cloth when they ran out of proper hemp ones, hung around the camp, marking out the safe areas. Guards stood near them, ready to warn anyone who was foolish enough to risk the magical energy that would soon fill the city.

With his eyes closed, Keir reached out for the magic. The necromantic energy was overpowering. It swept around him like a hurricane, battering his soul. Worse than the sheer force was the pain and rage that filled it. Few people died happily, most fought to live with all their power. Necromancy was not for the weak willed. Every time he touched the dark magic he felt the struggle to survive, the anger, sorrow, and fear.

Sometimes he wondered what it was like to be able to properly handle healing magic. He'd been told it was warm and comforting, and as powerful as his own necromancy in its own way. Usually it was an idle thought, easily pushed aside. He was so used to necromancy the tiny emotional discomfort was less than nothing.

Now, he was worried it could overpower him.

Opening his eyes, he could barely see through the darkness. Faces rose in the magical energy, screaming, shouting, crying, howling, and begging. Hands reached out for him, passing through his body, leaving only a sense of coldness.

Raising his hands he grabbed hold of the energy, channelling it through his body, taking control of the wild, uncontrolled power. His movement and thoughts wove it into shape, turning it into tools he could use.

Weaving a strand through the simpler runes, the amplifiers began to absorb the surrounding energy. The strand grew in size going from a slender thread to a rope as thick as his wrist. Over several minutes it continued to grow until was as thick around as his waist.

Sweat beaded up on his brow. Moving the energy was difficult, usually his magic was like a thin net, easy to control as long as he cast his mind wide enough to control the edges. This was more like trying to control a bucking horse, it moved in violent, unintended ways, trying to break free.

He forced it into the complicated runes. The mystic symbols helped tame the energy, channelling it into the proper forms. Ribbons of blackness rose into the sky, flowing towards matching runes to the north, east, south and west.

As they stabilized, he watched the necromantic magic filling the city begin to rise up, flowing into the ribbons of energy. Moaning, wailing and screaming figures were dragged from the streets. Their bodies torn apart piece by piece, becoming part of the ceremony.

Keir reached for a flask, taking a long drink, sweat dripped from his face, soaking his chest and lap. He allowed himself a few minutes to rest. Then he began chanting softly, gently shaping the magic into his desired form.

He felt Von's own magic added to his. It was only a trickle of power but it helped to relieve the strain. With water and power he would keep chanting for the four days. He wondered if his new body could handle the strain.

***

Mirek

Watching the necromancer work, Mirek felt a stab of pain in his chest. He should be used to it by now. His lover Toshka was gone. There was nothing of the loving girl who had been devoted to her family in the person who now controlled her body.

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The soldiers and workers from the fort were quick to praise the mage. Claiming that Mage Keira had saved them all with her army of dead and fighting skills. For all Mirek knew, it was true. But he knew the stories, the necromancer only cared for himself, butchering cities, enslaving people, and slaughtering anyone who opposed him, creating eternal torture chambers for their souls.

He'd tried his best to look for something within the necromancer that showed some humanity. He hadn't found anything. The necromancer was cold, watching the world with eyes that held no softness, no joy, no love. He was little better than the demons.

With his hand on his sword, he stood watch over one of the alleyways, making sure no one got too close. Despite his feelings, he had sworn to Toshka he would do his best to help the city. He hadn't been able to do much, but he'd helped keep alive a few dozen people. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He should have gone with the refugees. He should have found some way to get named as one of the guards. If he had the girl he loved would still be alive.

The sound of squeaking brought him out of his melancholy thoughts. At first it was only a few frightened sounding rats, then it grew. From the alleys and streets that surrounded the camp hundreds, then thousands, than tens of thousands of vermin began screeching.

The animals came from the ruined houses and buildings, flooding the street, fleeing something they couldn't see.

They twitched and jump as if they were being stabbed. Then they started attacking each other, ripping into their neighbours, trying to stop the pain, fighting what they thought were their enemies.

Birds flew into the sky only to fall to the ground, screeching in agony. The rats, mice, weasels, and other vermin that filled the streets pounced on them in a maddened frenzy.

A few crazed animals ran towards Mirek. Runes flared to life and the vermin tumbled to a stop. They looked at him with hateful bloody eyes, then turned away and ran back into the mass of animals, ripping and tearing anything that got too close, even biting into their own flesh in the unthinking frenzy.

Turning away from the blood soaked, writhing mass of death that filled the alley, he looked to the necromancer. What monster had taken control of his lover?

How could the Mother and the Father allow this madness?

***

Floria

Sipping her cup of spinach and liver soup, Floria sat on a bench that had been set up close to the Regua. Her stitches itched, and standing was a challenge thanks to how much blood she'd lost, but she couldn't stay in bed any longer. She had her duty and all of her people were dead, so now it fell to her and her alone to guard their saviour.

She wasn't allowed to get too close, there was nowhere for her to sit in the ritual and standing for more than a few minutes was out of the question. So she watched from a distance as the sun set and she ate her soup that was supposed to help her body recover.

The growing darkness was pushed back by a large number of fires. The safe buildings were packed to the brim with people seeking a warm place to sleep where they didn't have to look at the sky. Those who couldn't fit in the building were huddled around the fires, staring into the flames, avoiding looking up. Or they were already in their tents huddled under blankets, praying to the Mother and the Father that they'd wake up in the morning.

A few of the priests and priestesses were speaking to their followers. Trying to keep the fear from building up and the weaker people from panicking. She couldn't make out what they were saying, and wasn't that interested. While she believed in the Mother and the Father, the Lleial followed Death, the god that truly ruled over all.

Looking up, she watched the black mist that had been building up throughout the day. It looked almost like a swarm of flies. That thought was quickly pushed away as her sight adjusted to the unnatural darkness. Instead of fading into the dark sky, the mist appeared to glow. The dark brightness made her eyes water.

After the vermin had killed themselves in an orgy of violence all around the camp, everyone was on edge. Most of the crowd that had watched the ritual at down had moved as far from the Regua as they could. Which was how Floria had found the comfortable bench to sit on along with many of the other Lleial who were in the camp and not working at the granaries or armouries.

They watched the Regua, who was barely visible behind her ghostly honour guard, lit up by the black light of the runes. She hadn't moved from her spot all day, she had only sipped her water and sat in seeming silence.

The relative quiet of the night was shattered as a building collapsed.

Floria almost jumped to her feet, stopping herself at the last second as a pain in her stomach reminded her that she was injured and ripping her stitches would be a bad idea.

Looking towards the noise she saw a building that was just outside of the protected area had crumbled. In the last light of sunset it looked like the bricks had turned to sand. It shuddered again and a cloud of dust rose from it, forming a dust devil that quickly rose into the sky. Where the building had been was a hole that had once been a basement, full of rock, metal and debris that was slowly turning to powder.

In the distance another building collapsed.

Smiling, Floria wondered what miracle the Regua was going to create when the ritual was done.