[WP] The dead rise. The grave digger glares. "Not again," he mutters, as he grabs his shovel.
...
"RODRICK!" Gillian's voice boomed with the essence of power and mana alike, as gusts of wind swirling it to rising echoes along the three remaining towers of his great keep. Beside their utter magnificence- looming obelisks of hollowed stonework and carving, each etched as if from one single an perfect cut of black glass, a fragmented and jagged peak stood as well. The previous fourth point of the far eastern tower, and ruined housing of the Spheres of Chaos (the likes of which had since been moved the lower basement).
The ugliness of such a sight was a complete affront to the property's dignity.
Staring at it from the balcony of his private quarters of the westward peak, his expression soured as a hand ran through the ever-growing beard upon his face. He'd read the last era's a book of forbidden knowledge (however tame the information it possessed now was in comparison to the current era) that all the ancient mages of true capacity had longer beards; it even went to far as to suggest that the longer one's facial hair- the greater one's affinity for magics.
Nonsense in its entirety, of course. Gillian had completely disproved it by method of a long-term study for those beneath his rule and some morally dubious experiments. He'd proven that there seemed hardly the slightest correlation between beard length and magical prowess, but he also had to remember and consider that his late master certainly touted one before his death.
Merlin the Great Mage... Though Gillian had made certain it burned with the rest of the wretched man, the beard of gray had stretched down towards the edges of the mage's robes.
Try as he might to emulate such an appearance, Gillian's youthful features seemed in too dramatic a contrast for such a fashion statement. Just because he'd lived longer than most civilizations, that didn't necessarily mean Gillian was going to just take such things in stride. Eternally in his prime, the Dark mage preferred to avoid the concept of aging all together- something his master had utterly failed at.
Indeed, there were few tricks that his master possessed, that Gillian now lacked. Immortality was quickly deciphered by Gillian's genius, of course, as was the arts of soul stealing, summoning, elemental control, and harnessing the flow of Gaia itself... but when it came to the less significant arts, Gillian was forced to confront a strange and mostly unfamiliar sensation of ignorance.
For all of his great might and unrivaled power, Gillian could not claim to be the finest architect.
"RODRICK!" His shout boomed again, and the magic flew through the air on torrents of motion and wind, swirling down among the great labyrinth of his Dark Palace. A distant clanging began to reply, softly at first, but growing in volume as the moments passed.
Finally, the black suit of armor arrived, heavy metal figure slamming down upon the perfectly polished floor of marble to kneel with dignity. "My lord, I have come as summoned." Gillian was all too aware of the faint sarcasm soaked along that statement. "What is your request?"
"You may rise, Rodrick." Sighing deeply, Gillian turned to face the Black Knight. "I don't suppose you can draw that conclusion yourself?" He asked with dry humor, pointing the adorned staff of gold and crystal to point towards the direction of the ruined tower. "What happened to the crew of Masonry Dwarves I acquired during the last war. I could have sworn they were assigned for tower and castle repairs, yet there it sits in plain sight, still ruined."
"My lord." The undead warrior bowed low again, "Do you truly not recall?" Gillian detested the humor that laced itself within the question. That alone was enough to slay a minion beneath him- but Rodrick had long since transcended such a role in his eyes. Wryly, the Dark mage forced a smile onto his perfect features.
"No Rodrick, it appears for this particular topic I find myself unable." His staff tapped against the polished marble, reaching hands of blackened miasma flowing out by the dozen to encircle the armored figure before him- lifting the warrior into the air without the faintest impression of difficulty. "Now, enlighten me before I rip your soul out and stuff it into the nearest privy." The disdain in Gillian's voice felt seemed hardly sufficient to the irritation felt internally.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
"My lord." Somehow the humor was still there in Rodrick's response, persisting as it always seemed to- far past the point in which it should. "They're all dead now. Most living beings age with time, after all."
If Rodrick was still capable of snickering, Gillian was certain that he would have, right at the end there, between the after and the all. If he thought on it any longer, he'd be seeing red in no time- and then there might be two towers to repair.
"My lord, shall I alert the grave-digger?" Rodrick's question was greeted by an unceremonious release of the shadowed hands that held him aloft, dropping him heavily onto the marble to crumple into a heap on the floor- forgiveness implied, but not spoken. Gillian waved his hand absently as he focused his powers, the staff twirling with soft patterns and symbols drawn upon the air as the dark mage crafted the magics around them.
Perhaps a few centuries of such abuse had lightened the impression it originally left on the tortured warrior's soul. Gillian considered this- it had been years since he'd actually ripped the Rodrick's soul out. Of course he had put it right back when he was done with it, the warrior was best left in his own body after all, but maybe there was another fitting body to place the Knight in. A fresh ghoul constructed by the forbidden arts, or maybe just the next stray cat Gillian stumbled upon. For the moment though, the tower held precedence.
"I think in this case Rodrick, it may be more entertaining to surprise them."
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Far below the great spires of the Death Mage's castle, seated in a stone hut of no importance or distinction, a Dark Elf sat quietly watching the iron-cast pot come to boil.
Though young for a member of her species (only twenty-five years of age upon the Summer Solace) Sola had lived in such squalor for her entire life, as had her father before her, and perhaps many more generations even before that. Written records of their familiar history was forbidden by the great Master, so it was difficult to say with any accuracy- not that Sola honestly cared much for the topic.
The things Sola cared about were much more immediate in nature. For one example: The pot of stew in front of her, now rising to a perfect simmer and boil- lofting the scents of herbs and spices with a wonderful feeling of warmth. For another, the bag packed and stored beside her rough cot of wood and ragged cloth, beneath the earth in a leaky chest.
Dark Lord Gillian had not been kind over the past few years- razing villages and Orcish troops for boredom as much as sport. Sola's father and brother had worked themselves to death after the last skirmish along the northern border of Dotera (unofficial as that campaign was.) The rules were all too clear: All able-bodied corpses were to be brought to the burial grounds for preparation, should need of their services arise.
Alone as Sola was, no matter how much practice she might now have with a shovel, she couldn't hope to carry on the job alone. It wasn't as though her family profession as a grave digger was really all that impressive a title to anyways. If she could sneak across the border in the East, Sola could probably find work as a tailor, or a maybe wood-worker. She was still an elf after all, unlike most, she would have hundreds of years to learn the craft so long as she didn't find herself killed by Orc or sickness on the journey there.
"Grrrrroooooooaaaaaaan..."
Sola's ears perked as the sound of earth shifting began, softly at first, but in growing volume outside the stone hut. "GROOOOOOAAAAAN..." More voices joined the chorus as skeletal hands began to sprout from the ground like sickening trees, followed by torsos and skulls; flesh barely handing to the bones and tendons breaking free of the earth.
"Not again." Sola muttered, heading to the doorway to watch a full month of hard labor break free of the ground and begin stumbling towards the castle gates. A whole platoon of Dwarven corpses, and old ones at that: Skeletal and withered things which seemed to lack any of their original luster. The shovel beside the door fell into her hands with instinctive ease, and she leaned against the worn wood to rest her forehead on her hands. In the far off distance of the wall, she could see a dark armored figure standing over-top to watch the procession, black glowing pits settling on her before it turned and disappeared into the depths of the Lord's domain. Behind her, Sola's perfect pot of spiced stew began to boil over, spilling out into the fire beneath it with sputters and smoke.
First the undead, and now this.
Press by press, the metal dug in deep, and over her shoulder it threw. Only moments passed before Sola found her shovel working the earth. Over and over she worked it into the hard ground, muscles aching in the practiced way they always seemed to reach and maintain. On she went until Sola felt the hard thump, as metal met wood, ans she dropped down into the hole.
"To hell with this place." She muttered, as she pulled out the wooden chest. "I quit."