Dark Lord Morthisal Ebonwrath, Master of the Abyss, Ruler of the Dread Legions, Netherlord, and Lich King, Necromancer Supreme, also known as Soulrender, and the Architect of Oblivion awoke in a strange room with a strange man doing strange things to his strange body.

Pain! His chest was on fire.

Tight! The pressure would not relent.

Suffocating! He couldn't breathe!

The balding man with a ring of wispy gray hair wrapped around his forehead like a halo peered into Morthisal's eyes and dripped sweat on his face.

“I don’t know what to do!” the balding man yelled.

“Help’s on the way. I don’t know. Do CPR!”

“How? I don’t know how to do CPR.“

“Move!” the other man bellowed. “I saw this on The Office.”

The other man shoved the balding man out of the way, interlaced his fingers, and placed his palm on Morthisal’s chest. Then he began a song that involved the words “Staying Alive” while forcefully pushing air into his chest. The man pumped and pumped, and Morthisal was quite grateful for the efforts because it made him remember how to breathe.

He gasped. Sputtered. Sucked in air. Choked and gasped again.

“Off me!” Morthisal tried to yell, but it came out as a husky whisper. Such were the travails of being a dark lord. Centuries of chanting heretical, foul, and searing words could cause permanent damage to the throat, and Morthisal had hundreds of years of practice behind him.

Only… Only… this was not his voice.

He gently shoved the man even though he wanted to toss him away. He barely had strength. His arms were too short, and they no longer felt enhanced.

“Uh. Uh. Uh. Are you okay?” The sweaty man’s face was etched with fear.

“I don’t know,” Morthisal rasped.

Morthisal closed his eyes. He focused on his center and called forth his power—the abyssal threads that leaked from the other side and powered his dark magic. They were always there, waiting for him to take hold and bend them to his considerable will.

They weren’t there. At all!

He uttered guttural words that should have called on his reserves. Should have filled him with power!

Nothing happened.

"Woah there, Vincent. Are you speaking in tongues?"

I will speak in a tongue that will burn your brain to ash!

He opened his eyes and focused on the room, which was like nothing he had ever encountered. Beige walls, stark white ceiling, squares that somehow emitted magic beams of light from above—the entire room was too bright. Morthisal turned his head and took in a stunning sheet of crystal—no, glass, but it was somehow clear. Outside of the pane was a world he could not have imagined.

Square buildings rose next to each other, with more square windows set at regular intervals. The sun seemed to be out, but was hidden in dark clouds. They hung in the sky and made the world look dreadful—something Morthisal could appreciate.

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A few moments ago, Lord Morthisal had been … somewhere else. But it was a haze.

Morthisal blinked rapidly and groaned. “Help me up, fool."

“You should stay still, and you shouldn't be so rude. We're trying to help you, Mr. Logan. Help’s on the way.”

Mr. Logan?

The other balding man snatched a bottle off the table, twisted the top, and removed the lid. Lid? Not cork? He held it in front of Morthisal.

"Here. Drink this.”

Drink? “Is it a draught of healing?"

“What? It’s water.”

“Bring me a potion. Immediately. One of fortitude or of replenishment. Either will do.” His voice sounded so strange. “Something of substance. What need have I of water?”

“He’s really out of it,” another man said.

“Maybe he had a stroke,” the balding guy replied.

“Names. Now,” Morthisal demanded and snapped his fingers.

“He hit his head.”

“Mr. Logan. This is Mr. Harris, and I’m Mr. Seitz.”

"As you say."

Morthisal studied his hands, and arms. Pale. Smooth. Too white. He held his hands in front of his face and flexed his fingers. They were too short. Stubby. He already missed his long and elegant digits with their sharpened nails.

Morthisal struggled to sit up, his unfamiliar body unsteady and weak. Mr. Harris and Mr. Seitz rushed to his side, their hands touching his arms, gently pushing him back down.

"Sir, please, you should stay down," Mr. Harris urged.

"Unhand me," Morthisal growled, his voice foreign to his ears.

A new figure entered the room, dressed in gray trousers of a smooth material and a maroon jerkin with clever buttons holding the cloth closed. He surveyed the scene with concern etched on his face.

"Is Vince okay?" the newcomer asked, his brow furrowed. "He was... no, is my employee. I’m Jack Sweet from accounting.”

“We’re not sure what’s wrong with him,” Mr. Sietz said as he sat back on his haunches.

A woman blew past Jack Sweet and into the room, carrying a white pack. She shoved Mr. Harris and Mr. Seitz aside, her movements frantic and purposeful. She slammed the pack on the ground, yanked it open, and pulled out two pads trailing strings.

"I'm Jill Holland from the third floor. I'm trained in how to use defibrillators. How long has he been having a heart attack?" Her voice was sharp with urgency.

Morthisal's eyes narrowed at the woman's intrusion. He drew himself up, which was a struggle as he was prone on the ground, and growled, "Peasant woman, you will leave my sight at once.”

“Excuse me?” Jill Holland's mouth dropped open.

“The paramedics are almost here,” the man called Jack Sweet exclaimed.

The woman's eyes had narrowed. She glared at Morthisal. “Pull his shirt up. I’ll shock him just in case."

“Pull up my shirt at your peril, peasant woman.”

The woman turned her head to the side, her lip curling upward in a silent sneer. An incredulous “uh” escaped her lips.

A sound like the wailing of a well-tortured man sounded from outside and grew louder.

“What is that infernal noise?” Morthisal shook his head.

“The paramedics were fast,” Mr. Harris said.

“Thank goodness.” Mr. Sietz breathed a visible sigh of relief.

“You're a very rude person,” the woman with the white pack said.

Morthisal opened his mouth to tell these fools to help him up, but no sound came out. The room swam as the body tried to detach itself from his soul. He fought for purchase. With sheer willpower, he stayed in place, but not without cost.

His body thrashed as if being jolted by a misfired fireball spell. Pain raced through his body. His limbs shook, and his head bashed into the ground.

“Oh my god. He’s having a seizure!“ the woman yelled.

Confused voices were all around him.

“… lift his feet…”

“…lift his head…”

“…put something in his mouth. How about my shoe…” the woman’s voice offered.

Morthisal tried to fight the uncontrollable betrayal this body was inflicting upon him.

His head thrashed back and struck the ground hard enough to send a blast of white haze across his vision. His teeth clacked together. A loud keening came from somewhere before he realized it was from him.

Hands rolled him over. He wanted to pull away from them, but he had no control of his body. A particularly powerful spasm slammed his forehead into a metal chair roller.

Pain burst across his forehead. The splash of blood was warm across his nose and lips.

His vision faded to a pinpoint before everything went black, and Dark Lord Morthisal’s consciousness betrayed him again.