The name hung in the air, heavier than the shadows cast by the dim light. Sygmund’s jaw clenched as his eyes narrowed. “The Wraith,” he repeated, his tone icy. “A bold name for someone so… inconveniently present.”
The figure in the chair stirred. The Wraith’s cloak billowed slightly, as though moved by an unseen breeze, and his shadow stretched unnaturally long on the marble floor. Slowly, the hood lowered, revealing just enough of a face to send a shiver down the spine. A sharp, angular jaw, pale skin, and hollow eyes that glowed faintly with an unsettling blue luminescence. His pointed ears marked him as an elf=, but there was something unnatural about him—something unsettling. His features were fine, almost too fine, and his sharp smile didn’t reach his eyes.
"I am not here to inconvenience you, Sygmund," the Wraith spoke, his voice low and smooth, but with a sense of menace that hung in the air like a storm cloud. "I am here to save you from your own arrogance." His eyes flicked toward the door, as though expecting someone to enter at any moment.
Sygmund stiffened. “Save me? From what?”
The Wraith stood, his long cloak sweeping the floor behind him. He walked toward the desk, his footsteps too soft for such a tall figure, and stopped just behind the desk. His gaze lingered on the Lord Mayor, studying him with an air of detached curiosity, as if Sygmund were just another puzzle to be solved. The weight of the Wraith’s presence in the room seemed to crush the air around them, making the normally expansive office feel suffocating.
“You’ve been blind, Sygmund,” the Wraith continued, his voice now colder, sharper, like the wind before a storm. “You think you see your enemies, but you fail to see those who truly control this city. You think yourself invincible, but I assure you, your time is running out.”
Sygmund leaned forward, a slow, deliberate movement, his fingers tightening on the icy surface of the desk in front of him. The coldness from his prosthetic hand spread through his palm, a sensation he had grown accustomed to. His eyes never left the Wraith.
"I control this city," the elf said, his voice firm. "I always have."
The Wraith shook his head slowly, as though he pitied the Lord Mayor. “House Aguilar has plans for this city. And you, Sygmund, are nothing more than a pawn in their game.”
Sygmund’s breath caught for a moment, and the muscle in his jaw twitched. He had suspected the Aguilar family’s involvement in the shadows, but to hear it from this ghostly figure, this self-styled Wraith, was a jarring confirmation. His mind raced. How much did this figure know? More importantly, who was pulling the strings behind him?
"You think you can intimidate me?" The Lord Mayor's tone turned sharp, as his ice prosthetic hand clenched into a fist, the veins in his forearm rippling with power. “You’ve come far, Wraith, but you’ve underestimated me. I’ve built this empire. I’ve seen every threat this city could muster and crushed it beneath my boot. You and your masters are no different.”
The Wraith’s smile widened, a thin, cruel expression. “I’ve seen it all, Sygmund. Your petty squabbles. Your schemes. You think you’re the puppet master, but you don’t even know the strings you’re tied to.”
The words stung, but Sygmund was no fool. He had faced greater threats before, though the Wraith’s cryptic words troubled him. He leaned back in his chair, careful not to let his irritation show, and studied the figure before him. There had to be more to this. Something deeper.
“Then I suppose you’re here to enlighten me,” Sygmund said, his voice tinged with mocking calmness. “What is it you want from me, Wraith?”
The Wraith chuckled softly, the sound smooth, as if amused by the discomfort that dripped from Sygmund’s every word. “I’ve always been something of a specter—unseen, unnoticed, until I am. But I’m afraid your… ‘assistant’ is no longer who he was.”
Sygmund’s heart skipped a beat, the unspoken tension in the room suddenly thickening. Blinken, who had been moving toward the desk, froze. “What… What do you mean by that?”
“Do you see him?” The Wraith asked with feigned innocence, raising a hand to gesture toward Blinken. “No, not the gnome. Not anymore.”
Before either could react, the Wraith’s hand blurred and a dagger was flying across the room, hitting Blinken in the chest.
With a shriek of agony, the gnome’s face twisted and contorted, the skin across his features stretching and warping. Sygmund’s gaze snapped to Blinken, now grimacing as the unmistakable sound of flesh tearing filled the room. The gnome’s short, rotund body began to twist, as though some horrific force was violently reshaping it from within.
Then, with a sickening wet sound, Blinken’s skin—his very flesh—ripped open. It peeled away in long, jagged strips, exposing the raw muscle and sinew beneath. Blinken let out a strangled cry, but it was not his voice that carried through the room. No, it was deeper, guttural, and somehow wrong.
The creature that now stood where Blinken had been was not the gnome at all. It was something else entirely.
It stood at least eight feet tall, with a sinewy, massive frame. Its skin was completely absent—flayed away, leaving only raw muscle, tendons, and veins that pulsed with an eerie vitality. The air in the room grew even colder, and Sygmund’s breath became shallow as he tried to process the sight before him. The creature’s eyes burned with a malevolent intelligence, and as it stepped closer, Sygmund could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
The creature let out a low growl, its breath heavy and reeking of death. It flexed its brawny limbs, the muscles shifting beneath its exposed flesh as though it were savoring the terror it had just instilled.
Blinken—his assistant, his loyal confidant—stood before him, but the form before him was no longer a gnome. It was something else entirely.
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A deep, rasping voice sounded from the creature’s throat. “I am… Ecorche,” it growled, its words thick with an unnatural reverberation. It tilted its head slightly, its claws clicking against the stone floor as it stepped closer.
Sygmund’s hand went instinctively to his ice prosthetic, fingers curling around the cold, jagged surface. His heart hammered in his chest, and for the first time in years, he felt an overwhelming wave of uncertainty. The creature was no mere beast—it was something worse. Something sentient.
"You..." Sygmund began, his voice faltering. "What... what is this?"
The Wraith’s eyes flashed as he spoke, his voice low and ominous. “This, Sygmund, is Blinken. Your so-called loyal assistant. But as you can see, he has undergone a rather... radical transformation. Courtesy of House Aguilar.”
Sygmund’s mind reeled. Blinken, the gnome who had worked tirelessly by his side for so long, had been replaced by this abomination. His chest tightened, his pulse quickened. "Blinken," he whispered, his voice breaking with disbelief. “No… this can’t be true.”
The monsters lips twisted into a grotesque, jagged grin, revealing the raw sinew and muscle beneath its lack of skin. It took another step forward, its movements unnaturally fluid and terrifyingly fast for a creature of its size. Its claws scraped the floor, and its eyes burned with malicious intelligence. “
In that moment, The Lord Mayor’s eyes hardened. With a shout, he thrust his hand forward, summoning an enormous spike of ice that shot toward the Ecorche. But the creature was ready. It moved faster than the eye could follow, dodging the ice projectile with ease, and its massive clawed hand shot out to swat the attack aside. The force of the blow shattered the ice with an unnatural ease, and the Ecorche leapt forward, its massive form closing the distance between them in an instant.
But Sygmund was quicker. With a swift motion, he summoned an icy barrier around himself, creating a wall of jagged spikes that tore at the Ecorche’s exposed muscle as it crashed into it. The creature howled in pain, but the wall didn’t last long. With a ferocious swipe of its claws, the Ecorche destroyed the shield, tearing through it as if it were paper.
Then the Wraith’s presence exploded into the fray. In an explosion of movement, he leapt forward. As he did so, he began to transform. His body rippled and bent as if it were no longer solid, but liquid—his limbs elongating, his spine curving unnaturally. His already eerie shape expanded, growing larger, more monstrous, and more terrifying. His fingers stretched into sharp, spindly appendages, each ending in razor-sharp talons that glistened with venomous fluid. His body became sleek, chitinous armor spreading over his skin, a deep, unnatural black that shimmered in the dim light.
The Wraith had transformed into a nightmarish creature—a venomous, spidery form with six long, segmented limbs, each joint crackling with tension. His head morphed into a grotesque arachnid’s face, its eyes multiple and gleaming with a sickly light, while from his back, thin, sharp pincers emerged, clicking and hissing in anticipation. His body was lithe and deadly, designed for speed and pain. The Wraith was no longer an elf—he was a deadly spider-like entity, a terror that came not just with the threat of physical violence, but with poison, the ancient and insidious tool of the arachnid.
Before the Ecorche could react, the Wraith’s new form moved with lightning speed. His spindly legs scuttled across the floor, propelling him forward like a venomous dart aimed at the heart of his foe. His first strike was a blur—two long limbs lashed out, extending far beyond any natural reach, and pierced the creature's exposed side. The poison-laced talons sank deep into the Ecorche’s flesh, injecting a virulent toxin into its body. The monster roared in pain, its claws swiping blindly at the air as the poison began to work its insidious magic.
The Ecorche’s powerful muscles began to stiffen, its reflexes slowing as the venom coursed through its veins, but it was far from finished. With a snarl, it swung its massive claws at the Wraith, aiming to cleave the creature in half. But the Wraith was faster, his lithe, spidery form contorting and dodging in ways that defied logic. He twisted his body like a snake, bending backward to avoid the strikes, his limbs clicking and moving like the limbs of a machine made for murder. With a screeching hiss, the Wraith darted forward, his limbs once again stabbing into the Ecorche’s flesh, embedding his venomous claws deep into the creature’s chest.
The Ecorche struggled against the Wraith’s brutal assault, its muscles bulging with raw strength as it tried to throw the creature off, but the Wraith’s grasp was ironclad. His body slithered over the Ecorche’s like a serpent wrapping itself around prey, venom coursing through the creature’s bloodstream, weakening it with every passing second.
The Lord Mayor, watching in stunned silence, barely had time to react. He knew that the Wraith’s transformation into this horrific, spidery creature was not just a form—it was a weapon. Poisoned limbs, unnatural agility, and the unrelenting, razor-sharp pincers were all designed for one purpose: to destroy.
And destroy, the Wraith did.
Each strike, each piercing attack, only served to weaken the Ecorche further. The Wraith’s legs, now far more like a spider’s, skittered across the floor as he maintained his hold, moving with terrifying precision. As the Ecorche began to falter under the weight of the venom, the Wraith shifted his position, his multiple limbs stretching out like pincers, and in one swift, fluid motion, his deadly limbs impaled the creature’s chest. The Ecorche’s claws flailed, but they could not find their mark as the Wraith moved with a supernatural grace.
The Ecorche let out a guttural cry as the poison began to take its full effect. Its enormous form wavered, its once-imposing strength dwindling beneath the steady infusion of venom. The Wraith’s pincers sank deeper, and with a cruel, echoing hiss, the creature’s massive body began to slump to the ground, its muscles locking up under the paralyzing effects of the poison.
But the Wraith was not done.
He could feel the creature’s life force flickering, weakening. He could sense it. His body morphed once again, his spider-like features retracting as his limbs shortened, his chitinous armor melting away into the darkness from which he came. In a flash, the Wraith was no longer a monster but a dark, shifting silhouette, his human form once more taking shape.
The Wraith hovered above the Ecorche’s crumpled form, his sharp, calculating gaze fixed on the creature’s dying body. He was silent for a long moment, assessing the scene. The creature’s breath came in ragged gasps, its muscles twitching as the venom slowly suffocated the life from it.
With one final strike, the Wraith plunged his talons into the Ecorche’s skull. The creature’s eyes went wide in a final, pitiful scream of pain before the life drained from it entirely. The Ecorche’s head fell back, its body shuddering one last time before it went limp.
The Wraith stood, breathing lightly, his form still hovering in the shadows. A soft hiss of satisfaction escaped his lips. The beast was dead. Its body lay at his feet, lifeless and shattered, a grim testament to the effectiveness of his venom and his power.
Sygmund, who had been standing frozen, his ice prosthetic hand crackling with barely contained power, stepped forward. His eyes shifted from the Wraith’s now-human form to the massive corpse of the Ecorche at his feet.
“That was…” the Mayor’s voice faltered. The battle had been quick, brutal, and incredibly efficient. “Impressive.”
The Wraith’s lips curled into a thin, predatory smile, his sharp eyes glimmering with dark amusement. “I do not leave things to chance, Lord Mayor,” he said softly. “I do not waste time, which is why I used Venomform. That creature was nothing more than an insect to be crushed. Now let me tell you how you can repay me for my services”.