Post by Dakarizon (Shroud) on Mar 13, 2015 15:04:07 GMT -5
The priest walked the dimly lit halls of the catacombs once again. He ventured there daily since his arrival in these foreign lands. Sometime he stayed a few minutes, stealing minor trinkets and weapons left by the fallen, and sometimes he wandered around for hours, consecrating the halls in the name of his evil God.
Evil: A matter of perception to some in the realms perhaps, but not to Isidorus. He had felt the change in his body the last few months. Ever since he left the monastery in Skuld to join the Fangs, he left profoundly different. It was not a matter of guilt or shame; he was long past that, past the petty jealousy of his brother and father. What he felt was a true sensation of darkness deep within his chest. Even now it was growing, the palpable evil: An icy chill of claws gripping at his very soul, dooming him to an eternal afterlife of-
The priest quickly snapped himself out of his panic. He must remain true to his cause after all. Such fear and doubt is forbidden. If he performed his duties well, he told himself, he would be rewarded in the next life.
He suddenly stopped. In his daze, he had passed the chamber he had intended to perform his ritual. Foolish. One must be aware of their surroundings at all times. That is what he was taught.
Reaching into his robes, he pulled out a small cloth of fine material. He used it to wipe the cold sweat from his brow. It was cold in the catacombs, and his walk was particularly long this night. He turned around and was greeted by the jaw-less, eye-less, putrid-skinned zombie.
Shambling behind the priest was his creation. Its arms nearly reached the floor. It scraped its toes against the stone, spreading its vile blood along the stone floor. The zombie was a pathetic sight, a symbol of the weakness of the body. It had not the intelligence or wisdom to lift its feet: It felt no pain, had no feelings. It was a mindless thing. A disgusting example of the necromantic powers that Set had given him. It moaned softly as it followed its Master.
Isidous could not help but feel a sting of compassion for it. Much like a carpenter looks over his work with pride, so too did he. It had served him well after all. Tonight it would do so again...
He made his way around the zombie and backtracked until he came upon the chamber he had prepared the night before. An ancient elven tomb this was, the walls finely crafted with detail and care now covered in dust. It was mostly empty except for the artifacts the priest had put there: A series of necromantic runes in a circle surrounded the two clay urns.
Isidorus moved closer, re-checking his work. It had to be perfect. He moved towards one of the urns, inspecting its contents. Once satisfied that the venom and blood was in proper proportions, be moved to the other. Now he felt it as he thought about what he had become. It was not the gripping chill as before, but a warm sensation starting from his spine and working its way to his bare shoulders and down his well-defined arms. It was a feeling of absolute rapture. A sweet anticipation of what was to come. He imagined this is what it felt like to be in love. He quickly undressed and sat in the middle of the two urns. The zombie waited patiently; it knew no better. Isidorus closed his eyes and began his prayer. He chanted and set the two urns alight. Blood and poison bubbled in the urns, the smoke filling the small chamber. The zombie stood guard over him.
After what felt like hours, the priest opened his eyes. On either side of him were two piles of ash where the urns had been. He felt the presence behind him. He was almost afraid to turn around. Almost.
Where there once stood a hunched, lifeless zombie was now a man... clearly undead still but not the same pathetic creature as before. The man stood motionless, expressionless. It resembled him. A creature created out of his own image. Isidorus ran his tongue over his dry lips. As he approached the creation, it began to lift its arm, offering it to him. He would oblige.
Isidorus took the arm gently in his grasp and moved his mouth closer. Tonight was a special night for him. He bit down into the man's flesh and felt the poisoned blood pour down his chin and onto the floor. It was painfully bitter, he thought. The bitterness was replaced by a tingling and eventually his whole body went numb. After a few minutes he was on the floor, blinded by pain. He tried to scream, but all that came forth was a gurgling of blood. He could not breathe; he could feel the poisoned blood fill his lungs. It hurt. It was too much to bear. He was not worthy. He was going to die, he would fail. He gave in to doubt and fear. He inhaled and accepted his fate.
The dream ended. Isidorus awoke to find the urns still in place. The zombie, jaw-less and hunched over him standing guard still.
He quickly gathered his things and dressed himself. He bowed his head, whispering a prayer to Set and made his way out of the Catacombs beneath Greatgaunt. The zombie followed, feet scraping the ground.
A bone jutted out of its torn sleeve, where the creature's arm used to be.
Evil: A matter of perception to some in the realms perhaps, but not to Isidorus. He had felt the change in his body the last few months. Ever since he left the monastery in Skuld to join the Fangs, he left profoundly different. It was not a matter of guilt or shame; he was long past that, past the petty jealousy of his brother and father. What he felt was a true sensation of darkness deep within his chest. Even now it was growing, the palpable evil: An icy chill of claws gripping at his very soul, dooming him to an eternal afterlife of-
The priest quickly snapped himself out of his panic. He must remain true to his cause after all. Such fear and doubt is forbidden. If he performed his duties well, he told himself, he would be rewarded in the next life.
He suddenly stopped. In his daze, he had passed the chamber he had intended to perform his ritual. Foolish. One must be aware of their surroundings at all times. That is what he was taught.
Reaching into his robes, he pulled out a small cloth of fine material. He used it to wipe the cold sweat from his brow. It was cold in the catacombs, and his walk was particularly long this night. He turned around and was greeted by the jaw-less, eye-less, putrid-skinned zombie.
Shambling behind the priest was his creation. Its arms nearly reached the floor. It scraped its toes against the stone, spreading its vile blood along the stone floor. The zombie was a pathetic sight, a symbol of the weakness of the body. It had not the intelligence or wisdom to lift its feet: It felt no pain, had no feelings. It was a mindless thing. A disgusting example of the necromantic powers that Set had given him. It moaned softly as it followed its Master.
Isidous could not help but feel a sting of compassion for it. Much like a carpenter looks over his work with pride, so too did he. It had served him well after all. Tonight it would do so again...
He made his way around the zombie and backtracked until he came upon the chamber he had prepared the night before. An ancient elven tomb this was, the walls finely crafted with detail and care now covered in dust. It was mostly empty except for the artifacts the priest had put there: A series of necromantic runes in a circle surrounded the two clay urns.
Isidorus moved closer, re-checking his work. It had to be perfect. He moved towards one of the urns, inspecting its contents. Once satisfied that the venom and blood was in proper proportions, be moved to the other. Now he felt it as he thought about what he had become. It was not the gripping chill as before, but a warm sensation starting from his spine and working its way to his bare shoulders and down his well-defined arms. It was a feeling of absolute rapture. A sweet anticipation of what was to come. He imagined this is what it felt like to be in love. He quickly undressed and sat in the middle of the two urns. The zombie waited patiently; it knew no better. Isidorus closed his eyes and began his prayer. He chanted and set the two urns alight. Blood and poison bubbled in the urns, the smoke filling the small chamber. The zombie stood guard over him.
After what felt like hours, the priest opened his eyes. On either side of him were two piles of ash where the urns had been. He felt the presence behind him. He was almost afraid to turn around. Almost.
Where there once stood a hunched, lifeless zombie was now a man... clearly undead still but not the same pathetic creature as before. The man stood motionless, expressionless. It resembled him. A creature created out of his own image. Isidorus ran his tongue over his dry lips. As he approached the creation, it began to lift its arm, offering it to him. He would oblige.
Isidorus took the arm gently in his grasp and moved his mouth closer. Tonight was a special night for him. He bit down into the man's flesh and felt the poisoned blood pour down his chin and onto the floor. It was painfully bitter, he thought. The bitterness was replaced by a tingling and eventually his whole body went numb. After a few minutes he was on the floor, blinded by pain. He tried to scream, but all that came forth was a gurgling of blood. He could not breathe; he could feel the poisoned blood fill his lungs. It hurt. It was too much to bear. He was not worthy. He was going to die, he would fail. He gave in to doubt and fear. He inhaled and accepted his fate.
The dream ended. Isidorus awoke to find the urns still in place. The zombie, jaw-less and hunched over him standing guard still.
He quickly gathered his things and dressed himself. He bowed his head, whispering a prayer to Set and made his way out of the Catacombs beneath Greatgaunt. The zombie followed, feet scraping the ground.
A bone jutted out of its torn sleeve, where the creature's arm used to be.