Post by Shinigami on Oct 22, 2004 16:24:27 GMT -5
A Necromancers' Procession
A lone figure stood silhouetted against the silver moon. His gaze resting on the carnage below. A city in flames. Icey blue eyes did not mourn for the lives lost in the destruction. The mind rejoiced at the deaths. Thinking of the many undead soldiers that could be risen from the ashes. The undead made wonderful soldiers. Never needing food nor water. Not requiring sleep or rest. But best of all they would contiue fighting even when a limb is removed. They woulf fight until their bones were reduced to a fine powder.
Dalathire the dark elven necromancer glided swiftly down to the burning city. The flames danced off his flawless snow white skin. Silken robes whispered softly as they brushed the ground. Iradecent black hair shimmer deep blue in its radiance. He was beautiful, almost flawless save for those eyes. Peircing blue lacking in any human emotions seemed to make him as dead as those he commanded. Dalathire had learned that emotion had no place for a shepherd of the dead. He walked confidently through the streets of the burning city. He began to weave his magic, his voice rising in a haunting tune. Those who would hear his song would have visions of death, be chilled into frozen terror. But such was not the case for the deseased. Unlike the living the words caused the undead to rise. Tattered and charred bodies rose. The mangled cadavers pulling themselves into a line behind the necromancer. Their bodies were in ruins, but as long as the bones were not broken the undead would be fine. Dalathire did not plan on casting the magic to preserve their skin. It took to much energy, and he only needed these soldiers for a short while. Dalathires song contiued on and the numbers behind him grew, the small corpses of children, stronge adult corpses, and the brittled boned bodies of the old were among those followers. The flesh of some still smouldering and stinking.
Those in the village who were still among the living watched the necromancers' procession in horror. It was rare the living witnessed one work their magic. But those that had, wished they hadn't, for they were forever cursed with nightmares. Visions of the tatteried bodies of people they once knew and loved.
A lone figure stood silhouetted against the silver moon. His gaze resting on the carnage below. A city in flames. Icey blue eyes did not mourn for the lives lost in the destruction. The mind rejoiced at the deaths. Thinking of the many undead soldiers that could be risen from the ashes. The undead made wonderful soldiers. Never needing food nor water. Not requiring sleep or rest. But best of all they would contiue fighting even when a limb is removed. They woulf fight until their bones were reduced to a fine powder.
Dalathire the dark elven necromancer glided swiftly down to the burning city. The flames danced off his flawless snow white skin. Silken robes whispered softly as they brushed the ground. Iradecent black hair shimmer deep blue in its radiance. He was beautiful, almost flawless save for those eyes. Peircing blue lacking in any human emotions seemed to make him as dead as those he commanded. Dalathire had learned that emotion had no place for a shepherd of the dead. He walked confidently through the streets of the burning city. He began to weave his magic, his voice rising in a haunting tune. Those who would hear his song would have visions of death, be chilled into frozen terror. But such was not the case for the deseased. Unlike the living the words caused the undead to rise. Tattered and charred bodies rose. The mangled cadavers pulling themselves into a line behind the necromancer. Their bodies were in ruins, but as long as the bones were not broken the undead would be fine. Dalathire did not plan on casting the magic to preserve their skin. It took to much energy, and he only needed these soldiers for a short while. Dalathires song contiued on and the numbers behind him grew, the small corpses of children, stronge adult corpses, and the brittled boned bodies of the old were among those followers. The flesh of some still smouldering and stinking.
Those in the village who were still among the living watched the necromancers' procession in horror. It was rare the living witnessed one work their magic. But those that had, wished they hadn't, for they were forever cursed with nightmares. Visions of the tatteried bodies of people they once knew and loved.
