i had an awesome essay written, but my computer gimped out and took me back a page, and i don't have either the inspiration or the perseverance to rewrite it, so here's a short draft that will hopefuly make do:
It had taken her three weeks to find the scroll she needed, the map with the exact location marked clearly, the ritual with the correct formula...but she had found it all, and now she stood in the middle of the desert, the midday sun beating down on her in her black clothing, and the ritual memorized and ready for incanting*.
"...errada, Nicto!" Mikkel cried the last of the incantation, releasing the arcane energy she had collected for the ritual, and with it completing the raising. the ground, made of sand with only an occational stone, began to shake like an earthquake, and a huge mound of sand began to rise. as the sand hill got larger and larger, the upper sand began to slough away, revealing the giant skull beneath. the skull continued to rise, and with it the rest of the skeleton, until finally the entire upper torso had been revealed.
"Welcome back to the realm of the living, Bellial the Overgrown! I have plans for you and I!" Mikkel laughed as the monolithic titan of a skeleton rose out of the sands...
"But I have done well," the dracolich hissed, purveying the twice-dead bodies of the Karnatthi skeletons he had so amply obliterated. "The ritual is nigh complete; one more passage spoken from the Demonomicon and the second Mournland will be born!"
Asmodeus chuckled. Petty, petty dracolich; it knew so little of his plans -- plans to dismantle the Soveriegn Host, the 'gods' of this so-called Eberron, establish he, Asmodeus, as supreme ruler, as he had already done to world called Greyhawk.
"No matter," Asmodeus said. "You will be disposed. It amuses me of how tiny a pawn you really are."
As Asmodeus' magic pulled the dracolich from the realm of the living, it calculated its next plan of action. Asmodeus knew not of his true power. For when Asmodeus killed Bahamut of Greyhawk, he had not considered the reformation of the god on another plane. The madness. The transformation.
The dracolich began to exert its will on Asmodeus' magic, retaining his grip on Eberron. He would show him the true might of Bahamut reborn.
Standing at the gate forced Timjin to reflect on his path. It had taken 6 years of war to bring him the the captial. His white robes were now matted with blood and sand and he was surrounded by crule savage mercineraies of the dark tribes. "It takes many sacrifices to do the will of Pelor" He reminded himself. Few of that origional army of priest remained most had left calling him mad or a tratoir to Pelor himself and for those that stayed their goals were not to fulfill his quest they were there for the loot and victory he was bringing across the Iron content. Unknown to Timjin the city was nearly abandond fleeing before his vengance the only resdents remaining were hiding waiting for them to enter. The trap was set the unholy alliences made deeper because of his actions. "Many would leave the city but few would leave alive!" was the promise of the now fully insane king Abdul Alhazred.
the eladrin surveyed the ruins of the old church, the lichens and vines laying claim to what little was left. in the distance he could see the ruins of the central structures of the city, the marble walls not yet reclaimed by nature's intrusion. the halfling at his side followed his gaze, a look of wonder on his face.
"It's so strange, looking at a dead city like this. to think these streets were once filled with people going about their lives, this church full of devout followers of whatever forgotten gods these people worshiped..." the warlord's chainmail clinked as he turned slightly to look at his companion out of the corner of his eye.
"Do i detect a soft spot in the unblemished armor of the incorrigible 'Samwise the Scam'?" too late Sam frowned and tried to look unimpressed, his brown curls falling in his eyes.
"No you don't Hadaris! I was just...whatever! Why are we wasting time looking at all these old buildings, anyway? the city's been dead for centuries! all the people who lived here are dead! It's a ghost town! the sooner we leave the better!" Hadaris watched his young companion storm off, a knowing grin on his face. after a moment, he looked down at the tiny tombstone in front of him, and read the inscription:
Here lies Anastriana Lorhalien, daughter of Hadaris Lorhalien, Captain of the Guard DoB: 479 DoD:484
"Yes, they're all dead..." After a short prayer, the 400 year old warrior left his family's cemetary for the final time...
I have to admit i'm just here for the writing, but this is really an awesome thread!
"... and wit a swing of me axe, I felled the Lich!" roared Bolin, his orange beard saggin under the ale he had already spilt. Grasping his mug heartily the dwarf took another swig, downing what had to be his 12th of the night. "But don't be askin for no booze, ye vermin, his treasure be mine and mine alone!" his eyes glinted at the thought of gold. A chill breeze swept the smoky room, drawing the patrons' attention away from the rowdy adventurer and towards the entryway. Under the arch stood a shirtless man, heavily built and tall as the door he stood in. The winter frost gathered on his fur loincloth and boots, but he did not seem bothered. His long hair could not hide piercing white eyes, the sign of a Northerner. Behind this giant of a man was a small entourage consisting of a halfling in gaudy apparel, a raven haired and bearded man in robes, and a smaller fellow who looked out of place carrying a multitude of scrolls and papers. "That, dwarf, was a lie. Cowards and thieves lie. Which are you?" The giant of a man bellowed. "The thief who stole my treasure, or the coward won't admit it?" Bolin glanced nervously at the man. His cheap axe was heavier than the dagger he preferred, and was more for decoration than anything. He knew he couldn't defeat these adventurers in a fair fight, so he called on his only friend for help. "A year of booze fir the man who cin defeet this villain for his insolence!" Bolin cried, raising his mug to his fellow drunks. In an instant, the room erupted into chaos. Chairs and stools began flying and bottles were broken into makeshift weapons. The dwarf slipped into the fray long enough for the large man to lose sight of him, and then tackled him from surprise. Caught off guard, even this massive warrior could not keep his feet with the full weight of a dwarf on him. Bolin saw his chance, and began to reach for his razor-sharp knife...
A great man once said "If WotC put out boxes full of free money there'd still be people complaining about how it's folded." – Boraxe Vote for Orzel, Mayor of Ranger Town!Show
As the ritual ensued, the shadows around him began to warp and move, slowly encircling him. The darkness drew closer and closer untill it began to seep into his skin and tear away his flesh. Screaming in agony he fell to the ground. He trembled as pain and power filled his core.
when it was over he rose. Looking himself over he couldnt help but laugh. Finally, he said to himself. Finally ive done it! Soon those fools will learn what reall power looks like!!
(best i could do on short notice :/ ) but heres a pic
The necromancer and his apprentice worked quietly in the night, carefull to make no noise. They were deep in a canyon, the sheer rock faces forming natural walls around their hideaway, but also a natural megaphone, channelling any loud noise in the direction of the nearby town. As they worked with their latest cadaver, they failed to notice two figures stealthily slipping along the path.
Finally, the master noticed the presence of two extra lives in the canyon.
"Who's there?" the necromancer's voice was confident, surrounded by his element. "Reveal yourselves!"
From the shadows stepped two figures; a cloaked figure, with a large book in his hands; he looked the part of a priest, but it was too dark to make out the emblem on his chest. The other was much clearer, a young girl with long, dark hair, and a stylized dress. She carried a gargantuan scythe, the blade alone bigger than she was. slowly she aproached the necromancer and his apprentice, while the preist stayed back, holding his book, his acolyte's tome, as though reading it. The apprentice stepped foreward brashly:
"You think you can handle me, little girl? I'll enjoy turning you into my undead slave!" before the master could rebuke his wayward pupil, he charged the girl, launching a bolt of necrotic energy at her.
The girl moved like a dancer, sureal grace making her appear to fly through the air as she cut through the dark bolt, then catching the youth and draggin him to his knees with the keen edge of her scythe. Holding him there, still alive, she stopped, calmly waiting for something. The preist behind her began to speak:
"And the raven spake, saying thusly; though yea may seek to persevere, and sustain the flame of life within you, my Queen will call you to your final resting place, and none may deny her beck and call." the preist clapped shut the divine text, "Sister Elezandria, i permiss you to release Death in this place."
The master, confused by the strange manner of the priest, blinked. By the time he opened his eyes again, the girl had remove his apprentice's head, discarded the no headless body, and had jumped to the top of a jutting rock, her small figure and large scythe sillouetted by the unusually large moon. As his fate set in, the necromancer felt the blood drain from his face, as though his head had already been removed as well. The girl now charged him, her deadly implement gleaming in the moonlight...
