Void Disciple Zagan of the Catacombs
Prologue
[..] and while more ignorant and inexperienced minds would contest their existence, dispelled as the marvels of a wayward imagination, I have myself seen them. Though admittedly I wish I had not, for now I am unable to escape the haunting memory of those empty eyes, that unending grin, taunting as if those vacant sockets pierced me to my very core, beheld my most intimate self, and found it lacking.
Perhaps I was left alive for the same reason I don’t simply squash every insignificant insect I happen upon, or maybe they, as the powerful often do, enjoy maintaining a certain notoriety – and as such I, as I write these words, would be fulfilling that purpose most perfectly.
Regardless, they do seem to exist in two variants these unlikely animated dead; There are those who take auric forms while others are argent, the meaning of their distinction unclear, any hierarchy or significance mere conjecture on my part.
Despite my research and experiments, I have yet to conclude as to their nature and aspect; Have they, as you and I, once been chained to flesh and bone, destined to expire, and by hook or crook found a way past this fleeting mortal coil without passing beyond? Or are they mere puppets, dancing on strings unseen, mastered by hands powerful beyond ken?
The March of the Perished Edwyn Lymp
Peck-peck.
“You know I’d grant you an eye had I still one to give,” Zagan muttered to the crow perched on his shoulder. It had the delightful habit of pecking at his empty eye sockets with its shiny black beak, an act of affection surely since eyeballs, preferably ones suitably bloated and ripe, were after all Corone’s favorite indulgence. Not that they had enjoyed the pleasure of walking the wake of great battlefields for a lifetime or more, he mused, bony feet clacking away on the eldritch stone underfoot.
Click-clack, peck-peck, they echoed in the still musty air.
The endless maze of the Catacombs had no shortage of bodies, ensconced at regular intervals, all stripped of flesh, reduced to bone, fragile as the final notes of a love gone sour. This legion of dead was brittle and frail, each one epitomizing the lonely path from vitality to oblivion, symbols of the futility of life and the superiority of death, reminders one and all of the transience of existence. Yet, for a select few, a deal had been struck, a path bludgeoned past expiration, and none of the skeletons refleced the torchlight with flaxen hues as did his sturdy aureate skeletal figure.
These familiar surroundings - the musty smell of death long past, the gloomy corridors which, to anyone else, would look entirely similar and invariably lead astray – were a comfort now as it had been a confinement then. Yet he had returned not for sentiment, but for a very specific purpose.
Peck.
“Indeed, my insatiable Corvus, this is the place.” Turning left, the tunnel soon became a dead end. Slowly walking up to the stone wall, Zagan placed a shiny bony hand over a barely perceptible inscription and muttered a sibilant spell. To the sound of stone griding on stone, a section of the wall moved aside, as the widening crack allowed more and more flickering crimson light escape from within. He was no geomancer of course, but these were ancient constructs from a different time, marvels of magic and technology entwined in ways not seen for an age.
There, on a dais in the center of an enormous chamber riddled with stalagmites and stalactites, the crystal floated beneath ravenous arcane flames, as if - should an eternity pass - it would be crushed in the jaws of a titanic beast. The Sacred Flame, placed in his care and entrusted to him, sent shivers down his golden spine.
“Kraa?” came the hesitant croak from Corone, sensing his master’s volatile aura.
Keeping silent, he strode forward, making his way through the jutting forest of stone teeth. I am done with waiting, and I am done obeying, he thought. I am done letting others bask in glory and reaping the rewards.
The time had come for action, after all Zagan was as intimate with death as he was with life, and he was prepared for change, ready to embrace the consequences, he had decided to Burn.
Peck-peck, click-clack.
Whoosh!
Entered by: 0xa23C…9953 and preserved on chain (see transaction)
