The First Calling

[Nicolai Protivnik]

The crypt door swung open, crashing against the inside wall. A necromancer looked up from his study, and lifeless minions crawled forth from their sarcophagi. A challenger entered the room, ready to face their mastery of un-life. His blade glittered in the dull torchlight, at first--only to be snuffed out by swaths of warm blood and cold gore. The black magic adept dropped to the floor and slid into an altar in the center of the room, propelled by this adventurer's boot.

Howling in agony at their master's demise, more undead slid away the lids to their corrupt resting places. They marched toward the man in rank, only to be shattered under the weight of his sword. When the chamber finally fell silent, his attention turned to the trappings of the vile den. Books upon books, pouring off a rolltop desk...most in languages unkown to him. Alchemical tools, strange artifacts, and grim mortuary slabs with fresh bodies upon them all indicated a prolonged ritual activity. Perhaps, he thought, the strange items held by this tomb's guardians could be put to use here. The last thing he remembered clearly was inspecting a book near the altar, away from the others....

Something felt wrong to this man--he felt detached from his own body, watching himself do things he could no longer control. In his ears rang a cool chuckle of satisfaction, but he could not even turn his head to see who might be there. Methodically he placed three candles around the altar, lighting incense and placing a small wooden carving on the platform. The air around him rippled with heat as he heard someone chanting the verse he had found in the book! He strained to turn and see this mysterious captor, without success. Soon, a terrible reality gripped him--it was his voice calling out these incantations, at the behest of something he could not understand.

Suddenly, light burst forth from before him, and the carving rattled onto the floor. He felt like himself again, he thought--dazed, but alright. As he lifted the sculpture, he stared at it, compelled to keep his eyes on it. He ran his hands over it, feeling a sense of accomplishment. Though twisted to any other man, he was proud of having completing the ritual. He felt a wicked satisfaction in the power it had given him, and rose to leave the chamber. As he stepped through the portcullis on the south end, a smirk crossed his face, and he gripped the carving tightly.

[Nicolai Protivnik]

"What? Who is there?"

Nicolai turned around, only to see the long path back to Cear. The only soul between he and the city was the guard who never even went past the farm. His eyes darted left, then right--cold sweat beaded up on his brow. The tortured man turned back around quickly, speeding up his trek to Thrall's Gate. As he reached the top of the hill, he stopped cold and whipped around, sword in hand.

"Who are you!?" he cried, but he saw no one. "What? I...no, leave me alone, I am a devout man! My soul belongs to Lochwar alone." He staggered, falling onto his back; whimpering to the unseen force. "No, please, just leave me be. What--no! I didn't do those things...I don't know who that is! I...I'm not a killer...."