"Your time here is done, Ayreg!"
The legionaries threw the impudent wraith to the floor. Some kind of plasm -- in the living world it would amount to blood -- dribbled down from his lip. Jodiah Ayreg, once the scourge of Rhy'Din was about to be executed. The dead do not rest in peace, and they do not take well to a newcomer attempting to conquer the great Necropolis of Stygia.
Ayreg rose shakily to his feet, and laughed. A legionaries rewarded his jovial demeanor with another heavy-handed fist to the midsection. He went to the floor again, groaning in pain.
The Overlord in charge of the legionaries smirked, crossing his skeletal arms over his chest. One could always tell how long one has been a citizen of Stygia by how "dead" looking they were. The ancients of the city -- usually those in the highest levels of power -- were downright skeletal at times. Bel'al here was no different. He was old. And far more powerful than Jodiah Ayreg, the wraith.
The wraith known as Jodiah Ayreg didn't know exactly what happened next. He saw a face, wreathed in the black of a drawn cowl, and an extended skeletal hand. He also saw the Overlord Bel'al and the leggionaires cry out, turn, and flee. What was happening? So fast... and then there was light.
...for a moment.
It was dark, now. So dark. It was like he was dreaming... like the point between dream and awake when you're not really sure which you really are doing. Ayreg was almost comfortable. That's when he became conscience of the pain. He hurt. Everywhere. Ayreg bolted up from his position laying down, and sucked in a long gasp. Actual real air! After a few moments of sitting on the cold floor in shock, he touched his face. Flesh. Not the plasm that most wraiths go about with before they start turning to bones, but actual skin. Warm.. living.. skin.
It took almost an hour to fight his way past the door. It appeared to be bricked over, but the work was done in haste, and shoddy at best. He recognized his surroundings... almost like how one remembers a dream from childhood. Black rock -- roughly-hewn stone blocks, really -- made up the floors and... well, what was left of the walls. A torn tapestry featuring the stern face of a man entering his middle years. The rest of the tapestry not far below his shoulders was gone, ending in ripped shreds of fabric, but the face remained. Cold eyes. It was a likeness of himself.
He was home. He just had no idea how he got here.
The legionaries threw the impudent wraith to the floor. Some kind of plasm -- in the living world it would amount to blood -- dribbled down from his lip. Jodiah Ayreg, once the scourge of Rhy'Din was about to be executed. The dead do not rest in peace, and they do not take well to a newcomer attempting to conquer the great Necropolis of Stygia.
Ayreg rose shakily to his feet, and laughed. A legionaries rewarded his jovial demeanor with another heavy-handed fist to the midsection. He went to the floor again, groaning in pain.
The Overlord in charge of the legionaries smirked, crossing his skeletal arms over his chest. One could always tell how long one has been a citizen of Stygia by how "dead" looking they were. The ancients of the city -- usually those in the highest levels of power -- were downright skeletal at times. Bel'al here was no different. He was old. And far more powerful than Jodiah Ayreg, the wraith.
The wraith known as Jodiah Ayreg didn't know exactly what happened next. He saw a face, wreathed in the black of a drawn cowl, and an extended skeletal hand. He also saw the Overlord Bel'al and the leggionaires cry out, turn, and flee. What was happening? So fast... and then there was light.
...for a moment.
It was dark, now. So dark. It was like he was dreaming... like the point between dream and awake when you're not really sure which you really are doing. Ayreg was almost comfortable. That's when he became conscience of the pain. He hurt. Everywhere. Ayreg bolted up from his position laying down, and sucked in a long gasp. Actual real air! After a few moments of sitting on the cold floor in shock, he touched his face. Flesh. Not the plasm that most wraiths go about with before they start turning to bones, but actual skin. Warm.. living.. skin.
It took almost an hour to fight his way past the door. It appeared to be bricked over, but the work was done in haste, and shoddy at best. He recognized his surroundings... almost like how one remembers a dream from childhood. Black rock -- roughly-hewn stone blocks, really -- made up the floors and... well, what was left of the walls. A torn tapestry featuring the stern face of a man entering his middle years. The rest of the tapestry not far below his shoulders was gone, ending in ripped shreds of fabric, but the face remained. Cold eyes. It was a likeness of himself.
He was home. He just had no idea how he got here.