Reborn

Well, alright. This is the first story I ever bother posting as I'm never satisfied with what I write down after staring at it for a while, and it's supposed to give some sort of insight to my char's background and current activies more or less, as the first part is (partially) based on some recent RP with Axio (whom I hope doesn't mind the way I wrote Axio down)

So here goes nothing.






"Show me"

It was a simple order

"Show me, douse the flame"

it came from behind him. He looked over his shoulder throwing a glance to the hunched over, female form. Her voice was amplified a dozen of times as it echoed within the crypt. He turned his gaze towards the torch by the wall towards before dropping it down to his hands. They were ridden with burnmarks and blisters, none of them older than two weeks.

"Are you here to learn, or do you merely seek to waste my time?"

A hint of annoyance shimmered within her voice, urging him on.He muttered a short apology and quickly put his hands together to form a small bowl, a soft sigh escaped him in the knowledge of what would happen next.
Gradually a pitch black sphere began to form within his trembling hands and with it came the stench of burning flesh, making him waste no time hurling the pathetic excuse of a shadowbolt towards the torch.
The frigid orb consumed the heat of the flame immediately, leaving nothing but a small puff smoke behind to trail towards the ceiling.

"Nothing's wrong with your aim I see"

He turned around to face his tutor who slipped closer as he was focused on casting, and she immediately grabbed his hands, scrutinizing them.

"But you do have a little issue with something else."

As if to prove her point she pressed her thumb harshly into the newly formed scorchmark on the palm of his hand, causing him to let out a short grunt of discomfort.

“What can I do to overcome this ... drawback, Lady Thorne?”

He asked as his eyes went over his mutilated hands once again.

"You? Nothing. But I, I can" she said "I'll imbue with a ward so you will no longer harm yourself and at the same time amplify your abilities."

He merely observed her as she dug up a piece of charchoal from within the depths of her robes, and half a minute later finished drawing a pentagram on the floor along with several runes.

"Place candles on each of the corners."

She threw a short nod towards the corner of the crypt where a large satchel was laying as it was being said. He quickly got to work and as soon as he was finished setting the candles down, the woman snapped her fingers, lighting all the candles instantaneously and making the pentagram glow with an eerie, greenish tint.

"Lie down."

He hesitated a slight moment for no apparent reason, after all, she was right. He wanted to learn this. He came to her, asking to be taught the art of Shadow. And thus, he placed himself on his back in the middle of the circle, closing his eyelids soon after.

The female’s magic combined with her soft chanting immediately had effect upon his body, he became drowsy and sapped from all strength, making the sudden gust of wind sweeping through the crypt go by unnoticed as he sunk into a deep slumber towards an all too familiar, but no less welcome sensation


--------------------


The sound of sloshing water, the strong, rhythmic beating of his heart and his own ragged breathing were the only things he heard. The only signs of life as he was afloat in the dark. Not even as much as a star to illuminate the night's sky as for the first time in his life he felt completely at peace, lost within the liquid shadows that engulfed him.



Mere days before he was petrified, the Scourge were after him, and he was so stupid to hide within a crypt. Fear was what drove him to bury himself underneath a pile of bones and dirt within the decrepit tomb and fear was what consumed him as he spend what seemed like an eternity hidden by the dead. The Scourge ravaged the crypt, seeking to make him one of them and even as they were committed to their unyielding search the Cult added more to their ranks, raising the dead around him. At several occasions he was certain they saw him, their empty eyesockets bore straight into his hiding place. Straight into his eyes. Straight into his soul.

Time passed agonizingly slow, the dead never slept and thus neither could he. Eventually his hope began to diminish and with it his humanity became devoured by the unrelenting fear.
At last, after five days his descend into madness came to an end. The walking dead began leaving the tomb, but not entirely without success. They might had failed at finding him, but they had succeeded at killing him.

A few Cult members were left behind to salvage what they could from the crypt. He waited patiently until they went to sleep before soundlessly uncovering his own grave. His body protested, muscles cramped up from staying motionless for so long but he ignored it and sneaked over towards the sleeping group.
One by one they fell to his blade as he slit their throats. His gloved hand across their gasping lips smothered any sound the unfortunate cultists made whilst he held them down, their hearts desperately beating towards their own demise, coating his unbudging arms crimson red.

Finally he crawled over to the last remaining, oblivious man asleep. In an act of prominent cruelty he placed the dagger aside and closed his bloody hands around the cultist's throat. The man's eyes immediately shot open, and a violent struggle began as life was slowly squeezed away by very man they sought to kill, his entire body trashed around, legs kicking back and forth, but it was futile.
Ultimately the dying man accepted his fate and gave up the fight, a blissful smile covered his lips knowing his master would raise him into service again. That was until his head dropped to the side, his fading vision coming across the severed heads of the other necromancers and so he passed away, with the realization he would never be able to achieve his master's highest reward.


He bolted towards the sound of rushing water, dropping his weapons and loosing most of his gear before jumping from the bank of the river towards freedom. Freedom he never dreamed to see again.



Track of time was lost as the darkness took him into her soothing embrace. All he knew was that the river eventually led him to a lake, and now he was softly drifting towards the shore. Along with it came an end to his moment of inner rest.



Only when the rocky bottom scraped over his back he rolled over, getting to his feet and stumbled out of the water onto dry land.
A whisper was all it was, still a whisper was all it took.

“I see you made it out alive.”

He slowly turned to face the source of the voice. It belonged to a Forsaken standing nearby.

“I almost thought I overestimated your resilience...oh right, where are my manners? I am known as Lady Thorne, but you can call me Axio.”

For some strange reason he felt at ease with her and for the first time in days his lips curled into a smile as he replied with a hoarse voice.

“Raelan Duskraven.”

I am really very impressed - especially as you don't write frequently! The descriptions are vivid; I can picture the chill of the tomb, all the surrounding death, the half-mad state when he finally manages to get out of there.

It all ties together well -- I like the starting with recent events and then moving backward to explain the past. Well enjoyed, both in the actual writing and in hearing a little more about Raelan!