Rip
Green electricity crackled through the heavy air of the darkened corridors as a pulse of sickly green light shot through them. Where the light touched, intricate runes and letters glowed upon the walls, and as the light moved on, the revealed markings faded with it. Whether the runes crawled along the walls along with the light, or were always there but only revealed by the light, could not easily be discerned.
Another wave of light pulsed along the walls, floor, and ceiling. The strange emerald light held a disturbing quality to it. It felt tainted, vile. Corrupted. The scrawling the light revealed upon the wall seemed to hiss their meaning, and while the corridors were illuminated by the passing light, the cramped passageways felt somehow darker, as though the light twisted and mutated the stones, warped the air; as though the light itself was a malevolent presence.
The source of the radiating luminescence justified these descriptions. The room was relatively small, and held no furnishings or windows. The entirety of it's floor was dominated by a circle, within which a complex pattern was painstakingly drawn. The sharp scent of blood hung in the air; were the design not glowing a vile green color, it would be easy to tell that it was drawn with blood. The circle held four key points on it's circumference, as a compass; north, south, east, and west.
Candles of black wax burned on certain spots in the design, their green flames adding their light to the strange glow of the blood. Five humanoids occupied the glowing room, four of which sat at the key points on the circle. Two small, thin figures took up the positions of east and west, their fingers tracing signs in the air above twin candles. Green lines hung in the air where their fingers carved it, and when they had finished with one, they would flatten their palms against it. A wave of the disgusting light pulsed from the design on the floor and crawled it's way out of the room's single exit. The pair paused briefly before working in unison to carve the air once more.
While the dark-robed figures kneeling on the east and west points of the design were slim and small, the hulk that squatted on the southern point was unmistakably tauren. His hood could not cover his jutting snout and horns, as well as the braids hanging at either side of his head. His thick fingers were balled into fists at an odd angle, clutching two invisible objects; a green glow suffused his palms.
At the north point kneeled an unremarkable looking undead man. His hood was pulled back to reveal a bald head, shining in the green light. A ragged ponytail made up what little hair he had left, and his jaw was locked in a perpetual, skinless, skeletal grin. His empty sockets leered at the figure in the center of the circle. The four robed figures all chanted in a harsh, demonic tongue, with the undead man leading them in a commanding tone.
Slumped in the center of the design was the fifth occupant and the only one not wearing a robe. In fact, the Forsaken man wore little more than tattered trousers, his feet and chest bare. A jagged scar arced across his chest, starting just below his right shoulder and ending just above his left hip. A shaggy mop of black hair crowned his head, and a pair of metal bands were burned into his head. His eyesockets, like the undead in front of him, were empty. His ankles were firmly shackled to the floor. His wrists, while not secured in a similar fashion, looked as though they were being gripped by two large, three-fingered hands. Two glowing initials were carved where the bands met on his face. The letters "E.B." were impossibe to miss, being highlighted with the same vile light the design sported.
Zanik was out cold, or in a similar state. On his knees, his chin on his chest, his limbs were limp and he made no struggle against his bonds. The undead on the north point of the design grinned as he chanted. His bony hand reached over to tear the right-arm sleeve from his robe, tossing it away. A wicked, serrated dagger appear in his left hand, and as the chanting grew to a thunderous din, the blade swept down.
If the robed undead felt any sort of pain, he made no sign of it, his booming voice never faltering. Runes and symbols were carved into the flesh of his arm, what passed as his blood leaking down in a steady stream. As the drops of lifeforce fell from his hand, they hit an invisible barrier, and as more of the precious fluid fell, something began to take shape. The outline of a large, clawed hand came into existance as the blood smeared across it's invisible surface, it's fingers twitching to mimic that of the undead man's right hand.
The chanting voices grew ever louder, as it now seemed a multitude of other voices, some distorted as though by swollen throats, some sounding demonic in origin, were chanting along with the four robed figures. The undead man drew his right hand back, the runes glowing. The disembodied demonic hand followed. A malevolant look overcame the usually-calm expression of the undead, and as the words echoed around him, he plunged his arm forward.
What followed could be considered the stuff of nightmares. The demonic, blood-lined hand plunged through the chest of the chained Forsaken, though no physical wounds could be seen. All at once, the green glow of the design shifted into a glaring, angry red. The acolytes on the east and west points flattened there palms and held fast, as though keeping back a great force. The countless runes along the walls and ceiling, once only visible in the passing green pulses, flared to life in the same fashion the design did.
Zanik was lifted from his knees and seemed suspended in the air as the robed undead pulled with all his might. His mouth opened in a wail of unbelievable torment, and the tauren on the south point strained to keep his grip on glowing bands. Zanik's cry of agony took on new levels as the demonic hand began to leave his chest, a blood red silhouette of Zanik leaving with it. The hand gripped something imbedded in the silhouette's chest. Hurricane winds bellowed about the acolytes, drowning out the chanting.
WIth one last pull, the robed undead tore the hand from Zanik's silhouette, which sank back into Zanik, who slumped back onto the floor. The angry red glow of the design died out instantly, as did the glow of the runes upon the dark stones. All went silent, and darkness flooded the room. The single light in the room was cast by a pulsing, blood red glow streaming between the fingers of the robed undead. It bathed his face in it's light, and his followers could see his triumphant grin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Alternate~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Zanik blinked in the bright sunlight several times before realizing what he was doing. He sat up abruptly, then plopped back down, gripping his head. His vision swam, and after a minute he sat up again, albeit far slower. He gaze drifted first along his body; it was whole. He stared down at the tanned, living skin of his hands, and felt his face. No bands. Eyes. Warm skin. He glanced over his shoulder and groaned. A windmill towered behind him.
Rising to a stand, the knight took in his surroundings; the familiar endless plains of grass, buffeted by a gentle breeze. The cloudless, sunless, summer-time sky. He shielded his eyes with a hand, though he had long ago ceased wondering why there was sunlight without a sun. Somewhere on the horizon, he could make out a small shadow.
Squinting his eyes, his gaze on that far off shadow, it took him a moment to realize it had vanished. A moment, and a light tap on his shoulder. Nearly jumping out of his skin, Zanik leapt forward and spun, glaring at the all-too familiar figure before him. After all, it was like staring into a mirror. The undead man wore pitch-black, spiked plate armor, and his grinning face was an exact copy of Zanik's real visage... though this phantasm sported two leering orbs of fire as eyes. "Fancy meeting you here," Kinaz grinned.
Zanik took a step back, his hand reaching for a sword that wasn't there. "Settle down, meatbag." The phantom's grin instantly faded, replaced by a disgusted sneer. "I'm not here to fight you. Not right now, anyway." At his living counterpart's look of bewilderment, Kinaz made a vague motion toward the sky. "I'm getting out of this wretched hole."
The living among the two followed the dead's finger, and instantly wished he didn't. The sky distorted off in the distance, reality bulging outward toward them. A moment later and the bulge tore, a blood-red hand that looked like it belonged to a dreadlord reaching out. It's clawed fingers closed, and Zanik realized that the phantom was slowly disappearing. No, disappearing wasn't the word; the knight recoiled as the phantom's left arm began to burn away, the ashes sucked away into the grip of the demonic hand. While Kinaz looked unperturbed, Zanik felt as though his insides were catching fire and his arm were being ripped from it's socket.
"Don't die, now..." Kinaz mocked him. "I'm not through with you. Not by a long shot." His jagged, ear-to-ear grin returned. "I'm free now, you see... you can't push me down anymore. The world is mine to paint red with blood." His legs succumbed to the crawling flames and it was all Zanik could do not to black out. "Don't get cocky, though..." The phantom's grin somehow grew wider as his torso was devoured by the hungry flames. His neck slowly burned away, and as his head followed suit, he spoke again. "I was the least of your proble..."
As the last of Kinaz melted away and Zanik slowly sank into the darkness of unconsciousness, the ashes of the phantom coalesced into a small red gem in the palm of the hand. Said hand withdrew from the mindscape, the hole in reality resealing behind it, leaving the twitching knight to his restless slumber.
Another wave of light pulsed along the walls, floor, and ceiling. The strange emerald light held a disturbing quality to it. It felt tainted, vile. Corrupted. The scrawling the light revealed upon the wall seemed to hiss their meaning, and while the corridors were illuminated by the passing light, the cramped passageways felt somehow darker, as though the light twisted and mutated the stones, warped the air; as though the light itself was a malevolent presence.
The source of the radiating luminescence justified these descriptions. The room was relatively small, and held no furnishings or windows. The entirety of it's floor was dominated by a circle, within which a complex pattern was painstakingly drawn. The sharp scent of blood hung in the air; were the design not glowing a vile green color, it would be easy to tell that it was drawn with blood. The circle held four key points on it's circumference, as a compass; north, south, east, and west.
Candles of black wax burned on certain spots in the design, their green flames adding their light to the strange glow of the blood. Five humanoids occupied the glowing room, four of which sat at the key points on the circle. Two small, thin figures took up the positions of east and west, their fingers tracing signs in the air above twin candles. Green lines hung in the air where their fingers carved it, and when they had finished with one, they would flatten their palms against it. A wave of the disgusting light pulsed from the design on the floor and crawled it's way out of the room's single exit. The pair paused briefly before working in unison to carve the air once more.
While the dark-robed figures kneeling on the east and west points of the design were slim and small, the hulk that squatted on the southern point was unmistakably tauren. His hood could not cover his jutting snout and horns, as well as the braids hanging at either side of his head. His thick fingers were balled into fists at an odd angle, clutching two invisible objects; a green glow suffused his palms.
At the north point kneeled an unremarkable looking undead man. His hood was pulled back to reveal a bald head, shining in the green light. A ragged ponytail made up what little hair he had left, and his jaw was locked in a perpetual, skinless, skeletal grin. His empty sockets leered at the figure in the center of the circle. The four robed figures all chanted in a harsh, demonic tongue, with the undead man leading them in a commanding tone.
Slumped in the center of the design was the fifth occupant and the only one not wearing a robe. In fact, the Forsaken man wore little more than tattered trousers, his feet and chest bare. A jagged scar arced across his chest, starting just below his right shoulder and ending just above his left hip. A shaggy mop of black hair crowned his head, and a pair of metal bands were burned into his head. His eyesockets, like the undead in front of him, were empty. His ankles were firmly shackled to the floor. His wrists, while not secured in a similar fashion, looked as though they were being gripped by two large, three-fingered hands. Two glowing initials were carved where the bands met on his face. The letters "E.B." were impossibe to miss, being highlighted with the same vile light the design sported.
Zanik was out cold, or in a similar state. On his knees, his chin on his chest, his limbs were limp and he made no struggle against his bonds. The undead on the north point of the design grinned as he chanted. His bony hand reached over to tear the right-arm sleeve from his robe, tossing it away. A wicked, serrated dagger appear in his left hand, and as the chanting grew to a thunderous din, the blade swept down.
If the robed undead felt any sort of pain, he made no sign of it, his booming voice never faltering. Runes and symbols were carved into the flesh of his arm, what passed as his blood leaking down in a steady stream. As the drops of lifeforce fell from his hand, they hit an invisible barrier, and as more of the precious fluid fell, something began to take shape. The outline of a large, clawed hand came into existance as the blood smeared across it's invisible surface, it's fingers twitching to mimic that of the undead man's right hand.
The chanting voices grew ever louder, as it now seemed a multitude of other voices, some distorted as though by swollen throats, some sounding demonic in origin, were chanting along with the four robed figures. The undead man drew his right hand back, the runes glowing. The disembodied demonic hand followed. A malevolant look overcame the usually-calm expression of the undead, and as the words echoed around him, he plunged his arm forward.
What followed could be considered the stuff of nightmares. The demonic, blood-lined hand plunged through the chest of the chained Forsaken, though no physical wounds could be seen. All at once, the green glow of the design shifted into a glaring, angry red. The acolytes on the east and west points flattened there palms and held fast, as though keeping back a great force. The countless runes along the walls and ceiling, once only visible in the passing green pulses, flared to life in the same fashion the design did.
Zanik was lifted from his knees and seemed suspended in the air as the robed undead pulled with all his might. His mouth opened in a wail of unbelievable torment, and the tauren on the south point strained to keep his grip on glowing bands. Zanik's cry of agony took on new levels as the demonic hand began to leave his chest, a blood red silhouette of Zanik leaving with it. The hand gripped something imbedded in the silhouette's chest. Hurricane winds bellowed about the acolytes, drowning out the chanting.
WIth one last pull, the robed undead tore the hand from Zanik's silhouette, which sank back into Zanik, who slumped back onto the floor. The angry red glow of the design died out instantly, as did the glow of the runes upon the dark stones. All went silent, and darkness flooded the room. The single light in the room was cast by a pulsing, blood red glow streaming between the fingers of the robed undead. It bathed his face in it's light, and his followers could see his triumphant grin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Alternate~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Zanik blinked in the bright sunlight several times before realizing what he was doing. He sat up abruptly, then plopped back down, gripping his head. His vision swam, and after a minute he sat up again, albeit far slower. He gaze drifted first along his body; it was whole. He stared down at the tanned, living skin of his hands, and felt his face. No bands. Eyes. Warm skin. He glanced over his shoulder and groaned. A windmill towered behind him.
Rising to a stand, the knight took in his surroundings; the familiar endless plains of grass, buffeted by a gentle breeze. The cloudless, sunless, summer-time sky. He shielded his eyes with a hand, though he had long ago ceased wondering why there was sunlight without a sun. Somewhere on the horizon, he could make out a small shadow.
Squinting his eyes, his gaze on that far off shadow, it took him a moment to realize it had vanished. A moment, and a light tap on his shoulder. Nearly jumping out of his skin, Zanik leapt forward and spun, glaring at the all-too familiar figure before him. After all, it was like staring into a mirror. The undead man wore pitch-black, spiked plate armor, and his grinning face was an exact copy of Zanik's real visage... though this phantasm sported two leering orbs of fire as eyes. "Fancy meeting you here," Kinaz grinned.
Zanik took a step back, his hand reaching for a sword that wasn't there. "Settle down, meatbag." The phantom's grin instantly faded, replaced by a disgusted sneer. "I'm not here to fight you. Not right now, anyway." At his living counterpart's look of bewilderment, Kinaz made a vague motion toward the sky. "I'm getting out of this wretched hole."
The living among the two followed the dead's finger, and instantly wished he didn't. The sky distorted off in the distance, reality bulging outward toward them. A moment later and the bulge tore, a blood-red hand that looked like it belonged to a dreadlord reaching out. It's clawed fingers closed, and Zanik realized that the phantom was slowly disappearing. No, disappearing wasn't the word; the knight recoiled as the phantom's left arm began to burn away, the ashes sucked away into the grip of the demonic hand. While Kinaz looked unperturbed, Zanik felt as though his insides were catching fire and his arm were being ripped from it's socket.
"Don't die, now..." Kinaz mocked him. "I'm not through with you. Not by a long shot." His jagged, ear-to-ear grin returned. "I'm free now, you see... you can't push me down anymore. The world is mine to paint red with blood." His legs succumbed to the crawling flames and it was all Zanik could do not to black out. "Don't get cocky, though..." The phantom's grin somehow grew wider as his torso was devoured by the hungry flames. His neck slowly burned away, and as his head followed suit, he spoke again. "I was the least of your proble..."
As the last of Kinaz melted away and Zanik slowly sank into the darkness of unconsciousness, the ashes of the phantom coalesced into a small red gem in the palm of the hand. Said hand withdrew from the mindscape, the hole in reality resealing behind it, leaving the twitching knight to his restless slumber.