Googledoc
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Mara had not said a word in three days. The elf girl, dressed in rags that only barely gave her modesty, moved through the necromancer’s tower with the calm surety of a woman who had lived and worked there for years. Casually, she set up a pedestal in the central ritual chamber, and placed her master’s final tome of power upon it. Humming a nursery rhyme to herself, she turned back and casually stepped over the corpse of her former master.
It had been three days since her master’s tower had been visited by a deathknight, one of those emissaries of the underworld, in search of a spirit that had escaped Nox’s grasp.
And Mara had smiled, for she knew her servitude was at an end. For the deathknight held the last key to lifting her curse.
Casually, as if leading the man to bed, she lifted him over her shoulder and carried him. He was unconscious, but as an additional precaution, she had placed a collar around his neck.
She rubbed her neck, where for years that collar had been a reminder of her slavery. It had buzzed her when she’d displeased her master, and filled her with servile, obedient thoughts. Now, it served a much different purpose: keeping the prisoner she needed for this final dark ritual. As she stepped over her master’s corpse again, she glanced down at him.
It had been six years since the necromancer had found her wandering the Dusklands, and presumed to force her into servitude. Six years she had been forced to act the servile maiden, to make her master his meals, to giggle at his morbid jokes, to take the brunt of his anger…
She shivered as the memories came rushing back. She’d gotten lucky. The collar made her servile and obedient, but its enchantments were imperfect, and her elven blood gave a natural defense. The more the necromancer had given her orders, the weaker those orders became. She’d been unable to even consider resisting for the first few months, but eventually was able to make choices for herself.
And through it all, she had grit her teeth, and studied his notes in secret. For the same magical affinity that let her resist magic let her learn to wield it. A last gift from a bloodline she loathed.
It had been fifty years since her father had left the Dusklands, leaving her alone to survive. Fifty years since he had finally given up on curing her affliction. Fifty years since he had failed to help her escape.
Fifty years since she had had a good reason to cry.
It had been merely 90 years since she’d been born, and every last one of those years felt like dipping into the maw.
For what Mara hoped would be the final time, she looked over her frail mortal self. Where she wasn’t cut or bruised, her smooth skin was somewhere between a soft tan and a fine marble white. Her long blonde hair fell around her like a waterfall, her lips were full and pouty, a perfect hourglass figure, eyes that glowed like the moonlight…
Despite the dirt, the grime, even the bruises and cuts left by her last battle, she was undeniably beautiful, a fact that she had used ruthlessly since she’d been abandoned. Males were all too eager to assist a maiden in tears, and too quick to think a woman smiling meant she was falling in love. Few who came to the Dusklands were truly kind (she was no exception) but many of them had been, and she was grateful to them even as she robbed them.
Her most recent master had been… less kind. Her reflection’s smile faded as she remembered the bruises. Yes, he’d refrained from… certain acts. But he had been an angry, callous man, and she could not help but be happy he was dead.
She turned her attention to the book. The ritual within it was undeniably brilliant, but incomplete. She was an elf, and had been suffused in death essence for her entire life. She took what her master had known, and made her own small modifications.
Most important of them all was the reagants. A silver chalice. Blood lilies. The tears of a maiden (that, she had provided). Her master had known something suffused in death would need to be used to make the ritual work, but he could never find anything strong enough. Mara’s blood was potent, yes, but he needed something far stronger.
A deathknight – an emissary of the death gods themselves, charged with finding and returning wayward spirits to the underworld – was something he had dismissed as being too rare and dangerous to even attempt.
After all, he had not considered a beautiful woman with a soft smile, offering hospitality to a weary traveler.
She cut the wrist of the deathknight and let his blood pour into the rune-engraved cup. He did not stir. She gave him a kiss in thanks, and turned back to the book.
She began to chant. The words came out like the silence between words, noticeable by the absence they left in the very air. The energies began to swirl around her, and she funneled them into the cup of fresh deathknight blood. When her spell was complete, she would drink. She would be immortal, but more importantly, she would become a font of death essence in and of herself. Finally, she would be able to leave the Dusklands. She would be able to live and breath in lands full of life and color without choking upon it.
The ritual would take a day to complete.
No time at all.
---
Please do not be kind, I need to learn somehow.
---
Mara had not said a word in three days. The elf girl, dressed in rags that only barely gave her modesty, moved through the necromancer’s tower with the calm surety of a woman who had lived and worked there for years. Casually, she set up a pedestal in the central ritual chamber, and placed her master’s final tome of power upon it. Humming a nursery rhyme to herself, she turned back and casually stepped over the corpse of her former master.
It had been three days since her master’s tower had been visited by a deathknight, one of those emissaries of the underworld, in search of a spirit that had escaped Nox’s grasp.
And Mara had smiled, for she knew her servitude was at an end. For the deathknight held the last key to lifting her curse.
Casually, as if leading the man to bed, she lifted him over her shoulder and carried him. He was unconscious, but as an additional precaution, she had placed a collar around his neck.
She rubbed her neck, where for years that collar had been a reminder of her slavery. It had buzzed her when she’d displeased her master, and filled her with servile, obedient thoughts. Now, it served a much different purpose: keeping the prisoner she needed for this final dark ritual. As she stepped over her master’s corpse again, she glanced down at him.
It had been six years since the necromancer had found her wandering the Dusklands, and presumed to force her into servitude. Six years she had been forced to act the servile maiden, to make her master his meals, to giggle at his morbid jokes, to take the brunt of his anger…
She shivered as the memories came rushing back. She’d gotten lucky. The collar made her servile and obedient, but its enchantments were imperfect, and her elven blood gave a natural defense. The more the necromancer had given her orders, the weaker those orders became. She’d been unable to even consider resisting for the first few months, but eventually was able to make choices for herself.
And through it all, she had grit her teeth, and studied his notes in secret. For the same magical affinity that let her resist magic let her learn to wield it. A last gift from a bloodline she loathed.
It had been fifty years since her father had left the Dusklands, leaving her alone to survive. Fifty years since he had finally given up on curing her affliction. Fifty years since he had failed to help her escape.
Fifty years since she had had a good reason to cry.
It had been merely 90 years since she’d been born, and every last one of those years felt like dipping into the maw.
For what Mara hoped would be the final time, she looked over her frail mortal self. Where she wasn’t cut or bruised, her smooth skin was somewhere between a soft tan and a fine marble white. Her long blonde hair fell around her like a waterfall, her lips were full and pouty, a perfect hourglass figure, eyes that glowed like the moonlight…
Despite the dirt, the grime, even the bruises and cuts left by her last battle, she was undeniably beautiful, a fact that she had used ruthlessly since she’d been abandoned. Males were all too eager to assist a maiden in tears, and too quick to think a woman smiling meant she was falling in love. Few who came to the Dusklands were truly kind (she was no exception) but many of them had been, and she was grateful to them even as she robbed them.
Her most recent master had been… less kind. Her reflection’s smile faded as she remembered the bruises. Yes, he’d refrained from… certain acts. But he had been an angry, callous man, and she could not help but be happy he was dead.
She turned her attention to the book. The ritual within it was undeniably brilliant, but incomplete. She was an elf, and had been suffused in death essence for her entire life. She took what her master had known, and made her own small modifications.
Most important of them all was the reagants. A silver chalice. Blood lilies. The tears of a maiden (that, she had provided). Her master had known something suffused in death would need to be used to make the ritual work, but he could never find anything strong enough. Mara’s blood was potent, yes, but he needed something far stronger.
A deathknight – an emissary of the death gods themselves, charged with finding and returning wayward spirits to the underworld – was something he had dismissed as being too rare and dangerous to even attempt.
After all, he had not considered a beautiful woman with a soft smile, offering hospitality to a weary traveler.
She cut the wrist of the deathknight and let his blood pour into the rune-engraved cup. He did not stir. She gave him a kiss in thanks, and turned back to the book.
She began to chant. The words came out like the silence between words, noticeable by the absence they left in the very air. The energies began to swirl around her, and she funneled them into the cup of fresh deathknight blood. When her spell was complete, she would drink. She would be immortal, but more importantly, she would become a font of death essence in and of herself. Finally, she would be able to leave the Dusklands. She would be able to live and breath in lands full of life and color without choking upon it.
The ritual would take a day to complete.
No time at all.
---
Please do not be kind, I need to learn somehow.
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