A More Than Fatal Mistake - Writen By: Adventurin' Bob
It was a cloudy, overcast day. In the distance a lone figure garbed in white robes and clutching a weapon of some kind strides towards a huge and ruined castle. Moving closer we can see it is a mace of some kind, while his other hand clutches at a holy symbol around his neck. Closer still, we hear that he is humming a tune, to a hymn of some sort, no doubt.
He is it, seems, deep within the tunnels below the remnants of the once-proud fort. Where others would resort to torchlight, he speaks a few words only, causing the silver amulet about his neck to glow with a clear white light, throwing back the shadows. He walks on, still singing the hymn.
He enters a room, what was once perhaps a crypt, long since abandoned…at least by the living, and the dead, but not…the undead. Skeletons arose seemingly from nowhere, shambling rapidly towards him. He reacted instantly, as though with long years of experience in these actions, throwing up his holy symbol to each of them in turn, crumbling their twisted frames once more to the dust from whence they came. When the last of the skeletons fell, he spoke:
“Is that the best you can do dark one? A hundred thousand of their kind could not stop my passage!”
He strode onwards, passing through room and cobweb-encrusted passage. Twice more did skeletons assail him, and twice more he destroyed them utterly, until at last
he stood at the end of his quest, the dark dungeon that was the former and current home of the newly-arisen shade of the evil Necromancer, name long since forgotten by all but the wisest of sages, who in but a few weeks would once again have strength enough to plague the land once more-unless that is this Priest of the noble and good God of light and justice Dazorus could hope to stop him. Hope he did. He strode in to the final fastness, with his symbol held high.
A booming laugh rang out in the echoing darkness. “So another of you mortals would seek to halt my new ascension. Yet you, it would seem have greater power than this one.” At this a twisted figure, a dark parody of the human form, strode from the deepest of the shadows. It was clothed in what might have been the garb of a Ranger of Elenhorn, were it not for it’s scheme of darkest black, and the clear lack of the Nature Goddess’s holy symbol. The classic twin swords which had for so long been the mark of a Ranger remained, however, though the possessing shadow made no move to use them. The priest began to chant, as did the Necromancer. After a brief moment, the Priest lashed out with a bolt of pure white light, though the Necromancer dashed it aside with shield of crackling dark matter, as a huge bolt of the same stuff lashed back, casting the priest backwards to be bounced against the damp, cold stone wall.
“Is that the best you can do,” he, it, mocked. “Oh, such weak guardians, I could not possibly have regained my strength, hmm? It seems you underestimated me, did you not.”
“As you have me,” cried the priest, as he rose and charged, clutching his mace in both hands.
“I do not think so,” stated the Necromancer, as he dodged aside, deftly snapping the Priest’s neck on the way. Stepping away, he began to chant again. Deeply dark magic flowed into the corpse. Using one of the swords to flick away the Holy symbol, he completed the spell animating the corpse. He grinned a feral smile.
He laughed once more.