Part Three
By: Adam Janus
“I reckon that was a trick a’ the moon,, Khaz said sarcastically while brushing himself off. He turned his angry gaze on Sarel, "or the dumb dwarf's over active imagination." He roughly shoved the frost elf aside and stomped up to the iron shod wooden door in the tombs recessed entry way. Putting his shoulder down, the dwarf slammed into the ancient timbers. Magically sealed or not, the door exploded inward showering the interior of the tomb with rotten wood splinters and rust. The remains of the door hung from bent hinges resting on the inner wall of the tomb's vestibule.
"Let's go!" Shouted the dwarf from within, "I'll fight anything made a flesh an blood, but my axe can't do nuthin' about banshee's and ghost's!"
Kimba and Dev hurried inside but Sarel lingered momentarily studying the fog and the sickly greenish yellow lights blinking within it. Necromancy and restless spirits, banshees as Khaz put it, were a part of his life for the better part of three decades. His people actually summoned and enslaved restless spirits and tortured souls. It was a part of life he thought he left behind when he left his people and their evil depravity back in the Frostbite Mountains over ten years ago. With a sigh he joined his comrades in the stale air and cobwebs of the mock tomb determined to do his part in ridding the world of at least one abomination of nature.
***Chapter five***
Primus Creed let the young girl slip from his long nailed grasp; her limp body that once housed the unbridled exuberance of youth was now nothing more than a dried up husk devoid of blood and life.
Head tilted back with his eyes closed Creed’s thin lips parted in an evil grin exposing elongated, blood stained canines. He basked in the warmth of the teenager’s life force as it flowed through his veins. Wrinkles in his face smoothed as the dark skin of his desert heritage replaced the sickly pale yellow of the infirm. Gray and white streaks in his long hair and goatee slowly returned to luxurious black. Small horns poking through the hair at the top of his forehead, evidence of his demon taint, seemed to grow just a little bit longer.
Opening his eyes the wizard adjusted his silken purple robes and looked down his hawkish nose checking to see if enough blood had been spilled within the ring of runes painstakingly etched in the stone floor to please Hisseesha. Satisfied he carefully stepped over the corpse and outer ring of runes lifting his sandaled feet so as not to smudge the evil looking glyphs.
Stone tables set with hundreds of candles lit Primus Creed’s lair which was rectangular in shape with a high domed ceiling, too high for the candle light to penetrate the shadows. Originally it was used as a barracks for the dwarven engineers and laborers who constructed the sewers and then later as a maintenance and storage area. Tapestries portraying ancient Ikpycgen warriors, legendary spell casters and the great pyramids of his desert homeland adorned the walls obscuring the several exits and entrances. Bookshelves were laden with ancient tomes and spell components. The largest and most colorful depiction was of his goddess, Hisseesha. Fiery hair framed an impossibly beautiful horned face and naked torso. Her pale flesh slowly transformed to scales at her waist as the demon deity’s lower body was portrayed as a great snake, tail ending in ringed rattles. Spread out before the silken tapestry was an incense-laden alter made of skulls; treasure heaped at its base.
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