| Marc Pelzer | Lorys Germany
The discussions about the incident at the border and the resulting tensions were going well. Both sides made concessions. Not just with empty words, but with guarantees. In fact, the relatively young Dan Vara and the old Duke seemed to understand each other. Even if it was purely on a political level and not a personal one.
The entire wordplay was being observed by a small rat, crouching watchfully and inconspicuously in a shady corner of the room under a shelf. It was no ordinary rat, as it was already decaying. A dark power had preserved its body and bound its dead soul to this world. It was subject to the will of its master, who penetrated the heavy stone doors through its eyes and ears.
Once called Crowclaw, this master of magic had belonged to the cult of the Soulcatchers and had murdered for his god. Gron, whose name alone made his hair stand on end, had always thirsted for victims. His power grew with every soul his loyal Soulcatchers sent through the gate of worlds into the realm of death. And they were loyal. The Soulcatchers, but especially Crowclaw, tirelessly sought out and sacrificed the defenseless and isolated people of the lands. However, it quickly became clear to him that he was different from most Soulcatchers. Simple crude assassins with knives and swords could not compare to him once his magic was awakened.
It happened in the swamps of Delmont, where he and two other cultists had discovered an old man in his hut. It had not been a clean sacrifice. The man’s life clung tenaciously to this world. He had lashed out, raged, and fought. Crowclaw had tried to subdue him, but only three inaccurate cuts could silence the man. The floor had been drenched in blood. And at that moment, his blood began to boil. It burned him inside, and through the fire, he could feel the man’s soul. He could command it. And that’s exactly what he did. The man remained in the world, powerless, and did everything Crowclaw commanded through sheer mental force. Intoxicated and numb from his sudden power, he unleashed the corpse on his comrades, who, in sheer panic, tried to fend it off with blows and stabs, but that day was their last.
Since that moment, Crowclaw the Soulcatcher had died, and from his ashes rose an almighty being. The necromancer was created. And his power grew immeasurably ever since.
Blinded by his own ability, he had retreated, explored the power, and learned to use it in the most gruesome ways. He wandered this world, taking whatever he wanted – food, drink, the finest jewelry, and even lives. For he, with every breath, was more convinced that he was a god. What a useless god had the power over the dead. A paltry feat compared to the control over the gate between worlds, between life and death. Besides, he was no longer a simple and crude Soulcatcher. He had a plan. At the end of it, he would destroy Gron. He would take the cult’s god from them and claim the then directionless souls for himself. He would be worshipped as a real god should be. But he would walk in the world of the living and rule it for all eternity.
In the manor house, which for days had been inhabited only by the living souls of the former dead servants and the family of the owner, the necromancer had quartered himself. He had ordered the servants around the house while he enjoyed being served all the delicacies the pantry had to offer by the nobles. This time he had hit the jackpot.
Even though he hadn’t managed to start a war between the two realms, there were other ways to bring enough souls to the gate of worlds to initiate his plan. The mass of souls had to be at least equivalent to a large village or a town. He couldn’t achieve the slaughter of so many people alone, not even with his army of the dead, which he controlled with the full extent of his magic. There were always ways. The idiotic humans always found reasons to argue and fight. As a god, it was his duty to use these creatures.
The ducal house in Varas had become unstable. There were quarrels and doubts among them. The old Duke of Spass had held his feast but had sown discord as the seemingly powerful ruler struggled with his personal problems. Things couldn’t have gone better. Now, however, since the war was averted, the god himself had to act. Of course, he had a plan for everything. For if the court in Varnas fell, the duchy would be destined for civil war. He was convinced of that. The dead would pile up. An easy way to get the army he needed to challenge the god of death behind his gate. His decision on the next step was clear. He rose from his wooden chair in the main hall of the manor, grabbed a grape, and carelessly threw the wine goblet across the room. Then he set off for Varnas.
The entire wordplay was being observed by a small rat, crouching watchfully and inconspicuously in a shady corner of the room under a shelf. It was no ordinary rat, as it was already decaying. A dark power had preserved its body and bound its dead soul to this world. It was subject to the will of its master, who penetrated the heavy stone doors through its eyes and ears.
Once called Crowclaw, this master of magic had belonged to the cult of the Soulcatchers and had murdered for his god. Gron, whose name alone made his hair stand on end, had always thirsted for victims. His power grew with every soul his loyal Soulcatchers sent through the gate of worlds into the realm of death. And they were loyal. The Soulcatchers, but especially Crowclaw, tirelessly sought out and sacrificed the defenseless and isolated people of the lands. However, it quickly became clear to him that he was different from most Soulcatchers. Simple crude assassins with knives and swords could not compare to him once his magic was awakened.
It happened in the swamps of Delmont, where he and two other cultists had discovered an old man in his hut. It had not been a clean sacrifice. The man’s life clung tenaciously to this world. He had lashed out, raged, and fought. Crowclaw had tried to subdue him, but only three inaccurate cuts could silence the man. The floor had been drenched in blood. And at that moment, his blood began to boil. It burned him inside, and through the fire, he could feel the man’s soul. He could command it. And that’s exactly what he did. The man remained in the world, powerless, and did everything Crowclaw commanded through sheer mental force. Intoxicated and numb from his sudden power, he unleashed the corpse on his comrades, who, in sheer panic, tried to fend it off with blows and stabs, but that day was their last.
Since that moment, Crowclaw the Soulcatcher had died, and from his ashes rose an almighty being. The necromancer was created. And his power grew immeasurably ever since.
Blinded by his own ability, he had retreated, explored the power, and learned to use it in the most gruesome ways. He wandered this world, taking whatever he wanted – food, drink, the finest jewelry, and even lives. For he, with every breath, was more convinced that he was a god. What a useless god had the power over the dead. A paltry feat compared to the control over the gate between worlds, between life and death. Besides, he was no longer a simple and crude Soulcatcher. He had a plan. At the end of it, he would destroy Gron. He would take the cult’s god from them and claim the then directionless souls for himself. He would be worshipped as a real god should be. But he would walk in the world of the living and rule it for all eternity.
In the manor house, which for days had been inhabited only by the living souls of the former dead servants and the family of the owner, the necromancer had quartered himself. He had ordered the servants around the house while he enjoyed being served all the delicacies the pantry had to offer by the nobles. This time he had hit the jackpot.
Even though he hadn’t managed to start a war between the two realms, there were other ways to bring enough souls to the gate of worlds to initiate his plan. The mass of souls had to be at least equivalent to a large village or a town. He couldn’t achieve the slaughter of so many people alone, not even with his army of the dead, which he controlled with the full extent of his magic. There were always ways. The idiotic humans always found reasons to argue and fight. As a god, it was his duty to use these creatures.
The ducal house in Varas had become unstable. There were quarrels and doubts among them. The old Duke of Spass had held his feast but had sown discord as the seemingly powerful ruler struggled with his personal problems. Things couldn’t have gone better. Now, however, since the war was averted, the god himself had to act. Of course, he had a plan for everything. For if the court in Varnas fell, the duchy would be destined for civil war. He was convinced of that. The dead would pile up. An easy way to get the army he needed to challenge the god of death behind his gate. His decision on the next step was clear. He rose from his wooden chair in the main hall of the manor, grabbed a grape, and carelessly threw the wine goblet across the room. Then he set off for Varnas.