Visions filled its mind. Visions of the future. Of what it could one day become.
The first vision felt distant, but achievable. A remote possibility, but not too remote. The second felt like it was the natural culmination of a path it was already walking. Somewhere it might already end up. The third vision felt different. One that, unlike the others, it would have to earn.
How it would do so, the undead did not know. It could not guess. So, it merely watched.
Watched… and hungered… for the day one of these visions might–would become reality.
A dark, gleaming skeleton stood before a tribe of burly warriors, its onyx-black bone armor illuminated by beams of moonlight falling from overhead. Outnumbered twenty-to-one, it met their charge with the blinding blur of its crimson battleaxe, refusing to give even a single inch of ground. Spears of strange, twisting metal flashed out at it from all angles as blows capable of carving stone were parried, blocked, countered, and returned all in the blink of an eye. Blood flowed to join small rivers leading down the hill, and broken bodies joined hundreds littering the ground as final screams tore the sky once more, all while not a single bone so much as cracked.
An immense, multi-hued crown rested comfortably atop the body of an opaque, black slime as it devoured the offering its lesser kin had led it to. Countless humanoids dissolved within the confines of its mass while a contingent of disruptive food pelted it with magical fury of various elements. Gouts of fire, arcs of electricity, and even great boulders of earth slammed into the royal slime’s frame with an increasing ferocity and tempo, as if the mages were finally beginning to attack in sync. In response, many skeletal hands shoot forth, latching onto the nearest morsels with fingers larger than arms, and slowly dragging them back to be devoured as well.
A figure wreathed in shadows sets its burning gaze upon the withered face of the supplicant kneeling before it. Ornate jewelry, materials imbued with potent mana, and chests flush with the wealth of three cities line either side of the walkway separating the two, and behind the kneeling man waits a phalanx of hardened guards and long-time servants. Color drains from the tapestries adorning the walls as well as the faces of all gathered as the figure moves at an unhurried pace to close the distance, its bone-white scythe with crimson blade floating along as it walks. The figure leans into the ear of the kneeling man, and whispers but a single word.
A great number of visions followed, but each was less vibrant and more hollow than the last. Some were in easier reach, and some less so. Regardless, they each fell through its mind like sand through a sieve, hardly caring if the edges were grazed in their passing. A hundred scenes of questionable import, and even more dubious relevance. All flowing one after the other in an endless, tumultuous jumble.
Batting the back of one armored hand at the air, the undead cast these irrelevant echoes of its future aside. What would come, would come. The aspects would guide it, as they guided all.
Metal slid into place above it with a heavy thud, and the geladin reacted instantly. Raising the same arm skyward its stomach shot forth– only to slam into that same metal. Furious, the undead extended its senses. It could detect a faint heartbeat coming from the other side. There was prey hiding behind those defenses. Prey it could not reach!
Hammering sounded throughout the tunnel as the undead did its best to break through. To destroy the bulwark protecting its next meal. To devour the essence cowering on the other side.
After a time, the undead gave up its assault. It was not mindless like its lesser kin. It would not waste energy striving for a goal it could not yet reach. The undead worked its jaw as it left, dismissing the shivering morsel hiding above– but not forgetting it. It would come back again.
Later. When it was stronger.
The tunnel system it found itself in was more than adequate for its new territory. Death’s presence could be felt in abundance– more and more with each new kill. There was very little Chaos down here, mostly Order… but such problems could be handled in due time. Its former self held memories on how to navigate this place, and even the knowledge that these were not its only lands. A fact which stood out to it, but only temporarily. For now, the undead knew why it was here.
As a Geladin, its purpose was undeniable. The Risen’s duty had not changed in millennia. The charge of the Entor-Mal had never changed. It would consume all life in this place. It would feast on their flesh and transform its territory into one that the aspects would approve of, or it would embrace the Final Night as punishment for its failure.
There was only one problem. One that set the undead’s rage aflame.
These lands were surrounded by Life.
With every new passage it traveled down, the undead’s certainty and fury only grew. Prey was abundant down here, and its stomach feasted as they went, but there was more… so much more above! They hid behind the same metal coverings as before. Cowering. Or perhaps… plotting. Yes, that had to be it. There were too many, and no other reason to hide.
The undead resolved itself in that moment. It would not give up. There had to be a way through to the borders above. An opening it could take. It kept trying. Slamming every covering it could find with its ever-hungry stomach. None gave way, but that was alright. Eventually, one would.
It was hours later when the undead realized there was another problem. One that could be an even greater obstacle to its plans.
There was another threat to its lands. One that, as far as the undead could tell from its beating heart, was sleeping for now. Slumbering, deep below. Momentarily, the undead was confused. This new threat was similar to it, even felt like one of its kin, and yet… it had a beating heart. Two, perhaps even three?
Pausing near the grate leading down towards this threat, the undead considered eliminating this new threat first. It was slumbering, which was the best time to attack the living… but if it was truly one of its kin… perhaps a pact could be reached. Nodding to itself, the undead left that possibility for the future and resumed its search.
Only three coverings later, the undead found its way up. Its stomach punched free an unlatched metal covering, and before the resulting slam had finished echoing down the tunnel it was through. Above, the air was fresh. Nearly as satisfying as the blood that showered it as the undead tore through the surprised and meager prey hiding here.
Turning its head towards the approaching meal its stomach could already smell, the undead noted one final point of interest as it charged forward towards a room filled with strange decorations.
Whatever bounties were up here, its left hand resonated in time with them.
—------------------------
Saren breathed out a sigh of relief as his heightened senses finally detected the swift cadence of Gel’s departure. He gave the sturdy metal cover that had withstood the undead’s blows a grateful pat for its efforts before rolling over and staring up at the bright morning sky above.
“Saren, you fool… You were warned. ” The owlen whispered, chiding himself. “That was too close.”
Gel had told him what was likely to happen before beginning the transformation. The undead had been clear that he would not be himself after it began. That he could not promise Saren’s safety until he was ‘himself’ again. Saren had said he understood, yet despite his own given assurances, the owlen had also been curious.
How many times does one get the chance to watch a monster evolve? The books Saren had read over the course of his life claimed that such evolutions were nothing like the class changes the enlightened underwent, and so the paladin had been unable to resist leaving the manhole cover open to peep.
At first, the effort hadn’t felt worth the return. Gel had collapsed into a pile of mostly pristine-white bones resting atop crimson sludge, like a child’s doll if suddenly dismembered. From there nothing had happened for nearly half an hour, which wasn’t too surprising. Evolutions reportedly took anywhere from hours to days, and Saren had held every intention of leaving to go about his business if that appeared to be the case here.
Something had kept him watching, though. A premonition, perhaps. A feeling in his feathers. One Saren’s mother had always urged him to listen too. And so he had stayed. Stayed and watched as he stretched the muscles magically repaired alongside his recently restitched wounds.
Gold Spire had drilled the importance of stretching after healing into him. Isla herself had lectured him endlessly on the hidden dangers magical healing could have on muscle memory, on how rejuvenated muscles often needed ‘reminding’ of their original purpose. Reminding that was best done, in her mind, through vigorous exercise. Since he hadn’t felt up to doing feather-ups at the time however, Saren had simply stuck to stretches as he had waited for whatever was going to happen down below to happen.
At the top of the hour, something had. Dark red and black steam had risen from the mass of sludge and bone, coalescing into a thick cloud just a few feet off the ground. The process had been slow, and Saren had stared, transfixed, as the cloud had continued to swell. All thoughts of stretching gone as the interior of the cloud began roiling with power.
The sudden, overpowering stench of death rising from below had nearly knocked the paladin off his feet. He had stumbled back, fluttering his wings in front of him in an instinctive reaction to protect himself. Saren had gagged then, suddenly unable to breathe despite knowing with certainty that none of the boiling cloud below had risen this far.
Backing away, Saren had found the feeling dissipated only a few steps away… but the unique opportunity this chance presented had swiftly proven irresistible for him. Only a moment later, the owlen had started holding his breath to step in and take another look. Which is when Saren had started to sense something else. A mass of mana that the Owlen had no experience sensing in such quantities.
Chaos.
Saren hadn’t been afraid until that moment. He had known before of course that Gel was a hybrid creature of two aspects. But concentrated death mana was one thing. The paladin knew its dangers well: don’t breathe it in, don’t let the wounded near it, and for the love of all the Light– don’t touch it.
Concentrated chaos mana however, was another matter entirely. Chaos was the aspect of random chance. By its very nature, it could do anything. There were no safe practices in handling it, because no safety could be assured in doing so. Every textbook Saren had ever read on the topic – of which there were surpassingly few – warned the reader not against certain actions, but proximity. One less scholarly tome had simply said: I know not of a safe distance to approach the stuff, and I have lost enough assistants to no longer try.
So, of course, Saren had gone back to look. Maybe it was the trauma of the last day or so finally getting to him, or the weeks of realization that had gone into knowing – and not merely suspecting – that Gold Spire was not the organization he had grown up believing it to be. Whatever it was, the owlen felt like he had lost his normal sense of self-preservation.
Below, the roiling red and black cloud of swirling mana had condensed into two tiny twin orbs floating in mid-air. One a cold, unmoving black deeper than the space between the night stars, and the other a majestic crimson that flickered and flared like a stoked bonfire. The orbs rotated slowly around one another, never approaching closer than the distance of two hands spread apart. Then, in unison, the orbs descended onto Gel’s puddled form.
Saren had held his breath, watching as the black orb sunk into itself into an unmoving skull while the crimson orb had descended deep into the ooze making up Gel’s liquid half. A deafening crack had resounded through the tunnel a second later, making the owlen wince in pain despite not taking any damage. Below, Gel’s bones had begun to shake and dance in place as the ooze surrounding them quivered to the beat of some music even Saren’s senses had not been able to make out.
After that, Gel had slowly begun to stand up, but not in any natural way. Bone by pristine, unmarred bone, his skeleton had rebuilt itself into a standing position. At the same time, the crimson mass at its feet began to rise up and congeal into–
Armor… Saren’s eyes had nearly popped out of their sockets as he had stared, unblinking, at the scene playing out before him. Not merely offense, but defense now, too.
It wasn’t armor in the style of leather or cloth either, but platemail. First Gel’s feet, then his ankles and shins were covered in opaque crimson plating reminiscent of the chitin armor Saren had once seen the undead wearing. The armor stopped at the neck, leaving Gel’s bone head completely exposed in a way that reminded Saren sharply of depictions of the infamous Laughing Skull. Curiously, both arms were uncovered as well, though whether that was a purposeful choice or not was impossible to tell.
When it was done, Gel had simply stood there unmoving for a time. Silent as the grave, though the pressure of concentrated mana had thankfully retreated by then. Able to breathe freely once more, Saren had decided at that point to slide the manhole cover almost entirely back over the hole. It had been simple intuition, nothing more, but it had saved the owlen from being skewered mere minutes later.
“‘Never forget, your ally is still a monster.’” Saren muttered, repeating the Oracle’s once-again prophetic words. “Would that I could, Oracle. Would that I could.”
He sat up, shaking his head at the risks he was taking even now as he stood. The owlen didn’t regret staying to watch the show, dangerous as it had been. His father, a scholar to his last day, would have given every last feather of both wings to observe what he just had.
I’ll have to record this in detail when I get home, and send it off to Destrin. His father’s old friend would pay handsomely in trade for a first-hand account of what Saren was sure was a newly recorded evolution– even if he didn’t know what to call it yet. Saren shrugged off a pang of sadness at the thought of how long it might be until he went home, unwilling to let such feelings distract him from his own purpose.
“We all have our parts to play.” Saren said to the dry air all around him. To the wind and dust that were only now starting to pick up. To the cloaked figure approaching him from the south, where his next words were taken by the breeze. “Don’t we, Oracle?”
“Indeed we do, Zealot.”
“Indeed, we do.”
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If something happens to that owl everyone except that mage disciple and the two fluffballs better start topping themselves up with honey and spices cause if you are going to be dinner anyways you'd rather be memorable, no?
I am so confused. The cliff tho(good writing)