Waiting…

Waiting in the cold prison cell. Necrontyr lay on the hard stone floor in a semi-coma, literally starving to death. But now being a vampire, he would not die; he would simply fall asleep, but would not wake up. Still, he waited.

As the time passed, the effects of the unholy poison took their toll on his body. His canines slowly elongated and tapered to sharp points, as venom glands grew near his tonsils. He stared into the bucket of dirty water, wistfully noticing his red eyes. His skin paled from a healthy pink to an unearthly white. He screamed, then collapsed.

When he came to, he heard two voices, his guards, talking about him. “Poor Necrontyr.” one said.

“He was a good man, but he fell to the poison.”

“May the gods bless his soul.”

His voice, wheezy from lack of nourishment, sounded strangely high-pitched as Necrontyr asked when he would be released. One of the guards, a Paladin in cobalt-blue platemail, gave him an odd look. “You aren’t going to be released. The Pope will come at dawn to cleanse you.” Silence filled the dungeon.

Necrontyr, his mind and body useless, instead fell to his knees and prayed to Thor. He prayed, hoping for some sign that his god had not forsaken him. He prayed, that he might somehow be freed of his curse and continue his crusade.

He prayed for hours and hours, and soon, light filled the room. It filtered in through the door of the Culvert, down the immense sewer system to its deepest bowels, where he was imprisoned. The light bathed the room with a warm glow…and seared Necrontyr’s skin. He continued to pray.

Then suddenly, Necrontyr felt rejuvenated, as if he had just awoken from a long nap and fed. Dramatically, with a flash of golden light, Mjolnir appeared in his hands, as he raised his arms with a roar of triumph.

He smashed through the bars of the small prison cell, charged through and away from the two startled paladin guards, and with one mighty jump and swing of his hammer, he smashed a huge hole in the ceiling of the Culvert, and landed unceremoniously on the surface.

Screaming as the undiluted sunlight scorched his now-sensitive skin once more, he fled to the shade underneath a tree.

His now-keen eyes spotted a group of warriors in the distance…escorting a frail-looking man wearing a large ornate hat, and holding a golden staff in the shape of a cross.

Matagar XXIV.

He ran, for he knew the Pope would utterly destroy him, given the chance. The Pope thought of him as just another undead now, a mindless creature filled with bloodlust. But he did not understand that Necrontyr retained his mind, retained his faith in the gods.

Perhaps he would learn, eventually, but until then, Necrontyr would be forced to flee, to hide in the deepest of shadows where no man would tread.

He ran, not caring about his smoldering skin, not caring about the various Skeggiolds and Porings that lay in his path.

He ran.

/endchapter

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