Saturday, July 30, 2016

Thrice curse Black Erlik!

"Thrice curse Black Erlik! May Hel herself take him into her busom!" The necromancer continued to rant for several moments, wiping blood and the ruined remains of his left eye from his cheek. The pain was nearly unbearable, but it was a moon-cast shadow compared to the flaring hatred that scorched the man's heart and gut.

"The ambush was well laid, Master," intoned the sepulchral voice from the animated skeleton. The undead thing did not actually speak, but the necromancer could hear the hollow thing's speech in his mind.

"It does not matter! I am no mere man! I command the forces of life and death itself! I am nearly a God! How can this flea-bitten mongrel and his lackeys get the better of me? OF ME!?" The man was nearly mad with pain and anger, and he screamed, savagely kicking the quickly cooling bodies of two members of Erlik's band that lay in the bloody snow at his feet. The slippery scarlet slush beneath his boots got the better of him, however, and the necromancer tumbled to the frozen ground. Maddened even further, he began thrashing and screaming, flailing about like a spoilt child.

The skeleton, uncaring and emotionless, simply impassively stood at the ready, holding its halberd, guarding its master.

The necromancer bellowed and screamed to the heavens, blood still flowing from his empty socket. "I hate him! May all the gods, low and high, curse Erlik and all his spawn from now 'til Ragnarok! I will give you whatever you ask, anything, my very soul - if you only give me a way to defeat him!" The man, fully spent with his final cry, fell limp, his arms and legs splayed in the four cardinal directions. His right hand landed in the pooled blood and hair of one of Erlik's dead crew.

Slowly, the skeleton's head turned, the ancient cartilage in its neck creaking in the sudden vacuum of silence. A voice emanated from the un-living thing, but this time, the voice was black and full of malice. "Our bargain is struck, Vekel Geirson. I now name you my own. You shall henceforth be called Vekel Dökkalfarson"

The necromancer felt a chill run down his spine and his pants run hot and wet. He had dabbled in the dark-arts his entire adult life, and never had such a thing happened within his sight, his hearing, or his witness. Vekel suddenly knew he had gone one step to far.

"Remember your Enemy," the poisonous voice from the skeleton said.

Suddenly, all that Erilk had done to him sprang anew in Vekel's soul and it seemed to him that all of the pains, the insults, and the defeats were magnified and made all the more real and potent to him. The necromancer felt the dead man's hair and blood beneath his hand and suddenly, an idea came to him. A most heinous and horrible idea. Quickly, the necromancer rolled over and a wicked wolf's grin had replaced his own. He looked from the skeleton to the freshly slain men at his feet. One of the men had lovely eyes--pale green like sea foam--that were still clear and not yet clouded over in death.

"Come, Bonethrall," Vekel Dökkalfarson, the necromancer, spat. There was something new in his voice, a steely, icy edge. "We have much work to do..."

Art Source: "The Bone Whistle Corpsman" (c)/by SidharthChaturvedi
Story and Characters: (c)/by Brannon Hollingsworth, Erilk the Black (c)/by Raulston Hunsinger

#MMWW, #Makes, #Me, #Wanna, #Write, #BrannonHollingsworth, #viking, #Erlik, #theKinslayer, #ErliksSaga, #BlackErlik, #Ingemar, #Vekelsson, #Vekel, #Bonethrall, #VekelDökkalfarson, #necromancer, #VekelGeirson


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