Miserable Nights

[DurinRustbeard]

“Dreams… always in my dreams…” the old wizard said with a raspy voice as he lay in bed staring through tired eyes at the wooden timbers that made up the roof of the inn. He looked rather pale and had beads of sweat lining his wrinkled face. He was covered in a thick wool blanket that made his bare legs itch under its weight and even though the man continued to sweat heavily he refused to remove the likely sweltering blanket. A twinge of pain raced across his features as his diaphragm contracted, forcing him to cough roughly into the handkerchief he held in his wrinkled right hand. The fit of coughing only lasted a few seconds, but left his throat raw and his features even more withered. “Why do they always taunt me from my dreams?” the old man asked through a dry voice to the empty room.

With no response coming to his open question he turned his head to rest on its side, allowing a view of the nearby window. It was raining again… It was always raining here… “Cursed valley will be my undoing” he said again to the vacant room before forcing a hard swallow past the ample bulge of his Adams apple, making it bob up and down with the effort. His tired eyes stared at the window pane as the rain ran down its surface; he slowly blinked once more before his eyes drifted shut. The sweat ran down his brow and in his wrinkled right hand he still held his white handkerchief, though now it was stained with blood.

[DurinRustbeard]

“Ninety-eight” the old man grunted as he forced his body up from the floor for the ninety-eighth time. Sweat dripped from his nose to land drop after drop on the wooden floor. He labored for breath and he had to stave off a cough as his lungs ached. With pure determination he closed his eyes, and another drop of sweat fell from his brow. With a deep breath he forced his trembling muscles to lower his body again until nearly brushing the stained wood floor with the tip of his nose. His eyes darted open, and his face flushed red with blood as he pushed with what his muscles could still muster. “Ninety-Nine” he grunted and blew out his collected breath. His arms and back ached and begged for him to simply stop, but the old man refused them with the same stubborn willpower that he had used for near all his life. With another steadying breath his diaphragm began to quiver and his body twitched as he fought the urge to cough.

The old man’s face was pained; his eyes were closed as tightly as possible, which made his face resemble a crimson raisin. His arms bent once more lowering his troubled body nearly to the floor before he gave one final heave of effort and reached one hundred. At the peak of his push he coughed roughly, falling over to his side and wrapping his exhausted arms around his midsection, the coughing continued for some time until the man’s worn body could cough no more. His mouth tasted of blood and the corner of his robe he used to quiet his coughing was soaked in blood.

With grunt, he struck his hand against the floor to form the first brace for his assent to the bed. The other arm followed, and the battered looking man was on all fours climbing to his bed. Once seated on his bed he reached to the barrel which served as his makeshift nightstand. There, in a small beaker sat a blue fluid. He snarled his face disgustingly at the beaker before he grabbed and brought it before his eyes. Through gritted teeth and an angry wrinkled visage he said in a raw bitter voice “They have the power to return a dead man to life, and yet they cannot cure me.” With those words he downed the bitter tasting liquid and closed his eyes as it did its work, mending his torn lungs and giving him a temporary reprieve from the burning pain and fever that had haunted him for so long.

He crushed the glass beaker in a clenched fist, leaving some minor cuts on his hand before tossing away the broken glass and allowing the potion to mend his newly wounded hand. “I’ll have my freedom one day” he rasped in a dark voice as he rose from his bedside and started to collect his chemicals and components.

[DurinRustbeard]

The man’s face flushed red as he pushed with all the effort he could muster, and nearly had given up when the stone lid shifted slightly. Urged on by his minor success he pushed again, making the lid slide slowly open until he had the upper half of the stone coffin accessible. Inside, staring to the cave ceiling with hollow eyes was the remains of a long dead warrior. The wrinkled old man with the leathery looking skin and black tangle of hair placed his closed fist to his lips before clearing his throat. As he stood there looking over the long dead, now skeletal man he couldn’t help but glance around the chamber to the fallen zombies and their undead champion. “Bane could never wish to achieve your perfection” he complimented Velsharoon.

Brining his gaze back to the skeletal remains of the warrior, still clad in leather armor, with his scimitar and shield resting atop him the old man couldn’t help but smirk. “You my friend, are the first true step to my eternity.” And with those ominous words he placed a wrinkled yet powerful hand onto the skull of the warrior and began to trace arcane words onto its bone white forehead. With his work done he spoke to the still motionless skeleton. “As you were in life, you shall be in death.” In response to the spoken words the hollow orbs that once held a brave warrior’s eyes began to emanate a red glow. “ In your death you are made perfect.” The man’s face took on a distant look which was briefly lived before he turned away from the casket and quickly added “Come now, we’ve business to tend…” and before the old man had reached the chamber's door a loud “Crack” resounded through the room and standing at its source was the animated warrior now fully clear of the discarded stone lid. With knowing only the purpose its master willed it, the warrior stepped out from its tome and followed, its burning red globes set intently forward.