A Grim Funeral Indeed
The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the faint, metallic tang of blood. The gathering was somber, a funeral held for Kassandra Cynch who had fallen in the ongoing struggle against Mortimer and his dark machinations. The attendees, a mix of warriors, mages, and townsfolk, stood in silence, their faces etched with grief and determination. They had come to honor the dead, to remember their sacrifices, and to steel themselves for the battles yet to come.
But as the final words of the eulogy echoed through the hall, the atmosphere shifted. The candles flickered, their flames guttering as though caught in an unseen breeze. A low, resonant hum filled the air, growing louder with each passing moment. The ground beneath their feet trembled, and the walls seemed to pulse with a dark, malevolent energy.
From the shadows, Mortimer emerged, his dark robes flowing around him like a living shadow. His presence was suffocating, a palpable force that seemed to drain the light from the room. With a wave of his hand, he teleported to the courtyard of the church. When the group arrived he laughed and summoned a blood-red pentagram into existence, its lines glowing with an unnatural light. At its center stood a crystal obelisk, its surface black and hollow, drinking in the light like a void.
The crowd gasped, their voices rising in alarm as Mortimer stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement. He placed a hand on the obelisk, and with a surge of energy, five figures materialized at the points of the pentagram. Three of them wore amethyst hoods that obscured their faces, while the other two stood silent and unmoving.
Mortimer's voice cut through the chaos, cold and commanding. "You had the funeral," he said, his tone dripping with mockery, "but did not invite the guest of honor. Reveal yourselves, children."
As one, the three hooded figures reached up and pulled back their hoods, revealing faces that sent a shockwave through the crowd. Rafe Ward, once a nobleman of Mercadia who had ruled alongside the old Council, his face now pale and lifeless. Eoneleth Gallardo, a young Elf whose bright spirit had been extinguished by Azamul's corruption. And Kassandra Cynch, the former Commander of the Mercadian Guard, her once-proud features now twisted into an expression of cold indifference.
The crowd recoiled in horror, their gasps of shock echoing through the alleys nearby. These were not the people they had known and loved—these were hollow shells, puppets animated by Mortimer's dark magic. The three figures spoke in unison, their voices blending into an eerie, discordant chorus. "Join us... Join him..."
The defenders, though shaken, stood their ground. "Never!" one of them shouted, their voice trembling with anger and defiance. The refusal seemed to amuse Mortimer, who smirked as he raised his hand. The battle began in earnest, the defenders clashing with Mortimer's resurrected minions in a chaotic, desperate struggle.
For a time, the tide of battle seemed to favor the defenders. They fought with all their strength, their determination fueled by grief and rage. But Mortimer watched from the sidelines, his expression one of detached amusement. When he noticed his forces weakening, he stepped forward, joining the fray himself. His magic was devastating, his movements precise and calculated. One by one, the defenders fell before him, their bodies crumpling to the ground.
But Mortimer was not without mercy—or perhaps, without strategy. With a wave of his hand, he sent his forces away, sparing them for another day. He allowed the defenders a moment to regroup, his cold gaze sweeping over them as they struggled to their feet.
"Do you see now, mortals?" he said, his voice calm and measured. "You cannot defeat me."
The defenders, battered but unbroken, called him a coward for hiding behind his minions. Mortimer's smirk widened, and with a flick of his wrist, he summoned his magic once more. The battle resumed, this time with Mortimer facing the defenders alone. His power was overwhelming, his every move calculated to inflict maximum damage. Yet the defenders fought on, their resolve unshaken.
Finally, Mortimer paused, his expression one of mild curiosity. "I offer you a truce," he said, his voice carrying an unexpected note of sincerity. "Cease your interference at the mine, and I will grant you a reprieve. A time free of my... meddling."
The defenders, though weary, stood firm. "We will never stop," one of them said, their voice steady despite their injuries. "We will never allow your plans to come to fruition."
Mortimer's smirk returned, though there was a hint of something else in his eyes—respect, perhaps, or amusement. "So be it," he said. With a final, lingering glance, he vanished, leaving the defenders alone in the shattered remains of the courtyard.