Downtime of a Necromancer:
Perhaps the black sheep of the group, Mortanis cared little for the rule of the elected leader or the company of the other warriors and minds, spare perhaps one or two. The man sought the sanctity of a quiet Necromancers office, a key with the crafted head of a fanged ram twisted in an iron clad lock to ensure his privacy here in.
Despite his lack of interest in the task at hand, he, perhaps more than all others was less than ignorant of the capabilities of the three and their master, the methods in which they weave the curse that plagues the world with its tainted presence and the strengths the three had attained through the diabolical means he had. Of course, telling the rest the weaknesses of a deathless master also exposed his own neck, something he was less than inclined to do.
The elected lord of the frozen north began to pull books from shelves, each one landing atop the desk of his in a haphazard manner, one or two tumbling from the original pile to craft their own in defiance of order and routine. Nimble, lithe fingers would soon flick each of theese books open and scroll through the lores they held between leather binds, lores which spoke of the utmost taint and corruption, methods used by his kind to twist flesh into an indestructible substance and bone into steel, and began to ponder methods of "un-making", for so certain was he that he had destroyed that axe wielding fool before that it pained him to think that he still lived.
Between the binds of other books lay alchemical recipes for potions to mend wounds in a manner that would not cause him some form of great pain as the presence of positive energy would, potions that would gift the user a pair of temporary wings and similar recipes he had worked on for so long. A batch of both would soon boil away in the corner of the room, constantly watched, stirred and tested as the night drew on, seven twice vials laid before him in wait of the finished concoction.
Time was all he had to contemplate such methods of reversal. His black, shadowed eyes leered unbreaking into the bubbling brew within iron clad pot for hours of nonchallant and yet precise stirring - his revenge would be perfect. It had to be.
_________________ Never under estimate the power that language imparts. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can break hearts.
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