Thread: Stolen Bones [Alakazam & Grungeknuckle]

In the middle of wandering the swamps, Samuel paused in a shaft of sunlight, raining down between the trees. He stood there, eyes closed, enjoying the glow. Samuel was tall and lanky, with thin features. He'd once been tanned and dark-haired, but his time working indoors, and exposure to the dread magics had made him pale, and faded his hair to a silver sheen. Even his eyes, once brown, were turning, small flecks and slivers of grey in them, more appearing every day. He wore simple clothes, a hood, breeches, and some old, worn boots. His leather coat was so poorly made, it was almost humorous, constructed haphazardly out of mismatched patches, with an odd assortment of spikes running up the back and shoulders. It was a more unusual coat than most people knew. I need to get out of the cellar more... He thought to himself, idly, taking the brief respite to simply breathe. For the past month, every waking hour that hadn't been spent collecting herbs, or preparing potions, he'd been spending down there, working on his latest creation. A Soul Urn. A collection of undead spirits, concentrated and congealed, all bound together within a small container. If used properly, it could be utilized as a powerful source of magic, a renewable pool of spirit energy, and a unique tool. And they weren't just any souls in there. These were special ones. Souls of those who had died in the throes of despair and utter hopelessness. A small village, to the north, named Felthorpe, had been simply wiped off the map. Their crops had failed, their animals struck by blight, and their trade roads washed away. Those who had the means and money to leave had done so, and those that remained... the winter had taken care of them. Cold and starvation was a horrible, slow way to go, but it was the lot of every man, woman, and child in the village. It was a two week journey, there and back, but Samuel had made it. With the village abandoned, he had the whole place to himself. He'd set up the ritual, and with a great effort, raised and bound the souls of the dead to a single vessel. He'd kept them stable during the trip back with incantations and added energy from his staff. It was exhaustive, and didn't stop, even when he'd returned home. At least there, he'd been able to place a circle around it in the cellar. Ah, the cellar. For all the time he'd spent down there, it's very image had been burned into the back of Samuel's retinas. Simple. Rustic. Dirt floor. Though it never got muddy, the air would get damp when it rained. Small shelf on the back wall. Large chest of herbal supplies under that. A makeshift fireplace for cooking and boiling to the left, and a small work bench under the stairs, where he'd do his chopping, grinding, and mixing. A series of pegs on the right wall, with a knives, or other various tools he'd need, for either of his Professions. A small collection of bones lying on the floor beneath. And in the middle, the centerpiece. A circle of bones, sticking up in the earthen floor. Symbols charred into the floor, both inside the circle, and surrounding it. A ring of powdered bone, ash, and glass within that. And in the very center, the Urn. Black glass. Clay stopper, sealed with silver. It's contents as black as night and then some, always moving, always shifting. Samuel shook his head, drawing his thoughts away from his cellar, and the foul thing that resided within it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting off the growing headache. He hadn't been getting enough sleep, and wouldn't be, for at least a few more nights. Not until the Urn was properly sealed, and stabilized. After that, he would rest.