The Unquiet Dead

The one who is yet to rest and rise knows not why he was awoken. He is but to slay and bring down his foes to what he once was. But he will regret all that he has done. The release of death won't be an escape for him when he is risen again, and again, and again.

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4. Chapter IV - Rest and Return (I)

The man in the white robes and hood, the Prophet, was sat at a desk, scribbling his feather along a thick scroll of paper frantically. The words could not be made out at all, from a language far across the sea or skies. The candles that shone near him faintly and gently changed colour. From blues, to faint greens and reds. Yet for such a small flame, the candles lit up the entire room, revealing the shelves and shelves of books in the walls. Some were thousands of pages wide, with spines as broad as a man's skull, however others were even single pieces of paper. Scattered in irregular places, sat ornaments as gem stones, feathers and insects in jars. Used for research? Used for sorcery? Used for decoration? 

He soon pricked his head up from the paper, with ears poised. Rising from the chair, slowly he walked to the open window as the breeze wafted gently through. An arm held out, Chitchin fluttered onto his arm from out the window, still the shining pearl in her beak.

"Felicitations, my dear Chitchin. Well acquired." the Prophet smiled as he held out his delicate hand to her. "You are sure this is he?" The bird lightly put the soul into his cupped hand. 

"I am sure, Master." she replied.

"Marvellous." he spoke as he placed the bird unto his table. "I have further need of you yet still, Chitchin." he exclaimed as he strolled to a door, tucked away behind his desk at the very back of the room. 


"Of course, Master." she replied, soaring gently to his shoulder. The Prophet twisted the door handle marginally, and it slowly creaked open. The shadows moved aside as the light escaping from the door revealed, like sets of curtains, a man in chains against the wall, wearing only but rags with. Chitchin looked confused and concerned at the man. "Master...?" 

"Behold, Chitchin, a living Vovoaráck." the man in chains looked up from his dreary slumber, with a fowl look upon his face. 

"Dós kekin nneen... Unfros beliick marn vovo fris Yenavar!!" he growled, glaring deeply at The Prophet with rage. 

"What is he saying?" Chitchin asked. 

"That the God of Decay will take us all, and that this Vovoaráck shall rise again. Vovoarácks are strong followers of Iísqu, the Dark God of Death." The Prophet stood over the Vovoaráck, staring down at him as he reached a hand under his robe. "I will give him the right to be taken by his beloved god..."

"Clusta mecknek..." the man muttered. The Prophet pulled out a bizarre shaped knife, that shimmered greens and purples upon the metal. He crouched down in front of the chained man, looking to his shoulder at Chitchin. 

"Chitchin, I need you to take his soul from his heart when I give the word." 

"What for, Master?" 

"So that a new soul can be placed in its place." Ending his sentence, he slammed the knife into the Vovoaráck's heart as he wailed and choked. The knife cut down, opening the wound like a zip and prying apart the skin to reveal his beating heart. "Now Chitchin!" She did not hesitate in her actions as her beak reached into his chest pricked the small soul right out from his heart. As instantly as it happened, the man completely froze, his expression of pain still painted upon his face. Yet more slowly, his entire body started to turn as pitch as a silhouette at the dusking sun. So deep was the black, that no intricate detail could be made out at all, just his entire body turning to the rich colour of onyxes. "Lastly," The Prophet continued, "to put the new soul into its host." 


"What will happen now?" Chitchin questioned. 

"This soul will take on this new host body. The consciousness of this soul will then be put into this body, and thus, the One who is yet to rest and return shall come back to life, such as our Goddess Roslandia, Lady of Life, shall prohibit." With a forceful effort, The Prophet slammed the hand of which held the replacement soul into the body's black chest. He soon then sealed the gaping wound with a glowing orb of magic in his palms. The cut closed slowly like stitching, leaving a faint crack of light from where the soul shone through. Sure enough, the shadow-like body began to move again, faintly and gently as if waking from a long, long dormancy.

"Welcome, my Champion." 

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