Resurrection

The cultists dance ecastically
Under the waning moon.
They dig blood soaked hands into soil
Chanting declarations of the arcane
Of the mystical
"magic shall rise again!" They chant.

Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
The wind screams.
Silence.

Under miles of rock and dirt
Something stirs.
Silence.
The ground rumbles beneath their feet.
They gasp and jump for joy
The leader wipes tears from his eyes.

"Magic shall rise again!"
The angry quaking intensifies.
A skeletal spector rises
from his thousand year old grave

They kneel before him.
'Oh, great wizard of the lost world'
'Teach us your ways! Help us cleanse this rotten land!'

The speaker's head is torn from his body by hands of bone.
'fools.' the spirit says.
Its voice echoes through the burnscarred forest.

The men panic and try to run.
They cannot move.
With righteous fury, the once-immortal assassin speaks:

'you wicked creatures who defile my place of rest
You, who seek power for power sake
You, who seek to destroy my descendents
You, who long for a long gone dominion over a land that you falsely thought yours
You, who long to wipe what remains of my kind from our home
you, villains, shall pay with blood
You shall suffer the centuries of agony your kind once put mine through; begone!'

The men are dragged by tendrils of bone and shadow.
Down, down, down the men are pulled.
Their insides burn yet their bodies are untouched by flame.
They scream for help yet their voices are silenced.
They thrash and flail in desperation
Yet there is no escape from the grave of their own creation.


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