The last few days have been most interesting. Libero discovered that the pretty simpleton whom had been serving us our meals at the Crossroads was actually a shapeshifter! I had seen it’s like before during my schooling at Tanzerward Hall, but never a live specimen. I must say, the transformation was uncanny—It had everyone fooled. I later heard mention that Libero found the body of the real girl hidden downstairs in her room, drained dry of blood. Poor thing. No doubt Libero had been trying to get into her knickers for weeks. Perhaps it was better in the end that her body was twisted into a pretzel and shoved into a box.
The following morning, we were evicted from the premises by some lout. I noticed Libero and the fellow engaged in discussion (by the looks of which, was rather heated), but I didn’t catch any of what was said. Truthfully, I care not. It is likely the local constabulary declaring the place condemned, in shambles such as it is. The lout certainly had the air of buffoonery about him that I’ve typically found amongst bureaucrats.
Speaking of which, no sooner had we vacated the inn than we found ourselves once again in the company of the mayor. This time he had us meet with some peasant farmer who was going on about illegal digging in his fields or some such drivel. Truth be told, I feel my eyes develop a heavy glaze whenever we’re in the proximity of the mayor. At any rate, as there’s no competent force of men-at-arms in these parts, we were contracted to go out and resolve the matter.
And that Diary, is when things began to look up. Once we reached the farmer’s land it wasn’t long before we ran into the trespassers he was complaining about. What the wearisome half-wit failed to realize (or at least certainly failed to mention) was that his trespassers were undead minions! No less than 4 hulking brutes of indeterminate origin, standing in-line adjacent a large pit.
At the sight of them, a giddy thought overtook me that I can’t be sure was mine own. I suddenly felt compelled to close the distance between us, and release a spell into their midst. Before I even knew what incantation I was casting—what fell utterances passed my lips—a tear in the fabric of reality opened in their midst, and I witnessed the unholy birthing of what I can only describe as my waking nightmare. It was beautiful.
I’ve never felt so elated. Not even when I forced that tortuous whelp to grapple with some flying nuisance which only resulted in both of them being vaporized by a bolt of druid lightning. I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw the outline of his frame illuminate in the blast for split second, and hear his squeak of anguish echo through the back of my mind.
Not even discovering an undead legion workforce, toiling within the pit with pick and spade was as glorious as the comprehension-defying abomination I spewed forth into this plane. I marveled at their digging. Uncoordinated as they were, it still must have required much discipline to control a collective so large as what we saw that day. Someone after all had to have reanimated them. Rarely do the rotting undead rouse by themselves, and never en masse. I wish I had spent more time in academy studying necromancy, but Al’Set always dismissed that particular school as “an inefficient and belabored party-trick unbecoming of those who would seek true power.” I bet the mad old bastard wished he wasn’t so dismissive of necromancy now!