Worshiping the dead

Then he shouted a cry to defy the gods and with a motion of his bloody hand, directed the floating spirit into the corpse. Still he sang his unfaithful prayers.

He collapsed to his knees, his head bent towards his chest. Belor’s eyes were wide in anticipation when he realised his own danger. He did not wait to see the epic catastrophe unfold but fled back the way he came. He came upon a circle of people, all human, not daring to approach the mansion after the terrible cries were heard. None stopped the frantic little man as he escaped, following without knowing his bigger companion.

An elven lord appeared amongst the crowd, tears mocking the usual cheerful face. He immediately strolled into the home, his long sword gleaming. "Serenaroth!" He challenged without slowing his stride but he disappeared amongst the shadows of the mansion, the spectators now blind to his fate. He emerged in the yard, finding the necromancer fully erect, his pupils lost in the white of his eyes. The blood had dried on his hand and forearm, a cold mist escaping his mouth with every breath. He did not pay any notice to the warrior that stood in rage before him. "Zhenarom?" cried a maiden’s voice from behind. The elf saw the body of the boy, the blood slowly dripping unattended to the dark soil. Tears flowed anew, rage feeding the river of his wrath. He charged the prone wizard, aiming to decapitate the horror responsible for his son’s death. Behind him appeared a young human lady, no more than eighteen summers, a hand covering her mouth as if to hush the terror that would escape it. As the scream reached it’ s peak, Serenaroth smiled and the elven blade never touched his neck. A hand caught the cold steel. "Father…" Whispered the necromancer whilst the undead creature behind him seized the warrior’s sword. Serenaroth stepped aside to reveal his creation. Before Zhenarom's eyes, the creature’s flesh materialised and started to gain colour. Blood escaped the hand that held the blade, pupils appeared within the vast white of the eyes. The warrior flung himself in desperation, but the undead creatures’ strength could not be matched and he threw him aside, burying the sword deep in the elf’s back. The young women fled, cries colouring the night. "Father?" Repeated Serenaroth as he watched the corpse take life and his father’s features. A rumbling sound escaped the creature’s mouth. He looked around in amazement, then back to his son when the transformation was complete. Balkan, father of Serenaroth, had been completely resurrected.

"Father, I realise you must be confused, but we must escape, the local militia will arrive soon and terror cannot hold them back forever." Comforted Serenaroth. "Father? Who are you? My son is but a child." Answered Balkan, the words barely audible. His speech was returning with every passing moment. The man looked at his clothing, his brow lifted in bewilderment. Nonetheless, he followed his son into the dark night. While they fled, Serenaroth told his father of his demise and of the union of humans and elves. His father quickly understood the situation and vowed vengeance upon the elves for corrupting the minds of his brethren. Thus started the attacks of the undead upon the city of Melbron, led into the night by two madmen, demanding the death of all elves. None stood to oppose them, so the elves fled. To this day, the undead fanatics travel from city to city in an attempt to spoil the relationship between elves and humans. Some think they will soon succeed.