B6 Prelude

Screams rang out all around him. Terrible, heart-wrenching shrieks of unimaginable pain and suffering. Through it all, Tyron stood, still restrained, physically nailed to the board holding him in place, and waited.

Tucked into the null-magick field the Golden Legion had generously provided, he was immune from the soul-rending effects of the spells he had inflicted on the camp. Through the open flaps of the tent, green and purple smoke billowed and flowed, a dense mist that carried with it the power to consume spirits. It reached out towards him, hungrily trying to consume his living soul, but the field drained away the magick that sustained it before it could touch him, dispersing the spell.

If the normal Screaming Skull infected the flesh and drained the life-force from its victims, then this version, enhanced with Soul Magick, was far more insidious. Although he hadn’t had a chance to test it, he felt confident in the mechanics of the spellform. After coming into contact with any living creature with a soul, it would latch onto it, and begin to consume it, eating away at the spirit to fuel the spell further. As time passed, it would only grow hungrier, eating faster and faster until the entire soul had been consumed, eaten from within the body.

Only then would the spell be exhausted, unable to sustain itself, and peter out.

Without a working knowledge of Soul-based magicks, it would be impossible to cure, meaning that everyone in the camps was already dead. All they could do was suffer as their souls were consumed from the inside out.

Although, he hadn’t anticipated that the process would be quite as painful as it appeared to be. Granted, that knowledge wouldn’t have stopped him from using it, but he took no pleasure in the howls of pain and suffering he heard around him.

A figure stumbled out of the swirling mist and into the tent, face twisted in a mask of agony and fury.

“Y-y-you…” they gurgled, barely able to speak.

Tyron cocked his head to the side, rattling the chains that held him and sending his frame swinging ever so slightly.

“Do I know you?” he asked, unsure.

With his expression so haggard and twisted, it was hard to say if this was a soldier he had met before. Perhaps one of those who had so generously donated a blade in the form of stabbing it into his flesh?

“D-d… die… y-y-you demon!”

Wretching with the force of his suffering, the Soldier could barely get a word out. Only through an almost superhuman force of will did he manage to draw the dagger at his waist and drag himself closer, one step at a time.

Momentarily, Tyron wondered if entering the null-magick would be enough to cure the man of his ailment, but his concerns were quickly allayed. Destroying magick embedded so deeply inside a person was difficult, to say the least. Latched onto the very soul? His spell was as close to indestructible as it could be.

There was no point arguing with this man; he was already dead after all. What good would it have done to point out that he himself had participated in the slaughter of millions, that the Empire he served was an engine of death that Tyron himself could only dream of matching?

There was no point, so he merely watched as the dead man, holding himself together through sheer force of will, small whimpers of agony leaking out from between his gritted teeth, limped towards him, one shuffling step at a time.

When he finally drew close enough to strike, he reached out and leaned heavily on one of the blades impaling the Necromancer, causing Tyron to grunt. Finally, he drew back his hand, every part of his body shaking from the strain.

A smoking blade formed of black bone pierced through the back of his head and emerged from his mouth, splattering Tyron in the face with hot, red blood.

Grimacing, he turned to the side and spat, keen to purge the taste from his mouth.

“Could have moved a little faster, couldn’t you?” he growled.

Purple light burned within the hollow sockets of the skeleton that stared back at him. A basic, soulless minion, it was the only type of undead that could move within the mist safely. Nor could it reply to his question.

Tyron shook his head.

“Don’t talk to the minions,” he chided himself.

Cut me down, he commanded silently.

Unlike his Soul magick, a basic minion such as this was very much vulnerable to the effects of the null-magick field and would fall apart if it remained within for too long.

Fortunately, his minion was able to hold itself together long enough to cut him free and pull out the nails through his hands, finally freeing him, before it staggered back out of the field, starting to come apart.

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