It started with a twitch.
A very, very subtle twitch of his index finger. Even that took all the energy he could muster... But it led to a wave of life spreading through his body.
The man did not know how long he had been here, only that from the way his muscles groaned that it had been a very long time.
Perhaps it had been decades or centuries. Maybe even a millennia? No, that would be pushing it, other wise he would be nothing but a skeleton.
The first of his senses to return was touch, he felt his way around the confines. his hand gliding around the cold rough surface that surrounded him. The texture was unforgiving, a contrast to the numbness that had gripped him for so long... After all, up until mere seconds ago, he had been dead.
As his shell reawakened his mind struggled to keep up. His memories were a jumbled mess at best and an empty gap at worst. Latching onto one of these flashes of clarity, he teared it open, unwilling to loose all of them.
What he remembered was a single word. A name. He had no idea who it had once belonged to but they were definitely dead by now... So "Azel" would use it instead.
Azel's blood red eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the darkness at an unnatural rate. He took no notice of his striking adaptability, for Azel had no base to judge it off of, instead he simply assumed it was normal.
Soon, following his eyes and hands, the other senses returned; He could hear the rustle of his bare body against the stone coffin, He could smell the wet air that permeated around him, and he could taste the dust on his tongue.
With a monumental effort, Azel gathered his strength and pushed against the lid of his stone prison.
The stone lid resisted at first, as if stubbornly clinging to its duty of confinement. Azel's muscles, still lethargic from their prolonged dormancy, strained against the weight.
His fingers, pale and skeletal, dug into the small crevices of the lid, seeking purchase. Inch by inch, the heavy slab began to shift, releasing a groan of protest that echoed through the confined space.
Finally, with a last surge of strength, Azel shoved the lid aside, sending it crashing to the floor with a resounding thud. He lay still for a moment, chest heaving, revelling in the triumph of his freedom.
The stale, musty air of the crypt enveloped him, a stark contrast to the suffocating enclosure of the coffin.
With painstaking effort, Azel pulled himself into a sitting position. The crypt was shrouded in darkness, but his newly awakened eyes saw through it effortlessly. He took in the surroundings:
The crypt was ancient, long abandoned by the living. Azel's gaze lingered on the withered remains of a figure slumped against the far wall, its hollow eye sockets staring back at him as if in a silent greeting.
Azel's thoughts remained fragmented, but the word—the name—repeated in his mind, grounding him. He could not recall his purpose, nor the reason for his resurrection, but the name provided a identity in the midst of chaos.
"Azel," he murmured, the sound of his voice foreign and raspy.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, his legs trembling under the unfamiliar weight of his own body. Each step was a test of balance, but with every movement, he grew more used to his form. He approached the skeleton, curiosity mingling with an inexplicable sense of kinship. Kneeling beside it, he noticed a rusted dagger clutched in its bony hand, and an inscription on the wall above it.
The inscription was in a language Azel instinctively understood, though he had no recollection of learning it:
"In life, he found power.
In death they found inspiration.
Heed it's hideous cry,
Heed the black sheep."
...Ominous. The inscription was confusing and did not give Azel any clues onto his existence, just to be careful of this "Black sheep," character.
He took the dagger from the skeleton's grasp, feeling the cold metal against his skin. Though corroded with age, it still held a sharp edge—a weapon, a tool, a symbol.
With the dagger in hand, Azel turned towards the crypt's exit. He didn't know what lay beyond, but the undead felt prepared for it, he had a name. Sure he certainly had a lack of important memories, but when he was ready he could go looking into his past, first priority was gaining a very vital edge over his fellow man.
Azel needed to get stronger.
The determination to grow stronger surged within Azel, a primal instinct awakening alongside his reborn body. The crypt's silence was a stark reminder of the isolation that had enveloped him for who knew how long.
Yet, amidst the ruins of the past, Azel felt a sense of purpose. He had been brought back for a reason, and though the clarity of that reason eluded him, the drive to uncover it was as tangible as the cold dagger in his hand.
With deliberate steps, Azel approached the crypt's exit. His senses, now fully alert, picked up the faintest echoes and the subtle drafts of air. The weight of the dagger in his hand was reassuring, a reminder that he was not entirely defenceless.
Each step was cautious but resolute, his mind racing to piece together the fragments of his memories.
As he exited the crypt, the stale air gave way to a damp, earthy aroma. The stone walls transitioned to a rough-hewn tunnel, leading him upward. Azel's fingers brushed against the damp surfaces, feeling the texture of moss and the roughness of ancient rock.
The journey upward was arduous, his muscles protesting with each step, but he pressed on, driven by the name echoing in his mind.
"Azel."
The tunnel finally opened up into a vast cavern. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like jagged teeth, and a thin stream of water trickled down one wall, creating a small pool at the cavern's centre.
The dim light filtering in from unseen crevices above cast eerie shadows, painting the cavern in shades of grey and blue.
Azel's eyes scanned the cavern, noting the remnants of what appeared to be an old campsite—ashes of a long-dead fire, a tattered bedroll, and scraps of cloth.
Signs of life, albeit from ages past. He moved towards the pool, his thirst suddenly apparent. Kneeling, he cupped his hands and drank deeply, the cool water revitalizing his parched throat.
As he drank, Azel's gaze fell upon his reflection in the water. The face staring back at him was unfamiliar yet striking—gaunt, with high cheekbones and hollow eyes that glowed faintly red.
His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his snow white hair hung in dishevelled locks around his face. The sight was both alien and oddly fitting, it suited the reborn entity he had become.
The water itself was refreshing, it wasn't cold or clean, but there was an inexplicable taste to it. The stream renewed Azel with a new burst of energy.
Rising from the pool, Azel felt a renewed sense of determination. The inscription in the crypt echoed in his mind. "In death they found inspiration."
Perhaps Azel was the inspiration that was referred to? After all he had just awaken from death, there was an inherent tie between him and the text, he just didn't understand yet.
"Something for the future," he muttered, no point wasting time trying to comprehend concepts he didn't understand.
He explored the cavern further, finding another passage that led upwards. As he climbed, the air grew fresher, and the light grew stronger.
Eventually, he emerged into the open air, the brightness of the daylight momentarily blinding him. Blinking against the glare, Azel took in his surroundings.
He stood on the edge of a dense forest, the trees towering above him, their leaves forming a thick canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patches on the forest floor.
Birds chirped in the distance, and the rustle of leaves filled the air. It was a stark contrast to the confined darkness of the crypt, a world brimming with life and possibilities.
Azel took a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs. He felt a sense of liberation, but also an awareness of the journey ahead. The forest was vast and unknown, but within its depths lay the answers he sought.
His memories might be fragmented, but his resolve was not. He would navigate this new world, uncover the secrets of his past, and grow stronger with each step.
As Azel ventured deeper into the dense forest, the sounds of wildlife and rustling leaves created a symphony of natural noise around him.
His heightened senses were on alert, every rustle and chirp analysed for potential threats. Yet, despite his vigilance, danger struck with brutal swiftness.
Out of nowhere, the forest's tranquillity was shattered by the sharp hiss of an arrow slicing through the air. Azel barely had time to react before a searing pain exploded in his shoulder.
The arrow's impact was forceful, the sharp head piercing through flesh and muscle with a sickening thud.
Azel staggered, his hand instinctively reaching for the protruding shaft. The pain was immediate and intense, radiating from the point of entry and sending shockwaves through his entire body.
His fingers brushed against the rough wood of the arrow, slick with his own blood. The wound throbbed with each heartbeat, a relentless reminder of his vulnerability.
Gritting his teeth, Azel forced himself to stay upright. He could feel the warm, sticky blood seeping from the wound, soaking into the tattered remnants of his clothing.
The pain, though excruciating, served to sharpen his focus. He scanned the surrounding trees, searching for the source of the attack. His eyes, glowing faintly red with the intensity of his newfound life, pierced through the shadows and foliage.
There, amidst the greenery, he caught a glimpse of movement—a figure quickly retreating, blending into the forest. Azel's lips curled into a snarl, anger and pain fuelling his resolve.
He would not be an easy target. Clutching the dagger tightly in his hand, he prepared to pursue, every movement a fresh reminder of the arrow lodged in his shoulder.
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Re-reading this I noticed how "wordy" this all was. It gets better in the future when I figure out how to write so please bear with it now.
The earlier chapters will be rewritten at some point, I just don't know when.