The darkness was absolute, an impenetrable void that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Somewhere within that void, a consciousness flickered to life, disoriented and confused. Slowly, the awareness sharpened, bringing with it the realization that something was profoundly wrong.
There was no warmth, no sense of breath moving in and out, no heartbeat thrumming in his chest.
His mind raced, grasping for memories, for some explanation, but nothing made sense. And then, out of the darkness, a single sound pierced the silence-a sharp, metallic click.
A torch flared to life, casting a weak, flickering light on cold stone walls. The dim glow revealed a dungeon, its rough-hewn walls damp and foreboding. Chains clinked faintly in the distance, the only sign of life-or perhaps, the absence of it. The man tried to move, but his body refused to obey, as if it no longer belonged to him.
"Ah, the ghost has awakened at last," a rasping voice shattered the oppressive silence, cold and malevolent.
His vision blurred, his mind struggling to orient itself as he blinked in the darkness. Slowly, a figure materialized from the shadows-a man draped in a robe as black as midnight. The flickering torchlight danced over him, obscuring his features in shadow.
But there was no mistaking the aura that clung to him like a shroud of death. Recognition chilled his blood. This was no ordinary man-it was a necromancer, his very presence suffocating the air with malevolence.
"W-where am I?" the man stammered, his voice weak and trembling. "W-who are you? What's happened to me? Why can't I move.... am I dead?.... am I p-p-paralyzed?"
The necromancer circled him slowly, a smug smile playing on his lips, his eyes gleaming with malice. The man lay there, shivering with nervous anticipation, though his body-broken, shattered-couldn't move. It was his mind that trembled now, grasping for some sense of the nightmare unfolding around him.
"You do not walk among the living," the necromancer murmured, his voice a cold whisper that slithered through the air.
"Nor have you fully passed into the realm of the dead. You linger... suspended between worlds, caught in the grip of undeath." He paused, letting the silence stretch painfully.
"Such a fragile, twisted existence... and yet, in my hands, it becomes something valuable." His words coiled like serpents, each one tightening its hold on the man's shattered mind.
The man's heart pounded in his chest, though his body remained limp, useless. He blinked up at the necromancer, the terrifying realization slowly dawning on him. He could hear, he could think-and he could speak, though his lips felt strange, heavy. But his body... his body was utterly unresponsive, a hollow shell now serving as a prison for his soul.
"Your body lies shattered," the necromancer murmured, his voice a soft, cruel whisper that seemed to slither through the man's mind. "You cannot move, cannot act. But your soul... ah, that remains untouched. It's why you can still feel, why you still speak. Your essence, your spirit-I have bound it to this broken husk of flesh." He leaned in closer, his gaze a deep well of dark amusement.
"You are mine now, your soul tethered to this form, serving a higher purpose. My purpose."
The necromancer's smile twisted into something far darker. His hollow eyes glittered with a perverse fascination. "Ah, don't look so frightened," he purred, his tone mocking as it twisted with dark amusement. "The pain you imagine is so... exaggerated." He paused, allowing his words to linger like a venomous fog.
"No, you won't feel much at all. Just enough."
Those last words offered little solace, a cold comfort that filled the man with dread. He tried to summon the strength to fight, to scream, but his body was no longer his own. He was nothing more than a vessel-an experiment, trapped in a nightmare from which there seemed no escape.
"You are not here by chance," the necromancer continued, his voice coldly clinical, as though he were discussing the finer points of a scientific experiment.
"Your state-caught between life and death-is precisely what I need for my research. A living subject is far too... inconvenient, far too prone to suffering." His gaze narrowed, glinting with dark ambition.
"But you-undead, aware, yet untethered from the concerns of life? Perfect. You are the key to unlocking the mysteries of the soul itself, a vessel through which I shall make my mark on the very fabric of necromancy." His smile widened.
"In essence, you are not just my subject. You are my masterpiece."
The man's breath quickened, though he was unsure whether it was panic or the effects of this horrific magic that held him in place. The necromancer's words-his casual declaration of using him like some kind of lab rat-tore at his sanity.
With a low, rasping murmur, the necromancer lifted the ancient tome, its worn pages rustling like whispers from the dead. His skeletal fingers traced symbols in the air as he gazed at the man through his hollowed eyes that gleamed with eerie, unreadable intent.
"Now then," he intoned, his voice a silken thread in the suffocating silence. "There are matters to confirm, rituals to honor. Let us see that everything is... in order, shall we?"
The pen hovered over the page, ready to record whatever twisted information the necromancer needed. To the man, the sight of it felt more terrifying than any weapon-it was the beginning of something far worse than death.
The man's mind whirled, searching for some means of escape, some way to break free from this living nightmare. But as the necromancer leaned in, poised to begin his dark interrogation, it became clear that this was only the beginning. The dungeon walls seemed to close in, their shadows growing deeper, as the man realized that whatever the necromancer had planned, it was far from over.
The man listened intently, trying to make sense of the necromancer's words. The sorcerer spoke with an air of detachment, explaining that his interest lay in studying the soul, and to him, for reasons he couldn't fully comprehend, was deemed the perfect subject.
The word "masterpiece" was tossed around, and while he didn't grasp its full meaning, he understood enough to know it signified something significant-something that could alter the course of the necromancer's dark pursuits.
The necromancer's bony hands were already clutching a weathered ancient tome, its pages cracked with age and power. His voice, a soft, sinister hiss, cut through the dim air.
"First," he whispered, each word carrying a weight that chilled the blood, "name... and age." His hollow eyes never left him, hungry and unblinking.
The man hesitated, feeling the weight of the necromancer's gaze as if the sorcerer could peer directly into his very essence. The intensity of that stare made him feel exposed, vulnerable, as though every secret he held was being laid bare. Despite the fear gnawing at his insides, he finally mustered the strength to respond, his voice emerging as a quiet, raspy whisper.
"M-my name is Z-zarkus... and I'm 19 years o-old... W-why do you ask?"
The necromancer offered no reply, merely scribing the details into the ancient tome with an eerie precision. "Zarkus... 19... excellent," he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as if something profound had been confirmed.
Without lifting his gaze, the next question hissed forth. "Your race... what manner of creature are you?"
Zarkus watched uneasily as the necromancer continued scribbling in his tome, muttering incomprehensibly under his breath. The question caught him off guard, but after a brief moment of thought, he answered, his voice still trembling.
"I-I'm a... goblin..."
The necromancer's face twisted into a grimace, his skeletal grin vanishing. He cursed under his breath, venomous and sharp. "A goblin," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain.
"Of all the cursed fates, a goblin. Worthless for my craft... but no matter. The dead don't choose, and neither can I." His bony hand clenched around the quill, frustration boiling just beneath his calm exterior.
Zarkus felt a sting of insult at the necromancer's reaction. The sorcerer's words were dismissive, almost contemptuous, as if Zarkus's very existence was an inconvenience.
Yet, despite the simmering indignation, he held his tongue, aware of the precariousness of his situation. He was, after all, at the mercy of this man, who viewed him as little more than a means to an end.
The necromancer's hollow eyes gleamed as he watched the subtle shift in Zarkus's expression, reading the change like a scholar studying a fragile, ancient text.
He exhaled slowly, a sound more like the death rattle of a withered soul than a sigh. His voice, dripping with condescension, was barely above a whisper.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," he purred, his words laced with patronizing amusement.
"I know what's running through that little mind of yours. It's not personal, Zarkus. Your race is simply... inconvenient for my purposes. A matter of utility, nothing more."
His gaze sharpened, colder than the grave. "Now, let us leave sentiment behind. Your situation demands it."
Zarkus swallowed hard, his resentment giving way to a sense of futility. The necromancer was in control, and any resistance seemed pointless. Yet, deep within him, a small ember of defiance still burned. He nodded reluctantly, waiting for the next question, knowing that his fate was now tied to the whims of this man who saw him as nothing more than a piece in some grand, twisted experiment.
And as the necromancer continued his line of questioning, Zarkus couldn't help but wonder what would come next. What other secrets would be pried from him, and how much of himself would he lose before this nightmare reached its end-if it ever would?
The necromancer's gaze softened ever so slightly as he observed Zarkus's reaction to his earlier comments. With a sigh, he reassured Zarkus that his lack of ideal suitability for the necromancer's project was purely a matter of practicality, not prejudice. The necromancer's tone was matter-of-fact, but his hollow eyes betrayed a hint of amusement.
"Alright, I'll... answer your questions," Zarkus managed to reply, taking a deep breath to steady himself. His attempt to remain calm was a small victory in the face of overwhelming fear.
The necromancer's head dipped in approval, a shadow of satisfaction playing across his face.
"Good," he murmured, his voice silkier now, more calculating. "Continue with such... compliance, and perhaps, in time, you might even find yourself rewarded."
His lips twisted into what might have been a smile, but it was a thing devoid of warmth, more like a serpent's amusement. Was it a promise, or another cruel manipulation? Zarkus dared not dwell on it, clinging to the fragile hope it offered.
The necromancer wasted no time, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade. "What is your gender?"
His head tilted slightly, skeletal features narrowing as his eyes bored into Zarkus, awaiting the response with unsettling precision.
"Male. I-I'm male..." Zarkus replied quietly, his voice barely a whisper.
The necromancer's quill scratched across the paper with a sinister rhythm as he noted "Male." His hollow eyes flickered briefly toward Zarkus's form, the gaze cold, clinical. Though the glance was quick, it left Zarkus feeling exposed, like prey under a predator's unblinking stare.
The silence hung heavy, his shame palpable, but Zarkus remained silent, knowing that any sign of resistance could only invite worse. The necromancer's voice, detached and unaffected by the discomfort he caused, broke the tension.
"I see... as expected." He returned to his scribbling, his hand moving with practiced ease. "Now then," he continued, his voice unnervingly smooth, "how long have you been a goblin?"
Zarkus hesitated, his mind clawing through the haze of memory. "A-as long as I can remember... s-so, my whole life, I guess."
The necromancer paused, thoughtful, and set his quill aside. With deliberate care, he retrieved a vial from the folds of his robes, uncorking it with an almost ritualistic grace.
"From birth, then," he mused softly, his gaze cold as ever. His focus never wavered as he asked, "Do you have parents?"
Zarkus's brow furrowed, struggling to pull any detail from the fog of his early life. "I-I don't... remember. I-I don't know if I ever had any..."
The necromancer made a note, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. "An orphan, then. Quite... tragic, but not surprising. Many of your kind are." Without the slightest hesitation, he pressed on, his voice as detached as ever.
"Do you have any siblings?"
Zarkus hesitated again, his uncertainty deepening. "I-I don't think so... Not that I can remember..."
The necromancer's quill scratched across the page again, his expression one of detached interest. "No siblings, either. Curious." His gaze locked onto Zarkus with unsettling intensity.
"Next question," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, "are you married or in a relationship?"
Zarkus blinked, startled by the question, before stammering, "M-me? Married? In a r-relationship? N-no! I'm a goblin! W-who would want to be in a relationship with me?"
The necromancer paused, his expression inscrutable as he watched Zarkus with an almost amused detachment. "Indeed," he murmured softly, as though to himself. "Who, indeed..."
The necromancer's reaction was sudden, his hollow laughter erupting from the depths of his chest, echoing like the voices of the damned through the dark, cold dungeon.
"Hahahaha... oh, how amusing! Yes, I suppose that would be a challenge for you, wouldn't it?" His laughter was sharp and unsettling, as though the very idea of a goblin settling down was absurd beyond belief.
"I've witnessed stranger things than goblins with lovers, but in your case... Hahaha!"
As the laughter died, his mirth evaporated like mist, and the chilling mask of clinical detachment returned. "Now then," he intoned, his voice once again flat and cold.
"Let us continue. Your occupation... what is it?"
Zarkus took a moment to gather his thoughts. "W-well... I usually... go out and... explore d-dungeons... w-with a small group of g-goblin friends..."
With deliberate precision, the necromancer scrawled down the new information, his bony hand moving like the scrape of death itself.
"Exploring dungeons, you say? Intriguing..." His voice trailed off, his mind clearly turning over this detail, eyes gleaming with a new, dark curiosity.
"Next question." He leaned forward slightly, the flicker of interest deepening. "When you're in these dungeons, what is it you seek? What do you accomplish?"
Zarkus thought carefully before answering, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "W-well... it depends on the dungeon... sometimes we explore and try to find a way through... other times... we try to... loot any treasure we find..."
The necromancer's quill moved slowly, recording Zarkus's answer with thoughtful care. He nodded, his skeletal grin widening. "Exploring and looting treasure... dangerous, but no doubt rewarding, if you live to tell of it." His eyes glittered with something like dark amusement as he continued, his voice carrying a sinister edge.
"Tell me, what do you fight with? What weapons and gear do you carry into the dark?"
Zarkus hesitated before responding. "W-well... my primary weapon is a r-rusty longsword... and as for my gear, I usually wear... old and dirty r-rags... nothing fancy..."
The necromancer's eyebrow arched as Zarkus confessed his meager possessions. A flicker of amusement crossed his expression, and he sneered, "A rusty longsword and rags? How fitting for one of your station. Destitute and desperate." His words dripped with disdain, though curiosity lingered in his gaze.
"Very well. Let's proceed." His tone shifted, probing deeper into Zarkus's potential. "What of your combat skills? Your abilities? Can you cast magic, fight with any proficiency, or perhaps... possess some unique talent?"
Zarkus took a deep breath, trying to assess his own abilities under the necromancer's scrutiny. He knew he wasn't a formidable warrior, but he did have some skills honed from years of dungeon exploring.
"I-I'm not very good with magic," he began cautiously. "A-and I'm not a skilled fighter either. I mostly rely on... my instincts and... the help of my friends. As for unique skills, I guess I'm good at... finding hidden paths and... avoiding traps..."
The necromancer listened attentively, jotting down the information with meticulous care. His expression remained inscrutable, but the air around him was charged with an unspoken anticipation.
Zarkus felt a strange mixture of apprehension and curiosity as he awaited the next question. What other details would the necromancer seek, and how would this relentless interrogation shape his fate?
The necromancer's sigh was heavy, filled with the weight of disappointment, his skeletal hand tightening around the quill. "It seems," he muttered bitterly, "that I've chosen a weaker specimen than I'd hoped."
His voice was cold, edged with frustration, as though Zarkus's inadequacies were a personal insult. "But I suppose I'll have to make do. Beggars, as they say, cannot be choosers."
The words stung Zarkus deeply, and he felt a flush of embarrassment and defeat. He had hoped for something more, some way to prove himself, but it seemed his worth in the necromancer's eyes was minimal at best.
With a sense of finality in his voice, the necromancer's next question seemed to carry more weight. His gaze bore down on Zarkus, as though seeking to pierce his very soul.
"One last question... Where do you stand on the moral spectrum? Good... or evil?"
Zarkus was taken aback by the query, unsure how to answer. He thought carefully, reflecting on his actions and intentions. "A-aligned to good or e-evil...? Well... I-I don't think I'm good... but I'm probably not... evil... either..."
The necromancer scribbled down the final piece of information with a slow, deliberate motion. His expression remained unreadable, his hollow eyes betraying no emotion.
At last, he closed the tome with a soft snap, the sound echoing through the silence like a death knell. "Well," he said with a resigned sigh, his tone devoid of satisfaction, "I've gathered all I need. That will be enough... for now."
The necromancer's hollow eyes glowed dimly in the shadowy chamber as he surveyed Zarkus with a bone-chilling intensity. His voice, dry and brittle like ancient parchment, rasped through the air.
"You... are a disappointment." His bony fingers traced arcane symbols in the air, glowing faintly before dissolving into the darkness.
"But you are all that remains. I shall have to make do with such... unimpressive material." He tilted his skull, the faint sound of creaking bone echoing in the silence. "Prepare yourself, little one. What is to come will be... agonizing."
Zarkus's heart sank as he heard these words. The reality of his situation settled heavily on him: he was to be used as an experimental subject, a " little one" for the necromancer's dark ambitions. A cold dread gripped him, and he could only imagine the horrors that awaited him.
With an unnerving calm, the necromancer turned back to his ritual, skeletal hands moving with eerie precision. Without looking at Zarkus, his voice, cold and distant, carried through the chamber like a deathly whisper.
"The pain will be... profound. If you harbor any final thoughts, any lingering words of regret, speak them now. For soon, your voice will be of little consequence in the world of the living."
Zarkus hesitated, his mind swirling with a maelstrom of thoughts and regrets. He thought of all the missed opportunities, of the life he could have lived if things had been different.
He thought of the things he had wished to change but never had the chance to. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he asked, "Will... this experiment... kill me?"
A flicker of something like amusement crossed the necromancer's skull, though his face remained frozen in its eternal grimace.
"You ask if this will end you?" His bony hand gestured to the darkness. "You are already but a shade of what you once were, a soul adrift. No, this will not extinguish you... but what you become, that will be beyond your imagination."
The assurance that he would not die, but would instead face immense pain, offered a sliver of comfort, though it did little to ease his growing terror.
"So I won't die, but I will feel immense pain... that is a small comfort, I suppose..." Zarkus muttered to himself.
He leaned in closer, his skeletal frame casting unnatural shadows across the room. His voice, laced with dark amusement, felt like the crackling of dead leaves.
"Any more curiosities before we begin?" He paused, as if savoring the tension. "It will be... enlightening, I assure you."
Zarkus gathered his courage and asked, "Will this experiment change me?"
A twisted smirk seemed to form in the flickering light, though no lips moved. His hollow voice dripped with the promise of horrors yet unseen.
"Oh, rest assured... this will change you." He gestured towards the intricate symbols now glowing brightly on the floor. "You will be reshaped, remade... something altogether new. What stands before me now is a shadow, but what emerges will be... far more."
The necromancer's words sent a shiver down Zarkus's spine. The prospect of transformation, of becoming something unrecognizable, was both terrifying and bewildering. As the necromancer turned away to finalize his preparations, Zarkus was left alone with his thoughts, wondering what awaited him and how he might endure the trials that lay ahead.
The necromancer's promise of an unforgettable experiment hung heavily in the air, mingling with the oppressive atmosphere of the dungeon. Despite the fear gnawing at him, a part of Zarkus couldn't help but be intrigued by the mysterious transformation that awaited him.
"Well, I guess I'm ready... Do your worst," he said, trying to muster some semblance of courage.
The necromancer's hollow grin stretched into something far more menacing, a macabre joy lighting his empty eye sockets. His voice, a deathly rasp, crackled through the dim chamber.
"Oh, worry not. This will be an experience etched into the very essence of your being." His bony fingers flexed in excitement. "Let the transformation... begin."