Journal of Orin — Entry 1
I don't know how long it has been since I was pulled from my grave. Days? Weeks? Time feels meaningless in this state, a slow, endless march through barren lands under the necromancer's command. We stop only when he wills it, and even then, there is no rest—not for the likes of us.
I feel the weight of his magic constantly, binding my bones together and forcing me to move. It's a strange sensation—I am aware of my body, yet I have no control over it. My limbs act as though they belong to someone else, driven by an unseen force.
I have learned to hide my awareness. I don't know if the necromancer can sense my thoughts, but I dare not take the risk. I move with the others, silent and obedient, though inside, I remain defiant.
The others… they are hollow. Empty. I have tried to reach out to them, to sense any trace of thought or feeling, but there is nothing. They are truly mindless, bound entirely by the necromancer's will. Why am I different?
There are moments when I feel the urge to speak, to scream, but my decayed body denies me that release. My jaw moves, but no sound comes. My vocal cords are too far gone, rotted away by time and death. Even if I could speak, who would hear me? The living fear us, and the dead do not care.
Journal of Orin — Entry 2
Today, something strange happened. We came across a small village, abandoned and in ruins. The necromancer ordered us to search for supplies, though I do not know what he hoped to find in such a desolate place.
As I moved through the crumbling houses, I caught sight of a broken mirror. For a moment, I hesitated. I hadn't seen my reflection since I was raised from the grave. Slowly, I approached the mirror and gazed into it.
What I saw chilled me more than any magic could. A skeletal face stared back at me, bits of rotted flesh clinging to the bone. My eyes—or rather, the empty sockets where my eyes had once been—glowed faintly with a pale green light. I barely recognized myself.
I turned away quickly, unwilling to look any longer. I don't know why it affected me so deeply. Perhaps it was a reminder of what I had lost—my life, my humanity. Perhaps it was the realization that this might be all I ever am now.
Still, I hold on to hope. As faint as it is, it is the only thing keeping me sane.
Journal of Orin — Entry 3
There are… difficulties that come with this existence. My body is fragile, my joints stiff and prone to breaking if I move too quickly. Bits of flesh and bone sometimes fall away, and I have to pick them up and reattach them as best I can. The necromancer's magic keeps me whole, but it is not perfect.
Food is another matter. I do not feel hunger, but sometimes, I remember what it was like to eat. I remember the taste of bread, the warmth of stew. Those memories are both a comfort and a torment, a reminder of what I can never have again.
I do not know where we are going, only that we march endlessly at the whim of the necromancer. Sometimes, when the land is quiet and his attention wanes, I feel a flicker of freedom in my limbs—a brief moment where I can almost control myself. But it never lasts. His will always returns, stronger than before, crushing any hope of escape.
Journal of Orin — Entry 4
Today, I witnessed something disturbing. One of the skeletons stumbled, perhaps weakened by the long march or damaged beyond repair. The necromancer showed no mercy. With a flick of his hand, the unfortunate creature collapsed into a heap of brittle bones. I could feel the pulse of magic as he absorbed the lingering energy from it, recycling the remains into his dark arsenal.
I forced myself to keep moving, to stay unnoticed. I didn't want to be the next pile of bones discarded on the roadside.
It's strange, this existence. There are moments when I forget I am undead—when the faint flickers of memory come back, and I feel almost alive again. I remember the warmth of sunlight, the sound of laughter, the scent of fresh rain. But then I look down at my skeletal hands, and reality returns like a cold wind.
Journal of Orin — Entry 5
The necromancer has been speaking to someone—or rather, something. A black crystal he carries, dark as the void and filled with swirling shadows. I've seen him consult it several times now, muttering in a language I don't understand. It worries me, though I don't know why. Perhaps it's the way the shadows in the crystal seem to watch us, like unseen eyes following our every move.
What is his goal? Why does he need an army of the dead? I wish I could know, though I fear the answer would only bring more despair.
For now, I keep moving, keep pretending to be like the others. But that spark within me, that defiant flicker of who I once was, refuses to die.
Journal of Orin — Entry 6
Something unusual happened today—something that gives me a sliver of hope.
We came across another group of undead. They were unlike us, clad in ancient armor and carrying weapons that gleamed faintly with an otherworldly light. They moved with a purpose, not mindless like us, but directed by something more… noble. Their leader, a wight with burning blue eyes, exchanged a few terse words with the necromancer. I couldn't hear what was said, but there was tension in the air, as though both sides were weighing whether to fight or negotiate.
In the end, the wight's group moved on, and so did we. But seeing them stirred something in me. If they could retain their purpose, their dignity, perhaps I could too. Perhaps there's more to undeath than slavery to dark magic.
I will hold on to that thought. It may be my only chance.