Zalphon's Drabbles, A Collection of Short Stories Options

[Zalphon]

The Bonelord of Samarys
By Odral Uvirith, Underpriest Diviner

The life of an Underpriest is one of service to those who have left this life for the next in all its forms. We are those who prepare their remains for eternal rest within the Tombs and those who stand vigilant in those tombs against those who would dare defile them or seek to take from them the treasures left behind, but there is more to the Underpriest than being curators of the fallen. We are also caretakers of those who guard these tombs and we are the ones who enact justice against those who defile them and put to rest those whose slumber has been hindered. It is a calling that few understand and even fewer embark upon, but that calling is one of our most sacred traditions and important duties.

You may wonder why I elaborate so thoroughly on what it is to be an Underpriest before I begin my story about my encounter with the only bonelord I ever underestimated—my best friend; I do this to remind you that the topic we are about to embark on is not one to be taken lightly. The Bonelords are not like other undead you will see within the Ancestral Tombs and should not be considered as such. There is a saying that one rogue bonewalker is one Underpriest’s problem, but one rogue bonelord is every Underpriest’s problem. That is because there is a qualitative difference between these two types of undead. The Rogue Bonewalker is akin to the rabid beast; it is in pain and lashes out at whatever crosses its path without forethought, but the Rogue Bonelord is not a creature tormented by pain of that regard; it is a creature whose ambition has grown beyond that of the tomb he presides over. You can contain a rogue bonewalker by sealing the tomb until it can be put to rest, but a rogue bonelord knows no bounds. It is gifted with magical aptitude and it will project itself beyond the tomb in an astral form or it will simply turn the walls of the tomb to dust and leave that way. Do not underestimate the Bonelord or you will serve it in death as I nearly did.

I recall a time when I was a Curate that I was pulled from my tomb with news that my mother had fallen deathly ill with blight and that it had progressed too far to be cured; it was the last chance I would get to see my mother and I took it to say my goodbyes to her. I cherished these moments until I returned to my tomb, Samarys Ancestral Tomb, to find the signs of break-in by a few adepts seeking to prove themselves as ‘true underpriests’. To intrude upon a tomb, especially while the curating underpriest is absent is a grave violation of our order, and I intended to bring them before the Diviner myself for their disrespect, not only to me, but to the residents of this tomb and the Guardians who stood watch in my absence.

What I found was that I could not bring them before the Diviner because Dralen, the Bonelord who presided over Samarys alongside me, had already killed them and raised them as lesser bonewalkers. I could tell by the fact that their Adept pins were still on their bloodied robes. I was greatly troubled by this and Dralen did allow me to put them to rest, but he could sense I was troubled by this a great deal. Dralen and I had developed quite a friendship over the years that I had been a guest in his home and I considered him to be a trusted friend and even a mentor at times, despite this incident.

But the Temple was not pleased at the death of these Adepts and ordered Dralen be put to rest. I pleaded before them to show mercy—that Dralen was not responsible and he had only done as I had asked him to do, but they would hear none of it. When I refused to enact their execution, the Diviner sent a new curate to take over my watch at Samarys and decided that it would be better if I handled the cremations for the time being, because as he put it, “I had lost sight of what is important.”

Little happened at first, but the weeks did go by and I overheard talk that the new curate sent to replace me was dead. He had been stripped of his flesh except for a patch on his chest on which Dralen etched: “Odral.” I had thought Dralen dead, but by ALMSIVI, he did yet live. I rejoiced inside at this at first until I remembered that he had taken the life of yet another of my brothers. I went before the Diviner and requested the right to put Dralen to rest myself. He granted my request.

I do remember the trek back to my tomb. It was long. Rainy. Wet. Cold. And contemplative. I came to think more and more as I journeyed back to the place that had been my home for so long. There was no pleasure at the thought of seeing my old friend or the bonewalkers who I had come to see as a macabre sort of family, but only a sadness that hung over me until ultimately, I concluded that I would not kill Dralen. I would spare him and deliver message to the Diviner that I had killed him when really I had not.

This was my plan and my journey suddenly seemed much less dreary and miserable as I looked forward to seeing him oncemore; I looked forward to another game of chess, something which I sorely missed given no one posed much challenge to me except for him. He was my closest friend and I looked forward to his company greatly and it only grew greater as I neared the Tomb until finally I was there.

He extended salutations in the way only Bonelords do. They are a taciturn sort and use as few words as possible, but that is not to say that they are completely without feeling. They have the ‘cold’ feelings—dispassionate ones such as respect or an icy hatred. They never feel things which are in and of themselves passionate such as rage or love. But I believed that Dralen had taken a liking to me, again in the way only Bonelords do, and I was wrong.

The days returned to normal and we were unbothered. There came a morning when I bid him good morning as I went to rest and he gave the standard response of “Sleep.” Again, a taciturn sort of creatures, but I did not sleep well that day. I awoke to a Greater Bonewalker atop of me and attempting to pulverize my skull. Had I not been so versed in my studies of turning undead, I would have died on that bed.

I found Dralen and he did not speak; he only turned from me and I approached him with a fury in my heart that he would send one of the bonewalkers to harm me. This is where I was mistaken. I believed that this was a momentary lapse in judgment for Dralen or perhaps the bonewalker had simply gone rogue, but he waved one of his arms and I felt every muscle in my body constrict to the point that I fell over and tried to scream from the pain. “It is time to rest,” he said. But he did not mean it as in sleep, but as in put to rest.

He stood over me with the calculating gaze of his empty eye sockets and it was only because the Diviner had caught wind of my deception and come himself that I did not die there. The Diviner was a studied mage who many thought had been a Telvanni before he joined the Temple in no small part due to the efficacy of his spellcasting, but not even the Diviner could hold off Dralen’s magics. I watched as Dralen approached the Diviner who lay paralyzed on the ground and it was by the grace of ALMSIVI that my muscles relaxed enough for me to move. I leapt to my feet and tackled Dralen into the ground, but he did not give up. He put his hands upon my face and I felt the heat get sucked out of my body by his skeletal grip. It was then that I made peace with the fact that I was going to die, but I was spared by the Diviner who capitalized on Dralen being distracted with finishing me off. He put Dralen to rest in that moment using every bit of what he had left in order to stop him from finishing me off.

Before that day, I had always considered Dralen to be my closest friend and the Diviner to be my worst enemy.

That day provided clarity. It gave me a new respect for the Diviner and it gave me a greater understanding of the Bonelords. At the core of their being, they are not like us. They are not our friends. They are not our family. They are dangerous guardians who know only chilling apathy towards most everything that lives with an exception to rare sparks of absolute hatred for those they deem to be intruders. If you listen to nothing else I have said, I beg of you to listen to this: Do not trust the Bonelords.