"The Dead can always find you"

[Elder Doom]

Daring Death

The dark figure went confidently through the ceremony's complex rituals, novice's hands moving with a veteran's expertise, a spectral caretaker fading in and out of sight in the dim haze of smoke belched from the ever-burning crematoriums of the ghastly subterranean necropolis. Floating skulls circled the altar, the celebration's silent witnesses, stared at him unblinkingly with the burning gaze divine magic conferred them.

It was close to dawn when he finally emerged from the underworld, braziers' light barely piercing the shrouding darkness enough to reflect on the stony eyes of the leering gargoyles adorning the temple proper. He took his skull mask off, breathing in the fresh night air, such a stark contrast with the bones, the ashes of cremated humans and the grave dust constituting the Dusking's quintessential elements.

Here, among marble statues of men, women and children represented in various stages of death and decay, he realized a fundamental truth about himself. With his family forgotten, his past concealed, his old identity lost, he stared upon his ash-darkened flesh and recognized the ties to what made him human had been severed.

In his devotion, he had transcended his own self, lost and found in the cold embrace of the Lord of Death.

[Elder Doom]

Night Walker

The overwhelming majority of the living creatures either fears death, or at least has a healthy respect for its own end and tries to avert it to the best of its abilities. As agents of entropy and embodiments of the final hour in perpetual reminder of mortality, the clergy of Myrkul has always elicited a solid, satisfactory degree of fear and respect (mostly fear in its various forms, which is the objective, anyway...) from its rather large target audience (that is, everyone bound to die, sooner or later, and thus...everyone). In fact, legends like the one stating that touching a priest of Myrkul without his express consent means death were spread precisely to foster that fear. The fact that powerful clerics of the Lord of the Bones had the capabilities and the will to actually do just that contributed decisively to maintain a congruous level of terror.

It was that terror he now witnessed in his soon-to-be customers' eyes as he approached, black cloak revealing a body fully clad in polished black armor, his face masked. He was used to the reaction: the Church always put the best possible equipment at the clergy's disposal, in order to ensure high performances and strong psychological impact. It worked.

Without a word, he extended his gauntleted hand, waiting. Trembling hands delivered him a substantial bag of gold, the Skull Fee that was necessary to access his unique brand of services. His lips twitched into a wan smile under the mask, relishing the possibility to demostrate once more the influence dead people could still exert in the world of the living, "the sacred hand that reaches from the grave", its chilling touch ranging from uncomfortable, to downright lethal.

He inclined his head, waiting for the departed's family to share the details of his assignment without revealing he already perfectly knew the deceased's last wishes. Soon enough, he would reveal just how tight the sacred hand's grip would be this time...

[Elder Doom]

Bone Talker

The consecrated scythe, a most holy relic of the order, touched the frontal bone of the revered high priest (well...former one, at that...) accompanied by the chanting of the selected few constituting the audience. Words of power were spoken, releasing a burst of dark energy from the weapon, shaking the skeletal remains of the dead cleric and powering it with the gift of unlife. It wouldn't last long, nor was it meant to.

The long-dead corpse, adorned with a distinguished black magical vest suited to his former standing, slowly rose to a sitting position, turning his hollow gaze towards the participants, one by one, until his empty eye-sockets met the weapon's wielder's. As the dead and the living stared at each other, the former opened his mouth rhythmically, almost in a mockery of speech. Certainly, no sound could possibly be produced that way. And just as certainly, through the power of faith and the Speak with the Dead incantation performed, they all understood.

“Know me and fear me. My embrace is for all and is patient but sure. The dead can always find you. My hand is everywhere—there is no door I cannot pass, nor guardian who can withstand me.”

The Lord had gifted them with his sacred presence, and had honored them by quoting the dogma through his vessel of choice. His blessings bestowed. His favor manifest.

[Elder Doom]

Shroud Wearer

She fell on her knees in the falling rain, overwhelmed by the sorrow for her lost love. The funeral rite was almost completed, and he had other duties to attend before dusk, and even more after, yet did not mind to wait however long it took. It was said that all those in the service of Myrkul have perfect patience, and it could not have been more true. A priest of the Lord of the Dead was also expected to be utterly trustworthy...and this was also always the case. What the woman had told him in confidence, including the circumstances of her husband's death, would never be revealed. "As quiet as a tomb" could not have been a more accurate description...

His gaze shifted to the open coffin's content. The body had been prepared impeccably, any sign of suffering in its owner's death throes canceled by his expert hand. Embalmed into apparent comfort and serenity, its limbs adjusted in a position suitable for eternal rest, and dressed in clothes of a higher quality than it had ever had occasion to wear in life, it was ready for final burial. The preservation spell he had placed on it would take care of the carrion for a long time.
His services might have been expensive, but they were worth every gold piece spent on them, to the very last copper.

Death was natural, inexorable, and by no means the end of all. If anything, it could be seen as a beginning. A concept very hard to explain to the unfaithful. Fear of death was mostly a matter of pagan ignorance and irrational dread of the unknown, but after all, faith was a gift...how could anyone be blamed for not receiving it? It was up to the Lord's servants to help people come to terms with death, if not understand it.

One day, his service would be over. And he would welcome the Lord's cold embrace. But now...now, he had work to do. Starting with what the recently departed had tasked him to do, a few days before his demise...

[Elder Doom]

Crypt Carver

There is nothing that makes an individual more patient than his or her own death: the Dead, either the fully departed, or those raised into the twilight of unlife, are the true masters of the mother of all virtues. There are many qualities, and a resourceful individual will always find a use for each and every one of them, but it's hard to picture any accomplishment ever being achieved without the required dose of patience.

Given the relentless, inexorable nature of Holy Death itself, it seems only fair that its faithful servants, who represent her among the living, should excel at it, to the point of embodying this aspect.
Besides that, developing a certain degree of unflappability, a detached quality in the face of what mortals consider dilemmas is just inevitable in this line of work.

It is this legendary patience that will allow a priest of the Lord of Bones to incessantly carve inscriptions in an underground crypt for two days and two nights, barely stopping to eat and drink between a finely engraved decoration and a carefully chiseled prayer or a perfectly sculpted spell form. It is this immovable composure that will consent him to do so, undaunted, while the Undead guardians inhabiting said crypt go about their eternal duties all around him.

Ultimately, though, it is faith that will bring a satisfied smile to his lips admiring his work once it's finished: the supreme, unwavering belief in a higher purpose, reaching far beyond the realm of life. Something that, one day, would be the end of it.

[Elder Doom]

Bone Dancer

Even though it was one of the main reasons for his presence in the area, the fact the Lord of the Bones could not be worshipped within Duchal lands remained a daily source of mild perplexion and amusement to him. As if death could be forbidden by the law, or otherwise averted...The very thought brought a brief, sardonic smile to his lips, the Dogma's holy words spoken by the dead high priest filling his mind.

The faithful knew full well the lies people were told throughout their existence. And existence that, however long it might be in mortal eyes, was always brief and insignificant compared to the eternity beyond the grave. Lies aimed at instilling into crowds and kings an irrational fear of their natural end, in order to use it to control them: politics, religion, simple greed...pushing the masses and their rulers to put their lives and assets in service of one cause or another, convincing them they matter...

Children holding tight to the ashes of this world, all of them, afraid of the dark, guided by parental voices reassuring them there's no reason to fear, even though their aspirant guides themselves have no idea what lurks in the shadows ahead. And they know it. And they are terrified by it.
The blind leading the blind. Worse, even: the blind and hypocrites leading the blind and naive. Pathetically hoping against hope that everything is going to be alright. That they'll live happily ever after. That the reaper will overlook their doorstep, if only they don't talk about him, if only they speak in hushed tones.

Glancing one last time towards the handful of tomb wights animated by the Bone Dance ritual he performed as they formed a defensive perimeter around the crypt, he wondered how long the Baldurans could keep pretending death had forgotten about them, when it was all around them, right outside the light of their campfires...

"And thus, your watch begins..."

[Elder Doom]

Ritual Consecrator

Perhaps it was not the wind, after all. There was a big storm outside, surely, but this...

"It's not the wind, you idiot! Go check! Move!" It was Ragnar, that imbecile from Icewind Dale. Bigger than most, and twice as mean, he treated everybody like worn-out latrine cleaning rags, and thought nobody would ever respond in kind.
Well...he was right. Especially after he broke Old Ben's bull neck with a single, nonchalantly fluid motion for doing exactly that.
Did that mean the dirty, sadistic brute was the one in charge, now? Of course it did.

The thuds became louder, albeit not more insistent: regular in frequency, always in series of three with short pauses between them, and a longer one before the next streak. Almost like...knocking? But nobody knew they were even here, and those who did also knew better than to show up uninvited...Who in the Hells would ever willingly approach a band of thugs like them?
A glance back towards Ragnar, and the barbarian's expression made him quicken his pace. Whoever these people were, they were hammering on the wrong door. He picked up his trusty falchion on its way to the reinforced oaken gate, and prepared himself to butcher some poor bastard. And let the rain wash away the remains. Pfeh, good riddance...

He opened the windowed hatch, and squinted trying to make out the scene in the stormy, lightning-lit night. Yes...he could see...something...out there. A cloaked, hooded figure...A man, maybe?. A lone man...? What the...?!

"Hey, you idiot, congratulations. You were obviously looking for a funeral, and you found it! It's yo-" he never had the chance to finish the sentence, as 35 inches of curved steel powered by supernatural strength sliced through the hatch's grate and pierced through his skull. As the dark-armored stranger kicked the oaken door in sending him flying backwards with it, the scythe still embedded in his skull, he felt life slipping away from him, darkness creeping up from the edge of his remaining eye's vision.

He saw Ragnar falling lifelessly to the floor before being able to so much as raise his battleaxe, and he knew already everyone else would die too. The last thing he saw was the killer's pitch-black eyes, his calm, soothing voice ushering him into oblivion:

"Not a funeral, friend. A consecration. Thank you for your contribution. And, by the way, the woman your lot robbed, kidnapped, tortured and killed sends her regards from beyond..."

[Elder Doom]

Undead Master

"Hello, traveler! Fine cape you have, over that high quality suit of armor...doing well for yourself, huh?"

So, the smaller of the three was the leader. Probably the "mind" of the group, unless the real chief was hidden with the rest of them all around him...but that would be uncharacteristic, since brigands love their meaningless bravado. At least as long as they believe they can afford it without risks, that is...

"So, here's my proposal for you: lower that hood, drop your valuables and let us take that armor off of you, and if you're really, really good, we'll let you go, eh? What do you think?"

The outlaw's jolly tone brought a wan smile to his lips. Without replying, he let his backpack slide to the ground, moving his neck sideways to stretch his muscles, unconcerned. Long road behind, long road ahead...

"Fair enough then, have it your way! Last chance, then we kill you AND take your stuff...Come on lad, eleven against one? Why die for nothing, and make us waste time and crossbow bolts?"

As he spoke, he gestured and a number of his men came out of hiding from the sides of the street. Might have been eight, yes. But he counted no more than six. Not that it mattered, anyway...

"There is absolutely no tragedy in death, friend, although I really don't think my time has come yet. Besides...what makes you think I am alone?"

The leader and his two bodyguards startled as the cries began. To their credit, they kept their wits long enough for people witnessing zombies, skeletons and other horrors coming out of nowhere and butchering their friends. They even fired their crossbows at them, to no avail of course.
You cannot stop the Undead with a quarrel any more than you can stop a river with a pebble.

He extended his armored fist outward, and as he murmured a prayer to the Great Lord negative energy coalesced into a scythe. He moved towards the trio in front of him, his hood sliding off and revealing the skull mask he was wearing as he swung his weapon in a deadly arc, destined to cut through all three.

"And remember: death is not the end. Only a transition..."