=Damyn stood in his private sanctuary, pale, thin-fingered hands caressing the pages of an old book. The cover was black hide, with tarnished silver bindings. The pages were a type of vellum, made of human skin, inked with what was obviously dried blood. An old tome, he had labored hard to decipher the archaic language used by the necromancer priests of the Khemaran deserts. Finally, his work had paid off, and here, in chambers warded with ancients, powerful magics, and infused with some of the latent energies cast into his form by the destruction of SoulReaver. The infernal power had lent a power and energy to his magicks that mere study could never have afforded him.
The room was large, and sparsely furnished, separate from his lab. This room was specially cast for rituals and magics that tested even the limits of his power. Here was where he studied, in a room lit by ghost-candles. Along the walls were arrayed suits of ancient elven armor, each containing the reanimated spirit of a dead champion, bound in spirit and wrath to Damyn's will, as guardians. They were infused with their wordly skills, and Damyn's dark power. Between each waiting warior was a candle, made from the tallow-fat of living creatures and infused red with their blood. The candles burned not with flame, but with a ghostly light, illuminating the room in shades of gray.
Looking out from the cowl of his robe, he examined the circle inalid into the smooth stone floor. Polished black marble inalid with black diamonds and tarnished silver, having been christened in innocent blood and forged in soul-fires. The motifs were ancient necromantic symbols, some prefacing written words: black pearl skulls, ruby drops of blood, and ancient symbols for death carved from onyx and jet. Before it was the pedestal upon which he set his books: carved from the bones of ancient creatures, the bleached white traced with runes and symbols. Across from the circle, and at each cardinal point, rested a brazier, similarly carved, the bowls created from the skulls of fabled creatures of power. Within each burned a flickering white, cold fire which made no noise. It cast dancing shadows across the walls, dark figures of writhing bodies accompanying each flicker.
Within the large circle was an altar, slightly inclined, and lined with grooves that would drain blood down into a collection bowl. These grooves alos formed lines of power, the creation of this shrine to death having been meticulous. Some great care and love had gone into the creation of such an altar. Damyn had added his own touches the these, improving upon the ancient power with his new-found knowledge.
At hand on a black marble table near behind lay an array of ceremonial tools. Tribal obsidian blades lay beside silver daggers and thin golden needles, each unique in purpose and power to various cultures, both alive and dead. These were his tools, his purpose.
Closing the book with a gentle wave of his hand, he turned from the room, the darkness seeming to swallow him as he moves from the ghostly light of the room, one-by-one the candles flickering and fading as he moves to the door, his power snuffing them as he leaves the room in total darkness.
The door swings open before him and he finds himself in dark tunnels, his hood low over his eyes and hands tucked into his sleeves, a being of darkness, drifting silently through the shadows. After navigating the maze of corridors her arrives at his laboratory, this door too opening before him with the smallest use of magick, and closing behind him as he steps in. The time for study had now given way to the time for application...=
2013-01-15, 19:12