Here's a little short story I wrote after I found out about the destruction of Bloodstone. My thanks to Anila and Azerost.
The fires had finally died out and the smoldering façade of an old shop advertised its destroyed wares only to charred skeletal remains and rubble. Bloodstone was no more. The clanking of chains echoed in the distance from the direction of the slave quarters. A dilapidated line of motley slaves slowly marched down to the lower city, each bound to the next by a short length of blackened chain. But a fraction of the previous slave population, those that didn’t die in the demon assault took the opportunity to find their freedom in the chaos. The few remaining guards and taskmasters rounded up the leftover slaves and as they approached the section of the destroyed city closest the slave quarters, they were instructed to begin gathering up the bodies into a pile upon a scorched hillock.
“Stack those bodies, or you’ll end up on the pile, you wretched carrion eaters,” barked the Captain of the Guard. The slaves trudged faster, but their eyes betrayed the total despair in their hearts and the aches and pains that riddled their injured bodies. Eyes shifted nervously, revealing the inner fear that perhaps not all the demons met their demise and at any moment, a blur of talons and scaled wings might leap out from the nearest shadow. However, fear of the Captain of the Guard kept the slaves in line. After what seemed to be an eternity of dragging and piling the bodies of the common dead, the Captain approached the funeral pyre, a torch clutched in his calloused hand. Without a word, the torch lowered and set the hem of a dead woman’s dress alight, the fire spreading to the other bodies. The slaves backed away uneasily as an acrid smoke billowed up from the mound and the fire licked the bones of the dead clean, devouring the flesh that the demons missed in their assault. After a few moments reflecting upon the burning pyre, the Captain gave a crack of his whip and began to march the slaves off towards another ruined quarter of the razed city.
The shadowy form of the line of slaves disappeared slowly into the low lying smoke and mists that covered the grounds of the wreckage; the few remaining skeletal buildings jutting upwards out of the haze. The pyre crackled and popped, illuminating the area in flickering light; the shadows quavered. A sudden cool breeze overtook the area around the fire, which seemed to shrink under the diving temperatures. The shadows grew longer and stretched out from the surrounding skeletal buildings towards the pyre, reaching like grasping hands. As they reached the pyre and plunged into the fire, the entire mass stirred slightly and the flames flared white and then dark blue, casting the world in an odd tint. Shapes were moving in the darkness: the mist pulsed as though breathing in and out. Out from the wreckage glided three shapes, each advancing upon the fire from an equidistant radial around the heap’s edge. The shapes, gaunt and vaguely humanoid, stood wrapped in ancient garments and gave off an frigid, supernatural aura that caused what remained of the grass to brown and die within their vicinity. One of the three shapes moved slightly, and a voice filled the air, metallic and resounding:
“I have called you here as a matter of business regarding the late city of Bloodstone. As you can well perceive, it lies in ruins, and the remaining people bear ill enough strength to rebuild it in its former glory. Their minds fill with mortal needs, such as the garnering of food and drink or the wonts of shelter and protection. We, the timeless, now returned to the city of our past, must make use of ancient wisdoms and the grand art of necromancy. Azerost, in his studies, learned of the crypts of the long dead architects whom designed and built this antiquated city. Anila found them and wrenched their mangled bodies from the earth, drawing forth their forgotten breath and giving them essence once more. Now, as blackened shadows, they are returned to once again command the hordes of labor.”
One of the shapes that held silent took a mechanical step forward, entering into the bluish light. The grim visage that presented itself knew terrors beyond words: cracked and pallid skin held tight to the skull and maggots worked their way in and out of the remaining flesh which clung to darkened bones. The form, although rotted through, still seemed to keep a feminine shape to it. Behind the figure, two dark shapes rose up from the ground, floating in the air at each of her shoulders. Pitch black, only their eyes remained visible: two glowing white slits within the tossing maelstrom of darkness. The other darkened form which had spoke before, continued as though uninterrupted:
“Through this dark union, let Bloodstone once again drag itself up from the ground, to grow to its former glory, and let all of Faerun hear its roar!”
The other non-speaker moved forward, first its rotted sandals moving into view and then the rest of its form shambling into the light. The being’s face twisted into a rictus grin, the flesh stretching to reveal open and rotting sores. With a crackling twist of his waist, the lich known as Azerost bent towards the earth and plunged his gnarled fingers into the loam. The ground tore apart and blue light splintered up from the dirt as cracks sheered forth towards the pile of corpses. At this time, the speaker creaked forward, revealing itself as a pearly boned skeleton dressed in only a pallid gown of sewn skin which seemed to writhe and flutter in the still air. The other lich with her shadowy followers, Anila, snapped down and planted her fingers into the ground, revealing a cascade of blue energy that tore forward, ripping up the ground between herself and the fire. As the racing crevasses approached the fire, the skeletal figure, known as Ythera bent in turn, and as her fleshless fingers sank into the terrain, a spiderwebbing of cracks exploded up from the earth. From all three liches, veins of blue light raced around and into the fire, which flared and then twisted from blue to black. The air grew darker and the mist recoiled back from the ground surrounding the fire as if in disgust.
A cacophonous howling streamed through the air, starting as a low roar and growing to a crescendo as the bones in the black fire began to stir. Finger bones leapt together to form hands, mandibles slid silently into skulls and rib cages bound themselves together as though pulled by invisible hands. The fire billowed upwards into a huge pillar as the skeletons began to rise to their arched bony feet. More bones formed together as the fully formed skeletons began to slink and clatter off of the pile, the pillar of fire suspended midair above the lot. All three liches snapped back up, and began sauntering backwards, the cracks in the ground mending and closing off the blue light filtering upwards. Wave after wave of skeletons climbed forth from the pile, filling the area with a clattering of bones as they filled the area. Light dwindled as the last of the blue cracks closed and only a glimmer of a phalanx of bone could be seen in the dark shadows that closed in on the scene. As the last skeleton brought itself upright with a wrenching motion, the immense pillar of black fire, which hung midair, detonated in a silent blast. Hundreds of fleshless skulls twisted upwards as streams of shadowy fire came leaping down at the mass, swallowing what was left of the light. The skulls opened their jaws and the fire twisted and streamed like a burning river into their maws, causing their entire forms to writhe in mock agony. As the skeletons consumed the last of the black fire, light began to seep back into the area. The lich known as Anila broke the roaring silence with her haunting voice:
“The task of rebuilding begins- here are your laborers oh architects of antiquity. Move forward unto the mining quarter and the stoneworking tools that lie there!” At these words, the two shadows floated rapidly upwards and began shouting orders to the skeletons in rhythmic, piercing voices. Motion exploded amongst the throng as the undead all began to move simultaneously. As the skeletons shuffled forth, under the command of the shadow-architects, the three spoke once more:
“Bloodstone will never die, so long as its supporters remain- let the city rise from the ashes!”
Rise from the Ashes
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