prisoners of fate

For the love of Goddess Selene, Czar couldn't pin-point a fault in himself.

As the villagers bustled around the marketplace like a starving herd of sheep set free, bleating, or in this context talking, Toril Maely too floated with the crowd, his eyes stuck on the shopkeeper's enthusiastic wave as an apologetic smile graced his lips. He just got his jewelry polished, a cover to veil his motives of knowing the exact whereabouts of the kingdom.

Peace ensued as long as no one knew the whereabouts of Marlin Stewart.

The sizzling afternoon sun did nothing to hinder the sweaty townspeople from rejoicing their weekend in every literal sense possible- which included shoving children away to hog the pub.

As the shopkeeper closed the door shut, Toril felt choked. Forcing his way through the sweaty bodies, he took big steps away from chaos. As the crowd thinned he took a breather beside a scowling man witnessing a fight between a mage and a mouse.

It was an unfair battle. The mouse, whom Toril believed to be a Shapeshifter, was overpowering the drunken mage in every sense possible and the man beside Toril wasn't liking it to any extent. The polished blade gleaming against the sun, looking ever so ready to be used, was one of the many reasons why Troil opted being suffocated than to a standstill.

He apologized and skittered away until the majestic structure of a steel gate graced his sight. Emitting gloom just a few giraffe steps away was the residence of the Necromancer, Mortis Mansion. Narrowing his eyes at the grounds somewhere far away, he spotted people like random spots tainting a beautiful painting.

The Necromancer liked living lavishly and people liked exploiting his dazed richness. He was an addict of addictions. When one lives a day too long in a purposeless life, they happen to have a lot of time to waste on their hands. Much like the Necromancer, who found pleasure in raising the dead and finding company to fall into many a addictions. There was yet an addiction to exist that the Necromancer hadn't tried out.

Drugs. Sex. Drinking. Gambling. Gamming. Music. K-pop. Meth. Math. Netflix. Disney. Death.

He'd done it all. Moved on. Nothing made him stay.

Another gust of wind carried a delicious scent of food with her. Toril's stomach grumbled annoyingly but he paid no heed. He could find a delicious person to suck dry anyday but he had priorities right now.

The sun played hide and seek with the clouds.

Upon reaching the ominous graveyard encircling Mortis Mansion, Toril flung the gates open and made himself home. Half the graves were cracked open, empty, and a few were still resting in peace. Somewhere far, a mockingbird made music.

The darkened mansion welcomed Toril warmly. The Necromancer feared none for there was no ceasing his existence- and if one could, it would be a huge favor for him. He feared no theft, no assassin, no torture, no greed. All he had was to give, wrap people in strange addictions and welcome them warmly to their graves from which he raises them. The necromancer craved good company.

The inside of the Mortis Mansion contradicted it's sombre outside. Mortis within was bustling with life, as much life as dead people can maintain, and drenched in colors. A game of cards in one corner and a game of charades in the other, someone gambled their dead years away in poker and someone danced till their limbs literally fell off. No one paid heed to Toril's intrusion as he walked up the glimmering stairs without entertaining the game they were made for.

Knowing the place all too well Toril easily navigated his way through drunk dead bodies and suicidal dead people to the third floor of the mansion. Beyond glass doors stood the Necromancer, surrounded by a bumbling crowd of the dead and hunched over his laptop.

Toril knocks gently yet impatiently.

The door opens on its own accord.

The redhead alchemist takes big steps inside, shoving the cheering people out of his way, to reach to the Lord of the Dead.