The Tagalong General

[Deus di Eclave]

Continued from Ka'thar Between Friends.
Closed to Homunculus.

Prologue

“We will feast in Eluriand!” a tall human screamed to the hordes assembled before him. The gathered warriors were a mix of the undead and the living, but all shared one thing in common; they served him loyally. He raised his ebony staff high into the air, the torchlight glinting off his many rings and creating fascinating designs on the cave wall. The wyrm skull stop the black pole he held stared menacingly across the masses. As their cheering died down, he addressed them once again. “You have all followed me well thus far,” he told them. “Tomorrow you will be rewarded by destroying the bastion of the elves! Down with Eluriand!” Once again the army hooted and hollered as their leader descended from the rock jutting high above the cave floor.

To a few gathered officers, the necromancer explained the night’s plans. “We march north until the tunnel leads us up into the village of Carnelost. From there, further north until we’re at the gates of Eluriand. There we will meet with Xem'zûnd to attack the city at dawn. We move out on my command; now go!” The officers scattered into the horde, each moving to their respective division to spread the word.

“Oh yes,” the mage of death whispered to the musty air. “The Horde of Shin’dril will wipe the land clean of the elves!” Turning quickly, he stalked down a nearby tunnel to make the final preparations.

~~~

Drizaghar had to rely on Fascath’s senses to guide him through the network of tunnels. Left to him, their journey would have been tenfold as difficult. As it was the going was tough. Tunnels had collapsed in places and the pair was forced to backtrack, sometimes sacrificing hours of travel. Though the familiar assured him they were nearing the undead and that solitary thought kept the dark elf going.

The subterranean complex reminded him of his home in The Underdark. Perhaps that was what ate at him. His people had exiled him from his homeland and forced him into the overworld of Althanas. Here he had been met with the same hatred and distrust that he experienced among the drow. No world accepted him and so he had vowed to avenge himself. Using the Tome of Necromancy left to him by a long forgotten ancestor, Drizaghar had slowly been learning the dark art.

Over the last few days, he and Fascath had discovered a second ability which could complement his own. In an underground library, they had used Ka’thar Manipulation to communicate with the soul of a woman. The dark elf hadn’t been able to find time to delve deeper into the secrets of the full ability, but what he saw had intrigued him. He hoped to blend those two skills with his innate ability to wield fire and create an entirely new brand of magic. But those dreams would have to wait.

<<Just ahead,>> Fascath said, interrupting his thoughts of power. Focusing through the gloom, he saw the faint glow of fire ahead and new the words of his familiar to be true. Where there was fire, one could nearly always find other beings.

“Fine,” the drow muttered. “Stay hidden.” Nodding, Fascath returned to the antifirmament until his dark elf master summoned him. Drizaghar stalked closer to the end of the tunnel, his ears straining for any sound of life beyond.

Or a sign of the undead, he thought and chuckled to himself. Quiet whisperings floated through the dank air and guided him down a side tunnel. Moving slowly so he wasn’t heard, the dark elf necromancer closed in on his target. Time to find out why the undead are gathering.

[Abomination]

It wasn't often that you saw a man walking around with a zombie's head attached to his hand. That was the case with Homun Culus, who was stumbling through the dark tunnels for quite some time. Sometimes the zombie head would moan, other times it would merely hiss. Either way, it was annoying, frustrating, and didn't contribute beneficially to Homun's hopeless situation. He had come to Raiaera to seek Xem'zûnd, who held clues to Homun's origin and held a great amount of power of his own. To assimilate such a being would make Homun somewhat akin to a god, which was an opportunity too great to pass up. Even if one was to consider the validity of the source of this information, the fact Homun assimilated that same informant and confirmed his words in his own memory was enough proof for him. However, through the weeks that Homun has been traveling this place, all he has found is undead and more undead. At first, hey! Free dismemberment! Then, when the plants started uprooting to trip him, he started getting a little sick of it all.

Finding his way into a cave during a particularly strong rainstorm (he found that he didn't like rain), the ground simply collapsed from underneath him and threw him into this labyrinth. Not only was it pitch black down there, but he couldn't get back up along the soggy walls and crumbling surroundings. He had only one way to go: Deeper inside. Along the solemn path, zombies randomly lashed out at him and gnawed on his body. He had to carry his sword in his right hand at all times. They were so pitifully weak that he couldn't even try to assimilate them. He used one of the blades in his left arm to impale one zombie through the head by pressing his hand against the back of its skull and protruding the blade through his palm and into its skull. What he didn't know if the darkness is that this particular zombie was covered in some sort of sticky mucus, and so the skull was stuck to the blade, which was stuck to his left hand, which was attached to his body.

After a few hours of this, he almost decided to just lob his hand off and wait impatiently for a new one to grow in. The problem is, his regeneration required his strength. The use of such an ability tires him, and the thought of passing out down here with all these sticky zombies running around meant that any nap he takes down here he wouldn't be able to get up from. However, fate smiled upon him kindly that day and he saw a fire. He had to take a minute or two to adjust his eyes to the fire after so long in the darkness. It seems that his path was converging into a larger, more respectable path. He walked into it, and noticed a new group of zombies. He snarled, his eyes wild and his body shaking with a heartbeat several times faster than a human. He cut up several of the zombies while yelling in absolute rage, and finally smashed the zombie skull attached to him into the wall as hard as he could, forcing the blade in his arm to break off inside. The aftermath? Sticky zombie residue on his hand, and some sort of serious damage in his tricep. Still, it was better than the moaning.

Then, he saw something he hadn't seen in a long time. It was a white outline around a dark-skinned figure. He had never seen a drow before, but his stolen memories affirmed their existence. Never had he had a stronger urge, an enormous craving for assimilation. Screeching, He ran at this newfound target, holding his sword behind him and chopping down in a wide arc as soon as he reached his foe.

[Deus di Eclave]

Unearthly screams echoed off the walls as a hideous creature charged toward the dark elf. Narrowing his eyes in anger at letting his guard down, Drizaghar launched a quick volley of fireballs at his attacker. Their impact should have slowed the creature perceptively, but the thing came on full force and the drow was forced to dive out of the way. His enemy grunted as his sword smashed into the ground, the power meant to cleave the necromancer’s skull suddenly halted by the rocky ground of the tunnel.

Ending his roll in a low crouch, Drizaghar turned toward the monster and unleashed another fireball aimed straight for the thing’s chest. Flames exploded onto the creature, but it seemed unphased. Before the flames died out, the dark elf saw his foe clearly. The monster had eyes as if he hadn’t slept in weeks, their whites bloodshot and discolored with huge bags underneath. His teeth were bared in a wicked grin, showing that they were filed to sharp points. Blood dripped from his arm, but still the creature came.

Unhooking his crossbow from its place at his belt, the drow let a bolt fly. It struck his adversary in the throat, but if the beast felt any pain from it he didn’t let it show. Beginning to feel his chest tense in panic, Drizaghar returned the crossbow and slid an iron dagger into each hand.

As the monster closed in, eyes crazed and sword at the ready, the dark elf felt something he was not accustomed to: fear.

[Abomination]

All bunnying in this thread pre-approved.

When the fireball hit him, Homun felt the heat for a moment before it dissipated. It was like getting pushed, and it wasn't enough to stop his mad charge. His sword hit the ground, giving way to the sound of metal hitting rock. Another fireball hit him and nearly pushed him back, but it still wasn't enough to do any noticeable damage. Then, something struck his neck and caused him to take a step backwards. He started choking and coughed up some blood, with a growing stream steadily coming out of his throat. A bolt had lodged itself into his throat! It was preventing most of the blood from escaping, but it pierced his voice box completely and prevented speech. He dropped his sword and reached for the bolt with his right hand, gripping it firmly. One, two, three...

CRACK! He ripped the bolt out of his neck, blood bursting out of his neck and and nearly sending Homun into a stupor. His left hand was still damaged from the zombie head incident, so it was stuck in a grasping position that was good enough to hold onto his throat. Being the small device that it was, his voice box regenerated before the blood flow had even been stopped. His weakness bothered him, the fact that something like this could slow him down was unforgivable. He picked up his sword with crazed eyes and closed in on the drow, his left hand still holding his throat. Looking into the drow's eyes, he saw something he hadn't seen in a long time: Fear. Yet, wasn't fear something that the living possessed? None of these zombies seemed to mind being disemboweled.

He stopped his movement, a stream of blood bursting between the cracks of his fingers following his coughs. He didn't seem to blame the drow for the damage, but rather his own weakness for being afflicted by it. This soothed his temper a bit, and the realization that he could actually talk to another being after weeks of zombies also calmed him down. He dropped the sword in his right hand again. Due to his newly-formed voice box, his voice was akin to an old man who hadn't spoken in decades.

Between coughs, his whisper-like yet grating voice spoke, "Xem... Xem'zûnd... where is he?!"

[Deus di Eclave]

The monster stopped its advance, its multicolored eyes squinting through the gloom toward Drizaghar. "Xem... Xem'zûnd... where is he?" its voice rasped through the dank air and the drow was taken aback. Fingering the sharp blades beneath his fingers, he warily stepped back away before replying.

“I know that name not,” he answered in fragmented Common. The translation book he used to change his words from drow to Common was good, but nowhere near perfect. Regardless of how well he spoke, the creature would likely understand the message.

Blood poured from the hole in the thing’s throat where it had removed the iron crossbow bolt, but Drizaghar saw the flow slowing as time passed. Within seconds, the flesh had knitted itself back together and formed a star-shaped scar on the skin. Otherwise, there was no evidence that the monster had ever been struck.

The situation was beginning to worry the dark elf necromancer. A strange man wandering around the subterranean caverns beneath the Red Forest in Raiaera who attacked anything he saw and who could heal himself in a manner of moments; something felt… off. He took small comfort in the fact that the creature was no longer intent on killing him, but knew that the tables might turn once again.

“Who is this Xem'zûnd of which you speak?” he asked the black-clad figure standing before him. Tensing every muscle in anticipation, he readied for the fight to resume at any moment. This was a beast that could not be trusted.

[Abomination]

"Liar! Filthy liar!" he hollered, his foot hitting the iron bolt on the ground as he stepped forward.

He looked down upon it, and his craving came back to him. The sweet taste of new abilities, the delicious feeling of power surging throughout his body. The enticing fear in the drow's eyes was almost too much to bear. With the failure to give an acceptable answer to the Homunculus, there was only one recompense: Assimilation. He could at least ask how he could get out of here, but where is the fun in that? It seems strange that a positive reply from the drow would've spared him; the concept of mercy was alien to Homun after all. None of those experiences with those zombies mattered anymore, he simply threw away the wisdom he gained by not attacking first and asking questions later.

He cackled, "I will pry your lying tongue from your head."

As he spoke, a zombie snuck up behind him and was about to pounce. A blade burst out of Homun's right palm, and he swung it behind him and chopped the brittle zombie in half. The blade extended three feet out, with the base of it at his palm. The handle of it was still inside his arm, compressed into molecular materials that affixed the blade as a part of his arm. The bleeding in his neck had stopped, but his skin was still fresh and easily bruised. Plus, all the healing done so far had rendered him somewhat groggy. He let go of his neck with his left hand and charged at the drow, now somewhat conscious of the crossbow. He held his left hand out as his right hand was drawn back, ready to either grab the drow or failing that, slice him up.

[Deus di Eclave]

He had judged correctly, the unstable being before him was too unpredictable to hold conversation with. After turning swiftly to rend a zombie in twain, the creature whirled about and closed in on the dark elf. Drizaghar let the throwing daggers drop lower into his hands and whipped both forward simultaneously at his target. Both blades struck the beast; one striking his chest and glancing harmlessly off after drawing blood, but the other burying itself deep into his right elbow. It mattered not, still the thing came.

Backpedaling quickly down the tunnel, he barely had time to draw his staff before the monster was upon him. One hand closed around his neck, the fingers gripped tightly, while the sword rose for an attack. The drow necromancer’s mind whirled; his foe was insatiable! How can I defeat him!? his mind screamed.

Drizaghar brought up his left hand to grasp the wrist around his throat. Unleashing his power of necrosis, the dark elf began to drain his enemy’s lifeforce. Even as he began the process, he hoped the creature had a lifeforce to drain… No matter. he rationalized; he had other plans. Raising the staff before him with his other hand, the drow summoned fire. Flames raced along the length of the staff, consuming it, yet leaving it intact. As the creature’s sword came down toward him, Drizaghar moved to intercept the weapon with his own.

“Fascath,” he whispered, unsure whether or not the familiar would be able to hear him. The grip around his throat was tighter than he had originally thought. And as the seconds ticked by, it would become increasingly more difficult to act. He had to break free from this beast soon, or he had little hope of coming away from this encounter alive…

[Abomination]

As he held the drow's neck with his left hand, he considered how utterly unfortunate it was that he couldn't command the damaged blade inside his left arm to move. He wanted to inflict the same kind of damage as had been done to his own throat, but right now he could only choke and attempt to decapitate with his right-handed blade. There was a rip in his shirt from where the dagger bounced off his skin after cutting through the first layer, and there was a dagger still lodged in his right arm.

His steel was blocked by some sort of flaming staff, and he started to feel like his body was being pulled towards the drow. A feeling like his very essence was being sucked into the throat-holding hand and then disappearing. He didn't notice at first, because something more powerful was occurring. His skin became very dark, the whites of his eyes turned entirely ebony, and his red eyes became brighter. The wound inside his left arm began mending, the scar on his throat disappeared, and the dagger in his right arm fell out on its own. Now, he almost could end this once and for all.

Of course, assimilation had other side-effects. The rush of memories into his head told him a story of an exile; a refugee; a man who may know even less about the world than him. The Underdark... A place where powerful dark-skinned beings existed. In this drow's mind were the very directions to such a place! Yet, another thing became clear: He wasn't lying before.

After the super-regenerative effects of the initial assimilation, Homun felt the life draining away from him at last. He let go of the drow, jumping backwards and pulling the blade back into his arm. At last, his ears became pointier, until he was some sort of cross between human and drow. He tried to piece together something useful out of the drow's memories, but he found it difficult to make any clear pictures without some sort of association with previous assimilations. That's why it was so easy to make use of the memories of Luc Kraus; the man knew nearly everyone. Now that his need for assimilation was satiated, he considered the implications of what he was doing. Mainly, his memories were at least telling him that this dark elf was a necromancer, which for all intents and purposes meant that he could keep zombies off of Homun's face, arms, legs, torso, and everything else that belonged to him that those damned zombies kept touching. He couldn't discern from the memories whether or not this drow knew how to get out of here, which was perhaps the only tangible reason he wanted to let him live. That and, well, maybe he wasn't a liar after all.

"Driz... Drizaghar," he uttered in a voice of his own mixed with the drow's, his grin turning into the same frown he had before seeing the fire. "How... you know how.... how to get out of here? I... searching for necromancer... like you."

He wasn't aware of the very limited abilities Drizaghar possessed as a necromancer, since memories and what is read in books are misleading in the mind. The mind of an elf was very confusing, as their extreme longevity and whimsical nature often confused reality for fiction. Homun was ready to believe just about anything right now.

[Deus di Eclave]

The creature pulled away, his body having changed somehow. Drizaghar had no idea what just occurred, but all that he could think about was breathing. In and out; how he had taken it for granted before. His familiar materialized out of the air near him, but he held up a finger to keep the ethereal minion at bay. More likely than not, the creature wouldn’t be able to see Fascath; a fact he could use to his advantage if the brute should attack again. He extinguished his flaming staff with a thought as his adversary began speaking.

In very broken Common, the monster sounded out the drow’s name. How does he know who I am!? the necromancer’s mind screamed. The thought was quickly pushed to the back of his mind, though, when the thing questioned the dark elf’s navigation abilities before revealing that he was searching for another necromancer. Drizaghar’s ears perked up at this mention; another necromancer here in this subterranean maze? Perhaps that was the Xem'zûnd he had talked about before.

“There is an army of undead just ahead,” he told the beast, unsure whether he would attack again or not. The creature was too unpredictable to trust, but that didn’t mean the dark elf couldn’t use the brute to his own advantage. When they found the army of zombies, Drizaghar would attempt to use his necromancer powers to control one. He had never tried such a feat before, so the outcome was questionable. However, even if the experiment should turn sour, he could unleash the creature on the horde. Maybe they’d even destroy each other…

“Perhaps this Xem'zûnd commands the army,” he pointed out. “Truce?” He hoped the irrational being would honor such an agreement if it was made, but he had little choice at the moment. He couldn’t afford to let this creature distract him from his goal.

[Abomination]

Although the appeal of assimilation permanence was there, exerting himself would undo the regenerative effects. Like before, he'd rather not find himself short on strength down here. It would take a while for the damage he took to heal itself naturally as well. Since he wouldn't make use of this assimilation in combat, it would likely last a while. He decided he would let this drow live until they got out of here.

Oddly, he found himself more comfortable talking in drow at the moment, "Udos zhal meun natha bista abbanid (We shall form a short alliance)."

It wasn't cracked or difficult to form as his Common had become post-assimilation. Perhaps the long duration between assimilations has made him slightly more susceptible to their influences and transformations. His constantly-changing temper had become a singularity of calm and his quick decisions turned to thoughtful consideration. He even began to consider the drow's feelings toward him. His eyes narrowed as he picked up his sword and stuck it back into its sheath.

He stepped to the side and likened his hands like an entourage to a king, his fingers pointing towards the direction Drizaghar was facing, "Nau'thal l'i'dol (Lead the way)."