Book of The Dead

Power thrummed within Tyron. Every fibre of his being was awash with it. His personal reservoir of magick boomed like an ocean, crashing against the confines of his soul with the fury of a hurricane.

And he could sense all of it. Almost like he had been granted a sixth sense, Perceive Magick gave him… an extra sensory organ tuned only to the ebb and flow of arcane energy. When he raised his hands and began to form sigils, he could feel the power move with a clarity he had never experienced before, sense it flow and change as he enforced his will, shaping it into something new.

He was so enraptured with this sensation he found it difficult to focus on the unfolding battle in front of him.

Wights, revenants and his strongest skeletons, backed by the massive Bone Giants he had constructed, assaulted the now-open gates. Disciplined ranks of highly trained, high-level Soldiers, Archers and Mages held the line, refusing to give ground to his undead army.

That simply wouldn’t do.

Once again, Tyron raised his hands and began to bend reality to his will. Magick flowed like a river as he spoke the words of power, using every ounce of skill and potency he could muster. He poured all of it into the spell he was crafting.

From his feet, a grey mist began to spread. It spread rapidly, blossoming outwards into a circle with him at the centre. The mist wasn’t real, but a construct formed of magick, and he had to constantly supply more energy to maintain it, but once it reached the defensive line, its effects became known.

Men cried out in pain and anger as the mist, no more than a few centimetres high, began to drift around their feet. As they did so, the small pockets of the mist that touched them became tinged with red light, and began to drift towards Tyron, rather than away from him.

When these small patches of mist reached him, they flowed into his flesh, and he felt the invigorating energy they contained merge with his own.