"Simply amazing,"mused a tall elf in a black hood, his voice trembling between awe and panic. "Simply… amazing."
"I can't believe my years of study, my endless practice, my painful finger cramps from all those runes are finally paying off!"
He lifted his arms dramatically. "Rise, my beautiful little monster! I command you—RAISE!"
Silence.
The elf blinked. He coughed awkwardly, checked his spellbook, and added, "Uh… please?"
A faint spark of green light flickered from his fingertips, followed by a loud pop. Smoke filled the room. After a moment of coughing and waving his hands, a weak thump-thump came from the child-sized body on the altar.
"Ha! It worked! I—I think it worked!"
The corpse twitched, then sat up—its limbs jerking like tangled marionette strings. It turned its head almost completely backward before fixing its cloudy eyes on the elf.
The elf smiled nervously. "Right. Yes. Good… posture. Very obedient."
The reanimated body tilted its head and promptly fell off the altar with a thud.
"Mhm. Minor setback," the elf muttered, scratching his chin with a slender hand. "Maybe… too much lightning essence?"
He dusted off his robe. "No matter! Follow me, uh… thing. Yes, follow me."
The corpse stumbled after him as he stepped through a door that was barely hanging on its hinges.
"Don't mind the mess," he said, gesturing to the chaotic room filled with broken jars, burnt candles, and suspiciously smoking bones. "It's a work in progress. Hehehe… just wait, Lord Magister Wallmor! Once I—uh—perfect this spell, I'll… I'll mostly take everything from you!"
He stopped, looked back at his creation, now gnawing on a chair leg.
"…Right after I fix that."
He continued toward the door to gather some of the remaining materials for the ritual, muttering to himself, "Maybe the corpse was already damaged? No, that can't be it—the corpse was fresh, and I personally took great care to acquire it. So… the ritual?"
He frowned, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "No, I did everything exactly as the book described! It worked perfectly when I reanimated my dog, so what was the problem this time?"
"Hey—what am I supposed to call you?" the elf asked, glancing at the awkwardly shuffling corpse. "Little thing? Mhm… ah! A perfect name for my newest addition to the—uh—workforce, i will call you Trashcan."
Trashcan paused for a moment, as if acknowledging the name, before returning to gnawing on what was left of the chair.
"Nice," the elf said with a satisfied nod. "You'll become my personal cleaning tool—once I figure out how to give you simple commands."
He straightened up and called out, "Doggy! Where are you? I have a task for you!"
A moment later, a creature padded into view—not just any dog, but a direwolf. Half of its skull was bare bone, gleaming faintly in the candlelight, while the rest of its body was covered in a coat of snow-white fur that looked completely out of place in the heap of junk the elf called home.
"How many times do I have to tell you—my name is not Doggy! It's Fealgor, the Warden of the Twisted Woods!"
"Ah yes, the Guardian of… whatever woods you call home," Caerion replied with a dismissive wave. "But my name for you is much better. After all, you're a dog. So, Doggy it is. End of the conversation."
Fealgor managed to roll his glowing eyes at the elf's antics before padding toward the newest "addition" to the workforce that Caerion had created.
"Which attempt is this?" the direwolf asked dryly. "The two hundred sixty-seventh, or the two hundred sixty-eighth? And look at that—you actually succeeded in making the corpse walk again! But what's with the brain damage?"
"You mean Trashcan?" Caerion puffed out his chest proudly. "He's my new cleaning zombie! After all, one shouldn't have to clean up one's own messes. Hah! It's so hard to find good personnel these days. And for your information, this was attempt number two hundred thirty-four—thank you very much!"
Fealgor sighed, the sound somewhere between a growl and a groan.
"Now, now, don't act so smart with me," Caerion said, waving a finger at the direwolf. "Just make sure Trashcan doesn't eat something he's not supposed to eat while I gather the remaining materials for another spell—to make him, well, less braindead. Even though he is a zombie."
Fealgor tilted his head, his bony jaw forming what could only be described as a smirk. "Sure, I can do that. But what about payment for my special services? After all, I'm incredibly busy at the moment."
Caerion stopped by the rotten doorframe and turned, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light. His tone dropped an octave, taking on a surprising weight. "Payment? I hope you haven't forgotten that I saved your life with my magic—after finding you half-dead in a ditch from your little clash with a gryphon."
Fealgor's grin faltered. "Well… it was worth a try," he muttered to himself, before flicking his tail.
With a low growl and a faint shimmer of spectral energy, he cast a simple binding spell around Trashcan, locking the zombie in place so he couldn't wander off—or chew through another chair.
Caerion made his way through the dim corridors of his dungeon until he reached what he proudly called his warehouse. In reality, it was little more than a hole in the hallway with a wooden plank nailed above the entrance. On the plank, written in uneven Elvish characters, were the words "WAREHOUSE."
Of course, Caerion was the only elf in the entire dungeon, but in his mind, a proper mad scientist's lair needed signs and labels everywhere. After all, how else would visitors find their way through the endless, twisting corridors leading to the central ritual chamber?
He clapped his hands together with satisfaction. "See? Organized chaos—that's the mark of professionalism!"
A moment later, his expression fell. "Well, that's bad. I'm out of golden seaweed. That's… actually a big problem. And oh…" He frowned, scribbling notes on a crumpled piece of parchment as he muttered to himself.
After a few minutes of inventory work—most of it consisting of him complaining to the air—Caerion returned to his two underlings. To his surprise, Fealgor had actually done as instructed.
Trashcan was still standing in one place, magically bound, and most importantly, not eating anything.
Caerion blinked. "Huh. Progress!"
Fealgor, lying beside the bound Trashcan, wasn't the least bit surprised when Caerion mentioned the empty warehouse—mainly because he had been reminding the so-called genius of necromancy about their dwindling supplies for weeks. As usual, his warnings were promptly ignored.
"Looks like we'll be visiting the local town of Tannenholt," Caerion said, already rummaging around for his things. "We'll stock up on supplies—and maybe get something to eat for you, Doggy. After all, a dog must eat, am I right?"
He grabbed his staff and a small purse from the only piece of furniture in the dungeon that wasn't entirely covered in dust: an old cardboard box. As Caerion sifted through the meager contents of his coin purse, Fealgor padded up beside him and peered over his shoulder.
"…Twenty-three mana tokens. That's it?" Caerion frowned, recounting twice just to be sure. "No, I could've sworn we had more than twenty-three!"
Frustration crept into his voice. The golden seaweed alone cost two tokens per bundle—and that wasn't even the most expensive ingredient. With a sigh, both Caerion and Fealgor began mentally tallying how much they could afford.
"We could buy the seaweed, maybe some glowing tree bark, and a few Eyes of a Jadespider," Caerion muttered, scratching his head. "But not much of each. That's… a problem."
Fealgor, more concerned about his lack of meal options than ingredient shortages, quickly offered a suggestion. "We could take the money from someone else—someone who doesn't really need it. Like the bandits in the woods, or perhaps a lone wanderer passing through."
"That's stupid," Caerion replied immediately, waving the idea away. "We can't just take money from the local populace and hope for the best. But… the bandits are a good start. The woods are crawling with those pests anyway."
He turned to glance at Trashcan, still standing obediently where he'd been bound. "Now, we just need a room for Trashcan so he doesn't cause any more problems. I don't have an infinite supply of chairs for him to chew through."
With that, Caerion sprang into motion, muttering to himself about makeshift walls, spare hinges, and "responsible undead ownership."
Fealgor shook his head and sighed. "I will never understand why a mage as powerful as you would choose to dabble in necromancy. It's just… unbelievable—for a lowly Warden of the Forest like me."
Caerion ignored the bare sarcasm from his ever-loyal warden and moved down the hallway to the opposite side of the warehouse. He raised his hands toward the rough stone wall and began to chant,"Mealor Warmo."
The unpolished surface shuddered as a deep vibration spread through it. Hairline cracks crawled across the stone like spiderwebs until, with a heavy groan, an entire four-meter section of the wall gave way — collapsing into rubble and revealing a new chamber, roughly four by eight meters wide.
The debris settled in thick layers of dust until Caerion spoke again, voice calm and measured:"Leaja Pihar."
The debris of the collapsed wall swirled toward Caerion, who stood proudly amidst the settling dust. Then, with a sudden realization, he muttered,"Ah—right. I still need a wall and a door. Can't have my precious furniture devoured again."
He waved his hands lazily, gathering the floating stones and dirt into a dense, shifting mass that molded itself into a rough new wall, leaving a single gap for a doorframe.
"Fealgor! Bring Trashcan over here, would you? We're finally going to start our pest extermination program!"
Fealgor groaned under his breath but obeyed. While Fealgor was gone, Caerion turned to the open doorway, his eyes gleaming with inspiration.
He raised both hands, whispering the incantation,"Kealor Vealor."
At his feet, the ground quivered. A tiny green sapling pushed up through the cracks, two small leaves trembling in the stale dungeon air. Within seconds, it began to grow—twisting and thickening, bark shaping into panels, branches bending into hinges and a frame—until a solid wooden door stood where there had been none.
"Perfect," Caerion said, admiring his work. "A door and a touch of security for my poor employee. We wouldn't want a wandering brain dead Zombie in my holy halls."
He brushed his hands off and smiled, satisfied. At last, his newest "assistant" would have a room—and, hopefully, stop eating the furniture.
"So, is everything accounted for? Money... yes, got it. Staff... in my hand. Dog... sitting ready next to the entrance."
Fealgor shook his head as he padded toward the hidden entrance of Caerion's dungeon—well, not so hidden, considering the giant billboard above it that read:
WELCOME TO THE LABOR AND LIVING QUARTERS OF CAERION THE NECROMANCER
With such a massive wooden sign, one might think someone would've found the dungeon by now.But no. The surrounding mountains were filled with all manner of monsters, and the few people foolish enough to wander this deep—mostly bandits and fugitives—weren't exactly missed when they disappeared.
They usually vanished after trying (and failing) to escape the law enforcers sent by the Duke of Shadewood—named, quite creatively, after himself. His dukedom lay in the middle of the Twisted Woods, a region that saw more fog than sunlight. The soil was stubborn, the crops were worse, and the people were tough enough to chew bark if dinner was late.
Thankfully, with the right magic, even barren lands could bloom—resistant crops, enchanted weather wards, and the occasional exploding scarecrow. But still, it wasn't a cheerful place.
"Why are you talking about the region we've been living in for, oh, about eigth years," Fealgor grumbled, "like you're explaining it to someone who's never been here?"
"Well," Caerion began, striking a pose far too proud for the situation, "I need to make sure we're on the same wavelength. Mhm, yes, that's what I'm trying to achieve."
Fealgor just rolled his glowing eyes and turned toward the forest.
"Hey, I saw that! Which isn't nice, you know," Caerion called after him—but the direwolf was already bounding down the hillside, his snowy fur flashing between the trees.
"Ah—he's doing it again! Leaving me talking to myself like I'm some kind of lunatic!"
Caerion sighed and started to jog after his trusted companion.Unfortunately, the forest floor wasn't exactly built for grace. Roots, stones, and uneven ground turned every step into a small act of divine balance.
Thankfully, Caerion was blessed with the elegance and poise one would expect from an elf.What he was not blessed with, however, was stamina.
By the time he reached the first bend in the path, his so-called "eternal grace" was gasping for air.
Fealgor was actually laughing as he watched Caerion try to run like a wolf on the hot pursuit of prey — a very comical sight, to say the least. The elf's hair was a tangled mess, his robe caught on every root, and his face had the color of a boiled shrimp by the time he stopped, gasping for air.
"Maybe some light cardio would do me wonders," Caerion wheezed between breaths.
"Sure would," Fealgor mocked, grinning wide enough to show the bone half of his skull. "You just ran, what, nine hundred meters? And now look at you — pathetic for an elf! You're supposed to be the synonym of grace and elegance, even in battle."
"Well," Caerion panted, clutching his knees, " im not like the other elves in that regard."
"Till you... get enough air in your lungs, I'll... scout ahead. Maybe we'll find some bandits." Still laughing Fealgor started to follow the trail again.
"Mhmm…" was all the elf managed before the direwolf vanished into the woods.
"Just—just a few minutes," he wheezed, collapsing onto a rock and cursing under his breath. "Stupid... wolf. Mocking me! Me! The greatest necromancer in the world!"
He paused.
"Well... maybe not the greatest. The giants can use magic too... and one of them might be a necromancer... so... second greatest. Yes, that sounds about right."
As Caerion continued to mutter about his clearly underappreciated genius (and lack of stamina), Fealgor was already on the hunt, following the faint scent of humans that had crossed the valley near their home. The trail was just few hours old, but with the almost unnatural nose of the direwolf. Fealgor could easily pick up the traces of seven distinct individuals.
Every few meters, Fealgor stopped, sniffing and adjusting his course, until a new scent hit him from the side. He turned his head, ears pricked. Orcs. The air stank of blood, sweat, and burnt flesh — the unmistakable aftermath of a fight.
The direwolf crept closer and found the scene: a small battlefield where a group of humans had clearly ambushed a band of orcs. The orcs had never stood a chance.
"Looks like the orcs were jumped before they even spotted the humans," said Caerion's voice from above. The elf floated gracefully down, robes billowing, clearly proud of his spell-assisted stamina recovery.
"Yes," Fealgor said, nudging a corpse with his snout. "Arrow through the throat on this one. And this one—" he sniffed, "—charred. Mage, definitely."
Then he took a bite.
"Mhhhm, tasty."
"Don't talk with food in your mouth," Caerion said, shaking a finger at him.
Fealgor ignored him.
The elf crouched beside one of the fallen orcs, his golden eyes glowing faintly as he inspected the wounds. "Doesn't look like bandits to me," he mused aloud. "Too coordinated... too clean. Maybe law enforcers from the Duke?"
„Not that it matters, we´ll take the money from them after all we are far enough from the town so nobody would miss some police man." Turning around and patting Fealgor on the site, to made him stop eat the charred orc.
"Hey – we need to follow them remember?"
"Yeah, yeah just one more bite" But Caerion knowing how his four legged companion was when it came to food, moved his hands and spoke:
"Fae'run Daelar!"
Before Fealgor could protest, a faint green glow surrounded his paws — and then the massive direwolf began to float.
"Caerion—" Fealgor growled, legs flailing uselessly as he hovered a meter off the ground.
"Magnificent!" Caerion beamed, circling him. "See, now you won't even get your paws dirty. Truly, I am a genius!"
"Genius?" Fealgor snarled. "Put me down before I chew your pointy ears off!"
"Now, now, not so harsh. It's just a floating spell — not even enough to send you flying. So relax, and start following the humans again!"
Once Fealgor was back on the ground, he spun around and tried to bite the elf — only to find a shimmering shield already between them.
"Not so fast! This time I'm prepared, you know." Caerion was rather proud of his quick thinking, especially after the last time he tried to wash his dog and had to heal bite and claw marks all over his body.
"Hmph… just you wait," Fealgor growled, and with great reluctance turned away from his feast of charred orc meat to follow the humans' trail once more.
"Haaa… I'm truly the best mage all around! Well, considering I'm the only one here at the moment, it's not a very prestigious title. But still—'I'M THE BEST MAGE!'—has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" Caerion declared proudly to no one in particular, once his direwolf had disappeared down the path.
"Maybe I should make the path to the town a bit smoother for walking," he mused aloud, stepping carelessly over the dead orcs littering the forest floor. He had already forgotten they were there as he began readying the Fly spell again — partly to save his stamina, mostly to protect his pride.
As he drifted lazily through ideas, he muttered, "No, better yet — maybe build a teleport gate to Tannenhold. But then I'd need a proper anchor point… and the money required is a colossal expense."
He sighed dramatically. "So no teleport gate. Maybe a mount then? Like my little doggy—though trying to saddle and ride him would probably be the last mistake of my life. So… no mount either. Just me, my two feet, and this uneven forest dirt. Oh well."
A few hundred meters down the mountain, Fealgor made steady progress toward the party of seven humans. The earlier ambush had made enough noise to wake half the valley, and the other inhabitants of the mountain range were now on the hunt. Food rarely delivered itself this willingly to their doorstep—like finding a forgotten Mana token in the pocket of a robe you hadn't worn for years.
Soon, the beasts of the forest began stalking the humans. It was high noon, so the only the rather normal creatures—goblins, ogres, and orcs—were moving to hunt the Group, while the greater horrors, like the Wyrm sleeping in the northern caverns or the gryphon that had once nearly killed Fealgor in a border dispute, remained in their lairs. (The gryphon had claimed a Furea, a rare magical deer, from Fealgor's hunting grounds—he still hadn't forgiven that.)
"Run faster before we get caught by the rest of the mountain's monsters!" barked a skinny woman with ash-grey hair and a scar that crossed her face like lightning. Her dark leather armor creaked as she ran, sword and small shield in hand.
Behind her thundered the rest of the group—The Black Dove, a band of adventurers from the heart of the Kingdom of Myr. They were far from home, deep in the western reaches of the realm where monsters and worse things lurked.
"Don't stop until we reach the edge of this damned forest!" shouted the half-elf at the rear, his golden hair flashing in the sunlight. Bow drawn, dark eyes scanning the trees, he loosed an arrow at something moving in the shadows.
Fealgor, not far behind, was already tearing into a pack of goblins who had decided to join the chase. He lunged, jaws closing around one goblin's neck with a sickening crunch. The others shrieked in panic at the sight of the massive direwolf. Before they could scatter, ice lances began forming around him, hovering like shards of frozen light. A flick of his head—and they flew.
Some goblins died instantly, skewered through the chest. Others weren't so lucky, struck in the legs or spine and left writhing on the forest floor.
"Looks like they've stirred up the whole mountain range," Fealgor muttered, licking blood from his muzzle.
By the time Caerion finally caught up, the battlefield was a mess of melting ice and twitching corpses.
"Uhhh… what about the goblins?" the elf said, mildly irritated as he surveyed the carnage. "We don't really need new research subjects right now, you know."
With a sigh, he lifted his hand and cast a similar spell—only larger, cleaner, colder. Shards of frost rained down, finishing the survivors with mechanical precision. His expression didn't change. To him, death was as mundane as taking out the trash.
"Ah, that reminds me," Caerion said cheerfully as the air still crackled with fading magic. "When we get back home, we'll need to feed our newest addition to the workforce with whatever trash and unwanted things I have lying around."
"They were in the way of my food—uh, I mean our money for the supplies we're going to buy in town," Fealgor said, defending himself as he licked his chops and began moving again.
"True," Caerion replied with a sigh, "but next time, don't make such a sloppy job of it. Just cast the same spell twice. Then you won't have to listen to their dying words or whatever crude nonsense goblins think counts as last words."
He walked alongside his massive companion, lecturing like a disappointed professor. "Honestly, Fealgor, how many times must I tell you? Don't talk during combat, finish them properly, and—this is important—don't let them live long enough to come back later and become a pain in the ass."
"Yeah, yeah, I know the rules of combat," grumbled Fealgor, baring his teeth in something that might have been a grin. "But where's the fun in that? It's way more entertaining when they scream and beg."
Caerion gave him a long look. "Sometimes I think I made a grave mistake in that spell that saved you. You were once a noble beast of the forest. Now…" He gestured vaguely. "Now you're just a furry sociopath with a taste for sarcasm."
Fealgor barked out something that might have been laughter. "And yet, you keep me around."
"Only because I'm too lazy to train another one," the elf muttered under his breath.
While the two bantered, another scene unfolded just a short distance ahead.
"Haaa, just past these trees and we're out of this godforsaken forest," said Tressa, the scarred woman leading the adventuring group known as The Black Dove. Her voice carried a mixture of relief and exhaustion as she pushed through the last of the underbrush.
It was true—the trees were thinning. Sunlight spilled across the clearing ahead. But in their frantic escape, none of the adventurers remembered that the forest was split in two by a massive chasm, carved by the mountain river that roared far below.
The group skidded to a stop at the very edge, stones tumbling into the misty gorge beneath them.
Behind them, faintly echoing through the forest, came the crunch of bone and the low growl of something hunting.
Meanwhile, not far behind, Caerion and Fealgor were finishing off another pack of hunters—this time a few orcs who had lingered too long at the rear, waiting to catch any human stragglers.
"Ugh, more orcs?" Caerion complained, flicking a bit of blood off his sleeve. "I swear, it's like they're breeding just to inconvenience me."
Fealgor swallowed the last bite of orc meat. "They probably are."