Miesmel

Thump. Slide. Thump. Slide. Thump. Slide.

The sound is quiet and might be altogether unremarkable if not for something in its quality that gives it something of sinister intention: Perhaps it is the unnaturally static cadence of the noise. Or perhaps it is the fact that it is getting nearer.

My rotting soldiers are surprisingly stealthy for creatures that are so utterly lacking in grace and dexterity, aided in fleetness by being little more than fragile bones and scraps of hanging skin. My own denser footfalls join those of the legions, sabatons creaking and crunching over the carpet of pine needles that litter the forest floor. We are close. A heavy fog obscures my visibility as always, but I can sense the glow of living bodies ahead. Perhaps five or six dozen. A small town.

As I break through the treeline, the rough shape of Meldoven becomes just visible through the blanket of haze. It's a lumber town, sturdy wooden buildings scattered about atop a tree-cleared hill. The nicer buildings are partially cobbled, though 'nice' is a misnomer for a town as rural as this. Further in the mist, the flickering flames of burning torches shine in futility. Failing to pierce the fog, they only reflect back on themselves and so too become blinding. Shouting starts. The town guard, likely ill-equipped to fend off more than a stray bear, has noticed my arrival.

I casually make my way towards the town's center, avoiding the clash of weaponry so that I might remain discreet. A large well's rim, a public gathering place no doubt, acts as my seat as I listen and meditate on what is happening around me. I can hear sobbing, the barking of orders, and the blood-curdling cries of those soon to join the ranks of the dead. It is the death throes of a doomed village, a last gasp, a blaze of glory. I envy them for their delusions. Ignorance allows them to see the world as I cannot. In their eyes they are heroes, martyrs, or the victims of some cruel tragedy. They don't realize how pointless they are, how pointless we all are, and they are rewarded for their shortsightedness with a false sense of purpose.

Oh, I do envy them! From the edges of the mist I vicariously glimpse the richness of conviction that has long since been lost to me. A pair of militiamen have done well at fending off the hordes so far, but at the sight of his own comrades joining the ranks, one of the two loses his mettle and flees his station. The look of betrayal on the lone defender's face as he gets swarmed and gored is sharper than his screams could ever be, and the coward, stumbling and crushed under the icy hand of terror, does not make it far before meeting a similar fate. I wish I could say the moment is powerful, but still I feel nothing.

In time, the signatures of life dwindle and begin to sputter out. The fighting stops, as does the screaming, and all that remains are those sorry few who have hidden themselves and are trying their best to remain very, very silent. They do not know that I can sense them where they breathe, and they are wholly unprepared as my skeletons, creatures of seemingly such little perception, know exactly where to find them. Eventually, the last life flickers out and the 'battle' is won. Meldoven is mine.

"Well... That was as dull as I imagined it would be..." I bemuse dryly, feeling no shame nor satisfaction in what I have just done, only hollowness. "What's next? What's here for me?"

I rise from my seat, already beginning to pace. It's not that I particularly want to search for anything so much as I am compelled to do so. A restless energy possesses me in action, an incessant call-to-action that I am unable to deny or resist. A relentless metaphysical whipping is wrought upon my consciousness, driving me to seek out satiation where I know there is none to be found. In many ways I am no better than my mindless thralls, an aimless vessel staggering through its days without any sense of purpose. Still I must act.

As I reluctantly drag my feet along the red-soaked gravel roads of the silenced town, my impulse finds its next vice. There is a corpse in the road, particularly intact and bearing none of the violent mutilations that mar the other bodies strewn about. Perhaps they died from heart failure or some unseen internal trauma brought on by a blunt weapon. Regardless, the body still holds its blood, and the strings of fate dictating my next whims have already been woven. I will revive this body, not as a mindless thrall, but with some semblance of life. I kneel by the body, cupping its face and pulling its head to rest on my thighs.

The miasma around me thickens, and I choke and sputter slightly on the uncleanness of it, but the spell itself is barely a modicum of effort. When I first became a death knight centuries ago reviving a human would have been beyond impossible, and yet power, apparently, precedes purpose. I have grown unfathomably powerful with no reason to exercise it. What does that say about the current divinity? Are they driven to action for action's sake as I am? I dispel the thought. It's uninteresting. My attention belongs to this one, whose eyes have just begun to reopen.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. Have a nice rest? My name is Miesmel, and I am your new matron and master." I coo without warmth. "Your friends and family are dead, you see, but don't worry. You won't be joining them. You've captured my attention. I'm planning to move in to Meldoven, and you, precious, are going to live with me as 'entertainment'. Now get up, please. I am very, very bored, and I would like very much for you to show me around."

Thump. Slide. Thump. Slide. Thump. Slide. The cadence of hundreds of shambling dead echoes all around me, even though I cannot see them through the thick fog that has descend on the forests we're marching through. It's a quiet sound, easily mistaken for some animal, and it helps to downplay the sheer size of my undead horde. My rotting soldiers are surprisingly stealthy for creatures that are so utterly lacking in grace and dexterity, but it won't be long before the smell of rotting flesh reaches the watchmen and alerts them to their impending doom. I myself move like a ghost over the carpet of pine needles that litter the forest floor, my heavy sabatons only making the slightest crunch as I advance.

As I break through the tree line, the outline of Meldoven becomes just visible through the blanket of haze. I appear to have emerged nearby a lumbermill, a cobbled, two-story structure with a peaked roof. It's likely the largest building in this small town, which makes sense considering the sort of jobs this environment must employ. The further off buildings loom up from the mist like apparitions, their silhouettes seeming to shimmer slightly in the swirling miasma. The flickering flames of burning torches shine in futility. Failing to pierce the fog, they only reflect back on themselves and become blinding, further obscuring vision.

At last, the first cries of a watchman rip through the dense air, Meldoven erupting in a cacophony of panic. I can hear the barking of urgent orders, the clashing of weaponry, and a blood-curdling cries of those soon to join the ranks of the dead. It is the death throes of a doomed village, a last gasp, a blaze of glory, and in this moment I envy them. Their ignorance allows them to see the world as I cannot. In their eyes they are heroes or martyrs, taking up arms and fighting to their last or starring as a victim of some cruel tragedy. They don't realize how worthless they are, how worthless we all are, and they are rewarded for their shortsightedness with a false sense of purpose.

As I amble into the central square, the haze that haunts me seems to lift somewhat, allowing me to witness to ongoing massacre brought on by my whims. The gravel streets are dyed a deep red with fresh blood and my accursed mist seeps into the piles of dead bodies, forcing them to rise anew and bolster my ranks. A pair of militiamen, one of which flees and abandons his station as he loses his courage, provides a spectacle of the wide range of feelings long since lost to me. The look of betrayal on the face of the now lone defender as he gets swarmed and gored is sharper than his screams could ever be, and the coward, gripped by the icy hand of true terror, does not manage to scramble it far before meeting a similar fate. And yet even as I observe this pungent display of raw emotions, it does nothing to inspire anything spark inside me and I remain stone-faced and unfeeling. Slowly, gradually, the last stragglers of the once peaceful town are put down, leaving the town with the same emptiness that has infested me so completely.

"Well, that was as dull as I imagined it would be..." I remark dryly, feeling no shame nor satisfaction in what I have just done, only hollowness. "I guess I need to try something else now."

It's not that I particularly want to carry on so much as I am compelled to do so. Robbed of all feeling and emotion, the only remaining sensation is a restless energy that prevents me from every finding reprieve. Were it an agonizing feeling I would welcome it - at least that way I would feel something. Instead, it is an incessant call-to-action that I am unable to deny or resist, a relentless metaphysical whipping wrought upon my conscious by an invisible hand, driving me to seek out satiation where I know there is none to be found. In many ways I am no better than my mindless thralls, an aimless vessel staggering through its days without any sense of purpose, And yet still I must act.

As I reluctantly drag my feet along the red gravel roads of the silenced town, my eyes are drawn to particularly intact corpse, bearing none of the violent mutilations that mar of the other bodies strewn about. Perhaps they died from heart failure or some unseen internal trauma brought on by a blunt weapon. Regardless, the body still holds blood, and the strings of fates dictating my next whims have already been woven. I decide that I will revive this body, not as a mindless thrall, but with some semblance of life. Drawing my sword I jam it into the earth, the cross-shaped hilt becoming an altar from which to draw my dark magic. It seems a horrible irony that I must pray to activate the full extent of my necromantic magic, but I've grown too apathetic to care at this point.

"Oh, 'wise' and 'benevolent' Eivita." I spit sarcasticly, scorning the old god I once served. "You who once held me in your grace, hear now my plea. A mortal has fallen before their time, and yet they still hold their lifeblood. May you 'bless' them with a return to their life and a restoration of their vigor."

With the conclusion of my prayer the vast stores of magic within me come to the surface, causing me to choke on the rapidly thickening smog that keeps me in perpetual twilight. When I first became a death knight centuries ago reviving a human would have been beyond impossible, and yet here and now it seems the most effortless thing in the world. At some point, my mastery over life and death ascended to something bordering the divine. Am I becoming a god? What does that say about the current divinity? Are they driven to action for action's sake as I am? I push the thoughts from my mind, not caring to follow that line of thought further. With a careless tug, I dislodge the blade from its gravel lodging and begin to slowly saunter over to the person I just revived, bending down to look at them with my blood red eyes.

"Welcome back to the realm of the living, precious. Have a nice rest?" I mock, grabbing their chin and turning their head upwards towards mine. "You know, you should be kissing the very ground I walk on. After all, I saw fit to revive you with your facilities intact. My mercy doesn't come freely though. You see, I require... occupation. You'll entertain me for a time, and once you've outlived your novelty I'll put you back in the dirt. No need to thank me. Well on second thought, maybe 'entertain' is too strong a word. I haven't smiled in for the last couple centuries, you see, but that's besides the point. Now then precious, everyone you ever knew in this town is either slaughtered or shambling around as a living-corpse. Simply put, you don't have many distractions left other than putting on whatever pathetic show you can drum up for me. Now for your first act you are going to show me around town. Meldoven. This was your home, right? Well it's my home now. I want to see all of it and you are going to show me. Now quit lounging about in the dirt and blood and get up. Now. I'm the type to keep my pets on a very short leash."

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