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A skeletal hand burst from the ground, flailing wildly.
It was searching, forever hunting, for some packed earth. Something stable.
It patted the ground surrounding it, forced its arm out past the elbow, and, with a rattle, hoisted itself from the dirt.
You are Rattlemaw, vanquished titan of a long-gone age.
Your bones, your flesh, your blood, and your spirit were all hidden in different locations in an effort to avoid resurrection by your loyal supporters.
True resurrection will come once you’ve managed to gather all pieces of yourself.
<span class="mu-i">We'll largely use the D&D 5e rules for combat and rolling with some custom homebrew features / items tossed in.</span>
------
After a long moment, the skeleton managed to break away from the dirt.
It kneels there as if disorientated. Eventually it looks up, two pinpricks of unholy light flicker in its eye sockets.
It stands, bones popping and cracking as foul magic aligns them into place. Clearly, the skeleton was once human, but tall and broad.
Whisps of dark magic still swirl around it.
A figure wearing dark robes stands not too far off, looking every bit the necromancer he appears to be.
The skeleton’s head swivels to face him as the man seems to utter the final phrases of his ritual, “….eaaaah. I’m raisin' the deaaaaad,” the man chants in a weirdly melodic way, his body seems move in tune with the incantations, “I’m lovin' the dreaaaaaad.”
He stops doing with can only be defined as dancing in its most broadly defined way, “Let’s make some evil!”
A short, unholy construct stands beside it, attempting to dance in sync with its master, but doing a poor job of it. It mostly resorts to hip trusts.
The thing looks like a patchwork of flesh, as if somebody stitched together a bunch of fat children and then beat it with a shovel a dozen times to get it into a general shape.
The necromancer claps his hands and magic continues to swirl, “Yeaaaah,” he chants, “The dance of the dead! Get out there and shred!”
He spins in place and points directly at the skeleton, then winks, “And make some eeeeeee-vil!”
Instead of a supporting band of ghastly wails and moans you’d expect from a ritual of this kind, it seems to be carried with an upbeat tune that swirls into a crescendo before slowly fading out.
Once the ritual seems to be completed, the man claps his hands together and pulls his intertwined hands towards his chest, “It’s beautiful,” the man cries, “My greatest creation yet!”
The small patchwork golem looks towards the ground in defeat for a moment, but then responds, “He. Shir,” it says with a generous spray of spittle, “Ish male.”
It was searching, forever hunting, for some packed earth. Something stable.
It patted the ground surrounding it, forced its arm out past the elbow, and, with a rattle, hoisted itself from the dirt.
You are Rattlemaw, vanquished titan of a long-gone age.
Your bones, your flesh, your blood, and your spirit were all hidden in different locations in an effort to avoid resurrection by your loyal supporters.
True resurrection will come once you’ve managed to gather all pieces of yourself.
<span class="mu-i">We'll largely use the D&D 5e rules for combat and rolling with some custom homebrew features / items tossed in.</span>
------
After a long moment, the skeleton managed to break away from the dirt.
It kneels there as if disorientated. Eventually it looks up, two pinpricks of unholy light flicker in its eye sockets.
It stands, bones popping and cracking as foul magic aligns them into place. Clearly, the skeleton was once human, but tall and broad.
Whisps of dark magic still swirl around it.
A figure wearing dark robes stands not too far off, looking every bit the necromancer he appears to be.
The skeleton’s head swivels to face him as the man seems to utter the final phrases of his ritual, “….eaaaah. I’m raisin' the deaaaaad,” the man chants in a weirdly melodic way, his body seems move in tune with the incantations, “I’m lovin' the dreaaaaaad.”
He stops doing with can only be defined as dancing in its most broadly defined way, “Let’s make some evil!”
A short, unholy construct stands beside it, attempting to dance in sync with its master, but doing a poor job of it. It mostly resorts to hip trusts.
The thing looks like a patchwork of flesh, as if somebody stitched together a bunch of fat children and then beat it with a shovel a dozen times to get it into a general shape.
The necromancer claps his hands and magic continues to swirl, “Yeaaaah,” he chants, “The dance of the dead! Get out there and shred!”
He spins in place and points directly at the skeleton, then winks, “And make some eeeeeee-vil!”
Instead of a supporting band of ghastly wails and moans you’d expect from a ritual of this kind, it seems to be carried with an upbeat tune that swirls into a crescendo before slowly fading out.
Once the ritual seems to be completed, the man claps his hands together and pulls his intertwined hands towards his chest, “It’s beautiful,” the man cries, “My greatest creation yet!”
The small patchwork golem looks towards the ground in defeat for a moment, but then responds, “He. Shir,” it says with a generous spray of spittle, “Ish male.”
