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It was darkness he was dragged from. Pulled towards the light. There was no beloved family member to tell him it was not his time and to go back. He struggled, he did not wish to go to the light, he had so much more to do, so much more to accomplish, and a vengeance to extract-

Gwydion opened his eyes. The lids felt like they were being pulled across sandpaper. He sucked in a breath to what felt like lungs made of papyrus. He swore he crackled with he breathed. His limbs felt heavy and weak and his head full of cotton. He was staring at the stalactites of a cave ceiling. The cavern was illuminated by candles, dozens of them perched all around him, their wax dripping down, and most were burned very low.

Where he was and how did he come to be in this cave were the first questions that wandered into his head. The last thing he remembered was… His mind was almost a blank, he knew he was Gwydion, Necromancer and King of Ploisal. The rest was just as empty as the darkness he had tried not to release. He slowly sat up, his clothes crackled around him like his lungs within. His clothes were old, tatters, dusty, but once had been the finery deserving of a king’s… Burial… Had he died?

He had rings on his fingers, one being his signet ring, the other was just a large flat ruby. A heavy chain sat on his shoulders, a large ruby dangling from it. His clothes had once been a deep red velvet trimmed with ermine and sewn with gold threads. His hands did not look like his, one had a tattoo on the back, an arcane symbol to ward against evil. Normally this symbol worked in conjunction with another. His left hand looked like it belonged to a noble, smooth, uncalloused, unmarred and thin save for the tattoo. His right hand was large, burly, calloused, a field laborer’s hand. It did not make sense how could his hands look so different and neither one be his?

Gwydion looked from his hands to around the cave. He could smell blood, lots of it. Glancing at the floor, he noticed a pile of bodies. That was the best description he could give them. They weren’t human, but they weren’t demonic, just looked like it. Demons did not bleed red. The blood was fresh, not all of it dried. The creatures on the floor of the cave were gray skinned, looking hunch backed and impish, no hair, huge insect like eyes, and gaping maws of leech teeth. They looked to have killed themselves. Many still had crude stone knives in their hands along with slashed throats.

He stood from what he realized had been an altar in the cave. He lost his balance and nearly stumbled as if he’d forgotten how to walk. Gwydion shifted his weight from foot to foot and then pulled his robes open to reveal his legs, or rather just legs. One was longer than the other and like his hands, were as if he’d been pieced together from different people. He lowered his robes and placed a hand to his head, he felt over his face. He thought he was the same, he wouldn’t know until he looked in a mirror.

Something grabbed his ankle, and in reflexive response he had struck out at the attacker. It was one of the creatures on the floor. This one only had a slashed wrist, not a cut throat. Gwydion shook off its grip and stepped aside, maneuvering if he was drunk due to the difference in leg length.

“Master…” Wheezed a familiar voice. Gwydion turned and looked at the imp like creature that had grabbed him. Gwydion knew that voice.

“Baynard?” Gwdion asked in a whisper as if he had no voice of his own. He coughed and rubbed his throat, and became slightly alarmed at what felt like stitches.

“Do not forsake me, Master,” the creature spoke weakly in Baynard’s voice. It was naked except for a crude animal skin loincloth.

“Baynard what has happened?” Gwydion asked of the creature, his voice still unusable.

“You died, Master. I brought you back,” Baynard wheezed.