How long must we wait within our prison.

The bodies of the Necropolis stirred and writhed about their own confinement. Bones grinded and unloving flesh churned through itself, weaving organic fibers ever so tighter to ensure the structure of the Black Tower. The minds of the souls that had been enslaved were slowly becoming. . . Resistant to Ijiri and the ruling of his decrepted hands. The slaves wanted out. The cauldron was stirring. Blood was boiling and the ever confident Necromancer, whom sat atop of his living chair, waited for it all to happen. He wanted rebellion. He wanted defiance from his dead servants. The old Warlock wanted to see his creation become something he had never tampered with before; Intelligent. The Blight would always be Ijiri’s, but the monument to death that stood atop of it was constantly in a state of life that left if aware of it’s incarceration. Normally, the Necromancer was quick to punish or annihilate the souls that had mutiny in mind, but this time was different.

The time is coming.

Ijiri, in his early years as an apprentice, served under a certain Necromancer who’s primary discipline was Eidolonics. He spoke of a creation so powerful, that the process of creating this monster was nothing short of unheard of; that, in scriptures written in blood in the earliest of ages of Necromancy, words of complete and total caution were used. His exact words were still so very fresh on Ijiri’s mind. “A phantasm.” He thought aloud. “ A phantasm intelligent enough to think of it’s own and powerful enough to materialize on the material plane; a phantasm, which a catalyst of betrayal called for in the ritual of creation.” Betrayal in the Necromancer realm was so prohibited a thing, that going about creating this. . . Monstrosity was generally denied. One or two attempts of failure was enough to banish the ritual from the scrolls, but not from the mind.

We will have our chance soon enough.

“Yes. Yes you will.” Laughed the Necromancer. They would indeed.