Hector- Vankasken

“Now, my old master,” he whispered, marveling at the partially transformed skull. “To work.”

The chanting was fast and breathless, ancient words of magick known to only the few. The black candle burned brightly in Hector’s right hand, oily black smoke billowing from the flame and gathering under the ceiling above. He tipped the candle over his open left hand, the molten wax pooling in his blackened palm, pouring between his fingers, searing the flesh and racing down his arm. All the while the chanting continued as the Boarlord sat, cross-legged.

The box had been removed from its plinth, the skull of the dead Ratlord now gracing the stone pedestal alone. A circle of brimstone was carefully laid out around it on the ground. Hector’s words rattled from his mouth rapid-fire, unintelligible to anyone other than a magister. He stopped chanting suddenly, clenched his fist and slammed it down on to the stone floor once, twice, three times. The skull shuddered on the plinth.

“Rise, creature, and answer your master’s bidding!”

Hector felt the cold rush into the room. The candle flame sputtered, fighting the breeze, clinging to the wick and refusing to die. While the candle remained lit, the rest of the crypt darkened as the shadows crept in all around, the blackness all-consuming. The coffins and walls were swallowed by the darkness, and the gate that led to the stairs vanished. Even the torch at the foot of the stairwell spluttered out, leaving the candlelight as the only illumination in the chiling chamber.

A low chuckle bloomed slowly in the center of the circle of brimstone, the yellow powder shifting as if caught by a breeze. The laughter rose, rasping like a blade on a file, causing the skin on Hector’s arms to bristle.

"Well, this is a surprise," hissed the spirit of Vankaskan, tied to the dead Ratlord’s skull in the form of a vile.

B3 P7 C3