Hector- Commune

“Stepping back would be a good start,” Hector said, smiling, as he stumbled to his feet. In his hand he had a dark-green glass vial. Popping the stopper off he started to shake a line of yellow powder out onto the ground in a circle around the shaman’s body. He smartly restoppered the vial and dropped it into his satchel. “I have to act quickly, though. We may have already lost our chance. The soul can only be dragged back for a limited amount of time. Knowing my luck our window of opportunity is already closed. Keep your eyes on those huts; I don’t want to be interrupted.”
Drew stood with his back to the fire, Wolfshead blade in hand, watching the Wyldermen huts as Hector settled on the ground in front of the body and the powder circle.
“What is that stuff?” asked Drew. “It stinks!”
“Brimstone, Drew. Now be silent, please.”
Drew was taken aback by his friend’s authoritative tone, but didn’t argue. He stood over him, alert, as the Boarlord pulled a long black candle from his bag and held the wick to the bonfire, letting it catch. Then he closed his eyes and began to chant. Allowing the sleeves of his shirt to fall back he opened his left palm skyward before him, all the while quietly chanting ancient words. Drew looked over his shoulder nervously.
Tipping the candle, Hector let the wax drip from its end, pooling in a hot puddle in the palm of his left hand. Wincing at the pain, he didn’t miss a beat, keeping his chant going while the smoking wax dribbled onto his skin.
Drew shivered as a chill breeze suddenly fluttered through the settlement. He looked about as the shadows from the fire seemed to shift and distort. The black wax now filled Hector’s palm, dripping between his fingers and down onto his lap. He stopped chanting. Curling his fist into a ball, he brought it sharply down on to the earth and thumped it once. Twice. Three times.
The body on the ground seemed to shudder briefly.
“Did you see that?” gasped Drew.
“Quiet, Drew!” whispered Hector, concentrating.
The shaman’s body was moving, trembling. Drew looked around to see if they were being watched, but still there was no activity from the huts. He felt his knuckles pop as they tightened around the handle of the Wolfshead blade.
“Rise, creature, and answer to your master’s bidding,” said Hector. The Wylderman sat upright on the ground, fresh blood pouring from the wound in his chest. His skin had a deathly pallor, and splintered bones were visible in his open rib cage. His neck was loose, his head hanging against the chest. The figure sat motionless for a moment before his head snapped upright, eyes open, revealing pearly white lights within. After a moment of stillness his mouth broke into a fractured, grotesque grin, exposing bloody gums and sharpened teeth. A low, guttural laugh emanated from within. It sounded like death itself.

B1 P4 C2