The giant had fallen, in which I had some small part. With no other foe to challenge me in melee, I sheathed my sword and pulled out my bow, intent on snagging earthward some vain enemy who had managed to kiss the sky. Unscathed, unnerved, unwavering, I bent the bow and ...
died.
And suddenly I was alive and well and back in Sweden. There was Tyr'n observing me with his cool, dispassionate eyes, his hands hidden within the folds of his robe. Another priest of his order (a master, I discover later, and the one responsible for bringing me back) exhaled in relief, nodded at Tyr'n and excused himself.
This was no house of Elrond, full of life and song, but a cave of surgical purpose, dark and dreary, clean yet saturated with the stench of death. There was light, but it seemed to draw the shadows in rather than cast them away. I had never seen Tyr'n look so comfortable as he didhere. We were both in Sweden, but only one of us was truly home.
"You passed away, but have now returned. Rise, there is work to do." I never expected Tyr'n to smile, and he didn't, but can a Elvish Necromancer make a joke?
And then I remember seeing Prindle drop lifeless to the ground in much the same fashion as I must have. "How is our little cousin?"
"He has gone wherever Pixies go when a Lich would see him dead." Poor, sweet, inane Prindle. He had nothing to trade for life, like my own potion of longevity.
"And so it was the Lich after all?"
"Of course. A powerful spell. You should consider yourself honoured to fall to such a worthy foe."
By now I'd gotten off the bed and I was reaching for my gear. "All wizards are cowards. I have looked every being I have killed in the eye."
Tyr'n nodded and this time he did smile. "So have I. But some I have had to ... animate after the fact in order to accomplish the task."
I intend to work out my frustration on Norse armies.
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