There was an age, now long since passed, when hope prevailed. In the days when Grizelda first made her ambitions known, fierce resistance broke the waves of her rising tide of evil. But as these mortal men and women eventually grew old and feeble, Grizelda only continued to grow in power.
Her nightmarish cult had swollen in number, as well—despite the torment stirred in the wake of her Grand Experiment, the power of her ichor was impossible for the weak-willed to resist. They gladly fought and died for her, and when they fell, she stitched their corpses into a patchwork legion that continued to serve her will in undeath.
Surely some brave remnants of humanity still linger? A band of valiant adventurers, each with abilities complimenting those of their allies, should certainly be capable of breaking the lich queen’s dark spell… Or so it’s been said.
Gasping for air as he sat hiding behind a crumbling stone column, Rufus Swift felt the walls closing in. His left shoulder was gushing from the razor slice of his assailant’s slender arm, still coated in hot crimson. He could hear her chittering nearby as he desperately fumbled through his pack for what remained of the medical supplies. He was losing the feeling in his fingers, and he knew the crushing fatigue creeping into his eyelids meant that it wouldn’t be long until he succumbed to his injury. His garments were becoming heavy as they soaked with his escaping essence.
“Don’t be shy,” Vorpal chirped, licking his blood from the length of her bladed forearm, gurgling as it ran down her throat. Her head swiveled on her neck as she scanned the morgue’s examination chamber for her final victim.
(more…)
