Dr. Greaves faced Grandma Aetheris with his plague mask, serving as a grim reminder of the fate that loomed over her. "The initial phase," he croaked, his voice lacking any warmth, "demands accuracy." A quick and painless passing.
His hand in a glove pointed to a device in the room's corner - a metal frame decorated with many sharp spears. Grandma Aetheris felt fear tightening in her throat, the scent of metal in the air heavy with the anticipation of blood.
Two individuals wearing matching plague masks walked towards us with precise and skilled movements, their faces hidden from view. Her arms and legs were fastened to the structure, the icy metal piercing her skin.
"Any last words, old woman?" Dr. Greaves taunted, a cruel glint in his eyes.
Grandma Aetheris, despite the terror coursing through her veins, met his gaze with defiance. "You will not succeed," she rasped, her voice surprisingly steady. "There will be consequences for your actions."
Dr. Greaves chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Consequences? Perhaps. But for now, your defiance serves no purpose."
With great precision, the figures set the device in motion. The spears thrust forward with a grotesque thud, penetrating Grandma Aetheris's body in a concert of agony. A primal sound of agony echoed in the sterile confines of the room as a scream tore through her throat.
The globe transformed into a mix of agony in a kaleidoscope pattern. Every breath felt like a burning fire, every heartbeat like a heavy hammer on her broken ribs. Panic gripped the outskirts of her mind like a wild animal confined in a prison of suffering.
However, in the midst of the intense suffering, a small spark of resistance persisted. She refused to let him see her crack. She would perish proudly, a symbol of the resilience that even his gruesome ceremony couldn't erase.
As she slowly lost her vitality, Dr. Greaves quickly approached, holding a glass chalice up high. He placed the cup above her last, raspy exhale, trapping the essence of her leaving spirit in a misty swirl.
The chalice pulsed with an otherworldly light, the stolen breath swirling within its depths like a miniature storm. Tears welled up in Grandma Aetheris's eyes, a silent farewell to the life she was so brutally ripped from.
At the same time, the figures in the room started getting ready for their last tasks. On a platform, they placed the torn body of a necromancer surrounded by a complex array of symbols made of Grandma Aetheris's blood. A dark energy tingled through the atmosphere as the wires attached to the necromancer's body buzzed with a faint electricity.
With anticipation shining in his eyes, Dr. Greaves inserted a tube into the chalice, one end connecting to the necromancer's chest cavity.
The individuals encircling the stage started their spell with a deep-throated chant. The ritual filled the air with intense energy as the stolen breath flowed through the tube and the necromancer's broken body.
At the exact moment that the chant peaked, a bright light burst out from the necromancer's chest. The breath that was stolen, filled with the essence of life, sparked inside and resulted in a thunderous blast that shook the entire room.
Silence fell, dense and oppressive. The strong smell of burnt flesh and ozone filled the air heavily. Dr. Greaves, with his plague mask tilted, was in the middle of the destruction, murmuring only one word: "Victory."
However, achieving success in this gruesome death ritual came with a high price. Grandma Aetheris' once vibrant life had been snuffed out, taken to power a monstrous entity emerging from her sacrifice. In the quiet emptiness of the lab, Dr. Greaves shed a solitary tear, a brief display of his humanity in the midst of the turmoil he had caused.
Dr. Greaves let out a sound, almost like a gasp, as the intense light faded away. A strong combination of burnt flesh and ozone overwhelmed him with its powerful stench. However, he continued to stare at the platform, torn between a morbid curiosity and a sudden feeling of dread.
A figure moved on the platform, surrounded by the burnt symbols and the metallic smell of blood. A lengthy, bony hand surfaced from the debris, its bones shining an eerie white color in the flickering light. One after the other, another person stood up, followed by another, until a tall and commanding figure emerged from the stage with a sound that made Dr. Greaves feel uneasy.
Black armor, adorned with intricate skull designs, covered the creature's body, its polished surface reflecting the harsh laboratory lights. A tattered cloak, seemingly woven from threads of war itself, hung from its broad shoulders. The skull that served as its head held no flesh, only two burning green flames that emanated from its empty sockets. A similar green flame flickered within the carved cavity of its chest, casting an eerie glow on the scene.
"Lord Vrn," Dr. Greaves rasped, the word tumbling out in a mix of awe and terror as he fell to his knees.
The figure, Lord Vrn, tilted its flaming skull in a gesture that could be interpreted as a nod. Its voice, when it spoke, was a guttural rasp, a sound that scraped against the very fabric of reality.
"You have served me well, Dr. Greaves," it rumbled. "But your usefulness has come to an end."
Dr. Greaves's eyes grew wider, silently pleading, but Lord Vrn's revived existence showed no room for mercy. Lord Vrn lifted a skeletal hand with quick, almost nonchalant action, its elongated, bony fingers ending in sinister claws. A red light pulsed around the hand, and suddenly, it cut through Dr. Greaves's neck with a disgustingly wet noise.
The leader of the formerly dignified physician fell to the ground, his dead eyes gazing blankly upwards. His body collapsed, resembling a puppet without strings.
Lord Vrn remained unmoved as the life force slowly left the corpse, the green flame in its chest growing stronger with every second. At last, the body dried up and transformed into a fragile shell that disintegrated into powder with a gentle exhale.
Only then did Lord Vrn turn its full attention to the world outside. With a powerful kick, it shattered the laboratory window, cold night air rushing in and swirling the acrid smoke.
From where it stood, it looked out at the distant horizon, where ten figures appeared in the wavering moonlight. Tall, cloaked figures stood, their shapes obscured in darkness, yet the slight smell of decay and the gleam of malevolent blades protruding from their scabbards revealed their true selves.
The green flames of Lord Vrn flickered with a predatory glint. The emergence of fear, the revival of a forgotten wickedness, marked the coming of its faithful protectors - the Vor'talons, bringers of death and hopelessness.
Lord Vrn let out a deep, throaty roar as it lifted its bony arm up to the dark sky. The noise reverberated through the laboratory, a frightening warning of the reappearance of darkness. In the distance, the shapes on the horizon echoed with a cacophony of non-human screams. The sacrifice was complete, the equilibrium between life and death was disrupted, and Decaoria was on the brink of encountering a horror more dreadful than anything Dr. Greaves could have imagined.