Depression is broken by the voices. For how long I slept, I do not know or care. It does not matter anymore. None of this matters.
The door has closed even further over time. During my slumber, the corpse propping the door open decayed even more, and the force of the spring powered door forced it shut even further. More of the disgusting contents of the corpse spilled out, but they have long since dried. I hate to look at them; to do so makes me feel as if I am part of a mass grave, or a heap of bodies. Maybe I belong in such a place, but if so, then I do not wish to acknowledge that fact. My experience has forced me to concede to so much...I desire at least some forms of denial to cling to.
The voices are accompanied by another language this time; one that I do not entirely understand. Some words are familiar, as if I have heard it spoken before but not at length. The person is hurt, but obviously not being brought here for the purpose of healing. The ice trolls are dragging him judging by their barked instructions at each other. And then...I feel it.
Like the nerubians. They were not normal nerubians; they had...power. Energy. I could sense it, and one of them in particular burned with it. I do not know what that energy is, but I sense it...and I feel hungry. My depression falls to the wayside as I hear the voices right outside of my chamber.
The scene is not familiar, but I do not feel surprised yet. The ice trolls lead a vrykul in chains into the chamber; he does not look undead like the nerubians, but he is obviously no ally to his captors; he looks like he had been involved in a battle, as does one of the two ice trolls dragging him inside. Two more of the beasts wielding spears file in, and then...the person of power enters.
Not undead, but it is power all the same. An old ice troll, grey and skinnier than the others, creeps inside. He is hypnotic; his eyes glow like those of the undead, but this is a new type of power...I can not take my eyes off of him. He glows, leaving an iridescent trail of energy behind him as he walks, but he does not seem to realize. My insides churn and turn as I find the slightest of twitches in my jaw muscles, and my thoughts become fluid and malleable.
The vrykul struggles, but I almost do not notice at first. The old witch doctor begins to recite something in his poor Zandali, the words lost on me as I watch the opalescent dust like material wafting in the air behind his hands as he talks in an animated fashion. For a few seconds it seems like the captive might escape when he elbows one of the spearmen in the jaw, but another one of them hits the man in chains in the back of the neck, knocking him down. It is an awful sight that should have frightened me; all of them are bigger than me, the vrykul resembles an ape and the ice trolls are beasts incomparable to any other, but I do not feel fear.
Not yet...but in the high induced by the power bleeding out of the witch doctor, I almost do not notice when he pulls out the dagger.