Chapter 1: Expository Suppository

Acarius Aediath was not a happy elf.

It had been about a year since he found himself freed from the dungeon beneath the Thalmor Embassy by a female Nord he later discovered to be the Dragonborn. During that time, the Altmer wizard found himself drifting from mercenary work to the College of Winterhold, where he sought employment. He desired to use his magical talents to inspire a younger generation instead of killing for a deluded government like the Aldmeri Dominion.

Savos Aren was at first skeptical of the (relatively) young elf, due to his...weathered appearance. Perhaps that was fair. Acarius didn't really fit the bill for a mage, especially in this province. He was tall, as all Altmer tended to be, and had the lean muscle of someone who worked for a living, rather than studying. Decades of battle, and more recently, torture, showed on the dark-haired high elf's face. Once smooth features were now more rugged, with freshly healed wounds from his stay with the Thalmor now scarring. Overall, he would be pegged as a mercenary or assassin long before a teacher.

Still, Aren must have seen something in his emerald eyes, hopefully his intellect, because he accepted his employment on a trial basis, starting with Faralda observing him. Expecting to have been denied from the start, the fugitive found the terms to be more than adequate. However, he found that teaching for the College of Winterhold was far from simple.

What started as a simple, but enlightening excavation of Saarthal turned into a large conspiracy centered around an artifact known as the "Eye of Magnus" and the Psijic Order. Acarius found his time split between teaching a larger-than-expected roster of students in the art of war magic and pursuing leads on their newest artifact for the Archmage. Honestly, he should have known that something like this would happen. Magical guilds just didn't have good luck with running smoothly, as evidenced by the Oblivion Crisis 200 years prior and the more recent destruction of Winterhold.

Months of errands and investigation culminated in the betrayal of Ancano, the death of Savos Aren, and his possession of a powerful Aedric artifact. So, he used the Staff of Magnus to subvert Ancano's (bafflingly stupid) plans and even managed to prevent the death of Mirabelle Ervine. When all was said and done, the Psijics took the Eye of Magnus away, leaving them with the Staff and assumptions that Acarius Aediath, fugitive and murderer, would take over the College of Winterhold.

Needless to say, he didn't agree with that plan. Mirabelle would make a far better leader, and Faralda had been nipping at her heels for the title of Master Wizard for years. No, he wanted to teach the young to become worthy of leading, not lead himself. The staff agreed with his decision to remain an instructor, and also agreed that the Staff was best kept with him, as he had more experience with it at this point.

The mage had not forgotten his life debt to Sveri, the Dragonborn. She saved Malborn, Etienne, and himself from the clutches of that bitch, Elenwen. When he thought all was lost and had resigned himself to a whimpering death at the hands of genocidal maniacs, she proved to be the hero people claimed her to be. Even after, she offered to take him to Whiterun. Although his wounds were all closed thanks to Restoration magic, he knew that trekking alone in his condition could prove treacherous in Skyrim, so he agreed.

During that trip, he learned a lot about the Nord they called Dragonborn. The ancient history of Skyrim wasn't his specialty, but the echoing shout of the Greybeards proclaiming a new Dovahkiin was unmistakable.

It turns out all people, even legends, tended to adhere to schedules. Finding her wasn't difficult by any means, as he actually knew her name (something that the Thalmor sorely wished they did) from her attack on the Embassy, and the entire city of Whiterun sung her praises with little prompting. He learned that she gravitated back to Skyrim's central city every month or so, for whatever reason.

It wasn't a particularly hard journey from Winterhold to Whiterun either, just time-consuming. After two weeks of mundane travel from the esteemed College, he finally found himself in the open city. The mage dragged himself from the city's gates to the only tavern he was familiar with, the Bannered Mare. After his "departure" from the services of the Dominion, he had stayed in this inn for an amount of time while his wounds recovered. The owner, Hulda, was kind enough, and the patrons could respect even an elf if they had enough scars.

So, after greeting Hulda and dragging himself to a room, Acarius slept restlessly until the next morning, when he woke promptly at sunrise. Later that same day, after he killed some time shopping around and paying a visit to the court wizard, Farengar, word got around the city that the Thane had returned from a journey to Solstheim of all places. Finding her home was easy, as it was just sold to the Thane some months ago.

He had the decency to at least wait a few hours though, to give her time to rest instead of bombarding her with his desire to repay his debt. When the time came, he walked over to the quaint townhouse of Breezehome and knocked at the door. Instead of the dark-haired Nord woman he expected, the door was answered by a brunette Nord of the same build.

It struck him immediately that this must be his Housecarl, Lydia. People told tales of her rise from the city guard to the service of the Jarl, and now to the service of the Dragonborn herself. She was a respected figure in the city, even-tempered and kind. The mage decided that putting his best foot forward would be the correct course of action here. He gave a small bow to the warrior and said, "Greetings, Housecarl. I'd like to speak to your Thane, Sveri if she is around. I owe her a great debt that I must see repaid."

Lydia eyed him up and down, no doubt calculating what kind of threat he was to her charge, and possibly how long it'd take for her to kill him in this tight space. Either he wasn't enough of a threat or she assumed she could snap his neck quickly enough, because she allowed him into the home of the Dragonborn. "Sveri is checking up on the Jarl right now. She'll be back in an hour or so. Go ahead and relax, mage. I was told that you're one of the few high elves that I shouldn't punch in the face if they came here," the housecarl joked.

Acarius grinned back at her and sat down in one of the chairs in the house's kitchen area. "You know, I expected you to be a lot more stern, considering your profession," he said. "Every professional bodyguard I've met has had a stick shoved up their ass about any visitor. Do you truly trust Sveri's word on my character that much?"

She sat down on a chair opposite him and replied, "Well, being the 'bodyguard' of a woman who can Shout the skin off of your bones is more ceremonial, to be honest. Sveri didn't need a protector for long, just a friend. I'm more than happy to be there for her. As for her word, I'm sure she'd have run you through herself if you were actually with the Thalmor. It's been almost two years since she raided that Embassy and they still haven't let up. If what she told me is true, you hate those bastards as much as any Nord."

The mage's grin fell, and he shook his head at Lydia. "No, Lydia. I hate them more than any Nord could ever hope to. I was one of them. What they do here in Skyrim is just routine work compared to the horrors they've committed in the places they actually hold power. I've seen whole villages of "heretics" burned alive with my own eyes. By my own hands, even. Honestly, she should hate me like the rest of them."

He looked down as a particular memory struck him, leaving him silent as the Housecarl observed. Lydia interrupted his brooding by getting up from her chair and placing a hand on his shoulder and saying, "You can't define yourself by your upbringing, mage. Not everyone has the luxury of being born in a position to do good. Did Sveri tell you that she was an orphan from Riften? The greatest legend of our generation was a street rat from the filthiest city in Skyrim. She didn't let her upbringing decide who she was, Dragonborn or not."

She was smiling at him again. He didn't really know how to feel about these types of things, but he made the effort to smile back. Before he could thank the warrior, the door flew open, a female figure stomping in like she owned the place. And she did.

Taller than Lydia, with onyx black hair, the owner of Breezehome was one of the most attractive Nords that Acarius had ever seen. Her face was one that had seen battle, but her laugh lines seemed to dismiss the battle-weariness as inconsequential in the face of her joy. That mirthful face belied the truly predatory blue eyes of their owner, a piecing gaze that made one feel like that were looking into the eyes of a dragon instead of a dragon hunter.

Sveri took one look at Lydia and Acarius before whistling softly. "By the Nine, you work fast, Lydia. Shady Elf hasn't even had time to take his boots off, and you're already all over him." She pointed at said elf before he could protest. "And don't start complaining about the name. If you recall, we spent two weeks traveling together, and you never once told us your name. So you are henceforth known as 'Shady Elf' until you give me a better name."

The Housecarl took the opportunity to sit back down in her chair, making an exaggerated sigh as she did so. The mage stood up, face stony as he looked the Dovahkiin once over before falling to one knee. "My name is Acarius Aediath, and I owe you a life debt. I've come to repay you for saving me from my imprisonment."

Once he was done with his statement, he looked back up again to observe her reaction. As he peered into her eyes, what he saw was...amusement? She clearly wasn't impressed with his proposition, by the way she shook her head at him. "No, I don't think that's how this works. I saved you because you were being tortured, not to acquire some "life debt" for you to pay back. If that's all you came for, you might as well go home, Acarius," she chided.

"No, I can't just leave. You salvaged my future and gave me a new beginning. How could I just let it go? Let me assist you in some way, even if it's something mundane."

Sveri seemed to ponder it for a moment before her smile got larger. "Well, I do have a bounty that the Jarl of Riften gave me. Her Self-Righteousness said it was very important to the city, but I need to be in the Reach to take care of some business with a couple of ungrateful Blades. Tell you what, your "debt" to me will be paid if you can take care of this little coven for me, so I don't have to be tempted to shove my boot up Laila's uptight ass," she offered.

He immediately agreed to these terms, prompting the Dragonborn to hand him the bounty poster from the Rift to "investigate and purge" a possible necromantic ritual happening in the hold, too far from the city for their guards to handle. This was a fine deal for him. He detested necromancy and knew that giving time to those types of rituals could prove disastrous. Plus, his magical abilities were far better suited to this job than martial prowess, no matter how good the Dragonborn undoubtedly was.

Still, something about the poster was making him uneasy, which in itself was a strange occurrence. "Is there any other task I am to complete once this is done?" he asked the dragonslayer.

"When you get back, we're going to celebrate. So wait up for me in Whiterun, please. I'm sure Lydia will keep you company," Sveri nudged her Housecarl in the arm.

"Very well. Thank you for your hospitality, Lydia. Sveri. I'll return before the month is up."

He left the house, getting another pat from the Housecarl and a friendly wave from Sveri, and left to fulfill his debt.

So, he began his trek from Whiterun to the specified location in the western Rift. About 3 miles or so east of Ivarstead, it was a feasible threat to the small hamlet, but much too far indeed for Riften itself to intervene. The journey itself was mundane, but it gave him large amounts of time to think about the uneasy feeling from this job. He quickly realized the source of his unease as he looked at the poster again. This job had been posted months ago, but it seemingly hadn't been completed yet. Many Nords would leap at the chance to punch a necromancer's teeth in, contract or not.

Those same Nords also wouldn't back out upon hearing of a job's difficulty. In fact, the desire to have bards sing of their tales was usually enough to push the northerners to accept ridiculous requests alone. So, it was safe to assume that this job was more dangerous than any old bandit den. Or maybe the mercenaries around Riften were as cowardly as their guards.

Either way, it wouldn't be a deterrent for him. Determined to raze the ritual site to the ground, Acarius finally came upon the cave's mouth.

As the mage studied the entrance, it struck him once again that bandits in this country had no concept of subtlety. He found dozens of bandit camps in his time exploring Skyrim, and they always seemed to mark their territory with an effigy of some kind at the entrance. Necromancers tended to be bandits with delusions of grandeur, so it was no different here. A simple pile of bones stacked into a brazier: how original.

Wanting to get this over with, he cast Ebonyflesh on himself and entered the cave.

His immediate view was a narrow passage, roughly carved and dimly lit from one brazier. It went on for about 20 feet, but he spotted a doorway on his left that presumably led further into the mouth of the beast. So far, no minions. That suited him just fine. The mage carefully crept toward the interior doorway, not wanting to alert the whole cave of potentially magically adept enemies without cause. He put himself against the wall and peeked inside. Emerald eyes widened as the saw the next room.

It was a much larger chamber, carefully constructed rather than hastily dug. From his narrow view of the room, he couldn't tell, but the part he did see was already strange. What caught his eye immediately was a slouched figure in the dimly lit area. Instead of the skeleton, he might have expected of a necromancer's den, he was peering at an amalgamation of rotten flesh in the shape of a man.

Rotten far past the point of decay, Acarius was surprised he didn't smell the corpse first. By the Nine, it was an actual zombie. The art of making zombies was thought to have been lost since the Third Era, following the King of Worm's death and the inquisitions upon his cult. To see one here was troubling, to say the least. Still, zombies had a well-documented weakness to fire, so these people chose the wrong minion to thwart him.

The walking dead finally noticed him, shambling toward him lethargically. It really is a putrid thing, he thought, as he raised his hands to the creature.

Flame leaped out of his hands, consuming the abomination in its entirety. It writhed and flailed as the fire superheated its rotten flesh, still making a futile attempt to reach the elf and letting out an eerie screech all the while. Finally, the corpse ceased its struggle and collapsed onto the ground. Its remains gave off the too-familiar stench of burnt flesh that tormented his senses. He still needed to press on; necromancers who could produce zombies were the last thing this province needed.

As Acarius took a moment to observe the chamber, he noticed that a breeze flowed in this room. It was much larger than he could see currently. Plans to navigate the room carefully were swept away when a dozen braziers seemingly lit themselves further in. He could now see that the space continued for two hundred feet or so. And, of course, such a large space had to be densely packed with obstacles for the mage.

Almost every inch of the space ahead of him was occupied by one of the patchwork minions. There were dozens, maybe a couple hundred at most, each one in varying states of decay. His keen mind analyzed every detail of the rotting mob in front of him. This was suicide for most adventurers. Defeating zombies in melee combat was arduous, and not nearly as effective as magic.

Luckily, magic was in large supply here, so shock and awe would suffice, he decided. Two fireballs formed in the mage's hands before being carelessly loosed in the direction of the fleshy mob. The zombies took notice of him but could do nothing as the first two orbs detonated, true death for the unfortunate souls following. Not waiting to see the results of the explosion, he formed two more orbs of fire and launched them behind the first impact site.

His Magicka strained as two fireballs became four, then eight, then sixteen. In an instant, the barrage of fire replicated itself in midair, becoming a wave of orange that crashed against the tide of flesh halting his progress. The quiet chamber became a cacophony of roaring flames, screeching undead, and explosions that rocked the cave.

Acarius took no chances, setting every inch of this chamber ablaze. Even if the explosions didn't kill them, he would turn this space into a crucible forge. Still, he didn't relent, releasing dozens more smaller firebolts in a wide arc toward the survivors. Soon, the last of the undead screeches succumbed to the inferno the mage unleashed, bringing silence once more. He lowered his arms to observe the fallout.

What was once dozens of bodies packed wall to wall became more akin to the interior of a crematorium. Few traces of the rotten flesh that comprised the zombies remained, and what was still solid was charcoal black and smoking. As the heat hit his skin and the repulsive stench of this holocaust reached his nose, the elf couldn't help but feel a sick satisfaction. Seeing the destruction of undead on this scale was euphoric, making him almost want to find some Meridian cult to join. This was Daedra worship that he could get behind.

Chuckling at his small joke, he began to cross the chamber, intent on finding the necromancers capable of creating this many zombies. As he crossed the field of ash and debris toward the doorway at the end of the chamber, a peculiar sound reached his ears. It was the sound of a metal pin hitting a stone surface.

Instantly on alert, the mage flared his armor spell just in time for a large bolt to strike his sternum. The impact launched him off his feet, causing him to land on his back several feet away. Luckily, the bolt broke on the magical layer covering his body, the pain alone was enough to stagger the mage. Before he could right himself, another pin hit the ground. He quickly rolled to the side to avoid the second bolt, the projectile breaking on the stone floor where he previously lay.

Acarius leaped to his feet, determining that the bolt had to come from the doorway he walked toward. Looking at the entranceway that was about 30 feet away now, he noticed nothing capable of launching projectiles that large. Readying a greater ward spell, he approached the doorway once more. The pin sound echoed once more, prompting his ward to materialize in an instant. Instead of landing on his ass, the impact against his ward merely pushed him back several feet.

Fine with him, as he just figured out the cause of this mess. He prepared a counterspell and blindly launched it straight into the doorway. His theory proved true when the counterspell found purchase in a target, flashing the room blue for a second.

There in the doorway, previously hidden by an illusion, was a Dwemer ballista on a swivel. It was reloading its next shot, undeterred by the illusion magic failing. A thunderbolt left his right hand the next instant, impacting the automaton's rounded chassis and causing it to stiffen up. While the ancient construct attempted to shrug off the lightning's effects, Acarius pressed his attack. His left hand raised, he began forming a large purple sphere that crackled with arcane power. It swelled to the size of a watermelon before leaving the mage's hand with a mind of its own, shooting toward the ballista before impacting with a loud crash.

Pieces of the Dwemer device flew from its body, shards of yellow metal going further into the cave and others impacting the walls around the turret. The slightly battered mage let out a small sigh of relief as the last vestiges of artificial life left the machine. Ballistae were no joke; getting hit without a strong armor spell would have surely left a gaping hole in his torso. As it was, his sternum still throbbed from the previous impact.

That someone actually dragged one out of a dwarven ruin and placed that illusion spell on it was worrying. This could mean that he was dealing with a large group with an array of talents, or that it was a smaller group that was extremely competent. Either way, there was no time to worry; they surely knew he was coming with the ruckus he made in this chamber.

Stepping over smoking remains of zombies and pieces of the Dwemer turret, he continued into the next passage. Through the doorway containing the ballista was a roughly excavated hallway leading to a door that was harshly juxtaposed to the rest of the cave. Its frame was elegantly carved from white marble, complete with Daedric inscriptions along the top of the frame. Continuing down the hall, he noticed the air become heavier as he neared the door, taking on a soup-like quality as he stopped to read the inscription.

ELSEWHERE

The Altmer cocked his head to the side as he read the runes. Elsewhere? How ominous. Paying it no more mind, he refreshed his armor spell before detonating the lock on the door with alteration magic and kicking it in.

Acarius burst into the room ready to repel magic and fight hordes of undead but was met with silence in a dimly lit chamber made with the same marble as the elegant door and a low ceiling made of normal rock. He looked around the room and noticed it completely empty save from several braziers and a throne with seated a tall figure.

An Altmer like himself, but slightly taller and lankier. He wore an elegant black robe with a silver inlay and carried an unassuming wooden staff. As the mage approached the throne, the figure just watched him with a small smirk. The seated figure's face was also a lot smoother than his own, and his features were far more delicate. Coupled with the stereotypical golden hair of their race, he was a poster child for elven arrogance, irritating the mage just by virtue of existing.

"Are you the one who made those aberrations?" Acarius asked the figure.

The seated elf's smirk grew larger before he replied. "Why yes, I did, child. Tell me, did you find undoing several months of my work difficult?"

That made him pause. Child? This mer looked half his age at best. "Amusing to call me a child when you look as if you're just off your mother's teat," the impatient mage spat.

A soft chuckle left the blonde elf. He leaned forward on his throne, seeming to delight in this tense banter. "Lichdom has many benefits, child. Being well into my eighth century, I like to vary my face. It helps me recapture my youth, you see. Still, my soft spot for my Altmer body chains me to this aesthetic."

He took a moment to observe the widening eyes of Acarius before continuing. "It's been a short while since my embarrassing defeat at the hands of Traven's apprentice, that meddling Dunmer. I only regret that he no longer lives to see the folly in opposing me. Ah, but that is of little consequence. The fact of the matter is that I yet live, and my throne will be reclaimed. Now, young mage, you may have subverted a few months of my work, but I am a reasonable sovereign. I shall present you a choice: serve me willingly or become the first of many worm thralls. Either way, your soul has been forfeit since entering this place."

As the necromancer before him finished his insane monologue, Acarius considered his words. He was certain that this mer had been here for months, as he said. The states of decay on the dozens of zombies in the large chamber were quite diverse, some no doubt being months old at this point. Claims of being a lich in corporeal form were dubious at best, but it was known to have happened based on some texts.

The fact that Hannibal Traven's successor was Dunmeri wasn't widely known, and neither was his mysterious death after the Oblivion Crisis. However, they weren't exactly secrets either. The Dominion knew all this information for decades. Finally, he considered the final claim.

This mer was Mannimarco, the King of Worms.

At least, he believes himself to be. Acarius has dealt with nearly every kind of deception imaginable in his time with the Dominion, from self-deception to carefully crafted conspiracies. So, he was able to determine that this lunatic honestly believed in the words coming from his mouth. Every word was genuine. Either he was facing down one of the most infamous figures in the history of Tamriel, or this was merely a skilled necromancer with great delusions.

No matter the truth, he saw no point in dragging this out. He reached out to his own pocket of Oblivion and called forth two precious artifacts. In his left hand materialized the beautifully carved mask that once belonged to Morokei, while the familiar staff he once sought placed itself in his right hand. Putting on the moonstone mask, he addressed his adversary.

"I don't care if you're a madman, Mannimarco, or Queen Potema herself. I came here to kill a necromancer, so let the Nine damn me if I don't," he growled at the still-smirking elf.

The King of Worms rose to address his subject. "Very well, I'm sure you will make an excellent thrall. And I thank you for the tribute you've brought me. That staff is practically radiating Magicka, more strongly than any staff I've yet encountered. Oh, what sights we'll see together. The staff and I, that is. Worm thralls tend not to see much after I rip out their souls."

Not waiting to see what Mannimarco's combat prowess was like, Acarius formed an icy spear in his free hand and launched it before the necromancer could form any defenses. His heart fell when it passed harmlessly through the elf's torso, seemingly absorbed into nothing.

That settled it, he was facing down some type of lich. Still fearing the inevitable counterattack, he tightened his grip on the Aedric artifact in his right hand. A bolt of pale green light left the staff's head, seeming to surprise Mannimarco as it impacted his stomach. The lich doubled over in pain, torso smoking where the aetherial energy struck.

Before Acarius could follow up, he felt himself freeze as a wave of terror washed over him. A dark chuckle from the lich turned into full-belly laughter. Mannimarco stopped laughing long enough to let out a small "You..." before breaking into laughter once more. Even while seemingly being mocked by the scourge in front of him, the mage's muscles remained completely locked, to his dismay. The legendary necromancer's laugh finally died down as he regained his composure. "I can't believe that the Staff of Magnus finally resurfaced, only to be in the hands of a weak-willed child such as yourself. The pride of the Magne-Ge, delivered right to me by a fool."

Mannimarco took two steps toward the paralyzed mage, studying him closely. "I bet you're wondering why you can't move. Let me reassure you that this is no magic," the lich said, grinning savagely. "Trembling in fear before more is simply the common sense."

As Acarius struggled against the feeling of helplessness that consumed him, the King of Worms surprised him. "As a reward for bringing me this artifact and that Dragon Priest's mask, I have decided to spare your soul. Make no mistake, you shall perish today, but I'll allow you a warrior's death and the embrace of Auriel. In return, I'll also be able to practice with my newest toy, here."

He was forced to watch as his captor pulled a small sigil stone from his robe and began channeling his power into it. Everyone knew that ripping a hole into Oblivion wasn't easy, requiring enormous amounts of magicka and concentration. It was typically a ritual done by entire cults, not one being. Mannimarco believed him to be so weak, so cowed by his presence, that he would perform such a delicate ritual right in front of him without even restraining him first?

This would-be king was so arrogant as to not even consider the possibility of his escape? Such hubris, such malice, such disdain for those he considered below him. Acarius felt a burning from his old wounds as he stared at that perfect Altmer face.

It was the face of wanton slaughter of political dissidents, of the "domination of a lesser race" and the torture of innocents. It reminded him of the betrayal of family and the hopeless despair given to him by those he once considered allies. His muscles, which had locked up out of fear, loosened as another emotion took hold of the mage.

Rage.

While Acarius struggled, Mannimarco failed to notice the change in his victim's posture or the resolve in the elf's eyes. Instead, he focused on the portal which roared to life in front of him, an inky black hole in reality leading to death. As he directed his energies through the portal to the desired location, the room flashed the same pale green.

Another bolt from the Staff struck the lich in the torso, seeming to do more damage than last time. Mannimarco stumbled in place, but maintained his concentration on the portal, now having to divide his attention between the destructive energies of Oblivion and his opponent. Right hand still clutching the Sigil Stone, he raised his left to combat the pesky elf.

A small tear in reality appeared in front of his hand, shooting debris and chaotic energy from some plane of Oblivion toward the mage. This seemed to shock Acarius, but he reacted fast enough to drop the Staff and put both of his hands into a greater ward and stand his ground. The red tide from the rift impacted the ward hard, but it lacked the stopping power to break through. Acarius quickly found, however, that the problem was the constant stream emanating from the portal wasn't letting up, keeping him locked in place lest he find himself torn apart.

Wanting to break this stalemate fast, the mage took his right hand off the ward, which was still barely hanging on, and shot the largest chain lightning he could muster off the wall. It predictably ricocheted toward the occupied necromancer but was stopped midair by a skeleton that shot from the ground.

More skeletons began to dig themselves from the dirt of the large chamber, intent on defending their master. Sensing the tide turn, Acarius concentrated on a larger spell. Green light spilled from his open hand, surrounding him with a light barrier. Circle of Protection.

The undead attempted to rush him but found themselves halted against their will. Whatever meager intelligence they possessed made them retreat back to Mannimarco instead, forming a defensive pattern around the lich. Acarius rebuffed the ward with his right hand, and instead took his left away to begin a new spell.

A ball of fire formed in that hand, the size of a standard fireball, before it began to grow steadily. The larger the ball became, the less it resembled fire, taking on an appearance of magma instead. Eventually, it became larger than his ward, the edges of the red-orange orb showing signs of instability. Rings of fire surrounded the magma, crackling like lightning. He knew that if he held it any longer, it would explode in his face, so he loosed it on the ceiling above him with a strained heave.

The massive orb detonated against the low cave ceiling, spreading calamity as it fizzled out. Lava began raining down from the point of impact, hitting the undead minions of Mannimarco and melting them where they stood. Stone began to fall as well, compromising the cave's structure as the ceiling seemed to begin collapsing on the two combatants.

Acarius knew it had the desired effect when the lich hastily closed the rift, instead choosing to erect a barrier between himself and the ceiling. He did not doubt that the lich would protect himself from some falling rock and lava. However, the barrier he chose left him wide open to attack from the ground. The Staff of Magnus rose from the ground into his hand, seemingly eager to end the conflict. Concentrating the staff's energies into a much larger bolt than before, he pointed the staff at the defenseless lich before him.

Mannimarco noticed too late when the green glow of Magnus filled the chamber completely. His undead eyes flashed in horror as he shouted, "No, you fool! The portal isn't yet stable!"

It was too late. The staff's aetherial energy clashed with the lich's undead form, engulfing him in that beautiful green light. However, the energy sucked itself not into Mannimarco himself, but the sigil stone in his hand. The cave was rocked from the impact, sending Acarius against the wall of the cave and knocking the lich onto his knees.

The sigil stone was still suspended in midair, despite not being touched by anyone. As Aetherius and Oblivion clashed within the small stone, darkness began leaking out into the chamber, engulfing everything in pitch blackness. Both lich and mage were already unconscious by this point, exhaustion and pain taking over.

Eventually, the darkness receded back into the Sigil Stone, but when the room became visible once more, it was empty save for the Stone itself, which turned to dust after being spent.

AN:

This is a rewrite of my original first chapter, which had many spacing issues, and a decision that I'm not too happy with. Frankly, I don't know how anyone read it and decided to even bother with the second chapter. It's still not great, but I'm not so ashamed of it now.

Something I would like to clarify is that "Mannimarco" is not the demigod Mannimarco, the true King of Worms. This is the necromancer carrying the name from Oblivion, in lich form.

6/13/22