Carrow hacked out a glob of alchemical refuse, the green blob of magic and biological material splattering onto a rune circle engraved on the stone floor. Crawling out of the massive human sized pot -a phylactery- Carrow exited the splash zone while casting a cleanse spell onto himself and his surrounding area.
"Fucking, ugh." Carrow spat, grumbling curses under his breath. With a wave of his hand a pair of sweatpants and a thick black robe appeared before him, and he quickly put the garments on. He left the robe open, show casing a well maintained body with tone, but despite the obvious level of athletic ability it showed that Carrow was no muscle bound warrior.
Stretching out and popping several joints in the process, Carrow gave a massive yawn, mentally exhausted from his previous fight and eventual death.
"If a known powerful necromancer dies easily, it's very likely that necromancer is not dead. Dumbass Paladins." Carrow quoted under his breath. His posture hunched over, and with another wave a black staff of knotted wood materialized after a flash of black flames. His hand grasped the handle of the staff, a skull was mounted there. His middle and index finger found their way into the eye socket of the third eye. A good habit to have as he'd have prophetic warnings periodically.
Carrow walked over the ritual circle as he mumbled under his breath. "Hmm, phylactery thirteen, huh, this was my space and time research bunker." Carrow stated as he inspect his surroundings. A large table filled with old reagents, books, papers, diagrams, ritual circles and so on. A few cages with long rotted corpses and a door leading to some dark, dank, and very isolated location. Carrow leaned heavily on his staff as he walked over to his desk.
"How old was I when I made this again?" Carrow asked himself. "Lets see, thirteen, thirteen." Carrow chanted the number of his phylactery, his left hand glowed blue as he raised it to touch his temple. "Ah, fifty seven. Damn, I was young." Carrow whistled as he looked around his old lab.
"Eh, decent work, but it lacks refinement." He stated as he looked down at various ritual circles and theories he'd once had. "Now, lets see if I'd started my stash at this age." Carrow chuckled as he unlocked a reagent cabinet and started using telekinesis to move reagents. He transmuted a grimoire into a mortar and pastel, a few implements and gems into a magical alembic, and he started the process of creating his 'remedy'.
He cracked open a beholders eye and removed the retina with practiced ease, manipulated a dragon's heart to infuse the dried and powdered ghoul blood with its essence, poured vampire blood into the alembic and fired it up while emulsifying it with Angel tears and powdered fay bones.
He grabbed the discarded beholder's eye, juiced it over the dried, powdered, and dragon infused ghoul blood. The juice turned the glowing red-grey ash into glowing green ash. He took that ash, added it to the alembic, and waited thirty seconds. He took out the finished product, and grabbed his discarded staff. With a tap, the staff morphed into a pipe, a smoking pipe to be exact. It still had its black wood, but it now had a sheen to it while the skull grinned widely.
He took the dried powder of various reagents and dumped it into the pipe, with a wisp of ghost fire, he lit the pipe and took a drag. "Fuuuuck yeah." Carrow exhaled; an image of dragons, vampires, ghouls, and Angels appeared inside of the cloud. All were trying to kill each other.
"Damn that's good. Old me had some quality mats." Carrow commented, his eyes dilated and head bobbing. Not seeing a chair, and not wanting to be bothered to create one, Carrow climbed up on the table, knocking over a ritual diagram, getting some of the concoction on it, powering it up, and with a terrifying flash Carrow vanished.
Carrow fell flat on his ass, snow crunching and blunting his fall. Sadly, his robe hiked up and his bare back was suddenly introduced to a very cold temperature. "Yo- Fuck!" Carrow jumped up, and his left hand snapped at the innocent snow, only to get utterly annihilated by a gout of hell flame. Carrow readjusted his robe, cast a drying spell on his back and took another drag. "What in the ever living hells." Muttered Carrow. His eyes taking in snow capped mountains and untamed wilderness.
"Shit. I teleported high again." Carrow took a drag, completely unrepentant. "Whelp, I'm killing something here soon." He stated blandly. He took another drag and the desire only multiplied. "Need a nice soul to munch on, daddy's getting hangry." He commented. With a gesture of his pipe, Carrow's feet were levitated a few inches from the ground. Suspended by a plane of ethereal purple magical platforms, Carrow began walking. He put his pipe in his mouth, and summoned a tree branch to his hands.
With a crackle of black lightning, the branch twisted and morphed into an intricate and complex instrument. With a harsh strum of the newly created guitar strings, heavy rock rang out into the mountains, and Carrow in all his glory bathed the world with his presence. Black robes, black sweatpants, no shirt or even shoes. His hair was dark brown, wavy and slicked back without a single strand out of uniform. His eyes were sharp, yet his sclera was black instead of the normal white. His iris was a haunting caustic green, and every step he took was made with an arrogant swagger that only came from those confident in their ability.
His fingers strummed along, sometimes harsh and fast, other times slow of pace and smooth. He'd tune the musical instrument often, showcasing decades of musical experience and understanding paired with magical ability and unpleasant but fruitful dealings with Bards.
A cocky grin would engrave itself on a face that was too perfect to be natural, a keen observation because it was unnatural. The mastery of death and the flesh came with many perks after all. He'd puff and smoke on his pipe as he walked, and no matter how much time would pass he'd not slow or show irritation. Immortality taught patience like no other.
As he hit a low note on his guitar, a queer look appeared on his face as his eyes moved toward the snowy forests he was adjacent to. A smile formed next, and the guitar he'd been using caught on fire with black flames. Soon naught even ash was left. His pipe flashed and soon he was holding his staff again, and with a joyful intake of air, Carrow waited for his new 'friend' to appear.
Did anyone say Necromancer? Me neither, so I wrote this and got stuck.