Wrymlung the Decayed

“Awaken.” Eyelids sealed by frost slowly peel apart, the icy snow fracturing from pale skin as the thin lids separate to reveal milky gray eyes that struggle to look through dark lashes piled with snowflakes. Lips discolored by frostbite suck in air into lungs that ache from the exertion and the cold as the beginnings of sensation return. The weight of the knight’s armor keeps them still in their weakened state, warmth barely starting to trickle into their blood as they lay there on a stone slab that attempts to be an altar, and thus they remain still even as eyes of a royal-purple flame peer at them, into them. A shiver runs through the knight, but they do not, cannot feel the cold as anything more than a distant throb while they stare up into the burning sockets of the black skull head shining in the pale moonlight belonging to what has to be a demon. The knight can do nothing but watch as their large form looms over them, clad in dark armor that sounds like glass as the demon shifts. Fear makes the knight’s heart beat faster, yet it is still more of a dull throb, warming them just enough to allow them to start sitting up, only for a massive hand to press down on their chest, pushing the knight into the dull gray stone with ease. The knight takes a shuddering breath, and surrenders to the mercy of the demon above them, who -at their stillness- pulls the hand away as they tilt their head, revealing the dark flesh of their neck that shines amethyst. The demon is studying them. A flash of anger runs molten through the knight’s veins, rebelling in mind, in expression but not words since their tongue still sits heavy in their mouth, a useless blob of meat and blood. The demon pulls their hand away but stops short, hovering over the form of the knight as a faint glow appears around the armored hand like the whisper of flame just before a campfire fully alights. Warmth sinks into the knight, softening muscle and tissue until it penetrates their very bones, willing them slowly back to a state of motility. The knight feels it, the warmth filling every part of them, flooding their chest to bloom in their heart and lungs, making them gasp as they feel as if a weight is suddenly hefted from their chest that they quickly realize was the feeling of their own body crushing them. They jolt, throwing themself onto their side as they heave and cough to eventually produce clumpy coagulated blood that erupts from their spasming throat and onto the stone to splatter into a heap of their own viscera. Staring at it, a cold feeling sits heavy in their chest made stark by the warmth still swirling within them from the demon’s hand. “Ser Wrymlung,” the demon addresses them with a voice like rolling thunder, “Are you yet able to speak?” Memory returns to Wrymlung at the sound of their name, his name, and pain shoots through his skull like a shard of ice plunging into his very brain forcing him to lurch and clutch his head, tears pricking his eyes. An ache so true and potent that it would kill a person in their twilight years forms in his heart and he sobs. The demon catches him about the torso as his limbs shake under him, barely able to keep him up as tears trickle from his eyes, melting away the last of the snow on his lashes. His tongue rolls in his mouth, tasting his blood against his teeth as he grits them in pain, his chest tightening with sorrow. “Put me back,” Wrymlung’s voice is soft, softer than the delicately falling snow outside, “Put me back on the ground and let me die…” “I will not do that,” the demon says it so simply that it shocks him to his very core. “Why?” Wrymlung begs, propping himself on the impossibly sturdy arm of the demon, “Why not just let me die?” He looks down, his eyes blank like those of a dead fish, lips quivering still. “Why heal me? They tossed me aside for their fears, left me to die to appease their nightmares…” Wrymlung’s head lolls listlessly to the side as his eyes roll up to look upon the demon, “Surely you can do the same.” The demon stares down at him, face unreadable for their visage is that of a skull rotted free of flesh but then their shoulders fall somewhat and an expanse of air escapes their mouth through parted teeth: a sigh. “I did not know of your presence in my land until I felt your body begin to tangle with the roots of my woods,” the demon explains calmly as they raise Wrymlung to sit upright, “there was no healing to be done, you are of my woods.” Wrymlung’s eyes go wide as his hands clutch and slip on the icy armor on the demon’s forearm, his mouth twitching open and closed as his words fail him before hanging his head once more. “So it was true, it worked. I am…” Wrymlung shakes his head, his voice a tremor on the wind and he swallows thickly, pulling in a mixture of saliva and blood before he finishes his thought, “Sacrifice.” “Sacrifice,” the demon repeats as if finding it strange, “Is that how you died?” Wrymlung sneers, his lips pulling back like a snarling wolf but the demon remains unflinching, their demeanor passive and curious, unbothered by his vicious display even as his eyes become more alive, lit by the fires of rage. “All of it was to appease you and you do not even know of it?” Wrymlung growls. “You know of me,” it’s not a question but a statement of surprise that makes Wrymlung scoff so hard, that blood dribbles out of the side of his mouth. “There is not a soul in this world or the next that does not know of the Demon Lord of the Woewood,” Wrymlung heaves, his breath having returned to him but he still feels tired, so very tired. “Yes, that is the title mortals have given me,” the demon nods, his movements smooth and strangely regal, far more regal than any mortal lord or lady Wrymlung has encountered, “however, my name is Ahmose, Ahmose Charnelscorn. Although, I suppose you may or must refer to me as lord as that is the way of this world that mortals have built.” Wrymlung pulls his head up and stares up at the demon lord, taking in his visage of black bone and dark flesh, his body at least twice that of any warrior with his grand height making him loom in the space that feels so small with him in it. Large fangs slide together easily in their sets as he moves his mouth and a spiked tail curls down behind him of yet more dark flesh and protruding, shiny, dark bone along the elongated spine. Despite all this, his movements are elegant and purposeful while barely weighed down by the dark armor he wears. That armor… It’s something beyond mortal make and it warps the lord’s form in such a way that it is difficult to parse out his form in this space lit only by moonlight. Wrymlung’s eyes then flit to what’s around him: simple stone walls held more together by their mass than any mortar and there are crude but lovingly carved sigils and depictions of minor household gods now long forgotten. “You brought me back,” Wrymlung looks back up at the demon and hesitates, licking his lips to try to bring them back to full sensation, “Why?” The demon lord speaks plainly without guise or allure, his tone almost too absolute, and it unsettles Wrymlung, “I am in need of your service, I could do well with a knight as skilled as you by my side.”