Weeks had flown by, and the question of Fryyd’s death had long left me. He was a weakling, and as we all know, the many worlds that sit upon the one have absolutely no love for a weakling. To continue thinking about Fryyd would lead to instability.
I moved as the magic moved. At first I was little use in combat except as some kind of arcane dead eye. See the enemy. Time the attack led by the fighter, and punctuate it with a piercing cold beam of wizardry. But then it came to me: If ice was good, what about fire? Devil’s used it, why not an undead sweetie like me?
So I meditated on it in the moonlight down at the local graveyard. I invited the element to bring its presence before me if even in a dream. During the day, I investigated festering dungeons, overran towns, and…
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