The Nekodarz polished its magic great sword with the tools it collected from a traveler its undead henchmen murdered from a nearby path in the forest. The traveler was a local orc tribe member judging from his attire, the Nekodarz concluded. There was an emerging intelligence advancing within it. It started the moment it raised its army earlier that morning. It even began recalling memories it had in its past life; but nothing important like its name or origin. Did it have a family? Why was it fighting in so many of its memories? Each image it saw in its mind brought terror to it. It was an emotion it had not felt before, at least not in its current state. The Nekodarz recognized it and its army belonged to a race of people like the ones that released it from its prison. Their life forces served well as nourishment from years of starvation. It must have been in that small building for many lifetimes, it thought to itself. But why? What purpose did it all serve? These questions buzzed in its decayed skull like a hornets’ nest. The Nekodarz looked around amongst his army whom all were working tirelessly perfecting the siege weapons and salvaging military remains forgotten under the near fields. These creatures perplexed the Nekodarz; it recognized them but considering the burning lights in their eyes it knew nothing but the Phoenix Flame was there.
They all were a hive mind at its control. What spirit left of them has ascended elsewhere, their bodies were just vessels for the Nekodarz to command. The Nekodarz did not understand why it was doing this. There was a self-awareness within it that conflicted with its instinct. Every time the Nekodarz tried to shake this instinct, an image of a tall slender man with pointed ears and a crown upon its head flashed into its ethereal eyes. Whenever this image manifested, a festering rage grew within the Nekodarz. This crown man had done something to the Nekodarz a long time ago. Maybe whatever he did made the Nekodarz what it is now. Maybe the crown man is the reason the Nekodarz could not remember its name. Whatever the reason, the Nekodarz was sure of one thing and that was that the crown man must die by its hands and its hands alone. No, by this blade. The great sword it held in its hands. The magic within the blade called to the Nekodarz like a mother calling her child; It spoke to the Nekodarz.
You are reborn…
Cleansed with fire…
It gave the Nekodarz its power. This sword gave the Nekodarz what life, or lack there is it had. This weapon comforted and eased the terrifying thoughts that came to the Nekodarz and haunted it like a disease. A group of the undead came to the Nekodarz and brought it to an immense ditch they had dug out. Inside the ditch were skeletons of large creatures with long snouts filled with rows of sharp teeth and tusks. The Nekodarz recognized these creatures as to belong to it and its people. The vargr, a species of wolf bred for only warfare. The Nekodarz became certain that there are more graves with these creatures in it. The Nekodarz reached into the head of the nearest undead with a gaseous hand and pulled the magical flame from its skull. The body dropped into the ditch completely empty of essence. The Nekodarz showered the flame over the ditch and slowly the skull of the vargr flickered to life. As the creature rose from its grave the Nekodarz moaned chantingly. Now, the Nekodarz felt a little closer to becoming whole.