Two men sat staring at one another in a cell. The cell was one of hundreds, possibly millions, in this dungeon. It was made of cold stone, on all the walls, and the bars from the strongest material ever found by humaniis: Wraith’s blood.
Wraith’s blood, when cooled, is stronger than steal and impossible to break. This is lent credibility by not only witnessing it yourself, but in general knowledge of how difficult it is to kill a Wraith in the first place.
Of the two men, one seemed to have a half-full glass of shit, while the other was sporting a much more realistic half-empty one.
The positive prick spoke first, as they seem to when things are looking ill.
“Pardon sir, but I have sat here for quite some time looking for a companion to share a few tales with. Might you be so kind as to listen for a while? It seems as though neither of us have other urgencies to see to.” The man removed a multicolored sharp hat from his head and placed it at his side. His face was hard to see in the poor light, the only thing one could make out was how many colors were on his hat. “My name, should it please you to know, is Gerno Metalmasher, son of Terno Metalmasher, son of Oerno Metalmasher, son of Yerno Woodmasher. As you might be able to deduce from my attire, I am, or was, a wizard.”
Half-empty just continued looking at Gerno, with no sign of interest.
Gerno continued, “I was not the greatest wizard, although I could say I was, and you would have no way of knowing the difference. But alas, I will tell the truth, here of all places. I was a dark wizard, and I did horrible things. I ripped children out of their mothers to make my spells greater! And I would burn entire villages to the ground, out of boredom, or even just an urge to redecorate.”
Gerno pulled himself toward the other man while remaining seated.
“Let me let you in on a little trade secret of wizards. We are immortal. Not many know this, because they die off eventually, whole dynasty of questioners. Popular mythos would have you believe that we live centuries, which is of course true, except for the finality of it. I have been alive for 8 seasons. Which makes me a young one, as you might suspect. But I’m referring to a magical season, which is about every hundred and a half years, when the world angrily tries to shake the fleas off its back. I have witnessed eight of those, and the ninth was approaching when I was stolen and dropped here.
“Being immortal as I mentioned, I can’t die obviously, so when a magician causes a nuisance, they come here. The Dungeons of Yrella. Yrella, as you might not know, him being an old god, was the dead god, god of death, grim reaper, what you wish to cal him is on you. Which at long last brings me to an important question; who are you Mr. Half-empty?”
Half-Empty let the silence hang for a while, enjoying it.
He leaned into a shred of light dancing across the tiles. “Am I Yrella Mr. Metalmasher. I am here to orient you in your new life as a dead man.”