His bones awoke in the dimness of the crypt with a newborn's fragile weakness. Thickly dusted cobwebs mired his limbs as sure as steel cables. But the red light of an unasked-for resurrection soon entered into his old, hollow skull.
The cobwebs stretched and snapped with his rising, and in his new vigor he shoved back the lid.
Ellsgraven rose in the shreds of his burial, hearing in wonder the clack of a fleshless form. No beating heart to keep him warm, no breath, no restless tongue. He remembered vaguely his life before, the thirst for new magics, the fresh taste of power. A warlock's name, that was where he had been heading--a dabbler in evil. But a tailor by trade. Yes, a tailor once ago.
He rushed out, like a child from the house on a summer's day: the same impervious grin, the same folly for war, and yes, the same mad dream of conquering the world.
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