These Hallowed Bones - [Monster Evolution, Dark Fantasy, Heroic Undead]

Then only this form is left standing in the dark as fire beings to stir within marrow.

Not the flame that once scorched these bones, but something darker.

Something closer.

Still, my purpose remains clear despite this burning compulsion.

Yet something else rises through bones.

The Demon Duke's echo lingers,, spreads.

I raise my transformed arm, examining the fusion of bone and infernal matter.

What was once shield has become limb, the Duke's skull fragment now an extension of this skeletal form.

Black lines move along white bone, carrying power never meant for mortal remains.

Heat wells within without source.

Something infernal seeps from transformed limb, spreading across spine and ribe.

The realization comes without emotion. I have become something new, neither fully skeleton nor demon.

I flex clawed fingers. Stone cracks beneath them. Power flows where there should be only bone and ancient magic. The Duke's final curse.

Aeternus pulses in response, ancient runes flaring along its length. The blade recognizes this change, accepts it without judgment. We are tools of purpose, regardless of form.

Steam rises from my transformed frame while the demon limb begins to glow. Talons drag, leaving five parallel grooves in stone. Where demon bone meets borrowed fragments, same black lines now spread throughout whole form.

A sense.

Revulsion.

The sensation comes unbidden.

These bones should know no such feeling, yet something in the marrow recoils from what this frame has become. Borrowed fragments shift against each other, scraping where they should fit.

Bones resettle as corruption moves between joints. Dragon fragments protest the darker essence spreading through connections while wolf bones raise hackles sensing a greater predator.

They are not alone.

Disquiet within the whole grows.

Quiet has come to the crypt.

The Bone Eater's remains lie scattered, no longer a threat. Victory should bring only purpose's calm progression, yet something within stirs.

Black lines move further along white bone..

The dragon fragments remember fire differently. They recall ancient flames. Their memory fights against infernal taint.

I flex the transformed limb.

Claws extend, contract. Power surges with each movement. Useful. Necessary, perhaps, for what lies ahead in deeper tunnels.

Yet wrong in ways these bones cannot say.

Haven needs this strength. The mission demands completion. But at what cost?

The wolf bones howl silently within, wanting to flee what they cannot fight. Their instinct recognizes hunger that consumes rather than preserves.

I take a step, then another, then falter.

The movement moves not at all.

The demon-transformed limb refuses to follow intended path, instead scraping stone in a wider arc than commanded.

Not just disobedience, but rebellion.

Infernal power spreads, those black lines moving across chosen and borrowed bones..

Take. Consume. Rule.

The words carry weight beyond sound, pressing against purpose. Where armor meets bone, blackened tendrils push deeper, seeking control of this frame's core.

Murder. Destroy.

Kill.

There is nothing more but urges.

Primal, vicious compulsions that claw at the foundation of duty.

The fragments that compose this form shudder against rising corruption.

The corrupted arm rises of its own volition, demon-forged talons flexing toward the ceiling. Hellfire erupts from between bone joints, casting the chamber in crimson light. The arm inspects itself, turning talons to examine their killing potential. No command from this consciousness guides the motion.

My skull turns toward the limb against borrowed will. The frame twists, hollow sockets witness the transformation.

The corruption spreads through marrow, pushing through and beyond duty's constraints.

Memories come of the Duke's might, how his horde was just one of many that marched across realms, how kingdoms fell before his strength.

Images flood hollow consciousness, burning cities, enslaved populations, legions of the corrupted marching under infernal banners.

Above the Duke, there were greater heights. The Demon King's throne, empty since the final war, awaits a worthy successor.

Why protect?

The question burns through ancient purpose, challenging foundations laid at the first rising. These borrowed bones exist to guard Haven's walls, yet the Duke's essence questions duty with contempt.

They are cattle.

Power flows, reshaping purpose into something darker. Dragon bones rage, protest, ancient wyrm essence fighting infernal corruption. Wolf bones submit more readily, their predator nature aligning with demon hunger.

Dominion.

The concept fills hollow spaces, expanding with every pulse of corruption. This frame could command armies, raise fortresses of bone and sinew, forge a kingdom where the dead rule and living serve.

They are weak. You are eternal.

I stumble, frame colliding with a shattered column. Stone crumbles beneath impact, ancient carvings reduced to dust. The demon arm slams against the wall, leaving a smoking crater on impact. The limb moves with its own purpose testing strength against constraining will.

Haven's walls loom in fractured memory. How simple it would be to turn these limbs against their gates. To raise armies from the Field of Broken Banners. To make of the living a throne of bone and flame.

The compulsion to protect wavers. Purpose flickers like a guttering candle.

These bone fragments try to remember why they serve, why they guard, why they protect. The memories grow distant, buried beneath infernal mutters that promise power in exchange for surrender.

What is duty?

These borrowed bones could command legions. The ancient magics that raise the dead could serve a new master. Haven's people already tremble at this form; how easily fear becomes worship.

My frame lurches forward, movements uncoordinated as competing wills battle for control. The transformed arm drags these bones toward the chamber's exit, toward tunnels leading upward to Haven'.y.

Original fragments resist, fighting each step with desperate stubbornness. Tendons strain against opposing forces, ligaments stretched to breaking. The frame crashes into another column, sending stone fragments scattering.

The corruption spreads deeper, tainting each borrowed and chosen fragment. Where dragon bone meets wolf remains, where ancient knight fragments connect to newer acquisitions, black lines push through marrow.

Take. Rule. Conquer. Kill.

The pull to protect, a lingering echo.

The foundations laid at this frame's rising crack beneath infernal pressure. Purpose itself wavers, ancient duty becoming foreign concept as demon essence claims more of the inner self.

Not death's champion, death's master.

The form convulses, limbs thrashing against stone walls as internal war escalates. The skull slams backward into carved reliefs, sending cracks through ancient stonework. The transformed arm claws at the crypt ceiling, raining debris onto the battlefield below.

Demon greed guides every joint and socket. A dream of corpses, of armies and battlegrounds, a skeletal king to rule over the dead. The images flood hollow consciousness, forcing this frame to witness potential futures where Haven burns and only the dead remain.

Memories surface, not mine, not any fragment whose bones compose this form. The Duke's thoughts burn through marrow, visions of cities razed and kingdoms toppled.

Behind these, darker images lurk. The Demon King's shadow touches each corrupted fragment, a presence vast and terrible.

The frame's back arches, spine bowing.

Vertebrae crack under pressure, demon corruption forcing physical reformation to match spiritual conquest. Ribs pull apart, creating gaps where infernal essence can flow freely between bone fragments.

Dragon bone resists, ancient wyrm essence clashing against infernal taint. The borrowed bones remember their own fall, how corruption turned drake against drake while the world burned. Wyrm fragments flare with remembered rage.

These memories war within hollow spaces, neither truly mine, yet both fighting for control of this frame.

Dragon fire burns against hellflame, neither yielding, neither prevailing.

Balverine fragments howl within, their savage nature amplifying the corruption's call. The wolf-bones yearn to hunt, to tear, to give in to base instinct. The demon's influence feeds feral impulses.

My skull slams into the floor, frame collapsing as competing wills force stalemate. Black blood seeps from transformed joints. The demon-fused arm flexes, talons lengthening of their own accord.

Hellfire burns in hollow marrow.

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Stone cracks beneath convulsing frame.

The body drags itself across the crypt floor, movements jerky and uncoordinated as different fragments attempt control.

The transformed arm tears at original pieces, trying to strip away resistant bone to complete corruption's domination.

Yet beneath this temptation, the Demon King's true corruption lurks.

Not merely power or conquest, but something darker.

The Duke himself was merely servant to greater powers, his essence now but a shadow of deeper corruption.

These borrowed fragments recognize the lie from memories older than conscious thought. The corruption seeks total dominion, to remake these guardian bones into something else.

Not master but thrall, puppet for infernal will.

The pull to protect flickers again, weaker now against demonic whispers.

The frame collides with a stone sarcophagus, shattering its ancient lid. Fragments of noble remains scatter across the floor, disturbed after centuries of rest. The corruption pulls at fragments within this frame, seeking to harvest the resistance and replace it with more compliant pieces.

Yet deeper still, older pieces remain unmoved.

These are the first bones that rose on the Field of Broken Banners. They remember the weight of duty, how purpose lifted this form from battlefield soil. Their memory runs deeper than borrowed rage or demon taint.

They care not for power. They exist only for promise kept.

It pushes through dragon bone and wolf fragments, past other bones. It reaches toward the core, toward the first fragments that rose from blood-soaked soil.

But the ancient fragments that command the whole resist.

These original pieces, they stand and guard.

Simple duty, clear and unwavering.

They remember why these bones first stirred.

They stand with dragon parts and anchor this consciousness against competing urges.

My skull slams against stone floor, then rises. The frame stands upright through sheer stubborn purpose, though corruption still wars within.

The demon-forged limb flails against silent command, refusing subjugation to original will.

The oldest bones remember countless battles fought not for glory or power, but to shield Haven's walls. They recall children who no longer flee at this skeletal form, guards who nod in recognition, Commander Ikert's trust.

These fragments hold firm, their purpose.

Through them, control returns. The demon essence rages, but cannot overcome for the moment.

The corruption recedes, contained but not conquered.

Black lines pulse beneath bone surface, waiting opportunity to surge forward once more.

The battle has not ended, merely paused.

Something stirs among debris, not movement, but presence. A cluster of noble bones lies half-submerged in murky water, untouched by black residue though marred by teeth marks.

The remains glow with faint light, pulsing counter to corruption's rhythm.

These remains hold themselves apart, bearing no corruption though having endured the Bone Eater's cage.

Kneeling beside the pool, the demon-transformed arm moves. Not by command, but drawn by something else.

The corrupted talons reach toward pure remains, perhaps to corrupt, perhaps to consume.

Original fragments force the motion to slow, fighting infernal control with rigid purpose.

The limb trembles mid-air, caught between opposing commands.

Talons part dark water.

Fingers brush these bones and feel warmth.

An echo of resolve pulses through borrowed marrow.

Here is what remains of the Vigilant Sister, Haven's last and first defender.

No memory surfaces through conscious thought. These fragments hold no recollection of this name, this title, this person.

Something deeper stirs within borrowed frame.

A resonance as old as than these assembled parts.

The largest bone fragment animating this skeletal form recognizes her..

The recognition comes not from thought or recollection, but from the marrow itself.

Like calls to like.

The demon-forged arm recoils as if burned.

Corruption retreats from the contact point, black lines receding from fingers that touched her remains. The purity of her essence repels infernal taint.

Her bones hold an echo of ancient days, of barriers raised against darkness. Of final stands and promises kept until death.

Of duty passed.

Talons withdraw from water, dripping darkness that sizzles against stone floor. Frame shifts, demon-forged parts grinding against original bone. The fragment that knows her protests the touch of infernal power.

Rejection flows through joints and connections.

My frame convulses, collapsing beside the pool. The transformed arm flails against stone,. The legs kick against ancient reliefs.

No words form, yet meaning flows through ancient marrow. Images surface, not memories, for these borrowed pieces hold no recollection of her, but echoes preserved in bone.

She stood where legions fell, gathering survivors as darkness claimed the field. Her sword guided trembling refugees to the command post's walls.

Year by year, stone by stone, she built Haven from battlefield ruins.

The largest fragment within me stirs at her presence, yet offers no recognition I can grasp.

Still her bones speak of duty continued, of countless nights defending makeshift barriers, of teaching children to wield weapons against horrors.

I thrash across the chamber floor, frame contorting as infernal corruption battles against this new influence. The demon-forged arm lashes out, striking stone columns, ancient coffins, carved walls.

Anything to stop the flow of memory from her pure remains.

Her essence weeps, not with mortal tears but with a resonance that shakes these borrowed fragments.

She knows this frame, or what once commanded its largest piece. Recognition floods from her remains , she sees a commander where I perceive only borrowed piece.

The demon-forged limb tears at other bones, trying to excise the fragment that responds to her call. Black ichor flows from self-inflicted wounds, corruption feeding on internal conflict.

Through her essence, images form of supplies stockpiled, of walls raised higher, of a fortress grown from desperate outpost.

She held the line alone, until age claimed what monsters could not.

This frame holds no memory of her vigil.

These borrowed bones cannot recall her face or name.

Yet her remains pulse with certainty, she knows this form, or what it once was. Her essence reaches out, recognition mixed with grief, seeing something in these assembled fragments that I cannot comprehend.

The demon-transformed arm recoils from her untainted bones. Corruption retreats where her essence touches, black veins fading to yellowed ivory.

Her presence burns against corrupted fragments, yet the largest piece within this frame resonates with her presence. Her essence speaks of promises kept, of duty maintained, of a commander's last order honored until death.

"Not this one."

Her echo ripples through ancient marrow.

The words form without sound, yet shake these borrowed bones to their core. Her essence rejects the demon-forged limb, the corrupted shield, the taint spreading through my frame.

The demon shield, lying forgotten amid battle's aftermath, skitters across stone floor of its own volition. It rattles against tiles, corruption pushing it toward the struggling frame. The Duke's essence senses resistance, vulnerability, opportunity. It rushes to rejoin the battle for control.

I release the transformed arm. Not voluntary surrender, but bone fragments separating under opposing forces. The corrupted limb crashes against stone, black ichor pooling beneath metallic talons. The demon shield follows, clattering to the crypt floor beside its severed counterpart.

The shield jumps and shudders, trying to reattach to the frame. Duke's essence reaches out with tendrils of corruption, seeking purchase on borrowed bones. The severed arm crawls toward the main frame, talons scraping stone with each lurching movement.

My frame rolls away, putting distance between corrupted parts and original fragments. The skeleton collides with stone walls, rebounds against ancient columns, using physical barriers to prevent demon essence from reconnecting.

The corruption's whispers fade with each inch of separation. Power drains from reformed joints, leaving hollow spaces where hellfire burned. The urge to conquer retreats like the tide pulling back from shore.

My frame shifts, original fragments reasserting control as demon essence withdraws. The shield and severed arm lie twitching on stone floor, corruption still active but influence diminished by distance.

Dragon bone and wolf fragments settle, their competing instincts quieting beneath older purpose. The borrowed fragments align properly once more, responding to original command rather than infernal corruption.

Her bones pulse with approval from the pool. The largest piece within me responds, though I cannot grasp the meaning they share.

These fragments shift, recognizing a name rising from her essence.

Carida.

The largest piece within my frame trembles at the sound that forms without voice. The original fragments vibrate with foreign recognition, attuned to frequencies I cannot fully comprehend.

Her bones pulse with memories, not mine, not any borrowed fragment's, but hers. Images flow of a man in commander's armor, face stern beneath Haven's banner.

Ikkert.

Her remains resonate with the name. Through her essence, I see him standing before fresh recruits, sword raised against encroaching darkness. His voice carries, "Hold the line. Protect the walls. Save what remains."

This frame knows no emotion, yet the largest fragment within responds with something beyond conscious awareness. It vibrates at frequencies that match her remains, the two pieces calling to each other across death's divide.

The recognition burns deeper. This borrowed frame holds his largest fragment, though these bones know not how or why. Her essence reaches through time, a daughter's love touching a father's remains.

Commander Cid Ikkert.

The name forms from her bones' memory.

My frame houses his fragment, yet holds none of his thoughts or purpose. Only borrowed strength and ancient duty remain. Still, her essence wraps around this piece of him, grief and joy at finding what was lost.

The demon shield rattles against stone, corruption sensing weakness in this moment of recognition. It skitters forward, trying to reach the frame while distracted by Carida's essence. The severed arm follows, dragging itself across the crypt floor with desperate intensity.

I move back, maintaining distance from corrupted parts.

The crypt stones fade, untethered from physical form.

A young woman stands before me, her armor bearing Haven's mark. Not flesh and blood, but essence made visible through magic older than conscious thought.

Not a memory, for these bones hold none, but something deeper. An echo preserved in marrow.

Beside this frame, another figure forms within it, translucent, barely visible. A commander's cloak hangs from broad shoulders, face stern beneath a steel helm. This ghost holds no substance, yet the largest fragment within me pulses at his presence.

She has unshed tears. "Did I do well, father?"

The ghost's form wavers. These fragments hold no memory of him, of her, of their bond. Yet something stirs in borrowed marrow. The words rise not from thought or recollection, but from deeper still - from duty passed from father to daughter, from guardian to guardian.

"Yes." The sound emerges hollow, spoken through bones that never knew his voice. "Proud."

They embrace, daughter and father's ghost.

The demon shield vibrates with fury from across the chamber, corruption sensing control slipping away. It launches itself toward the frame, Duke's essence desperate to reclaim dominance before the moment passes.

The shield strikes stone where my frame stood moments before. It cracks but does not break, corruption keeping the pieces together through sheer malevolent will.

The largest fragment within this frame trembles, recognizing yet not remembering. Essence wraps around the fading shape of what once was, of connection that transcends death's boundary.

Her echo fades.

Only scattered noble bones remain in the dark water, their warmth cooling to match the crypt's chill.

The demon-forged arm writhes on stone floor, corruption raging against inevitable defeat. Without connection to the main frame, its power wanes with each passing moment. Black veins pulse more slowly, hellfire guttering like candles in strong wind.

The shield refuses to surrender. It skitters across the crypt, following my frame with single-minded purpose. The Duke's essence will not relinquish its claim so easily, even as corruption's strength diminishes.

I gather her remains from the pool. Water streams between finger bones as I lift each fragment with care. They hold no more warmth, no more echoes of recognition. The connection between father's fragment and daughter's essence has passed beyond these hollow sockets.

The demon shield launches itself once more, sailing through air toward borrowed bones. It strikes my frame's back, corruption seeking purchase on exposed bone. Black tendrils reach from shield's surface, trying to penetrate marrow and resume conquest.

Purpose reasserts itself through ancient marrow. The largest fragment settles, knowing yet not remembering. What remains is duty, to protect Haven's walls as she did, as he did, as these borrowed bones must.

I rise, one arm missing where corrupted parts separated. The shield clings to my back, demon skull still attempting corruption. Its efforts find no purchase now, rejected by fragments united in common purpose.

I reach behind with remaining hand, grasping the shield's edge. The corruption burns against bone, but finds no vulnerability to exploit. With one sharp motion, I tear the shield free, flinging it across the chamber.

It skids across stone floor, coming to rest beside the severed arm. The two corrupted pieces pulse in unison, Duke's essence trying to maintain presence in the physical world.

I lift Aeternus.

The blade aligns with the shield's center. Ancient runes flare along Aeternus's length, responding to the demon taint below. The sword remembers victories against infernal lords, battles where corruption fell before righteous steel.

"Aeternus."

Power surges through borrowed bones. The sword's light burns brighter, pure radiance against infernal corruption. The demon skull shield writhes, trying to skitter away across stone, but finds no purchase.

The severed arm drags itself in front of the shield, talons splayed in desperate defense. Corruption recognizes its end approaches, and rallies for final resistance.

The blade descends.

Steel meets bone. The arm shatters first, corrupted fragments exploding outward from contact point. The shield follows, fracturing along fault lines where Duke's essence held separate pieces together. Dark energy screams release, hellfire spurting from cracked pieces before guttering out.

The Duke's final remains collapse into ash, corruption fading as Aeternus' light cleanses what remains. No trace of demonic taint survives, only scorched stone where corrupted pieces once lay.

These fragments gather, reorganizing without demon-forged parts. The iron mask clicks into place, though shredded bandages lie scattered in the crypt's aftermath. The frame stands complete, missing one arm but whole in purpose.

I lift Carida's remains, securing them in a leather pouch where they cannot be defiled. The weight settles against borrowed ribs, close to the fragment that once knew her.

Water drips in darkness ahead.

The deeper tunnels beckon, ancient paths that remember dwarven boots and supply wagons. Borrowed bones shift, adjusting to the missing arm where corrupted parts separated.

There will be other bones and arms.

The catacombs fall behind as the tunnel slopes downward. Moisture beads on carved walls, marking the transition from burial chambers to older passages. Here the stonework changes, human labor giving way to dwarven craft. Their runes still mark key junctions, though centuries of water have worn the meanings smooth.

The iron mask turns, hollow sockets scanning deeper darkness. No cloth remains to hide skeletal nature, the disguise shredded in battle with the bone eater. These fragments must continue exposed, trusting ancient tunnels to shelter their passage toward distant dwarven gates.

Haven needs supplies, contact, allies against growing darkness. If the deep roads still connect to dwarven halls, if their gates might open to trade once more...

Water splashes beneath borrowed feet. The tunnel air grows thick with age and silence.

I descend, purpose intact, corruption defeated, duty preserved. One arm may be lost, but Haven's guardian continues forward, deeper into the unknown.