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[Deacon Drake]

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The spectral image hovered about two inches above the ground. At the apex of the landmark known as Charnel Hill, he drifted quietly, his cold white eyes staring at the artifact before him. At the very peak of the hill, the pedastal stood firm, eternal, the grey stone reaching up like an arm from a grave. The hand at the top was a small pillow, in its grasp one of the most powerful tools in Sosaria: the Ebon Skull.

Aras A'Coult, the specter and last remaining wraith on Sosaria, continued to watch the skull, as the skull stared back at, possibly through, his image with the black eyes shrouded with even more shadow.

You should have listened.

The voice seemed soft, soothing almost, and he couldn't recognize whose it was. But something filled his ethereal heart with regret of his own past arrogance, as he had already discovered his fate.

He told you what would happen if you forced yourself into more than you had earned. And now, look at you... rotting away through time, unable to save even yourself.

"Stop it." The voice was irritating, almost taunting. He recalled the lecture perfectly. It was a cold night, but he couldn't feel it. Back then he was little more than a zombie, forced into undeath at a time when he deserved it the least.

And now he had tried to force himself into a power that he couldn't handle. And he had paid for it with is very existance.

At last he felt the energy surging through his body. This is it. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, saying a quick prayer to Oblivion. And then he lifted his chin, stared coldly into the skull's eyes. And waited. And as he waited, he began to chant.

"I am the thorn in the foot...
I am the blur in the sight...
I am the worm at the root...
I am the thief in the night...
I am the---"

A gust of wind blew a dead leaf by the skull. The leaf hovered for a moment in the space that the wraith had filled only moments ago... and then it drifted off.

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In a cold building in Nujel'm, a bed sits empty where a young dying child once lay waiting for his end. Those who draw near can sometimes hear the faint whisper resounding through the room... few can make it out, and barely: "Etheng..."
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