Clone Alone (pt1)

Deep in a subterranean lair, that hasn’t seen a touch of human hands in several decades, walls pocked with alcoves each set with strange opaque octagonal crystals roughly the shape of a common casket, murky shapes vaguely humanoid seemed suspended inside, all still as the bodies one would assume to be be in a coffin.

The inert wizard's sanctum silent as a cemetery, save for the drip drip drip of water from the cold dew covered carved stone ceiling. In the direct center of the round stone room was a stone table large to match, covered with scroll materials, some rolled by the hands the wrote them others beginning to curl with age and water damage. Pulling its edges into nonuniform twists. One of the three unoccupied alcoves held a series of books on spells and potion crafting. Spines creased and worn from decades upon decades of use, though they now sat collecting dust. The second alcove held a series of staves, unimpressive, crude numbers that would get the job done until a proper staff could be acquired or made. Momentary backups in the case of that rare emergency. The third seemed at face value to be empty though that wasn’t the truth, it held a secret passage, a contingency for a possible though improbable need for a getaway.

The room had two arches, one directly south where one would enter the circular room, the other lying to the west in the room leading down a small hallway to a bed chamber. The bed dressing long uncared for, and enchanted to remain clean as they were, they still carried the ever present tinge of mildew that permeated the sanctum. Within that room was a small trap door that led down to a sub basement where all the wizard’s treasures were stored away and safely protected behind wards only he could pass.

The inner chamber was suddenly washed bright light, that quickly faded to an acceptable and non blinding level. One of the many crystalline coffins began to hum with energy. The form inside seemed to slip through the solid surface like it was water and fall to the stone floor, seemingly lifeless.

The still form began to move slowly but surely, managing to get on their hands and knees, they began to cough violently like someone saved from drowning. The coughs spastic and wet. Clumps of thick jelly-like clear fluid spattered against the stone floor with each retching cough. When the spasms in their body subsided they sat on the floor crossed legged, breathing heavy. Placing a finger to close one nostril at a time they blew more of the fluid from their nose until they could breath. Sitting on the cold stone floor, other than the alien feeling of it compared to the warm ethereal floating feeling of the growing vat, they were unbothered. Rubbing their face in an attempt to get the fluid from their eyes and to wake up, or even know if that was what awake even was. They spat on the floor trying to get the taste out of their mouth before rising on shaky legs. Wobbling like a newborn deer, managing a whole step and a half before stumbling crashing their pelvis against the stone table, and falling to the floor again with a hiss of pain. Was walking supposed to be this hard?

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