The Awoken: Freedom (Draft)

Chapter 1: The Awoken's Call

NOTE: This is the newest draft! I'd love to hear any feedback!

If you're out there, please help me.

Dmitry swung around; his long nose pointed west at the whisper tickling his soul. The seven-foot beast took several steps in the direction, the susurration calling to him, a soft, desperate plea for help. Hairy fingers twitched as icy eyes scanned the scope before him, as his heart palpitated with suspense.

Upon the cliff side, he searched the canopy of trees below. Steadying himself on the mountainside, he leaned forward, wondering if he had imagined the soft call of the dead. Seconds of silence ensued, but the gentle pull within his chest never ceased. Dmitry glanced back at his squad. A couple of soldiers were leading the wagon full of supplies by stead, his Captain making her way over to him.

My soul is empty... my body hollow.

Death embraces me.

Lead me home, necromancer.

The distress of the voice rang between his short-pointed ears, shutting his eyes for a mere moment as he listened to the imploration again. Once more he focused west, pondering the exact location of this woeful prayer.

Help... please, save me from the darkness.

"Is something wrong?" The woman's voice broke his concentration. "Do you hear something, Dmitry?"

Save me from this nightmare.

The aged man looked down to meet his captain's turquoise eyes, mouth slightly agape, fangs visible over his bottom lip. He turned back to the calling, the wind sending his short black locks back and his cape gently flapping behind him. "There's a call, Nora." He started, raising his arm to point a finger in the direction, "A call from the dead due west." 

"Dead like the undead, or-" She paused. By now the wagon had ceased, several men watching the serious necromancer fixated on something beyond the mountainside. They silenced their chatter, overhearing what he and the Captain had to say.

My flesh remains, cursed by my undead soul.

A prisoner to the Ancient Ones.

"Hello? Dmitry?"

He shushed her, picking up the rest of the soft yet distressed echoed voice of the dead. He'd missed a part of the prayer,

- is what I am.

Free me from my nightmare.

Protect my soul, guide me with your light.

Please, help me break free from these aged chains.

Release me from this agony.

Dmitry repeated the words in his head when the voice stopped, figuring this could only mean one thing. "My flesh remains, cursed by my undead soul. A prisoner to the Ancient Ones."

"I believe it is coming from an Awoken," he said, taking several steps to the call as the tip of his black dress shoe hung over the cliff's edge. "I need a map. Now." 

"An Awoken?" Captain Nora turned to her squad and signaled for one of the nearby soldiers to hand her a map of the region; she then handed the rolled parchment over to the Necromancer, craning her head up to look at him. He snatched it from her hands, crisp, icy eyes, with mere slits for pupils fixated over the parchment. She dared to ask, "Is this Mother we should worry about, or do you think this is the Awoken we've been searching for?"