Mortisa

Do you even know what hate can do?
How it festers in your soul, consuming your will
To demolish, end, devour and kill

How they scream, oh how they beg
Watch them tremble amid their web of lies
The locks click shut and the coffin closes
And slowly they wither and die

Clink clink goes their jingling chains
Screaming deep below
Listen to the slain scream
Listen to their song of woe

Seven feet in the earth below
Abandoned beside Hell’s lonely road
Hear them sing their song of woe
Of an age long ago

What do you know of the creatures of the deep?
The ones that awaken and the ones that sleep
The names we dare no utter under our breath
The ones who do not kneel to life nor death

Of ashes and ruins,
Of blades and blood
Of coffins and bones
Of heartless love

Listen to those who fell long ago
Listen to those seven feet below
Listen to those in heaven and hell
Listen to their song of woe.

What do you know of death? The end of life, of existence, yet the gateway to another anew. Sometimes welcomed, sometimes shunned. The laws of nature that could not be denied.
Then imagine a dragon who dares. Who dares to mock creation and destruction, who dares to taunt the very gods themselves. Imagine revival and resurrections in the cruelest of ways, the souls forced back into their hosts in a harsh mockery of true necromancy.
Such a dragon would be Mortisa.
Mortisa, the undying. Mortisa, the Mortician.
As beautiful and terrible as the Augurs, whenever the Mortician shows up, death and vultures are soon to follow. Whether it be by blade, poison, disease or accident, no dragon who has been contacted by Mortisa lives long.
The mortician never bothers to speak louder than a whisper and even when she does whisper, it brings nothing good. Any who do not heed her warning find themselves regretting their ignorance.
No one knows the reason behind her twisted deeds, her hunger for death and destruction. Some say it is vengeance for her lost children, others say it is simply her duty. Still some whisper that Mortisa simply is death incarnate, bringing pain and destruction alongside with her words.
But evil is made, not born.
Long ago, Mortisa was loved for her beauty, and adored for her grace. As the daughter of a gravedigger, Mortisa was surrounded on all sides by death and grieving.
She vowed to destroy death, or at least delay it to the best of her ability.
Years later, the bright bright girl became a Healer, with magic as bright and beautiful as the Lightweaver’s own exalts themselves. She spared the dying, and banished death to the furthest realms. Wounds healed at her command, and the laws of life shattered before her, kneeling to the dragon who dared to mock the laws so openly.
They were not pleased.
Until one day, Mortisa crossed the line.
She revived a corpse with white magic, binding their souls and erasing their wounds. The mortals kneeled in awe in front of the dragon who had accomplished all this so openly, daring to challenge the very foundations.
That night, Mortisa paid for her magic.
No magic could truly revive the dead, and no mage should be ever capable of wielding it.
Mortisa could only watch in silent horror as her children slowly began to waste away in front of her.
At first, it was slow. Merciful.
But ever so slowly, the screams began to sound.
One by one, her children withered away before Mortisa, rotting away in front of her. Her magic did nothing against this curse.
Mortisa was forced to watch her children die in front of her.
One by one, they fell into the darkness.
Just.
Like.
Her.
That night, something broke inside of Mortisa.
That night, something snapped.
Mortisa was no longer the cheerful healer she had once been. She was a cruel dragon, forged from blood and hatred. She was a broken glass vase full of edges and vengeance, overflowing with hatred and death.
The Healer became withdrawn, obsessed with death and the dying. Slowly,bit by bit, Mortisa lost her soul as the pain ate her away. The corruption fed on Mortisa’s hatred and lust for vengeance, and day by day her magic changed.
The Healer became the Mortician.
Mortisa could sense death from afar like a vulture seizes its prey, and could detect misfortune from a mile away. As Mortisa withdrew, her spells began to warp as well.
Healing spells became twisted blood magic, with regeneration sapping the very souls and essences of her patients. Her potions became Draughts of Living Death and Vials of Conquering Corruption, only a few among her collection.
Day by day, the bodies piled up. Children died in their cribs, swept away by plagues and floods. The legend known as Mortisa made herself known.
The mortician was fascinated with mortality and death, plagued with memories of the withering of her children.
Mortisa made her name throughout the land as a ruthless dragon made from bones and necromancy. The legends that whisper her name whisper it in fear and mild hatred. The Healer is no longer one with the light. She has long since been consumed by the darkness.
As Mortisa's soul twists into something far darker and deeper than before, her friends and allies around her suffer the consequences of dark magic.
Their lifespans slowly drained away, until it was just Mortisa and her bloodied family left standing among the corpses.
She did not regret what she had done.
She did not look back.
For she is Mortisa, the Bringer of Death. For she is Mortisa, the Mortician.
When bodies begin to pile up and the dragons begin to falter, you will know that the Mortician has arrived.
With her coming heralds the bringing of death and destruction.
While dragons die and burn around her, Mortisa simply watches.
Mortisa simply watches from atop her throne made from blood and bone.
Writing credit to @Skyfrost


Art credit to @Greeps