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 Days were growing short for the tides of preparation. Soon, the waves had to crash. The chalice of peace had been filled, and the dam was dangerously close to overfilling. Already droplets cascaded down every now and then, hovering dangerously from the rim aching to escape. It was diverted into restless energy for many, a penance of nervous anarchy like dogs biting at the leash that bound them. Others grew ripe with trepidations, nervous inquiries and writhing hands unsteady upon their blades and sorceries. They leapt at shadows, careened at the slightest of sounds.

They were those fresh from the capitol, their changes fresh, and at times their leads had to be shorter than those elder than them. The very same cogs had driven him to collect a multitude of casualties. Those who had, at first, yearned to be liberators would now be used in grisly conjunction with assaulting those they had once sought to free. So was the irony of the world in which they lived. He had no whims, no physical appearance in mind for that which he sought to create. The stench of death and decay was rancid. Rot apparent in the face of spring - the deceased no longer preserved by the ice and snow of winter's embrace.

The mound of decomposing flesh rested within the ring of glyphs painstakingly carved around them, a summoning circle used to call forth those wayward souls. Minds made malleable by the breaches of madness. Necromancy. A deep breath fled him as he stared at his handiwork, those who had aided in gathering the necessary.... materials had nervously departed the scene upon their last deliveries. Though he had been preparing this for quite some time, the sheer tantamount energy he would need to exert was a step in and of itself to prepare for. An inconvenience to say the least.

"If anyone is in the perimeter," he began, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve habitually, his attention delegated to the man at his left, somewhat of an assistant in these endeavors, "they need to clear it immediately. I'm ready to begin." There was only a brief pause extended as the other arm would raise to his face. Teeth would tear against the skin of his wrist, however, the flow of crimson wine was slow coming through the veins reanimated in much the same way he intended to reinvent what lay before him. Feeling the beginnings of the first droplets coming forth, he would roll the cloth upwards, baring the dark marring of his own skin. Unsatisfied, fangs would again meet that which had been spared ruination, resulting in the quicker flood of ichor.

With it, he would finish the line connecting the summoning circle, where his palm would linger, allowing the liquid to roll from him and upon the earth itself. As if contaminated by the substance, the grass would wither and die around the ring and within it. Like a fuse the path would wind throughout the glyphs and the macabre of their lines until reaching the amalgamation of corpses within its center.