Ghizharian of the Shimmering Word gazed down upon the vat of quivering flesh that was now his to command. This was always the point when he felt most excited. The possibilities were endless, laid out before him, ready to be commanded. The suspense was titillating in the extreme. A part of him knew that when he was finished, his enervated body would lie useless for days or even weeks, begging him for death, but in this moment his conscious mind banished those memories from his kingdom of thought.
For this project would be a tribute to Shendela. She would see his love for her in this construction and no longer look upon his arts with disdain. They would be together. She would belong to him, the way he belonged to her. He could still recall every detail of the day she spurned him for the arms of his hated rival Drakdagor. Or how she called him a “mere seudoalchemistic
hedge wizard” when he went to her after Drakdagor left the Royal College of Wizardry. By then, she could see that awful man used people on his climb to the top, but she was yet blind to the wonders of Ghizharian’s powers.