Lazarus Le Blank

The crypt pulsed with the crimson glow of the relic in Lazarus Le Blank’s trembling hand, its power growing stronger as his strength faded. Each breath was labored, his chest searing with pain as the spell drew more and more from him, leaving him weaker with every second. His vision blurred, the ancient stone walls around him dissolving into a haze, yet he could just make out a shadowy figure moving toward him through the mist. He tried to focus, to discern who or what it was, but the strain of the spell was too great. His life force felt as though it was being siphoned away, his body barely holding upright as his knees buckled. The figure came closer, yet Lazarus could only fight to stay conscious, knowing he was moments from collapse.