|Image Source: http://matthewsellers.deviantart.com/art/Sacred-Ground-528040884|
"What does that say I wonder?" Rawrik mused to himself. The woodsman stood over a low rough cut stone partially buried under weeds and entwined with the roots of a tree that was slowly consuming it. Despite its forlorn state the words graven into the stone were oddly clear. The language was something alien to the simple man though and though he was largely illiterate he knew enough words to know that this language was not his own.
The words began to glow, an obvious display of Power that sent the woodsman skittering backwards as we instinctively set an arrow to his bow. The glow soon enveloped the stone and began to bleed out onto the forest floor like heartsblood from a grievous wound. Rawrik wanted to run; his superstitious nature and fear of Power told him to flee. Instead he stood transfixed by deadly curiosity; he was rooted to the spot, unable to cease his short vigil even as an ethereal moan began to rise from the Power soaked ground.
The moan rose as a form broke from the ground, tearing through roots and soil alike. A skeletal hand, wrapped in decay and filth, and the remains of some ancient glove or gauntlet thrust into the world, soaked to dripping with condensed Power.
Rawrik's mind was a fracture and even as he stood rooted in terror he railed at his flesh to flee, or raise its bow, or to do something of some kind. Instead, fixed in place, he was helpless to do more than pay heed to the foul resurrection before him.
A second limb followed the first, and soon they dragged a fleshless skull capped with a tarnished and battered crown. The creature continued to pull itself free, until at last it stood before the helpless peasant, its empty eyes regarding the man with a look both baleful and sorrowful. Compelled by ancient Power the revenant drew forth a rust encrusted blade and stalked forward even as it heard in its damned soul those words graven on the rough stone that marked the place of its damned eternity.
Your grave will be lost to all time, forgotten and alone. And if, by chance, some poor fool should happen upon it you will rise from your restless grave and strike them down. So will it be that your own hand will ensure that your memory and legacy are banished from history!