Prison Wretches are often heard before they are seen. These squalid beings wander the corridors of Lord Nachzehrer’s twisting dungeons and sinister laboratories, moaning in agony, tied down or stumbling about in dazed confusion.
They were human once, long ago, though they can scarcely remember their lives before this current nightmare existence. They are abductees from the nearby towns and villages, or unlucky merchants and adventurers just passing by the nearby roads.
The Lord himself and his abhorrent mage study these subjects with interest, injecting them with all manner of needles, emptying an array of mixtures into their blood. Some bubble, some burn, some seethe, and some pulse. Crimson, ochre, chartreuse, and cerulean.
The endless concoctions are dispensed liberally, almost without rhyme nor reason, though certainly following some strict process discernable only to the Lord and his assistants. The dark overseers watch with interest, hastily scribing copious notes in large tomes and ledgers as they analyze the physiological changes to these unfortunate souls.
Whether the wretch lives or dies, or transcends into something new, it can be assumed that they have served some greater purpose for their new dark masters.
