Damn it.
 
Here's the problem with not having posted in three years - you forget how.  
Let's try again.
 
 
   
Deathless 
By  
Jeremy Harper 
Note – The Astonishing X-Men are the property of Marvel Comics, and are  used 
without permission.  
For OldPrydeFan, though she knows me not.  
Prologue One – The Sorcerer Contemplates His Creation 
In his hall deep beneath Mother Damp Earth the sorcerer leaned back in  his 
malachite throne and with cold, agate eyes considered the force arrayed in  
darkling glory before him. His gaze quickly passed over the bandit-troubadour  
clad in crimson and gold, the great apotheosis of all bears, and the  
scintillating Chaos Demon before settling on the last of his assembled  champions. The 
sorcerer’s thin, black lips peeled back, revealing rotting fangs  barred in the 
mockery of a smile. Fierce, greedy pride welled in his hollow  breast as he 
looked at his son, armed and armored for his first foray into the  mortal 
world. His son, brought to him by fortuitous circumstance, re-forged by  his 
ancient, matchless craft, his penultimate achievement, who would deliver to  him his 
ultimate triumph.  
His son stood tall – far taller than an  ordinary man, his shoulders broad 
and his limbs heroic in proportion. A  deep-blue great coat wrapped about his 
body, embroidered with rearing golden  dragons, trimmed with sable. Golden 
serpents on black cloth coiled up his legs.  He wore knee-high, hard leather boots, 
and leather gauntlets encased his large  hands. A hood and steel skullcap 
covered his head and a golden mask, wrought  like the face of a beautiful youth, 
lips curved upwards with a mocking devil’s  smile, concealed his face. A broad 
belt, etched with gold and buckled with  silver, wound around his hips. A 
broadsword hung at his left hip, a great knife  rested on his right thigh. He 
stared back at his father with shining,  pupil-less, golden eyes, fierce fires 
burning in their fathomless depths. The  sorcerer smiled and nodded at his son. 
With his son’s awesome might, dominion  would be theirs.  
Behind the sorcerer’s champions, the zahlozhniy – the unhallowed  dead – 
stood in neat, precise rows. Clad in filthy tatters, sabers, muskets and  axes 
gripped in their bony fingers, ready to fight, to reave, to slay, they were  his 
army and their numbers were inexhaustible. 
The sorcerer rose, lifted his arms in benediction, and spoke, his thin,  
hissing voice echoing through the silence of the hall. “I have waited five  
hundred years, and now our time has come. The spheres are aligned, the stars are  
right, the key calls to me. It is time to begin. I will swallow my doom and set  
myself beyond all woe.” He gestured at his son. “My beautiful creation, my  
darling childe, you are my eyes and my fist. In the New World, in the city of  
New York, the first segment of the key awaits, concealed from my sight. Go  
there, find it, retrieve it. Sweep aside all who oppose you.” 
His son placed a clenched fist over his heart and bowed his head. His  voice 
was a whisper of thunder. “As you will it, so it shall be done.”  
The sorcerer settled back down on his malachite throne and prepared to  
wrench open the gate, his death’s head grin gleaming in the faint light.      





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