🤗 Hugs Anyone?
Skeletal walkers, tightly wrapped mummies, and tall, skinny liches possess one small yet striking feature that sets them apart from their living counterparts: their delightfully thin waists. But why wait until the afterlife to achieve that perfect hourglass figure?
Deep beneath the streets of Foldale, in an ancient crypt where the shadows seemed alive, stood Sir Yorick Waistclench, the necromancer lord who had spent decades honing his craft and perfecting his physique in the shadows.
His beauty was beyond the mortal realm, both smooth and chiseled to perfection, like an athletic youth not older than 18 – the only oddity being his disproportionately thin waist, cinched by a black belt buried so deep that it seemed to be a part of his very being.
His eyes, dark as the night itself, gleamed with a fierce determination as he watched his seven acolytes prepare the final rituals for his ascension into immortality.
The Cult of the 8 had always been restricted to only eight members at all times. Once the most powerful one among them ascended to immortality, a new member was sought to replace the old one.
Sir Yorick's gaze fell upon the new boy, a scrawny young lad named Thaddeus, who had been invited for an interview, based on the rumors that surrounded him.
Ever since he arrived in Foldale, the boy had ignited a frenzy of gossip among its residents, their eyes widening at his slender waistline, thinner than any they had ever witnessed in this bustling harbor town.
"By the goodly gods, I have heard tell of thy lithe figure! How canst thou maintain such a trim waistline in thy teens?" Sir Yorick's husky voice echoed in the chamber.
Thaddeus looked at him in surprise. "By the elven saints, I be not some milkfed whelp! I see this be no tavern, yet still must prove my age!"
He hesitated, fumbling in his pocket for a worn parchment. Sir Yorick snatched it from him, his eyes scanning over the old paper. "Say what! Ye, 27?"
Thaddeus slapped himself on the forehead. "Aye, sir! I've kept myself in shape since the age o' eight by daily exercises," he patted the tight, rounded belly below his cinched waistline. "It were the elven god's blessing, I reckon."
Sir Yorick's eyes narrowed. "And how didst thou learn of this waist-cinching spell, if I may ask?"
Thaddeus's face paled, remembering the old book on necromancy he had found in some abandoned shack as a child. He had read it cover to cover, fascinated by the words of power that filled its pages.
"I be no sorcerer," Thaddeus spoke, voice trembling. "But that tome set me on a path to learnin' and my body on the path to the smallest waist in all the lands. It be all I know, sir."
Sir Yorick's eyes gleamed with a dark, ancient wisdom. "Marvelous, truly marvelous. Thou hast found 'The Hourglass o' Eternity' by the Waist Wizard, the ancient tome that hath been thought lost for over two decades!"
Thaddeus's eyes widened. "That be the very title of the tome I found, sir!"
"But how didst thou learn to wield its power?" Sir Yorick asked, his tone laced with intrigue.
Thaddeus shrugged. "I just read it and done what 'twas said, sir."
Sir Yorick chuckled lowly. "Then I see no reason why thou shouldst not join us, Thaddeus. The book chose thee to be our eighth member."
Thaddeus hesitated, but the lure of knowledge and power was too great to resist. "I accept," he said finally, holding out his hand.
Sir Yorick took it in a firm grip. "Then thou art our new eighth member of the Cult o' the 8," he declared. "We shall guide thee on thy path towards the perfect waist, and many riches shall be thine!.."