In an era long before the existence of smartphones and avocado toast, when magical beings and peculiar creatures roamed the earth freely without the fear of ending up as a cryptid in a conspiracy theory, there was a man with a talent most unnatural. For he was Jelravon, the necromancer – an ardent and debonair fellow with a disposition for raising the dead and a penchant for silk garments.
Jelravon lived in a house precariously perched atop a hill that overlooked the sleepy town of Dinderhollow. His home was far enough away from prying eyes to leave his nighttime disturbances unhindered, yet close enough to town to allow him frequent trips to the local pub, aptly named “The Moldy Toadstool.” It was in these hallowed halls of ale and mead that Jelravon would find his motivation for many of his nightly rituals.
One day, as Jelravon indulged in a flagon of mead, he overheard townsfolk talking about the recent passing of their cherished baker, a rotund and jovial man by the name of Bartholomew. The townspeople lamented the fact that his secret recipe for delicious, gooey cinnamon buns had been taken to the grave with him.
An idea blossomed within Jelravon’s mind. Armed with a newfound purpose, he surreptitiously stuffed the remainder of his meal into his stylishly tailored pockets and set off on another harebrained quest. He would use his powers of necromancy to summon the spirit of Bartholomew, retrieve the secret cinnamon bun recipe, and restore joy to the somber lives of the Dinderhollow denizens.
Clad in his finest silk robe and wearing his most intimidating skull necklace, Jelravon ventured to Bartholomew’s final resting place. The tombstones surrounding the cemetery stood like silent guards, vigilantly watching over the dearly departed.
“Bartholomew!” Jelravon boomed as he raised his arms to the dark sky, his voice reverberating through the night air. “I summon thee from your eternal slumber! Return to this mortal realm and surrender your secret recipe!”
His command echoed throughout the graveyard, and a sudden hush fell over the land. For a moment, it seemed as if his necromantic powers had failed him. But then, the ground began to tremble beneath his feet, and an ethereal figure slowly rose from its eternal resting place.
Bartholomew appeared before Jelravon, wearing a spectral and rather ill-fitting apron, his eyes wide with confusion. “Who dares disturb my eternal slumber?” he growled, his voice muffled by ghostly doughnuts occupying his ethereal cheeks.
“It is I, Jelravon the Necromancer!” came the reply, punctuated by a dramatic flourish of his silk-clad arms. “I have summoned you to retrieve your secret recipe for cinnamon buns! The people of Dinderhollow mourn your absence and crave your delectable pastries!”
Bartholomew’s ectoplasmic eyebrows shot skyward at this bizarre request. He had expected grave robbers, perhaps an ambitious apprentice seeking his baking wizardry, but a theatrical necromancer was quite outside the realm of possibility.
“You desire my recipe? So be it!” Bartholomew exclaimed and waved his ghostly hands, causing a spectral parchment to materialize. Jelravon eagerly snatched it from the air, his eyes scanning the list of ingredients and arcane cooking incantations.
Bartholomew cocked his immaterial head to one side and continued, “But, alas! There is a condition for my secret recipe’s release! You must teach me the art of necromancy, so I may return to the mortal realm and bake my cinnamon buns for all eternity!”
Jelravon could hardly contain his excitement at the prospect of an immortal baker at his disposal, and so he agreed without hesitation. Over many nights, as the world slumbered and dreamt of endless feasts and merriment, Bartholomew was tutored in the mystical art of necromancy.
One cold, moonlit evening, their unholy alliance bore fruit, as Bartholomew took physical form for the first time since his departure from this mortal coil. The erstwhile baker had been transformed into a lich, the likes of which had never been seen before. He was now the eternal baker-lich of Dinderhollow.
Together, they returned to the town, their combined powers ensuring that the delicious aroma of freshly baked cinnamon buns would forever waft through the streets. The people of Dinderhollow hailed Jelravon as a hero, and “The Moldy Toadstool” was never without an ample supply of cinnamon buns.
And so it was that Jelravon became known as a necromancer of peculiar tastes and questionable motivations, but one who could always be counted on to come through in the end. For who could ever doubt the power of a well-baked cinnamon bun and the skillful meddling of a silk-clad necromancer?
Thus concludes a tale of pastry resurrection, where mortals and spirits came together for the love of cinnamon buns. But let it not be forgotten, for it is through these strange happenings that even the darkest arts can be made sweet.
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Dalli. Publisher: Cyber.
