The Drums Begin

Thazmug stared at the scroll even as he sat, drinking the ice cold water. It gnawed at him, and the parchment pulsed, like it was alive. The ink glistened like it had been written that morning, and his head pounded.

"Is it enchanted?" He ventured to ask, though his voice cracked.

The scribe shook his head. "Only by fear. Fear of what it holds."