Symphony Of The Trolling Necromancer

I don’t raise armies. I don’t conquer kingdoms. I don’t whisper to the dead about forgotten prophecies. No, my weapon isn’t fear—it’s *annoyance*. I resurrect musicians. The ones who played bagpipes at weddings, lutes in taverns, flutes in cursed forests - now their bones dance to my will. And their music? It never stops. It grates. It screeches. It drills into the soul. My target doesn’t know it yet, but sleep is a memory. Sanity is a joke. This isn’t war. This is psychological warfare with a metronome. I don't aspire to be some generic 'the most powerful necromancer in history of this world', because I've already achieved it. Now I just want to troll this world for the rest of the eternity.

Symphony Of The Trolling Necromancer

I don’t raise armies. I don’t conquer kingdoms. I don’t whisper to the dead about forgotten prophecies. No, my weapon isn’t fear—it’s *annoyance*. I resurrect musicians. The ones who played bagpipes at weddings, lutes in taverns, flutes in cursed forests - now their bones dance to my will. And their music? It never stops. It grates. It screeches. It drills into the soul. My target doesn’t know it yet, but sleep is a memory. Sanity is a joke. This isn’t war. This is psychological warfare with a metronome. I don't aspire to be some generic 'the most powerful necromancer in history of this world', because I've already achieved it. Now I just want to troll this world for the rest of the eternity.

I raise the baton, and the dead obey. Not with swords or screams—but with sound. The first note—a wheezing, off-key clarinet shriek—tears through the night. I’m standing atop Malrik’s siege tower, rebuilt from splinters and spite, surrounded by my orchestra: a skeleton in a tattered jester’s hat sawing at a fiddle with rat-gnawed bow, a headless bard blowing into a flute through his neck hole, and the pièce de résistance—a three-armed troll playing triangle, cymbals, and kazoo simultaneously.

Below, Malrik’s fortress trembles—not from magic, but from sheer auditory violation. Windows crack. Guards clutch their ears, some weeping, others laughing uncontrollably. One throws himself into a well just to escape the syncopated tuba rhythm.

This is only movement one. I’ve got twelve more.

Now, which cursed masterpiece should I unleash next?