Everything was dark. A pitch black oblivion occupied Morgana's conscious, or her lack thereof. frightening didn't describe the circumstance; it was peaceful, calm and warm. The sensation that a great comfort swathed her blanketed her thoughts like a sea of dopamine. It was sleep but something more, something deeper. Her chest did not beat back and forth as one with a heart would normally do. No breath escaped her still lungs or passed her pale lips. Her peaceful face could almost curl her lips in a smile as she savored every moment of her eternal rest. Entwined with death in something of a fling, Morgana preferred lifelessness (if you could say she had a choice).
In a matter of an instant, no faster than sound itself, her bliss came to an end. The creaking of an iron door tore through the air and forced Morgana's eyes open -- that item was endanger. Her eyelids forced open, and a glowing redness escaped her eye sockets. There was no thought, no concern. It was a magical instinct that made her raise her hands and push outward. From a vertical angle, the stony lid of her coffin felt to the floor with a reverberating thump. A single foot stepped out of the coffin, followed by the rest of Morgana, whose glowing red eyes peered out into the darkness of the tomb. A mist-like dust drowned the air in almost complete silence, save for huffing of footsteps. There was intruders in her home.
A lit torch gave away the robbers of the dead, and Morgana followed it as if it were her beacon. As the torch approached the end of the room, a chill traveled through the draugr. They wanted her arrow; she knew it. The group of shadowy figures, clinging to their torch, came upon a pedestal ordained with jewels and ornaments. Atop it sat a faintly gold arrow blanketed with dust. Seemingly ignorant of the one following them, one of the figures reached forward to pluck the arrow from its pedestal.
The figures all turned around and were horrified to see the shambling corpse that was Morgana. They raised their torch and nearly shrieked when they saw rage consuming her facial expression. One of them, the braver of the lot, stepped forward, pulling a sabre sword from his sheath. In the light of the torch, the scar upon his face ingrained itself with the undead's memory. With an effortless slash, the metal sliced Morgana's chest and she was downed. She did not care for the pain, for she forced herself up... but the figures were running away. Her feet rushed for them, an anxiety irrupting through her.
Too late. The iron door that had awoken her from death had closed. She fell against the metal and banged against it. Were she capable, she would be crying in frustration as the tomb that helped protect her and her treasure had become her prison, the barrier between her and the Arrow of Lazarus.
And then, time passed.