Over the course of his life, Mick had made several decisions that in retrospect may not have been very good. He was well aware of that. In fact, one could say that he was constantly being reminded of his mistakes. Every day, he left his crappy basement cell to go to his crappy pitty-job, only to spend his day looking back over his life with regret.
Mick used to be someone with prospects. At one time, he was considered a young man with a bright future. He had graduated from the local academy in the ninety-fifth percentile. When it came time to choose his primary discipline, three actual mages from the college had come to his house. The look of pride on his mother’s face was still one of Mick’s fondest memories.
But now, Mick was in his late 50’s and all of that potential was spent.
As he walked down the damp, empty, basement corridor, he reminisced about what went wrong. He shouldn’t have taken the apprenticeship with Arch-mage Sylvester. And he shouldn’t have chosen soul magic as his primary discipline. And he definitely shouldn’t have wasted all that time trying to swap guinea pig souls. The amount of grant money he had wasted on that ridiculous idea was staggering. But really, it was his decision to marry Nancy… That’s when everything fell apart.
It was well past midnight, and everyone in the tower was either in bed, or had gone home. Not that anyone usually came down to this mildew infested basement anyway. But it wasn’t all bad, as Mick enjoyed the silence, along with the lack of judgmental eyes.
He opened the squeaky door, and went into his tiny cell. With a wave of his hand, the candles in the room sparked to life. The shadows seem to cling to the stacks of papers and books which were piled randomly throughout the room. The low ceiling’s hanging chandelier was missing several candles, and the lighting was as poor as the décor.
Standing in the middle of the mess, Mick sighed. He looked up to see his tall scrying mirror showing his reflection. ‘Gods, I look old,’ he thought.
Staring at his image, he couldn’t help but judge himself. His poorly kept dark brown robes were stained near the bottom. His boots were dull, and covered in grime. Even through the loose clothes, he could see his bulging belly. But it was his eyes that really made him hate himself. Locking stares with his reflection, he said, “If I were on the academic approval committee, I wouldn’t approve your project either.” Unsurprisingly, his reflection didn’t bother to respond.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a skull on his shelf. Turning to look at it, he met its hollow gaze and said, “And you can shut up as well.”
With a grimace, he walked over to his desk and plopped himself into his comfortable chair. If his current life revolved around anything, it would be his plush office chair. Over 20 years ago, he had received it as a gift from the governor, and for many years it had reminded him that the powers that be were trying to help. But tonight, it just didn’t seem to elicit the feeling of hope that it used to.
Mick pulled a bottle of cheap wine from a drawer, and set it on his desk. Picking up his dirty ceramic mug, he balled up part of his robe and wiped the interior clean. After pouring himself a drink, he leaned back in his chair and wondered, ‘What the hell am I going to do now?’
This had been his last chance. He had already spent the last of the money they had given him in preparation for his success, but now his project was officially canceled before it had even started.
Mick took a large gulp of his wine, then leaned forward to place his mug back on the table. Waving his hand, he pulled the book out his personal space. The spell was simple for a soul mage like him. It allowed a person to carry personal items in a dimension attached to their soul. He had been secretly carrying this book ever since he had found it. He ran his hand over the thick leather tome, appreciating the profound knowledge contained within.
After he had found his wife in bed with Arch-mage Sylvester, the man had sent him through an unstable portal spell. Many times, he found himself wondering why the man hadn’t just killed him. Not that the result of the portal spell was much better. Mick had found himself in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by ruins, beset on all sides by ghouls and zombies. It had taken him 3 months to find civilization once again. And the only thing of value he had found during his trek, was this book.
He looked down on the faded gold script, and traced a finger along the elegantly written title, “Immortality is a myth”.
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It has been over thirty years since he had found himself in the land of the elves. And even after all this time, he had no idea how to find his way home. Worse yet, he was surrounded by ageless elves, whose lifespans could be measured in millennia. They still considered him a newcomer, an oddity. In fact, the mage who owns this tower still hasn’t learned Mick’s name. It had taken them 6 months just to come to a decision on whether or not he should be allowed to stay.
To them, Mick was a legend given form. They knew humans used to live on this continent, but that was another age. It had been thousands of years since they had seen a human. In a way, Mick had been lucky. If it weren’t for his unique race, they probably would have just killed him when he showed up at their gates. Instead, they gave him a small chamber and asked him to write down his life for their records. For a while, they even let him do his research. But to them, his magic was pathetic, and his ideas were laughable. After all, who would actually want to live forever? Their leading cause of death was boredom. And as time passed, their interest in him waned.
Mick stared at his book with a growing sense of anger. They wanted him to just wait for his death while not making a fuss. He could still hear their condescending voices echoing through his mind. “Why are you so interested in this?” “Haven’t you been given everything you need?” “All things die with time, we’ll make sure that you’re comfortable.” “Of course not, our dead are sacred.” “What you’re asking for is out of the question.” “Wouldn’t you rather spend your time on something else?”
Mick’s thoughts returned to that time long ago, when he had been uprooted from his life and thrown into the ruins. He had fought and clawed his way out of that nightmare. And this time would be no different. Just because they refused to give him a body, didn’t mean he had to give up. He may be running out time, but his experiment could still succeed.
With a thoughtful look on his face, he rubbed his chin in consideration. Staring at the necromatic tome he wondered, ‘How do I go about stealing a body?’
Obviously, he couldn’t just raid a cemetery. Death was so rare here that they treated their funerals like a pageant. The would display the body on a platform in a community square for a week, while the entire community feasted and honored the deceased’s life. Mick found the entire thing both heartwarming and excessive.
At the conclusion of the funeral, they would offer the body to one of their mother trees. The elves relationship with nature could be charitably referred to as ‘codependent’. Everything they did had to be in harmony with the forest they called home. Even though their civilization spanned hundreds of kilometers, with millions of citizens, their population density was so low that there were places inside their walls where you could take a walk in complete solitude.
Mother trees were scattered throughout their kingdom. They housed the local government, and were treated as religious centers. Once a body was interred in the root system, there would be no way for Mick to find it. He wasn’t allowed anywhere near the Mother trees. He’d have to find another way.
Mick sat in comfy chair, sipping his wine, and tried to come up with a solution.
What he needed was a place where elves died in groups. Maybe he could hide in a dungeon, and wait for something to kill an entire party? No, that was suicide. And besides, they wouldn’t let him anywhere near one of their dungeons. Everything was too ordered. They even went out of their way to create isolated areas for spawn points. They called them ‘hunting grounds’, and he would need a permit to enter them.
Tapping his finger on his chin, he considered the problem. Where could he find a place where elves were dying in groups, but no one was around to monitor the area?
Freezing in his chair, his eyes widened in realization. The western front! Mick knew the elves were always having skirmishes with the orcs. For years he had listened to them whisper about the savage race to the west. Like complaining grandparents, they would talk about the wasted elven lives and their barbaric neighbors. That’s where he needed to go.
Rolling out of his chair to his feet, Mick corked the bottle and downed the rest of his wine. He had to get ready.
Moving around the room, he started collecting his things. As he stuffed a few spare robes and clothes into a bag, he looked around the room. There were books and papers littering the floor, along with empty bottles and dishes. Taking a moment to reflect on his dismal life, he realized that nothing here was really all that important to him. Books on elven history and poetry wouldn’t be of any use to him. They hadn’t allowed him to learn any of their magic, so there weren’t even any spell tomes or anything of value really.
Holding a half full bag of clothes, his arms dropped to his sides. Thirty wasted years. No wonder his body was failing him. He hadn’t done anything of importance for a long time. His eyes scanned the room, looking for anything that he wanted to take with him. When he looked over at his desk, he saw his most prized possession, the book that promised him a future.
Walking across the room, he could feel his heartbeat speeding up. The lethargy that had infected his life was slowly being purged. He dropped the half full bag on the desk and picked up the tome. Taking a final moment to appreciate the sturdy leather and faded golden script, he looked at it and said, “No more meetings. No more lazy afternoons. No more wasted time. No more.”
With a wave of his hand, he returned the book to his personal space. His eyes were filled with purpose, and he returned to his packing. As he didn’t have much in the way of material possessions, he was ready to go within the hour.
He would be taking two bags, a backpack and a satchel. Everything else, he would leave for the tower master to deal with. If he were being honest, Mick doubted the old elf would even bother sending someone down here to clean up. The only thing down here were rooms full of things the elves had forgotten about. Mick couldn’t help but grimace at the thought they had probably forgotten about him too.
Mentally checking the time, he decided to get a few hours of sleep before morning. He left the bags by the door and laid down on his cot. Staring at the ceiling, he left the candles burning and enjoyed the way the shadows played across the damp stonework. “Tomorrow is going to be the first day of the rest of my life,” he muttered to himself before falling into the first good nights rest he had in years.