Alchemy revolves around extracting and enhancing the natural properties of materials to achieve a specific outcome. This process is fundamentally powered by the alchemist's own Mana, which dictates the final characteristics of the concoction. Materials with a stronger innate magic are more malleable and responsive in this process. However, the quality of the end product relies more on the Alchemist's skill and belief in his process than on the materials themselves. Instead of relying on chants and rituals, alchemy uses precise recipes and measurements, though the essence of the practice with its use of Mana remains deeply rooted in spellcraft. The act of creating a magical potion is simply a spell construct in a liquid form.
Therefore, hypothetically, a true master can achieve wonders, such as creating a healing potion from mere water, provided they possess sufficient talent, enormous Mana reserves, and an unwavering belief in their method. A highly unlikely proposition, as the whole art is steeped in esoteric nonsense.
- A Study of Alchemics by Vincenzio Barbierri.
In my arrogance, I had made a grave error in judgment. Whips of segmented bone flowed like liquid lightning from the Necromancer without warning, striking at me with fierce suddenness. The Mimic within formed a shield almost as swiftly, a thin barrier of false wood and iron against the storm. Where sharp white bone met flesh, a dull cold blossomed, eating away at my Health as they drew fresh blood.
In response to the cold, a familiar emotion grew in the pit of my belly. Sparked twice already in a single day, it was not hard to stoke the remaining embers of anger into a new flame. In answer to that anger, the dark part of my magic begged… no, demanded, for release. A release I willingly granted.
Entropic Aura burst from me in a seething pulse, an echo of the final death knell. Ivory bone began to turn gray as the waves of raw entropy crashed against bone whips that slashed at me. Seven were their number, heads of a relentless hydra made of engraved bone. Mystic sigils flared briefly about the tendrils of bone, tiny motes of black eroding its arcane nature. What attacks that struck through my automatic guard now bruised instead of drawing blood.
“You must be quite powerful for a Visitor,” snarled Vincenzio the Necromancer.
I took in his words as I stepped away, trying to get some distance as I drew the dagger at my waist.
“You are indeed powerful, but you will find one to be no easy prey,” he continued in a flat clinical tone, the barrage of bone tentacles on my person unceasing.
Game theory dictated that the correct response to an attack was to initiate an overwhelming counter-attack of one’s own. It was the only logical choice. However, my need to complete my new quest stayed my hand from following this obvious course.
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“I have no quarrel with you,” I shouted as I dodged a snake-like length of bone. A crashing tinkle of glass soon followed as it smashed into a row of beakers, vials, and alembics behind me. Liquid spilled from them, and an acrid stench filled the room like rotten fruit plucked too late from the vine.
This was definitely not how I expected a Necromancer to fight. But then again, outside of video games and fantasy, what did I know of Necromancers?
“But one has quarrel with you, feckless servant of the hated gods. The stench of their blessings is upon you. The reason for your coming can be no other than one’s demise. One is not so feeble of mind to believe in coincidence,” he answered, blind hatred staining his words with passion, and twisting his expression.
Another whip of segmented bone came down, as if in thunderous judgment. “Do you know not of the hundreds that are caught up in the wake of your kind?” he spat as I barely dodged his attack. “The suffering that you people bring to this world!?”
"All of you lack free will, no more free than the pitiful zombies one mastered in youth. You're merely another puppet in their grand, foolish game. Ignorance being, perhaps, your only defense. Exterminating your sort has ever been a most mundane and odious task. Like weeds in the garden, you sprout where you are not welcome. One will pluck you out, as one has ended the others."
He began chanting in a flat, mechanical monotone, each syllable echoing softly. A glowing circle materialized, expanding into a series of concentric and intertwining rings. These rings spun slowly, with archaic and mystical symbols flashing and revolving around the center. A sickly green hue, the mystical spell construct, seemed to bleed unnatural magic.
It was plain to see that if he finished whatever spell he was casting, my immediate future would not be a bright one. Greater Drain, my only offensive magical option, whispered seductively in my ear. Too long had it been, it whispered sibilant and sure. Still, I was hesitant to attack. There had to be another way.
Even as I was weighing up my options, my shield blocked two more, almost simultaneous, blows of hard bone. My unnatural shield provided an impressive defense, but it was not perfect. Each successive blow against the Mimic shield chipped away at its Health. A few more blows snaked through its guard, bruising and cutting where they impacted against my flesh.
The Necromancer's voice surged, rising to a tumultuous clamor with echoes from beyond the veil of death. Oddly, I heard the faint tinkling of bells and shuddered as the air grew unnaturally cold and a chill crept over me.
“I am free. My freedom bought with agony and suffering. Damn the gods and their ilk! Who are you to judge me so? What do you know of me?” I declared in defiance, my cries almost feeling cathartic in their expression.
A flicker of hesitation passed over his face, and in his corpse-wax features I saw something hinting at a burgeoning seed of doubt. His relentless assault halted, the whirling flails of sharpened bone freezing in place.
"You dare to speak against the gods... Such defiance would be unthinkable for one in their power. Do you not fear the punishment of heaven?" He regarded me with a mix of suspicion and wonder, as if I had suddenly sprouted wings and horns. "Or is this a ruse? Yes, it must be a trick!"
I felt I was close. This encounter, this story event, could be solved with something other than violence. Just a little more, one final push.