Warcraft: Raven Hill Cemetery

Year 25, Day 4

The Imperius curse was a truly magnificent work of spell creation. Though research into the spell was horribly illegal––almost as much as casting it––my family’s records dated back long before the newly formed Ministry of Magic began to crack down on the use of dark magic. We tragically did not possess a copy of the original creator’s grimoire––it was either in the hands of the Crouch or Greengrass families, though neither was willing to confirm that fact for obvious reasons––but we did have the notes of Caius Linus Black, who’d spent nearly two decades feverishly studying the curse during the eleventh century.

In many ways, it was a beautiful spell. So simple to cast that any trained wizard could manage it after just a few attempts, and yet complex enough that a true master could spend decades honing and refining their technique. With it, even a novice could potentially subdue a master occlumence––at least for a moment––or subjugate a lesser wizard for weeks before the poorly cast magic drove its target utterly mad.

Though the ignorant masses liked to group it together with the Killing Curse and the Torture Curse, the Imperius barely qualified as dark magic. It required a mere fragment of intent, a minor desire to control, far less than the sharp killing intent or desire for pain that the other two spells classified as ‘unforgivables’ called for. It was no more dark magic than legilimency was, or perhaps it was more apt to compare it to the confundus and obliviate charms. Only its effect and potency had it qualified as such, not any real magical similarity.

I really wished to someday read the creator’s grimoire, to trace their lines of reason and understand how they’d gone about designing such an insidious spell. It was completely incomparable to the far cruder mind-altering spells of its time, a shining work of brilliance that stood out among its peers to this day. Perhaps if––when I finally found my way home, I could look into acquiring the tome in question. It would make a wonderful addition to my growing library.

The methods it used to achieve its desired effect were nothing short of revolutionary. So much so that modern Black occlumency was heavily based on Caius’s reverse-engineering of the spell. The way it separated base emotions and thoughts from actions was truly brilliant, leaving the victim fully capable of using their knowledge and even of creative thought while keeping their consciousness suspended in a state where it did not want to resist.

It was not a flawless spell. It could be resisted by those of strong will or simply with sufficient training. Flaws in the casting compounded over time, eventually leading to the spell failing even if initially the target would have had no hope of fighting it off. It required a small, but constant expenditure of magic to maintain. It didn’t work at all on a small sample of people, though the exact reason for why that was had never been conclusively investigated. If cast poorly––such as by a novice or someone intentionally mucking up the spell––it could cause irreversible damage to the target’s psyche.

But for some things? It was absolutely perfect. And, unlike back home, I didn’t even need to worry about being found out and tracked down by aurors. There were no laws against its casting, or at least none I overly needed to concern myself with, since I could always just leave. And, when I returned home, what were they going to do? Sentence me to another life sentence in Azkaban?

Under the blissful, soothing touch of the Imperius curse, Morbent Fel––the necromancer who’d attacked us––sang like a dying Jobberknoll. Just in case, I used a mote of Blue mana to empower the spell, then woke him up. From there, it was barely even an interrogation. I asked questions and he cheerfully answered them while Glynda took notes on her scroll.

Most of what he told us was mostly meaningless––I cared little for all the numerous crimes he’d committed over the past few decades––but it did make Amber, Kent, and, to a curiously smaller extent, Glynda feel better about what we were doing. Peach didn’t seem to care in the slightest, spending most of the interrogation poking and prodding the man while muttering to herself under her breath. She seemed rather fascinated by the withered state of the man’s body and barely paid any attention to our questioning.

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However, there was plenty of valuable information there as well. For one, he cheerfully told us all about how to access his home, an outwardly dilapidated house near the center of the Cemetery, and its collection of spellbooks, notes, valuables, and various curiosities he’d collected over the years. He also happily called over a type of skeleton I’d yet to encounter in the Cemetery, one capable of wielding crude death magic despite not really being sapient itself. It could cast one spell and one spell only, but that spell could both be used as a dangerous attack and a way of healing other undead, so it was more versatile than it sounded at first.

I was just glad to add its Blueprint to my growing collection. Annoyingly, I was unable to create a Blueprint from his ‘elite’ skeletons, but I gathered up the enchanted gear they’d been wearing and stowed it away for the time being. After some discussion, Glynda, Kent, and I each claimed a sword and sheath for ourselves. It could be useful to appear armed, even if the blades themselves were far less dangerous than our less obvious weapons. Especially if someone directly asked for us to disarm.

Annoyingly, there was little he could tell us about the barrier spell he was using. It was the consequence of some artifact he’d used years ago and had since lost, not something he’d truly done to himself. It could apparently be penetrated by the magic of some sort of special torch, but that didn’t really matter since I couldn’t duplicate the effects.

The last interesting tidbit we got out of the man was his cooperation with a group of shady relic hunters called the ‘Dark Riders’. He didn’t actually know much about the group, but had helped them multiple times in the past in exchange for highly illegal books and materials. Apparently, they were currently active somewhere in the region, hunting for a powerful magical artifact called the Scythe of Elune. It had some connection to the Worgen but our ‘friendly’ necromancer knew little else about the item. Perhaps it might be worth searching for––there was still some time left in the day.

Eventually however, we finished extracting what knowledge we were interested in from the man, and his usefulness officially expired. There was a chance I’d be able to obtain some sort of reward by turning the man in to the authorities, but I didn’t want to risk him breaking free and causing trouble for me down the line. Obliviation was a possibility, but there was no telling if the locals had some way of reversing the effects of that particular spell.

And anyway, it wasn’t like he was gone for good. My Blueprint would remain, and with it easy access to whatever other secrets the man held. I didn’t bother releasing my imperius curse, simply placing my wand against his chest. “Fioleto Ill,” I mumbled. There was a momentary flash of purple, and then the man’s body slumped backward, his insides turned to pulp by my spell.

Kent pursed his lips, but no one said anything. I placed a preserving charm on his body, conjured a bag around it, and then dumped it into my expanded pouch. We’d pass it over to Althea later, or perhaps some other village or town. I was pretty sure there was a reward for killing men like him.

With the detailed information Fel had given us, looting his former home was easy enough. Everything was where he’d said it would be, traps were easily avoided, and we knew the passcodes to the wards over his highly illegal book collection.

All of it went into my bag. I was quite looking forward to perusing these tomes, even if I doubted I’d ever willingly dabble in the sort of necromantic magic that the man used. He’d confirmed for me that the side effects of necromancy were just as bad as I’d feared. Beneath this clothing, the man looked like a half-dead emaciated corpse, but he was only in his mid forties. What a pity.

With that taken care of, there was little else left to do in the Cemetery. Althea would certainly be pleased to know her problem with the local undead would soon be greatly reduced. Certainly some number would rise naturally––and it was still bizarre to me that such a thing was possible––but far fewer than before would plague Darkshire.

There was still a good bit of ‘daylight’, for lack of a better word, left, and a number of things to do in the area. I was very much looking forward to meeting with Ysondre again tomorrow and seeing what she had in store for us. Just to be sure we didn’t miss her, I planned to return to the Twilight Grove in the early morning, but I probably had time to look around Duskwood a bit more before it was time to return to the village. The question was, what to do?