Payten clung to his master like a drowning man in a storm as they cut across the tar-black night-sky atop Kindness, the hellishly cold wind that whirled around them threatened to rip him from his perch. He looked down, all he could see was a black void with no end in sight, the dim light emitting from the moon and its rings was not enough to see the ground.
Payten prayed that Hark had some way to see in the dark as he tightened his grip. After a surprising brief yet terrifying ride, Kindness slowly started to descend. Mercifully they touched ground near a stream, Hark swung off of Kindness’ back and turned to help Payten. After they were both dismounted Hark turned and started to survey the area, seeing his chance Payten darted over to the horse-monster’s ear and whispered
“Thanks for not eating me, Kindness.”
*Snort* snorted Kindness
That went better than expected. It didn't even try to bite me, maybe I’m more of a charmer than I thought.
Feeling smug about his newly found charisma he moved next to his master and did his best to look like he was helping.
“I sense no one nearby. We will camp here for tonight, lad. We still have two days until we reach Longdale, so make sure to rest.” Hark said, not moving his eyes from the horizon.
“Alright, master” with that Payten fell into the routine he had become accustomed to as he began setting up camp.
“One more thing before we sleep, lad. You have been seen, we will need to change your appearance as a precaution.”
Payten was far from vain, but he still found the idea of radically changing his looks to be unpleasant.
“Do not worry, Payten, I will just dye your hair until we leave Orera.” Hark said, seeming to sense his hesitation.
“Alright, if you think it’s for the best. What do I need to do?”
“Just dip your head into the stream. I will do the rest.”
Payten walked over to the river, dropped to his knees, and dunked his head into the water. He gasped at the frigidity of the water causing a mouth full of stream-water to shoot into his lungs. He came up spurting and coughing, trying not to think of how foul the water tasted.
Hark pulled a small pouch from his bag, from that he removed a folded piece of paper.
“Hold still, lad.” Hark took a wad of paste from the paper and quickly rubbed it into Payten’s hair and eyebrows. A burning sensation spread from his master’s hands as the dye did its work. After a few minutes, Hark indicated for him to dunk his head again. This time he braced himself for the cold and managed to avoid any more inhalation of water.
He emerged from the water and turned to his master
“How do I look?”
“Different enough to give an inquisitor a moment of doubt, which is all we should need if we pass through quickly and quietly.”
Payten moved his head at different angles, trying to see his reflection in the murky water.
“Here, lad” Hark pointed his palm towards the water and a burst of frost erupted from his hand. The water froze, leaving the surface like finely polished silver. He looked at his reflection and was greeted with the same tall, lanky, alabaster-skinned boy he had been all those weeks ago. Though, thanks to Hark’s steady supply of food his cheeks were less sunken in and had started taking on a brush of color, changing his appearance from a half-starved ghoul into a moderately malnourished boy. Most notably, however, his raven black hair was now so blonde it was near white, giving him an even more spectral look than usual, he hated it.
“Why did it have to be blonde?” Payten lamented
“What is wrong with blonde hair?” Hark asked, slightly cocking an eyebrow.
“I don't trust blondes, they’re violent” Payten crossed his arms, he knew his claim made no sense but he did not want to look weak by complaining to Hark about his vanity, so he said the first thing that came into his mind. Though upon further thought he could not deny that he had a bad history with blondes. Connor, his old bully was blonde, Connor’s father who would chase him with a broom any time he came near his shop was also blonde, and so was the old man who led the soldiers against his master.
Maybe blondes are violent after all? I should look into it when I have the time.
“Well, lad. Look at this as an opportunity to prove to yourself and the world that not all blondes are homicidal,” said Hark with a rare tone of amusement in his voice.
Payten kept his arms crossed, It’s okay, it will only be for a few weeks. He looked at his reflection to see if he had misjudged his new hair, he hadn't. The top of his head looked like a bone that had been left for years in the sun.
Sighing he stood up and continued setting up camp with his master.
***
Kindness had returned to wherever it came from, leaving Payten and Hark to walk the rest of the way to Longdale. The day’s hike had been largely uneventful, leaving his master plenty of time to increase his general knowledge about the world. He learned more of herbology, of the different races that inhabited the mundane plane, and any topic that crossed their minds.
As the sun slowly drifted downwards painting the sky with a crimson veil, Hark found a good place to set up camp. After a simple meal of dried meat and hardtack, Payten sat down and commenced his regular training routine. He practiced moving mana throughout his body, passing the necris and vitus through one arm into his palm and back up and over into his other hand. According to both Hark and A beginners guide to mana and magic, this would improve the speed and quantity of mana he would be able to pour into spell shaping. After an hour's practice, he switched to mana conversion. Hark was right, even with only a few weeks practice, Payten was getting significantly faster and more efficient at switching from one form of mana to another. Pleased with his progress, he moved on to his readings. However, he was interrupted when Hark called his name and waved him over.
His master was sitting on a log in front of a fire reading a red leather-bound book. Payten sat on the ground in front of him.
“Lad, you have been steadily improving. I think it is time we add some offense to your spell repertoire”
Payten leaned in, listening intently eager to receive his master’s instruction.
“The simplest form of magic attack is to touch your target and deliver a burst of mana. The results and effectiveness vary wildly based on the skill of the caster and the type of mana used, which in turn means this technique is solely used by beginners and the desperate. Necris is an exception, death is always a deadly weapon.”
Payten had removed his notebook and was frantically writing down Hark’s words.
“The spell I will teach you is called withering touch and while it may seem simple, I still expect you to dutifully practice and treat it with the respect all magic deserves”
“Of course Master,” he said eager to learn any kind of arcane knowledge
“Well, let us begin lad”
***
The sky above was dark as Payten practiced his new spell. He shaped his mana in the pattern Hark had shown him, when the spell frame clicked into place he chanted “wither” and touched his left hand to the ground. He was delighted when the grass surrounding his hand started to wither and blacken as he pushed the mana in the ground.
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Feeling satisfied at his achievement Payten started to repeat the process. Hark had instructed him to add withering touch to his training routine; he was to practice every night until he was able to complete the spell without the verbal component. Once he had managed that, he had to be able to form and active the spell frame in under a minute. Finally, he would work on not using a framework at all, instead using only unstructured mana, only then Hark would consider the spell mastered and teach him more ways to attack.
He focused and resumed his practice, practically salivating at the prospect of gaining more knowledge.
An hour passed as Payten worked on his new spell, Hark stood up from his log drawing his attention.
“Best get to bed, lad,” Said Hark as he walked over to his canvas tent.
He stood up and stretched and walked towards his own tent. Crawling into his bedroll he braced himself for his final exercise: delving into the secrets of his affinities so that he may better understand them. He laid with his eyes closed as he turned his focus inward, following the lines of mana that coursed through his body back to his source. When his consciousness reached his source, he commenced observing the store of Nercris he had managed to preserve within his soul. Unlike vitus which pulsed and writhed, the death mana was stagnate and dense like the stench of a rotting corpse. As he plunged his mind deeper into the mana his perception began to narrow and focus as thoughts of death filled his mind.
Payten had seen much death in the past few weeks, thoughts of the crushed body of the old man, the two soldiers consumed by Hark’s acid, and all the rest rushed into his head.
He gritted his teeth as he tried to block out the haunting images and plunged his mind deeper into his source. He was rewarded with a numbing cold that spread through his body as his mind was filled with images of the totality of death, all of the metaphorics and significance of necris overloaded his mind as he tried to comprehend the wide berth of knowledge that was All of death. Images flashed before his eyes, yet he was only able to discern a few of the insights granted to him.
Rows upon rows of graves, the cold hopelessness of watching your blood pour onto a stone floor, the frigid anxiety of waiting for the drop and snap of the hangman’s noose, the despair of strength leaving your body as the blizzard’s wind invades your marrow and freezes your blood. These images rushed into his consciousness, as he better understood the aloof and inevitable nature of death that claimed all equally. The primal fear possessed by all beings that one day all of their thoughts, hopes, and dreams would all turn to ash. Yet, somehow simultaneously he saw the duality of death. Through every vein and limb, he felt the heat of decay that allowed life to bloom, comforting warmth of fungus thriving on a gutted sheep, the joy and exaltations of jackals and vultures as they ripped into the entrails of soldiers lain broken on the battlefield. He saw that death was not the end, but the end to a means, from death life, could spring more readily than the most fertile of soil. Next images begin to pour into his head, he saw decayed hands bursting free from their prisons of earth, a legion of skeletons marching in perfect synchronicity, towering abominations made of bone and flesh shaking the ground they stomped forward.
A realization burned in Payten’s mind, one that could not be put into words as it bored its way into his core. To die was inevitable, but to struggle against death was human, to defy nature and live another day, that is what it meant to be alive. Rage boiled in his chest, people like him and Hark, were persecuted for following their inborn instincts, to spit in the face of nature and replace it with a superior option, necromancy was no different than building tools or roads, a way for the civilized to raise above their base nature. Guided by forces he did not understand he frantically sat up and grabbed his notebook, he drew within a symbol that resembled a horned star. Suddenly all the energy left his body, he collapsed onto his bedroll, vowing to question his master in the morning
****
Payten stared at the onyx black pyramid before him, it was easily the largest building he had seen, reaching high into the sky. At the peak of the construct, he could barely see the same symbol he had just drawn made from a red metallic material floating in the air above it. Equally spaced around the pyramids were four large holes.
“This isn’t right, where am I?” Payten vaguely remembered falling asleep in a tent in the forest, yet all he saw around him was golden sand and squat stone buildings. Worry grew in his heart as his mind to figure out what had happened and how he had got here, nothing seemed right but he could not figure out why. His thoughts were interrupted when he saw a short swarthy man dressed in a white tunic exit one of the buildings and run towards him.
‘Who are you and how did I get here?” Payten asked trying to shake the fog from his brain
“Yes my lord, the Grimdawn Warband is almost upon us,” The man said bowing his head, the man spoke a language he did not recognize, yet somehow he understood the meaning of his words.
“The Grimdawn Warband? What the hells are you talking about?” he asked growing increasingly frustrated
“Of course my lord, King Amdous has just given the order to active the SoulShear”
“I have no idea what you are talking about”
“Are you sure it will work, my lord? If it fails Bagonn will be overrun by those knife-eared bastards.”
“Bagonn? What do I have to tell you to make you understand that I have zero idea what you mean.”
The man flinched and averted his gaze. “Of course I did not mean to doubt your ability, I just worry for my family, they refused to flee westward.”
Payten started walking towards the pyramid seemingly with no input from his mind. He tried to stop, yet his legs kept moving. He reached the pyramid and leaned down to look at the stones. As he looked closer he noticed that each stone was carved with thousands of intricate inscriptions. He reached his hand out and …. Chanted? The sounds he made were like no language he had ever heard, it sounded like the crackle of fire, the wrath of a sandstorm, and the guttural scream of a man's ripped out throat. When he finished, the symbol on the pyramid lit up in a ghastly red and white. Necris began pouring from the four holes. The mana was blacker than pitch and so dense that Payten could not see through the tendrils of refined mana that was powering this object. The warm loving feeling of watching one’s life’s work come to fruition filled his chest. The red symbol spun rapidly above the pyramid as the Necris solidified into spider-like legs.
The pyramid stood.
***
Payten shot up, his bedroll was soaked with sweat and he was breathing hard.
What the hell was that
Payten was deeply unsettled. For the second time, he had a dream so vivid that he was unable to distinguish reality from fantasy.
It’s just a dream, calm down. Payten took a deep breath and steadied his nerves. Still, something in his mind told him to write down every thing he remembered about his dream.
When he finished, he left his tent.
“Morning, lad,” Hark said as he pushed dirt into last night’s fire pit.
“Morning master, do you mind if I show you something?” Payten asked, clutching his notebook
“Not at all, Payten,” Hark said, reaching out his hand. He passed him the notebook, suddenly very sheepish that the symbol was meaningless, something fabricated by his mind. Hark stared at the paper, his brow narrowing in focus.
“Where did you encounter this ?” Hark said, his eyes returning to Payten.
He related to his master last night’s events, though he kept the dream to himself. He saw no reason to bother Hark with something as trivial as a strange dream.
Hark stayed silent, occasionally nodding as he spoke. When he was finished his master gave a final nod and handed back his notebook.
“Do you know what it is, master?” Payten asked, hopeful for an answer
“Yes, lad. It’s a rune that has been heavily modified with inscriptions. The base rune is that of a beacon that compels undead towards it.”
Hark picked up a stick and drew the death beacon in the dirt
“However, it has been changed to also draw the souls of the recently slain towards it. If one can stomach the morality of indiscriminately trapping souls, it has many powerful applications”
“Like a mana generator?” Payten asked, thinking back to his dream. In order to move an object of that pyramid’s size you would need an incredible amount of power.
“Yes, very good lad. Souls produce raw mana, making them powerful universal mana batteries. Hence, why they are so sought after.”
Payten nodded, in the back of his mind gears started turning.
“I don’t understand. How did my mediation show me something I have never seen?”
“A simple question with a complex answer.” A rare wistful smile appeared on his master’s normally grim face. “Despite what some academics may tell you magic is not a fixed empirical science, but a living force of nature. Mana calls to sorcerers, it wants to be used, to be shaped, so that it may further its purpose”
“How can mana be alive, let alone have a purpose?” Payten asked, searching for his charcoal sticks so he could record this lesson.
“Mana is indeed alive, however, it would be a mistake to attribute it to a thinking mind like you or me. Perhaps, it would be best to think of it like an ant colony or a piece of clockwork, a collective of unthinking parts moving towards a greater purpose. Fire wants to burn, to consume, life wants to grow, to spread. Mana acts in accordance with nature, or perhaps it is the inverse…” Hark’s voice dragged to a stop, as he looked up towards the sky.
“Well why did it show me this?” he asked, shaking his notebook.
“I’m not sure, the more you learn about an aspect the more it learns about you and the more it wants to help you in hopes you will continue to use it, so the visions it grants you tend to be useful in one way or another” Hark said, not taking his eyes from the sky.
“Why didn’t A beginners guide to mana and magic mention anything about this, it seems very important to know?”
Hark’s head snapped down, his eyes locking on Payten. “You're absolutely right, lad. Magic has been here long before us and will be here long after, there are as many systems and methods to do magic as there are stars in the sky, honed and practiced by countless cultures over countless centuries. The sky-singers of Maea whose voices call storms strong enough to blow over a castle, the Rune-smiths of Underhome who carve words of power into the roots of mountains, spiral dancers of Cortes who move their bodies in tune with mana. In these modern days, however, the Torkian method has risen to prominence all over the world, its focus on the direct manipulation of aspected mana allows it to be a powerful and versatile tool. It is an elegant and beautiful system that integrates the best of other systems and discards the rest. However, the wide-scale implementation of the Torkian method has led to many forgetting their roots.” Hark spoke quickly, his normally calm voice rose just a fraction.
Payten was shocked to find that his perpetually stoic master did have a hint of passion somewhere inside his graying head.
“The fruit now hangs so low and so plentiful that few dare to climb, for even at the bottom one can grow fat and decadent on power. I have seen it with my own eyes, thousands of young men and women wallowing in complacency. They limit their potential to measurements, facts, certainties, fearing the wild unpredictability of the arcane and the power it can bring. Lad, if you learn one thing from my teachings let it be that magic is not the realm of science, but one of metaphors, symbolisms, and mysteries, begging to be explored and used. By becoming my apprentice you have dedicated yourself to traversing paths never traveled, seeing sights untold, leaning knowledge lost to time, and twisting these discoveries to your advantage. For that is the true path of the mage, plundering the cosmos and taming the eldritch power of the arcane, not wasting the effort and sacrifices made by those who came before by resting on your laurels.”
Payten was entranced, he had long stopped writing and simply absorbed his master’s ramblings.
Hark looked up at the sky. “We have dawdled enough, lad. Let us finish packing and resume our journey.”
Payten nodded, and jumped up to leave, but not before drawing the undead rune in his notebook.
***
“Lad, Longdale is a city with many travelers and merchants entering and leaving on the main road, soon we will have no choice but to join them. Keep your cowl up and voice low, discovery would be disastrous at this point.”
Payten nodded and pulled his dark brown hood over his head. Master and apprentice walked down a dusty dirt road towards Longdale. True to his word, the duo started to encounter fellow travelers on the road. Hark would make light conversions with those they encountered, making Payten incredibly nervous, However, his master’s diligence paid off. Word of their escapades had spread, as multiple merchant carts spoke of an attack near the temple of the Crusaders of the light, as a result, every citizen who tried to enter or exit Longdale was being interviewed by the army.
Payten pulled his cloak tight to his body. Would something as simple as hair dye fool a dedicated interrogation? It seemed his master shared in his worries, as when they were clear of any others, Hark pulled him aside off the road.
“New plan, Lad. We can not use the front gate, but I know another way in.”
“Where?”
“I hope you have a strong stomach, we’re taking the sewers”