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Strom
 
PostPosted: Mon, Nov 30 2015, 14:06 PM 

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Joined: 23 Jan 2012
Location: Wales, UK

In the darkness of night, a robed figure stepped from Tarkuul’s portal. The flash of sanguine light as the pillar descended from the heavens visible across the water, letting all within leagues know the Living city had yet another Seeker. The figure that shuffled from the portal’s event horizon was garbed in heavy black robes, over his face a porcelain mask obscured his features as he walked with an ebony quarter staff in hand.

He turned his veiled face to the Gatekeeper, inclining his head, “I come as the Seeker of Eternal Toils. May my research serve t’bolster the Libraries of the Living City. ”

Though the mask altered his voice to a strange distorted whisper, he still spoke with a slight dockside accent somewhat out of place with his sinister visage.

There was a long pause, silent in the night, giving the visitor time to look over the skyline of the ancient settlement. Picking out the Netherese columns amid the more recent additions curiously.

He almost jumped with the sudden sound of rasping steel as Tarkuul’s dark steel gates swung open - the Gatekeeper’s soft voice finding his ears like a chill wind, as he finished logging the new arrival, “Welcome, Seeker.”

The man made his way about the city, familiarising himself with its Courts, plazas and temples. It soon became clear however that his final destination was the Court of the Dead. He stood in its halls, gazing across the eternal, unstopping labours of its denizens. Without getting in the way, the Seeker observed the polished bone of Tarkuul’s skeletal servants. His fingers tightening on his staff as he walked,

“… Perfect.” He muttered, softly.

After an hour or more of inspecting each function and task of the undead as they passed him by, did he turn toward the exit. His robes billowing as he made for the door, the surging swish of black fabric making him appear somewhat pretentious amid the backdrop of toiling undead.
He made his way to the Library, finding a desk and research journal. His fingers gripped a quill, and with a flourish from the ink well he started to lay out his purpose…


The Calling, Research JournalLong have I toiled in obscurity. Trying in vain to amass the funding and time to come to this place of Knowledge. My funding came from the most unlikely of men, though fate will thank him for his generosity in the coming years. As only here, can I perform my essential work, freed of the prying eyes of zealots, superstition and judgement.
From my earliest days as an apprentice, to my expulsion from the college for ‘meddling in dangerous subjects’, I have dreamt of this moment. I have taught myself the skills needed, scrounging knowledge from ragged textbooks and trial and error. Too many times have my arms been numb from over exertion, or my skin burnt by the backlash of a spell-gone-wrong. I have learnt from those mistakes, each and every stumble. Correcting my form and poise. Silently waiting for chance to grant me my moment.
The time has finally come, to answer my calling.

Phase One:
1) To manifest the knowledge and power required to create and maintain and skeletal servant.
2) To research the potential of these basic constructs, and their interactions with other necromantic artefacts, objects and arts.
3) To learn a method to tap the knowledge that the subject once had, to let the mindless servant access a pool of expertise otherwise denied to it without allowing it the dangerous variable of sentience.
4) To learn a method of containing an animation spell and have it activate upon an external stimulus.
5) To have the subject obey and correctly perform a pre-designated task requiring some measure of skill, and to tie in the elements laid out in goals 3 & 4.
I predict that these goals will expand and become more convoluted with time, but so I never lose sight of these pure goals. These prime movers, which will become the driving force of my progress – I list them here. Once these are achieved, I can proceed with laying out and executing the elements of Phase Two.

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Timezone: UK (GMT+0)


Last edited by Strom on Tue, Dec 01 2015, 14:07 PM, edited 2 times in total.

 
      
Strom
 
PostPosted: Tue, Dec 01 2015, 12:35 PM 

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Joined: 23 Jan 2012
Location: Wales, UK

The Calling, Seeker's JournalThe Calling has been on my mind of late, it's intricate mysteries.

I escaped the trappings of my nominal existence early, only of course, after doing my duties.
Travel to the Living City was delayed by the acquisition of resources, though I was pleased enough with the results.

Today was a process of simply finding my way amid the gothic beauty of Netherese ruins and twisting spires. It is surprisingly easy to get lost in Tarkuul, for so much is now squeezed into the Island's limited space.
Firstly, I visited the Court of the Living where I suspected there be the most merchants and purveyors of useful objects. I was not disappointed... It was there I also found one arm of the fabled Triune Towers - Though they have many names among noted academics; The Peaks of Ascension, The Cabal of True Knowledge.
I gazed upon the Obelisk of Tarkuul itself, it's writing was in a script so archaic hours alone passed as I read from it's glyphs.
There was a depth suggested here, beyond what I could fathom in the few hours. Two words stuck in my mind, which I have been unable to shift.

'Memento Mori'

It was followed by the following post-script;

'I live, I die, I live again.'


A curious perspective. Does it speak of legacy. Of endurance. Or more? Does it stand somewhere at the heart of philosophy here? It is old, ancient, my meager spells are unable to grant me insight into it's exact origin. Or even purpose.
Note:A reminder to research the city's history; I have heard there is an extensive library beneath Castle Tarkuul.


The Seeker of Eternal Toils moved about the city in silence, for the most part. Visiting it's landmarks and vistas. Occasionally there was a murmured remark of surprise, or curiosity. His fingers gripping a quill, and tome; upon which his spidery text filled pages as he explored the outlandish cityscape.

Contd.....The Markets are riddled with exotics and reagents you would usually see pawned on the blackmarket. These are not poor fabrications, the broken remains of a tomb's raid gone wrong. These are artisan's works, prepared with care and skill. I was just about to leave the Court of the Living; when I saw something which instantly had me in rapture.
There, in the open. As common as a blacksmith may be in another settlement. Was a jeweler, though he was not selling baubles and pointless facades. But, his sole function was the careful preparation of Black Onyx!
One of the most regulated, rare substances in magical markets. Synonymous with necromancy and widely shunned. Here! Glorified, and polished. The luster and quality of the stone was what bought me to wait.
Soon enough, a skeletal minion - wreathed in the finery of some arcane order emerged from the Court of the Undying. It seemed a simple servitor, tasked with collecting these precious wares...

I followed.


The Seeker could easily have been observed following the calm, measured strides of a Skeleton, as it carried a case of spell components back into the Court of the Undying from one of the artisan's stalls in the Court of the Living.

Contd..I followed the servitor, and it was as if the city itself was leading me unto knowledge. Passing back into the Court of the Undying; I found myself gazing at the entrance of the Tower of the Damned. The skeleton walked implacably forth; and stopped at a desk passing it's precious cargo to a scholar.
I lingered, admiring the halls in passing, to observe the next steps in the process. The onyx was placed upon an obsidian altar, carved with arcane glyphs and a few minor religious notations to the Vaunted One.
I watched as the stone was processed, controlled pulses of negative energy were centred on the stones. The obsidion plinth acting as a means of containing the energy and focusing it inward towards the Black Onyx. I do not know what manner of device this is, but it is highly specialized and I shall have to try and emulate it. It's purpose is clear - to make the components primed and aligned for ritual spellcasting.

I approached the desk once the process was done, and purchased the resulting stone. It was so simple. The quality beyond anything I would get in my homeland.


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An hour or so later, the Seeker of Eternal Toils departed the Tower of the Damned. As if inspired by what he'd seen within and made for the ancient structure of Castle Tarkuul. He entered, following the directions down into the Library. Where he remained for the rest of the night. He could be observed visiting two distinct sections; Histories of Tarkuul, and books on Ritual Magic and Necromantic Theory.
Before beginning his theorizing he was caught admiring one of the vastly priceless works on display, curiously noting down runes that were scratched into it's corner...

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He then sat at one of the desks, over-watched by the Idol of Oghma as he worked. Penning down notes and making working drawings of what would be some manner of arcane rite. It was truely the deepest dark of the night - before he was done. And slowly made his way back to the portal.


_________________
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Rook

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Timezone: UK (GMT+0)


 
      
Strom
 
PostPosted: Wed, Dec 02 2015, 13:43 PM 

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Joined: 23 Jan 2012
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“.. Curses.” The Seeker muttered to himself, cloistered once more in the Library of Tarkuul. He had come across a list of Tarkuul’s study materials, finding three particular books which would doubtlessly aide in the process of completing ‘Phase One’ of his ambitions.
In assembling the first spell circle, standard summoning techniques had failed. It was the nature of the necrotic elements of the ritual, has was drawing forth energy itself. Summoning the essence of the Negative Energy Plane.
It was not enough to simply summon the energy as he’d found out, without special focussing incantations and channels for the currents to flow through in the physical ritual circle.. all you would achieve is an uncontrolled burst of baleful power.
Fortunately he had imbibed a ‘Bubbly Potion’ as it was known locally, before attempting his first animation.
The failure stung his pride, but he’d learnt from his mistakes - and was working feverishly to refine the spell circle to his specific needs.
His mutters continued as he searched the shelves. It was a very specific, rare tome key to his plans. Containing the writings and works of a noted Necromancer, specialised in the little known art of Pale Mastery.
He began a systematic search of the sections detailing Necromancy and Arcane Advancement.


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He poured over the necromantic works, his finger zipping back and forth over the spines, those that were unmarked were dragged out from the shelves and opened to reveal their secrets. As he searched he came across a useful catalogue of undead creatures ‘The Scriptum Mortis’. He peered curiously at it’s owner with a note of ironic surprise; Ser Robert Caris-Denoix.
He found himself reading a little more, what had led a Paladin in these studies?
“Ah, of course Caraigh.. Kohlingen Manor..” He muttered, dwelling on these subjects. Though fascinating insights into the art of Necromancy... Those responsible for unleashing the horrors of the dead were reckless and clearly mad. Undead are tools, and like any tool have a place. An artisan does not forget to place his tools away. The Seeker dwelt but for a moment on the dangers of the quest for Knowledge and Power. He snapping shut the tome to stem his doubt, but tucked it under his arm. “... Might be an interestin’ read.” He muttered.
The search continued. It wasn’t here. Where was it?! He moved over the section on Arcane Advancement.


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This section was boggling, the subjects here were highly advanced, in general. He recognised the works of a few famous and infamous mages across the Isles. But the topics were a little beyond his scope of understanding. He was forced into a slow, painstaking search through the tomes. Hoping he simply didn’t overlook what he was seeking in the process.
Hours passed as he was forced into a simple methodical method. Every book was examined.
He was forced to take a break, to spare his eyes the strain. Stepping back to sit down.

Wishing to take a fresh perspective on his search, the Seeker slipped outside into the murky streets to find some food and collect his thoughts, before returning to continue. Whilst making his way back to the library, he found a property in the process of construction.
The small tower, which was marked for rent near the Tower of the Damned.This would be perfect to establish a personal workshop…. He could leave his items and works in Tarkuul to prevent the risk of carrying them back and forth from his homeland!

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He made a mental note to look into the possibility to funding the construction himself, then returned to the Library to begin anew.




The Seeker of Eternal Toils, his name seemed fitting currently. It’d take an eternity to look through all of these tomes! He frowned, resorting to asking a Librarian who gazed at him with her beshadowed features. A crooked, clawed finger had directed him to a section away from the normal arcane topics.


Once there his eyes noted the section: THE OCCULT PRACTICES

Emboldened by his desire to continue, his searches had at least granted him a pile of books now clasped tightly beneath his arm, gathered with the Scriptum Mortis. Even when he knew what he was looking for, did the Seeker nearly miss the faded unassuming cover of a well thumbed manuscript.
He picked it up, noting the skull motif on the cover, the stitched cover appeared to be made of a strange hide. Wait...This was humanoid skin!
He set down his pile of books, shaking hands peeling open the cover to reveal the red inked twisting hand writing of The Deathless Art.
The consummate works of Master Necromancer Valkin Mulgin and his associates. This would require much study.
“Finally..” He muttered, carefully carrying his collected works to a nearby research table. “Phase One, begins.”

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Noted Works in his Book Pile:

’The Deathless Art’ by Vulkin Mulgin
‘The Scriptum Mortis’ by Ser Robert Caris-Denoix
‘Undead Varieties’ by Lucius Blackwater

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Timezone: UK (GMT+0)


 
      
Strom
 
PostPosted: Mon, Dec 07 2015, 2:10 AM 

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Joined: 23 Jan 2012
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Phase One


The Seeker had returned, though this time he had come with a laden pack of supplies.
Making his way to the Tower of the Damned, the man picked up a few more exquisitely prepared and polished examples of Black Onyx. Then, continued on his way. Down into the depths of the Crypts to make use of the area's many specialized and unique bits of equipment. His may have been easily observed by the other denizens of the crypt as his research was not the kind easily concealed.
From a magical container, he produced a body. Freshly dead by the look of things, it was still dressed in the smart clothing one was interred into death with. He carefully removed and cataloged the corpse's items. Rings, an amulet. The clothes. A pair of suspiciously new looking boots. A commoner. A laborer in fact, his heavy shoulders and reasonable physical condition suggesting a dockworker, or farm hand.




The Calling, Research JournalForeword
I have acquired a subject, though I must profess choosing the one who would become the first of my specimens was.. difficult.
I have every reason to suspect defiling the remains will in many cases prevent the spirit from moving on, in the heat of battle this is simple choice. A bandit, brigand on the road, some cut-purse or vagabond. Ready to gut you, ready to end your life. Raising one of these wretches has little consequence; they attempted to slay you. They failed. They would have left you like some worthless sack of flesh for the wolves, or tossed you into the sea for Umberlee.

But, I needed something intact. Without the rigors of combat to concern me. An unsullied corpse.

For this, I have stolen a body bound for burial. Knowing I will likely deny this soul it's peace. So, I have made sure - to the best of my ability - this subject is deserving of it's fate. This is a simple code of ethics, to which I shall attempt to bind myself. One I think many of my vocation do not bother with, but it does give me a measure of comfort to know this specimen a criminal, a smuggler of contraband who got too bold. A soul who thought little of exploiting others for it's gains. So, shall I exploit it's passing.

Preparations

:arrow: I must ritually prepare the body, washing it with blessed water left for a period of three days, and three nights at the base of the Idol of Velsharoon. I must then let the liquid dry naturally; that as much of this catalyst as possible be allowed to soak into the pores of the necrotic flesh.
:arrow: Next I must prepare the ritual circle, I am using the blood of slain goblins mixed with quartz-dust to form a thick paste. The substance I must paint upon the ground in the following pattern:-
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This circle, according to my calculations should funnel the negative energy properly into it's epicentre, avoiding the... uncontrolled burst.. I encountered in my earlier attempts. The energy will coalesce in the centre, flowing from reservoirs of power which should build in the 'quarters' of the arcane diagram. This should grant me the ability to control the flow much more easily. Much inspiration has come from the works of Vulkin Mulgin and Lucius Blackwater, allowing me to refine several elements over my previous flawed design.
:arrow: Next I must place the Black Onyx into the mouth of the specimen. Stitching the lips closed, should prevent it from flying out during the ritual should there be any unexpected surges.
:arrow: My familiar will have been ritually prepared, sigils of binding and control painted carefully onto it's flesh. I have acquired a number of small brushes, to make this task less painstaking. The sigils will be... difficult. If I do not scribe them properly, this element of the ritual will fail - and I will suffer a no doubt painful backlash via the familial bond.
:arrow: Finally, the ritual itself will take at least fifteen minutes, where I must concentrate fully on the task at hand. I have chosen to use the ritual chamber dedicated to Necromancy in the Triune Towers.


Following his writings the man then ventured to the temple of Velsharoon, laying a bottle of unholy water at the base of the statue - to steep in the glory of the Vaunted.







Then, finally the man returned to the crypts laying in place the final preparation of the evening...


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Timezone: UK (GMT+0)


Last edited by Strom on Tue, Dec 15 2015, 3:22 AM, edited 1 time in total.

 
      
Strom
 
PostPosted: Wed, Dec 09 2015, 13:59 PM 

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The Calling, Seeker’s JournalMuch has happened since I left my reagents to bask in the glory of the Vaunted. One more night and they should have reached a maturity potent enough to act as a catalyst in my ritual.

It seems strange that only that morning I had been lamenting not finding my way to Tarkuul earlier in my years, that I may have missed it’s era of resplendence and found myself in the lingering twilight of past accomplishments.
That upon venturing to the library that evening, I should happen across Lucius Blackwater and his current apprentice.
I will admit I barely contained myself, opportunity like this could not be wasted. I was not ready, I am not ready. Barely have I started the steps toward exploring the art - and much later in life than others dare.
I admit, this grants me resolve. The drive to prove myself. But, I am a mere apprentice by comparison to both these men.
I chose to take a risk I may regret in time, but it will open doors to speed my research immensely.
I have taken the entry exam to the Magisterium Mortis, and in doing so had to reveal some of my true nature. My true purpose.

In turn, even the shortest conversation with the High Arcanist has given me a new perspective. I must change my plans once more, before they have even started to come to a sense of beginning. . . But, it becomes clear to me now I must study more openly. Narrowing my focus only when necessary. Specialising is all well and good, I know my prime interests well… But I will need a broad palette of basic skills before I have the luxury of such a singular focus.
The mage HoJo, has called for a meeting of Tarkuul’s current active Seekers, which has been met with favourable reception... I will write here openly; I hope to see this stimulate some resurgence.

I have taken the name Aarin, to make interactions in the Living City easier… It’s meaning amused me.


Venturing down to the crypts following his personal musings, the Seeker set about the final preparations for the night's ritual.
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The Calling, Research JournalThe specimen’s ‘Gentle Repose’ has been effective in preserving the necrotic flesh, this simple spell is used widely. Yet, it receives not the stigma of other invocations of it’s kind.
‘White Necromancy’, they call it. As if that somehow makes them feel better about dipping into a study of a school many deem to be despicable. Yet ‘dip’ they do.

I am preparing the components, to form the ‘paste’ I require to form the spell circle. Powdered bone, strikes me a better conduit for negative energy - but I have not used this substance before and know that quartz serves well in universal magic practice. . . I will try a 1:1 ratio. If my calculations are correct this should make the animation’s energy flow far more ‘fluidly’ if you will.

My mixture for reference, is thus:

Spell Circle Medium:

:arrow: 5 fist sized chunks of ‘Rock Crystal’ or pure quartz, ground to a fine powder. Lesser variants of crystal are not recommended. Using a standard large arcane measuring scoop this you should yield you around three scoops per-ground crystal.
:arrow: 10 vertebrae, I have used human bone collected from the bitter coast; the same race as the specimen. Stripped of all flesh - I used a summoned dire maggot to expedite this process, boil to ensure purity and then cooled and dried.
:arrow: Once this process is completed, powder the bone and add equal parts to the quartz to form a 1:1 ratio of whatever measure you are using. In my case 12 scoops of bone to 12 scoops of quartz.
:arrow: A large arcane measuring scoop of Grave Earth, or Funerary Ashes; caster preference.
:arrow: One pail of goblin blood, filled to the lip.

Note: Though human blood would ensure a complete synergy to the specimen, goblins are plentiful and easily collected en masse. For a slight deficiency, I have deemed this acceptable.

Method: Mix the powdered items with the grave earth, and ensure a thorough mingling of the components. Little by little add this new loose mixture to the blood until all reagents are combined into a thick, viscous paste akin to paint. Keep the mixture from coagulating by applying a controlled burst of negative energy, until the mixture develops a slight shimmering, rippling effect to the naked eye.
This mixture will remain magically active for 24 hours. Another burst of energy will be required after this period to rekindle the mixture, though after the first application of negative energy the mixture will not coagulate again and will remain a largely fluid consistency. Easily applied to a surface by a brush. It may be preserved in a sealed amphora for three weeks, before needing to be replaced.

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Rook

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Timezone: UK (GMT+0)


 
      
Strom
 
PostPosted: Mon, Dec 14 2015, 14:08 PM 

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The Calling, Research JournalThe preparations for the ritual have been completed. Collecting the Goblin blood proved to be tedious, and I prepared the Spell Circle Medium as soon as I returned to the Living City. The gathering of bone was perhaps the easiest task given my location in Tarkuul.
A few simple inquiries and a donation to the Vaunted saw me access to the Crypts beneath the temple. I have decided to conduct the animation there instead, as it seems fitting to raise a new creature in the halls of Velsharoon. Not to mention the facilities provided, though clearly intended for the divine caster, are 'religiously' maintained, I will simply find no better location.

I look forward to midnight tonight, where I shall finally become a necromancer in more than name. But, deed. My servant will remain in Tarkuul for the most part, performing basic duties to maintain the city.
I shall attempt to teach it some basic skills, to explore how quickly the unique bond of familiar and undead can pick up new skills - but I digress, I am getting ahead of myself. There is much to do before I can allow myself such musings.

After I have seen first hand how the process is done; I shall begin my studies into the works of the High Arcanist and Vulkin Mulgin more closely.

_________________
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Rook

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Timezone: UK (GMT+0)


 
      
Strom
 
PostPosted: Tue, Dec 15 2015, 4:39 AM 

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No Return


That night, when the hour was but a few from midnight, Tarkuul's portal flared. Carrying with it the keen foot steps of a frequent visitor, Aarin's robes were newly spun. Specially created for this very ritual, and inset with ancient sigils of life and death taken from the monoliths and pillars of the enclave's temples, statues and plinths. He went first to the Crypts, to retrieve his specimen.
The 'Gentle Repose' was still in effect, leaving the body fresh as the day it was plucked from it's fate to end up in the necromancer's presence.
The body was transported on a cart until they reached the Temple of the Vaunted. The mage sipping from a Bulls Strength to grant him the brawn to haul the body inside. The macabre sight was perhaps common in the halls of Velsharoon, as the man made for the stairs which descended into the crypt.
Moving to the altar in the grim chamber, he set the body aside - once more pulling his dagger to open the cut on his hand and let blood anoint the stone surface...


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The man lingered to look over his work, the skull mask foretelling nothing of his expression as he turned for the stairs. Leaving the cadaver to bask in the unholy liquid for as long as possible before he disturbed it again.His steps carried him upwards to the temple's main floor, and then upwards again. Entering the quiet chambers set aside for furthering the work of the Lich Lord. He searched the areas curiously, until he found a room suitable for his purposes... Then removed from his pack an amphora of specially prepared Spell Circle Medium, and a number of artists brushes. He carefully swept the area clean of debris, before continuing on...

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Casting of the Spell, and imbibing of the potion:-
:arrow: Protection from Evil
:arrow: Potion of Negative Energy Protection


The next phase of the ritual involved the careful placement of Black Onyx, and the Corpse itself into the spell circle. The Seeker carefully arranging the gemstones into the centre of each quartered segment of the spell circle, only once these were positioned correctly did he move onto the process of placing the specimen over the seal in very eye of the arcane diagram.


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Piert's lifeless body was soon to find new meaning..


The Calling, Research JournalTonight, it begins:-
'Surrexerunt ergo, et serviemus! Surrexerunt ergo, et serviemus! Erimusque unus et servite! Commune vinculum tuum, impleatur sermo tuus quem forma evilgilare faciatis!'

These words taken from a passage I found in the texts of the Deathless Art, shall serve as the catalyst. I only hope they will be enough. Translated, to common as best the language allows:

'Arise, and serve! Arise, and serve! Become one, my servant! Common bond of thy word be fulfilled, which thou hast the form awoken!'

Fitting I think..


Finally, the ritual itself could begin in earnest. The Seeker closing his eyes as he stood with his tome in one hand - the other beginning to sweep in the air as the spellcasting could finally commence! The ritual chanting began, as clawed digits dragged from the shimmering circle tendrils of cruel, scarlet power. The energy crackling, snapping about the circle as it flowed toward the centre. The corpse quivering, and twitching as the extra-planar forces inside the arcane circle swept it upwards - hovering in a wreathe of undulating negative energy as his words echoed from the stone walls! "Surrexerunt ergo, et serviemus! Surrexerunt ergo, et serviemus! Erimusque unus et servite! Commune vinculum tuum, impleatur sermo tuus quem forma evilgilare faciatis!"
On, and on did the words drone. Building in tempo and pace as the Seeker's hands started to focus that energy inward. The familiar's form trapped in the magical forces twisted, and gathered a strange internal glow as it's physical form started to turn into ash. Seeping like sand into the flesh of the corpse, to bond with it's bones as the flesh started to strip away! Conjuring upright the skeletal remains, held together and sustained by the imbued foul energies of the spell circle. The Seeker cast upward his hands, white knuckles clawing to pull the magical forces upwards, as if hauling up a net from the water.
As the ritual's energies reached their climax, his rasping voice spat forth the final invokation, barking it from the echoing chamber! "ORTUS!" He boomed, as with a flash the spell circle was consumed in a black-fingered fire. Like a singularity collapsing inwards the temporary rift to the Negative Energy Plane closed, turning the foci-points of black onyx to ashen crystal sand and leaving only the skeleton staring at it's master with a pair of red pin-pricked eyes.


*Full In-Game Version*
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"RISE!"
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And so, another servant of Tarkuul was born to it's gloomy, twisting streets. The seeker striding out beneath the moon, as the first grim step of many was truely taken toward; Knowledge and Power.

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Timezone: UK (GMT+0)


Last edited by Strom on Tue, Feb 09 2016, 12:03 PM, edited 2 times in total.

 
      
Strom
 
PostPosted: Wed, Dec 16 2015, 12:54 PM 

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The Calling, Seeker's JournalI have successfully created my Cadaverous Familiar, I must admit the process was amongst the most rewarding of my existence.
My everyday life is that of toil and little reward, but this… this was creation, the manifestation of a being. I finally begin to understand the limitless potential of these studies; yet I have barely disturbed the surface.
On a more domestic note; I have rented a room in the Living City, now guarded by my servant. The risk of keeping my materials with me, was becoming too great. The space is humble, but shall suffice for storage.

Note: The empathic link is strange; the creature is complex, loathing and without the binding I would surmise it would attack the living on pure instinct; for it finds them abhorrent. In my case it shares some acceptance, it’s creator. It has gained the intelligence granted to most familiars, and with that comes some basic reasoning. I have observed it obeys to the letter, nothing more, nothing less. No humour, no emotion. Cold, unerring efficiency to the best of it’s ability. It does not tire, it does not sleep. . . This holds much promise.

Alas, with that in mind I must take a step back from the Living City for a short time, as much as I am loathe to do so.
I may not be able to return for a week or more, as I must make an effort to maintain my guise in my homeland. There is enough work to keep me occupied there for a tenday or more, before I can take some time dedicated solely toward The Calling. . . In the meantime I will keep my skills sharp with arcane exercises and the continued reading of my study materials.
I must also theorise the next step of Phase One, now my first objective has seen fruition. Some changes may need to take place.

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Strom
 
PostPosted: Tue, Dec 22 2015, 17:44 PM 

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Location: Wales, UK

The Calling, Research JournalI have begun my studies into the Occult Practice of Pale Mastery.
The more I observe the transformation of the practitioner, the manner which an arcane caster can gain abilities usually associated with a powerful cleric. The very essence of becoming closer to the true form of Undeath, I cannot help but think this practice is linked intrinsically to the worship of the Crypt Lord, Velsharoon.
It’s rituals require the user to maintain a blade, used for the spilling of blood and the sacrifice of flesh. This act in itself, serves to align the grafted elements of Pale Mastery to the caster, ensuring that they will not be rejected by their necrotic additions. . .
With this in mind, I have come to the sad conclusion it may be many moons until I can begin. The second set of rituals specifically would result in a rather obvious alteration to my body difficult to hide from any onlookers.

In the meantime, it will give me plenty of time to focus on the creation of the perfect tool, an item I can be sure will gain power with every rite, and become a powerful foci for my future progression in the Art:-

:arrow: I believe it would be most fitting, to create a blade made entirely of black onyx, in the curved style of a kriss ritual knife - as it’s design permits blood to cling to the blade and sit in the curves and aesthetic elements of the item.

:arrow: The hilt will be fashioned from simple dark steel, with a subtle motif of sigils dedicated to undeath.

:arrow: The handle shall be wrought of yew, a distinctly symbolic wood in many ancient religions emphasizing a closeness to the veils beyond life. It features prominently in Graveyards to this day.

I shall firstly put out some enquiries for a Weaponsmith, and shall consult with my colleagues in the Magisterium Mortis regards the creation of the onyx blade - some careful transmutation will be required.

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Strom
 
PostPosted: Mon, Jan 04 2016, 19:21 PM 

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The Calling, Seekers JournalA new year.
Let it be as productive as the last.

I have had to take time to make appearances over the Midwinter season, a requirement for my ruse. As a result my plans were put on hold for much of the month, a tedious delay but it has given me time to collate my research. I shall proceed with the preparations.

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PostPosted: Tue, Jan 12 2016, 4:59 AM 

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Amongst the Dead


The Seeker sat alone after a week of work, activity and time away from his beloved pursuits. Upon returning to his tiny apartment in Tarkuul, he found his undead servant standing in silent vigil. It turned it's head as he entered, and slipped it's blade away in a smooth, unnatural motion. 'Aarin' as his name was now, took a moment to admire his work, running a finger over it's ribs - nodding slowly, "I see the ritual was a complete success... I had feared to find you in a pile of scattered bones. This bodes well." He spoke to it, like some vessel for his thoughts made manifest. The cadaverous familiar was intelligent enough to know it's master was pleased with it's vigil, and moved aside into a less imposing position away from the centre of the room. He could feel it's emotions, cold, calculating and now familiar to him. A small pile of correspondence awaited, leafing through the parchment he found a response from a weaponsmith of some renown, snapping it open with a dagger blade he swiftly read the content with a nod, satisfaction washing down his spine, "Ah, excellent..." He muttered, penning a reply to meet and discuss the matter - which he would soon send his familiar off to deliver to the courier for outgoing mail.

Only then, did Aarin sit. Opening his neglected journal and took a moment to inhale the strangely comforting scent of paper;


The Calling, Research JournalIt has been a few weeks since I have come to write in this tome. Too long, but progress has been slowed by the need to outsource some work for skills. My life away from this city is going well, elements of my ambitions have pulled together of late. I wish my legacy there to be remembered, also in working to make my vision true; it may allow me deeper insight into The Calling's final manifestation...

I am preparing myself, for the Rituals of Palemastery. I admit I yearn to begin, but once I do so there is no turning back. No stopping what must be done. I will be unable to realize my legacy in full. That is unacceptable. So I have collated the goals I set out in the beginning to those I have in some manner achieved...

1)To manifest the knowledge and power required to create and maintain and skeletal servant.
2) To research the potential of these basic constructs, and their interactions with other necromantic artefacts, objects and arts.
3) To learn a method to tap the knowledge that the subject once had, to let the mindless servant access a pool of expertise otherwise denied to it without allowing it the dangerous variable of sentience.

All of the above I have come to understand, in time I shall write a paper for the Magisterium Mortis. My method of creating a Cadaverous Familiar with them.
I am currently working on the second in some respects; in the process of creating a necromantic object. A foci for my rituals and work, I will be able to experiment in increasing it's power and with it my own - in due time of course.
The method of tapping 'sentience' I now believe entirely possible, though rather knowledge will be passed to the creatures... Alas this is not viable an expense, until the time has come I exclusively focus my goals upon Tarkuul itself. I look forward to working on this element of The Calling, now that I am aware of it's principals.

In the mean time I am focusing upon achievable goals, which will let me proceed with longer term plans. . . I am going to begin fasting, in preparation for a dangerous endeavour, the Rite of the Crypt. Where I shall seal myself in a tomb with animated undead for a period of three days and nights. Wearing little more than a loin cloth and equipped with a simple stave.
In preparation, I recently visited Darkhold, and spent a great many hours exploring the ruins and examining the Undead within:-

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Quote:
Vilewight: This creature appeared much like a normal Wight at first, it's eyes feral with hunger. The eyes brimmed with an almost palpable malevolence and it's insane chattering let me observe many jagged, needle-like teeth. The saliva dripped from it's lips, a foul smelling greenish fluid; no doubt filled with quasi-magical disease. It's leathery dessicated flesh clung to it's bones, gaunt but intact. What gave it away as a creature beyond the normal variety was the aura of magical energy, in life it underwent ritual magic. It's flesh marked to this day by branded runes and glyphs of dark power, persisting with enchantment. The profane magic all too likely to have created the Wight itself upon the death of the once-mage. It may too have retained knowledge of such things, as it's mutterings were at times lucid and understandable - though clearly it's hunger was driving it to madness.


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Quote:
Skeletons: I am intimately familiar with these animated corpses, though a skeleton is a creature one tends to raise for long-term use. Whilst the zombie is an enduring flesh heap useful as fodder for arrows and blades. I surmise these skeletons were once raised to assist in the rituals at hand here, or the result of them. Regardless, without instruction they now haunt the ruins of the Keep, attacking the living on sight.


Quote:
Shadow Demon: At first I mistook these creatures for Undead Shadows, it was only when my familiar engaged them in combat and I realized they were acting so intelligently I payed closer attention. As my own familiar combatted the other undead, these shadowy wraiths haunted the boarders of the combat, as if they were seeking the master of the skeleton - rather than the servant. Eventually, when pressed to fight they skittered and flitted around with frightening grace.
Seemingly formed from darkness, they in fact beheld gaunt skinny forms with talons like glistening knifes. Their emaciated wings seemed wreathed, like the rest of their bodies in the darkness of the ruins. Wearing it like a cloak against their prey... Had I not had magical sight, I could have been eviscerated by these creatures and have thought the very darkness itself was seeking my blood.


In the Hold I also found a tome written as a grim memorial, the introductory text as follows:-

Quote:
'The Tome of Andriaelle

Born of blue blood, her face as innocent as a newborn and her skin as pure an honey. No one would've expected her to be the Lower Planes' chosen - a babe of iniquity, vileness and to be utterly irredeemable. Andrielle.

Oft, whence the keep slept she would sneak out of her warm bed and while away to the darkness, the coldness beyond the castle wall, dragging with her a gagged street beggar or perhaps a harlot - One who would not be noticed or a cause for concern should they vanish. Once out of earshot and prying eyes she'd purge her prey to the fullest and make a great spectacle of it, painting it's lifeblood upon her own self with great decadence before feasting thereupon.

Many years of this passed and time would no longer conceal her deceit and devilishness, for it burn within her yes - the promise of eternal and all-consuming damnation. And so it came to be that her wretched purity sprouted gnarled and wickedly horned wings. Claws burst forth from her limbs and she sought to consume any and all. The keep walls became swathed in crimson, slippery and thick with the blood of innocent common folk and keep's knights.

Many a blade too, had fallen upon her cursed breast but yield it would not. Magic fared little better save for it ticked her locks. And where 'ere she trot the scent of brimstone would be smelt, the flames would follow and inexorably the blood would flow.

The voices of ten thousand tortured souls echoed from the flame crescent markings of Hell upon her vile self. To this day smattering of such evil utterance can still be heard within the unhallowed halls of Darkhold!'


Inside the keep, I found once resplendent halls scorched and scattered with bones and stone stained with blood, the feel of the ground beneath one's feet is unhallowed, and I noticed a vigor I could not discern the source of take my skeletal servant. It's movements became stronger, it's reactions faster.
My curiosity lead me deeper, into the dismal dungeons where the noble-born blackguard proceeded to gather a cult and torture her own subjects in vile rites. I observed torture machines overflowing with corpses, twisted bodies opened up and their organs spilled from open chests.

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Most curiously, they weren't properly decomposed; most merely rotted.

The bond of the familiar allowed me to sense some strange well, that was luring my servants senses. Calling it deeper into the halls, we followed. Thereupon finding a portal penned in blood and fire on the ground in the dank corner of the dungeon; guarded by Vilewights and Shadow Demons. As a precaution, I supped a potion to protect me from the Negative Energy I could now feel positively spilling from the epicentre of the glyphs. An open doorway, flowing both ways.

Warded, I entered. Left speechless by what I saw before me. The barren, twisted landscape of; the Demi-Plane of Negative Energy. The ramifications of which are many, but suffice to say I am going to return there for future rituals... The only problem, is the plane's guardian. A manifestation of claws, scales and fury I deem to be Andriaelle herself. The long years and dedication to her masters gifted her with a terrible form; like a fiendish dragon. I admit was it not for my over-preparedness I would now likely be another writhing morsel for her to feast upon.
As I may have roused her alertness by banishing her back into the formless hellscape of that place, I have deemed Darkhold unsuitable for the Rite of the Crypt.

It's fiendish, infernal taint and the strange presence of demons drawn to the unhallowed ground, makes it less of a tomb and more-so a focal point for any would-be paladin seeking to test his mettle. Instead, I have heard of a tomb elsewhere on the Isle. I shall make this the place of my choosing, as it's inhabitants are purely undead creations unmarred by any fiendish impurity.


Aarin sat back then, resting his quill back in the inkwell, frowning as he massaged his temples, "Speaking of the Rite... I shall require a shopping list." He scribbled a less organised list of spell components and magical supplies. Ignoring the rumble in his gut from the fasting, he set about the city with his familiar; seeking materials for the spells he hoped would keep him alive in his chosen tomb.

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Last edited by Strom on Tue, Feb 09 2016, 12:06 PM, edited 1 time in total.

 
      
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PostPosted: Wed, Jan 13 2016, 7:36 AM 

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Darkhold: Andriaelle


Aarin sat in the dark of his study, his fingers wrapped about the stem of the quill in silence as he stared down at the parchment. As ever in these moments he elected to simply.. begin. The stream of consciousness flowing down his arm onto the paper; it would do the rest.

The Calling, Research JournalMy trip to the Burning Crypt was an eye-opening one, not only were the Undead there more powerful than I expected. But their vision was able to penetrate my illusions, so I was forced to reconsider my earlier assessment of Darkhold.
Not my first choice, it's undying denizens weren't as varied or curious as Burning Crypt. But the rite was much more likely to result in my surviving the ordeal.

As I spent three days and nights in the halls of Darkhold, I had ample time to quietly peruse it's library. Mostly in ruins, the surviving ledgers held strangely satisfying insights into the small fiefdom which once existed there. Whilst finding a suitable location to observe the undead I collected a few tomes on Andriaelle herself, detailing her youth and her apparently once comely and angelic form. The personification of the saying; 'Malice comes in the form of an Angel'.

There are few details of the power which corrupted her, as once she was strong enough and suspected her peers of knowing the truth she revealed her tainted, corrupt form and laid waste to the Keep and it's denizens. Only the central keep remains with a small courtyard and even these are in a state of disrepair.
Upon entering I made the decision to banish the creature back into the energies from which it dwells. To give me the satisfaction of knowing she would be licking her wounds and reforming whilst I completed the Rite of the Crypt.
I found her were I did the last time, nesting over a crater from which the most potent energies on the demi-plane formed. This time she seemed almost aware of my approach, roaring into the empty air and leaping my summoned guardians to strike at me directly. . . I was forced to use almost a stack of expeditious retreat potions to avoid her swooping leaps and wing-buffets. In the meantime my skeletons had been enchanted to far beyond their normal strengths. One fell in the battle, but my familiar with it's extra capacity for cunning and reason held the creature at bay... Giving me time to truly observe her somewhat terrible, majestic form.

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:arrow: Hunched over in her normal 'pose' the manifestation was around twenty feet tall. It's form was shadowy and black, glowing with an aura of negative energy.
:arrow: Visiting the pit over which she lairs, I found a large scattering of rotten flesh and bones, and in observing her remains post-battle. Before her body began to ebb away into the Demi-Plane itself, I noted rotten flesh caught between her teeth. I surmise she likes to feast on the undead... slaying adventurers, animating them so that their forms are flooded with the energy she subsists upon; before feasting upon the animated cadaver.
:arrow: She is capable of clumsy, but surprisingly swift flight. Her sheer mass giving her the ability to swoop down upon a foe. As mentioned earlier I was forced to consume potions which increased my speed to avoid her withering assault.
:arrow: She was clearly used to combating your typical sword-wielding adventurer, and I found spells none-too-effective. I am fortunate to specialize in creating an army of my own, my animated servants - once enchanted were able to weather her fury.
:arrow: She seems to be so infused with negative energy, the local elementals consider her one of their own. Leaving her be, as they sense her form as a reservoir of familiar energies much like their own. This could prove absolutely deadly to the unprepared party of Amian hopefuls seeking to em-battle her as facing her alongside a large pack of these primal manifestations is inadvisable.

I attempted to scrape some of her essence into a sample vial, but the matter seemed to dissipate even once enclosed inside, it may require something like a stasis spell to achieve.

The Rite of the Crypt

Once the fiend was banished, I surmised my time was limited and began as soon as I was able. Wandering the keep beneath the veils of enchantment, and simple shadows. I was privy to a strange set of emotions. Chief amongst them at first, fear.
My repertoire of spells was limited, I knew I once had expended them it would simply be my own wits against those of the animated dead. The Wights would hunt me endlessly, following the scent of my living flesh the entire time I was there. My own servant, undead in it's own right was key to my survival.
In my time there I learnt much of concealment. Learning to hide, sinking into the darkness. Bottling my fear, before the emotions began to the change. My scholarly fascination began to take over my motivations. I become more confident in my ability to exist alongside them, and remain undetected. Truely, it helped to find a sheltered alcove I could meditate to regain my spells whilst my servant guarded the only entrance in it's eternal vigil. It too I observed, the wolf amongst lesser wolves.
How it moved, and fought. Like a shadow of it's once-self learning and experiancing once more.
The clumsier, yet unrelenting motions of the unawakened undead by comparison single minded and utterly emotionless... I remember still the chill realization that my life would last only so long as my wits.

By the time I was done, starved and shaking. My mind was clear. . . The fasting helps, I think. Hunger changes your perspective. Why it drives those Wights to madness if unquenched, why it kept me alert. A strange sense of clarity dawned upon me, that I am still attempting to process. Perhaps it is my faith in Velsharoon, or my own ambitions... I am unsure why, but much perspective has been offered me. To become closer to this deathless art, is part of the Calling.

Note: On my way back to Tarkuul, I observed something curious worth mentioning. A strange altar, similar in many respects to Andriaelle herself set into the cliffside and stained with layers of blood. It got me to thinking; were there still those that remembered the terror of her rise to power. That seek to appease her still to this day? Is there a Cult that lurks in the local population that venerates or fears this entity so much they continue to offer her sacrifice even now? Or, perhaps given Andriaelle's own form, the likeness to the dragon... Was she lured into that terrible, corrupt path by Tiamat herself? Long a denizen of the hells, where her foul realm rests.
More questions, answers to seek... Such is becoming the essence of my time here.

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PostPosted: Thu, Feb 04 2016, 15:56 PM 

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The necromancer was once more seen about Tarkuul, looking weakened in body. Pale.
But, his eyes were feverish with an energy which animated him into action. Hobbling about the Court of the Undying, collecting reagents from the merchants.

Once done, he returned to the Tower of the Damned; feverishly mixing the ingrediants...

~~~


Later a robed figure departed the city looking much restored... The portal's flash illuminating a dark sky.

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PostPosted: Mon, Feb 08 2016, 16:25 PM 

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The Calling, Seeker's JournalMy dreams are vivid of late, filled with a twisting helix. A conduit of pure thought which leads me toward my final goal. Fevered dreams.

After the Rite of the Crypt was complete; so did I grow sick. Stricken with a malady I could not fathom. I first thought it some imbalance of humours brought on by the time in the tombs... But, no. It was more, far, far more.
I saw amid vivid mists... my homeland, the city caught in a web. Strands not of silk, but of ambition made manifest tangled and choking the city hall. It's once venerable stone cracked and caked with a strange black tar which oozed from the lips of bloated bureaucrats. From their mouths did moths flutter, escaping with each barbed word...
The nightmarish vision only made worse by the writhing forms of the people. Trapped and tangled. Unable to escape a hell of their own making; negligence given birth to a monolithic tapestry of plot, ambition and senselessness. No direction. No order. One bloated form dragging the webs one way, as another heaved against it. Two steps forward, three back. Undulating in a terrible shrill scream of disjointed voices...

Chaos.

I am unsure what nightmarish prophecy has been given me. But, I am reminded that the more steps I take toward the Calling. The further I tear myself from that which I have always known... Since the Rite, I have had many ideas. Many. So many, and so little time.
I will visit the Temple of Velsharoon and meditate on my dreams, perhaps the Vaunted may show me their true meaning.

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PostPosted: Thu, Feb 25 2016, 16:23 PM 

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The Calling, Seeker's JournalWhat weakness drives the mortal heart, if not to supersede it's frailty and ascend to a form manifest of destiny.

So clear? So brilliant. The path laid before us from the very beginning? But how? What is Tarkuul if not his domain. A Carrion City. A vaunted necropolis from his very time? Was Tark just a ruse? Was he in fact him manifest? What is the Voice? Does it remember from whence it came?

I must seek the Necromaster; separate the fever of dream, from the truth of my mind. I am a scholar; not a priest. So much of this seems beyond me, out of reach.
Trapped beyond my fingertips, yet I can feel it's eternal chill. But, how?

The Rites. It must be the rites. They MUST represent some pseudo-religious tie to the Vaunted himself? How could it not? Velsharoon, a deity who leads us unto divinity by path of secret truths left for his faithful. His very dogma, to strive to become one with eternity in his image. Is not the Palemaster manifest this path? Are we not his favoured sons, daughters? Are we not following in his very footsteps? Have we not stumbled upon one of the Seven Truths? Answers... I need answers..

... I am getting ahead of myself, of course. This fervor which grips me is becoming difficult to resist - the call to begin my steps upon the path.
Yet, I cannot. I must delay. My plans are not ready, they are in flux. All of it; is in flux. I am unfocused. Sleep is robbed of me, replaced by vivid visions so real. So clear. I can smell the decay, the perverse delight of it. The pallor of timelessness rich before my eyes. Always the eyes. Pin-pricks of sanguine in a darkness so deep all else is consumed.

Is, this The Calling?

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PostPosted: Mon, Feb 29 2016, 18:40 PM 

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In the deathly silence of the Temple of Velsharoon, the Seeker pawed over the sacred texts hoping to find meaning in the dead of night. His ritual offering of blood given to the feet of the idol. His bloodshot eyes, tired and wary. Into the silence of the crypt, crept the Necromaster. What words were said; many lost upon the ear.

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But surely some dark covenant was agreed to? As Aarin soon moved his research materials up into the chambers above the hall of worship; and began work upon a new objective.


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The Calling, Research JournalI have a new task, one that must come before all others. I must continue my work, but a new direction must be taken. After a lengthy conversation with the Necromaster... I believe I have been offered guidance enough to continue. I shall require the unholy writs of the Lich Lord, as well as many arcane texts...

The experimentation will likely be... painful and lingering... I must set contingencies into motion.

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PostPosted: Tue, Jun 14 2016, 13:20 PM 

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The hollow, gaunt form of a necromancer emerged from the gloom. His feet dragging, stave gnarled and bent beneath the weight of magics both withering and vile. Following him a skeleton, bowed itself beneath the weight of a grimoire bound in stitched hides.
Aarin's gaunt eyes blinked in Tarkuul's dim light, coughing as the vileness of fresh air hit his lungs, which ached for the comforting taint of putrefaction and embalming fluid.
"Come, servant.." He rasped, hobbling with a pace his bent frame shouldn't possess, a vigour unnatural and almost amusing to behold. The man disappearing into the library beneath the Castle, where he remained; with a candle, a magnifying lens and some morbid research materials for the rest of the day.

Between thumbing yellowed pages, his raven feather quill danced over his journal.


The Calling, Research JournalFailure. It's bittersweet kiss a blessing. There was no alternative. My time wasted.

Yet not all is lost, for whilst the goal was false, the methods and discovery shall remain. I have much to write. Much to reference. Much to ponder.

My home, my home is lost. Lost to me by the profane arrogance I walked with. Look at me now. Shrivelled, buckled. Withered. The experiments I shall record and list. Now my fate is sealed, and here I remain. But, the Calling has a place here I know it. I feel it. I shall continue to seek it's mysteries.

For now a list:-

:arrow: Assemble the notes into a cohesive set of projects.
:arrow: Record the objective. Record it's failure. Record the truth.
:arrow: Note the methods, particularly the curious effects of the containment vessel.
:arrow: Give th Take a bath.

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PostPosted: Mon, Jul 18 2016, 12:57 PM 

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Phase Two

The first of Aarin's notes was finished, as he sat preparing the illustations for his work. His eyes drifted over the spidery text thoughtfully.

He sipped his grave-leaf tea.



The Calling, Research Journal
An Alternate Path: The First Ritual


{The Objective}: To attempt to create a necromantic process, whereby the effects of Palemastery on the living flesh would be less apparent, allowing a practitioner to longer walk in unenlightened society, and thus give us access to research and materials without the stigma and prejudice of the masses.
Secondly, the techniques discovered herein might impart further boons on other necromantic creations; which shall be donated to the Church of Velsharoon in a dossier.

{The Benefits}: The benefits would be a slower degradation of the physical form, and mayhaps even the discovery of secondary side effects which could be a boon to the spellcaster. I digress this is optimism, though new methods of grafting tissues will be helpful to the scholarly community.

{Initial Research}: I began my research by obtaining a fresh corpse, some wayward vagrant from the Bitter Coast whose crimes and thuggery granted that nobody would miss him. I killed the subject with my ritual blade, and then flooded the corpse with an overdose of negative energy, to imbue the organs within’ with unholy vigor, long enough to transport the corpse back to Tarkuul for preservation and preparation.

Upon return to the Living City, I quickly ushered myself into the research Chambers above the Temple of Velsharoon, and there began extracting the organs. His digestive tract was useless to me, but the heart, lungs, liver and kidneys were removed and preserved in canopic jars ensorcelled with a stasis spell, the Temple’s resources are most useful for this sort of work.
For my personal supplies, I butchered the subject carefully. Removing the limbs from the torso, the head too and disposed of any useless extras. With the body separated, I examined the effect of the negative energy upon his tissues for simple curiosity:-

:arrow: ‘The withering effects of negative energy upon muscle tissue are interesting. Upon living flesh, the effects are catastrophic as the very essence of the contrasting pulses withers and breeches the tissues. The ropes of muscle partially unravel and become inflamed.'

:arrow: ‘When dead, however. The necrotic tissue is instead envigored, through applying too much energy will still cause irreparable damage. Much like the difference between gentle heat will create perfectly toasted bread; and too much will render it to charcoal.’

:arrow: ‘Branding a corpse with the sigil of the Vaunted, seems to aid in the transference of necromantic energies, you may find these brands easily in the Temple, but all should be treated with the utmost reverence. The red flames from his unhallowed braziers will heat the metal quickly, and the correct platitudes and rites should be read as you kiss the flesh with his grace.’

With the organs ready, I began to dissect the existing know rituals of Palemastery, and formulated possible changes to this vaunted process. I was careful to keep to it’s essence and religious roots, as I firmly believe this to be one of the seven truths Velsharoon promises to bring we, his chosen, closer to his divine image. However, he demands no specifics, and the method is the mage’s to discover. Through this experiment I hope to expand the ritualistic options to the initiated.

{Dissection of the First Rite}:-

The Deathless Art wrote:
(1st)Ritual One requires the ground up dust from a leg bone,
an arm bone, a skull, and a rib. This bones condition is critical and thus one must
ensure they locate a corpse that is not been dead too long, avoiding unnecessary
deterioration of the bone. For the best results one must locate a undead, preferably a skeletal type.


- Control this undead by mundane or magical means such as control undead or shackles.
Once this is done use negative energy ray to heal the damaged undead to ensure the
bones are in excellent condition. Ensure you use a keen saw or blade to minimise cracking
or damage during the extraction process.


- Now taking the bones you must soak them overnight in a mixture of embalming fluid an your
own blood. this will help to ensure your body will not reject the grafting process. Now take each
individual bone break them apart into small chips and grind them in the mortar an pestle, collect
the dust an place such in individual containers for later use.


- Now you must obtain a keen ritual knife of fair quality, this will be required for all rituals an thus
is something that should be kept safe at all times after the first ritual is completed. Using a
different blade will severely hinder the potency of the rituals. Then take said blade an carve
the arcane runes that correspond to the spell Stone bones into your flesh.


- Now Take the dust samples placing them onto the respective parts of the body,
and then the words "Klarnes Achetus" spoken afterward. The will dust works itself
into the skin, hardening it artificially, and beginning a process that brings the skin
close to a bone like material. If the process is done correctly the pain should not render you unconscious.


This is the traditional first rite, and as you can see it’s effect is to grant a hard carapace of marble-like skin to the Palemaster. What I propose is instead to create a sub-dermal layer of armour, twisted from the flesh and bone of the Palemaster. Allowing the surface layers to retain a better ‘healthy’ colouration for longer into the ritual process. I am most certainly sure that this effect will not be retained for long, as the more grafts and blessings the Palemaster takes, such simple illusions will not be enough to contain the majesty of undeath. But… For a time, this could allow one to be more inconspicuous.

{The Method}:

(1st) Alternate Ritual - Hide of the Crypt

You will require the following:-

:arrow: A ritual blade, which you will keep for all future rituals. For your own sake ensure it is clean and sharp, and remains so at all times.
:arrow: The Leg Bone of the freshly slain corpse, rended of it’s flesh with your ritual blade and the bone boiled free of remaining sinews in unholy water blessed by a priest of the Vaunted.
:arrow: A cup of your own blood, freshly taken just before you begin.
:arrow: Some whittling tools designed for crafting bone or horn, carved with the runes of animation and undeath; Havok will do this for a price.
:arrow: A needle and thread, boiled in unholy water for one hour.
:arrow: A tourniquet.
:arrow: Several healing potions; it is better to be over-prepared.

Read the Instructions below, completely before you begin. Mistakes in this discipline are not forgiving.

:arrow: Firstly prepare the leg bone, once boiled and prepared take the whittling tools and carefully create five small tablets of bone. Their dimensions should be roughly two inches long and half an inch wide. So long as you are comfortable inscribing arcane runes on each, they could be smaller. The next step is to scribe the runes for protection, undeath and regeneration upon each tablet. When done, place them onto a ritual surface of your preference and cast ‘Stone Bones’.


:arrow: At midnight. Next take the cup of blood, and submerge the carved bone pieces into the cup. Place the cup in the centre of an altar to the Vaunted and speak the following loross; "Per sanguinem, per os; et servus est. Servus meus in aeternum."[Translation: "By blood, by bone; a bond made. By bond unto me eternal."] Speak the words in repeat for an hour. Then leave the cup and it’s context on the altar until the next midnight.


:arrow: Collect your bone fragments. Prepare the needle and thread. Next brace yourself for pain, and have those potions nearby lest you find a vein. Use the tourniquet if desired. Cut with your ritual blade into the centre of each thigh, deep enough to press the tablet of bone you have and using the needle and thread stitch the wound closed so that the tablet is trapped within your body.


:arrow: Repeat on each bicep.


:arrow: Sink the final one into your solar-plexus.


:arrow: Next drink the cup of blood that the fragments had soaked in, pouring the power of a third circle spell into the vessel as you drink. Then chant the following loross; “Caro mea et mortem, tueri potest mortem pati , ut mortem et vitam. Immortalem!” [Translation: "My flesh be that of death, may death protect, may death endure. Undying!”]

As you finish the chant, you will experience pain as the tablets twist and bond with your bones. They will act as nodes which will slowly transform the underlying tissues into a sub-dermal carapace. If you have been diligent in your ritual, you should not be rendered unconscious.
Though you will not have the obvious, marble-like flesh of the usual ritual imbues, the effect will mean your surface tissues will become pallid. Some may assume you to be sickened. You will be protected from the blows of weapons, though sun's rays will feel vile upon your naked flesh but do no real harm.

Author’s Note: As the rituals progress, your flesh will become more and more necrotic in nature, the effects of the Hide of the Crypt will seep ever more into your flesh, and there will come a time when you are visibly wreathed leathery, pallid, withered hide which clings to your bones. A network of black veins will feed it your unnatural vigour. At this time… It becomes obvious to all, just what you have become. Sadly my experiment was not as effective as I wished. A keen eye may still note you for what you truly are, but it is not so glaringly obvious at first which path you walk. In time, you will become a vision of death. Such, is the goal; to reach perfection.

Author's Note: If you cannot speak Loross, a careful translation into Draconic should be effective. Though in Tarkuul the old tongue is alive and well, and is the sacred language of Velsharoon himself. This, is a fitting lesson to teach yourself as many lessons lie in Tarkuul for the educated mage.

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Strom
 
PostPosted: Fri, Sep 16 2016, 13:01 PM 

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The withered, hunched form of the necromancer paced in his tiny apartment. The room was situated above a slightly larger space set aside for his arcane studies, in the Court of the Living; near the northern most footbridge to the Court of the Dead. Currently his boney limbs clasped behind his back, thumbs twiddling against their twin.

He was clothes less, other than the fine spidersilk of his undergarments. To anyone looking into his life from the outside they might be amused, or repulsed as his necrotic form was adorned with royal blue pantaloons decorated with a motif of grinning skulls.

His familiar lingered nearby, ever implacable. The skeleton holding a teensy silver tray upon which was a cup of grave-leaf tea. After a few more moments of pacing, his grafted arm shot out to grasp the tea cup, it's earthy, smokey flavour kissing his senses! One of the few advantages to his withered form still clinging to life; flavour.

His glowing, reddened hues shot toward the table nearby. Muttering as the open tome stood silhouetted by the dancing light of candles. A comically large peacock quill hanging from his inkwell as he gazed at the drying ink on it's pages. A smile tugged the corner of his lips, revealing the blackened gums and pristine white teeth.

"Progress." He mused, as his hunched body turned with a vigour that was both surprising and unnatural. He swept toward his window; throwing open the doors to his balcony to let the dull light of the necropolis spill into his room. Curtains fluttered, blooming behind him, as his pallid legs carried him out into the sea air. A sip of tea his reward as he gazed over Tarkuul with satisfaction, his fine silk underpants flapping around the thin, withered hips in the breeze. "... Glorious progress."


The Calling, Research Journal
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Upon the pages of this tome lies an intricate diagram. An ornate stand supports a large faceted, worked chunk of Black Onyx. Carved into it's massive bulk are arcane runes almost beyond counting. Magical formula, and calculations scrawl around it describing the exchange and storage of strange, dangerous energies.


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Strom
 
PostPosted: Fri, Feb 17 2017, 11:21 AM 

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The Calling, Seeker's Journal
Retro in nigrum,
Impetus est sacco,
Nimium diu,
Ego sum placuit reditum.


Aarin carefully turned his quill on the parchment, an amused curl on his pallid lips as he curled the final letter with a flourish, "Most amusing..." He stood, turning toward the open windows that lead to his tiny balcony. Pulling his robes around the gaunt frame beneath he gazed over Tarkuul. The city was crooked and organic, buildings squeezed where they could be atop the enclaves habitable platforms between canals, or simple pits from which spilled eerie arcane light. On this night, it called to him. "Servant.." He murmured, summoning his skeleton from behind a dark curtain, "... Prepare my armour."

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Strom
 
PostPosted: Thu, Jan 03 2019, 19:32 PM 

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A candle, flickered. The darkness of the surrounding room cast with a flickering gloom that granted etherial illumination to stacks of tomes and walls adorned with chalk-drawn images. The necromancer's tiny appartment and his laboratory below had finally become one. Every surface was strewn with paper, yet each pile seemed in it's place. A personal, but meticulous form of organisation.

Scratching would catch the ear, the feverish dance of a quill across parchment, a gaunt figure sat in comfortable, grey robes. A skeleton standing like a bastion nearby. It's red eyes glowing with a spark of strange intellect as it's boney fingers stirred a sugar-cube into a cup of hot tea.

Finally, Aarin sat back. His eyes grimly falling across the pages; fingers gripping the porcelain tea cup to take a musing sip, "... We need more Black Onyx. Prepare the armoured robes."

As he stood, prying eyes would fall upon an intricate image. A strange, crysalline nexus, a band of metal about it's centre; all floating in the centre of the page amid formula and notes.

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Timezone: UK (GMT+0)


 
      
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