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 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.
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.
-----
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.
“.. 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.
---
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.
---
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!
---
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: THEOCCULTPRACTICES
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.”
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.
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.
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...
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...
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.
----------------
Piert's lifeless body was soon to find new meaning..
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.
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.
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;
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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 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."
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."
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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