Aw crap, and I just finished this.
An orc, a tlaloc and a human walk into a bar. The bartender eyes the group warily as it veers off to his left, where a tall, snow-white varrev is in conversation with a grey-blue garuda in a corner booth. "Hakkan, I presume?" asks the human, a red-haired woman in a dirty-green cloak. The wolf nods. "Mildburh, Daughter of Cyneburga," she introduces herself, and they shake hands.
"Gudran of the North," rumbles the orc with a self-aggrandizing fluorish.
"Tarzic," states the tlaloc.
"You must be the aspiring adventurers," Hakkan surmises. "Please, beseat yourselves. This is Sweipflutz," he gestures to the garuda, who gives a shy wave, "The fifth of our company."
"Call me Sweip," he says.
The orc eyes him suspiciously. "This fledgling sure 'e's up ta this?" Sweip frowns. "No 'ffence, but this ain't zactly kid's play."
"All adventurers need to start somewhere," mutters Tarzic, though he eyes him with equal skepticism.
"I can hold my own, don't you worry!" he shoots back.
Hakkan moves in before the argument can take off. "You are all aware of the mission, aye?"
"We're scouting the Dry Hills to find out what happened to a royal expedition," Mildburh recites, "Thus far we know of a hydra and a derelict ship, possibly enchanted." The others nod in acknowledgement.
"We know each other's names, so now let us share our faculties." He turns to Tarzic.
"Mage by training, some experience in combat. If we run into arcana, I can take care of it."
"Er, mage as well," says Mildburh, "Although from what I gather you are an offensive caster. I know medicinals, earth magics, protective wards... If any of you find yourself in a fix, I can probably get you out."
"Archery 'n close quarters," grunts Gudran, "Tho' I had ta leave m' bows outside."
"I'll be your scout, mostly," Sweip sighs, "But if I see you guys in trouble, I'll be there in a pinch!"
"And I shall be your leader in the field," Hakkan finishes.
"Wi' all due respect," the orc begins, "Adventurin' ain't quite the same as Her Majesty's Army. Now, I am
loath to brag—" Mildburh rolls her eyes, "—But I've got years o' 'sperience under my belt. You
sure you wanna take th' lead 'n this?"
Hakkan doesn't answer, but peers at Gudran's vest where a number of weapons are partially-concealed. "Is that a jadesteel dagger?" he asks suddenly.
The orc follow his gaze. "Aye," he grins, pulling it out and passing it over. "Those 'r absolute masterpieces," he tells the party, "Lightweight but firm; can cut trolls wi' those, ya can. Now, I didn't have
that one custom-made but—" After looking it over somewhat bemusedly, Hakkan takes the hilt in one hand and the blade in the other, and with a sharp jerk bends it into a right angle before tossing it onto the table. Gudran gapes for a moment before directing his gaze up to the wolf, whose face remains expressionless. "You're th' boss," he croaks.
"The location the returning soldier provided is two days' journey, so we should set forth as soon as possible. How soon can each of you prepare?"
"I'll need to find a horse, but I can be packed by midday," says Mildburh.
"Ready when you are," states Tarzic.
Sweip shoots the garuda equivalent of a thumbs-up.
"I live off th'land," Gudran proclaims, voice a little shaky from the one-upmanship, "So if ya like, I can start off 'n—"
"That won't be necessary," Hakkan cuts in. "We all seem prepared; gather what you must and reconvene here in four hours' time."
------------------------------
Sigebeald has not had a pleasant trip, and his anxiety grows further as he passes under the portcullis and into the Vittborg courtyard. His escort halts at the steps to the keep, where the Queen, the Viceroy, and a small group of soldiers stand awaiting him. Shakily, he dismounts from the horse provided for the journey and approaches his sovereign. "Sigebeald of Wyrtgeorn," greets the Queen, smiling brightly, "Thank you for honouring our invitation. Had you a pleasant journey?"
"It was... uneventful," he replies.
"Please, follow." She nods to the escort, which departs; the group turns in, and the wizard obediently follows. His memory of the castle is foggy at best, but he soon gathers he is not being taken to the throne room. He looks around nervously, racking his poor brain for any clue as to what is in store. A few minutes later they are ascending a staircase; not the dungeon, then. As they progress deeper into the keep, he is surprised to see part of the guard break off; apparently it had only been there for show. He is not sure whether to be relieved or further apprehensive.
They eventually reach an unassuming door and Sigebeald is motioned through. There is a narrow corridor to another door that stands open, leading into a small room with a table and a few chairs. It is dimly-lit, with a few glow-orbs affixed around the wall; Sigebeald can see neither the ceiling nor any windows nearby. He hears the sound of a key turning, only to find the Viceroy entering after him. Silently and stoically, the wolf motions for him to sit; they are joined by the Queen, who closes the second door before locking it from the inside, then takes the seat left of the Viceroy, directly across from the now-quivering necromancer.
An interrogation, he concludes.
They mean to extract every ounce of my knowledge before delivering the sentence. If even comes
a sentence. Mustering what remains of his courage, Sigebeald states clearly, but with a pitch betraying his fear: "Forgive my impudence, but I was never informed as to the purpose of this summons, and wish to know Your Majesty's charge against me."
"Our
charge?" laughs the Queen, "Oh, my poor Sigebeald, there is no
charge!" She gives a sidelong glance to Ranvild, whose eyes dart guiltily to hers. "Oh, goodness me!" she giggles, putting a hand to her mouth as she struggles to recompose herself. In spite of himself, the wizard feels a blush rising in his cheeks. After a minute, she continues: "No, we have summoned you because we wish to make use of your talents."
Sigebeald blinks. "My... talents?" he repeats. "Your Majesty is well aware what my talents
are—"
"Ah, but we are
not!" she leans forward, her hands clapping the table. "Would you be so generous as to indulge our curiosity?"
"How so, Your Highness?"
She straightens up. "Tell us about your order."
Sigebeald inhales sharply. He looks from the Queen, to the Viceroy, trying to figure out just
what strange game they are playing. The Viceroy remains impassive, but the Queen seems to be eyeing him with genuine interest. Feeling suddenly empowered, for the first time in quite a while, he launches into the one topic he had conditioned himself never to discuss in public: his years outside of the Raevyllke.
------------------------------
"Give that poor thing a rest!" exclaims Tarzic, "He'll keel over before we even leave the hills."
"He's perfectly fine," Gudran shoots back, "A bit out o' shape, but that's what exercise's for, innit?" Underneath him, the donkey wheezes for breath.
"C'mon," Mildburh chimes in, "A seasoned adventurer such as yourself
surely prefers to rest on rugged ground." The tlaloc snickers as Gudran, cowed by the jab at his tough image, reluctantly slides off his mount who seems to gasp in relief. A little way ahead, Hakkan is scanning the skies. "Any sign?" calls the witch.
"Not yet," he replies. "T'is late; we will probably make camp tonight before journeying further."
"He wanted to make himself useful, but I hope he wasn't struck down," Tarzic mutters as he rifles through his spellcaster's satchel.
"I wouldn't worry," says Mildburh. "The scouts only ran into trouble when they found the site, and they did not benefit from overwatch."
"Unless it's a Bransee hydra," rumbles Gudran, "Great sport, they are: eighty feet tall, wi' no less 'n six heads each... They
seem short 'cuz th' lake's so deep, but once they shuffle onto th' shore..."
"Bransee, you said?" Tarzic asks.
"Aye."
"And why, pray tell, would a creature that large amble its hulking bulk hundreds of miles southeast just to squat in such a tiny bog?"
Mildburh giggles as the tale-spinner struggles with his thread. The orc opens his mouth to retort, when Hakkan exclaims: "That's him!" The group picks itself up as Sweip flies in, landing shakily before the varrev champion.
He waves off the others as he catches his breath. "Long flight," he wheezes. Once he regains his strength, he reports: "It's about half a day's journey from where we are now. Didn't see the hydra, but there's definitely a ship. Looks like a war galley; stranded itself somehow. Too foggy to make out anything in detail, and I didn't dare fly in closer."
"Good work, Sweip." Hakkan claps an arm around his shoulders as he turns to the rest of the party. "We'll head into the woods and find a good spot for camp. Tomorrow, our fun begins."
------------------------------
Ranvild sits uneasily as he listens to Sigebeald recount in minute detail his relationship with the death magics. The cowering figure that had arrived at the castle steps seems incompatible with the man presently speaking; freed of the great taboo, he orates excitedly with fiery conviction. What's worse, the Queen seems engrossed in his eager divulgences. "What almost nobody understands about necromancy, even, if not
especially its own practitioners, is that it is
not simply the narrow-minded school that has become synonymous with so-called 'death magic'. When the discipline was first conceived, it was much larger in both vision and scope. But its early advocates quickly lost their nerve—they felt their end goal too ambitious, an affront to the gods and the natural order—and the school degraded into what it is today."
Ranvild lets out a sharp snort, and Sigebeald and the Queen turn to him. "Forgive me, but you mean to tell us that warlocks who wantonly raise the dead into infernal legions have an
ethical standard?"
The wizard takes another deep breath. "I recognize our reputation amongst the masses, and in many respects I sympathize with it. Necromancy today is a lazy mage's discipline. It is devoid of innovation and, in the philosophical sense, any meaningful purpose. We were unwilling to venture beyond our horizon, with the tragic consequence that our research never progressed beyond an insultingly primitive level. Reanimating a corpse is not resurrection: without a soul it is an empty vessel, a fleshy automaton fit only to carry out a set of scripted instructions. And for that reason, necromancy became the discipline of choice for unscrupulous parties. You only know of wights and liches and zombie soldiers because that is all the leading schools care to explore, and so its negative image has been perpetuated for centuries.
"My order, the Acolytes of Ahuramazda, subscribes to necromancy's original purpose: to uncover the secrets of life and death both material and mystical. We have no interest in puppeteering skeletons; our aims are so,
so much nobler; we wish to discover if one can restore the very
soul to our plane of existence." Sigebeald pauses, and his expression fades to melancholy. "Ironically, it is precisely because we strive for so much more that we are condemned as heretics even by fellow necromancers. We have never received patronage, or otherwise found opportunity to congregate in the numbers and for the length of time necessary to properly pursue our research."
The Queen clasps her hands together, sitting up straight. "What if you
were granted patronage? What might you be able to accomplish?"
Sigebeald's brow furrows, wondering whether this is still an elaborate tease. "What would Your Majesty request in return?"
She reaches into her robes and withdraws a scroll that she passes across. "No more or less than this."
He unrolls the scroll and reads it over. He reads it over again. His face contorts in confusion, then dismissal. He is already shaking his head, mouth forming his decline of the impossible order. His eyes meet the Queen's, and he stops cold.
He would describe her gaze as predatory. Not, of course, in the sense that she is about to leap over the table and tear his throat out... but she is focusing literally
all her attention on him, on his reply.
She is completely serious, he realizes, and an icy jolt runs up his spine.
"Can it be done?" she asks, voice low, soft, resonating with the full power of her state.
Sigebeald's heartbeat rapidly accelerates. The opportunity of his life lies before him, the chance to finally be recognized, to be taken
seriously, to escape from a near-lifetime of secrecy and seclusion... But only if he can
deliver. And he
knows the task demanded is too much for one man.
But with royal support... If I could gather them here
...
The necromancer cranes his head back, eyes screwed shut as he calculates his chances. All the while the Queen never takes her eyes off him. After some time, Sigebeald opens his eyes and meets her gaze. He swallows, then declares: "Yes."
"What will you need first?"
He opens his mouth, pauses, then looks at the scroll again. His jaw looses as the 'eureka' moment strikes. Jerking his head up, he says: "Information. . ."
), sending soldiers to fight on their behalf would not be worth the effort. If they do, then come forward. If they do not, well then, fortune does not favor the bankrupt and nor do we.
