Necromancer Guild Visions

Finding Power

(Race of the person on the table is the same as the person seeing the vision)

A crimson design etches across the air in front of you. Its origins are foreign, but a powerful desire accompanies it: it means everything you want, every possibility realized.

"You're forgetting something."

You stand in front of an iron table, scalpel in hand. Lying on the table is a half-naked Elf, unbound yet seemingly paralyzed. She stares up at you with wide, tear-brimmed eyes, while her breaths are accompanied with gasping, plaintive whines. Standing opposite of you is an elderly Human man in homespun clothes.

The Old Man says, "Glory. Immortality. Transcendence. Every promise that has been made is true. It's all hidden inside there," he looks down at the captive Elf, "Waiting for you to dig it out."

He returns a flat, expressionless gaze to you, "The moral dilemma isn't that necromancy demands a terrible price, but that you aren't the one that pays it. Are you worth her life?"

Heads and Tails

Howling winds blow past you, churning up an endless cloud of stinging, red sand. Partially obscured in the sand storm, you see wave upon wave of undead monstrosities throw themselves at a phalanx of brightly armored men.

Far removed from the carnage, two Humans look down from a rise. One is barely in his twenties and hidden by a long coat one size too large. The young Human clutches a curved, silver knife at his side so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. The other Human is short and elderly, wearing homespun clothes, carrying a farmer's hoe casually slung across his shoulder.

The younger man says, "It doesn't matter who wins."

The Old Man says, "Immediately? No, I suppose not. But the world will be better off one way more than the other."

"We're going to die! The Great Work is going to end with us."

The Old Man chuckles and says, not unkindly, "Heads, you lose; tails, you lose. Wasn't that the point all along?"

The Climb

You see a gigantic granite cliff towering in the pre-dawn gloom. The cliff is nearly sheer, interrupted only by deep gouges and blade-like protrusions. Darkness obscures the base of the cliff, while the first rays of morning shine above its crown. A young Human slowly climbs the face of the cliff, using nothing other than a curved silver knife as an impromptu pick.

The young Human pauses for breath within the base of a narrow gouge. He assesses the rest of his climb, only to lock eyes with an elderly Human who now looks down at him from over the ledge. The young Human cups his hands over his mouth and calls out, "Could you help me?"

The Old Man says, "Sure." He rubs his mouth, then points at the knife, "You know what they say about a man that only owns a hammer?"

A string of Gamgweth profanity echoes back in reply. The Old Man shrugs and walks away.

Awaiting the Triumphant

Your vision darkens, barely revealing a small room dominated by an ornate deobar writing desk. Thick curtains are drawn across the only window, leaving a lamp perched on one corner of the desk to throw fitful light on the scene. A slender man sits at the desk while an unnaturally bulging form stands at the doorway, both little more than silhouettes in the gloom. The man in the doorway tosses something onto the desk, where it lands with a metallic thud. He croaks out in a guttural voice, "What now?" Your point of view shifts to look down upon the object, revealing a leather-bound tome. The blade of a belt knife sticks out from underneath, pinned to the desk by the book's weight. The slender man gently traces a slender finger across a sigil of sharp angles that marks its cover. "Now," the word escapes in a raspy exhalation. He pauses for another moment and when he speaks again, his voice is strong and grim, "Now we await the triumphant."

The Melee

Violent winds howl in your ears, not quite obscuring a multitude of distant moans and screams. Your vision slowly comes into focus, revealing three figures facing each other, weapons drawn, amidst a swirling crimson dust storm.

To your left is a young Human man, wielding a curved silver dagger and covered by a dark overcoat. To your right is an Adan'f, holding a mattock and wearing a crude hauberk. Directly across from you is an elderly Halfling woman, in a blood-stained white robe and tensely gripping an oaken cudgel.

A blast of ruddy sand momentarily obscures your vision, but not the clash of weapons. Within a second the figures have turned on each other with murderous intent. Their three-way melee continues unabated as the storm rises around them, consuming everything with its stinging grit.

Kigot's Inheritance

Your vision focuses on a lanky Human male, leaning with both hands upon a balcony rail and staring up at Xibar.

A shadow detaches itself from the gloom behind him, revealing a feminine Elf.

The woman says, "He is an idiot, unworthy to wield Kigot's knife and you are of an even worse order for following him."

The man says, "And hello to you too."

"What was he thinking? The signs were not that obscure!"

"The hound thinks he's figured it all out. Though I wonder."

"What?"

"Did you know that the Bards can see things? Glimpses of different Philosophers over the century. The Moon Mages have visions about a young Necromancer with a knife and a wise old man."

"I..."

"Feeling a little exposed?"

"He is not the triumphant!"

"Someone will be and not either of us. The games are over, dear. Draw your knife or throw it down."

Shackles

You see a man of ashen grey complexion standing on a featureless plane. He is hairless and nude, his skin profoundly bruised and burnt. A black aura surrounds him, all sharp lines and jagged edges, except for his head: as it inches upward, the darkness gives way to a crown of braided sunlight.

Above and surrounding the figure is a semi-circle of creatures, vaguely Human shaped but made out of fire and sunlight. Some bob up and down to the beat of incandescent wings, others are merely suspended in defiance to gravity. Manacles bind their limbs and trail earthen brown tethers that connect to the plane below them, leaving them perhaps a few more feet of slack.

One of the fire creatures attempts to raise a blinding sword, but does not have enough slack to bring it above its head. The grey man smirks, but closes his eyes and lowers his head. He walks the distance between him and the creatures, then sits down amongst the tethers.

Xerasyth's Contempt

Your vision is wrenched away to a dusty road with three travelers upon it. A small figure, skin splotchy like guttered wax, skulks beside a taller and unkempt woman who strides with determined purpose. Further ahead, you see the silhouette of a tailed man who seems unaware of the company behind him. Around the road is nothing but barren, desolate waste that stretches as far as your mind's eye can see.

The two figures approach the third, striving to catch up. One clutches a butcher's blade tightly in each fist while the larger carries a dagger, pommel glinting with reddish light. Now clearly visible as a S'Kra Mur, the tailed man appears oblivious, though a palpable sense of rising malevolent intent washes over you. Just as the third traveler is overtaken and the woman's dagger is raised overhead to strike, he suddenly turns around. You catch a glimpse of red-gold scales, dull black eyes, and an amused smirk just before shadows writhe across your eyes and blind your sight.

• Tachid was just struck down!
• Sahfra was just struck down!
  
  

Powers Collide

Your vision is wrenched away to a grassy field. A purple-robed woman deftly glides through thick blades of grass that shy away from her presence. She approaches a green-robed man whose tail sways pensively behind him, as if waiting. His dull black eyes seem to glitter for a moment as he looks to the encroaching woman, "You can't even conceive that there's no point to this, can you?"

The woman is unresponsive, her severe features flickering in your mind's eye until there is not a lady but instead a grim, skeletal visage with writhing strands of ethereal white swirling behind her. As abruptly as they changed in the first place, so does the creature revert back to the woman with the frozen gaze.

The man shakes his head, annoyance clearly written upon his snout. He mutters, "Fine, if this is what you want." The man snaps his hand forward as an arc of blackness sweeps forth, green and red swirls writhing within in a pale mockery of life. The woman simply raises one hand as red and purple shafts of light sparkle through the air. As the wave of darkness passes, the woman's severe features are haughtily arrogant, and untouched, though the ground around her has become a cracked and dessicated patch of dirt.

As the woman prepares her counter-assault, your sight suddenly sees beyond the two figures, beyond their magic. A ravenous, shapeless hunger rises from the woman, greedily pushing outwards but always centered upon something that remains hidden from your sight. Facing it is an oozing blackness seeping forth from the man... old, and powerful. Despite its obvious might, the darkness feels frail before the hunger. Your brain hurts with intense pressure as forces you cannot comprehend fling themselves at each other, and your mind's eye mercifully closes just as you sense the black force retreating.

Zamidren's Ascent

You feel a moist chill that seems to come from your bones and radiate outward. A Human, bundled against the cold, trudges his way up an incline, snow crunching beneath his boots. An elderly man stands at the top of the incline, amidst undisturbed snow, watching his progress.

With slow, clockwork steps the Human reaches the top, only to be met with darkness. The ground gives way in front of him into a nearly vertical drop. The only thing the snowy night reveals of the landscape beyond the fall is the tops of a few giant conifers.

The younger man throws back his hood, while both men gaze pensively down the cliff. A roisan seems to pass before the Old Man breaks the silence. "You're worried."

Zamidren closes his eyes. He says, "I don't have the luxury of hesitating."

Despite the protestation, both men return to silent contemplation. Zamidren is the first to speak up again, saying, "We find out tonight if the philosophy is worthy of survival." The Old Man, disturbed out of reverie, says, "Hrm? Oh, that. I was just thinking." "What?" "Don't think you'd survive the fall. Can't say you'd make the climb without breaking your neck. Won't even bet if you'd live through the wilderness that lies down there. The cliff, though? It faces east."

Markat's Rescue

You see... nothing at all, though you smell stale, diseased air and acquire an inexplicable claustrophobic dread in the back of your mind. As time passes, your ears and eyes strain for stimuli with some measure of success: a faint movement of the air, bereft of any other sound, resolves into shallow breathing.

The stink and the threatening darkness hold your senses for a small eternity, before something shifts... above you? Before you can contemplate the spatial possibilities, there is a far too loud screech and a blinding explosion of light!

When your senses recover, you see a Dwarf in filthy rags, shackled hand, foot and neck in heavy chains at the bottom of a stone oubliette. A lanky Human man stands at the top of the oubliette, holding a torch above his head. The ragged Dwarf yells out, "Go away! Save the gibbet for someone whose neck can still snap!"

The Human responds, his voice a study in even politeness, "I'm sorry, sir, I had to rescue you without writing ahead. Have I interrupted something? I can always come back later."

"Wait! That voice... that voice... Markat!"

"Yes, sir."

"You little bastard! I should have made something out of your scrawny, broken corpse when I had the chance!"

"But, sir," Markat affects an injured tone, "If you had done that, I would not be here now and we could not have such a nice conversation."

The Dwarf growls out, "What do you want, Markat?"

Markat says, "I have been asked to present an invitation to you. One of the Philosophers has emerged triumphant and would be humbled if a Dwarf of your luminous reputation would agree to provide your wisdom in the dark days ahead."

"Hah. Who is it, boy?"

"Zamidren Book."

The Hound's Rebirth

"Go forth, my brothers! Let any tome which holds the Alchemy of Flesh be destroyed! Let any tongue that speaks its blasphemy be torn out! If a building may harbor one of these nihilist philosophers, then shall it be burnt as an offering to the most high! By sword, by axe and by spell this black folly will end!"

Preserving the Philosophy

You see Zamidren Book striding down a narrow, stone passage with grim purpose. He follows a track of dark red carpeting laid down the center of a polished marble floor, though for all the expense the walls around him manage to look closed in, bare and sterile.

Turning a corner, Zamidren faces a set of wide iron doors attended by Markat. The younger man nods in recognition and swings the doors open with dramatic force. He then faces into the room, bowing low and extending his arms wide. His lowered head does little to disguise the wide, sardonic grin across his face.

Inside, dozens of cloaked men stand in a rough semi-circle, interrupted by a man-sized obelisk that occupies the center of the room. Zamidren strides into a center position and stops. Seconds pass as Zamidren and the crowd stare at each other with restrained hostility.

Zamidren speaks, his voice loud and oratorical, "We are victims of unintended consequence. Lyras and her childish demons have brought the Temple to a head. We are being picked off one by one for the audacity of knowing of the Alchemy of Flesh. It is not so far fetched to assume that this room holds the majority of us that are still left alive. If we continue to do nothing, the philosophy dies with us! But there is another way."

Xerasyth Confronts the Old Man

You see a small farm, nestled in a shallow valley between hills to the north and south. Orderly rows of vegetable sprouts occupy the center, accompanied by a small, clear stream to the side. The silhouette of an elderly Human can be seen against the light of dawn, steadily channeling a row in the soil with the hoe. A S'Kra Mur approches the farm, his dull black eyes immediately drawing your attention. The tall man approaches the vegetable rows with a sort of reverence, taking care not to step upon any of the plants, or the soil.

The Old Man looks up from his work and says, "Didn't think I'd see you here."

Xerasyth, squinting against the glare of the sun, replies dryly, "Can't I be interested in a little horticulture?"

"Not much to it, I'm afraid. Seeds go in, water comes down, weeds pop up."

Xerasyth asks, "That's all? You expect me to believe you do nothing to help them along?"

The Old Man replies in a conversational tone, "No cows. Don't get much fertilizer around here."

Xerasyth says acidly, "So cheat. Simply will the carrots to grow faster."

The Old Man shrugs and says, "What'd be the point? If they grew faster, I'd just be planting them again sooner."

Xerasyth's voice grows insistent, "Alter the plans, too."

The Old Man shakes his head. "They'd waste the soil too quickly."

"Change the soil."

"This sounds like an awful lot of work for carrots."

Xerasyth's voice loses its theatric insistence, instead taking on a faintly sarcastic quality, "Really, must we belabor this metaphor further?"

The Old Man's tone remains uncompromisingly irreverent, "Suppose we could change the fundamental nature of the carrot. Make it grow faster and healthier, perhaps even preserve it indefinitely, I suppose. But what would a carrot do with eternity?"

He quirks his eyebrows at Xerasyth and continues, "And why do I care, when I still plan to eat them?"

Xerasyth smirks and asks wryly, "So everything that's happened is in accordance with your plans, then?"

The Old Man says, "I have simple desires and you do not have the ability to deny them to me."

Both men stare at each other in silence for a few seconds, before Xerasyth says in a blunt tone, "Lyras attacked me."

The Old Man says, "Did she? Didn't realize, though it's not surprising."

"While it's amusing to watch them all squirm, soon we'll be running out of live people."

"It seems like you're building to a point."

Xerasyth asks, "What do you intend to do about her?"

The Old Man turns away from Xerasyth without a spoken word and returns to his work on the plot of earth.

Xerasyth dryly says, "This is infuriating. You're supposed to be a guide."

The Old Man replies without looking up, "When you get older you'll find that a part of healthy living is figuring out what is and is not your problem."

Xerasyth shoots back, "Ah, so for all your usual melodrama, suffering is not on the agenda. Compassion? Basic empathy? Do any of these rank above carrots?"

The Old Man asks, "Do they suffer?"

Xerasyth replies dryly, "All life suffers."

The Old Man says, "Indeed." He turns back around to Xerasyth, looking him in the eye. "I wonder how much different the world would be if all the Necromancers running around took all that energy and instead spent it trying to understand why it is the way it is."

"I'd be dead and rather incapable of pondering the subject."

"Also true, but every mortal dies."

Xerasyth says, "Yes, that's what they like to claim."

The Old Man says, "It's scary, yet consider: if the gods will that I die, and I disagree with this, which of us is in a better position to make an informed decision?"

Xerasyth's eyes gaze at the old man with the dull stare of irritated familiarity. "We both know that's nonsense.

The divine aren't infallible, they just got here first and so they get to play at being gods. Their malice and caprice are fully equal to ours."

The Old Man nods, "Of course. It is a common mistake to assume that the Immortals are infinite or even in full control over their own destiny. Divinity is the fount of creation and shares the same problems with every other kind of spigot."

He continues, "But... consider if there was suffering in the universe before there were gods. It'd provide little wonder that the infinite could give birth to the finitude. Has humanity ascribed to malice and caprice the built-in limit to the suffering they can endure?"

After a pause, he finishes, "It's pitiful, not being able to die."

Xerasyth sighs, "Why on earth should we feel pity for the Immortals, or even care what 'suffering' they may endure?

All that matters is that we ourselves can master hunger, eliminate disease, kill death itself. Nature's evolutionends with us."

The Old Man says, "It's not very likely, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." He slings his hoe over his shoulder and begins to walk away. Xerasyth stands with a considering expression on his face, watching the receding form. Before it vanishes, he says,

"I see you are determined to sit this one out."

The Old Man says, "If the subtext of all this necromancy business is that you know better than everyone else how to order creation, then all I can do is get in the way. Go back and face obliteration yourself; prove you deserve something greater than what you were given. Build a cathedral from your sins, but don't be surprised if it turns out to be another lonely, pointless abattoir."

As the Old Man vanishes from sight, the expression on Xerasyth's face slowly shifts from irritation to contemplation.