Ogden Awakened
The floorboards creak under the weight of a shuffling figure wrapped in a thick robe with his favorite afghan draped over him. He's bent over a bit at the shoulders, his hair is white and thin at the crown of his head, and he moves with the deliberate effort of a man whose joints have begun to fail. Despite his obviously advanced age, the breadth of his shoulders and thickness of his hands as he steadies himself on the door frame before entering his sitting room tell the story of a once-physically imposing man.
A sudden deafening crash of thunder ; the lights flicker and then die.
"Damn this storm!" he wheezes. The house has gone pitch black in the storm. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminate the room like a strobe, but the old man can't see well at the best of times and not at all in this darkness. He looks unsteady, like he's trapped between rooms and not sure whether to proceed or go back to the kitchen and feel around for a candle and matches.
He starts to mumble. To the untrained ear, it would be the ramblings of a confused and frightened old man, but soon a small glowing ball, no larger than a robin's egg appears in the darkness, floating just above his palm. It grows slowly until it reaches the size of Christmas tree ornament and the whole room is aglow in a soft yellow light. With a grunt, the old man continues to shuffle into the sitting room and, upon reaching his favorite old chair, places the ball in a glass lamp. He then turns and slowly eases himself into his chair, pulls out his pipe and begins to tamp tobacco from a pouch into the bowl.
The old man reaches for the worn old tome on the stand by his chair and flips to his bookmark. He sighs contentedly as spicy tendrils of pipe smoke slowly curl through the soft glow cast by the orb. His reading glasses are near the end of his nose and he mumbles softly as he reads.
Suddenly, a loud pounding on the door breaks his reverie. "Eh?" he looks up in surprise. "Who in blazes would be out in this weather?" He slowly rises from the comfort of his chair and begins to shuffle towards the thick oaken door at the front of his house. He pauses to peer through the peephole.
"Ah!" he exclaims, eyebrows up and a look of delight spreading across his face. He swings the door open and nearly loses his grip on it in a gust of wind.
"Grandpapa!" two young voices exclaim. Two children, a boy and a girl, look up at the old man with delight. Behind them, their mother wears a weary expression on her rain-soaked face.
"My goodness," the old man says, "Come in! Come in out of the weather!"
"What brings you out on a night like this?"
The trio quickly scoots in through the door, dripping water all over the floor. The mother speaks, "So sorry to bother you, Grampy, but the power is out at our house and I have to file a report with New York by morning. I was in the middle of it when everything went dark. God knows how much work I lost."
"Oh, dear, well I have light here, but I'm afraid I don't own a computer. Here, take these towels and dry yourselves. You're welcome to stay here!"
"Thanks so much. I hate to impose on you like this, but I'm pretty sure the power will be on at the office. Would you mind…"
The old man interrupts his granddaughter with a wave of his hand, "Think nothing of it. What Grandpapa wouldn't welcome the company of his great-grandchildren? Come in and stay as long as you like. We'll have hot chocolate!"
"Yay!" The boy and girl chorus their approval.
"Thanks so much, Grampy, you're a real lifesaver," says the mother, looking relieved, "I will try to be back as soon as I can, but I fear I may be pulling an all-nighter at the office."
"Take your time, we'll find a way to pass the time – even without television or Nintendo," the old man says with a wink.
"OK, you two be good for your grandpapa. I will be back as soon as I can."
With that, the children say their goodbyes and follow their grandfather and his lamp into the kitchen. Soon, more glowing orbs bathe the kitchen in a soft glow. The grandfather makes his way to the old stove. "Well, it's a good thing this runs on propane, right children?"
The boy pipes up, "Oh, Grandpapa, Sarah has something to show you!"
"And what would that be?"
The girl blushes and protests, "No, Jason, I don't think I can do it."
"Yes, you can, Sarah. You don't have to be shy in front of Grandpapa!"
"There's no need to show me if you don't feel ready, young lady, but your brother is right: you don't have to be shy in front of me."
Her face a mixture of reluctance and hopeful determination, Sarah makes her way to the stove. She clicks the gas knob to the "light" position and the soft hiss of propane is heard. She closes her eyes and whispers then snaps her fingers over the burner. Nothing.
She takes a breath and furrows her brow as she concentrates, the sulfuric smell of the ethyl mercaptan reaches her nose and she snaps her fingers. Whoosh! A burst of flame rises from the burner, startling the young girl before it settles into a low, consistent flame.
"Excellent!" cries the old man, clapping his hands together. "I usually don't let that much gas escape, mind you, but very good - and so young!"
A huge smile appears on the young girl's face as she looks to both her brother and her grandfather for approval.
"See? I knew you could do it, Sarah."
"Well, well, this is quite a development, young lady," the old man says as he pulls a saucepan from the hanging rack and places it on the stove, "We have much to discuss, it would seem."
The grandchildren begin to explain the young girl's newfound abilities with great enthusiasm, each child eager to tell the story. It seems they both knew they were getting to the age where the family trait might reveal itself. The awakening does not occur in every member of the family, but in enough and for so many generations that it was accepted and celebrated as a gift.
Soon the hot cocoa was served with marshmallows, of course, and the trio made their way back to the sitting room.
"So, tell me, Sarah," said the old man, "when did you discover your gift?"
"I'm not sure, Grandpapa, I think it might have come to me in my sleep. I've been having bad dreams lately. Sometimes, the dreams feel so real ."
"Oh, and what is in these dreams?" asked the old man, picking up his pipe.
"It's hard to describe. I'm usually running from something. I feel like I am being chased by a dark creature, but I never see it. I guess it's like a lot of scary dreams that people have, but this one feels so real. I was waking up screaming, covered in sweat, and sometimes, worse."
"Worse?" asked the old man.
Jason broke in with a laugh, "She's been wetting the bed!"
"Jason! You promised you wouldn't say!" Sarah protestss, her face red.
The old man, considers this fact – paying little attention to the adolescent embarrassment it might have caused his great-grandaughter; there are larger consequences on his mind.
"I would say that, considering powers that are awakening in you, a little bed-wetting should be the least of your worries. But how did the dreams lead you to believe they were anything more than simple nightmares?"
Sarah pauses and stares into her hot cocoa, clearly troubled by the memory. She stumbles as she tries to explain. "It was two nights ago, I guess. I had the worst of the dreams. I felt like I was in some kind of jungle. It was very dark and hot. The air felt thick and suffocating. Again, I felt the dark presence, but this time it felt far away and yet, all around me. I was stumbling along the damp ground and every sound seemed threatening. I just wanted to get away. I tried to run, but the ground seemed to soak up my feet and hold onto my shoes. I lost one and turned to pick it up and that's when it seemed that the trees themselves began to come alive, their trunks were forming legs and their branches were arms. The worst was their faces, Grandpapa, they had red eyes and mouths that were twisted into these awful smiles full of splintering teeth."
The young girl takes a deep breath and a small sip of her cocoa, tears have welled-up in her eyes –the memory of the nightmare so vivid and disturbing.
"I tried to scream or wake-up but I couldn't. Every time I tried to scream, it would come out like a silent hiss. So I tried to run. The tree creatures were chasing me now and I was so scared. I stumbled through the bog and found a wooden bridge. I crossed it and found myself on a small island. I realized I had trapped myself as the tree creatures where now at the bridge and were coming across. I was so panicked that I started to run across the little island, hoping to find another bridge. It was then that I stumbled on some old stones, but it looked like nothing more than a large gravestone that had been battered by age. Sometimes, in these dreams, I get so scared that I just want to crouch down and will myself awake, but when I tried that in this dream, I couldn't wake up. It was then that one of the stones shifted and began to slide and reveal an underground path. I didn't know if I wanted to go down that hole, but a bony hand reached out and pulled me in. I felt so terrified that I screamed again. This time the scream worked but it also released something from my hands. The bony arm fell away and I woke up. Jason had come to my room…"
"I heard her scream, Grandpapa," Jason broke in, eager to contribute to the tale, "it was so loud it woke me up in the next room. I turned on the light and she looked like she'd been in a wrestling match. That's when we both noticed the sheets where her hands had been."
"Oh? And what was there?" asked the old man.
"The sheets were burned. Two small spots, roughly the shape of my hands," answered Sarah, "I guess the dream was so intense that whatever I did in my dream, I did a little bit outside of it as well."
"It was my idea to try to do it again while she was awake," Jason interjected.
The old man considered his grandchildren with a look of curiosity and approval. "You are lucky to have such an inquisitive brother, Sarah. So, tell me, have you told your mother yet?"
Both children looked down at their hot cocoas. "Ah, I see," said the old man, understanding the answer.
Jason was the first to speak, "We wanted to ask you. We knew you would know more than our mom. We didn't want to worry her."
"Well, she will need to know eventually, but I am glad you came to me. There is much I need to show you, Sarah."
The young girl smiled, but then glanced at her brother.
Jason spoke up, "What about me, grandpapa? I mean, I am older than Sarah, but I haven't had any dreams. I can't do anything."
"Jason, the awakening happens in its own time, but it doesn't always happen. Look at your mother, for example."
"What about our father?"
"Your father was killed in the war. As far as I know, he never experienced an awakening, but we were not close."
"Why not?" asked Sarah.
"Some people will not accept things they do not understand. What has awakened in you, Sarah, is both a blessing and a curse. You see, the darkness you felt in your dreams makes what you can do necessary to the world, but also makes you a beacon for the darkness."
"A beacon?" asked Jason.
"Yes, a signal and a target."
At this, the young girls face betrayed a feeling of dread, "I wish Jason could have it too."
"He may," said the old man, "regardless, you will need him. He will always be your brother and, from the sounds of things, a great ally. Not all of us have had such luxury in our time."
"Well, Grandpapa, we were wondering about that. Why do we do this at all? Is it just our family?"
The old man sighed and brought his thick index fingers to his lips as he considered the question.
"The history of our family is a long story, but eventually you must know it. In light of recent events, " he gestured towards Sarah as he spoke, "I suppose tonight is that night."
"As far as it is known, we can trace our ancestry in the old country to a little village of Tristram. It was there that the Travinor family first set up a little inn. By all accounts, life there was simple and, to some extent, idyllic. Your ancestors ran a little inn that served as the community gathering spot and also offered shelter to weary travelers. The owner of this inn was Ogden Travinor. He was a simple man in many respects, but he was kind and I suppose you might say he was a pillar of the community.
By and by, some horrible curse befell the town and it was visited by the darkness. I believe it was the same darkness that appears in our dreams before the awakening. The town was destroyed by creatures even more foul than the trees from your dreams. In the end, nearly every soul living in Tristram was destroyed. To my knowledge, only a sage named Cain survived. He tried to save the town but was overwhelmed by the forces of darkness. In the end, his power was barely enough to save himself. For some reason, the creatures couldn't kill him, so they left him in a gibbet to die of starvation while they finished defiling the town. The entire town, including Ogden and the rest of the Travinor family was dead.
After some time, some heroes appeared and destroyed all the creatures in the town. They rescued Cain and disappeared through a portal. What remained of Tristram was left to be burned from history. It was a few nights later that a figure appeared who would change the course of our family history forever.
I never knew his name – I don't even know if Ogden knew his name. The story is the man wandered through town, picking over the destruction of Tristram. He was collecting bodies, you see. Some of the former townsfolk had been ripped to shreds and were useless to him. Others, like a once-proud and powerful blacksmith, Griswald, had been reanimated by the creatures of darkness and twisted to their purpose – only to be dispatched by the heroes who rescued Cain.
This man, a ragpicker of sorts, examined the dead and loaded many of them onto a type of stretcher he had made of two small logs with leather patched between them. He paused here and there, picking up some bauble or other, but the thing he prized most was the corpses of the fallen. He finally made his way to the inn owned by Ogden. Many of the frightening villagers had taken refuge there at the end and he spent much time extracting the most whole of those who had perished there. By the time, he was ready to move on, at least eight bodies had been strewn on his stretcher. He picked up one end of it and, demonstrating strength far beyond his physical frame, dragged his foul treasure beyond the walls of Tristram and into the darkness. Our ancestor, Ogden Travinor, was among the bodies he took. The thing is, Ogden wasn't quite dead.
The man dragged them to a small cottage surrounded by Weeping Willows. Behind the cottage, was a trapdoor that opened into a large underground lair, built in stone. The stench of the place was foul, but it was dry and the creatures that had destroyed Tristram were nowhere to be seen. The man dropped his end of the stretcher and began to light the lamps around the room. Ogden had finally begun to regain consciousness. Through slitted eyes, he saw the man remove his cloak, revealing scarred arms and long, white hair. He mumbled a few words over the ground and suddenly a creature, in the shape of a large, earthen man appeared from the darkness. If had not been for the events in Tristram, Ogden would not have believed his eyes; it's hard to know how the simple tavern owner maintained his sanity with all he had seen.
The large man made of earth he would later understand to be a clay golem. It lifted a body from the stretcher, a young woman too disfigured to be recognizable, and placed it on the stone table in the middle of the room. The white-haired man held a hand over her body and spoke a few words. In an instant, the skeleton of the woman ripped from the corpse and sat up. Its eyes glowed with a dark, unearthly fire. It freed itself from the cocoon of flesh and stood upright. No hint of the woman it had been was visible. It's hands glowed with the same unearthly flame, but the skeleton did nothing but stand there like a well-trained dog awaiting its master's command.
This process was repeated with two more of the corpses. Ogden recognized one as a local drunk, Farnham, who had been caught outside when the attacks began. His throat had been torn from the side, but there were no defensive wounds on his arms. He was probably passed out from drink and never knew what hit him. Soon, he was standing next to the other skeletons – the only difference was a sword of bone had somehow been made in his hands.
Next the clay creature came for him. Ogden felt horror at his fate – to survive all that he had only to die on this table, unable to fight. He wished he could cry out or resist, but he was a broken man both physically and spiritually. The battle with the darkspawn was finally at an end. The golem lifted his body with ease and placed him on the table. The white-haired warlock placed a hand over his body and spoke a few words. Ogden felt nothing. The man paused briefly and spoke a few more words. Again, Ogden felt nothing. Finally, seeming frustrated, the white-haired man, spoke a few more, very different words and Ogden felt pain. He felt as if he was burning from the inside out. He couldn't move his head to look down at his body, but he felt as if his blood had begun to boil. The pain was unbearable – even compared to that which he had already experienced. He finally found the strength to cry out in desperation. The white-haired man appeared startled by the cry and, with a quick wave of his hand, the pain in Ogden disappeared and quickly as it began.
The white haired man leaned over him, 'What do we have here? A survivor?'
The old man paused his story to puff on his pipe and gauge the interest of his young audience.
Jason spoke, "So, who was that man and what did he do with Ogden?" It was clear he was very involved in the story. A quick glance at Sarah showed she shared his interest.
"Well, children, Ogden had fallen into the hands of a very unlikely rescuer: a necromancer."
"What is a necromancer?" asked Sarah.
"A necromancer is an individual who has studied a form of magic known as necromancy. It is a dark magical art that gives its wielder a sort of power over death."
"So, this white warlock brought Ogden back to life?" Jason asked breathlessly.
"No, not exactly," the old man said with a chuckle, "but you would not be blamed for wondering that. A necromancer cannot bring the dead back to life – at least not as they were. He can only reanimate them. The bodies this necromancer had collected from Tristram were reborn as animated skeletons – both mages and warriors. In many ways, their bodies are nothing more than catalysts for the spell; they are no longer living beings, but rather mindless undead who serve the will of the necromancer until they are destroyed. To a skilled necromancer, it is actually a rather simple spell. The caveat is it requires a dead body to perform.
The necromancer who attempted it on Ogden was surprised when it didn't work and, in his frustration, cast a mild fel fire on him. The spell you performed tonight was from that school, Sarah. When Ogden cried out, he realized the man on his table was not a corpse, but a living survivor of the horrible events in Tristram. This gave him a new idea."
"As I said, a necromancer was not known as a hero – certainly not like the paladins who rescued Cain from his prison. Most people in Ogden's time knew little of the art and, what little they did know, caused them to fear necromancy. I suppose it's understandable – a man who could control the dead; a school of magic that required many of its practitioners to rob graves or pick over the fields of battle – seeking to use the bodies of the deceased as little more than spell components. In Ogden's time, these men and women lived as hermits and often wore disguises when they entered towns to resupply themselves.
What the common men of that time did not understand – and I'm sad to say what they still do not understand – is that the necromancer stood on the precipice of life and death. Not all of the Light's weapons wear shining armor or call upon the heavens to aid them. Some call upon death to release the earthly power of those who have fallen in darkness to make one last stand in the battle against the true darkness. In this way, the power of the afterlife unites both the corrupted and the pure to do battle against true evil before the entirety of their essence is called to the beyond."
"What lies in the beyond?" asked Sarah
"No mortal knows for sure – although there are beings who have shown us it is a place of peace and light. And it is a place where even the necromancer can find his final rest when his time on this plane of existence is over."
"So what happened to Ogden? Did the necromancer kill him?" asked Jason.
"No, in fact, he nursed him back to health. The necromancer who pillaged Tristram for bodies did so because he was building an army. He planned to join the battle against the darkness, but he needed to raise a small army of reanimated dead to assist him. However, he knew this would likely be his last stand and a hopeless cause.
The war that had destroyed Tristram was raging elsewhere. The heroes were vastly outnumbered by the ever-growing army that the darkness was making. The necromancer was a powerful practitioner, but he was old, ancient really, and his time was almost over.
It was during this time that Ogden was able to re-tell the events in Tristram: the hero who appeared out of nowhere to save the town from evil that had infested the tunnels beneath the temple, the short-lived celebration, and the appearance of the hellspawn that laid the town to waste. It had seemed an act of vengeance by the forces of darkness. Some had said that the hero destroyed one of the prime evils in the tunnels beneath Tristram, but the necromancer suggested this was unlikely, considering what he had seen in his travels.
The tone of Ogden's tale changed when he came to the topic of his own losses. He lost his wife, torn to shreds by men with the heads of goats while she tried to defend their home and their children. The hero had left a few magical items he found in the catacombs beneath the town and some of the townsfolk tried to make use of them in defense of the town, but it was hopeless. They were mostly farmers and craftspeople; powerful items in their hands were almost useless. Only Griswald put up much of a fight – and for his trouble, he was corrupted and turned against his own. It was Griswald who struck him down in the inn as Ogden tried to rescue his younger child. The last thing he heard as he lay broken on the floor of the inn was the cries of his youngest daughter as she was taken by a small group of imps or demons.
I don't know what the old necromancer heard in the innkeeper's voice that convinced him to enlist the former innkeeper in his cause, but it was clear that in losing everything, young Ogden was ready to commit all that remained of himself to avenging his family. And so his training began.
It would take many months of training before he would be powerful enough to face the weakest darkspawn, but Ogden turned out to be a remarkably adept student. Under the tutelage of the old master, he learned to master poisons and bone magic, but the greatest gift was reanimation. He soon discovered that a poisoned enemy could be raised to fight for him. It was in this way, that the necromancer could turn the corrupting power of the darkness against itself.
"Did Ogden ever get his revenge?" asked Jason, wide-eyed and hanging on every word.
"Well, dear boy, I'm not sure if revenge against the darkness is possible, but I am pretty sure he made a difference before his time was over. In that war, that is all a mortal can hope to do."
"Will I have to fight in this war, Grandpapa?" asked a timid-sounding Sarah.
"Perhaps, in time, Sarah, but not before you've had some training of your own. Follow me, I need to show you something."
The old man removed the glowing ball from the lamp and held it in his hands. The two children followed him through the kitchen and out the back door to a trap door at the back of the old house. He lifted the door and went inside. A trail of spicy pipe smoke held in the air held in the air behind him. From the soft glow of the orb, Sarah and Jason could see the old stone walls stretched down and out in a seemingly endless cavern of tunnels. They hesitated, but the old man called from below, "Watch your step. I'll light some of the lamps."
They followed. Inside it was dry; cobwebs covered the corners of the ceilings. The old man lit a few torches. The walls contained shelves that held dozens old tomes, wands, and pieces of bone. In the center of the room was a large stone table.
"In time, child, you will come to know the contents of these books by memory," he said looking at Sarah.
"You will learn to stand on the precipice of life and death, to cause the death of your enemies with poison and bone and then return them as your allies. You will know power beyond your wildest dreams."
As he spoke, the old man seemed energized, a smile crept across his face and he paced the room. Sarah looked at her brother who was clearly uneasy.
"You have awakened, as I was awakened so many years ago. I have waited for this so patiently. Tonight, your training begins, but first we need spell components."
The old man mumbles some words into the darkness behind him. Heavy footfalls are heard and then a large earthen man appears from the gloom holding a body in his arms. Sarah recognizes her first.
"Grandpapa, why?" Tears of fear and desperation begin to well in her eyes.
"We need her, dear girl, nothing is more important than your training. You'll see. You'll understand."
At that moment Jason cries out in fear and anger. He starts to lunge toward the clay man holding his mother. He instantly finds himself surrounded by a cage of thick bone.
"No, Grandpapa," the girl cries.
"Trust me, you'll understand," the old man replies and a wall of bone blocks the stairs to the trapdoor.