It may be developing slowly, but I think it will be worth it; you get to
learn the Necromancer's name, in this episode, and, as my title suggests, a
new character steps forth from the shadows. A vague plot is set, and the
purpose of the Sorcerer's quest is revealed, setting the scene for, as
promised, more demon beat downs and creature-killing.
-J. Diabolico-
Night fell quickly, like an evil blanket over the town, covering the hills and valleys surrounding the speck of light that was Bridgetown. Too quiet were the streets that night; the men in the Inn being too frightened to utter anything above a silent whisper. Strange sounds emitted from under the door upstairs; alien, obscure noises, muffled by the thick oak door that stood between the stairs and the feared, mysterious room behind it.
Around twelve o'clock, the man stalked silently down the stairs. Nobody could hear his soft footfalls, nor notice the creeping shadow slipping down the wood stairwell. "Barkeep." Came the voice, no longer with it's strange effect of hypnosis, but with the effect of startled terror, "a drink; something . . . strong."
The bartender trembled in horror. "O-of course, my finest, finest, . . .?" "Yes, as long as it's strong, thank you." Interrupted the voice, impatiently. The whole of the bar's eyes were upon him, stuck as a bird will often stare, transfixed, into the eyes of the most deadly of snakes, as it slowly unwinds to strike. . .
"Stranger." Came a voice, braver than the rest, that made the men jump and turn. The Necromancer shifted his weight in the silent room, and the bartender recieved the most vile of stares that said, get my damn drink and stop staring. "Yes?" he replied, seeing the dark cloak crouched in the corner almost right away. The shaded man slowly stood, straightening to an unimpressive height, but the voice continued in it's brave, commanding tone. "You are the one who saved the travellers this morning?" it inquired, then not waiting for a reply, "Very impressive work. I noticed the extensive use of, questionable arts. . ." "You are a preist of the new religion." Declared the Necromancer, noticing the gleam of the holy artifact clutched just beneath the shadow of the cloak. The hand shifted, and the trinket jingled out from the shadow. "And you, my dark friend, are a disciple of the Rathma cult!" replied the man, throughing back the cloak and shouting imposingly. "A blasphemous, devilish swine!"
The Necromancer laughed, a deep, true, and evil laugh; rolling forth from some horrible, low place within the twisted and deceptive man. "You have studied well, my holy freind." He said, the final bubbling mirth escaping between his words. "But I am afraid that we refer to ourselves as more of a religion than a cult."
The Preist glared at the Sorcerer with hate in his eyes; I have been traveling in your footsteps for two months now, dreading that you would slip hither, into our lands, the lands of the west!" he glowered. "You bring with you poison and evil beyond the scope of that which resides here already!" "You have forgotten something, my agressive and confused companion. . ." "And what would that be, you foul and evil demon!" "I was the one who saved your life today, in the feilds. You owe your gratitude to my, questionable powers."
The man hesitated, and the townsfolk who had been silently rallying behind the cloaked preist, faltered as he thought uncertainly on the new issue. It was true; he had indeed been one of the men the Necromancer had aided in the feild. One of the men whom he had saved from almost certain death. The preist, staring in his confusion, had already half drawn his blade, but had stopped abruptly. "Put that knife away before you hurt yourself." Said the Necromancer softly, confidently. "What is your name, oh grave sorcerer?" came another voice. The other man from the feild had appeared beside the first preist. He now wore heavy, clinking armor and a solemn, inquireing look on his face. "I am Dura'g Hathrel, son of Hathrel Gargish of Kurast." Came the reply. The Necromancer had a name. It contented the second man. He smiled beneath his thick beard and moustache, jet black and kind upon his handsome face.
The first preist, sword still drawn, shouted angrily, and all eyes turned to him. "He is a Necromancer, young Paladin; and an evil one at that! You saw yourself what evil he commanded upon the feilds this morning!" "Yes, indeed I did," spoke the Holy Knight softly, still staring into the Sorcerer's narrowed eyes. "And I witnessed quite clearly how he saved my sister's very life."
At this the room gasped.
"So she is a Paladin also." Asserted the Necromancer, it did not suprise him, evidently. "No, but she will hold hers in a fight, Dura'g son of Gargish." The Necromancer started; he had spoken the correct address to a person in Kurastian form. "Call me Durag Lithin'thuar." He said, "It is my full, rightful name." "Alright Durag Lithin'thuar; thank you for saving my sister's life." "It was the least I could do; she was in deplorable health. . ." "Yes, but she is better now, Preist of Rathma religion." The Paladin said, answering the Necromancer's unasked question.
The Sorcerer had now glided silently across the room and past the glaring preist to sit across from the Paladin. "Now, righteous disciple of the New Religion; what service can I do for you?" he asked, smiling. "He may do nothing but burn in hell!" cried the first preist, but the Paladin brought up his hand to silence his companion. "Calm yourself, Bometh, this worthy Sorcerer could help us indeed in our quest to end the hatred plundering this land." The preist sat down, disapointed in his companion's trust of the dirty Necromancer. "This evil you speak of. . .be it the lord of. . .?" The Necromancer questioned softly. ". . .The Lord of Terror himself, yes, my freind, for surely you too have come on a similar quest. I have heard the Preists of Rathma are too rallying to battle the risen lord this third time. One great Preist of your time also aided my order during the wars against his brothers and him many years ago." "The sense of evil we have inately brought me to this desolate place. I feel he is here even now, in this very room, but I cannot find the source of this arcane power." Whispered the Necromancer, revealing the purpose of his own quest. "Tommorrow, I will leave for the desecrated temple of York, through the Dulathian wilderness not six miles from here. That is where the newest gate to hell has been opened, we beleive." Replied the Paladin, receiving a sharp look from Bometh at his side.
The Necromancer smiled; tommorrow he would fight again, and he gained confidence in his abilities with this strange new Knight by him; "I will accompany you on this quest into darkness; the preists of Rathma have sent me to fullfill this evil task you have allied yourself to." He said, "Besides, I am not finished showing your companion the full scope of my cultish powers." He smiled. Indeed he concealed a power or two not yet used by him on this budding quest. . .
Night fell quickly, like an evil blanket over the town, covering the hills and valleys surrounding the speck of light that was Bridgetown. Too quiet were the streets that night; the men in the Inn being too frightened to utter anything above a silent whisper. Strange sounds emitted from under the door upstairs; alien, obscure noises, muffled by the thick oak door that stood between the stairs and the feared, mysterious room behind it.
Around twelve o'clock, the man stalked silently down the stairs. Nobody could hear his soft footfalls, nor notice the creeping shadow slipping down the wood stairwell. "Barkeep." Came the voice, no longer with it's strange effect of hypnosis, but with the effect of startled terror, "a drink; something . . . strong."
The bartender trembled in horror. "O-of course, my finest, finest, . . .?" "Yes, as long as it's strong, thank you." Interrupted the voice, impatiently. The whole of the bar's eyes were upon him, stuck as a bird will often stare, transfixed, into the eyes of the most deadly of snakes, as it slowly unwinds to strike. . .
"Stranger." Came a voice, braver than the rest, that made the men jump and turn. The Necromancer shifted his weight in the silent room, and the bartender recieved the most vile of stares that said, get my damn drink and stop staring. "Yes?" he replied, seeing the dark cloak crouched in the corner almost right away. The shaded man slowly stood, straightening to an unimpressive height, but the voice continued in it's brave, commanding tone. "You are the one who saved the travellers this morning?" it inquired, then not waiting for a reply, "Very impressive work. I noticed the extensive use of, questionable arts. . ." "You are a preist of the new religion." Declared the Necromancer, noticing the gleam of the holy artifact clutched just beneath the shadow of the cloak. The hand shifted, and the trinket jingled out from the shadow. "And you, my dark friend, are a disciple of the Rathma cult!" replied the man, throughing back the cloak and shouting imposingly. "A blasphemous, devilish swine!"
The Necromancer laughed, a deep, true, and evil laugh; rolling forth from some horrible, low place within the twisted and deceptive man. "You have studied well, my holy freind." He said, the final bubbling mirth escaping between his words. "But I am afraid that we refer to ourselves as more of a religion than a cult."
The Preist glared at the Sorcerer with hate in his eyes; I have been traveling in your footsteps for two months now, dreading that you would slip hither, into our lands, the lands of the west!" he glowered. "You bring with you poison and evil beyond the scope of that which resides here already!" "You have forgotten something, my agressive and confused companion. . ." "And what would that be, you foul and evil demon!" "I was the one who saved your life today, in the feilds. You owe your gratitude to my, questionable powers."
The man hesitated, and the townsfolk who had been silently rallying behind the cloaked preist, faltered as he thought uncertainly on the new issue. It was true; he had indeed been one of the men the Necromancer had aided in the feild. One of the men whom he had saved from almost certain death. The preist, staring in his confusion, had already half drawn his blade, but had stopped abruptly. "Put that knife away before you hurt yourself." Said the Necromancer softly, confidently. "What is your name, oh grave sorcerer?" came another voice. The other man from the feild had appeared beside the first preist. He now wore heavy, clinking armor and a solemn, inquireing look on his face. "I am Dura'g Hathrel, son of Hathrel Gargish of Kurast." Came the reply. The Necromancer had a name. It contented the second man. He smiled beneath his thick beard and moustache, jet black and kind upon his handsome face.
The first preist, sword still drawn, shouted angrily, and all eyes turned to him. "He is a Necromancer, young Paladin; and an evil one at that! You saw yourself what evil he commanded upon the feilds this morning!" "Yes, indeed I did," spoke the Holy Knight softly, still staring into the Sorcerer's narrowed eyes. "And I witnessed quite clearly how he saved my sister's very life."
At this the room gasped.
"So she is a Paladin also." Asserted the Necromancer, it did not suprise him, evidently. "No, but she will hold hers in a fight, Dura'g son of Gargish." The Necromancer started; he had spoken the correct address to a person in Kurastian form. "Call me Durag Lithin'thuar." He said, "It is my full, rightful name." "Alright Durag Lithin'thuar; thank you for saving my sister's life." "It was the least I could do; she was in deplorable health. . ." "Yes, but she is better now, Preist of Rathma religion." The Paladin said, answering the Necromancer's unasked question.
The Sorcerer had now glided silently across the room and past the glaring preist to sit across from the Paladin. "Now, righteous disciple of the New Religion; what service can I do for you?" he asked, smiling. "He may do nothing but burn in hell!" cried the first preist, but the Paladin brought up his hand to silence his companion. "Calm yourself, Bometh, this worthy Sorcerer could help us indeed in our quest to end the hatred plundering this land." The preist sat down, disapointed in his companion's trust of the dirty Necromancer. "This evil you speak of. . .be it the lord of. . .?" The Necromancer questioned softly. ". . .The Lord of Terror himself, yes, my freind, for surely you too have come on a similar quest. I have heard the Preists of Rathma are too rallying to battle the risen lord this third time. One great Preist of your time also aided my order during the wars against his brothers and him many years ago." "The sense of evil we have inately brought me to this desolate place. I feel he is here even now, in this very room, but I cannot find the source of this arcane power." Whispered the Necromancer, revealing the purpose of his own quest. "Tommorrow, I will leave for the desecrated temple of York, through the Dulathian wilderness not six miles from here. That is where the newest gate to hell has been opened, we beleive." Replied the Paladin, receiving a sharp look from Bometh at his side.
The Necromancer smiled; tommorrow he would fight again, and he gained confidence in his abilities with this strange new Knight by him; "I will accompany you on this quest into darkness; the preists of Rathma have sent me to fullfill this evil task you have allied yourself to." He said, "Besides, I am not finished showing your companion the full scope of my cultish powers." He smiled. Indeed he concealed a power or two not yet used by him on this budding quest. . .