Necromancer IC

[Maquise]

In the kingdom of Ashcen, magic is feared and hated. The king, Zuhrin the Magebane, has outlawed and lead several campaigns

against it.

At the end of the day, that doesn't matter to you. You are a farmer's child, and have no magic that you know of. You live in a

small, dirty hut at the edge of a small village called Hackevir. Your mother died giving birth to you; your father cares little

for you.

You wake up this morning, April 21 7th Year of the Hammer. The sky is grey and overcast, and you can smell rain in the air. You've

worked hard the last month planting, and the rain will be a much desired respite. You struggle to get up off your dirty straw bed.

[Abombom]

Symon stumbled out of bed, smelling of cheap ale and old sweat. The farmer's life was depressing and dull. As a result, his personal excursions to the village, though previously rare, had become a frequent affair. The pub and his 'friends' were quickly sapping what little personal wealth he had accumulated; the scraps of coin he would steal or be allowed from his father.

It seems drunkenly and obnoxiously cursing the gods aloud to give these lands some rain actually works every once in a while! I should do it more often...

Symon looked around for his father and mentally prepared himself for the day that would follow, a day of: bread, work, bread, more work, with a whole lot of nothing in between, especially if it was raining. Perhaps he would read one of the few books he had collected for the dozenth time. He spat on the ground.

[Maquise]

You see your father outside. He is loading the donkey with some form of bundle.
"Wasting your gold on drink," he says, "I should've guessed. Between your books and the pub, you're not goin' anywhere. You're not that much of a farmer either, what're you gonna do?"
As his voice raises, rain starts to fall. He slowly shakes his head. "I don' care. I'm going to town, stay here. Not much can be done in the rain."

[Abombom]

"Hah! Least I have something to waste my gold on, old man. Beats moping around here all day." Symon chuckled and eyed the saddle. "Though by the looks of it, so do you."

Symon felt a bit of worry for his father... or rather, his father's finances. Young though he may be, he realized long ago that his father was no good at dealing with the merchants and the peddlers. Foolish old man. He cringed at the thought of his father performing yet another bad trade, but was content with letting him make a fool of himself yet again. It's not like he would listen to me anyway... "Why do ye head to the village? We've nothing to trade with but a few of those half-dead oversized critters you fancy calling 'pigs.' Till the crop comes, we've no real barter power. Stay in lest the rain bring you a sickness, and greys even more of your hairs."

[Maquise]

"There're soldiers in town, and I must deliver our tribute. I don' care what you think, but I don' want you in town when the soldiers are here. You'll just cause trouble fer me."

He starts off. "I've said all I'm gonna say. I better see you here when I get back."

[Abombom]

The young man stood in disbelief in what he viewed as his father's constant derision and condescension. "Bah! Good riddance," he grumbled.

He went over to the makeshift table by his straw bed. Even that made him grimace every time he looked at it. The table had originally taken the form of a large bookshelf, but some of it had begun to rot away. And so three years ago, Symon took took the bookshelves and separated the rot from the proper wood. And he fashioned a small table out of it with nothing but his bare hands and some old, rusty tools. Halfway into the process, he cut himself on his left hand. Not a very large cut; it barely reached the meat between his index and middle finger. Symon hadn't given it much thought; he had experienced much worse and to complain about such a flesh wound would have been far too womanly in his eyes.

But the "womanly" cut turned out to be far more than an annoyance. Many days after being cut, the wound persisted. Still after, the tiny cut grew even more painful. And soon after that, the fever began. His father forced him to work in the fields, despite the fever. Sickness was just a part of the farmer's life after all, he said... and he "...Wouldn't 'ave any child 'o mine be so weak as to lie in bed when the littlest affliction hits 'im..." All was well, until Symon collapsed in the fields.

From there on in, the boy remembered little. He would drift in and out of consciousness, pleading for help. He asked his father for help, even petitioned the gods. No help came. The one thing he vividly remembers is feeling close to death, its shadow beckoning to him with every passing moment. And all the while, his father, standing by the door: silent, unmoving. Where is the help? Where is my salvation? he would keep thinking, over and over.

In a moment of clarity that scarcely even remembered, Symon apparently dragged himself out of bed through sheer will alone, and took what coins he could find. He staggered to town and collapsed in front of one of the villagers' houses. The villagers found him and someone nursed him back to help with the aid of a few herbs and many weeks' worth of rest. Symon later found out that nobody even knew he was sick for all those half-conscious, painful days. His father hadn't told anyone. He hadn't asked anyone for assistance. When pressed even a little, his father responded "Ye were just a lil' sick, boy. Stop yer bitchin' and help with the grains."

And he saw at last what he had always believed. He was the boy who had caused the man's love to die. Symon was likely hated from birth. His father wanted him to fade away from this life. That's why he would stand there whenever he pleaded with him for help during those sick days. He was watching the life drain away from the boy he blamed for his wife's death; too hateful to help him, too cowardly to kill his son himself.

Symon kissed the scar on his left hand. There was new flesh over the old, for some of the infected flesh was burnt off in those years past. The hand almsot had to be cut off, and he was lucky enough to even keep his fingers. The scar reminded him of what life was really like, and to never trust even in those whom you love. And his father treated him with the slightest bit more respect after the ordeal. He would occasionally catch a glimmer of pride in his eyes, beneath the hatred and indifference. Survival was to be respected.

He eyed the books upon the table. One Hundred Love Poems for One Hundred Lovely Ladies... Ashcen's Predictable Weather Predictions... The Adventures of Troy Bloodkill, Mage-Hunter Extraordinaire!... "Graagh!" He angrily tossed the books on the floor. "Every day, the same old garbage. Same food... same books... Must I even endure the same condescending attitude from the old man?"

Symon waited for the rain to subside a bit, and then prepared to go to town.

[Maquise]

You head to town at about 2 o'clock, arriving as the brief respite in the rain ends with a gentle drizzle beginning again.

Hackevir, nestled beside a river unimaginatively of the same name, sits in the shadows of the Norsepeak Mountains. While the mountains are clearly visible, they are many leagues away still, and the land is still flat. This part of the country is mostly prairie; you pass a few trees on the path.

You arrive at the village proper. You pass several thatched-roofed cottages before the wood shops. You notice that your father is correct; dozens of brigands in black-and-white raiment have seemingly materialized since you were here last. They seem to be the only ones out, walking briskly to their destinations, apparently eager to get indoors. A pair stand guarding a large bell in the town square. A parchment notice is fixed to the wooden frame of the bell, although you are one of few who can actually read it:

The Witch Bell tolls of its own when magic is cast within the village. This bell is a gift from the king to his people to protect them from foul arts.

Notable locations include the smithy, stables, general store, butcher shop, warehouse, tannery, and the tavern. The tavern seems to have been co opted by the soldiers as a barracks, and if your father is doing business with them, he will likely be there.

[Abombom]

Symon had seen the king's men before. Not necessarily these, at least he didn't think so. They all looked the same. They all gave him the same bad feeling. Men trained in death. Taking tribute from a village that already had little to offer. It was the way of the world. What unsettled him the most was not the action or the attitude of the men, but feeling powerless before them.

They weren't a common sight for him, for whenever they were in town Symon would always have to stay home slaving away. He smirked as he entertained the thought of walking in on his father paying tribute. Would the man panic? Embarrass himself? Unleash a litany of curses the likes the world has never seen? ...Likely, he'd just remain silent and indifferent and hide the bread for a few weeks. How boring... Still though, he'd definitely want to catch a glimpse of his father leaning before another man; showing some humility for once.

But the guards were of a rough sort, at least so he thought. Better to leave the old man deal with them. At least for now. Better to just follow his usual routine and see if any new books were in town. Or anything new in general. One of the owners of the general store, the eldest of the lot, was a kind, elderly woman. She had been the one who had nursed Symon back to health. She and her family often would purchase books for him to read from the occasional trader.

Symon waltzed into the general store, hoping to find something to add to his collection and wondering how many times he would have to read THIS new book before getting utterly sick of it.

[Maquise]

You enter the general store, and find you are the only one in the room. The flicker of candles illuminates the various goods within, along with a counter near the door. The place has an earthy smell, from the many dry goods, mixed with the aroma of burning beeswax candles.

As you browse, you hear someone enter the main room from the back. Tamia, the granddaughter of the elder who nursed you back to health, is at 15 a couple years younger than you, with a petite form and long, auburn hair. She smiles as she sees you.

[Abombom]

Ah... Home. This store, and the nearby cottage of its owners, was one of the few places where Symon felt safe, at ease. These people had always been kind to him.

"Tamia!" Tamia was one of the few villagers the young man thought of as friend. Perhaps the only. The tavern regulars and the occasional farmer like him were more of people to drink with, and perhaps steal some coin from in a game of dice. He wouldn't turn his back to any of them, but Tamia could be trusted.

Symon smiled back. "So they have you tending the shop, eh? Are your parents also off paying tribute to the kingdom? It's been a long time since I've seen so many of the king's men gather. Seems like there are more of them every year!"

[Maquise]

"I know. I'm not sure why, they haven't said much. I've heard that they're asking questions."

She looks at the counter for a second, then back at you. "So, what brings you to town on a gloomy day like this?"

[Abombom]

"Just boredom... mostly. Better a gloomy day in town than a gloomy day at home, watching the rain fall. Though this gloom isn't so bad after all; the young crops will be glad to feel water stream through them. " Symon wondered if he would go bother or accompany his father. In any case, it wasn't a sentiment he could share with Tamia. She would disapprove.

"I wonder what kind of questions the soldiers have been asking," he said, walking up to the counter. "So, any new wares? Any books? Did the soldiers bring a peddler with them?"

[Maquise]

"I don't believe they did, and I haven't seen anything new. If anything, we've been doing less business with traders and peddlers over the last few months."

She leans in closer to you. "I didn't want to say anything to anyone else, but I trust you. I heard one of the soldiers say there are sorcerers in the area."

[Abombom]

"Sorcerers?" Symon twisted his head and squinted his eyes at the young girl. "Truly a danger for all the lands to behold, and proper precautions must be..." He couldn't hold it in any longer.

Symon burst out laughing. "Haha, Tamia. Surely you must be joking! What would sorcerers be doing in Hackevir? Did they run out of mud and cows? Do they need more cabbage and porridge for their 'Dark, Evil Rituals That Will Destroy Life As We Know It'?" His smile reached from one end of his face to the other, thinking he saw through her prank.

[Maquise]

"I'm ser... alright, you have a point." She sighs. "Still, they've got to be here for some reason. The soldiers."
Tamia stands up suddenly. You here heavy, steel shod footsteps coming from the door. A large, armored man stands in the doorway. His face is old and heavily scarred. You think you see a flash of surprise across his face, but you can't be sure. He has a stern and disciplined countenance.

[Abombom]

"Yes I suppose you're right..."

Symon looked towards the door and felt slightly alarmed. He excused it away by figuring it must have been the unfamiliar sight of seeing such an unfamiliar image in such a familiar place. He turned back to Tamia briefly, ignoring the sight for a moment so as to finish the conversation.

"But I suppose they're just doing their job."

He turned back towards the man, ready to nod his head in greetings in case they locked eyes.

[Maquise]

The man addresses Tamia, "I need to speak with the owner." They leave for a moment, then Tamia returns. She has a puzzled look on her face.
"That man said his name was Sir Edward Pelleu. What would a knight be doing here?"

[Abombom]

Symon looked equally as confused. Things were finally getting interesting in Hackevir, though not necessarily in a good way.

"Did he say what he wanted with your parents? Or your grandma?"

[Maquise]

"He wanted to establish an arrangement for supplies. Apparently the soldiers will be remaining for some time. I guess we're lucky they aren't here to conscript."

[Abombom]

"You're right," Symon grunted. "If they were, this would be a ghost town. Moreso than it is already."

He felt the air growing thick with worry as he looked at Tamia. "If you want, I can check up on your parents for you, while you're stuck tending the shop. Are they at the tavern?"

[Maquise]

"Don't worry. Ma's taking care of Grandma at home, and Fa's doing business with Jorge the Smith."
Tamia suddenly lights up. "I almost forgot!" She runs into the back, and quickly comes back out, carrying a leather bound tome and a bundle. Setting them down on the counter, she watches with anticipation as you open them. The book smells fresh, not like the other books you've owned, but the pages are blank. The bundle contains a quill and an inkwell.

[Abombom]

Symon is taken aback by the blank pages. He had been expecting a normal book, but this was something else. Hoping not to upset Tamia with his bewildered look, he changed his expression quickly to one of gratitude.

"Wow, this is wonderful, Tamia! I haven't had a chance to practice my writing in a while. I bet half my letters still come out crooked," he sighed. "Where'd ye get this? How much do I owe, the usual?"

[Maquise]

"That would do fine, and I'd include the ink and pen, considering the book is blank."

[Abombom]

Symon looked in his small pouch for coins. He didn't have much on him, and of what little he had, he decided to keep some on his person, just in case. You never know when you might need a few coins...

"I er... don't seem to have as much on me as I thought, Tamia. 'ere's a partial pay." He put some copper on the counter. "I'll bring the rest next time I'm in town. You know I'm good for it." Symon sighed. He rarely had enough to pay the family all at once, and they never bothered him for it.

"If only I had that knight's pay, eh?" He smiled, and leaned back against the counter, waiting to see if the light rain outside would come to a halt. "Noble fighters? Or glorified tax-collectors and murderers? What do ye think? Hope he's not buggin' your 'pa too much."

[Maquise]

"Your word is good as always, Symon."
She laughs for a moment. "I'm not sure what to think. This Sir Pellau was courteous, if a bit formal. He seems to be dealing with us fairly."