A Journey

Vedruk Olbein stared off into the watery horizon, his hands loosely holding the ship's fore railing. Though his face was as grim and solemn as ever, he enjoyed the idle moment listening to the swoosh of the waves and the creaks and groans of the ship, working it's way through the sea. A pleasant moment, this.

Vedruk was not a particularily tall or overly muscled man, though his form spoke of more than a little skill with the sword hanging nearly idly at his belt, bopping his leg on occasion in rhythm with the ship's rolling with the waves. Indeed, though he was far from a weakling in his swordsmanship, his skills lay elsewhere--perhaps hinted at by skin paler than what one might find on a man who's life centered primarily 'round the warrior arts. A necromancer was he, and one with few enough regrets concerning his arts. He did what he did, and that was that.

What else was there to this necromancer's looks? A sharpness to his face that spoke of at least -some- aristocracy. Indeed, if one were to ask, he was, -had- been, a baron sworn to the service of the Duchy of Isdrag. Still was, he supposed, though the Duchy's lands had died along with the rest of Ascalon in the Searing. Short greyish-dark hair, though long enough to be combed back. Hazel eyes set into that sharp, aristocratic face. Scars that crossed his face redly even now, with more than a few years since their gain. But, then, what necromancer didn't have a few such scars? Indeed, what -Ascalonian-? Such were undoubtedly few and far between, these days. And, yes, a body well enough formed to show that he knows well the more physical arts that his sword implies.

His clothes? Simple enough, though, perhaps, as well cut as any one might fine, and surprisingly clean, even now, more than halfway to Cantha. A white shirt, black pants tucked into matching boots and belt. His guild cape, emblazoned with the symbol of the Duchy, rolled up and tucked away with his silvered tormentor's armor, down in his berth. He was what he was, and that was that.

Perhaps, then, one might ask him why he was making a (yes, -return-, for he has surely made the trip before) trip to Cantha? Might it be in response to a letter, penned by an old colleague? Perhaps. Such things happened often enough, but that was neither here nor there.

Vedruk could feel the first few strong death energies wafting up from the ship's hold below. The ship had been attacked days ago, and wounds were beginning to tell. Too few healers, by half. Perhaps the crew would ask him to help with the dying. Perhaps. They knew well enough that a necromancer's talents lay elsewhere than healing. Such was a necromancer's life.

Vedruk smiled slightly as he stepped off the gangplank onto the docks. Port cities were always full of people, hustling about; such cities tended to have a chaotic buzz to them. Yet, that the level of the hustle here in a Canthan port always amazed some deep part of the necromancer, for it was amazing that so very many people could fit themselves together anywhere. He had seen large cities before, but such were a rarity in Tyria, even before certain events had taken place. Greater still was the fact that Cantha could achieve such high levels of population when so much of the landscape had been twisted and tortured. Such, perhaps, was the miracle of a people's inner will, he supposed, as previously evidenced by Ascalon; undoubtedly, it was also a tribute to the Canthans skill in trade and commerce. Such things surely helped a land bound in jade.

Well, then, where to go? It was certainly a pity that his friend's home wasn't close enough to the docks; that, undoubtedly, would have made things at least -somewhat- easier. Still, the night would be spent easily enough, for he remembered a certain Inn from the last time he had spent time in Cantha. This inn was, perhaps, not precisely ‘high society,’ yet the food and drink were beyond compare, in his opinion, and the rooms more than rather clean, both of which more than sufficed.

Swinging the duffel bag containing clothes and his necromantic armor acoutrament (his much beloved silver leathers which he considered his necromantic uniform; superstition entirely, he realized, but he was somewhat attached to the armor) and various miscellaneous items from over his shoulders and down to the docks, he glanced thoughtfully once more around. The problem was that quite a bit of time had passed since he had come to Cantha. Finding that Inn would certainly take some doing; especially considering the unfortunate layout of this urban sprawl. A very winding city, this, though he would come to once again accustom himself to it, he had no doubt. A good thing that he did not mind the exercise.

Awesome. Vedruk seems to have a past shrouded in mystery. As your story progresses (post more!), I hope that you will reveal more about Vedruk.

Looking forward to your next installment! Keep up the good work!

I love your description. Write more!

Waking from death was a highly stressful event. The aches and pains were bearable enough; they bothered him little enough. The bruises would fade quickly enough, and any scars he got...Well, those few that bothered his ritualistic scars could be done away with through magical means, and the others served as an excellent lesson on why avoiding death was a highly desired prospect. The blurred vision, the dulled thinking brought forth by a hurried resurrection (well, both were around during -any- sort of resurrection, never doubt, but the hastier the said incantations, the worsre the vision and the duller the thinking) was what tended to put him in a foul mood.

The day had started off simply enough, hours ago. The morning after his stay in that lovely little Inn had been spent travelling once more to his friend's home. His start had, perhaps, been just a shade later than strictly necessary, for he had taken longer to find that Inn than he had suspected.

Irregardless, he had managed to find his way to his friend's home quickly enough, in time for a light lunch that was only a tad later than was proper. Yes, a light lunch, and quickly enough done and over with. They had started in on business quickly enough; his friend seemed distressed enough that more appropriately friendly conversation would have to late until later.

His friend had spoken of a strange plague, and rumors of evils from centuries past. He had spoken of a name. 'Shiro.' Fearfully spoken. Yet, there were others that would deal with this thing, this vile creature from ages past. Indeed, the man had also spoken of a temple, an ancient familial tomb. The story almost told itself; and the two prepared for what would, undoubtedly, be another long walk.
---------
The Continued Post
---------
Breathing in the near-motionless air, Vedruk thought that being among the entombed dead, while perhaps not the most enjoyable of experiences, was, at least, -familiar-. Nostalgic, in its way. Though raising the dead wasn't exactly his specialty, he, like any other necromancer, -was- familiar with the dead. No necromancer worth his salt avoided working with the dead. You couldn't really -be- a necromancer without such work. A very circular thought, perhaps, but true enough.

The temple tomb was cavernous enough for a family tomb. The open space, dimly lit by distant torches, swallowed the footsteps of the necromancer, his ritualist friend, and the monk that followed right behind them. It had taken some doing to get Vedruk, a Tyrian, into the temple. Unfortunately, there were places in Cantha where foreigners were unwanted. Worse, the tomb had been just inside in one such area. Necessity calmed any qualms arisen from sneaking into the tomb; dire events were happening, it seemed, and minor things could be easily enough overlooked, in the baron's opinion.

And Vedruk had, indeed, felt something off about the tomb even as the three had opened the temple's doors. A strangeness, a wrongness. Something out of place, a waft of the truly unholy. Strange, though, that the few temple guardians that the necromancer had seen inside the tomb had seem unbothered by whatever lay inside the tomb. His understanding was that the stone, cat-like creatures were created to protect temples and tombs, and if there were a temple needing protecting, then surely this one was it.

The sound of dragging footsteps ahead caused Vedruk to reach for a sword hilt and idol that were not there. Both had been left behind at the ritualist's house; this had been meant as a scouting mission, nothing more. In and out, quickly one and the other after finding...something, and here was that something. If the Tyrian were caught in such an area where he was unwanted, it would, for now, be simpler if he seemed at least moderately unhostile.

The dragging footsteps continued ahead. Even now, Vedruk saw a bulbous -thing- hulking in the darkened distance. One of these 'Afflicted' that his friend had told him of, with a few friends by the look of things. He had wondered why the temple guardians might not fight such creatures, as they would undoubtedly be desecrating the temple through ignorance and action. He had, and still, thought the lack of action on the guardian's part likely had to do with the plague's effect on the unfortunately sick. Perhaps the guardians considered these Afflicted dead souls that needed protecting. Ah, the bother, and all the more reason

By unspoken agreement, the three turned to go ‘round the group of Afflicted. Better for all if fighting could be avoided. After all, they could and would return later, after they had gained a bit more help and were more fully equipped, to deal with the creatures menacing the tomb. Perhaps it was inevitable that the Afflicted would see the trio, and, having noticed them, sprung to the attack.

The three prepared to meet the attack. There weren’t too many of the malformed creatures; this certainly shouldn’t take too terribly long.
------
And so it didn’t. Moments later, the three stood over a small pile of Afflicted corpses. “Hmmm. Friend Vedruk, let’s take up a corpse, I’m sure it’ll do as proper evidence.” Vedruk gave a quick agreement and bent to get a good grip on one of the corpses. Perhaps a tad heavy to carry, but surely not too heavy for dragging. Not that he would mind if the corpse was overly damaged by the dragging; it would survive, and certainly wouldn’t mind.

A deep, throbbing roar heralded the great stone shape towards and over the necromancer. Lucky that he was down and half his height—if the creature had hit him, well, bones were an easily broken thing and held little enough defense against stone, and luck went further with him, for the temple guardian had landed over one of the Afflicted’s corpses. Directing his will towards the corpse, he concentrated, and the corpse burst in an explosion of energy that wracked the great stone guardian. Blood, still flowing from earlier wounds won from the earlier battle with the Afflicted, swirled up into the air from Vedruk’s arms and darted towards the stone creature’s ‘flesh’. Perhaps Vedruk would have known more, had he been paying attention the other temple guardian, the one charging up behind him. It was a novice’s mistake, and one that granted him darkness.

And here he was now, awaking to blurred light, and that dulled mind. “Well, my necromantic friend, you’ve gained a friend.” Underscoring the words was a nudge to the necromancer’s side. He flinched and groaned softly; surely the bleary creature he was now looking down at was something of a hallucination; a visual misunderstanding. “No, my friend, it is what it looks—a miniature temple guardian. From the one you, hm, attacked. It flowed up from the rest of the stone corpse not long after you were disposed of.” A chuckle. “Your own guardian.”

ooc:
Aleks/Minus Sign: Thank you both .

Though, I suppose that this post is a bit more rushed than the previous two. There's a reason for that, and I'm almost where I want to be for this thread .

Aleks: We shall see what we learn about ol' Veddy .

She kneeled high above the darkened alley, black hair tied tightly into a tail to avoid any troubles were she to need the use of her bow, held lightly in her hand, notched even as it was with arrow. Her eyes, sharp as any eagle's, though a grey far darker than any such bird's, followed the sinister figure below her. Sinister, indeed, was the man below her, dressed in silver leather armor that spoke of pain and torment and a cape of dark colors blended together into a simple, lethal symbol. He, this man below in the alley, strode with the grace of skill and the confidence born of experience.

She knew this man well enough, though they had never met; indeed, had been searching for him for more than half a year now. She remembered the night that she had been sent for him, remembered well the events leading up to that night. She was Canthan born, and Canthan bred for the first ten of her years, until her merchant parents had moved to Elona six years ago. She couldn't remember when she had first begun to learn the use of the bow, though she knew that it had been well before her family had moved to that foreign land; she remembered learning the ranger's arts from various mentors starting nearly a year after the move.

A year ago, those events leading up to that very vivid night a little more than half a year ago had begun. Rumors of dark, evil -things- had begun to spread, rumors that seemed cursed to truth when vile creatures had begun to attack the human population, when warrior and scholar alike had begun to turn almost mad. And then...that night. Her parents had been frightened, furtive in their terror. They had spoken of a need for her to learn powers enough to protect herself and, perhaps, to protect those whom had become kindred. They remembered a man, met long ago in their now far away home land, himself as foreign to Cantha as the Canthans were to Elona. He had been a grim man, yes, and a dangerous man, yet he had been a man worth learning from. A master of the necromantic arts, and the warrior. The man had helped them in some dire need, and had saved -her-, barely months out of the womb even then.

She gave a grim smile at that thought. Perhaps they -had- met, though she had been far too young to remember. She wondered if the man himself remembered, or if sixteen years was too long a time. It was no matter. 'Find Vedruk Olbein,' her parents had whispered that night. 'Find him and learn from him.' She still remembered the fear in their eyes as they gazed first at her, then out at the windows. And she had gone; luck alone had led her to such a relatively short search. Six months was long enough, yes, but she knew she could have been searching for far longer. There he was now, below, in the dark alley of her native country.

Her hands tightened 'round her bow as figures, wrapped in cloaks well enough to hide themselves, slipped from the shadows and surrounded the necromancer. Four in all against the one necromantic warrior; words, little louder than whispers, and not at all legible, floated up upon dark winds. Moments passed, and Vedruk half turned to move back the way he had come. They struck, or tried to. The necromancer whirled, his blade flashed, and one of the figures found his belly open to the world. Yet, the dance did not end here (for dance, the fight certainly seemed, a dance interwoven with death and steel and blood), for Vedruk opened his hand, then clasped it, experience making the spell all the more swiftly done. Blood erupted from the gutted figure's abdomen, congealed in the air, then elongated and lanced through the second figure's head. Perhaps she was morbid enough to learn from a necromancer, for this action brought forth many poor, tasteless jokes to the fore of her mind. Morbid, or crazy. She would decide later. For now, she pulled up her bow and swiftly pulled back the string and loosed; the third figure fell, clutching his throat.

The Tyrian did not gift her with a glance, for he knew help when he saw it. She watched as the necromancer turned towards the final, fleeing figure, his sword already sheathed. Even as he tried to meld into the shadows he had thought were friendly, they gathered and congealed as much as the earlier blood had; they congealed and formed into a great, black hand. She flinched and turned away, even as the last figure's screams began. Perhaps there were some things she could learn from Vedruk, but there were certainly some things she didn't -want- to.

His voice, raised to a more appropriate volume, rose to her in greetings, and thanks. Now was as good a time as ever to descend and introduce herself, she supposed.

Vedruk was once again dressed in simple clothes, clothes that were -far- lighter than the much beloved leathers that generally adorned his pale form when he went gallavanting 'round, necromancing things. The sun had barely risen, and he was, if not exactly enjoying, at least -partaking- of a fairly light breakfast. Across the lawn, the girl--whom had introduced herself, simply enough, as 'Rezni'--sunk another arrow into yet another target. She certainly seemed a skilled enough archer.

Setting the tray containing the now empty plate and mug once containing breakfasting foods and drinks onto the entirely conveniently placed table beside him, he gave a small, thoughtful frown. The girl had asked something quite seemingly simple. 'Teach me!' she had pleaded. There had been a fervent energy in that plea that had surprised the necromancer. Who was -he- to warrant such desire in a prospective student? He was skilled, yes, undoubtedly skilled enough to -be- a teacher (or, at the very least, to muddle through it), and, perhaps, was a familiar enough face in certain circles, but was that truly enough?

Yes, such thoughts had whirled briefly through his head (though they had seemed to take their time, and then some, when actually darting about his brain) until...-Rezni- had offered something of an explanation, and had uttered names that Vedruk had not thought of in years, nor heard in far longer. Even then, he had been disbelieving. He had helped her parents with a hard enough problem, yes, but was it not just a little beyond belief that he would have stuck in their minds after so very long a time? Apparently not, for Rezni had offered a surprising bit of evidence. It was a simple thing, in its way. She had procured, from her travel bag, a simple, old, and lumpy hat (a 'witch's hat', some would call the style), dark colored with the moon stitched into it, and handed it to him. Another shock, that. He remembered the hat, though the night he had received it had been long hidden behind a wall of hazy images and madness-induced dreams. He closed his eyes tightly and rubbed his forehead at the memory. The hat had been his only real and true evidence that there might have been something more to that hat, yet that was neither here nor there.

The girl. The still-stuck-in-a-cradle baby had seemed entranced with the thing, enough to where Vedruk had been happy enough to gift the girl with it. The action had been easy enough at the time, though Vedruk had still thought of the hat at times afterwards. How could he countenance -teaching- her? He was many things--a necromancer, a warrior, a baron, a leader of men. His men had often, -usually- jokingly, called him a devil, a demon, and various villagers, often the more...ignorant and suspicious sort, more seriously. Yes, many things, but a -teacher-? He could not teach her.

Vedruk sighed and rose, slowly beginning to stride towards Rezni (thunk! went another of the girl's arrows). And the troubles at Elonia? He would do what he could, but he had other troubles to take care of first. He had hoped those thieves might have enlightened him into how those abominations had struck their way so deep into the burial temple. Those...-things-...-had- to have had willing, intelligent help.

Troubles, indeed.

ooc:
Hmmm...To continue this roleplay, or not? Decisions, decisions . *Writer's block.*

Let me push away that block.

Continue!

I am enjoying this

Thank you, but the writer's block is a mighty foe, indeed . It gains its powers from monkeys, and we all know how evil monkeys are.

*He considers this.*