Remembering the Past (1 of ?)

[McIan]

It had been an age since the Elder had seen it, and not much less than he had even thought about it. Yet his conversation with Virani, about his long, long, past, had awakened images of it – his sword.

Though encrusted with layers of dust and grit fused together by innumerable strands of webbing, it lay resting securely beneath a floor tile of his coffin lair, a vault secured by thick walls, a sealed door of adamant, highly charged with magical wards. He decided to take a look at it once more.

Lifting the thick tile and carefully setting it aside, he wiped away the cobwebs and picked up the weapon, his phylactery. He held it close to his face feeling its innate power, the sphere of magic that housed his being, protecting him from permanent death so he could walk the lands as a lich. Rarely did he bother to allow his mind to wander, but, as with all things his, he had time for it.

He closed his eyes and let his mind’s eye wander back to a time when things were very, very, different for him, a time when life was good…

 

[McIan]

It had not always been good, however. He was a youth, a teenager, in Trinsic, the city of his birth. He lived with his father and two brothers, all of whom were paladins of that city. His mother had died in one of the several attacks upon the city and it had left his father a broken man. Trying to live up to the image and expectations of his siblings and father made life very difficult for him. He had a mischievous nature, always playing jokes on his friends, the few he had, always challenging other youths to fights, play or otherwise. Worse, he did not really understand nor care for the motivation for their virtuous beliefs and exploits; he leaned toward the darker side. Perhaps he, too, was broken by his mother’s violent and sudden death, for she was one he knew truly loved him no matter what.

Then his brothers went off together and neither returned. They were casualties of a sudden ambush by an overwhelming army of orcs at the Battle of Stone Hollow. That was the end for his father, who soon after took his own life, leaving Scaramandine to fend for himself.

It was not long until he was arrested for thievery, and spent some time in jail where he met, and learned from, professional thieves and the like. When he was eventually released, the magistrates assigned a paladin to take him in, train him, and, failing that, pronounce him irredeemably reprobate and thence be expelled from the city. Instead, and surreptitiously, this paladin, Sir Aubrey, used him as a means to communicate with the orcs whom he was using to seize the city to bring it under his power. Aubrey was discovered and was forced to flee, only to die at the hands of the very orcs he had tried to manipulate. Scar, as his nickname became, was arrested by the authorities and when interrogated many times, even under torture, maintained his innocence and was finally released. However, these events led him to conclude that he could not survive without friendships and allies, and laws had to be obeyed. He decided to join the order of paladins and fought hard to gain entry due to his tarnished reputation. Yet he succeeded and it was not long before he proved himself worthy; his courage, battle senses and expertise, impressing his peers enough that he gained the rank of Captain… (2 of ?)

 

[McIan]

Rising quickly through the ranks of the esteemed paladins of Trinsic was no easy task, but Scaramandine, with guidance and training from those who recognized and prized the abilities in others, gained in rank and status quickly. Soon he was well advanced of his peers and in the course of it, and despite their lofty, spoken, and cherished virtues, made several powerful enemies among them.

One such man was Savarro Fyrebrandt. He was gaining in age and his skills were no longer what they once were. He had gold, looks, power, and a lust for prestige that he would not share with anyone especially some upstart who had been the errand boy of a notorious traitor.

Involved in his plot to take the youth down was a woman named Sarissa Kolmar, a beautiful and seemingly honorable lady of renown who was married to a wealthy merchant. She and Scaramandine met and entered a whirlwind romance that included a dalliance that was quite the talk of the town, and entirely forbidden. When her husband was found dead, and though it was ruled an accident, rumors circulated wildly and there were calls for them to go their separate ways. He was given the choice to leave the order or give her up. He was about to accept their fate and end the affair when she informed him that she was expecting his child. Torn between his secure future as a high-ranking paladin and the less certain prospect of marriage and fatherhood, he nevertheless chose the latter. He was immediately expelled from the Order and sent into exile with his now wife and child, finding lodgment and work as a guard in Jhelom. It was less than a month later that his wife, in a bout of drunken frustration confessed that she had been part of a plot hatched by Savarro to seduce him and bring about his ruin. She had been handsomely paid and now she was taking the baby and divorcing him, being fed up with the warrior-run town to return to Trinsic to wed Savarro.

Having become somewhat of the drunkard himself, he flew into a mad rage that only fueled her taunts and mockery until he lost control and ran her through with his sword. He took the baby and fled Jhelom, heading north, being chased by the authorities led by Savarro himself. Fleeing into Dungeon Destard to escape the encirclement they threatened, he came upon his nemesis, a fearsome, spectral, being or power who ensnared him with spells and whisked him far away to a place beyond the reach of his pursuers… (3 of ?)

 

[McIan]

As if in a twilight, dream-like, state, Scaramandine opened his eyes and took stock of his immediate surroundings. The baby he still held in his arms. It was unharmed, cooing softly. There was light but he could not determine the source; a greenish glow filled the space around him, allowing him only to see a few feet beyond where he stood. He was hungry, tired, and an arrow had wounded him slightly in the leg during the pursuit. When he observed it closer, he noticed that not only had the arrow been removed but the wound had closed and the bleeding staunched. He then sensed the presence of another – someone, something – but it remained concealed from view.

“Who are you?!” he demanded to know. “Why have you brought us here? Show yourself, coward!”

A supremely confident and undaunted voice replied a moment later: “I am the specter guardian of dungeon Destard. I saved both your lives. You should be more respectful, and grateful.”

Suitably chastised, Scaramandine swallowed hard. “I am. Thank you. But where are we and what do you intend to do now? Let us both go and I will pay you back somehow.”

“If I return you both to the dungeon where you were, you will be captured by those seeking you. Are you sure that is where you wish to be?”

“No! Take us somewhere else… far away, some city or town. We will make our way from there. Please! The child will be getting hungry, as I am now,” he requested.

“That I cannot do. Nor do I wish to do so. Though powerful, I am no god. I spared your lives because I know what you have done. Betrayer. Murderer.”

The full horror of what he had done brought vividly to mind his guilt and he lowered his head. “Yes, I am. My wife betrayed me as did my “friends.” She deserved what she got. The others after me are jealous and spiteful.” He raised his head proudly. “I would kill them all too if I had the chance. I am not ashamed for what I did nor do I seek forgiveness from you nor anyone else,” he stated.

“Destard. Dastardly. You fulfill the sin of betrayal and mercilessness thoroughly. I have granted you a boon for it. You have escaped your enemies thereby. Would you like another?”

“No, I want nothing else from you except to escape this place, and them.”

“You said you would kill them all if you “had the chance.” I am giving you the chance. They have wounded you, tried to kill you and will if possible. They used your wife whom you loved against you. Your child is now motherless. All that you have so painfully experienced and built up is for naught: your life as you knew it is gone, you have no name, no home, no honor, no love. They took it all away from you. I give you the only opportunity you will ever have to reclaim any of it. Do you dismiss my offer so readily?”

Scaramandine looked at the child who was beginning to grow uncomfortable. There was a chill in the air and it cut to the bone. He looked back up and about. “Yes. Yes! I would kill all of them, slowly, painfully, extracting every ounce of pain and torment from their wracked minds and bodies. I confess I would! What do you offer me?”… (4 of ?)

 

[McIan]

A wind swept through the area, bitter cold, causing Scaramandine’s face and hands to tingle and frost slightly. Instinctively, he covered his son’s face with a loose part of the blanket in which he was otherwise tightly wrapped. The greenish haze intensified and the glowing light dimmed. From it stepped a figure dressed in a simple, midnight black, hooded robe. The face beneath the hood was concealed in unnatural darkness. Its hands, not immediately visible, were clasped together inside the billowing sleeves of the robe. It came near to him but he refused to step back; pride would not allow it. Three steps and the figure was within arm’s length of him. He prepared himself.

“There is a price,” a melodic voice emanated from beneath the hood. “It is expensive.”

“I will pay it,” he replied, undeterred.

“Put the child down at your feet and put your arms out wide, fingers splayed,” the figure commanded. Scaramandine promptly complied but kept on alert as he did not trust him not to harm the child he loved. “I warn you…” he began.

“The child will not be harmed, but in any event you could do nothing. Be silent! Listen carefully to the words I teach you now. Shout them as loudly as you can, with all the fiber of your being. Give full vent to your malice and hate as together you will be filled with power beyond human ken.”

Scaramandine prepared himself, closing his eyes to visualize his greatest enemy: Savarro Fyrebrandt and then all the others who hated, cheated or betrayed him, or mocked his fall from grace. His attention was suddenly diverted to his host, who raised his arms high in the air.

“EH LOH KLAH TEH!” the figure cried. “Repeat the words. Scream them with all the malice and hate your betrayed and wounded heart can muster!”

From the darkest recesses of his tormented soul, Scaramandine gave vent to the loudest cry he could, holding the syllable of the last word until all the breath left his body. Immediately he swooned and, if not having been held up by the strong hands of his instructor, would have collapsed backward unconscious to the hard stone floor. As it was, the hands lay him gently down, unstrained by his dead weight, for inhumanly strong hands and arms they were. The last thing Scaramandine remembered before falling into deep slumber was a pair of glowing green eyes peering down at him, and the feeling that the being he met was satisfied with his performance.

When he awoke, he arose quickly. The child was quite soundly asleep but it was guarded by ethereal beings, winged and not unappealingly featured, standing guard over them. When he gazed upon them they vanished suddenly.

The mist was gone and there was light enough to see that he was still in the cave-like dungeon. He was greeted with stillness, chill, and silence for interminable minutes. Then came the familiar voice of his host: “It is done. In thirty days you will know power that few mortals have ever known. However, you must avoid the direct sunlight upon your flesh. You may be active outside during daylight but only if your form is covered well. Your thirst will only be slaked and your life sustained by consuming the fresh, living, pure, blood of your kind, not that of any other being or thing. How often you desire to sate it will be your business. That is the price and source of your power, along with the words I taught you. Yet they are more than mere words; they are malleable, living, tools of malice and ultimate vengeance.”

Feeling slightly nauseous, Scaramandine nodded. “Where do I go now?”

“I will convey you to where we first met in the dungeon. Your pursuers have gone; I have seen to that. The dragons will ignore you for a time, but do not tarry long for they can and will destroy you after my spell on them dissipates. Find a haven for yourselves in the north, or the Lost Lands, far from your foes. In time, you will grow ever more powerful. You will one day find a place called Umbra. Make it your home. You will be accepted and safe there. Study, learn, practice, plan and plot. When you are ready, take your revenge.”

“And what of you? Will I ever see you again?”

“I will be watching you… and with envious delight,” the voice trailed away as Scaramandine, he and the sleeping child cradled in his shaking arms, turned and made their way safely out of Destard. (5 of ?)

 

[McIan]

As he had been told by the entity, after the thirty days ended, he began to thirst. He could eat ordinary food, and it tasted normal, but water simply would not assuage his thirst. When he tried to imbibe the blood of animals, his stomach refused it. He was forced to seek satiation elsewhere. In time he noticed his physical body had changed; it did not need ordinary food for sustenance; certain types, such as garlic, harmed him. He found he healed almost immediately and was stronger than a gang of men even though his physique belied it. He realized he had become nosferatu, a vampire, and accepted it for it was the path to slake his vengeance.

He found his way safely to Minoc in the far north, keeping a low profile there as best he could and found work in the mines, which ill-suited him. However, it offered satisfactory anonymity and wise concealment from any who might still be searching for him. In addition, he could work in both day and nighttime, never needed rest, and could mine more ore in an hour than some could in a day. This disturbed many of his co-workers and even his bosses grew envious, and suspicious. Nevertheless, because they profited handsomely by his ability they let it pass for a long time.

His son, Osywn, grew quickly into a handsome lad, well mannered, and totally ignorant of his father’s sordid past, current sins, and indiscretions which were kept hidden from him. He was a fast learner, had a cheerful disposition, was brave, loyal to a fault, but quick tempered like his father. Despite that, he made friends easily and as he matured the girls took to him readily. He was soon married and began a family of his own, settling down peacefully in a villa outside Minoc.

Heeding the counsel of the creature in Destard, Scaramandine took upon himself another name, one that he believed kept his natural pride intact but, to ordinary acquaintances, would provide adequate concealment: Enid Namaracs. He soon began his vampiric enterprises through black market dealings with the gypsies who lived just outside the main part of the town. They were a wild, superstitious, lot who did not mingle well, deliberately, with the townsfolk who largely despised and shunned them. They made perfect targets for Enid’s vampiric depredations though he was very careful to ensure they did not all arise as vampires, or appear to have been slain by one. As this continued for some years, he did discover the power he had been promised, and with it, knowledge of the arcane: dark magic, spell casting, but most importantly, the manipulation and fashioning of crystals to suit even darker purposes.

It was working in the mines of Minoc that Enid ran afoul of several men who had considerable influence in the town: Strom Elkhart, a tall, spindly-framed, and quite opinionated engineer, and the mine’s overseer. Another was the captain of the Minoc guards, Istan Magrul, a hale fellow, fierce and proud, who, rightly so, believed Enid to be up to no good. Together, they dogged and hounded him constantly for their own reasons, and so he added their names to his vendetta list.

As their conduct toward him was unrelenting and quite insufferable, he quit the mining job. Rounding up the small band of vampires he had created and permitted to live, they moved into a decrepit, abandoned, keep near Wrong, but used Wrong as a base for his operations. He named his group the Necromari. Not all of them were vampires. Many were ordinary humans, desperate, criminal elements, who for the right pay would do most anything. Their ranks and coffers swelled as their relentless exploits as bandits, thieves, kidnappers, and assassins, became well known and feared even in Minoc not too far to the southeast.

It was during this period that Enid was able to fashion a large, smooth, emerald-like crystal sphere which he named the Orb of Soul Seeking. He spent many years infusing it with arcane power and malign properties obtained through deals with demons. Still, it refused to function as he intended, but before he gave up on it he took it with him back to Destard to seek the aid of the entity who was his mentor, believing he would be able to apply the finishing touches to it. (6 of ?)

 

[McIan]

Losing more than a few of the weaker members of his entourage to the dragons of Destard, yet not caring that he had, Enid and the remnants moved deeper into the dungeon cautiously. He had assumed his presence would immediately be detected by the entity and that he would be summoned again as before without any direct communication. As many minutes passed, he began to realize he needed to do something more. He stopped, removed the orb from his pack and set it on the ground at his feet. He opened his arms wide and uttered the four words loudly, his deep voice reverberating off the walls of the cavern.

An otherworldly voice spoke to him but only mentally. “You have done well for yourself Scaramandine but now I perceive you come to ask me a favor. What shall it be?”

Closing his eyes yet maintaining his stance, he spoke telepathically. “I have made the weapon that will grant me my revenge, but there is an element missing. It will not obey me when I command it to seek the souls of my enemies. What else must I do?”

A misty glow swirled around the orb briefly. “It is not fully sentient yet, but an inanimate object infused with eldritch powers like others of its kind, knowing only simple commands. You need to give of yourself, a portion of your own soul, to augment these powers. It will recognize you and obey you thenceforth,” came the reply.

“How is this done?”

“The words, a dagger, and your blood spilled over it. You will know when you see the blood absorbed within it. It will be an extension of your will and it will also provide a means of escape for you in time of need.”

“How so my lord?”

“Should certain death face you, use the words and clasp the Orb to your chest tightly. You will be drawn into it, body and soul. But remember this: it will be your body’s prison until it is shattered, and that will not be easily done. You will be able to speak from it telepathically, and able to project yourself in some form, as an avatar, able to speak, use powers and move about. But your body will remain within until released by its destruction. Remember this if you should ever have cause to consider this means of limited escape from doom. It is both sanctuary and prison.”

In his mind’s eye, Enid assented. When he opened them, his followers were all staring at him strangely. He then noticed his body was enveloped with a greenish glow from head to toe which slowly dissipated until it was gone. He picked up the orb and put it back in his pack. “I have what I need. Let us go now and complete the work,” he commanded, leading them all safely out of Destard. (7 of ?)

 

[McIan]

Shortly thereafter Enid completed the Orb of Soul Seeking as instructed. All of his wizardly henchmen were present to witness as his blood flowed and was drawn into it. Then, using hapless kidnapped people, men and women, as test subjects, he performed trial runs, and was amazed to observe the process involved.

Once a name was spoken to the Orb and the arcane words expressed, the victim collapsed immediately. Hours later, they awoke, stood up, and then began begging for water. Even when it was given to them, as much as they wanted, they remained thirsty, slowly going insane from it. In a few days their skin began taking on a pale green hue, almost translucent. A few days later, the shriveling of the flesh, contorting and twisting into thin, dry, wrinkled, tissue, appeared all over. In less than a week, the subject was bedridden, gasping in the agonies of thirst, hunger, and generalized, excruciating pain. Death soon followed, but when it did, the corpse literally folded in on itself devolving into a withered, deformed, and horrifically hideous version resembling a humanoid shaped mass of ashen fiber. To his delight, Enid could actually see the soul being slowly drawn in, bit by bit, until the face of the victim was clearly seen within the Orb.

He celebrated his success with an immediate purging of the ranks of the Necromari – those whom he knew or suspected would seek to destroy him and take the weapon for themselves. He culled out hundreds of Necromari before his deep-seated paranoia was sated.

Yet there was one who escaped this onslaught; a powerful necromancer named Armande DeSade, a young man, who despaired as his own collection of sycophants rapidly diminished. He kept quiet and accepted their dismal fate, hoping he would not be discovered, which he was not.

Enid began his second and more widespread reign of terror soon after. Since Savarro had died suddenly, he looked for his nearest kinsman, Agisto Fyrebrandt, who had been ruling Minoc as Archon for many decades. His benevolent and virtuous rule demanded that he exile the many mages who formed the nucleus of the Necromari before they were so called. By that time they had welcomed the Elder into their midst, unknowing of his vampirism and attendant abilities that far outpaced theirs. In time he gave them their name and ruled them with an iron hand. He and they were guided by hate, the Elder for the Fyrebrandt name, and the mages for revenge and so both of them vowed to destroy the Archon.

Ariel Wyndmere almost saved him. She was a druidic sorceress who immediately detected the onslaught within her husband. Applying both counter spells, potions, and enlisting the aid of fellow sorcerers they together applied their magicks to determine a cure. They did not find one, but they did determine the source of the disease, its master, and location of the orb. Agisto lingered for a time but then, as with all the others, fell prey to the illness which consumed his body and stole his soul. Sadly, Ariel was targeted next and she, too, succumbed.

Next to go were his former boss, Strom Elkhart, the Minocian engineer and his lieutenant, Istan Magrul. Minoc was gripped with terror as they witnessed the painfully slow dissolution and disintegration of their beloved and powerful citizens. Last to die was Dale Larkspur, a ranger who had begun tracking him, confirming the location of his lair and that of the Necromari. He perished but not before revealing it to a paladin from Trinsic named Martel Nevarre who immediately collected an army of warriors and mages to invade dungeon Wrong.

The battle was fierce but did not last long. Outnumbered a hundred to one, the Necromari were destroyed almost completely. Only a small band of them led by Armande escaped with their lives. At the very last moment, when no other recourse was in sight, Enid, the Elder Scaramandine, did as the Being enjoined in such a case, clasped the Orb to his heart and uttered the four syllables. A searing green light flashed and he was gone, the Orb dropping to the dirt floor of Wrong. A lone Necromari mage, mortally wounded, threw it in his pack and fled from the dungeon. He was able to get to a cave in the valley beyond Wrong where he threw the pack with the Orb into a deep crevice in the floor of the cave, and then himself as well. Neither was ever found for hundreds of years.

(8 of ?)