RL issues, chapter 5 thru 5.5

Sorry, I've had to deal with real life, and so this hasn't been updated in a bit. I haven't been writing much, but here's half of chapter 5 to hold you. If you're looking for chapter one, look here. I'll post the rest in time...

At dawn Ægon woke Jarrod and Iryl. In the small cellar room they inhabited there was no sign of dawn’s first rays as the pair stirred from their slumber. Yawning profusely they dressed, and rubbing bleary eyes emerged from the dark room into the Inn common room. The common room was empty, but for a barmaid who was busy cleaning the cheep wooden furniture for the new day. A mop and bucket lay in the corner of the room, and the barmaid gestured at the group whispering “Breakfast isn’t ready yet, you can get cold scraps from dinner in the kitchen if you wish, just watch the floor, its just been mopped.” Head down she returned to removing a stubborn stain from the table. Jarrod and Iryl left, whispering thanks to the young barmaid as they passed. After exiting the inn the pair continued towards the stalls that were already set up, the inhabitant watching their competition finish off their stalls. The pair strode along the stalls, checking prices and quality of goods, occasionally pausing to barter for an item.

****

Ægon waited patiently for pair of ghosts to awake, Iryl had clamed that they would awaken soon. Ægon marvelled at his lack of fatigue despite the long night spent awake first discussing plans for today and their escape tonight, later watching the city through the night from the rooftop until the sunrise. Suddenly the spectral ghost whose name he still didn’t know woke slowly, clearly confused at her surroundings. Ægon held out a hand, helping her to her feet. “Good morning lady, I'm Ægon.” Clearly confused she suddenly remembered, “…the priests, pain…. You saved m-…” Embarrassed she took a deep breath and introduced herself as Marie. Although dead, it could be seen that she was from the northern plains, by her dress and her features. Her blonde hair was braided and fell over her shoulders in a carefree way. Her blue eyes shone brightly, despite belonging to one who was dead. Ægon thought she was beautiful, and was dumbstruck in her presence. Despite his apparent confidence as she awoke soon an awkward silence covered the room. Shortly Bjorn began to stir, and Ægon quickly busied himself to helping his new comrade up. “Thanks for the help last night, I was having a little tro-” He was soon cut off by the old warrior, “Twas nuthin’, lad.” Jumping to his feet he continued, “Wish I coulda helped out more. They gonna be chasin’ you lad, and this young girlie ‘ere. They prolly can track this young girlie here as well, so we should ‘ead off towards the Temple of Morr. Before we leave the city there’s a few people I wanna talk ta. And don’t you say no, coz there aint nuthin’ you can do ta stop me, and I figure that Iryl guy could do me a few favours too. I’m not deaf ya know.” Grinning Ægon replied, “Wouldn’t think otherwise.”

****

Soon Ægon and Bjorn were introducing Marie to the ghosts at the temple of Morr. Sooner or later all ghosts were drawn to this place; the temple began to pull at their essence from the moment they died, and the longer they remained the stronger the pull. Bjorn was strong in essence, otherwise he could not have materialised even for a short time; the ghosts seen by mortals for any length of time have mighty essences, granted by great strength of spirit/willpower. These are usually madmen or victims with a purpose in remaining. Those afraid of the beyond usually have weaker essences. Bjorn could resist the pull for a time, but the longer and further away he went from a temple of Morr the stronger the pull of the temples would be.

Bjorn was a well-known face at the temple, and was probably the ‘oldest’ ghost there. He said his hardest goodbyes to aged monk, who was probably the oldest ghost there as far as mortal uses of the word go, having died of old age at the age of 103 he was ancient in appearance. “I would go with you, my son but I cannot leave this place anymore. It has been more then a century since I left, and my essence grows weak.” The ancient monk had remained as part of a mission to convert the souls of those who had died before the afterlife, and ease the passing of souls from this life to the next. He was Abbot Peter of an Abby of Morr in his day and still followed the path of Morr. He believed that in death he could serve his god further, and thus he did in the same way as he did in life. He assuaged fears of death, he eased the passing on of many souls, he counselled those spirits left behind, giving them purpose, and in fact he converted many to the path of Morr. He had converted so many that he had a small priesthood of Morr made up entirety of the dead, helping where they could with the running of the temple and helping the weakening monk with his self assumed duties. They also held celebrations for those who passed over. The continual flow of ‘new blood’ ensured that spectral chapter of Morr would continue to exist for long after their founder left for the domain of Morr, and there was talk of starting another spectral chapter at another temple.

Bjorn was one of the inaugural members of the dead chapter of Morr, having converted soon after meeting the old monk. The Norse were known for practicality towards their dealing with gods, and he figured that now he was dead, paying homage to the god of the dead would be a good idea. He never took part in the ‘priestly nonsense’, but he took care of much of the off-grounds business of the temple, his stronger essence allowing him to leave the temple without much discomfort. The long dead baresark drifted around the crowd of well wishing ghosts bidding him farewell; Ægon and Marie followed closely, mostly keeping to themselves. Suddenly a bellowing voice interrupted the gathering.

“This is Arch-Inquisitor Nathaniel, to the temple of the damned. Your blasphemy has gone on enough, and now we have proof of your transgressions. We have traced a minion of a warlock to this place, and warlockery is a transgression of not only the divine will of our most holy god, but of the laws of Romah. I have here a detachment of soldiers of the city, and a coven of inquisitors and they have been ordered to clear the premises of people so we can hunt down the dark spawn of hell -”
“That’s us.” Bjorn whispered to Marie and Ægon.
“ – and return them to their dark master! I suggest you comply.”

A deeper more resonant voice boomed out around the courtyard. “I suggest however that you back off. Men of the city – you are not to take part in religious feuds, ask your officer, he’ll tell you. I was a Lieutenant in the city guard before I dedicated my life to Morr. Any religious conflict is to be contained so as to not hurt the citizens, and any faction that endangers citizens, their property or city property is to be treated as a criminal faction. There have been no illegal proceedings here, and the city guard can come in and check this if they will.” By this time most of the ghosts had congregated around the front of the temple, under the shadow of the imposing obsidian building. A successful market day was wrapping up, and a sizeable crowd had gathered outside the temple, stopping their shopping to catch a glimpse of this unusual spectacle.

Arch-Inquisitor Nathaniel stepped forward from the gang of inquisitors. He wore a white cloak, covered in writing. Parchment covered in scrawled lines of scripture was pinned all over the Inquisitor in armour of faith. Standing at 7 feet he was a giant of a man, and in his right hand was a crossbow made for a man of his great stature. It was loaded with a bolt made of wood, as long as a fencepost, and thicker. Instead of a left hand he had a silver device attached to his wrist. The flesh had grown around this device, which was covered in holy sigils. It consisted of two long spikes extending forward on either side of a small hook. To his side stood a young man, barely more then a child with the X shaped mark of the excommunicate emblazoned on his face. He carried a quiver full of bolts for the monstrous crossbow in arms scarred with what on closer inspection were more lines of scripture. His bare chest was covered in more scripture cut directly into his flesh. From beneath his tattered trousers more of the litany of the white order emerged, covering his legs in purple scars. His back may have been covered in more holy texts, but if it was it was hidden beneath a chaotic layering of scars, his back a tattered mess as the result of a whip. Some of the marks were still bleeding, and others were newly headed scabs.

Extending his right arm he held the gigantic crossbow out at arms length. He squeezed the trigger, launching the javelin-sized bolt straight from the crossbow into the chest of the Ex-lieutenant, his crimson blood spurting out of his chest as the momentum of his giant bolt carried the impaled man into the great wooden doors of the temple. The massive bolt continued into the great dark oaken doors of the temple, pinning the hapless man into the door with his feet dangling above the ground. Somehow alive, after all of this punishment he calmly looked down at the spear protruding from his chest, as the great doors swung open, a throng of black armoured knights spilling out of the temple. Following them came a group of purple clad priests, hooded and mysterious. Each carried a dagger in each hand. Bjorn noticed that each carried the longer dagger pointing up in their right hand, and the shorter dagger in their left hand held blade down in the duellist’s stance. All the priests of the god of death should know his art, and to a man they knew it well. An older priest with white trimmings on his armour lead them, despite being weaponless all the other priests seemed to defer to him. Behind this group the door swung closed once more, revealing a now dead body, blood dripping from his robes. His face though, was not in an expression of pain, but one of happiness.

Within moments the courtyard of the looming black temple became a hectic melee, the inquisitors leading in their retinues of white clad priests, and frothing fanatics against the temple’s defenders. The black clad knights of Morr marched in, their extremely heavy suits of plate armour heavy, but protecting them from all blows. The first to reach the Arch-Inquisitor was wielding a massive broadsword, glimmering bright against the black of the knight’s armour. In a loping stride the he closed the distance as the gigantic man levelled his crossbow, low reloaded with another heavy bolt. The young man next to him cowered behind his large frame, his fear for the grim black knights outweighed by his terror of the consequences of fleeing. A quiet click and a loud whoosh later – both unheard over the sound of screaming zealots in battle – the knight had stopped and fallen forwards, at the feet of the immense Arch-Inquisitor. Smiling Nathaniel stepped onto the body, dropping the crossbow and grabbing the sword of the now fallen knight in his one good hand. In the same movement he swung upwards with the blade, decapitating a purple clad priest. The spray of blood rained upon the Arch-Inquisitors white robes and parchment, covering him in a pattern of red splashes and speckles.

All of this happened in a moment, and then Peter held his hand up, instantly gaining the crowd’s attention. “Spirits,” he yelled to the ghosts surrounding him, “This temple has been good to us, and for those in the service of Morr, you are bound to defend it!” His stirring oratory continued, “The land here will strengthen your essence, go help in the defence of this temple as you may!” The crowd reacted slowly being used to inactivity, and not being in immediate fear for their lives (as their lives had already been taken). However there were a few exceptions. Bjorn and Ægon had rushed forward as soon as the knights began to charge at the interloping priesthood. As the guards slowly pushed back the citizens who were crowding in greater numbers and arrested those who tried to break into the temples courtyard, more of the ghostly host began to break off from the crowd, first one, then another, then a small group until the whole congregations of ghosts had joined the fray. Unsurely at first, but more confidently as they continued they flashed onto the mortal plane running about the courtyard; they drew strength from the temple, allowing even the weakest of the spirits to appear albeit faintly for at least a few moments. Many of the priests drew back in fear and revision, but the inquisitors stood firm, as did the fanatics who merely tried (and failed) to inflict grievous body harm on the wisplike spirits.

Ægon ran darting in out of the mortal plane, hidden from sight one moment, the next appearing for long enough to put a blade through the shoulders of an unlucky fanatic, and disappearing again. The repeated blinking into reality exhausted him, dragging at his essence, but his essence was continually replenished by his surrounds; the energy he needed flowed into him like a river, continually at a tremendous rate, so that he could not run out. In the maelstrom of souls the first inquisitor he attacked didn’t even flinch or attempt to black his attack. This one had nerves of steel. However hi didn’t have a chest of steel, and fell to the ground; a bloody furrow of gore appeared on his chest like a gasping red mouth of a daemon. One of the inquisitorial priests saw him in the flicker he struck and yelled “there is a real daemon in the apparitions!” The fanatics took no heed, unhearing in their frenzy. The Inquisitors ducked or parried any weapon blows from the ghostly host, but remained grim and unflappable in demeanour. The priests and other retainers in the inquisitorial retinues began to panic, diving to the ground as ghosts approached, flinching at everything and generally becoming useless.

Chapter 4: Knight in spectral armour

G'day loyal readers (that's right reader*s*... I got two comments now :P). Here's chapter 4: Knight in spectral armour. If you want to read from the start click 'here'.

Ægon grinned, laughing at his new friend’s outrageous tale. In the graveyard at the temple of Morr a fearsome group gathered, a ghostly group of rag-tag spirits. The mob of deceased included warriors fallen in battle throughout the ages, criminals and priests from days forgotten laughing together, criminals and priests from more recent times avoiding each other. Any spirit that had been part of the group for any amount of time felt no discrimination for any other member. For after death does it matter that the person next to you in life would have ripped out your jugular on sight? At the same time criminals couldn’t profit any from violence, thus many went about earning redemption after death to save them from whatever fate awaited them. Morr’s harvesters took the worst elements that were beyond redemption to their own personal hell, so those spirits that remained all had redemption within their grasp, and thus were accepted.

Ægon’s new friend was a baresark in life, from a Norse tribe near where Ægon was brought up. In his life Bjorn was undefeatable in single combat, and never succumbed to death despite the horrific injuries inflicted upon him until he was brave/stupid enough to go face to face with a cannon while attacking Romah. It turns out being able to go into a killing rage where you would rip friend and foe apart alike gave one a unique viewpoint in life. The scarred warrior’s stories were exaggerated in Norse legend, and at some time the news of this had found its war to the departed warrior, and he told the tales back but with the flourish of a true storyteller who has much practice expanding on the truth the end result was a preposterous series of antidotes that were verging upon biblical with divine self-inclusion made even more ridiculous by the fact that these stories were not only the stuff of legends and actually were centred around true events. The Norscan baresark managed to diverge from the legends with humorous footnotes, brining the story back to reality but expanding upon the incredibility of the story yet further.

“So, I didn’t really have a clue about the ambush, I just wanted a root, and as a rare occurrence didn’t want to kill nobody,” the baresark said, “If I had know they were around the corner I woulda got mad and charged off to kill ‘em. But instead I got lucky and liv-.” They were interrupted by a scream of pain from a northerly direction. A few of the newest members of the group reacted, but the group for the most part ignored it. Ægon however was up and running north, toward the scream. Bjorn was easily keeping up and asked curiously “Why are you running? You can’t fix anything you know.” Ægon looked back over his shoulder and replied grinning, “You can’t. I can. I'm not entirely dead, you see.” Surprisingly Bjorn took it in his stride, after death most things get a lot less surprising. Bjorn grinned, “Well, if you’re a bit dead ya might be able to get there a bit faster. You gotta forget your old limitations, when you’re dead not a lot slows you down.” Suddenly turning Bjorn ran through the wall, and mentally kicking himself Ægon followed.

The ghostly pair ran through the wall, darting through what could be seen to be a cobbler’s shop, with boots standing everywhere, covering the many work-benches around the building. Turning and looking back at Ægon, Bjorn grinned. “You won’t get tired, so sprint all the way.” Nodding Ægon sprinted through the work desk, and without checking barrelled through the wall. “That’s what I like to see!” Bjorn bellowed, his ethereal beard of white, yet somehow clear, yet somehow black hair being pulled at by a wind unfelt by mortals. The pair ran on through the night towards the scream, agonisingly sounding out not only on the mortal plane but also on the ghostly, ethereal plane. The scream grew louder as the pair of dead Norsemen came closer, closing the distance between them and the tortured cry.

They stormed into a pub via the east wall, and halted dumbfounded at the sight in front of them. Several yards above the centre of the room was the ghost of a young girl screaming in tortured pain as blinding light surrounded her body. She looked at Ægon for a moment tears in her eyes. “Help me, please, anyone help.” She cried ghostly tears that disappeared before coming close to the ground. Beneath her stood an Inquisitor of the White Order, distinguished by the paraphernalia covering him and emerging from his heavy trenchcoat. A necklace of gold held an amulet set with a diamond that glowed brightly. Beneath the folds of leather that made up his trenchcoat lay a bandoleer of wooden stakes. Porcelain trinkets hung off his garments everywhere, with parchment confirming his faith forming a mask with which he hid his lower face. A ring of white clad priests stood around the room chanting in a language Ægon had never heard before, but it was obviously causing the ghost pain. Ægon ran into the centre of the room, appearing on the mortal plane before the congregation, envisioning not only a sword of ice, but also a set of plate armour to match, all of glimmering ethereal ice. “Stop!” he yelled and the room fell silent, but for a voice on the spiritual plane laughing. “Yeah right, they really gonna stop coz you said so…”

However only Ægon could hear this, the voice of the dead baresark silent to the living, and the girl ghost was in too much torment to hear anything. Suddenly the chanting halted as the Inquisitor held out a hand. “Banish the unholy knight to his hell before we continue with the seductress’s spirit!” Drawing an ornamental crossbow loaded with a large wooden stake the Inquisitor started to chant, leading the priests in a hymnal, which wracked Ægon’s essence with a horrible, impossible agony. Ægon screamed and fell to the floor writhing in pain. The spectral girl fell to the ground the moment the priests stopped in their chant, and now attempted to run away. However she came to the walls of the building and couldn’t pass through them. As soon as she touched the walls white lightning struck her, appearing from an orb held up by a pair of priests, who were no longer hidden from Ægon in the darkness. Ægon however cared not; as he now found himself being lifted up slowly as the Inquisitor lead the chant. “Boy!” Bjorn yelled over the screaming in the ethereal plane. “Ye gotta fight it if ya want to fix anythin’! The pain is your friend in a fight!” However this was ignored by a spasming Ægon, who only felt pain unlike any he had felt whist alive.

Sighing the baresark thought to himself, “He better be able to fix this mess…” From his corner of the room he charged screaming at one of the priests who could not see him. Drawing upon his self will he forced himself onto the mortal plane, not truly as did Ægon but showing himself to the priest who stopped chanting and screamed as this new ghostly foe shimmered into and quickly out again. The priest was a young noviate brought on this inquisitorial mission reluctantly out of fear and awe of the inquisitor. His nerves were on edge as he chanted, and when the spirit of a baresarking lunatic charging towards him, bellowing was cries and screaming, tattoos and scars showing on a face distorted by rage and death only to disappear moments before barrelling into him he panicked. In pure terror he collapsed on the ground his pleas for mercy from his ghostly assailant interrupting the chant. Ægon dropped to the ground as the chant stopped, just as Bjorn exhausted with the effort needed to show his essence on the mortal plane fell to the ground just next to the young noviate pleading for him to be spared. Ægon grinned and suddenly rose to his feet, simultaneously calling on his magic to blast cold wind throughout the room. Suddenly everyone alive in the room flew back, away from Ægon who started running, unhampered by his weightless spectral armour. He ran up to the prone from of the Inquisitor and thrust the tip his sword through the mask of faded scripture on aged paper.

As the paper slowly stained crimson he yelled in a voice that was both terrifying and noble, commanding from both sheer terror and from righteousness. “Priests, I cannot think what would have caused you to torture the spirit of a young girl, but I do not wish to take your lives. Take this body and dispose of it as your faith will, and take those of you that I have hurt to the temple of Ani. There they can get the healing they require.” Pausing a moment he surveyed the room. Most of the priests were somewhere between hate and terror, but none spoke as they cringed in the corner of the room. Bjorn’s spectral body lay limp on the floor, and near the wall so did the body of the girl, who Ægon noticed only now was actually quite a pretty girl. Distracting him the youngest noviate spoke up “Why is it that you spare us? You break our relic, kill Inquisitor Proxus, and then spare us? We wont be pawns in your evil schemes!” Hysterical the noviate finished the sentence almost screaming, tears running down his face.

“I'm not evil; I just came to help this poor girl here. You were torturing fair maiden with your spell, an-” Suddenly Ægon was cut off silenced by the voice of one of the older priests. “We don’t traffic in foul majiks like your dark master! That girl is an abomination against the light! Otherwise the chant of cleansing would not of affected her! Or you! Which evil warlock do you serve spectre?! We shall not bend to his will!” Ægon attempted to explain to the group that he didn’t ‘serve’ any ‘warlock’, nor was he evil. However he had met xenophobia before (although never against ghosts), and soon gave up the attempt. Gathering up the spectral bodies of Bjorn and the ghostly girl whose name he didn’t even know he vanished from the mortal plane, and carried the pair of spirits back to the Inn where he knew Iryl and the recently recovered Jarrod would be asleep in the small basement room.

****

Lit only my candlelight Ægon explained the situation to Iryl and Jarrod, as the flickering light illuminated the lilliputian necromancers face casing dancing shadows on the stone walls behind him. Iryl explained, “They’ll be alright in time, their essences have been badly worn down. In fact…” Pausing a moment in his speech, Iryl concentrated moment, and with glowing green hands he touched them, first the scarred baresark, then the nameless girl ghost. “Picked yourself a looker!” Jarrod started, before continuing with his normal tact, “Hey Iryl, can ghosts take a roll in the hay with each other, if you know what I mean?”

Chapter 5 is in progress. If you want to read it so far its at: http://otherworlds-fantasymultiverse.blogspot.com/2007/11/version-58-early.html

Thankyou for reading

On magic

I promised shiney things and background of the otherworlds, and so here it is. Before I start proper I would like to say that magic, majik, magik, majic, etc. or however the hell you spell it it's all good. I'm using magic, so get used to it. Some people seem to make far to big a deal out of that...

Magic is using various methods to manipulate energies in the world. The energies are called mana. Mana can be grouped into four major groups - fire, earth/ground, water/ice and air/sky. These groups were made by the four Titans (who will be explained in another post): K'z'k (associated with fire), Sharna (associated with water/ice), Gorim (Earth/ground) and Aegia (Air/sky). These four elements are what physically makes up the Otherworlds. Each of these energies flow through and around things of that element. Therefore fire mana flows around fires, deserts, etc. whereas earth mana flows around the ground, but particularly near trees, swamps, etc. However these manas are not interchangeable. Just as crows, parrots, sparrows, kookaburras and eagles are all birds but are not the same, the mana from swamps, trees, dirt, farmland, etc. are all earth/ground mana but are not the same. They can be transmuted to a degree, but this is complicated and difficult.

In adition to elemental mana there are other kinds of mana around. The 4 ancients (who will also be explained more fully in a later post) all have mana energies of their own. Ani is associated with life, Morr with death, Wyrd with fate, destiny and arcane magics, and Hojo with Chaos/change. When creating the world the Titans and the Ancients used their energies, and all lesser beings/things are made up to a degree of these energies. However at this stage it is enough to know that magic is made up of these different energies, and their permutations.

There are different ways of controlling these magics, and I will address each of these briefly, by the type of magician.

Mages have an innate control over magical energies. They are usually limited to control over certain elements/aspects of magic (eg. a pyromancer is a mage who uses fire magics). A mage can be identified by adding the suffix -mancer to the type of magic he uses (eg. aquamancer, necromancer, etc.). Very rarely one happens to be born with the ability to manipulate multiple energies. Mages are rare in most races, but in some they are almost unseen (ie. dwarves, ogres, etc.), in some they are more common but still rare (ie. gnomes, humans) amd in elves they are most common of all (so only mildly rare). In my novella (Spectral Knight - chapter one is here) Ægon and Iryl are mages (a cyromancer and a necromancer respectively).

Sorcerers use a different method to manipulate mana to create magic. Certain words, symbols, shapes, runes, gestures, etc. can manipulate the flow of magic. Sorcerers study these to gain their powers. Sorcerers are common among gnomes (whose armies are made up largely of sorcerer-cadets), and rare in dwarves (who have little trust for magic, with the exception of runesmiths), elves (because of their relatively large proportion of mages), and Ogres (who are for the most part unlikely to devote their lives to years of study).

Warlocks use daemons, spirits, elementals, genies, etc. for their power. They summon and command them in a variety of ways (summoning circles, sacrificial rites, etc.) and many use sorcery to boost their abilities. They also can commune with the world spirits and create portals/rifts between the worlds.

Priests are sometimes blessed with magical abilities from their deity. These abilities range in strength with the ammount granted to them by their deity. As gods gain there power from followers, and a larger god would spread their power across more priests whereas a smaller god would have less priests (who would gain a larger percentage of their gods power) the powers given don't vary in magnitude from god to god. The powers granted range from god to god, but are directly linked to faith/prayers from the priests.

Shammans are crude magicians from less cultured societies. They use a blend of warlockery, god-magics, crude (and often dangerous) scorcery and occasionaly magery (as a mage will almost always become the tribe's shaman) to create a crude but effective magic. The powers manifested by shammans vary greatly, and often are highly electic.


First poster to point out the sluggy reference will get a starfish. Starfish may be hypothetical.

Chapter 3: Don't fear the reaper

Here's chapter 3: Dont fear the reaper. Yes the title is also the name of a blue oyster cult song. No, it is not a musical. If you're looking for the start chapter 1 is here.

****
Jarrod watched the sword come out in slow motion, helpless as his body moved like it was made of granite. He slowly staggered back, crossbow bolt in his chest, strangely painless, although he remembered the first time it hurt like hell. He knew how this dream went, and yet every time he fought it. He waited as Ægon and Iryl fought their assailant, somehow detached as his friends fought for their lives, like watching a fixed arena match. Even as he watched he trembled in apprehensive fear, because this part terrified and yet enthralled him. Jarrod stopped watching the fight, as another form appeared, invisible to everyone else. This spectre walked towards Jarrod, its gaunt white skin contrasting with the black robes. In its hand it held a sword, and Jarrod noticed again, old but always noticing anew, that the hand was but bone. He looked up as the form threw back its hood, and saw a fearsome sight. The face was normal, but for two things. The first was the skin, pale and flawless like an albinos but this didn’t make Jarrod afraid. Rather it was the eyes. Jarrod saw everything, his own life, and the world in an instant. He saw his death, many deaths, his friends’ deaths, and many more other deaths. He knew all the answers, and yet no longer cared. He went mad, and yet somehow detached from this process he watched his own insanity flower and bloom, but suddenly it all fell away. There he was, with the apparition. The horror came back in full measure, the insights meant everything to him, and yet they disappeared like water flowing through his hands. One memory stayed with him, Ægon’s ice-sword failing him and Ægon’s death at John’s hands. “We’ll see about that.” John thought as he grabbed his sword, and threw it, at but through the apparition in front of it, screaming in his mind, but determined that he should stop Ægon’s death, or at least try to. Angry at the creature in front of him with the dread eyes of black infinity. More then infinity it was unfinity, bigger then the mind could even pretend to comprehend, the horror and insanity coming back as he even thought of them, but he knew that it was but a pale recollection, an imitation of the unfinity made by the mindlessness he was suffering from.

The grim reaper of souls in front of him vanished for a moment, and Jarrod’s mind uncomprehendingly was brought back to the battle. He mumbled encouragement to Ægon, who soon darted back onto the assault. The shadowy creature in the hood soon returned, the threat of what was behind the hood seeming the greater fear to Jarrod’s horrified mind. Gibbering Jarrod watched the fight, his eyes widening when another of the avatars of dearth approached, also watching the battle. The new creature was white bleached bone underneath the inky hood. A jawbone protruded from below the hood, devoid of flesh of skin. Teeth lingered in their places. This one carried a curved sickle of shining silver that gleamed as if under an unseen light. The first creature turned its head and seemed to speak, the jaw moving, yet no noise came from the rotten lips. Regardless Jarrod could sense the confusion from the creatures, as he watched the bright white jaw of the skeletal reaper move silently. Not even the clicking of bone on bone could be heard. The pair of unearthly creatures watched the battle, with seemingly detached amusement. Jarrod somehow knew they were betting on the outcome. Jarrod did not know how he could understand these creatures of death; he knew only that it was to do with the void eyes, and the confusion. He realised that he somehow knew these creatures were the harvesters of Morr, gatherers of dead souls. He knew that never before had they been seen by one who had lived. He knew that they were men who had upon death had a debt to Morr, and walked the many worlds claiming souls for him.

This realisation hit him with the speed of a ballista bolt, but with none of the impact. It was merely subsumed into his knowledge; instantaneously he knew it, but it was as if he had known it all his life. He watched the pair duelling, and hoped against hope that Ægon could win. He saw Iryl dispatched on the ground, bleeding from a dagger in his leg. The miniature man couldn’t join the fight with that injury without his magic. Jarrod watched acutely. Even as he watched however the world around him grew murky. ‘That’s it.’ Jarrod thought ‘I'm dying, and those things are going take me to the afterlife.’ His thoughts became incoherent, and he tried to follow the battle, as if by dying it might cause Ægon to loose. He couldn’t make Ægon out, but stubbornly resisted unconsciousness’s sweet embrace to the last moment.

****

He relived the panic as the world went dark, and he thought he was looking back into those eyes, the eyes of endless dark in all directions, Impossibly large, yet still fitting easily into the rotting face of the beast. His dream took him back, again to the eyes, and the madness incarnate of nothing in its truest and purest form. He saw everything in the depths of nothing, and recognised that same nothing in everything he saw. A sight such as this had changed him, imperceptivity yet essentially. It had left him the same in every way, yet totally different in those same ways. He still thought the same things, yet nothing in his thoughts was recognisable as his. He wondered if this was what it was like to go mad, and knew that he was sane.

****

He awoke, sweating from every pore in his body, the dread fading, yet still seaming to remain. Falling and shrinking at imperceptible speeds yet always more then his mind could encompass, so that it always seemed to not only be at, but to be overwhelming and too much for his mind to accept. A feeling of there being a message in those eyes, that he would be fine if he only dared to ponder those eyes a moment, yet he couldn’t think on them any more then his mind could help. He wanted to think about those eyes, as he knew it to be the cure for the battle inside him, but his mind refused, the terror welling up at even the thought of contemplating the eyes, as if the truth that would be revealed by finding their secret would be so dreadful, so atrocious that he would always hate himself for knowing it. He felt as he had saw it in the eyes, and his mind had refused to see it, but the glimpse he had caught was beyond even the worst his imagination could come up with, worse then oblivion, worse then death, worse then any dark fate could possibly await him, and yet it did. The unplaceable terror that filled him knowing that inside him laid the glimmering outline of this knowledge that would curse his life just by looking at it overwhelmed him.

Suddenly that terror disappeared and Jarrod found Vince in the room, his presence somehow calming him. The old priest dipped his balding head towards Jarrod, saying in an impossible soothing voice, “You will only move on once you have conquered your fear. This may prove to be an unconquerable fear, though I think that you can overcome it.” Vince’s smile was reassuring, everything about this priest somehow more calming then anything Jarrod could remember. “And the greater the fear you have faced and defeated, the more trivial any other fear will seam next to it. True braveness isn’t gained though dismissing fear, or being fearless. It is gained through defeating a great fear, a fear so great that any other fear that faces you is insignificant.”

Leaving the room, Jarrod saw the eyes in his mind, and assured by the simple yet effective speech by the ageing man stared into the eyes with his minds eye, willing a confrontation. The world ended and he faced oblivion. Jarrod looked into the well of end times, saw the death of every individual and forgot everything he saw. He saw a myriad of deaths facing everyone, and he saw just as one was cheated the next claimed the life in the blink of an eye. He saw those that had ruined Morr’s scales of death, the necromancers that had cheated or worked against his servants. He saw those who had ruined temples of Morr, those who had fought his servants and those that had unleashed death or life in such a grand manner that even the reckoning of Morr and Ani was interrupted. This he all saw absorbed and took into his mind, yet it passed through his mind like a gale, leaving with no traces. Jarrod went mad, and became for the first time truly sane.

Jarrod was at peace.

The young fighter collapsed on the soft bed beneath him and slept, dreamless and yet dreaming of the eyes that held many secrets, yet none from him. For he had conquered the fear of the eyes and unlocked the truth, and even if he did not know the truth, it was free, and could one day be reached when needed.

Read on? Chapter 4 is 'here'.

Chapter 2: Interrogator

Hey guys, heres chapter two of Spectral Knight. If you want to start at the start chapter one is here.

The soul gave out a shriek of agony that only Iryl could hear. “Now then,” Iryl started his voice dripping with malice, “Tell me the truth why you attacked us. I know you are fanatical enough to stay silent to the grave, but you’re already past that point.” Iryl focused his mana into a command. “Tell me.” The soul writhed in agony, tearing itself apart with a need to obey, but fanatical cause to stay silent. The candlelight flickered in the darkness, and went out, the spirits soul-light the only source of light in the room. The interrogation was taking place in the Inns basement room, dark and windowless for secretive adventurers or light-hating visitors. Iryl although diminutive was ineffably menacing, looking up at the spectre he exuded palatable menace. The spirit spoke, a sibilant voice issuing from its lips; “I hunt evil in all its forms, for that is my redemption.” The spirits face was contorted with pain, an X shaped scar glowing red in the spectral white of the spirits face. Iryl sighed with knew that after a month John’s spirit was weakening, and soon would give in to his orders. But when would the shade of the fanatical assassin break? Iryl knew that whoever had sent this zealot to kill them must have realized that his man had failed. Another attack could happen at any moment.

Suddenly an initiate in pale blue robes barged opened the door and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “The temple of Ani requests an audience. Your frien-” and suddenly stopped the word stuck in his throat. The room was dark, yet the spectre glowed with an unearthly white light. As an initiate of the god of life the sight of the spectre must have shocked the child. Iryl started to speak to the child, but before the second syllable the child was gone. Banishing the spirit to the underworld he briskly strode outside his room and into the hallway. The light blinded him momentarily, but he strode on. The normally cheery man was grim and foreboding as he exited the inn, the sign of the Silver Star creaking slightly in the wind. Despite the weather the town square was full, for it was market day and everyone in the city was at one of Romah’s many congregation points. Guards watched the crowd, intervening in the disagreements between the people in the crowded area. Merchants displayed their wares proudly on their stalls. The farmers sold their goods at the West Gate, so here there were no foodstuffs, but here everything else was for sale. Adventurers of all races moved through the crowd in scattered groups, but for the most part they were human. Xenophobia although strong was temporarily put aside for the great motivator - greed. There were dwarven mining groups, elfin diplomats, gnomish merchants selling intricate goods and even an ogre strode through the throng, bedecked with all manner of weaponry his bare chest displayed tribal tattoos and crude piercings; people cleared the way for the massive adventurer. Tools and axes, swords and shields, pots and pans, shoes and shirts were all displayed above stalls, competing for customers. Tinkers, tailors and cobblers had stalls to repair goods; blacksmiths took orders for their forges. The citizens milled about, travellers strode through the mass buying supplies. An ogre strode through the throng, his bare chest displaying tribal tattoos; people cleared the way for the massive adventurer.

Iryl paused for a moment and waded into the throng. Being substantially smaller then most men, and not as sturdy as a dwarf he had some difficulty navigating the crowd, and soon found himself being washed away through the swarm of people. He wished he had more useful and less feared magics, with which to forge a path. Gritting his teeth he pressed on, occasionally clambering onto crates of goods, or merchant stalls in order to see where he was heading. After an exhausting twenty minutes he emerged from the crowd on the doorstep of the Temple of Morr, the ancient of death. None wanted to offend an eldar god, particularly one with such a grim reputation. The temple of Ani, the ancient of life was just around the corner. Iryl walked past the sombre, morbid temple, pausing only to flip a silver piece into the temple’s large obsidian donation bowl. Prudence payed, particularly when one worked within Morr’s domain. Momentarily he was at the temple of Ani, where again he flipped a silver into the temple’s donation bowl. Again the temples stairs were free of the crowd, although here the gap was smaller. Offering a quick prayer for Jarrod’s health, he berated himself for not thinking of his wounded companion more often, as he entered the temple.

The temple was a verdant place of life, with babbling brooks and flowing creeks pouring down miniature waterfalls, all surrounded by trees, shrubs, bushes, grasses and flowers of incredible lushness. Inside the building the grey stone of the city was gone, vines crawling up every wall, mosses and lichens covering every rock, insects and small life scurrying about. Colours seemed to explode from every flower, from beetles and butterflies, and from small fish darting about in their aquatic paradise. Around the temple there was a few scattered individuals talking to priests and praying. A group of elves were engaged in conversation with the head-priest, identifiable by the golden trims on his robe. Seeing Iryl he asked the elves to wait, and joined him. The priest started talking almost immediately, “Don’t worry about little Alex, you gave him quite a fright with your necromancy. But here we work closely with the priesthood of Morr, for as we are the guardians of the living, they are of the dead.” An ineffably knowing look entered the old priests eyes, “We all have our own paths, and despite the unlit road your path may take I think your motives wholesome. Your friend is through here.” Gesturing with his arm the ancient yet unusually spry man gestured to one of the many doors the chamber had. Door however was a misnomer; it was a gap in the vine-covered stone, where a man could pass into a smaller chamber of pristine beauty. In this smaller chamber life also emanated from every object in the room, except one. Gaunt and bony, Jarrod sat on a mound of earth blanketed with short turf in the middle of the room. Jarrod’s fine features were wasted away, his physique once the envy of every young man in Argon and the desire of every young woman, now was fit to compete with a skeleton. His hair grew wild in a dark mane, however his eyes still gleamed with mischief and life. Although he was no the brink of death, there was life and joy in his soul.

“Appears I overslept a few weeks,” Jarrod started, his voice sounding stretched, “and I was wondering when you and Ægon were going to turn up. Speaking of him, where has he got to? I can’t imagine him leaving you and me behind.” Iryl sighed wishing he didn’t have to bring the news to the remarkable survivor. “He’s dead… well kinda dead anyway…” Iryl started muttering. Jarrod shocked asked, “How in the name of ten-thousand unpronounceable gods can someone be kinda dead?! Either the kids dead or he’s not!” Iryl opened his mouth as if to explain, then suddenly turned to the venerable priest, who still had an infuriating glint of understanding in his eyes. How does this man stand there unshocked by all this? Iryl wondered before asking, “Would it be against the rules here to bring back a spirit here?” Amazingly unfazed by the question the old priest took it in his stride. “Normally we let such people do such things in the temple of Morr, but as your friend here can’t leave the temple we can make an exception.”
“Thankyou… fath-”
“Call me Vince”
Iryl suddenly focused and from an unseen portal stepped Ægon’s spirit. Iryl explained “Ægon is a spectre, a spirit given the ability to walk in this world, upon bit the material and spiritual planes on existence. However unlike wraiths he wasn’t removed from a living body, there is none of that dark influence. Unlike most spectres he can still tap into the flow of magic like he could when he was still alive. He can remain in this world by himself, although in order to explore the city he elected to stay in the spiritual plane, as around here people are wont to assume he is evil and start breaking out the torches and pitchforks.”

Jarrod, although familiar with the Iryl’s morbid magics was clearly surprised by this sudden turn of events. Vince however seamed unflappable and just nodded as if he had known all along. Ægon forced a grin saying, “Death has its advantages. I can get around easier and there are a lot of interesting people to meet.” Winking he continued sadly “Although I won’t be able to get drunk and tumble pretty ladies with you anymore.” Jarrod smiled, full of false bravado and replied “Well, you wont be able to regret it all the next morning either…” The conversation faltered, an awkward silence blanketing the room.

Cutting through the silence Vince quietly pointed out “Don’t you have something to say Iryl? You seemed awfully worried last we spoke.” Suddenly remembering his purpose here he explained to Jarrod the events since the fight in the forest, how Ægon managed to carry Jarrod, and help Orr to the guards. He told of slow weeks since that time with Jarrod’s life hanging in the balance; the time spent attempting to glean some knowledge from the fundamentalist assassin’s shade. Jarrod made the same connections as Iryl – “Someone’s after us,” the ex-guard gasped, before finishing “we better watch our backs.”

****

Some hours later Iryl emerged from the temple, a contingency plan for the next few weeks in place. Ægon and Jarrod would remain at the temple until Jarrod was fit to travel and defend himself. Iryl was to continue his attempts to probe John’s ghost for information. By this stage the day was all but over, and the lilliputian necromancer had no trouble crossing the street, the crowds had dissipated except for a few stray individuals. Iryl was soon tucking into a hearty stew in the inn, but the taste was lost on him; the filling fare reduced to tasteless mush in his mouth. Soon he returned to the basement, using the red-hot pokers of his mind on John’s helpless spirit. The spectres silent screams of agony contrasted with the steel in Iryl’s eyes; John felt every kick and every blow that Iryl had ever felt. He felt the knife Iryl had got in the ribs from an overzealous priest of Iskandos, the fires of his house burning down around him leaving only the ashes of his innocence and childhood. More then this he felt the rejection, the hatred that emanated towards Iryl for who he was born, the fear of the other children and of his fellow man. Every scar physical or mental that Iryl has suffered was simultaneously inflicted upon John’s distressed soul, and reverberated and magnified exponentially becoming a chorus of pain through John’s essence. Iryl smiled, cold and unfeeling. John confessed, his soul no longer caring for salvation beyond the end of the pain. John told Iryl everything, anything to stop the pain.

Iryl continued the torture, more pain then physically possible to inflict on the living, always increasing. Iryl stopped. He felt sickened with himself. Throwing up on the floor he emptied his stomach and still felt nauseous, wishing he had more to throw up. Appalled at himself, at the torture he had inflicted on the soul before him, even after he had the information he needed. His faith stripped bare; here was a man like any other. He had sunken to their level, could he claim the moral high ground any longer? He let go of his magical grip on the soul, letting Morr’s harvesters take the soul to its destined afterlife. Morr pictured the grim forms of Morr’s harvesters in his mind. They seemed to be spirits and cadavers in various states of decay wearing tattered black robes. Their eyes were madness, the black of knowing your own death but without insight. In their hands they carried scythes and sickles with which to harvest souls, or knives and blades to sever the spirits connection to the mortal coil.

Momentarily one of these grim entities of death appeared its teeth grinning in a gruesome grimace, its jawbone exposed by rotting flesh. Its hood covered its eyes, and in its hands was a war scythe of cast iron, so heavy no mortal man could carry it. From a rent in its robes two skeletal wings rose, as the grim harvester approached the demised fanatic. It lifted its hood as it approached, and the deceased zealot gave out a gasp. The soul disappeared, all trace of it leaving even the spiritual realm to whatever afterlife awaited him. Replacing its hood the morbid soul harvester nodded to Iryl as it followed John’s soul into Morr’s domain, where the ancient being of death judged all souls, laying all their deeds bare and sending them to their fated afterlives.

Continue? Chapter 3 is here.

Chapter 1: Ægon

I'm slowly writing a novella, based in my otherworlds universe. It is called Spectral knight, and here's chapter one. Criticisms welcome (as is praise - I always welcome praise :P). If anyone actualy reads this, please comment, just to let me know what kind on interest I'm getting. Thankyou.


Ægon ignored the flashing lights behind his eyes. He blocked out the unsettling feelings in his head. He wasn’t going to lose. Sustaining his thoughts on the wall of ice in front of him, he reached out for his magic. Focusing hard he fortified it, strengthening it, against the barrage of flame blasting at its other side. The flame was growing weaker, but so was his wall of ice. For over an hour the students had been battling, and they were weakening. The young mage and his opponent were running out of mana – magical energy, and it was painfully evident. Although the pillar of flame glowing through the ice was weak and sloppy, it could still burn a man to death. He thanked the magical amulets each student wore, they would absorb all magic sent at the bearer, up to a point, when they would use the mana absorbed from the magic to magically cause the wearer to appear in the chamber below the arena. His amulet was glowing with a dull luminosity as he pulled himself to his feet for a new assault. Ægon marshalled his thoughts, summoning the anger he needed to motivate himself in this new charge.

He remembered the day where he and Pyran first met. The two were virtual opposites. Ægon was small, short and almost albino, save for his long raven black hair, and his shimmering grey-blue eyes. Pyran was tall, strong and dark skinned, with no hair on his pate, and flaring brown eyes, of such intensity they seem to burn red as red embers, or as naked flame in certain lights. Where Ægon was from a Norscan tribe, far to the north, Pyran was from a southern village on the boarders of Araby. It was of little wonder that such polar opposites did not react well to each other’s presence. As a child Ægon was picked out as ‘talented’ by an Adeptus Magus and was sent to the Schola Magus, an academy for those with magical innate abilities, to learn how to control his magical abilities to benefit the tribe. However apart from an inclination to know what the weather would bring, he showed no obvious signs of his talent. Pyran however had shown his talent from an early age, and was proudly juggling fireballs showing off to the other adepts before their first class. Seeing a small and easy target, Pyran danced the fire in front of the young Norscan’s eyes, laughing at the smaller child’s protests. However Ægon was not the soft target Pyran took him for. Growing up in a Norscan tribe, he had learnt to fight from an early age, and was as skilled a brawler as many ‘civilised’ men twice his age. He leapt and viciously struck Pyran across the face, and then proceeded to jab at his stomach before executing a wicked kick to the groin that caused the larger adept to fall to the floor, spitting blood. Pyran then retaliated by blasting the front of Ægon’s shirt with fire, which is when the Adeptus Magus came in and settled the dispute by sending each boy into solidary confinement for an hour. Since then the two had harboured an animosity for each other that had only grown with time.

These thoughts taking but an instant to sweep through Ægon’s mind, along with many memories of the conflict the pair had fought since then, always striving to out-do the other, to better the other in every way. He gave out a tribal war cry, and charged, his anger materialising as an axe of frost in his hands. He ran forwards at his wintry walls of ice as they shattered bereft of his attention. A wind stuck up, as cold as death and the arena became a blizzard; and at once he was the eye of the storm, assaulting the burning shell in which Pyran hid. Summoning his focus he stuck the orb of unnatural flame, flickering yet solid in the maw of the storm. Although he was exhausted he gripped his axe in both hands, and struck with what seemed to be the impact of lightning, and the sound of thunder spoke out as the orb split in two. And then the Norscan mage found that he could not sense the fire of his opponent and knew that he had won. He revelled in the victory for a moment, giving out another cry – this time a victory cry of his people, praising his ancestors for the strength they lent him in his battle. The fury of the storm seamed to howl with him, and abruptly he let it drop, the raging winds gone, the unnatural ice dropping into the ground bereft of the magical winds; the lightning and thunder stopped. He breathed deeply for a few moments and he too dropped to the ground, exhausted.

****

He awoke in a bed, unusual as he slept on a straw mat in his dorm, something his father had insisted on to ‘stop him going soft’. Ægon had stuck to that, and the weapons training with the guards, exercising his body as he exercised his magecraft. Although no longer short of stature he still practiced the brawling tricks his father had taught him to keep him safe with the playing boys of his village. Violence was part of the Norscan way of life, and even the weakest Norse was a formidable brawler out in the ‘civilised’ world. He had eagerly learnt swordsmanship skills from the guards, swords being rare in the Norscan villages of his youth. If the schola magus rules didn’t forbid his entering he would have been a contender for the duellists dagger, a local swordsmanship competition. He joined anyway, and got through the first two rounds before he was discovered and evicted by an Adeptus Magus in attendance.

The disorientation from his new surroundings was short lived, his memories from the fight returning momentarily, and everything falling into place. He looked around at the hospital, the white surrounds momentarily blinding him. Blinking furiously he sat up, trying to clear his head. Despite remembering the fight, his brain felt like it was made of cotton wool, his thoughts moving sluggishly. Tiredness swept over him like a wave, and he slumped back, asleep within moments.

****

Weeks later Ægon had recovered, he had awoken just days before the initiation ceremony. He was walking well now, and was fit enough to ride to the ceremony where he would leave his student life behind and go into the world as a journeyman mage. He had already planned for his journey to the North, back to Norsca and his tribe. His few belongings were packed in saddlebags; his newly bought horse was in the stables ready to go. He looked out the window at the Schola Magus, the place that had been his home for the past 8 years. When he had first arrived he had hated the authoritarian approach and the adherence to times, but he had grown accustomed to them if not fond. Glancing at the great clock he saw it was an hour to midday. He had half an hour before he had to be at the ceremony. Ægon briskly stood up, gathering his possessions and set out. He wanted to avoid lateness for his own ceremony.

No sooner then he had set his foot outside the doorway he was surprised by the sight of a tall dark haired and bearded soldier and a short black haired man in the robes of a journeyman mage. Momentarily he recognised the merry pair as Jarrod and Iryl respectively, and felt a surprised joy at the meeting. Iryl started laughing as he saw Ægon, and the pair rushed to greet each other. Iryl had been a mage a few years older then Ægon and was his initial roommate, the diminutive man helping the young Norscan adjust to life in the Schola Magus. Due to Ægon’s unusual acceptance of Iryl’s rare magic, which many found repulsive, he soon became his unofficial tutor and closest friend in the academy. Iryl had left as a journeyman mage some years ago, and occasionally visited the academy for the library, advice and reunions with the small group of close friends he had built up over the years. Jarrod was a different story altogether. The young man had joined the guard as soon as he was old enough, and was a sergeant of the guard at Argon, the small town that had built itself around the Schola Magus. He was a skilled swordsman, a good soldier and handsome rouge, too fond of a good beer and bad company. Ægon had met him quickly enough when he started training with the guards; they soon became duelling partners, drinking partners and then friends. After Iryl’s departure they had become close friends, on a Firesday evening after study they would often drink well into Sabathday morning, and wake in the afternoon of the Sabbath, blessing the fact they had the day to recover and cursing their heads, the cheap liqueur he had awoken and the noise of the campus.

The pair whisked Ægon to the gate, where the ceremony was to be held. As well as his horse waiting for him there was another two horses loaded up with bulging travelbags. His surprise must have shown, as Jarrod quickly quipped “you didn’t think I’d let you get away that easy – you’re the only dueller around here that can lay point to me. Without you life around here would be terribly boring.” Iryl chimed in “I'm heading northwards anyway. Some horse-magic up north has caught the eyes of the Schola, and I’m heading that way on a rekko.” Rekko was Schola slang for recruitment journey-quest; any journeyman living on the Schola grounds was required to finish any journey-quests given before he could return to campus. However in times of peace most of these would be recruitment, or taking on an apprentice. These journey-quests were a primary reason why there were so many journeyman mages, who continued their life with their already formidable abilities rather then spending many years on campus honing their magical skills to become a full Magus. Particularly in remote areas, mages were rare enough that a journeyman’s badge was ample guarantee of quality, and a full-blown Magus was lucky to be seen once in a lifetime. Although Iryl wished to become a Magus Batuere (battle mage), Ægon had no such desire. Although he was proficient in battle magic, he had little love of war, despite his relish of one on one duels. The young soon-to-be-jouneymage had studied particularly weather-magic, which he had much talent in, and other applications of cyromancy. His magic was with ice, unsurprising since he was from the cold snowy Norscan Mountains.

Iryl wished to become a battle-mage because it was uniquely suited to his magic. Iryl was born with the curse of being a necromancer. His magic dealt in death, and with the dead. After being brought to the Schola Magus by his parents who were fleeing persecution, the Schola Magus brought up Iryl. It is truly said the gods are fickle, that such an otherwise cheery and calm man would be gifted with such a curse. Necromancers are rare in the civilised world, being amongst the most persecuted groups worldwide. Because of his suffering as a child, Iryl’s desire to join the Magus Batuere was unsurprising. Specialising in the violent applications of magic this faction of the Schola Magus consisted of magical mercenaries, religious and people with a cause. Seeing as most mages joined at a young age, and there is almost a decade of training to become a journeyman mage, this group was in the minority. However any cause was greatly helped by the presence of one of these powerful and destructive allies.

The ceremony was over before Ægon knew it had begun, and momentarily he found himself out on a road northwards to Romah – the capital of Erondia, and a hub for trading. From there the trio hoped to travel with a caravan headed for The Mark. There Iryl would spend some time before returning to the Schola, and Jarrod would return with him for protection. Iryl didn’t need protection from brigands or such, but to deal with the many problems a smaller man faced without resorting to magic that would result in a pitchfork and torch mob or a member of the White Inquisition – A new religious group dedicated to hunting out what it perceived as evil in all its forms. This group was responsible for Iryl’s persecution – and Iryl would gladly remove such a person from the mortal coil. However they carried with them potent charms against magic (which they saw as evil), and in particular necromancy and the undead – both of which they saw as not only undeniably evil, but reasonable grounds to kill a person despite the law. Ægon planned to travel back to his tribe, study for some years and eventually return to the schola to become an Adeptus Magus, and become a teacher for all mages in the local (using the extremely loose Norse definition of the word) Norscan tribes.

Ægon ruminated on all this as the group rode out, their talk calming to a friendly silence with the occasional comment or banter from one of the trio. The road was easy and well worn, the grasslands slowly giving way to idyllic woods, the greenery pleasant and calming. Eventually Jarrod called the group to a stop, as they set up camp. All of the men were used to camp conditions, and soon a small campfire was merrily blazing away in a clearing, where they soon set up a canvas tarp. The group was quickly asleep, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows on the woods.

Suddenly awaking with a knife at his throat Ægon gasped involuntarily with fear of the cold steel on his throat. In the darkness he started to make out a face, and a harsh voice cut at his hearing. “Now then,” it mused “what have we gots ourselves here lads? A pair of scrawny kids and a soldier-boy.” Laughter came from around the camp as stealth was forgotten. Another voice barked out orders “Right boys – lets ransack this place, find their gold and supplies.” A pause followed and then almost as an afterthought “kills the soldier – the other two ca-” An unearthly scream cut the statement off, and for a moment Ægon thought it was Jarrod. As if to contradict him Jarrod rolled to the side, leaping to his feet sword in hand. The thief with the harsh voice rolled Ægon over positioning him between himself and Jarrod croaking, “You moves we cuts this lads pretty throat.” Now fully awake the young Norscan mage concentrated a moment and his attacker gave out a gasp of surprise as he ruptured and died; the water in his body freezing and expanding, and the frozen mess no longer recognisable as a body, but as a dark red explosion of ice. Next he mentally reached out for more mana to replenish what he had just used – but found little – and almost none particularly suited to his magic. Unlike the Schola that was dripping with mana and magical energies, the wilderness had little mana ready to him. However here there was an unnatural lack of mana, even for the outside world. Ægon resolved to ponder this at a more convenient time (i.e. when people weren’t trying to kill him). He looked over his shoulder and Iryl had dealt with his foe, whose limp but otherwise unhurt form laid on the ground. Ægon knew the bandit was dead. Ægon called forth a sword of ice-energies to his hand and charged, knowing he must save his magic for when there was no other alternative. Iryl’s hands began glowing an unearthly green he pointed to the apparent leader who began convoluting. Before Ægon or Jarrod could do anything more the rest had disappeared into the woods, fleeing in terror, weapons forgotten. The leaders spasms soon passed and the seemingly unconscious corpse froze in rigor mortis.

Jarrod deliberately strode over to the fire, carefully placing the sword next to him as he spoke. “Bandits this close to the schola… that’s something I haven’t seen in a long time. Somethings on the wind, mark my words.” He paused momentarily glancing at the sickly full moon before continuing, “There’ll be a few hours to dawn… I think we’ll se another visit from our friends before the suns up.” Iryl nodded adding “We better get under cover… they’ll use their bows this time, now they know what they’re dealing with.” Jarrod walked over into the shadows to where their horses previously were, and as expected only saw cut halters and shreds of rope. “Grab what gear you can carry easily, and leave the rest here. Don’t take what you can’t carry to Roma, it’ll only slow us down in the meantime.” Quickly but carefully the group re-checked their supplies, grabbed a travel bag each and walked into the gloomy shadows of the woods. Jarrod quietly spoke the noise seeming loud in the unnaturally silent wilderness. “Don’t talk if you can avoid it. Keep it down if you do, otherwise follow me. The road is leading north, so that’s where we want to go, but the road will almost certainly be watched.” The group silently moved through the forest, every tree seaming to hide a thug, every shadow filled with assassins and every hollow brimming with bowmen of the imagination. Suspicious of every stone, watching every branch, startled by the scampering of the wildlife the paranoid group slowly progressed.

Their progress was slow and they couldn’t tell how far they had gone in the darkness of the night. Ægon in fear for his life scanned for movement, checking over his shoulder every few paces. Every potential area from which attack could come he watched dutifully, always scanning for movement. Then without any warning, his mouth was covered. A voice murmured in his ear “Tell your friend in front that you’re going the wrong way. If you keep going like this you’re going to blunder right into an ichorn Nest” The hand covering his mouth disappeared as he whirled around, but the mystery man had vanished. He hissed to Iryl in front of him to stop. Iryl called Jarrod back as Ægon quickly told of his encounter. “If this wasn’t so serious I’d think we were the butt of a jest,” Iryl continued “but that isn’t the problem. The real issue is who is this man and why in the eternal dream of the sleeping god did he stop us.” After a few moments a voice to the groups left chimed in “I can answer that. It appears someone has it in for the couple of mages here, and doesn’t want them reaching the Mark. Word on the understreets is that your heads are worth a bit to the right people. Odd thing is for wanting you dead, they didn’t say much about you. You might be recognised on sight, but not a word on your magic.” Jarrod had his sword out by this stage and Iryl tensed, Ægon noticing that he was ready to spring into action at any moment, his mana at easy reach just below the surface. The cyromancer also readied himself, feeling edgy and high-strung. Seemingly unperturbed by all this the mysterious man continued, “As for who I am, that is of little importance, save that I am here.” He flicked back his hood, showing a face that was ruggedly handsome, save for a festering X brand burnt onto his left cheek. Grinning the nameless stranger continued, “I see you don’t recognise the mark of the excommunicate. Lets say the church of the light wants you dead and I have a problem with the church. Call me John.”

He proffered his hand across the group to Jarrod. Jarrod flicked the sword to his left hand and took the calloused and scarred hand saying, “This doesn’t mean we tru-” before being cut off by a knife though his throat. The Norscan ice mage rose with violent intents and anger, materialising as a shimmering sword of Ice in his right hand, his left glowing as he attempted to freeze the traitor John. John laughed at this, simultaneously drawing a dagger and flicking his sword out in an amazing display of dexterity. He then struck like fury and Ægon barely parried in time. John screamed, “Your black arts won’t work on me you vile sorcerers. I have been blessed by a priest of the white order.” The zealous fanaticism in his voice was tangible. Iryl tried to blast the attacker with the green energy, which had had such fatal effects barely a few hours before, but to no effect. Ægon realised this was the fight for his life and he moved onto the offensive, his sword dancing, light shimmering across its surface, as if refecting from an unseen sun. In a flash of magic they were in a storm of ice energy, the magics not hurting his opponent, but reducing his visibility and hindering his movements. A cold wind rose, tugging at the clothes of his opponent, and causing his attacks to falter, but he knew he couldn’t raise the tempest he could effortlessly raise at the Schola, or even normally. He was tired from the battle before and knew that something about this man was draining his abilities. Dancing like leaves in the wind, the two swordsmen duelled. In an instant Ægon found himself on the defensive, raising his sword and flicking it in glimmering arcs to stop sword and dagger strikes he didn’t see, but knew they were coming – his magic telling him of the path the sword cut through the cyromantic energies. There was no time to think, the melee was beyond reactions.

A dagger spiralled from the assailant’s hands well to the left of a pale Ægon. In the back of his mind Ægon heard a scream as Iryl fell to the ground, dropping his dagger. He saw his chance, and locked blades with his attacker, turning it into a competition of strength. The larger man grinned and slowly pushed the blades to his right, opening up Ægon’s guard slowly. Every time Ægon pushed harder so did his opponent. The Norscan cyromancer grinned and focused his energies. Cold swept into the paired blades, strengthening his, but making his foe’s steel brittle. With an ear splitting crack it shattered, splitting into thousands of metal shards swept away in the freezing winds. Ægon lunged but his sword shattered as it struck his foe, whose chest glittered with white stars dissipating the sword. Even as he called the mana to himself he felt it being sucked away and in a heartbeat he was without magic. Confused he was dumfounded, but so was his opponent. Weaponless the pair stood there a moment, Iryl on the ground bleeding from his leg, helpless on the ground; Jarrod dead to Ægon’s right. Again contradicting Ægon’s belief in his death Jarrod’s hand swept up, his sword arcing toward the journeyman mage’s hand, his teeth once more smiling. Froth bubbled on his lips and from around the knife as he rasped, “Give ‘im hell…” Gratefully catching the blade surprised at Jarrod’s endurance, he turned toward his opponent, who had pulled a concealed crossbow from somewhere in his jacket. A bolt jarred Ægon’s chest pinning him to a tree through his lungs. John showed his teeth in a predatory grin. “You shouldn’t be alive, either should your friend there, but for the blessed nature of the steel in the bolts and knives I carry. No one wounded by one can die until the weapon is removed from the flesh. I didn’t want your friend here brining you back to defend him with his dark magic. That could be … problematic.”

Ægon’s mind raced as his lifeblood trickled down from his chest, creating rivulets down his body and through his clothing. A swarm of fatalistic thoughts swarmed inside his head, but he banished them to his subconscious. If he had stopped them dying that meant that as zombies they could hurt him. He had seen Iryl spiritually bring the dead back to life before, in graveyards he often brought up willing spirits for a chat. But physically he had seen it once, the bodies coming out hungering for flesh of the living. Although it revolted him if it could help Iryl he decided he would do it. Laughing hysterically he realised that the answer was simple. Fatalistic madness gleamed in his eyes as he laughed; his deranged cackle the voice of someone no longer wholly sane. Although he couldn’t move, his blood and energy at his feet he noticed that since the bolt had hit him he could again feel mana surrounding him. The magical debris from the fight was thick in the air and he brought it in, filling himself with its power. Then he froze his chest around the wound, his flesh expanding and expelling the crossbow bolt. The pain was intense but he willed it to continue for Iryl’s sake, the mere seconds seaming like days. The bolt dropped, splashing into the dark puddle growing at his feet as Ægon slumped to the ground, a maniac grin on his face, knowing that he would have died anyway, and this way he had saved Iryl, and maybe even Jarrod.

But surprisingly he found himself still standing there. He was glowing white, and as he looked down he saw his corpse lying dead on the ground, yet somehow he was up outside of it. He heard Iryl’s voice in his head ‘Not zombies, he wouldn’t fear that… no you are now something else entirely.’ He looked at John, the terror showing on the excommunicates face. ‘You are something new to this world. Different to a wraith or weight, although that is the possibly the closest you could come. The specifics aren’t important at the moment though.’ John shot at him again, but this time Ægon felt the metal bolt pass through him, a strange feeling as it passed through his ethereal form. He instinctively used the mind talk to ask Iryl ‘Can I even hurt him in this form?’ as he looked at but somehow seeing through his hand.
‘Yes,’ Iryl started, but continued ‘however he can hurt you. Not with steel, but you are susceptible to fire and weapons made from some woods, and I think he knows this. Think a sword to your hand, similar to your ice-blade!’ Even as this was passed along the link, Ægon saw a wooden stake appear in the hands of his foe from the folds of his leather trenchcoat. Ægon concentrated and a sword cold as the grave appeared in his hand and he lunged, the tip of the spectral ice-sword disappearing in his foes chest as blood spurted out across the clearing in crimson arcs glimmering in the moonlight. ‘Thankyou my friend,’ Iryl said his voice heavy with regret and strained with pain. ‘I can’t hold you here forever though. I will be able to get by if you will remove this dagger from my leg. Our friend here let slip that we were almost at Romah. Help carry Jarrod, if we get him to a healer he might just survive…”

Chapter two is here

Introduction (Please read)

Hi, I'm one of many aspiring writers out there. I figured that if operator please got found on MySpace, I should give it a shot. However most MyDrones don't read except if ThE WrItiNG LoOkS lyKe tHIs. jEaloUs MucH? So I figured give this blog a shot.

My stories mostly happen in a fantasy multiverse called the otherworlds, although some happen in *this* world (/shock_horror) or wherever I feal like. The otherworlds are a collection of fantasy worlds, ranging from peaceful forrest worlds where people all live in peace and hamony (and inhale various parts of the landscape) to wastelands of eternal night where war magiks have destroyed all light and armies vie for supremicy of the blasted and wasted landscape. It has been influenced by (surprise, surprise) Tolkien, but also Gemmel, Eddings, K.A. Applegate, the warhammer fantisy world and a swarm of other writers to a lesser degree. However it has elements that are new, as well as merging, sorting and defining many things that span across fantasy. My posts will range from short stories, chapters of a novella I'm (slowly) working on (go to chapter one) and random bits and peices of background, ideas, explanations and shiney things that have gained my attention.

Just to get a gauge of interest if you've gottern this far please add a comment, telling me what you think, if you're interested, if you are also an aspiring writer (if so smash us a bit of your writing, if you please), or even just to add a death threat.

- Thankyou.