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[PLOT] Wake; Plot Topic
Topic Started: Fri Apr 1, 2011 1:02 am (288 Views)
Jruem of the Cowl
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Nicodemus was growing tired of the child.

He walked the street of Taras with the boy in tow, always a step behind, never seeming to be coming fully to meet his expectations. The lich had been trying to make the boy spar with one of his graybacks, but time and time again he failed to make a mark on the soldier. His potential had been soured, it seemed, by the time spent out of the deserts, away from his people. His body had shown itself stronger by far than most humans, more athletically capable, but he lacked the drive. The fighting spirit of the warriors.

They had been driven to desperate measures.

Nicodemus had hoped to produce a new grayback, the specialized fighters and ranking members of the order. They served as heavy-duty measures, stronger and faster than his priests, and vastly more deadly. But each of them required a base of a superior fighter, which he lacked. Ritualistic tendencies of Nicodemus’ forced his to require one of his own to build the creatures from, the amber-eyed tribe marked with his own sigil.
The boy was a weed in the crop.

In order to have any hope of producing a salvageable fighter of the boy, he was going to have to speed up the process. Use magic, necromancy, to build on his. Either what he would create would be beautiful, or an abomination.
The three acolytes formed a half-circle around the boy as they approached a half-burned building, once a butcher’s shop. It had served its uses well before Aiden had come along, making it a pre-set well of necromancy. The magic had set into the structure. Even as they entered the doorway, a severed hand crawled from the shadows, snatching at the ankle of the present grayback. Looking down with amber eyes, it stamped a heel on the hand, crunching bone.

They gathered around the thick surface of the butcher’s block, a table six feet long, and half as wide. “Come, child. Hop on the table.” He ran a hand through the boy’s mass of golden hair lovingly. Despite his disappointment, he still cared for the boy, an emotion alien to the being. In all truth, it scared him. A weakness he had little experience with.
The boy obeyed, crawling up. Two acolytes surrounded it as he lay on his back, one at each side, and the grayback at his feet. Nicodemus stood at his head. Producing from his robes the Vault, he motioned the remaining acolyte forward to hold it over the boy’s chest. Drawing his wand, Nicodemus began tracing invisible lines on the boy’s skin with the wand tip, chanting under his breath. The three servants at the edges of the table each grabbed a limb, holding the boy down as Nicodemus began pulling magic to himself.

The room grew smoky, though no smell betrayed it. The air gained a silvery composure and a thickness about it. Three figures rose from the orb, coming to differing sides of the orb. Two taller, lithe men, and one woman, all with darker skin and amber eyes. Their transparency betrayed the truth of their existence, spirits called up from their rest for this purpose, the boy’s ancestors. Nicodemus allowed them to line up at the boy’s feet before he pulled his well of magic down, pouring the negative energy into the boy’s body, granting Nicodemus greater control over him, a firmer handle. “Hold.” He commanded as he released a spell to halt the undead. The boy’s writhing ceased, falling still. Grinning, the lich continued, allowing his servants to back away to the edges of the room. The boy slid himself to the foot of the table and stood upon the ground, facing the three spirits.

The first spirit came forward, a tall man with a runner’s build. He studied the boy a moment before reaching out to touch his brow, ghost flesh passing through. Standing back, he shook his head. ‘The boy is not of my line.’ even as he spoke, he dissipated, dismissed. Nicodemus bit his lip, watching the other two. The second spirit was more obviously muscled, hands looking rough, body moving with surety and grace. The woman was of a line gradually weeded from the tribe by Nicodemus himself, her descendants holding the ability to read emotions and auras, but the line was worthless to him it was not the minded ones he needed, it was those who were superior of body. Minds never worked to their full extent in undead servants.

The runner came forward, touching the boy’s brow. He too shook his head and left. A pang went through Nicodemus’ heart as the woman stepped forward, touching not his brow, but his cheek, a smile on her face. She nodded. ‘I claim this child as one of my own.
He was worthless.
He attempted to stop the working, but it was midway through already. A single mistake could cause immense damage to everything in the immediate vicinity. Best to let the magic finish, and dispose of the creature.

The spirit of the woman embraced the boy’s body, turning to face the same direction. Her form compacted to fit in the body, the flesh growing to join it. The child grew, growing thin and stretched to encompass the lifetime of experience, the knowledge, and the skill of the woman’s spirit. Nicodemus felt the magic being drained from his own wells, body using his negative energy to feed the growth. The process took a mere couple of moments, a couple of moments that spanned what should have been years of growth and learning. Without careful ministrations from the lich, that process could have unknown consequences.

His features were smooth, stretch marks nowhere in sight. The only consequence of the rapid growth seemed to be an unhealthy thinness. The golden hair and amber eyes remained, as well as the basest of features of a male, but otherwise, he had grown quite feminine. Soft skin and graceful, delicate features. Nicodemus put it down to the mixing of spirits and minds of separate genders. Sighing, he approached the prone form, not seeing breath drawn from its lips. It did not breathe. By all appearances, it was dead. Bending low, he touched two fingers to its throat. There was a heartbeat, fast-paced, as if excited. Frowning, he looked again, observing its energies. Life and death were in turmoil, blending here and there slowly. Piece by piece negative and positive energy blended, forming a shade of gray, definitive of a dying creature.

The boy sat up quickly, gasping to the full extent it could bear. Silence followed the gasp, setting everything present still, wary. A small sound began from the back of its throat, growing into a full-throated scream. Clapping a hand to his own ear, Nicodemus stepped back. He felt magic touching the howl, primal and hostile. It caused aches all over his body, aches which he had no doubt would have him writhing if not for his defenses.

The man-child fell forward, resting on its forearms, chest heaving. Sneering at its frailty, Nicodemus stood straight, brandishing his wand. “I’m sorry, child. I’ve no use for you.” Drawing in his strength, the lich released a massive pain spell, the magic stimulating nerves so sharply and severely, sores began festering up on the boy’s body almost immediately. He pushed the spell, trying to overload his senses.
The boy screamed again and again, writhing and moaning, but never blacking out. All the while its eyes darted back and forth, nose bleeding freely, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth where he had bitten into his tongue. He scraped at the stone of the ground until his nails splintered, falling forward. Slamming his fist against the ground again and again, he tried to block out the pain, drawing it away. Clenching his teeth, he punched the stone harder, skin splitting and bone fracturing.

Nicodemus frowned at his resilience. The pain was not working, and it hadn’t taken half as much for the old priest’s heart to give out. Reaching into his pouch, he tried a new approach.
The lich drew forward a handful of metal discs, razor sharp and carved with runes. Curling his wrist, he flung them at the boy. The discs hummed as they began moving on their own, adjusting their course to slice into the boy. Discs darted in, slicing flesh and stinging bone as they cut deeper with every pass. The man rolled on the floor, trying to get away from the blades.

The blades flashed with light as each disappeared, reappearing in Nicodemus’ hand. Smiling, he lay them gently back into his pouch. The boy was finally limp, lying in a pool of blood and slivers of flesh, carved from his body by the vicious attacks. Clear liquid seeped from the sores covering his body.
He is done.
The three acolytes and the grayback walked towards the door in unison, waiting outside. Nicodemus followed slowly, stopping to check his pulse. The heartbeats were gone. Satisfied, he left the building.

The boy’s clouded eyes sparked.

The silence of the room was broken with a heavy thump. Slowly beat after beat came, faster and faster until it had a steady rhythm.
Wake up, Jruem.
He blinked slowly, moving in a pile of his own dried blood. Dust stirred from atop his back, the time having lay its own blanket on him.
Wake, son.
The woman’s voice filled his mind. Wake up.
You’re needed, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood.
Jruem lifted his hand, days of insects scurrying away. Curling his fingers, he began moving.
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