There was a bird singing somewhere off in the wood beyond his window, a sad, mournful sound that bade goodnight to the sun and ushered in the coming twilight. The tower, which had a few weeks ago been nothing more than a crumbling ruin, was lit up in a pleasant orange light, one that turned the white-washed walls to gold and copper, turned glass into sheets of fire, and set their reflections dancing like gemstones across the moth-eaten rugs that hid the floor from view.
It was in this early dusk-light that the Necromancer sat transfixed at his desk, staring off into the aether while the tip of his quill hovered above a blank piece of parchment, dripping ink. He’d sat down to write a few quick letters to those contacts who, back in his hometown of Aramanthea, had not cut him off upon learning his trade, but when it came time to put pen to paper, he’d found himself at a loss for what to say.
The Necromancer did not fit the necromantic mould. He was not old, but relatively young, fixed somewhere in his late twenties and with all the straight-backed posture of an aristocrat, his excommunication had not robbed him of his youth or looks. Perhaps, if one was to lessen their pride, they might admit that there were a few more lines creasing his brow than there used to be, but who was here to say it?
He had a pair of eyes that glittered like amber in the light, and soft golden hair that dried in natural waves and shone like copper in the evening light. His frame was that of the socialite, and while his arms and legs were not completely devoid of muscle, his was a body that had seen very, very little manual labour.
As for his clothes, the Necromancer had been lucky in escaping the city with the majority of his vast wardrobe. Perhaps yes, several of his coats were frayed and his boots were scuffed, but that was only because he had not found a tailor amongst his thralls.
With a growing blotch of wasted ink spreading across his still empty letter, Morgan Lafayette gave a discreet curse and dropped his quill back into its inkwell and collapsed ungracefully back into his chair. Never at any one point in his life had he found himself without words, and to be so profoundly stumped was something he was very unaccustomed to.
“Y’alright?” The voice came from behind, and Morgan gave a sort of twitch, having forgotten that particular corpse standing by the door.
“Peachy.” The reply came a few moments later, tersely. “I have friends enough left in the city, but my name, my fortune, my political position, all ruined.” Drumming his fingers, the conjurer gave another, less quiet curse and got to his feet. “I would return a devil-worshiping nothing! The peons would stone me to death where I stood, and that would be if they were lucky to get to me before Aurelius did. That bastard had it out for me since the day I took my father’s place in the senate! It was that bitch of a wife of his that outed me to him, I know it! Teach me to sleep with a married woman again, the viper!”
That comment earned him a look from the corpse-on-guard, one that Morgan noted and tossed to the four winds without care. As far as he was concerned, the Revenant that was called Lucius West could stick his peasant ideals right up his unemployed arse.
West’s lips moved again, from a grimace to a thin, pursed line, and then back.
“What d’you reckon these friends could do for you, then?”
“Ah, who knows?” Lifting a hand, Morgan ran fingers through his curls in a frustrated gesture. “Appeal my position, maybe. Allow me to at least sort through my assets, sell some things before my banishment. Likely I’d just put them under observation as well, or perhaps Aurelius would even have them arrested for aiding me in my escape, God knows.” Scowling, Morgan turned to a row of vials on a nearby shelf and began picking through them. “Not that any of the louts actually raised a hand to help me in my flight. No, no, that was entirely me on my two legs, and carrying what few possessions I could. They confiscated my horses first, the devils. My poor beasts, probably auctioned off to slaughterhouses to further spite me!”
Across the room, Mr. West nodded. He’d come up originally to light the evening lanterns, but when Lafayette fell into a tangent, the safest thing to do was always listen. Listen and nod, agree when asked and frown when appropriate. Of course, that was mostly guidelines that he’d learned. Given that he had a very expressive pair of dead eyes, Lucius sometimes found it hard not to roll them.
At that precise moment, Lafayette was fiddling with a pair of beakers, shuffling their fillings back and forth before replacing them. He fiddled with a valve upon a burning rack, connected a tube here, removed an element from one vial with a thin pair of silver tweezers, then stood back as the beaker set currently over the flame belched a cloud of smoke. The liquid within, which had been black as tar, blanched. The resulting white liquid was removed and poured half into a slightly rusted syringe, and the rest added to a large vial that was moved over to an adjacent shelf.
“Open that.” The Necromancer made a vague wave in the direction of West’s chest, and with an inward groan, the corpse unbuttoned the first few clasps on his shirt, barely having time to get his hands out of the way as his master stabbed him directly in the center of the chest with the syringe. The plunger was dropped, the needle was extracted, and Lucius was left cramping and near doubled as his undead body processed its newest dose of life-granting syrup, whatever it was.
“Language.” Morgan eyed him shrewdly before setting the syringe aside. “You don’t feel pain, I’ve told you a thousand times already. 92% of your nerves are dead, Pet. What you are experiencing is muscle-memory, coupled with a recognizing of pressure and weight. Your living-memory is telling you—“
“That I feel pain, I know.” Rubbing at his chest, Lucius would have argued that if there was any point at all to it. Morgan, for all his irritating bureaucratic ways, could have argued that the sky was green and by the end you would concede. He had that effect.
“You’re perhaps the newest corpse in the yard outside, that’s why your memories are so strong. You’ll adjust in time.” The Necromancer resumed his seat by the window and began to wipe away a splotch of ink, leaving West to his own devices.
His purpose returned, West removed a battered packet of matches from his pocket and began to light the lanterns littered about the room. Dusk-Light always brought shadows, which impeded his master’s ability to read, and that was another argument altogether. Much easier just to comply.
With the last wick lit, West shook out the match and flicked the charred stick out the window, then paused to stare out over their home.
Morgan had taken up residence in what had once been a church. Down below his spire, the main facility had been turned into a laboratory of sorts, something that Lucius had not been too certain of but his lack of religious upbringing had made no other comment.
Next to the church was a partially evicted graveyard, with perhaps one fifth of its contents either resurrected or rejected. Therein lay the difference, as Morgan had put it, between scientific necromancy and the more demonic version.
“I can manipulate dead flesh and tissue to walk and talk, yes, but bringing a pile of bones back to life? I can no more grow new skin and muscle from thin air than I can conjure a rabbit from my hat.”
Lucius had bit back a comment about having seen a young woman do just that in a pub once.
To his immediate left, and just beyond the window that Morgan looked out on from his desk sat the camp. It was a sad sort of array of motley tents, ramshackle lean-to’s, and not much else.
