A crisp autumn breeze meandered through Steppeshadow as a young man entered the town. Vigas Supant was an odd looking human; he had the heavy features of a northerner, but lacked the dark hair and warm complexion one would expect. His flesh was pallid, almost white, and his hair was a deep grey, despite him standing on the brink of his twenties. As he walked through the town, people recoiled, ever so slightly, and a great number traversed the very edges of the street to be as far from him as possible. He chuckled, his voice echoing one from a pocket on his robe, just over his right shoulder blade. A small head, with large ears and red glowing eyes poked out of the pocket, impossibly. The head alone was the size of the pocket, and the rest of the creature couldn’t be that disproportionate. Stitches cut the bat’s face and scalp into six pieces, all with slightly different fur.
“What do you think, Otho?” Vigas’ voice reverberated his through the link he shared with his familiar. “Do they fear my emptiness or my craft?”
The bat crawled the rest of the way out of the pocket and sat on Vigas’ shoulder, hiding from the bright sunlight under his long hair. “Hard to tell.” Otho’s response echoed in his master’s head, “Well, now there’s a nice sounding inn, the Desiccated Mermaid.”
“Charming. Well, maybe we’ll find some other students in there.” Vigas crossed the street and entered the inn, whispers and frightened glances followed as he walked up to the bar. “A lager and a shot glass of mead, sir. What do you have on the fire today?” he asked the dwarf behind the counter.
The dwarf glanced up at him dismissively, “Nothing for you, empty-boy.” He said, looking over Vigas’ red trimmed black robe and black leather boots, all of it dusty from travel.
“Bullshit, I saw two tables full of necromancers; now give me my damned drinks.”
“It’s not yer craft, its yer vacant eyes. Now get lost, go stick yer grey shriveled dick in a zombie.” The tavern owner replied.
Vigas’ hand shot out, emerging from his long robe sleeves for the first time since walking into town. The slit along the sleeve’s bottom let it fall from his shoulder, revealing the gaunt, leathery grey upper arm, skeletal lower arm and hand and the stitches and scarred flesh holding the arm to his shoulder, and the two halves together, respectively. The bare hand bones now clenched the dwarf’s thick neck. A wave of black energy coursed out of the dwarf and up Vigas’ arm. “My drinks, or your blood, you hairy stepstool,” he spat.
“Get yer hand off me,” the dwarf choked, “before me wife summons the guard.” His eyes looked towards a slim elf woman, with submissive eyes, looking out from around a timber pillar.
“Shitty bluff, shorty. This is an adventurer’s tavern; the town guard will steer clear.” Vigas smiled a cruel smile, “Which just leaves you and me.” Most everyone was looking up at the bar, save those averting their eyes to avoid a conflict.
A tall half-ogre walked up from beside the door, “Fucking Lucien’s gleaming ass, Boris! Give him his thrice damned drinks already!” he shouted. “I’m tired of this shit; you turn away every other person that comes through that door, ‘too old’, ‘too young’, ‘too fat’, ‘you’re a medusa.’ You’re a fucking asshole, and you’re risking everyone’s lives, and costing us money.” The bouncer was at the counter now, and walking behind the bar. He pulled out a metal tankard, and a shot glass, filling them from bottles labeled Ice Dragon Lager and Dryad Ale. “Here are your drinks; would you take your hand off this doorstop with the social graces of a dark elf chain?” He said to Vigas, handing them to him.
“Sure, since everyone’s being so nice…” Vigas said, dropping the dwarf and taking the two containers. He made his way to a table near the other necromancers and set them down.
“Some gods-damned bouncer you are, Kerisk!” the dwarf could be heard shouting over the din of a tavern returning to its own business. “You’re supposed to take tripe like that out by the back of their broken neck!” The half-ogre murmured something in response, and walked back to his post as the dwarf shouted “Yeah fuck ya and yer squishy-loving mother too, ya damned giant!” after him. Otho crawled down Vigas’ sleeve to the table, where he positioned himself next to the shot glass. “Well, told you this looked like a good place, they don’t want to serve your kind. Oh… sweet Kysa, take me now… her too.” Otho said, looking at a slightly clad orc at the next table over. She wore dark furs and animal teeth, with a thick tome buckled shut resting on the table next to her. She caught the eye of the elf-woman that was married to Boris and beckoned her over. Kysa was the goddess of sex and sexuality, and a favorite of Otho’s, despite the lack of even one bat testicle in the vicinity of Vigas’ workshop when he stitched Otho together. The elf took a moment to weave her way through the rowdy crowd, her rear sure to be forever bruised from some of the pinches she received in the boisterous crowd.
“Whatever’s on the fire, Ilsa.” The orc said, “two helpings, please.”
“Right away Ms. Emano.” The elf replied, obviously grateful to be speaking to a regular rather than just another horny traveler.
“See ya, kid, I spy a rafter positioned to be one of the best seats in the house.” Otho said. The mismatched bat flew over to a rafter right above Ms. Emano’s seat, and if anyone saw him, they could probably tell he was enjoying the view down her leather-bodice. Vigas sighed as his familiar left. “Hey, want a peek? There are perks to our link, ya’know.” Otho’s stitches and mismatched fur continued over his body, including two wings just slightly different sizes, causing him to cant to the left as he flew.
Vigas ignored his familiar’s peepshow, and looked around. The tavern was filled with the usual adventurous types, many different parties, in various states of cleanliness. Some of the parties looked over maps and tomes, others played Dragon Cards, a couple bards from different parties had gotten onto the stage and were competing to see who the better performer was. One was dressed in white robes with sunburst patterns embroidered into them, and a large, stern metal face extending out into a sunburst pattern hung around his neck. This was Lucien’s holy symbol, marking him as a particularly devoted follower of the sun god. He launched into a beautiful litany of hymns from Lucien’s lesser rituals, namely those that outsiders were permitted to hear. He sang several of these hymns, following one with a single breathe and the next song. As he finished, there was a small smattering of polite applause from his party and several people scattered around the tavern dressed in similar manners, all carrying Lucien’s holy symbol. It was otherwise met with boos, especially from the tables of necromancers, along with various rude or profane gestures, such as the Corniu, formed by closing one’s fist around their thumb, and sticking their thumb in between their middle and third fingers. This was a particularly vile gesture when presented to a follower of Lucien as it symbolized the hand of Marthis clasped around the sun, as if his grasp was so complete that only the tip of Lucien’s thumb could escape. Lucien particularly despised undead and those that would craft or use them, so the very act of singing his songs in the presence of the necromancers was nigh an act of aggression itself. The second bard was more to the crowd’s liking. He pulled out a small V-shaped mandolin and a stone, and played drinking songs, especially Lord Foul’s Bones, a song about the murder of the fabled noble, and the stashing of his body in a cask of ale, creating a grey brew that intoxicated more completely than any other, causing even dwarves to risk inebriation at the imbibing of the vile solution. This song was a favorite of necromancers, especially when the last verse is included as it ends in the now-skeletal noble arising from a centuries long sleep, breaking his way out of the cask, and making more with the bodies of his murderer’s descendants, and peddling it as holy brew in several temples, including those of Lucien, while robed in thick cloth. The two tables of necromancers had pulled various bones out of their packs and thrown them into the pitchers at their tables. Then, each necromancer in turn closed their eyes, took a mug poured by a fellow, chugged it down and tried to identify what kind of bone he had almost swallowed, before opening their mouth with the bone clenched in their teeth to show their compatriots, spitting it out, and pouring a drink for the next one. This was the traditional drinking game that accompanied the song, both of which had been outlawed in many areas, on penalty of death, since usually the bones come from the players’ ransacking of the town’s graveyard. The small rock was an Amplifying Stone, beloved by bar-players because of it’s ability to play the music produced by any instrument attuned to it loud enough to be heard over the bar’s patrons, and because it only weighed a pound or so. A fight broke out amidst the deafening applause to Lord Foul’s Bones, as the five or so followers of Lucien launched themselves at the tables of death-dealers. Though several necromancers were hit hard by smiting blows from paladins of Lucien, the magicians had the numbers and the strength, and soundly smacked the holier than thou Lucienites so hard several of them were dragged out of the bar towards Lucien’s temple so they could be resurrected. Emano simply stayed out of the fight and opened the tome next to her to peruse as she ate the roast meat piled high on the plate that Ilsa had brought to her. Vigas watched the row with great amusement, tapping a couple Lucienites on the head as they sprawled next to his table in a momentary spill to drain their strength or wrack their beings with a vampirizing touch. As the brawl broke up and people were dragged to temple slabs to be risen or beds to sleep it off, Vigas looked over at the orc’s tome, wondering whether or not she was a wizard. The strange glyphs and scrawls of text said she was, and that she was perusing a book on spell theory, while the grim diagrams denoted it as pertaining to necromancy. He took a chance and moved his things over to her table, including Otho’s shot glass of mead. He sat down and imposed himself, “may I share this table, Ms. Emano?” he said.
“Piss off, Stannos; you’re not getting any from me.” She said without looking up, “Try that scrawny bitch Steaph.”
“Actually my name’s Vigas, and I was merely wondering if you’re a student of the Academy.” He corrected.
Ms. Emano looked up at Vigas’ pallid face, “Oh, sorry, for a second there you sounded like a second year student I know… Yeah, I’m a student of the academy, just joined. My name’s Tabith.” She said, apologizing and moving some books and her bag out of a chair next to her. A growl issued from below the table and a large black bird fluttered down from a rafter near the stage. “Easy guys, it’s not Stannos.” She said, reaching under the table, and petting the raven’s head with one finger of the other hand.
“So I take it this is your familiar,” Vigas said, gesturing to the corvid drinking from Tabith’s tankard before taking off for the rafter again, “So what’s under the table?”
“My companion, Syrasi.” Tabith replied, “I’m doubly trained as druid and necromancer, in fact my necromancy actually comes from the divine and arcane.”
“That’s a remarkable rarity; double training is difficult to say the least I hear.”
“So I’ve seen,” Tabith said, coyly. Magic in Primus, the central plane in the multiverse, comes in two forms, arcane and divine. Divine magic is that which comes from the gods, or some other higher power, so clerics and other devotees of the gods, which includes both good and evil gods, such as paladins and their opposites, dark crusaders, along with people who receive their magic from nature and wilderness, such as the druids and rangers are divine casters. Arcane magic is that magic which is seized by the intelligent races for their own purposes from the planet around them, or, less commonly, derived from some creature, such as the innate magic that warlocks receive in their deals with various chaotic and evil forces, or the magic to be had by siphoning the blood of dragons. Wizards study dusty tomes for many sleepless nights to unlock this power, while sorcerers are born with the power coursing through their veins, supposedly by having a magical creature such as a dragon, fiend, celestial or elemental in their family tree, or just by being born in an area drenched in eldritch energy, this latter case being far less common. “So have you actually joined yet?” Tabith asked.
“No, I just got into town and figured we’d get a drink and find someone who knew what in the nine hells they were doing to guide me through it.”
“We? Got a familiar in your pocket?”
“Actually, on the rafter above you.” Vigas replied, pointing to Otho sitting on the rafter. “That’s Otho. Made him myself.” He said, mocking the pride of a child for their first art project. “Pretty nice entertainment for such a small town,” he said, surveying the smashed furniture that stood silent testimony to the fight that had broken out only moments ago. “I’m surprised the academy is in a small town, I’d thought they generally chased our kind away with pitchforks and torches.”
“Well, the town enjoys the protection it gets from having so many powerful people reside in or pass through it, though don’t expect your coin to be any good through most of the town, only the places that genuinely cater towards adventurers can afford to take it.”
“So what do I use to buy a loaf of bread, a turnip?”
“Yes. Either that or some other form of food. Think of the commoner’s having calories as a form of currency, and the basic unit is one thousand calories, enough to keep a commoner alive for a day. That’s about two cups of dry rice, twelve ounces of meat, or five cups of beans. A lot of people refer to the unit as a ration, and it’s actually entirely possible and accepted to buy trail rations here and use them for currency among the peasants.”
“So why don’t the commoner’s take coin?”
“Because they don’t. The commoner that takes coin dies a rich man, because while they admit it’s valuable, they can’t trade it to their fellows for food, and so by taking coin they’re actually essentially going hungry for a day. There’s also the fact that the people in power, if nothing else, can all agree that peasants shouldn’t have money, and powerful people will take it from them, lest their enemies do the same.”
“So you’re telling me that if a dirt farmer found a bag of gems, he wouldn’t pick it up?”
“No, he’d leave it because it would only cause him trouble. He might, if a particularly risk taking dirt farmer, pick it up and take it to give to an adventurer or one of the establishments in town that has a use for the gems. But even that’s risky because half the adventurers in town would just stab him and take the gems. The temple of Lucien would at least give him a wagon full of food in exchange, and that food is something he can use, he might even get enough to allow his son to eat five thousand calories a day for some time and grow to be in a fighting condition such that he can leave the farm and adventure, or at least eat two thousand calories a day and become a tradesman.” Tabith explained. “So do you have an idea of how the academy works? It’s both classes and independent study, and they also do some straight training. I’m taking Craftmaster Renard’s Further Research into the Morphology of the Undead, Professor Stren’s Natural Unlife, Master Patt’s adventuring lessons, and Headmaster Strahdbirn’s Blood Magic course.”
“Wait, what are those, I mean, I get Blood Magic, but what are the further research into the morphology of the undead and natural unlife? And what’s with the adventuring course?”
“Oh, well, Further Research is just designing new forms of undead, and the adventuring course is really just making sure that we know how to adventure properly. Party roles and knowledges that are handy and all that.”
“And natural unlife?”
“Oh, it’s an experimental offering predicating the theory that Undeath is a natural state, based on the notion that negative energy, which, as you should know, fuels undead, is naturally occurring just as fire and water, and, indeed, positive energy, are.”
“Interesting. Well, I’ll have to see what other courses are being offered, but, if you need a fellow adventurer, I could certainly do it. Do I need to actually take the course?”
“No, in fact Master Patt encourages us to find party mates that aren’t in the class. I’ve got to find a sneak, but the combatant is already covered, he’s a first year death warrior that trains with Patt.” Tabith finished the last bit of meat on her plate, “I was about to go off and find a sneak, would you like to come with me?”
“Sure. Let me get Otho.” Vigas said, picking up his pack and gulping down the last of his drink. “Otho, we’re ready to go.” Otho flew down and perched on Vigas’ neck, hiding under his hair in preparation for the sunlight again. Tabith held her thick arm out with her hand closed, and her raven fluttered over to it. She picked up a scrap of gristle from her plate and gave it to the bird, and it walked up her arm to sit on her shoulder. Syrasi stood up and received another, slightly larger piece of gristle from the plate and the group left the bar in the wide path that opened for them.
“So, I noticed the grafts on your arm, interesting that you have two grafts on one arm. What kind are they?”
“Oh, I’ve a rather talented grafter where I come from who was able to do it. My upper arm is vampire and allows me to use their enervating touch a couple times a day, I suppose it could be increased if I gave it a surplus of blood, as it seems to run off of mine. I’ll have to remember to try that sometime… the lower arm is actually a simple skeletal arm, I’m not sure why they give the grafted wearer a weakening touch though.”
“We’ve actually looked into that in morphology research, we’re trying to research a ritual or spell that will give normal risen skeletons the same ability. You may want to talk to Craftmaster Renard, he’d be very interested in your arm.” Tabith said, we haven’t had anyone’s graft to look at, as just having one is extraordinarily rare, and we don’t have any pale masters at the school, so it might be worth scheduling with him to pop by the class so we can all take a look.”
“I’ll think about it, so where are we headed?”
“The Thief’s Den, the actual thieves’ guild, the Broken Hand, while well known, is hard to find, and they’d likely kill us just for finding it without the intention of joining, but their tavern is easy to find, and stay away from, but, we’re not doing that, we’re walking right in. Keep your pockets and pouches covered, and let’s drop our packs in my room at the academy so we don’t have to worry about those.”
Pale masters are the poor man’s arcane necromancer. Rather than specializing in the iconic necromantic mastermind followed by his legion of death, the pale master is a wizard who sought the quick path to necromantic power and finds at the end of it that he’s still no better than a necromancer who sought the magic of the gods, but rather clad in the bones of his enemies, and living in fear that his undead arm will be harvested by choppers to be sold as a weakening arm.
“What do you think, Otho?” Vigas’ voice reverberated his through the link he shared with his familiar. “Do they fear my emptiness or my craft?”
The bat crawled the rest of the way out of the pocket and sat on Vigas’ shoulder, hiding from the bright sunlight under his long hair. “Hard to tell.” Otho’s response echoed in his master’s head, “Well, now there’s a nice sounding inn, the Desiccated Mermaid.”
“Charming. Well, maybe we’ll find some other students in there.” Vigas crossed the street and entered the inn, whispers and frightened glances followed as he walked up to the bar. “A lager and a shot glass of mead, sir. What do you have on the fire today?” he asked the dwarf behind the counter.
The dwarf glanced up at him dismissively, “Nothing for you, empty-boy.” He said, looking over Vigas’ red trimmed black robe and black leather boots, all of it dusty from travel.
“Bullshit, I saw two tables full of necromancers; now give me my damned drinks.”
“It’s not yer craft, its yer vacant eyes. Now get lost, go stick yer grey shriveled dick in a zombie.” The tavern owner replied.
Vigas’ hand shot out, emerging from his long robe sleeves for the first time since walking into town. The slit along the sleeve’s bottom let it fall from his shoulder, revealing the gaunt, leathery grey upper arm, skeletal lower arm and hand and the stitches and scarred flesh holding the arm to his shoulder, and the two halves together, respectively. The bare hand bones now clenched the dwarf’s thick neck. A wave of black energy coursed out of the dwarf and up Vigas’ arm. “My drinks, or your blood, you hairy stepstool,” he spat.
“Get yer hand off me,” the dwarf choked, “before me wife summons the guard.” His eyes looked towards a slim elf woman, with submissive eyes, looking out from around a timber pillar.
“Shitty bluff, shorty. This is an adventurer’s tavern; the town guard will steer clear.” Vigas smiled a cruel smile, “Which just leaves you and me.” Most everyone was looking up at the bar, save those averting their eyes to avoid a conflict.
A tall half-ogre walked up from beside the door, “Fucking Lucien’s gleaming ass, Boris! Give him his thrice damned drinks already!” he shouted. “I’m tired of this shit; you turn away every other person that comes through that door, ‘too old’, ‘too young’, ‘too fat’, ‘you’re a medusa.’ You’re a fucking asshole, and you’re risking everyone’s lives, and costing us money.” The bouncer was at the counter now, and walking behind the bar. He pulled out a metal tankard, and a shot glass, filling them from bottles labeled Ice Dragon Lager and Dryad Ale. “Here are your drinks; would you take your hand off this doorstop with the social graces of a dark elf chain?” He said to Vigas, handing them to him.
“Sure, since everyone’s being so nice…” Vigas said, dropping the dwarf and taking the two containers. He made his way to a table near the other necromancers and set them down.
“Some gods-damned bouncer you are, Kerisk!” the dwarf could be heard shouting over the din of a tavern returning to its own business. “You’re supposed to take tripe like that out by the back of their broken neck!” The half-ogre murmured something in response, and walked back to his post as the dwarf shouted “Yeah fuck ya and yer squishy-loving mother too, ya damned giant!” after him. Otho crawled down Vigas’ sleeve to the table, where he positioned himself next to the shot glass. “Well, told you this looked like a good place, they don’t want to serve your kind. Oh… sweet Kysa, take me now… her too.” Otho said, looking at a slightly clad orc at the next table over. She wore dark furs and animal teeth, with a thick tome buckled shut resting on the table next to her. She caught the eye of the elf-woman that was married to Boris and beckoned her over. Kysa was the goddess of sex and sexuality, and a favorite of Otho’s, despite the lack of even one bat testicle in the vicinity of Vigas’ workshop when he stitched Otho together. The elf took a moment to weave her way through the rowdy crowd, her rear sure to be forever bruised from some of the pinches she received in the boisterous crowd.
“Whatever’s on the fire, Ilsa.” The orc said, “two helpings, please.”
“Right away Ms. Emano.” The elf replied, obviously grateful to be speaking to a regular rather than just another horny traveler.
“See ya, kid, I spy a rafter positioned to be one of the best seats in the house.” Otho said. The mismatched bat flew over to a rafter right above Ms. Emano’s seat, and if anyone saw him, they could probably tell he was enjoying the view down her leather-bodice. Vigas sighed as his familiar left. “Hey, want a peek? There are perks to our link, ya’know.” Otho’s stitches and mismatched fur continued over his body, including two wings just slightly different sizes, causing him to cant to the left as he flew.
Vigas ignored his familiar’s peepshow, and looked around. The tavern was filled with the usual adventurous types, many different parties, in various states of cleanliness. Some of the parties looked over maps and tomes, others played Dragon Cards, a couple bards from different parties had gotten onto the stage and were competing to see who the better performer was. One was dressed in white robes with sunburst patterns embroidered into them, and a large, stern metal face extending out into a sunburst pattern hung around his neck. This was Lucien’s holy symbol, marking him as a particularly devoted follower of the sun god. He launched into a beautiful litany of hymns from Lucien’s lesser rituals, namely those that outsiders were permitted to hear. He sang several of these hymns, following one with a single breathe and the next song. As he finished, there was a small smattering of polite applause from his party and several people scattered around the tavern dressed in similar manners, all carrying Lucien’s holy symbol. It was otherwise met with boos, especially from the tables of necromancers, along with various rude or profane gestures, such as the Corniu, formed by closing one’s fist around their thumb, and sticking their thumb in between their middle and third fingers. This was a particularly vile gesture when presented to a follower of Lucien as it symbolized the hand of Marthis clasped around the sun, as if his grasp was so complete that only the tip of Lucien’s thumb could escape. Lucien particularly despised undead and those that would craft or use them, so the very act of singing his songs in the presence of the necromancers was nigh an act of aggression itself. The second bard was more to the crowd’s liking. He pulled out a small V-shaped mandolin and a stone, and played drinking songs, especially Lord Foul’s Bones, a song about the murder of the fabled noble, and the stashing of his body in a cask of ale, creating a grey brew that intoxicated more completely than any other, causing even dwarves to risk inebriation at the imbibing of the vile solution. This song was a favorite of necromancers, especially when the last verse is included as it ends in the now-skeletal noble arising from a centuries long sleep, breaking his way out of the cask, and making more with the bodies of his murderer’s descendants, and peddling it as holy brew in several temples, including those of Lucien, while robed in thick cloth. The two tables of necromancers had pulled various bones out of their packs and thrown them into the pitchers at their tables. Then, each necromancer in turn closed their eyes, took a mug poured by a fellow, chugged it down and tried to identify what kind of bone he had almost swallowed, before opening their mouth with the bone clenched in their teeth to show their compatriots, spitting it out, and pouring a drink for the next one. This was the traditional drinking game that accompanied the song, both of which had been outlawed in many areas, on penalty of death, since usually the bones come from the players’ ransacking of the town’s graveyard. The small rock was an Amplifying Stone, beloved by bar-players because of it’s ability to play the music produced by any instrument attuned to it loud enough to be heard over the bar’s patrons, and because it only weighed a pound or so. A fight broke out amidst the deafening applause to Lord Foul’s Bones, as the five or so followers of Lucien launched themselves at the tables of death-dealers. Though several necromancers were hit hard by smiting blows from paladins of Lucien, the magicians had the numbers and the strength, and soundly smacked the holier than thou Lucienites so hard several of them were dragged out of the bar towards Lucien’s temple so they could be resurrected. Emano simply stayed out of the fight and opened the tome next to her to peruse as she ate the roast meat piled high on the plate that Ilsa had brought to her. Vigas watched the row with great amusement, tapping a couple Lucienites on the head as they sprawled next to his table in a momentary spill to drain their strength or wrack their beings with a vampirizing touch. As the brawl broke up and people were dragged to temple slabs to be risen or beds to sleep it off, Vigas looked over at the orc’s tome, wondering whether or not she was a wizard. The strange glyphs and scrawls of text said she was, and that she was perusing a book on spell theory, while the grim diagrams denoted it as pertaining to necromancy. He took a chance and moved his things over to her table, including Otho’s shot glass of mead. He sat down and imposed himself, “may I share this table, Ms. Emano?” he said.
“Piss off, Stannos; you’re not getting any from me.” She said without looking up, “Try that scrawny bitch Steaph.”
“Actually my name’s Vigas, and I was merely wondering if you’re a student of the Academy.” He corrected.
Ms. Emano looked up at Vigas’ pallid face, “Oh, sorry, for a second there you sounded like a second year student I know… Yeah, I’m a student of the academy, just joined. My name’s Tabith.” She said, apologizing and moving some books and her bag out of a chair next to her. A growl issued from below the table and a large black bird fluttered down from a rafter near the stage. “Easy guys, it’s not Stannos.” She said, reaching under the table, and petting the raven’s head with one finger of the other hand.
“So I take it this is your familiar,” Vigas said, gesturing to the corvid drinking from Tabith’s tankard before taking off for the rafter again, “So what’s under the table?”
“My companion, Syrasi.” Tabith replied, “I’m doubly trained as druid and necromancer, in fact my necromancy actually comes from the divine and arcane.”
“That’s a remarkable rarity; double training is difficult to say the least I hear.”
“So I’ve seen,” Tabith said, coyly. Magic in Primus, the central plane in the multiverse, comes in two forms, arcane and divine. Divine magic is that which comes from the gods, or some other higher power, so clerics and other devotees of the gods, which includes both good and evil gods, such as paladins and their opposites, dark crusaders, along with people who receive their magic from nature and wilderness, such as the druids and rangers are divine casters. Arcane magic is that magic which is seized by the intelligent races for their own purposes from the planet around them, or, less commonly, derived from some creature, such as the innate magic that warlocks receive in their deals with various chaotic and evil forces, or the magic to be had by siphoning the blood of dragons. Wizards study dusty tomes for many sleepless nights to unlock this power, while sorcerers are born with the power coursing through their veins, supposedly by having a magical creature such as a dragon, fiend, celestial or elemental in their family tree, or just by being born in an area drenched in eldritch energy, this latter case being far less common. “So have you actually joined yet?” Tabith asked.
“No, I just got into town and figured we’d get a drink and find someone who knew what in the nine hells they were doing to guide me through it.”
“We? Got a familiar in your pocket?”
“Actually, on the rafter above you.” Vigas replied, pointing to Otho sitting on the rafter. “That’s Otho. Made him myself.” He said, mocking the pride of a child for their first art project. “Pretty nice entertainment for such a small town,” he said, surveying the smashed furniture that stood silent testimony to the fight that had broken out only moments ago. “I’m surprised the academy is in a small town, I’d thought they generally chased our kind away with pitchforks and torches.”
“Well, the town enjoys the protection it gets from having so many powerful people reside in or pass through it, though don’t expect your coin to be any good through most of the town, only the places that genuinely cater towards adventurers can afford to take it.”
“So what do I use to buy a loaf of bread, a turnip?”
“Yes. Either that or some other form of food. Think of the commoner’s having calories as a form of currency, and the basic unit is one thousand calories, enough to keep a commoner alive for a day. That’s about two cups of dry rice, twelve ounces of meat, or five cups of beans. A lot of people refer to the unit as a ration, and it’s actually entirely possible and accepted to buy trail rations here and use them for currency among the peasants.”
“So why don’t the commoner’s take coin?”
“Because they don’t. The commoner that takes coin dies a rich man, because while they admit it’s valuable, they can’t trade it to their fellows for food, and so by taking coin they’re actually essentially going hungry for a day. There’s also the fact that the people in power, if nothing else, can all agree that peasants shouldn’t have money, and powerful people will take it from them, lest their enemies do the same.”
“So you’re telling me that if a dirt farmer found a bag of gems, he wouldn’t pick it up?”
“No, he’d leave it because it would only cause him trouble. He might, if a particularly risk taking dirt farmer, pick it up and take it to give to an adventurer or one of the establishments in town that has a use for the gems. But even that’s risky because half the adventurers in town would just stab him and take the gems. The temple of Lucien would at least give him a wagon full of food in exchange, and that food is something he can use, he might even get enough to allow his son to eat five thousand calories a day for some time and grow to be in a fighting condition such that he can leave the farm and adventure, or at least eat two thousand calories a day and become a tradesman.” Tabith explained. “So do you have an idea of how the academy works? It’s both classes and independent study, and they also do some straight training. I’m taking Craftmaster Renard’s Further Research into the Morphology of the Undead, Professor Stren’s Natural Unlife, Master Patt’s adventuring lessons, and Headmaster Strahdbirn’s Blood Magic course.”
“Wait, what are those, I mean, I get Blood Magic, but what are the further research into the morphology of the undead and natural unlife? And what’s with the adventuring course?”
“Oh, well, Further Research is just designing new forms of undead, and the adventuring course is really just making sure that we know how to adventure properly. Party roles and knowledges that are handy and all that.”
“And natural unlife?”
“Oh, it’s an experimental offering predicating the theory that Undeath is a natural state, based on the notion that negative energy, which, as you should know, fuels undead, is naturally occurring just as fire and water, and, indeed, positive energy, are.”
“Interesting. Well, I’ll have to see what other courses are being offered, but, if you need a fellow adventurer, I could certainly do it. Do I need to actually take the course?”
“No, in fact Master Patt encourages us to find party mates that aren’t in the class. I’ve got to find a sneak, but the combatant is already covered, he’s a first year death warrior that trains with Patt.” Tabith finished the last bit of meat on her plate, “I was about to go off and find a sneak, would you like to come with me?”
“Sure. Let me get Otho.” Vigas said, picking up his pack and gulping down the last of his drink. “Otho, we’re ready to go.” Otho flew down and perched on Vigas’ neck, hiding under his hair in preparation for the sunlight again. Tabith held her thick arm out with her hand closed, and her raven fluttered over to it. She picked up a scrap of gristle from her plate and gave it to the bird, and it walked up her arm to sit on her shoulder. Syrasi stood up and received another, slightly larger piece of gristle from the plate and the group left the bar in the wide path that opened for them.
“So, I noticed the grafts on your arm, interesting that you have two grafts on one arm. What kind are they?”
“Oh, I’ve a rather talented grafter where I come from who was able to do it. My upper arm is vampire and allows me to use their enervating touch a couple times a day, I suppose it could be increased if I gave it a surplus of blood, as it seems to run off of mine. I’ll have to remember to try that sometime… the lower arm is actually a simple skeletal arm, I’m not sure why they give the grafted wearer a weakening touch though.”
“We’ve actually looked into that in morphology research, we’re trying to research a ritual or spell that will give normal risen skeletons the same ability. You may want to talk to Craftmaster Renard, he’d be very interested in your arm.” Tabith said, we haven’t had anyone’s graft to look at, as just having one is extraordinarily rare, and we don’t have any pale masters at the school, so it might be worth scheduling with him to pop by the class so we can all take a look.”
“I’ll think about it, so where are we headed?”
“The Thief’s Den, the actual thieves’ guild, the Broken Hand, while well known, is hard to find, and they’d likely kill us just for finding it without the intention of joining, but their tavern is easy to find, and stay away from, but, we’re not doing that, we’re walking right in. Keep your pockets and pouches covered, and let’s drop our packs in my room at the academy so we don’t have to worry about those.”
Pale masters are the poor man’s arcane necromancer. Rather than specializing in the iconic necromantic mastermind followed by his legion of death, the pale master is a wizard who sought the quick path to necromantic power and finds at the end of it that he’s still no better than a necromancer who sought the magic of the gods, but rather clad in the bones of his enemies, and living in fear that his undead arm will be harvested by choppers to be sold as a weakening arm.
