Tears of Blood. Chapters 1 - 18

[Chinaren]

Introducing, or reintroducing anyway, a sequel to one of my earlier tales which has risen from the grave...

[Chinaren]

“Rise!  Rise!  Rise!  I command thee RISE!”  Urt waved one hand over the corpse in the prescribed fashion and threw the Redroot powder with the other.

Nothing happened.

“Rise damn you!  Rise and do my bidding.” 

The corpse failed to do any such thing.

“You will rise!” screamed Urt, losing his temper. 

The body twitched and, for a brief moment, the eyes opened.  Urt could have sworn a moment of panic passed over the dead mans’ face, but then it was gone, and the body slumped back and remained still.  Again.

“Curses!” 

The necromancer’s apprentice punched the stomach of the corpse, which resulted in no change at all.  It remained dead, counter to everything that was good and natural.  Or at least evil and unnatural, which was the situation here.

“No luck then boss?” a voice said. 

“It must have been the Redroot powder,” he replied.  “Too old.”

“Yeah, and I’ll sprout a body and do the tango.”

“Shut your face you!”  Urt swung round and pointed a finger at the partially rotten head sitting on the table next to him. 

“Oh, that’s it.  Take it out on your only friend in the world.  Like it’s my fault.”  The detached noggin rolled its eyes. 

“You are not my friend,” the young necromancer scowled, brushing back a lock of dark hair that had fallen down over his eyes.  “You are the first of my army.  My undead army of world domination.”

“The head of it I hope.”

“Oh, original.”

“I like to help where I can.”

“Well, you can come with me and help me look for more Redroot.”

“You know it wasn’t the…”

“Shut up.”

“Yes boss.”

Urt stepped back from his latest failed attempt at raising the dead and heaved a deep sigh.  If he was honest with himself, it probably wasn’t the root.  It was the same thing that stopped him raising anything larger than a frog.  The same thing that had prevented him from raising anything worthwhile since…

“Hey, if you’re finished with the body, do you mind passing me over a bit of brain?”  Horace, his heady companion, smacked what remained of his lips.

“You ask me that every time, and every time I say no,” he replied, suddenly very weary. 

“No harm in trying.  I’d shrug my shoulders about now,” Horace commented.  “If I had any.”

Urt ignored the zombie head and looked around his small living quarters.  It was a depressing place, even for someone who was supposed to live in depressing places.  The small chamber barely had room for his work bench, which was pushed up against the wall.  Behind him, close enough for him to fall over if he took a step back, was a narrow bunk.  A single window looked out over the marshland that served as scenery in this part of the world.  It was a tiny space. 

“We work with what we have,” he muttered, sitting on his bed, which squeaked and sagged in the middle.

“Don’t get down boss,” said Horace, in an overly cheerful voice.  “You’ll get he hang of it one day, and then it’ll be world domination in no time at all.  Zombies all over the place, obeying your every whim.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Urt sighed.  “But I’ll be undead and a lich before that happens at this rate.  Maybe old Mangle was wrong about me.”

“No, he might have been mad and deranged, but he knew his stuff.  If he said you had power, then you have power.  I’m folding my arms and tapping my foot now, for your information,” the head added.

 “Maybe he realized he was wrong.  Maybe that’s why he disappeared.” 

“Come on now.  We’ve been over this so many times,” Horace said.  “He ran into an angry bear or fell into the swamp or something.  There are million things that could have happened to him.  I’m shaking my head sadly about this.”

Urt smiled slightly.  His only, remaining, human success was prone to describing the actions of the body it didn’t have when feeling under stress.  “We all do what we can,” he murmured.

“That’s the sprit boss!  Come on, let’s get rid of this useless body and find some Redroot shall we?  I’ll give you a hand… Haha!  Never gets old that one.  I’m holding my sides now.”

“Why does my only speech capable minion think he’s a comedian?”  Urt stood up.  “Very well, let’s go for a walk.” 

“Great.  Now, where did I leave my shoes?”

~

Stalking through the swamp, Horace swinging in a pouch hanging from his hip, calmed Urt down a little.  It was good to get out of the shack for a while.  A change of scenery, even if the scenery consisted mainly of stinking plant life and fetid pools of water. 

The odd misshapen head broke the surface of the murky liquid at intervals, but the gators knew he wasn’t food.  Uncomfortable things happened to the creatures that had tried, and the lesson had been learned by the survivors.  Even the mosquitoes and bugs kept away from him, he was powerful enough to repulse those at least.

“…boss?  Boss!  Are you listening to me?  What’s the point in having me along if you don’t pay attention?”

Snapping out of his reverie, Urt looked down at the head.  “Sorry Horace, I was miles away.  What is it?”

“I’m pointing over there,” the zombie said, rolling his eyes.  “Redroot.  You do still want some I presume?

“Oh, yes.  Thanks.”   Urt scanned the area and located the ugly brown plants.  Sauntering over he squatted down and plucked the toadstool shaped growths out of the ground.  They resisted, as if reluctant to come, but a good tug freed them from the earth. 

The crop harvested, he stood up and took a deep breath.  The methane in the air lifted his spirits.  If there was any place more suited to Necromancy, he didn’t know where it was.  Actually, he pondered as he started walking once more, that really was true.  Most of his young adult life had been spent in this place, under the harsh guidance of mad Mangle, his old master.  Mangle had insisted he had power, great power, despite the failed attempts to raise.

Squelching through the bog, Urt wrinkled his forehead.  It seemed that as he grew older he grew less able to raise anything.  There had been a time, once, when he was very young, he’d performed a great magic.  That was when Mangle had found him, or shortly after anyway, when his village has expelled him in fear, so Mangle had explained.  He shook his head.  It was all such a long time ago, the memories were fuzzy at best.

“Where we going now boss?” Horace once again piped up, no doubt bored by their wandering.

“What?  Oh, er…” Urt stopped and looked around.  He’d been walking aimlessly, lost in his thoughts.  Not the best idea considering one wrong step and he’d be hair deep in quicksand. 

Getting his bearings, he discovered the area he’d wandered into was close to the small trail that led to the only civilization in the area, though to term a village that had named itself Mudrut civilization was pushing the boundaries of the definition.

“Maybe we should go and dig up another corpse,” he said. 

“You didn’t bring a shovel,” Horace pointed out. 

“There’s usually one lying around,” Urt replied, though in truth a bucket would probably serve just as well.  Mudrut’s method of disposing of their dead lacked all ceremony.  The villagers seemed to believe that the swamp did the best job of getting rid of bodies, though in fact it was usually Urt that performed that duty. 

“May as well go and take a look,” he said, taking a wet step forward.  “As we’re in the area.” 

“That’s the way to go!  Get back on the horse,” Horace encouraged, as the young necromancer squelched his way along the path towards the huddle mass of rude dwellings that made up Mudrut. 

As he approached the village he slowed, moving with care.  The villagers knew there was a dark wizard in the swamp, but they didn’t know what he looked like.  Urt wanted to keep it like that, on the vague suspicion they wouldn’t be enlightened enough to treat him with the fear and respect that he deserved.  They were more likely to throw stones.

“There’s the burial area,” whispered Horace, from Urt’s waist.  “Can you see if there’s any new business there?”

“Not yet,” Urt replied.  He scrambled behind a bush and peered through its slimy leaves, trying to make out if there was the telltale lump that indicated a fresh corpse.  They didn’t come along very often, and the most recent had only been a few weeks ago, so he was surprised to see not one, but two low mounds.

“We’re in luck,” he whispered.   After a final quick look left and right, he dashed forward in a bent over run. 

“Two of them!” said Horace, spotting the graves.  “I’m rubbing my hands together in glee!”

“Hush,” Urt said, sticking his head up and looking over at the village.  “We should have come back at night.”

“Oh it’s alright. They’re probably getting drunk or whatever the living do these days.” 

Ignoring the dead head, Urt rolled the sleeves of his robe up and stuck one hand into the mud and groped about until he touched flesh.  With some effort, he managed to pull the body slowly its rest until the wet earth released its grasp with a dull pop.  The body slid free like a particularly gruesome delivery.

“It’s a young one,” Horace said.  “Practically a baby.  What a waste, they’re so tasty fresh.”

“No eating my experiments,” Urt scolded, grimacing at the mud on his arms and reaching back down, into the other grave. 

The second one took more effort, and he was covered in mud by the time the cadaver, a girl of maybe five years old, was free of the embrace of the cold ground.

“At least they won’t be hard to carry,” Horace pointed out, as Urt viewed his finds with distaste.  How was he to build an army with young child zombies?  It wasn’t fair. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he muttered.  Putting the baby in the sack he carried for herbs, he had to squash it down a bit to make it fit, he slung it over his back and turned his attention to the girl, only to step back in shock.  She was looking at him!

“What the hell!” he said.  “She’s alive!  How can they bury a living person?”

“Dunno,” Horace said.  “Does this mean I can taste her though?  Just a finger, nothing important.”

“No.”  Urt sidled forward and examined the girl, who blinked and slowly sat up.  “No eating children, you don’t know where they’ve been.” He directed his attention to the child.  “Who are you?”


>>>>>>

This one’s been slowly pushing its way out of my story orifice, demanding to live, and I can’t hold it back any more.  The second part is freshly written, the first bit was done more than a year ago. 

Anyway, Suggestion time!  What’s the deal with the kid?  Any ideas?  ‘cos I’ve no clue!

<<<<<<

[NicTei]

You do realize that you changed the head's name from Horace to Harold about halfway through, right?

[Chinaren]

You do realize that you changed the head's name from Horace to Harold about halfway through, right?

Buggerit.  Thanks Nice.

No Suggestions though? 

[Burningplain]

Her name is Alyria, she's a human with an immunity to zombies and she's also immortal.  She's a very powerful mage.

[Chinaren]

Her name is Alyria, she's a human with an immunity to zombies and she's also immortal.  She's a very powerful mage.

Ooh, interesting idea Burps!  Like it.

Any others?  I'll leave this on Suggestion Phase for a little while.  Gloom is next on my writing list.

[Thunderbird]

What exactly would be an 'immunity to zombies'?

This is way too cool C'ren!  Loved the opener on this... very catchy.  RISE DAMNED YOU!

Nice to see a sequel here... just knowing it is makes it all the more... um... juicy.

I say she's actually dead already, despite appearances... undead to be sure, with a vengeance.  Somehow she's already been animated and it must be quite a mystery, and a frustration, to Urt.  Its as if he's been shown up by the forces of... who knows?  Nothing?

[Silme]

You've got another good one going here Chinaren.  I like the ideas already suggested although I might add one more to chew on; Urt raised her as his true power slipped out for a minute.  He has the indredients and perhaps he finds that the root in his bag is either diminished or not there at all, having been used up in the raising process.  Not sure about the baby though.  I mean a five year old zombie could be filled with fun but a baby?  Then again, baby zombie could be really fun to write, if not a little difficult.
 
In other news, is this a sequel to Tired of Death I assume?  Regardless, looking forward to more.

[Chinaren]

Thanks guys!  Some great suggestions there!  I'll wait another day or so and put up ToB's first poll! 

is this a sequel to Tired of Death I assume?

Well spotted there Sil!  I was wondering if anyone would work that out!

[Thunderbird]

I thought it needed no mention myself... at least not from me.  I was there when TOD began and loved it thoroughly.  The same style was apparent here and was a well missed facet of your writing Ren.

[Chinaren]

Thanks T.  I hope I can live up to Tired's legacy!   

[Burningplain]

To clarify Tbird: She's a immune to infection by zombies.
Also at a later date in this book C'ren may I make a line suggestion?
"Zombies have but one speed."
Confused look on the face of a character.
"That's shamble! Idiot! Honestly, do you know nothing of the art of necromancy?"

[Chinaren]

   I can certainly use that Burps!  Thanks!   

[Chinaren]

Very well, the poll has been raised!  Chew on the brains of voting!

[Burningplain]

*raises hand* Er... Mr Chinaren, sir... I'm a vampire, we drink blood, chewing brains is just plain nasty.

[Silme]

With the aid of a little ketchup and pepper I have chewed the brains of voting (slimey, yet satisying).  Sadly this has brought about a three-way; and not the good kind.

[Thunderbird]

I hath given the world the bird!

[Rocket Rabbit]

*shambles to the brains of voting*

BRAIIIIIIIIINS!

[Chinaren]

Excellent.  Slowly ideas begin to emerge, worm-like into the story.  Mwhahahahaha!

[Chinaren]

Very well, I've locked the voting as a new load of Inspiratium has been delivered, and the next chapter is starting to form.

Thanks for your suggestions and votes!   

[Burningplain]

*Looks up from the corpse of his current vic... volunteer, whom he's in the process of drinking dry.* Oh good good. I look forward to the next installment. :vampyr:

[Chinaren]

“Braaains,” the girl said, and stood slowly up.  She turned to Urt and repeated herself.  “Braaaains.”

“Ahhh, isn’t that cute?” said Horace, as the young zombie lurched forward.  “She’s trying to eat your brains.  That brings back memories, do you remember the time...”

“Er, hold on a second.” Urt took a step back, to avoid a swipe from the girl, and raised a hand.  A dark haze spread from his fingers as he said a Word.

The young zombie stopped at once.  “Masster,” she said.

“Nice catch,” said Horace. 

“I may currently be having difficulties getting them up, but I’m not totally helpless.”  Urt addressed his new friend.  “What’s your name?”

“Lucy massster.”

“Yes, I think we can drop the slurred speech as well, that’s just for tourists,”

“Of course master,” she said, in a far more normal voice.

“Who raised you?” Urt asked.

The zombie shrugged.  “I don’t know.”

“When were you raised?” Horace interjected.  “I mean, you still look fresh.  It can’t have been long ago.”

“I think it was just the other day,” Lucy said, looking at the small foot sticking out of the sack Urt was carrying.  “Is that my baby brother?”

“It may have been.”

“Why aren’t I sad?”

“It’s the whole zombie thing,” Urt said.  “You tend to have a whole different perspective on life, when you’re dead.”

“I see.” The young deceased looked down at herself.  “What’s perspective mean?”

“It’s…” Urt struggled for the words and gave up.  “Never mind.”

“Can we keep her master?  Can we?  Can we?”  Horace licked where his lips used to be excitedly.  “It would be nice to have another deceased around the place.”

“Well, maybe,” Urt pondered.  “I mean it’s not as if you’re good with the cleaning.  But why would someone raise a perfectly good zombie and then just go and abandon it?”

“Maybe she was too small.  She’s hardly army of darkness material is she now?”  Horace said.  “Perhaps they raised her by accident.”

“Great.  Here’s me, unable to raise more than a head, and other necromancers are throwing undead away because they have too many.  That makes me feel really wonderful, a real morale booster.”

“Sorry boss.”

Urt turned to his new Zombie friend and passed her his bag.  “Her, carry this.  You may as well make yourself useful.  Come with me.”

“Yes master.”

“And don’t fall in any quicksand.”  In a bad mood once more, Urt turned around and tramped down the path he’d come along, heading back to the small hut he called home.


~

The following days Urt busied himself with preparations to raise the baby.  It didn’t actually take that long to create a raise dead spell, but he was determined to have everything exactly as it should be.  He examined all the ingredients, making sure there was no contamination.  He replaced anything that was even slightly old, unless it had to be, and polished his staff until it shone.

During all this time Horace was unusually quiet, watching him as he made the preparations.  Lucy ran errands, collecting things and helping arrange the raising area.

Finally Urt could put it off no longer.  Everything was as ready as it could be.

“This is it Horace,” he said.  He was standing in front of the slab where the baby was laying at rest.  The smell of decomposition lingered in the air, but this didn’t bother him.  Such was the craft of the necromancer.

“I’m nodding,” replied Horace.  “I’d wish you luck, but I’m sure you don’t need it.”

“Very well.”

Urt picked up the Redroot powder and flung it into the burning brazier beside him.  He closed his eyes and spoke the Words of Power, feeling the death energies marshal around him. 

He glared at the body as he chanted the incantation, feeling the mana, twisting it to his ends.  The dark light washed over the body, settling into the corpse exactly as it should, pulsating with energy as he shouted the final words.

“Rise!  Rise and do my bidding!  Rise!”

The baby twitched and its dead eyes opened.

“Yes!  It’s working!” Urt clenched his fist in triumph.

The tiny zombie opened its mouth, made a croaking sound, and then slumped back.  Lifeless, or at least inanimate, once more.

“Noooooooo!!  Noooooooo!  Curses!  Blast and curses!  By the oozing pustules of Dreg noooooo!”  Urt fell to his knees and shook his fists at the sky. 

“Oh bravo!” Horace said.

A red mist descended upon Urt, and he swung around, pointing a finger at the detached zombie.  “Quiet you!”  He shouted, and a blast of dark energy blew Horace off the bench and into the wall, which he bounced off and rolled under the bed.  A fearful moaning emanated from under the narrow space.

“Curse this place!” shrieked Urt.  Raising both arms he swept them outwards, sending a wall of power hurtling away, tearing his small hut apart as if it were no more than paper.  “I hate this swamp!”

A howling wind descended, whirling around him in a mini cyclone, picking up the debris and hurling it into the sky. 

“Ahhhhh!!”  A massive explosion of power emanated from the enraged necromancer, ripping any surviving material out of the ground and sending it, smoldering, into the surrounding swamp.

When the dust cleared, Urt was on his knees, sobbing in in the center if a large, muddy crater.


~
 

“Finally!  I thought I’d have to sit and look at that tree forever!”

Urt bent down and picked up Horace.  The zombie didn’t seem to be any the worse for wear.  He plucked a twig out the scraggy hair and held the undead before him.

“Sorry, lost my temper there,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Horace replied.  “What with all the cursing and explosions and howling and all, I thought you were boiling an egg.

“You’re not mad at me are you?  You could have been killed.  Again I mean.”

“Boss, as far as I’m concerned that little show just proved to me you are a master necromancer. As a creature of the dark, you really had no other choice.  I’m shrugging my shoulders now.”

Urt smiled.  “Yes, well.  Maybe you’re right.” He took a deep breath and put Horace in his special sling so he could have his hands free whilst travelling. 

“I see the little one survived too,” Horace said, noting Lucy waiting a little way off.

“Yes, I’d sent her to get something before I started the… spell.”

“So, where are we going now then?  I think I saw the toilet fly past me when I was in the air, so I’m assuming the hut is gone.”

“I’ve decided to leave the swamp,” Urt said, plodding along a narrow mud path.  “I have to seek out another necromancer, or some kind of wizard doctor.  There has to be some reason why I can’t raise the dead.”

“Finally, we get to see the world.”

“Well Mudrut anyway,” Urt said.

“Mudrut?  Why there?  What about somewhere more exciting?”

“One, it’s closest,” said Urt, ticking off the points on his fingers.  “Two, it’s the only place I know.”

“Oh. Fair point.”

“Anyway, depending on what we find after that, perhaps it’s time to relocate.  Travel broadens the mind, so old Mangle used to say.”

“So why did he never leave the marsh then?”  Horace asked.

Urt shrugged.  “No idea.  Maybe he was just looking after me.  I mean, he always hinted I came from somewhere else, so he must have lived outside at some point.”

They travelled on in silence after that, heading back to the village Urt had always seen from a distance, but never entered.  Mangle had always been the one to visit there on the rare occasion they needed something.  Apart from the odd item of clothing, or item for magical preparation, the swamp provided all they needed. 

“Any ideas on how we’re going to find another necromancer?” asked Urt of Horace when they were closer.

“Can’t you just ask someone?”

“I don’t think that’s how it’s done.”

“Why not?” said Horace. 

“I don’t know.” Urt shrugged.  “It just doesn’t seem to be the thing to say.  Hello there, do you know where I can get the dead raised?  They may get the wrong idea.”

“Bah, the living are so repressed.  No offense intended boss.”

“None taken.  I share your view in this one instance.”

“I mean,” Horace continued.  “There’s nothing in unusual raising the dead.  It’s as nature intended.”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Urt said, cautiously.  He looked back at Lucy, who was walking steadily behind him.  “Did you live in Mudrut?” he asked her.

“Yes master.”

“Did they have any necromancers there?”

“What’s a necromancer master?”

“I’m beginning to agree with your theory about why they left her behind,” Urt said to Horace.   “Still, we’d better be cautious.  You’ll have to go in my pack I’m afraid.”

“Oh come on boss!  I hate it in there!  It’s all dark and musty smelling.”

“Firstly, you’re dead, dark is your thing.  Secondly, the musty smell is actually you, and musty is rather a generous description at that.”

“Well I can’t see out,” grumbled the head.  “You know how I enjoy travelling, seeing new places, meeting different people, and then eating them.”

“When have we ever travelled? Except for here?” Urt made a sweeping gesture with his arm, encompassing what passed for scenery in the marsh.

“A head can dream can’t it?”

“Look, I’ll see how things go alright?  If it looks like there are necromancers every second house, you can come out and enjoy the sights.  Otherwise, caution is our watchword.  Until I can raise an army of the dead to conquer all I survey, I’m just like any other human being.  Except obviously superior.”

“Yes boss,” Horace answered wearily.

“Good, glad we have that settled, because we’re close.  You need to go into the pack now.” He stopped and shed the backpack he’d recovered from the wreckage of his former dwelling.  Opening it, he plucked Horace from his sling and shoved him into the bag. 

“Hey, careful there!” the zombie complained.  “Nearly had my eye out.”

“And be quiet!” Urt admonished, pulling the drawstring tight.

“Ug,” came Horace’s muffled voice.  “It’s all stuffy in here!  I can’t breathe even.”

“You don’t breathe, you’re dead.  Now, no more speaking until we’re in the clear, is that understood?  That’s an order.”

“Yes boss.”

Nodding, Urt shouldered the backpack again and then turned to his other zombie companion. 

“Lucy, you need to remain here until I come back or send for you.” He scanned the area and pointed at a witchwart plant.  “Go behind that bush and hide until then.”

“Yes master.” The child undead did as she was told.

“Nice to have an obedient servant for a change,” muttered Urt, resuming his journey into the village.

Urt walked a little way around Mudrut, onto the narrow road that led towards the dwellings.  It wouldn’t be good to raise suspicion by walking out of the marshes.  Even the road was risky, considering he didn’t know where it led.

Pulling the hood of his robe over his head, Urt marched slowly into town, trying not to gawk left and right as the wooden houses loomed two, even three floors over him.

‘So this was civilization!’ he thought, altering course to avoid the trench down the center of the road that obviously served to transport waste away.  ‘The hurly and burly of village life.’

The few people on the road paid him little attention as he sauntered along, but he had trouble doing the same.  He’d never been in such a crowded place. 

“There must be nearly a dozen people here!” he hissed back at Horace, itching to share his discovery with someone. 

Finally he stopped and examined the buildings.  He was standing in what seemed to be the busy part of the town.  Several glass fronted houses appeared to be displaying goods.  These must be the stores that Mangle had spoken of.  They had names over the windows.  One was a ‘grocers’, another an ‘ironmonger’ and still a third was a ‘general store’.

In the center of this bustling metropolis were two larger structures.  One was called the Goose Inn, and the other the Traveller’s tavern.  The Goose Inn seemed to be a swankier affair.  Sometime in the past it had been painted red and white, though these colors had now faded.  The tavern was what the term ‘rustic’ probably was designed for, Urt decided.  Strange swing doors marked the entrance, and some kind of music was drifting out of them.

He looked up.  The sky, never bright, was turning gloomier.  Night was coming and he was tired.  Mangle had told him about money of course, and he’d managed to retrieve his old master’s pouch, which contained a small selection of gold coins and some gems of unknown value.

Urt pondered his choices.

>>>>>>

Okay then, you’ve no idea how I struggled with this chapter.  It just didn’t seem to want to come out without a fight.  I even removed one whole section, though I’ll be adding it in later. 

Anyway, not the most dynamic of Suggestion Phases for you.  What/where should Urt do/goto now?  He’s after information, but not good at social skills, or even being around company. 

How should he go about enquiring after someone who could help him?

Any other ideas also welcome!

<<<<<<

[Burningplain]

Well we let him bumble about. He'll start by asking after a mage. He'll go into the slightly posher in and start to ask around, maybe get thrown out cos he looks like a savage and smells worse than a sewage works, what with him having lived out in a hut in the swamp all his life.

[Thunderbird]

It may have struggled to emerge but it was a great work once it had.  Very enjoyable read.  I'm high fiving you now.

So if he has gems that he does not know the worth of, he should first find a jeweler to sell them to.  But getting a second opinion might be a good idea before making a final sale.  Throughout this process, asking for a Necromancer along the way will most likely seem to be innocent enough to him, even if he does come off a bit Dr. Evilish in the way he asks.

"Excuse me, sir, but... you wouldn't happen to know any... Necromancers... would you?"  Grinning evily as he intones the word Necromancer in an extreme parody of the word..

[Silme]

A good chapter Chinaren.  As for the SP; when... if I was a young Necromancer in Urt's position I'd likely go slow.  Get some sleep and start the day refreshed.  As already stated, simply asking some general questions about mage might be helpful. Alternatively, this could be a town of Necromancers where one lives in every other house.  Not sure how that'd work with what you've got already, but it's an option.

[Chinaren]

I'm high fiving you now.

Thanks guys! Seems like a general 'ask around,' no doubt with plenty of Faux pas along the way is the order of the day.

I'll keep the SP open a while longer though, until I get the next Gloom chapter up.

[NicTei]

Throughout this process, asking for a Necromancer along the way will most likely seem to be innocent enough to him, even if he does come off a bit Dr. Evilish in the way he asks.

"Do you know any...Necromancers?"
"No, I can't say that I do."
"Oh, throw me a friggin' bone here..."

[Chinaren]

"Do you know any...Necromancers?"
"No, I can't say that I do."
"Oh, throw me a friggin' bone here..."

Lol.  Sounds very 'Dr. Evil'.

[Chinaren]

“Let’s start small,” he said to himself, and wandered over to the grocer’s.  The place was small and rather beaten, but it appeared to be open at least.  Piles of vegetables were stacked in boxes and barrels.

Ignoring the merchandise, Urt entered, finding himself in a crowded and slightly strange smelling room cluttered with fruit and vegetables of all kinds.  Behind a small counter at the back of the shop stood an elderly man wearing a gray tunic and a brown leather apron.  His face was wrinkled and Urt had seen cleaner hair on the dead.

“Evening,” the man said, pleasantly enough.

Encouraged by the civility, Urt nodded in way of greeting.  He wandered over to the shopkeep, stopping to poke at a sack of apples along the way, for the look of the thing. 

“You must be new in town.  Welcome to Mudrut,” the man said, frowning at Urt’s treatment of his apples.

“Yes, that’s me, new here.” Urt nodded again and leaned casually against the counter.  “How are you today?”

“I’m fine.  Business is a little slow, if you see what I mean.”

Urt ignored the sales pitch.  “So then.  Seems a nice little village you have here.  Any necromancers about?”

The man raised his eyebrows, evidently surprised at the unexpected turn the small-talk had taken.  Still, he recovered well.   “Necromancers you say?  Well, there’s rumors of an evil mage living right here, in Mudrut swamp if you must know.”

“Really?  A necromancer living in a swamp?” Urt tried not to show any alarm.  “It doesn’t sound very likely.”

“Well, I’ve never seen him,” the shopkeep conceded.  “The other necromancers all live over in Banesville.  A dark wizard every other house over there, so I they say.”

“Really?” Urt had to work to suppress the excitement in his voice.   “Every other house you say?  Where is this place?”

“You want to know where Baneseville is?  I told you, it’s a dark place, only the evil reside there.” The man rolled his eyes.  “Evil,” he repeated.  “So they say.”

“Yes, yes of course.  I only want to know so I don’t wander that way by accident.  I’m new to these parts see.”

“Yet you smell like swamp,” the man commented.

“That’s because I fell into the fool thing!” Urt banged his fist on the counter.  “You should have warning signs up or something.”

“Alright then, keep your shoes on.  No need to go bashing my shop apart.”  The shopkeeper rubbed at the spot Urt had attacked.

“Sorry.  I was just, er, nervous when I heard there were necromancers living nearby.  You did say they lived nearby didn’t you?  My, er, father was killed by a necromancer.  Evil man.  The necromancer, not my father of course.” Urt realized he was starting to babble and shut up.

“Well don’t you worry then, Banseville is far, far away from here, so they say.  Even out of the swamp, though I don’t expect that’s a shock to a well travelled fellow like yourself.  You’ve probably even been to Scudbloom and Old Snog I dare say.”

“It’s quite likely I have,” Urt countered.  “Hard to keep track of everywhere I’ve been, all these places blur after a while.” He shrugged gently.

“Aye, I suppose so.” The shopkeep squinted at him for a moment, as if trying to divine the truth of his customer’s words.  “Well, Banesville is to the north, so they say.”

Urt was beginning to wonder who these people were, who kept saying these things, because the man certainly didn’t seem to wish to impart the details.  He looked around the shop.  Perhaps if he bought something he would be more forthcoming.

“How much is that thing?” He pointed at a turnip sitting forlornly on its own, next to a pile of potatoes.

“Five bits,” the shopkeep replied promptly.

Mangle had told Urt about shopping.  ‘You have to haggle hard,’ his old master had said.  Urt was ready to do just that.

“One bit, or I’ll tear your spleen out,” he said fiercely.

The shopkeep took a step back. 

“Er, two bits?” Urt realized he may have overdone things a little.  “Two and a half?”

“Four,” croaked the man, rallying slightly.

“Very well.” Urt fished around in his purse and pulled out a gold coin.

“I can’t change that!” the shopkeep protested, spotting the money. 

“Of course not,” said Urt, and improvised quickly.  “I don’t know what currency you use in this village do I?”  He tipped out several more coins onto the counter top.  “This is the norm in Old Snog.”

“Here, this half Groat will do.  Wait a moment, I’ll get your change.” The man picked up a rather bent silvery coin and scurried along to the other end of the counter, where he pulled out a wooden box and rummaged around in it, no doubt trying to work out how much he could rip this stranger off without endangering himself.

Urt scowled and scooped the rest of the money back into this pouch.  It was clear he had much to learn about local customs. 

“Here you go.” The shopkeep poured a few tiny copper colored coins into his hand and then stood back, beaming. 

“Mmm.” Urt decided not to make a big deal of things, and added them to the contents of his purse just as inspiration struck.  “I say, you don’t know where I could buy a map of this area do you?  As I said, I’m new here.”

“Master Tinkle usually does maps,” came the reply.  “But he’s visiting his sick uncle over in Lower Scrag.  Won’t be back for days probably.”

“That’s a shame.” Urt picked up his new purchase and, after one final glance around the shop, nodded at the man.  “I’ll be going then.  Thanks for the turnip.”

The shopkeep nodded back.  “Nice doing business with you.  Pop back in in two weeks, we’ll have a nice load of pickled pigs feet in then.  Tasty things, pig’s feet, as I expect you know.”

“Just so,” Urt said, sidling towards the exit. “Though you can have too much of a good thing.  Goodbye now.” He fled the store before he was roped into any further culinary discussion.

“Well, that wasn’t a total waste of time,” he huffed to himself, as he paused to recover after his shopping ordeal.  “Banesville, some unspecified distance to the north, probably.  A turnip is four bits, and old Tinkle is visiting a sick uncle.  We’re practically locals I’d say.”

Deciding that one vegetable purchase was enough in the way of adventure for the time being, Urt turned about and headed towards the tavern.  As he approached he slowed slightly, gathering the courage to enter the place as he reviewed what old Mangle had told him about them.

‘You can’t trust anybody in the local drinking establishment.  They’re all liars and thieves, rob you blind as soon as look at you,’ he had said.  ‘And don’t get into any game of chance with them, if you wish to hold on to your belongings.’ 

“Not so encouraging,” Urt muttered.  “Still, onwards we must go.”

Gripping his new turnip firmly in one hand, he took a deep breath and strode towards the entrance.  Pushing the swing doors out of the way, he made his way into the bar. 

It was less exciting inside than he had expected. 

There was a long and rather grimy counter set along the wall to his left, with a woman of gigantic proportions wiping a dirty rag around a glass.  The rest of the area was full of sturdy tables and chairs, though currently only two of the tables were occupied.  One had three men sitting at it, playing some kind of card game.  The other table was inhabited by an old man nursing an ale, and dressed in what appeared to be a nightgown. 

The whole sorry affair was dimly illuminated by a complex, candle laden chandelier arrangement that hung from a rope attached to a beam that spanned the ceiling.

 Urt’s entrance drew little attention from the hordes inside.  The game-playing men spared him only a quick glance before returning their attention to the cards, and the old man could have been dead for all the activity he was showing.  Only the gigantic barwoman paid him any attention.

“Hello deary!  You’re a cute one aren’t you?  Waddlitbethen?”

“Er.” Urt stepped towards the bar nervously. 

Frankly the woman scared him.  She must have been part giant or ogre or something, for she was half as tall again as he was, and with arm muscles thicker than his thighs.  Despite her size she was fairly attractive, and her rather grubby top was stretched tight in its attempt to hold back the pressure of an enormous bosom.   Her hair was gleaming blond, and washed over her broad shoulders like a golden waterfall. 

“You alright deary?  Look like you’ve never seen a young lady before.” She winked at him.

Urt flushed at this unexpected wanton behavior.  In fact he had never seen a young lady before, at least a living one. He had no experience at all with the still breathing opposite sex, though he’d read about them in some of the reference books old Mangle had in his limited library. 

“I, er, what do you have?” he managed to recover his voice slightly.

“Brown ale, black ale, red ale, blood red ale, dark brown ale or Scud.”

“What’s Scud?” Urt asked, reaching for the odd one out.

In way of an answer, the barmaid leaned forward and reached under the counter, an act that supplied Urt with his first glimpse of the living female body, by way of the traditional glimpse down the woman’s top.

“Here.” The barkeep slammed a heavy bottle of clear liquid down onto the counter.  “First drink’s on the house.”   She poured a tiny amount into small, and only slightly dirty, glass.

“That’s it?  That tiny little bit?” Urt raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Big man eh?  Very well then.  The barmaid poured more, until the glass was full.  “But in return you have to drink it down in one.  Oh, and I get your belongings when… if you die.”

Urt picked up the glass and sniffed at the drink cautiously.  It didn’t smell of anything.  He was suddenly aware the noise of the men playing cards had ceased, and looked around.  The customers were all staring at him.  Urt put on a haughty expression and looked back at the drink.

“Seems easy enough,” he said. 

In a smooth, casual movement, he knocked the drink back, slamming the glass down back onto the bar once he was done. 

“See?” He smiled at the barmaid, who was staring at him.  “A bit tangy, perhaps with a hint of orange yes?  Pleasant enough I suppose.  Now, perhaps I could try one of those other drinks next, maybe that dark brown ale?”

“That’s amazing,” she said, still staring.  “Do you have a metal throat by any chance?  Perhaps some kind of enchantment yes?  Yes!  That must be it.”

“Of course not.” Urt raised a hand dismissively.  “You’re no doubt used to a lesser class of character here.  A bit of Scud?  That’s nothing to…”


~


Urt awoke to a hammering noise that seemed to force its way in through his eyes and then bounce around inside his skull.

“Dreg’s* balls!” he moaned, raising his hands to his face.  “What the hell happened?”

“Oh thank the powers of darkness, you’re finally awake!”  The familiar voice of Horace came from nearby.

Forcing his eyes open, Urt discovered he was lying down.  Above him was an unfamiliar ceiling.  The paint was peeling he noted. 

“Open up!  We want our money back!  Cheater!” A muffled voice added to Urt’s headache. 

“Where am I?  What happened?” Urt sat up, and discovered three things.

The first was that he was in a bedroom the likes of which he had never imagined.  It was pink all over, with cushions that had frills on them.  A slightly battered dressing table sat opposite, with Horace’s head propped up against the large mirror leaning against the wall.  The reflection allowed him to discover the second thing.

The only thing he was wearing was a frilly gown with pink fur trim.

The third thing he discovered was that the sudden movement triggered a wave of nausea.  That, in turn, resulted in him leaning over the side of the bed and vomiting violently for a good minute. Some of the things that came out he couldn’t recognize, especially the blue chunks.

“Way to go!” Horace said, above the hammering. 

“What happened?” croaked Urt, wiping his mouth and gasping for breath. 

“Master, you were magnificent.  If I’m dead another thousand years I’ll still be telling the tale of last night.  The necromancer that conquered Mudrut, separated the cheating locals from their money, and captured the heart of the girl.  It was magnificent.”

“Wha… what’s that hammering then?”  Urt clutched at his head and wished he could remove it until the pain went away.

“The cheating locals.  I think they want the money back.”

“What money?” Urt’s thought process was still only up to the pink thing he was wearing.

“The money you won master!  I say you fight them for it!  Banish them with magic!  Though you better cast a spell quickly, before they break the door down.”

Urt finally caught up with what Horace was saying, though he was still utterly confused in many other regards. What was apparent though, was that people intent on doing him harm appeared to be beating down the door. 

Risking another bout of naseau, he glanced around the room again.   Apart from the besieged door, the only other exit appeared to be a window.  There was also no sign of his clothes.

“Master?” Horace wiggled his eyebrows.  “I don’t wish to worry you, but I don’t think that door’s going to hold much longer.”

“Dreg’s balls,” repeated Urt.  His turnip was missing too.


*Dreg: Minor deity of not quite living things.

>>>>>>

So, I wasn’t planning on writing this so soon, but I started to make some notes and things just came out.

Urt’s in a room, wearing a pink thing with a bunch of angry locals outside.  What’s an extremely hungover necromancer to do?

<<<<<<

[Burningplain]

Loving it Chin.
He casts a spell, however the spell goes wrong. Instead of making the people outside the door forget why they came and about the money they lost they instead decide he is a deity and that they must worship and protect.