Necromancy
Adventures of flesh and the grotesque; not for the faint of heart.
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Adventures of flesh and the grotesque; not for the faint of heart.
Frost 50th, 4621
Rigid-backed and uniformed, Jean sat in the dining hall with his father. Dinner had been a sour event, and though his father was fuming - stone-faced, yet Jean knew the truth - the special guest of the evening had not yet arrived. Drawing from his collar the bib, the militant silver-haired son smacked the air with it and combed his fingers of nonexistent filth; the Lorraines and indeed many Entente ate carefully, in a regimented manner respective of wealth.
As servants circled like vultures, pecking away the silverware, Jean threw his bib upon a plate and rolled his shoulders back, shrugging and staring a silent gaze with his father. He could not speak out of turn.
Landrys Lorraine spoke from the chest. “I was assured he would arrive before sunset.”
Jean played with his fingernails, mincing them together. “The roads are dangerous as of late. Chaos is returning, and the peasantry have been especially vulgar in both tongue and action. Perhaps your guest was caught in such a thing.”
“I do not agree,” said Landrys. His expectations would not be dashed. By any man.
The door opened, breaking the quiet din of the gilded hall. A thin creature stepped out with a formal curtsy; she held this posture Her words rang out with monotone grace. “Presenting: Necrodoctor and Briologist, Vacques Et Vercaux, Valran to the Montese Lady Lorraine.”
Emerging from the shadows, something far too sculpted and tall to be of a humble origin stepped into the warm light. He seemed relaxed, his pearly-blue eyes sullen with a lack of devotion. They were a fine contrast to his attire of purple jack, emblazoned with the golden sigil of a Briomancer - a Field Medic for the Halamire - and the symbol of House Lorraine. “Apologies for mine tardiness, my lord, the muds from the recent downpour had flown down from the hills and hindered our carriage. I made the trek on foot, but my human slave could not carry my word through the checkpoint in advance to warn of my need to tidy up. I was unaware of the heightened security.”
There was more silence between all in the room as Landrys considered the excuse. “Very well. I would not ask you to track in the dirt,” he said, glancing to Jean who smirked with a knowing shyness. “Nature robs us all. It only matters that you are here now, to teach my son what he should have learned at Nardothis.”
Breathing in sharply, Jean recoiled at the barb, then stood. “Shall I show him to the briotorium?” He turned to Vacques, who was eyeing him with a flat, tilted smile and a needle-like gaze. “Do you have your tools?”
“Mine luggage is being registered to the biorepository,” replied the man, clasping his large, glossy fingers together. “Shall we?”
Jean looked to his father, and then nodded to the man. As he stepped away, a servant pushed in his seat and cleaned what remained of the occasion. Arriving by the fellow’s side, Jean touched him upon the shoulder. “You are from Sil-Elaine, are you? I know the accent well.”
“Well - yes,” Vacques stated with a nod as they walked. “For the hundred years since my birth, and then no longer; I have been in service to House Lorraine from the month I emigrated. If I may ask - you have been to Sil-Elaine?”
Jean nodded as his hand slipped away. They turned a corner down a darker, unlit corridor, passing beneath rays of moonlight. “I was stationed there. It is still ruled by the Court of Dusk from the shadows . . . the people are in dire straits. I would liberate them someday should I have a say, but who can know where life would lead, hm?” Stopping before the door, Jean nodded before the quiet, tall Halamire stationed there. He opened the door without a word, and the pair of them began their descent into the bowels of the earth.
Vacques spoke down between the thrum of hollow steps across stone. “It is unfortunate, to be sure. My family are gone, so it was easy to ‘detach from the land’, as they say.”
The pair emerged into a broad room lined with shelves, the air here stale with a hint of perfumery long since settled. Upon each shelf was a grass jar of dusky fluid with various bits floating within, the lids marked. Jean’s brothers, his father, and his father’s Valran all operated within the space. Even so, Jean had only been down here once before. The place had an . . . unsettling aura about it, and his family had always been touchy about sharing their experiments. “These are your materials?” Jean asked, pointing to a humanoid-shaped bag and a briefcase.
“That they are,” said Vacques with fondness in his voice. The large man squatted down and slung the body over a shoulder - it was little by comparison to his size - and swept up the briefcase as he stood. Jean’s eyebrow rose before he led the man beyond to a metal door, opening the solid hatch to the laboratory proper.
Something moaned faintly as the winds billowed around them, and Jean could feel the Ashes thick around his feet. This was a place for ghoulish things, and such places always felt like he was treading water, even if it was all in his mind. Necrosthesia had that affect on a man. The electric lights began to hum as Jean pulled the lever upon the wall, blue lanterns rendering the entire facility awash in a soft, haunting glow. “This is the Briotorium; down there is the Necrotorium,” said Jean. “We will need a key from my father to access that place.” he added with a point towards a chained, blackened door covered in peculiar markings.
Vacques dropped the body bag down upon the cold, metal turntable situated upon a large, eight by eight foot wide slab of stone towards the center of the room, a nearby rolling table squeaked as Vacques drew it closer to set his briefcase upon it.
Drawing out the buttons, Jean listened to the rustling fabric, seeing the pale figure of a human emerge. “Normally one would pay for an acquisition, but this brigand volunteered himself; I thought, why not save your father’s Farthings?”
Jean peered over the corpse of a man, and his freckled face. “This is still very fresh. Method of execution?” he asked.
“Exsanguination,” replied Vacques, unclipping his briefcase. He stepped away to pull free the blackboard hiding in the dusty corners of the room. “What is your experience with the Briomantic arts?” asked the Necromancer as he scrawled symbols upon the board.
“Assume I am a complete beginner,” Jean replied. “What I know, I have heard in passing, or read as curiosities from books within the libraries of Nardothis.”
“Uh-huh,” hummed Vacques, setting chalk to the board. “Necromancy - or Briomancy as it is called when pertaining to the living - is the use of Etheric tools to manipulate tissues, living or dead.” He drew a large wheel, and divided it with a thicker line between the middle. “Briomantic operations are the foundational elements of Necromancy, and this is the artform that will see the most use for us.”
Jean pulled a journal from his pocket, and then sucked the tip of his fountain pen, setting it out upon a nearby lectern. Replicating - albeit more crudely for Jean was not known for his penmanship - the diagrams Vacques drew, he looked to his mentor for more.
Vacques drew a globular shape upon the board, and what looked to be a mortar and pestle besides it. “Dead - or living - tissue, placed into the magic mortar, and grand down with the etheric pestle, equates to Sinew Foam,” he stated. Pulling on rubber gloves, Vacques revealed a filet knife. He cleanly cut a slab of clammy flesh from the cadaver, and presented it to Jean along with a pair of gloves. “Come here, put these on and take this.”
Stepping from behind the lectern, Jean took the gloves and drew them up his arms, gripping the still-warm piece of dead meat in his hands. Vacques turned and popped open the briefcase, revealing an expanding shelf of tools, from which he took that very same pair of tools he’d described.
“Place the flesh into the mortar. We will see you craft Sinew Foam for the first lesson,” he stated.
Jean nodded, and folded the piece of flesh down into the small basin, taking it from Vacques. Holding the pestle in his hand, he set it down and squished the flesh, seeing how the pestle seemed to make it bleed this milky white substance he’d never since seen. It was ... fluffy. “So that is Sinew Foam,” mumbled Jean.
Vacques pressed upon Jean’s hands, guiding them with the motion. “Be more firm with it, but do not grind too much upon what has already been ground, or the foam will not adhere to anything.” Jean swirled the pestle round and round, scathing down the lumpy materials as a foam formed, his inexperience creating milky sap along the bottom - a useless reaction, Jean now understood - and he did not stop until the vessel was filled with that foamy, pasty substance.
Sliding over a bucket with his foot, Vacques nodded to Jean, who tilted the excess liquid from his experiment. “There is not much else to the art of congealing Sinew Foam,” stated Vacques. “The ethereal nature of the tools makes this an easy prospect, and you will form the feeling for creating little waste soon enough.” He took the foam from Jean, and emptied it out into a small, glass jar, screwing on the lid. “For now, I must retire. Shall we meet on the morrow, Jean? Seven in the morning? We will learn the importance of this Sinew Foam tomorrow, and its application.”
“Very well then,” said Jean as Vacques cleaned up the cadaver and filed it away into one of the mortuary drawers on the far wall. Taking more notes, Jean jotted down what Vacques had taught him. “I shall see you then. I am satisfied with your service, Vacques.”
Rigid-backed and uniformed, Jean sat in the dining hall with his father. Dinner had been a sour event, and though his father was fuming - stone-faced, yet Jean knew the truth - the special guest of the evening had not yet arrived. Drawing from his collar the bib, the militant silver-haired son smacked the air with it and combed his fingers of nonexistent filth; the Lorraines and indeed many Entente ate carefully, in a regimented manner respective of wealth.
As servants circled like vultures, pecking away the silverware, Jean threw his bib upon a plate and rolled his shoulders back, shrugging and staring a silent gaze with his father. He could not speak out of turn.
Landrys Lorraine spoke from the chest. “I was assured he would arrive before sunset.”
Jean played with his fingernails, mincing them together. “The roads are dangerous as of late. Chaos is returning, and the peasantry have been especially vulgar in both tongue and action. Perhaps your guest was caught in such a thing.”
“I do not agree,” said Landrys. His expectations would not be dashed. By any man.
The door opened, breaking the quiet din of the gilded hall. A thin creature stepped out with a formal curtsy; she held this posture Her words rang out with monotone grace. “Presenting: Necrodoctor and Briologist, Vacques Et Vercaux, Valran to the Montese Lady Lorraine.”
Emerging from the shadows, something far too sculpted and tall to be of a humble origin stepped into the warm light. He seemed relaxed, his pearly-blue eyes sullen with a lack of devotion. They were a fine contrast to his attire of purple jack, emblazoned with the golden sigil of a Briomancer - a Field Medic for the Halamire - and the symbol of House Lorraine. “Apologies for mine tardiness, my lord, the muds from the recent downpour had flown down from the hills and hindered our carriage. I made the trek on foot, but my human slave could not carry my word through the checkpoint in advance to warn of my need to tidy up. I was unaware of the heightened security.”
There was more silence between all in the room as Landrys considered the excuse. “Very well. I would not ask you to track in the dirt,” he said, glancing to Jean who smirked with a knowing shyness. “Nature robs us all. It only matters that you are here now, to teach my son what he should have learned at Nardothis.”
Breathing in sharply, Jean recoiled at the barb, then stood. “Shall I show him to the briotorium?” He turned to Vacques, who was eyeing him with a flat, tilted smile and a needle-like gaze. “Do you have your tools?”
“Mine luggage is being registered to the biorepository,” replied the man, clasping his large, glossy fingers together. “Shall we?”
Jean looked to his father, and then nodded to the man. As he stepped away, a servant pushed in his seat and cleaned what remained of the occasion. Arriving by the fellow’s side, Jean touched him upon the shoulder. “You are from Sil-Elaine, are you? I know the accent well.”
“Well - yes,” Vacques stated with a nod as they walked. “For the hundred years since my birth, and then no longer; I have been in service to House Lorraine from the month I emigrated. If I may ask - you have been to Sil-Elaine?”
Jean nodded as his hand slipped away. They turned a corner down a darker, unlit corridor, passing beneath rays of moonlight. “I was stationed there. It is still ruled by the Court of Dusk from the shadows . . . the people are in dire straits. I would liberate them someday should I have a say, but who can know where life would lead, hm?” Stopping before the door, Jean nodded before the quiet, tall Halamire stationed there. He opened the door without a word, and the pair of them began their descent into the bowels of the earth.
Vacques spoke down between the thrum of hollow steps across stone. “It is unfortunate, to be sure. My family are gone, so it was easy to ‘detach from the land’, as they say.”
The pair emerged into a broad room lined with shelves, the air here stale with a hint of perfumery long since settled. Upon each shelf was a grass jar of dusky fluid with various bits floating within, the lids marked. Jean’s brothers, his father, and his father’s Valran all operated within the space. Even so, Jean had only been down here once before. The place had an . . . unsettling aura about it, and his family had always been touchy about sharing their experiments. “These are your materials?” Jean asked, pointing to a humanoid-shaped bag and a briefcase.
“That they are,” said Vacques with fondness in his voice. The large man squatted down and slung the body over a shoulder - it was little by comparison to his size - and swept up the briefcase as he stood. Jean’s eyebrow rose before he led the man beyond to a metal door, opening the solid hatch to the laboratory proper.
Something moaned faintly as the winds billowed around them, and Jean could feel the Ashes thick around his feet. This was a place for ghoulish things, and such places always felt like he was treading water, even if it was all in his mind. Necrosthesia had that affect on a man. The electric lights began to hum as Jean pulled the lever upon the wall, blue lanterns rendering the entire facility awash in a soft, haunting glow. “This is the Briotorium; down there is the Necrotorium,” said Jean. “We will need a key from my father to access that place.” he added with a point towards a chained, blackened door covered in peculiar markings.
Vacques dropped the body bag down upon the cold, metal turntable situated upon a large, eight by eight foot wide slab of stone towards the center of the room, a nearby rolling table squeaked as Vacques drew it closer to set his briefcase upon it.
Drawing out the buttons, Jean listened to the rustling fabric, seeing the pale figure of a human emerge. “Normally one would pay for an acquisition, but this brigand volunteered himself; I thought, why not save your father’s Farthings?”
Jean peered over the corpse of a man, and his freckled face. “This is still very fresh. Method of execution?” he asked.
“Exsanguination,” replied Vacques, unclipping his briefcase. He stepped away to pull free the blackboard hiding in the dusty corners of the room. “What is your experience with the Briomantic arts?” asked the Necromancer as he scrawled symbols upon the board.
“Assume I am a complete beginner,” Jean replied. “What I know, I have heard in passing, or read as curiosities from books within the libraries of Nardothis.”
“Uh-huh,” hummed Vacques, setting chalk to the board. “Necromancy - or Briomancy as it is called when pertaining to the living - is the use of Etheric tools to manipulate tissues, living or dead.” He drew a large wheel, and divided it with a thicker line between the middle. “Briomantic operations are the foundational elements of Necromancy, and this is the artform that will see the most use for us.”
Jean pulled a journal from his pocket, and then sucked the tip of his fountain pen, setting it out upon a nearby lectern. Replicating - albeit more crudely for Jean was not known for his penmanship - the diagrams Vacques drew, he looked to his mentor for more.
Vacques drew a globular shape upon the board, and what looked to be a mortar and pestle besides it. “Dead - or living - tissue, placed into the magic mortar, and grand down with the etheric pestle, equates to Sinew Foam,” he stated. Pulling on rubber gloves, Vacques revealed a filet knife. He cleanly cut a slab of clammy flesh from the cadaver, and presented it to Jean along with a pair of gloves. “Come here, put these on and take this.”
Stepping from behind the lectern, Jean took the gloves and drew them up his arms, gripping the still-warm piece of dead meat in his hands. Vacques turned and popped open the briefcase, revealing an expanding shelf of tools, from which he took that very same pair of tools he’d described.
“Place the flesh into the mortar. We will see you craft Sinew Foam for the first lesson,” he stated.
Jean nodded, and folded the piece of flesh down into the small basin, taking it from Vacques. Holding the pestle in his hand, he set it down and squished the flesh, seeing how the pestle seemed to make it bleed this milky white substance he’d never since seen. It was ... fluffy. “So that is Sinew Foam,” mumbled Jean.
Vacques pressed upon Jean’s hands, guiding them with the motion. “Be more firm with it, but do not grind too much upon what has already been ground, or the foam will not adhere to anything.” Jean swirled the pestle round and round, scathing down the lumpy materials as a foam formed, his inexperience creating milky sap along the bottom - a useless reaction, Jean now understood - and he did not stop until the vessel was filled with that foamy, pasty substance.
Sliding over a bucket with his foot, Vacques nodded to Jean, who tilted the excess liquid from his experiment. “There is not much else to the art of congealing Sinew Foam,” stated Vacques. “The ethereal nature of the tools makes this an easy prospect, and you will form the feeling for creating little waste soon enough.” He took the foam from Jean, and emptied it out into a small, glass jar, screwing on the lid. “For now, I must retire. Shall we meet on the morrow, Jean? Seven in the morning? We will learn the importance of this Sinew Foam tomorrow, and its application.”
“Very well then,” said Jean as Vacques cleaned up the cadaver and filed it away into one of the mortuary drawers on the far wall. Taking more notes, Jean jotted down what Vacques had taught him. “I shall see you then. I am satisfied with your service, Vacques.”
