Hi everyone. I wrote a short story based on a day in the life of a Necromancer. I'm just doing this to improve my writing skills and give people some stuff to read, so any and all feedback and constructive-ish criticism is welcomed. This story depicts the personal experience of a Necromancer perceiving his mana and completing a ritual. I hope you enjoy it!

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The boar was badly hurt. It lay on its side twitching and snorting, snuffling and snorting at me as I approached. I knelt by its side, gently touching its injured leg.

I drew out my ritual knife and sliced the boar’s throat. Thick blood ran black from its neck and pooled on the ground beside me. I watched the life drain from the boar’s eyes, then used my knife to efficiently carve a series of sigils down the boar’s body, completing the thanatological ritual to preserve its body from decay and buy me time for further studies.

I reached out with my senses to assess the magical energy in the area. Thick, greasy veins of shining black energy hung in the air like limp ropes of congealed fat, their surface slick and shiny. I focused on the vein nearest to me. Its surface was somehow both slick with grease and pockmarked with rust and corrosion. Its pitch-black surface gave off a light that I could not see. It was still, yet constantly moving. It glowed with an oily black energy that cast cold heat on my skin.

One of the things that frustrates me about the practice of Ontologic Sorcery is that our mana streams are ugly.

The Moon Mages, for all their somber talk about the Web of Fate and the metaphysical underpinnings of reality, really do get to spend an awful lot of time gazing at the pretty moons and stars. The Warrior Mages have their supernatural fire and ice. Even the idiot Clerics delude themselves with visions of holy glory and radiant light.

I wanted power that would transcend them all. I was promised power that would transcend them all. What I got was the ability to see thick, ugly, glowing-black veins of greasy coagulated fat hanging in the air everywhere I look.

I wanted power over life and death. I was promised the power to transcend the Immortals’ cruel, barbaric cycle of life and death; the power to kill death itself. What I got was the ability to use a corpse as a puppet by shoving enough greasy-glowing-black-stuff into it.

In a world that wasn’t broken, we wouldn’t have to suffer these indignities.

I sighed to myself; no point in whining about it. I began the next ritual, carving an additional series of markings into the boar. I completed the sigils on its chest, back, and upper shoulders with rote precision, watching them turn to glowing grey-black as I finished each sign. The markings on the arms and legs were more important. The energy had to be channeled perfectly through each limb to enable the creature to walk, and a zombie that couldn’t walk would be useless. The difference between a fruitful day of work and a wasted opportunity could be no more than an errant scratch, or a pair of misaligned markings. Above all else, the Great Work demands a steady hand and assiduous practice.

I carved the signs carefully into each limb, then ran my knife’s blade carefully across the palm of my hand, drawing a small amount of blood. I waved my hand slowly over the corpse, letting the blood drip down onto the sigils and the creature’s eyes.

I took a step back. The project was almost complete. I recited the words of the proper magical rite to raise the boar as a zombie. I could feel the energy build with a great, swelling pressure—more greasy oily-black energy piling up behind my eyeballs—and then release as I gestured at the boar.

Arise.

The corpse shuddered and two blood-red eyes jerked open, staring lifelessly at me. It was nothing new; I had done this before. I turned away and began to walk. I could hear the bones creak and pop as the creature stood. Its footsteps were the only sound that followed me as I walked away.

Some more writing!

Traveling south along the mountain pass, I grimaced against the cold, icy sleet that drove at whatever direction I happen to have any exposure to. There was no winning against this weather, a small wonder the dwarves initially settled here. The dark and silent forest behind me only occasionally betrayed a grunt or gruff of animal lurking in the shadows, though they spared me no mind, smelling the blood and bone and strength I carried. The rope was tied in a half hitch, which was just right for the hour. I’d have to retie it tomorrow to cats paw when the sun goes down. The horizon finally gave way to the geargates of Ravens Point, the outpost practically buried in the snow. To the not so distant east, a decrepit stone fortress crumbled, home of the Dragon Priests and their comical evil, like something out of a bad play, full of hissing snakes and promises to end the world.

As I approached the gate, I paused a moment to practice my smile, to speak the lines so that they would sound casual. They townsfolk were used to hunters and warriors who weren’t quite civilized, but no matter what I said, their eyes always seemed to narrow in suspicion. I was fraying around the edges. “The apes fought well!” I tried, but it sounded forced. “One nearly took me by surprise, damn near got a chunk of my shoulder!” I said to the swirling snow, sighing at how my tone was all wrong. A crow snickered at me, cawed “They know!” as I passed.

I adjusted the bundle of ivory teeth and black ape pelts, and gave my pouch of assorted baubles and gemstones a shake. Not a bad haul. I could feel my zombie, my creation, waiting for me deep in the woods, and could sense the vacuum of wildlife it created as the local fauna gave it wide berth. I grinned as I approached the geargate, seeing the slurbows aimed at me. Their walls offered no protection. I heard a skittering and from my periphery, saw something running along the parapets.

“Hello there!” I called, wincing a moment at the overeager desperation of my greeting. “I’m here for the peltry and a hot drink!” I sounded like a fool.

For an endless moment, the guard stared at me. My finger twitched, and I nearly went ahead with the invocation to will my creation to bound from the forest and tear his head off, tear down the gate, burn the entire village. But he turned and nodded to his companion, who shouted down the line with a commanding, competent yet casual shout of “Open the gate, assume positions! Gate will remain open for half a turn!”

I envied his voice. I coveted it.

With a groan of clanking chains and steel gears, the gate shed a cascade of ice and snow and steadily rose. Faces formed and melted in the hail. I made my way into the town, and stamped the cold from my feet upon reaching the peltry. I hefted my bundle to the counter and grinned my best grin at the shopkeep. He eyed me suspiciously, sniffed, and started sorting through my haul. He began separating the skins and teeth into piles of quality, the flawless ivory tusks and immaculate night-black hides to one side, the chipped and yellowed and frayed to another. The pristine pile was haughty, knowing it’s place, while the other pile sulked, wishing it was somewhere else. Suddenly, he stopped and lifted one of the skins, peering closely at a mark near the right shoulder blade. His eyes widened, and he slowly glanced at me. The gig was up, he knew, no mere trapper cuts like that! I began reaching to my creation, began gathering Arcane energies, began forming targeting patterns around his neck.

“Swear I know this one,” he said. “Ran me and my boy off a campsite a decade back, barely kept it off with a shard of flame through the chest. Figured I didn’t finish the deed.”

My hands shook from the barely contained energies, and I felt a pressure behind my eyes. I relaxed a bit, diffusing the angry power into the ground. The floorboards groaned, and the hearth dimmed. He was still looking at me, waiting, he wanted me to say something, to respond. The shop was empty, save for the howling of the wind and the scent of tannin. I swallowed.

”That one, uh, seemed to favor the left arm. It was looking for a fight, mean and full of spite.” I proffered, desperation and fear and anger and loneliness shouting at him to give me my coin and leave me be. “How, ah, you know, how much for the lot?”

His eyes changed, glancing at my made-of-the-wilds gear, meeting my gaze till I was forced to look away. “Five platinums and I don’t tell the next trapper of your camp.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully and pulled some coins from his purse. He knew, he knew I wasn’t a trapper.

“Fine, keep your tongue.” I said, a little too quickly, grabbing the coin and turning for the door. The hearth knew, popped an ember at me mockingly.

“Wait, that’s it?” he called. “Comon boy, these are worth five times that, least put up a good haggle!”

But I was out the door, running for the still open geargate.

Not sure about the ending:

It was a small town, Kemeret, full of good honest folk. The mayor wasn’t the sort of man who grew fat off his people, but rather was appointed by his peers after decades of grueling labor, a refusal to let problems stand unsolved, disputes hamper productivity, or people left unfed. And I was welcome, welcome with open arms and gentle silence and reassuring smiles. They took me in. They saw me, a wretched half starved, half wild creature living in their backwoods, and they took me in. It was Kemerets undoing.

I was found by the Pollard boy. He was roaming as boys do, swishing a stick like a sword against the imaginary beasts that boys must slay when he turned a corner in the ravine and saw me, hunched over a still pool mumbling to my reflection. He did the smart thing, ran and got help, but aside from that never left my side until I was well. The Pollards kept me warm, and fed, spoke to me softly and soothingly, coaxed me back. I’d be alone a very long time. Alec. The boys name was Alec. I’d nearly forgotten.

As the fog of my isolation began to burn away, it began to come back to me. Why I’d left. Who I was. What I knew. But it felt like less of a curse, and more an… opportunity for change. I knew letters and alchemies and medicine, and the town needed those things. So I bent my knowledge to purpose, to a purpose that felt right. People began buying books, corresponding to relatives, women fared better in the birthing bed, more children made it through the winter. They set me up with a shop, I was kept busy, and Alec was a quick study, an attentive assistant or protégé even. Everything seemed… good.

A decade past. I met a girl, or, she met me. I can barely remember how it happened, everything with her was a blur of charm and wit and laughter. After a year I proposed to her, the Elder Pollard practically cried when I asked him to officiate. I never really stopped being their rescue, I suppose. We were to be wed in the fall, her favorite season. She said she liked to see the trees aflame with color.

Everything happened so fast. Alec was mixing healing herbs and mushrooms and inhaled a lungful of spores. He went blind, his tongue black and his heart racing. I knew what had to be done, and treated him. We waited. He seemed to get better, but then, strangely, the girl who was attending him started losing her vision and having trouble breathing. I figured Alec had coughed up spores and she had been exposed, so, treated her and quarantined them, allowing other attendants near only with wet kerchiefs wrapped around their faces.

It wasn’t enough. Or the fungus was too strong. Or the coming cold too wet. I don’t know what happened, but one by one people started coming down with the blight, blind and scared. Alec was stable, but bedridden, his eyes wide as he scanned the room seeing nothing. The girl wasn’t so lucky, and gasped her final breath mere days after coming to Alecs side. Needless to say, my pending nuptials were postponed.

The coming days saw more and more people succumbing, and soon we were clearing out the town hall for triage and isolation. My… skills… kept me safe, my lungs clear, but I couldn’t work fast enough to keep others stable, and the blindness seemed irreversible. I could see the poison burning the delicate tissue behind their eyes, the nerve dying back. When my betrothed began coughing, I had to act.

Alec was the key. He was source, the patient zero.

“Doc, is that you?” he called out when I entered his room.

“’lo Alec. How are you feeling?”

“Much better, though I’m still just seeing a swirling haze and flashes of color”

“With any luck that’ll get better… Listen, Alec… You’ve… Been brave.”

He laughed, not cruelly, and smiled in my direction. “Not always, but I know you’ll figure this out. You got me through the rough part, and did everything you could for Gemma. Say, how’s your lady?”

I winced. “Hopefully we can get ahead of it.”

He nodded and smiled, lending me his support while giving me the space to worry. Damn this town…

My knife flashed, opening his throat, a sheet of crimson cascading down his chest. I cradled his hands, holding them in place as his surprise gave way to fear.

“I’m here, I’m sorry, I love you. I’m here, I’m sorry, I love you.” I repeated these simple words to him as he died, the fear and surprise never leaving his eyes.

I began to cut into his face, his eyes, and found what I needed. The fungus took root behind his eyes, with dead tendrils extending into the top of his nasal cavity and down towards his lungs. The clump behind his eyes was moving, and connected to a long and thin fibril that extended deep into his brain. That was curious. I dug deeper, and found a secondary mass near the back of his skull. That would explain the flashes of color. The tendrils extending into his airways suggested the fungus needed air, which gave me a treatment idea. I needed to act fast, and began wrapping him in a sheet when I heard the shattering pottery behind me. I whirled, and saw my betrothed standing in the doorway, staring at me horrified.

“This isn’t what it looks like, I figu-“ I stammered, but she turned and ran.

They would come after me, and no amount of explaining or pleas would persuade them that my actions were necessary. Not just, certainly, but necessary. It was for them! I did it all for them! Not again, I couldn’t go through it again, I could save them, I could save them all. I began to chase after her, and before we’d even left the building, I was holding onto her, shouting explanations. I suppose that’s how it happened, I accidentally pulled her off balance and she slipped. Yes. I’ll believe that. The alternative is too painful.

Her head hit the cobblestones and her eyes immediately dulled as the blood began to pool around her, a red halo gently pushing her beautiful hair. Her breathing slowed, her pupils slowly dilated. I cradled her head, and began to weep. “I’m here, I’m sorry, I love you. I’m here, I’m sorry, I love you.”

They gave me space, as they would, but someone went upstairs and found Alec. There were screams, and before I could gather my senses I was in shackles, the mayor was standing before me, and everyone’s eyes were full of hate and fear and spite. I knew how this was going to play out, but the mayor, damn his fairness, wanted to hear me speak.

What could I say? That I could save them all? That she was gone? That he had to be sacrificed so the rest could live? I reached into my cloak and pulled one of the black masses I’d extracted from Alec’s head, and offered it to the mayor. He recoiled and snarled something. They didn’t understand. They never understood. Damn this town. I summoned Arcane energies and mutated my nervous system, my muscles, and leapt clear of the crowd, running ran for the woods. They searched for a few days, but had to abandon their cause for justice as more and more began to fall ill. I could still have saved them all, but to what end?

The town dwindled, and the few survivors moved on. By the time winter came, the town was empty, with many of the bodies left where they perished, the living fearful of catching the blight. I found her, still in the house of mourning, wrapped in a shroud. I focused my senses on her, to see how badly she’d been infected, when the surprise hit. She was healthy, free of the fungus. I began examining the other bodies, only to find that there was no sign of the blight in anyone. The mass I’d extracted from Alec was gone.

I returned to my shop to research what had happened, though in my heart of hearts, I knew. I corrupted my work, and Alec had gotten too close. They’d all gotten too close. There was nothing left for me here. I gathered some supplies, turned down the shop, and left. As I passed the town sign, I rested a moment with my hand against the cold wood, the cheerful painted board that read “Kemeret”. I said the only thing I could before continuing on.

“I’m here, I’m sorry, I love you.”

The man sipped his wine with a slight grimace. The cheap vintage left much to be desired, but he was a simple farmer. Visions of death and decay swirled in the dark recesses of his mind, causing him to drink deeply despite the taste.

The sudden sound of laughter from across the room caused the man to peer in the direction nervously. The laughter had stopped, replaced by hushed whispers. The farmer took another drink while his other hand unconsciously gripped the knife at his side. The villagers were talking about him, the farmer knew it. Not to his face of course, they wouldn't dare, but they were talking about him all the same. The voices he heard in the darkness agreed with him, and the knowledge they shared with him was seldom wrong. Ever since he had returned without his family, the villagers held no qualms about speaking behind his back or just beyond earshot. They couldn't prove anything, and their assumptions were wrong anyways. He didn't kill his family, he wasn't a killer. No, he was something much worse.

Swallowing another vile mouthful, the man glanced back towards the door where he could have sworn someone had just entered. Nothing. No, he wasn't a killer. Betrayer of his family, but not a killer, nor was he just a farmer, not anymore. It galled him to know that he came from such simple beginnings, to be one so powerless. No longer, he had purchased himself a new life, a new beginning. He was the master of his fate now. No more fearing for crops or weather patterns. No more worrying over predators and bandits. No need to trouble himself with the simple plagues the gods so often sent to vex those who worked the land. Finishing his drink, the man asked for the establishment's finest, laughing to himself knowing that he had just finished yet another glass of the stuff.

"It will not help, no matter how much you drink, nothing will," said a robed man sitting beside him.

The farmer frowned at the man and took a sip anyways.

"We know the truth," the robed man continued.

"You know nothing," the farmer drawled, looking deep into his glass.

"You cannot hide your sins from us, we know your crimes. Your family."

"My family was killed," the farmer replied as convincingly as he could. He had gotten quite convincing. He had gotten good at a lot of things he would not have once been proud of.

"Your family was betrayed. You have not yet paid the price in full," the robed man replied quietly.

"I am willing to pay any price," the farmer growled, his knife half out of its sheath.

"Some costs are beyond your means. Some are beyond your comprehension. You are nothing but the poor slave to a game begun well before your birth. Unable to see the game pieces, unable to understand the game's rules, and unable to see the game's participants," the robed man replied with a sneer. "Your life, your very existence, is that of a simple farmer-"

The farmer's knife flashed quickly, plunging deeply into the side of the robed man sitting beside him. Pulling the man close to him by grabbing a handful of hair, the farmer whispers feverishly, "I am no farmer, I control my destiny." The farmer stabs twice more for good measure.

The robed man's figure fades slowly away, revealing the form of the farmer's wife held in his grasp by her hair. The farmer blinks, uncomprehending, before erupting into a mournful cry. "What have I done? My love, you can't die, I won't let you." Lying his wife upon the stone slab beside the body of a young child he can't be troubled to examine, the farmer begins to cut symbols into the body of his wife. Symbols he had obtained from a book from a nearby monastery. Symbols that promised to restore those beyond death. The farmer worked quickly, his wife wouldn't let him live this down once he restored her, he knew it. His mind on his work, he also would have to find his three children. Where were they again?

The storm had deepened into the stuff of legends. The two children waited for the return of their parents, and it wouldn't be long until their mother found them waiting where they were left. Lightening boomed loudly outside the cave, almost loud enough to drown out the horrified screams of the young, almost loud enough to mask the sound of wet spatter upon stone.

Guess I should have written the background changing back to the cave as well as the victim. Wasn't sure what I was going to do with the second part of until earlier today when I had a few moments after painting the kitchen and sitting through a wicked headache.