Necromancy

If your community thinks it odd that you should decide to leave the safety and comfort of your home for the dangerous hinterlands of Adventure, then they would no doubt find it much more disturbing to discover that the style of magic with which you find yourself to be most proficient involves the dark and diabolical arts of communication with the Dead.

It is not a path which you chose, but one which Fate has laid out before you, stone by stone, from the high peak of Sylane's Tower down to the deep dark pit of the Damned. As a child you interacted freely with the spirits of those who had Sailed on before you. The spirits of children who died young, taken by ****, accident, or disease, were your natural playmates. Your parents looked askance at these invisible companions, dismissing them as the product of an overactive imagination until your pranks--goaded on by the dares of your ghostly friends--became too much of a disturbance and other people began to talk.

It seemed that you knew too much about the goings-on of other people, had access to information that only invisible spectators could have acquired, and found easily those things that were hidden or lost. You developed a tendency to go into trance and deliver messages from the dead to their living loved ones at inappropriate occasions, and to touch your enemies with the chill of the grave when you stared at them with your cold, black eyes. It wasn't long before everyone knew you to be the Weird child and your parents were **** to intervene. They asked your grandfather for assistance, and he complied--for their benefit, if not your own--damping your power, enveloping you in a protective cocoon that would shield you from the visitations of the Damned until such a time as you could learn to control it.

But that was many decades ago, and most had forgotten, or passed it off as a childish phase of your development. They knew that Waedwyr had taken his granddaughter under wing and were confident that he could wean you of your unnatural fixations. Most thought that you had turned your thoughts to nobler pursuits, to Arcana of the Light and of Nature, traditional disciplines which most Elven mages mastered. But Waedwyr never asked you to make that choice.

He knew, because he was wise, that untamed power would work its own mischief. The surest defence against the darkness that welled within you was a clear and conscious understanding of it. He taught you to master your native gifts, to explore them, control them, refine them. He also taught you to hide them. He prepared you for living amongst your fellow elves with a delicate balance of diplomacy and secrecy. He knew that your magic, unrestrained, would inevitably get you in trouble, and perhaps even outcast, or burned as a witch. He also knew that if the High Council of Mages found out that a gifted necromancer had been trained by Waedwyr the Wise that you would be doubly in peril. They would certainly find that an affront, and a threat, and act to stamp you out. He pitied their arrogance and their foolishness, but could see no other course but the one he chose.

He taught you all that he could before time and circumstance **** his hand and he Sailed in the Crossing. He taught you enough of the White arts that you could pass as a adequate student for other teachers, and so conceal the handiwork he had so carefully woven into your studies. And with his help, and your natural gifts, and with the assistance of the spirits of mages from beyond the Veil--who offered additional insight and tutorials--for a price--when you were alone in your tower, you managed to pass yourself off as a rather ordinary, if odd, student of Magic.

But living confined in this tower, which trapped your body as surely as the superstitions of your people trapped your spirit, had become intolerable. You could not live out your years pretending to be something that you were not, presenting a sunny face and a gay disposition to the world to mask an icy heart, as cold and as distant as any moon.

You let the straps of your gown slide from your shoulders and slip to the floor. Turning to your wardrobe, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

Beautiful, even by elven standards, your skin was as white and as pure as driven snow. It was a stark contrast to your hair, which fell like a splash of ink down your back, frozen in time. Tall, slender, as graceful as a reed bending in the breeze, it was hard to imagine that you had no lover. But those eyes that stared back at you--daring, confronting, and without compassion--those eyes, which were the windows of your soul, were two black peepholes, as rigid as the eyes of a mask, the empty sockets of a skull, staring back at you from beyond the grave.

You turn away. "Cepat," you utter, mindlessly. The door on the wardrobe opens. You take down a heavy gown, a black dress lined with satyr wool, to keep you warm and dry when the cool weather hits. You fold it neatly and pack it in a bag. Then you take down a lighter dress, this time coral, a cooler dress for warmer weather, and put it on. Taking various other things, you prepare yourself for a long journey.

Now you have only a couple of very important things left to gather. First, your spellbook. It is small, as far as spellbooks go, and light. The binding is of indigo leather, a hell-hound's hide. It is cold to the touch and bound with a bone clasp. Your grandfather created it especially for you, to be your private journal, and you have never shown it to anyone. You open it up and flip through it. It has an unlimited number of pages and turns immediately to the page you desire. It has the added advantage that anyone unfamiliar with its contents will see nothing but blank pages. This you place in your satchel. The next thing is your ring, which burns when there is danger nearby. A useful thing when adventuring. Your grandfather knew you would require it. Then there is the orb, a small spere of pure crystal which you use for scrying; your dagger, Spiderfang, forged by the dark dwarves of Pits Deeps; and finally, your wand, a short piece of willow branch hardened in spectral fire. You take your cloak, which immediately turns coral to match your dress, and take one last parting look at the room which has been your home for so many years. Someday you will return, you think to yourself nostalgically. This year or another. But for now you can say farwell to your cell with a smile.

"Tapec", you say loudly. The door seals shut behind you.