Exploring Life Anew

AN: No sex in this one, next chapter tho. This one is setting the stage.

They awoke the next morning. Both more tired than the day before. It wasn't as though there was much sleeping happening yesterday. Chelsea collected her basket and prepared to head back to the village of Merrit's Bend when markash grabbed an old robe and threw it on, ready to accompany her back.

This time Chelsea when returned from “collecting herbs” she accompanied by Markash. Hiding in the forest ruins was not going to achieve anything any longer. They approached Merrit’s Bend with the dawn breaking behind them. The town was still sleepy, the cobblestone streets empty except for a few early risers going about their morning routines.

The guards at the gate looked at the two approaching and while they opened the gate; the two on the wall came down to meet them.

“Hey Chel, who’s your friend?” They remained relaxed but kept their spears with them as they walked out. Markash felt a strange feeling in his stomach, a mix of anticipation and something he had not felt in centuries - nerves.

“This is Markash,” Chelsea said, her voice filled with a strange pride. “We ran into each other on my way back into town and struck up a conversation.” Mark took the queue.

“Magister Markash Roanan” Inclining his head just a touch Mark let a little bit of the entropic power in his aura slip out. “A pleasure.”

The two glanced between themselves, and silence hung for a long second before the guards decided they weren’t paid enough to mess with a magister and opened the gates again. Weirder things happened in the wilds and a wandering magister was weird, it wasn't weird enough for the risk of offending one.

“Honored magister. Please visit the Guard Captain when you have a moment. She likes to know when we have distinguished guests.” The guards bow was respectful but the way he kept a weather eye on Mark spoke to a deep mistrust. That was fine Mark supposed. Powerful people demanded respect that wasn’t always earned in the eyes of mortals. “There is a guild house in the village. I suspect the adjunct there would like to know one of the Peerage is in town.”

Mark noted that it was phrased as an offer. Clearly the guard wanted nothing to do with him so he made his way into the town without bothering the man any more. The ‘Peerage’ was an old term predating his first life. To mortals it was just the name that Magisters used to differentiate themselves - to put them above the others.

In reality it went much much deeper. The Peerage, always with a capital ‘P’ was broken into levels based at first on a person’s induction and training on the basics of magecraft, as would be expected. Apprentices and initiates. Those barely strong enough to filter the astral through their gateway, two words for the same thing. People a full magister thought were useful enough to teach the basics. From there the different levels were a reflection of both a Magister’s power as well as their progression of the spiritual changes all magic users faced as they climbed towards ascension.

Lichdom was basically selling magical progression to anchor his soul at that point in time. Mark was a ‘Soul Formation’ magister at the time of his first ****. The third of the eight major realms. That realm was about the creation of the idealized form, a magical body that acted as a lightning rod to help channel his internal realm’s power. Sadly, that dissipated quickly once the energy was being used was needed anchor him.

Once that was gone the magical drain continued destroying his soul realm, the internal landscape created by a magister’s connection to the winds of creation. While he was loath to admit it, by the time the contract was sealed with the demon, Markash was a shadow of himself, his magical self huddling around the remaining soulscape near his gateway.

The rebuilding was going to be slow. The rebuilding was slow. For now that he was a magister again, politics aside, was enough. He marched through the gate into the town. When he was here last it was still little more than the bridges, a small trade and fishing dock, an inn and a garrison. Now it was a sizable village. There were clear districts, there was the lumber mills and quarry for industry.

The Peerage was an unfortunate roadblock. If there was a guild house here then the Empire would know when this town did not report. Then it had to be quiet, undermined rather than destroyed. The Guild house also served as an inn for traveling magisters though, and since Mark’s last living conditions didn’t exactly include an income. Free was the best price for an inn. The guild house itself was modest by Peerage standards, but still once of the largest and most ornate buildings in the city.

The inevitable meeting with the Peerage adjunct would wait. Life was at the moment, for living. Markash, now just Mark, relished the feeling of the sun on his skin as he walked through the town of Merritt’s Bend. The merge with the demon had calmed from the raging inferno of mental, emotional and physical changes leaving him with an almost human complexion.

As it turns out, the middle ground between undead lich and fallen celestial was, for lack of a better term ‘normal’. He now stood in a human form, a little under 6 foot, scraggly black hair, and a lithe but subtly muscular body. His eyes had taken on a violet hue, a balance he assumed, between the necromantic ice blue lichdom and the passionate furious reds that matched the hue of his partner's demonic form.

After he had sated his new hunger on Chelsea, the preacher’s daughter no less of the town near his ‘lair’; they had talked long into the night about what their next steps should be. Dragging an infernal essence to the surface and binding it to revitalize a decrepit soul left both marked and exhausted.

Chelsea on the other hand was left insatiable they fucked constantly until her body gave out. Her cries of pleasure and pain echoed through the tower into the woods nearby filling the reservoir of demonic energy in both the ritual circle beneath the tower and in Mark’s body just below his navel.

While his body was restored, his mind was still recovering. One hundred years with only the cold magical reality of undeath was a trial on the mind. When existing in the state between life and the blissful obliteration of ****, there is no sensation. Taste fades until everything tastes like ash, touch fades until it is all the smooth boring touch of bone, emotion is muted and dulled into pointless apathy. Mark now held onto each experience anew, as if experiencing everything for the first time again. This morning their first task was breakfast - hunger, was making itself known again for the first time in far too long.

When last Mark was truly alive Merritt’s Bend was just a bridge and an inn, with a few farms along the river banks nearby. Now it was an actual village with a population likely nearing a thousand. The midmorning markets were in full swing and his passing was not nearly as noticeable as he had worried. Chelsea released his hand when they reached the outskirts, that familiarity would not be good for her appearances. He walked at her side as she greeted townspeople and friends while making her way through the morning crowd.

“The Stuck Boar?” The name made sense as the welcome smell of roasting bacon, hash, and eggs welcomed him at the open door. Escaping from the light morning rain the couple took up a small corner seat and retrieved a couple of plates of food. Chelsea paid for the meal, while Mark had collected plenty of riches they were not easily translated into Imperial silver Aureus. They ate in peace; the trip out into the town was meant as a chance for Mark and the demon now resting within to get a feel for their surroundings.

“What now?” Chelsea asked tentatively between bites of breakfast.

“I need to learn the landscape of this time.” He paused considering his words. “Aesmaram’s gift gives me the potential for unlimited power, but the cost is high.” Mark replied, but paused, shuddering as the red in his eyes became dominant. “We conquer as is the right of the powerful.” The sorcerer shook his head focusing the rage and lust of the demon within back beneath the surface. Chelsea looked around panicking but quickly realized that either nobody heard, or the outburst had been hidden. “Ugh. My apologies, but, it is as he said. The cost to live again was steep; and he took a gamble on me as well, we have to establish a base of power to stabilize the bond. Everything past that has to wait.” That already was more than the priestess needed to know.

“Okay, so, what is the first step?” She asked, her curiosity overcoming her fear.

“I chose Merritt’s Bend for a reason. This was just a trading post when I took the northern tower. It was, or still is out of the way enough to not draw too much attention yet.” The valley that holds the town butts against the sea to the west and the mountains to the east. The Empire has only two ways into the valley. Merritt’s Bend sits on the northeast end of the valley, the main crossing point for the delta at the end of the great river. A week’s ride south sat the cleverly named, southern pass that ran along the whistling edge mountains. “We’re positioned well for the next steps. You however, need to make your appearances at the church. Remember what I tasked you with while there and I will see you shortly.”

“Of course master.” Chelsea took her leave as she was dismissed and filtered back into the crowd outside. This however seems to be a perfect time for some scouting. Mark left the inn and wandered throughout the town. While it was busy security was lax. The couple of patrolling guards he did see wandered with relaxed postures, their weapons secured and armor loosely bound. By count they already numbered fewer than the small host of undead minions in the tower dungeon. The undead were poor combatants however; there was perhaps another solution.

There were ‘monster’ tribes. The villages and human kingdoms thought them mindless or barbarous, but the tribes had their own cultures and respected nothing more than prowess and the strength to lead. There had to be tribes nearby that could be useful. Even if they only served as fodder or a way to distract from the keep.

The inn, being the typical place adventurers and the guards gathered in their off time was a perfect place to listen to the rumors and bustle that accompanied the small town. Sure enough as he ate his breakfast of salted pork and fresh eggs, a fine enough first true meal in hundreds of years; a crew of exhausted adventurers stumbled in and fell into the chairs of the nearest table.

“A dark paladin…” A somber mood took over the table as a young elvish woman talked to the innkeeper discreetly in the corner. “The quest didn’t mention that. George had no chance. He held him off long enough in the end but…” The man in leather armor paused before sighing into his hands. “We should get some rest. Shalia has the room keys. We’ll drink to him tonight.” A dark paladin would have had local allies in the nearby monster clans, or a cult of their own that could be taken.

While a more daring part of Mark wanted to chase the young elvish lady - discretion was at times the better part of valor. Knowing that the paladin had fallen in battle and that his minions would be looking for a new patron was enough to send the cult to find them, Mark left the Inn and the adventurers inside.

Sure enough their exploits were already in rumors making their way through the town. The guards spoke candidly and happily about the adventurers team from Mosspoint who dealt with the dark forces that had been ambushing caravans from the eastern pass. If the tribes were in the east, and if they had survived it was a key position to hold. Holding the eastern pass left the town only the river to the western sea. Markash left the town in a hurry. There would be plenty of time to subvert the town once they were isolated.

Bagra Cinn was the matriarch of the Cinn goblin clan. She held the title only two weeks now that she was of age. Her mother and aunt among the number not having returned from recent hunting trips near the human town. Scavenged goods and dwindling food supplies were the least of her worries. Goblin clans could not grow their numbers without a Patron to whom they were pact-sworn and the humans had killed or drawn away any who could have done the job. At this point even a human magic user would be enough. If there was one willing.

Bagra clamored under the brush back into the small camp above the cave that served as the clan’s home, lugging a knapsack full of stolen plunder behind her. If one of the clan dressed up like a human child and covered themselves maybe they could get some coin out of it. That was always dangerous, and with the clan already in freefall, she was no longer sure it was worth the risk.

“Matron.” Bagra stopped short as she entered the clearing. Two humans in dark robes shrouding their features stood before the entrance to the goblin camp. Despite being surrounded by a number of armed goblins, they were perfectly at ease, confident in their control of the situation. Bagra couldn’t fault them for that; she sensed the strength of the chaotic magic that flowed through their auras. If they were here to attack the clan they would have done it already. The taller of the two looked down at her and spoke with cold confidence. “Our master wishes to talk to you. You will accompany us now. You may bring an escort of four of your own. Choose well, they will be tested, as will you.”

It was not an offer, that much was clear immediately. Forces strong enough to demand the services of the clan were not the type that would ask for her presence. Bagra hesitated for just a moment, weighing the uncertainty before her before realizing the alternative was worse. Someone had taken an interest in the clan and judging by the auras of the servants whoever sent them could erase the clan if they wanted. Though she was loath to admit it, the clan desperately needed a new patron.

“As you say.”

The demon was not in control but that did not stop him from constantly talking inside of Mark’s head.

“You know I’ve seen the way she looks at you, her devotion is absolute. It’s a delicious sight, but imagine how much more power we could harness if she bore one of my kin? She'll soon be ready.” It was a tempting offer and one that Mark knew the demon was eager to explore. _"You knew the cost of our accord. She has her part to play." _The demon's voice was a seductive whisper.

"But why the hurry?" Mark's mind was racing. He knew that Aesmaram had his reasons but he wasn't about to hand over Chelsea without understanding them first.

"Now, now don’t get sentimental. She will be safe enough." The voice faded.

"That's not..." Mark realized he was talking to himself. You’d think a lust demon would understand wanting to slow down and have a little fun. Two hundred years of undeath and Markash just wanted to let the memories of lichdom fall into history. He was alive again, vital, full of the same essence that gave food flavor and the sun warmth. Then there were the emotions. Every last one was overwhelming after a hundred years of bitter apathy. Overwhelming in the best ways of course. Now Markash just wanted a chance to get used to life again, but already the demon was proving a tough master.

He stood in the main chamber of the tower’s ground floor, what would become a throne room, as a series of skeletal constructs moved stone blocks repairing parts of the tower chamber. When he first claimed the tower it was already in disrepair - and that served the liche’s needs just fine, but a crumbling tower was no home for a demon lord, even in his nascent stage.

The tower and surrounding ruins would be good enough until his control extended outside of the valley His remaining cultists, the six that had survived the ritual plus Chelsea, who was still in the town, would be the foundation of his power, if they could rise to the challenges ahead he would reward them well. Still the problem now lie in how to expand that base. Mark sat on a wooden chair after helping move stone to patch the walls. He shuddered as a blood red mist poured off of his body taking a scarlet translucent form of his demonic partner Aesmaram.

“Ahh, this is better don’t you agree? We can talk face to face at last.” The demon “stood” in front of him. It appeared in it’s full naked glory - it’s true form was neither male nor female. This androgyny was still hyper-sexualized, as expected of a demon of lust. In the end it came across as tomboyish, but with the emphasis in the right places, the hourglass figure remained, strong hips emphasizing stronger thighs, and above them muscular but still definitively pert breasts.

“You can speak directly into my mind. Why project yourself out here?”

“Why not. I am as much master of our domains as you. I do as I please.” The projection paced around the room. Occasionally stepping through debris still littering the floor as though it weren’t there. “What we need is material power. Magically, you are a… satisfactory sorcerer and there is potential in some of your cultists. But we have no real assets from which to expand. I sent two of your cultists to collect a useful pawn. All you have to do is prove your dominion when she arrives."

He continued. "Monsters respond well to powerful leaders, they don’t just respond well, they need them. It’s called patronage. It stabilizes them, increases intelligence, vitality, magical affinity. It just so happens that the Patron of a local goblin clan was caught by the Church of Purifying Flame. He will no longer be a threat to us. His loss however presents us an opportunity.

The Clan’s matron should be on her way here now.” The demon paused as if caught in thought. “Yes, I will leave you to bring her to submit.” You have to learn to do this without me holding your hand the whole time. Come, we should be proper hosts.” The mist form of the demon ‘walked’ through the door into the clearing in front of the tower.