Ritual of the Graft, Part I
Posted: Tue Nov 08, 2022 5:31 pm
81st Day of Ash, 122th Year of the Age of Steel
The Laboratory was silent and still, the only thing moving was him. Masagh paced to give himself something to do. He had recovered some of his strength since his last meals of the previous evening and rested in his cell for more than twelve hours. Now he fidgeted and paced to avoid thinking about his lost arm. It had not healed, but the gut wound had. He could now walk and move without becoming faint. Although he was far from agile or confident in those movements.
Arthur, Cyran, and Emerande were collecting some ingredients before the attempt to fuse a new arm to his form. Masagh thought it deeply ironic his mother had been pressing him to learn necromancy for all these years, and he had been so adept in dodging the issue, only to have it thrust upon him like this. It had seemed a redundancy and an impediment of more important things, like the Reaving Rune. Now he found he yearned for its power and capability. He could hardly improve upon his Reaving rune with one hand also.
The laboratory door rasped open and the trio walked in. Arthur came in carrying a bucket in one hand and a bundle in another. Then Cyran entered carrying a grisly arm. Finally, Lady Emerande entered with a book in her hands.
“Ah good, you’re already here.” Cyran said, smiling through the long dusty beard. He had, by his nature, always been a bit more aloof than Masagh’s other siblings. Far more concerned with the theoretical advancements of necromancy than the practical runnings of the House, he and Masagh had found little to converse about. But he had seemed genuinely glad to see his brother returned and adamantly insisted on helping Emerande conduct the necrotic ritual to attach a replacement himself. In truth, there was no one Masagh would rather have do it than the three before him.
“Are you ready to finally start learning the craft?” Emerande asked him, setting the book down on the table next to him and giving him a tight, knowing smile. Masagh smirked back.
He turned to Cyran. “That my new hand?”
His brother nodded and held it up. “What do you think, capable of wielding that claymore of yours?” His smile was good natured.
“Perhaps, will it feel… like mine?” Masagh asked with apprehension. He had been relieved when he heard that they could attach a new one. Now that the hour had come at hand though, he was nervous it would forever feel foreign to him. He eyed the thing now. It was reasonably similar in size and dimension to his old arm, but the hand contorted into a stiff rigor mortis that made even his undead heart uneasy.
“Oh yes, the magic in your body with immerse it. The ritual will blend the ichor from the arm with your own and eventually it will feel just like the old one.” Cyran assured him. “I had it done with my foot, what was that, oh two thousand years ago.” Cyran lifted his robe and indicated his right foot and turned to verify the date with Emerande.
“I can’t remember.” She waved a hand and opened the book, turning pages.
“What’s that, mother?” Masagh asked as Arthur set the bundle of herbs, rosemary, down on the table as well. He set down the bag next to it and walked off towards the alchemy supplies.
“This is a translation I did from an old text from the empire years ago.” She answered. “Cadrilion the lich had a very ingenious ritual for the way of flesh fusion that cut recovery time in half. She never made it out of the empire but she did great work before we lost her. Had a chip on her shoulder, you know. As a common undead not of a bloodline.” Her answer settled into the musings of age.
Masagh nodded. Another capable lich. It certainly seemed like they were worthy of a bit more respect than his mother offered them. His mind settled briefly on the log entry about the lich’s lair north of the city. He could hardly think about going there now, with an arm missing.
“You will begin your education in the craft with the most basic task.” Cyran said to Masagh. “The making of ichor.” Masagh sat where he indicated at the table. Arthur set a mortar and pestle down in front of him.
“Can’t I just drain my own?” Masagh asked.
“You would think!” Cyran chirped. “But sadly no, ghoul ichor will do the trick of course, but it is more chaotic in necrotic magic than standard ichor. We will take the extra steps to stabilize it so that the limb is more, ah, dependable.”
“How do we do that?”
In answer, Arthur turned the sack upside down and toppled thin strips of dead flesh onto the table next to the rosemary. “Can you use the mortar and pestle do you think?” Cyran asked. When Masagh nodded he indicated the flesh strips. “Bleed some of your ichor and mix it with the flesh in the mortar and pestle until you get a uniform consistency. I’d also add a pinch of rosemary for good measure. It strengthens the mixture.”
Masagh nodded and sat at the table. He brought the tools and ingredients close to himself.As he did so Cyran and Arthur turned to begin the working of the ritual circle on the floor. It was with practiced movements that they formed the points and etched the runes. Cyran had laid out Emerande’s book as a reference.
“We will have you whole in no time, son.” The lady of House Creth assured him. Masagh turned to look up at her and smiled.
“I am the lucky one mother.” Masagh said. “And look, you have finally persuaded me to learn necromancy.” She only smiled. “It will be no time at all before I am back to full strength. Have you found any suitable replacements for Cleon and Calliope?”
“No, none have come forward yet. We also lost that young Bonecaster, Adran earlier.” Emerande said. “It is a tough season for the house in general.” She sighed and set regally on the edge of the table.
Masagh drew his dagger and awkwardly cut the stump of his left arm open. He let the ichor drain out in a thin grey line into the bowl. “I’m sure some will come round. We will weather this as we have everything else.” He assured her, focusing on the flow of ichor.
When the appropriate amount had spilled he moved his arm and clasped the wound briefly. Then he began to add strips of flesh.
“Yes, I’m sure we will. I’m glad you see the value in necromancy now, Masagh.” Her eyes flickered to his stump with a rueful glint before returning to his face. “You have the potential to do great works with it. This is, after all, the magic that brought about all of us. How do we - add a few more dear - how do we bring about another age of undead without it?” She asked.
She had a point. It was the ancient craft that had, with the mysterious powers of the domain of Lyren, brought about the creation of their and every other undead race.
He began to grind the contents together. The bowl gave off a misty grey vapor as he did so. “I guess I was just preoccupied with my other responsibilities, didn’t want to take on someone else’s also. I’m a Knight after all.” Masagh responded. One of far too few now.
“Masagh.” She said his name tenderly and with a deep grief he could not place in the moment. She bent closer and added a pinch of rosemary to his mixture as he worked. “You are Creth before you are a Knight, and that means you are responsible for all duties. I know you feel I push you too hard, but you have something in you… something that makes me hope for the future.” Her words made him stop and look up at her. “Parthena, Cyran, they do their work well. Sabrione is brave and strong, but none fight me like you do. You carry the cause in you, though we may not see eye to eye in all things. Someday I may be gone or far away and you may be called to carry that cause onward.” Emerande smiled then, the sadness not quite leaving her blazing eyes. “I just want you to have the tools to do so. It is a heavy burden, love.”
Masagh stared at her. He thought for a moment he saw that which she hid from all of them at all times, the weight of thousands of years of legacy and many lives lost. He had never known those that were taken, not personally. They lived in her memory though, fresh as the day they died. They burned in her, all their dreams and sorrow, and she carried them on. He thought that perhaps, if he knew that feeling he would be cautious of a misstep as well. His mind drifted to Calliope and Cleon, to Vasile and Cynfael. All the friends who had died bravely, giving of themselves for the hope of a future for their people. Would he lay down the dreams in their legacy for an uncertain risk?
He began to understand the burden she had been talking about all these centuries. It was not her pushing it on him, he had born it on his shoulders since birth. She was only trying to make him aware of it, only trying to prepare him for when others expected him to carry it alone.
“Ready for the arm!” Cyran said, coming over and smiling. He indicated the faintly glowing circle behind him where Arthur was standing, soul totem held aloft. “Though you don’t have a soul totem yet yourself, brother, your ichor should suffice for this. With three necromancers more than capable of powering the ritual, we can wait until next time to make you one. Come on, time to begin your lesson.”