Through secrets of the dirty streets
Searching for a revelation Wingless angels
in the heat Knocking onThe doors of damnation
Come on baby – Kick ’em in!
Feels like flying – When we are falling One more time
Mortimer sat by the fire as the others drank. He liked this pub, finally, they had found a respectable establishment. Oh he was no stranger to dives, he was a Squaddie after all, he’d never once voiced objection to the worst of the gin joints The West had had to offer desperate soldiers. Still, this place had some good Reds, some very good Reds. He was partial to a nice goblet of wine.
Alcohol was important. Hundreds of years of humans, elves, halflings, gnomes, any number of races half jokingly referring to it as ‘water of life’ or ‘spirit’ or elixir, went half way to endowing the drink with sympathetic magical connections. It was no accident all the races treated it equally and revered it so. Nor that it was the base of so many Necromantic spells.
‘Shame this lot didn’t treat it as a magically elixir, more wanted to get pissed all the time.
He sat in front of the fire but no heat came.
He had been growing aware of this for some time. He was cold, he was cold to the touch, not that anyone ever touched him, but he no longer gained any warmth from blankets, nor needed any. He had slept out under stars and not noticed a chill. His agile mind postulated a theory on this, the nature of his shaping of the energies Arcana…
In those of a war magic or possessing a Sorcerous bent, such energies caused great excite in their lives and their spell casting, their magic often loosely focused and dangerous. Necromancy was not like that, it was long term, it was careful, practiced, and deathly calm.
It was not the kind of magic that drove back armies. It was cold.
He looked down at the four spell books laid out before him… Such an exposure to magical knowledge from East and West already giving him ideas! But… he was going to need to allow the chill of the grave to leave him, to let the fire of the arcane thaw him. Carrig had had the fires of hell in her veins, but it wasn’t strictly As’ that Mortimer worshiped, more the Undead Gods directly. He felt the with him all the time, both deceased deities, clashing just below the surface of the mortal world, a half forgotten desire to be remembered.
In the morning he would have to find the Vizier and enquire about the arcane defences of the walls. If the Shining City was anything to go by the wall will have been set with wards, and War Wizards would accompany most regiments into battle…. Hell, the 13th had hardly been a prestigious unit, but even it had had a competent (if cowardly) necromancer assigned to it.
If the forces of the East didn’t include such integrated drilling of soldiers with war wizards, well he feared for the safety of the city!