Rusty Veins

83rd of Ashan 718

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Alistair
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83rd of Ashan, Arc 718

"I've gone out of practice," he said, objectively, standing in the dimly lit room... though it did not remain so, as the mage began to tune the vibrancy of his oil lantern. The dead man's eyes stared back - Damien, the Lich, stood before him with his crystalline arm still mounted onto the nub that was his dismembered shoulder.

They'd both fallen low when it came to their Necromancy - Damien had lost the full power of his Lichdom, and Alistair had - at one point in Scalvoris - legitimately failed to use protocol on an undead, an ability so simple and basic to a man of his mastery that it almost appeared ridiculous. It was... shameful, certainly considering his past with the art - it was once an immense source of pride, for both himself and his teacher.

He had three powerful Revenants - he'd done an immense amount with the undead. But the abilities... particular little things... still evaded him. He'd only truly mastered withering and corpse molding, which were considerable techniques, but not quite worthy of a supposedly master necromancer. "Protocol," he called it out, frustrated at the very name of it. "Can I not imbue it to work through verbal commands?" he questioned. Damien quirked a brow, wondering why Alistair would actually want for it to flow through speech rather than thought or gesture.

It was loud, not particularly good for stealth, and not reliable if the Necromancer was incapable of speech. But more importantly... "Protocol isn't necessarily something that you 'activate' with a word. It's more like imbuing a... trait into your minion. A permanent sort of thing that they do, adding that to their daily routine. Some may use protocol on laborer thralls to give them a more complex working manifesto; chopping at trees, then hauling them to a cart, then returning to the lumber yard and repeating. It's not exactly a memorized verbal command," the man stated, as Alistair secured his backside onto the wooden chair overlooking his desk, dipping his quill into the inkwell beside him and scrawling Damien's words as notes onto parchment.

"Mmhm, right," he said. "But you can use Protocol to issue specific commands, triggered by voice, gesture or will, correct?" he questioned.

The Lich could only shrug his shoulders. He'd done it before, though of course with the undead things were invariably hit or miss. If voice was what did it, it would not even function on many minions, as there wasn't much left in regard to intelligent thought, neural function, or certainly hearing capability. Many undead had ear drums that were collapsed upon themselves, or no longer functional. It was not... particularly reliable, but he supposed if Alistair wanted to be as pretentious as he could possibly be...

"Yes," he simply said in response.

"Swell," Alistair nodded. "Let's move on to Siphon. I haven't used it, but I want to. And it's up my alley; appropriate for my expertise. We got anything living to melt that won't make me feel morally reprehensible?" he asked.

"Erm," the Lich responded. "Want to actually take out those Yurrovan bandit lads? Lots of not-necessarily-reprehensible practice opportunities there, I'd gather."
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Jonathan would be lying if he said he wasn't intensely curious about Necromancy. It held a certain dark romance to it that Jonathan was taken in by. Of course it wasn't the strong connection to Emea that the Harvester brought, and it didn't mean a partnership with one of Emea's nightmare creatures...but he was still fascinated. What differentiated the cold, dead Revenants from the walking, talking men like Damien? Was there a difference or did Alistair simply puppet Damien? Could they still rot? Did Revenants have to take special care to keep themselves from falling to pieces? Was Alistair the conduit for their every action and if so why had that one Revenant run from him when he was on the surgery table? He had a million questions he wanted to ask both Damien and Alistair about Necromancy.

He didn't want to interrupt what was going on between Damien and Alistair. Something had happened to Damien. His arm was gone, and in its place was a crystalline relic of one that Jon would have given his eyeteeth to examine. He desperately wanted to know what mineral it was. So he was sitting outside the room, the door cracked, his eyes peering inside the room. He was feverishly sketching Damien into a journal, trying to capture exactly how his arm looked, how he looked. Something had changed and he wanted to know why. He had obviously been here a little while; he'd taken some crackers and a little bit of fruit to nibble on while he watched and listened.

Protocol. As soon as he heard the word he scribbled it down. Protocol; controlling minions through commands verbal or otherwise. He was taking notes as Damien spoke, glad that the man was teaching his lover so he could learn. The protocols were exactly like he'd thought. It wasn't a one and done thing. A minion could be scheduled to do different things at the same time each day, or haul lumber back and forth, or perhaps even clean. Jonathan wanted to know how complicated it could get. Could a minion be scheduled to do a task as it was needed? Or a task per week or per month? How did it remember?

He wrote all of these questions down as he added to his sketch of Damien. Damn it, why couldn't he draw better? He squinted at it. It looked like a gargoyle taking a shit. He glared at it, and tuned back in to hear Alistair mention Siphon. He wrote down that name as well, and what it did. It melted down the living? He shivered. That just sounded foul. He reached for a cracker while he wrote and his fingers missed, accidentally tumbling over the tin plate with an astoundingly loud ruckus. Jonathan winced.
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"I'm just amazed that you aren't sketching something whorish," Kleine remarked, sneaking up on the Aberrant as he glanced over to view the contents of his scribbling. Alistair quickly noticed the voices through his door, causing his head to lean back as he tilted to view between the crevice. Jonathan, he could see - watching. And then... blond tufts of hair, Kleine.

The two were both watching, apparently. Alistair frowned. "Not now," he told them both, swatting at them from afar with the motions of his hand. While they weren't obviously striking anyone, the intention of slapping something over and over until it left still remained; he didn't want to be disturbed, and neither - truthfully - did Damien.

"Hey, wasn't me disturbing you," Kleine replied, rolling his eyes. Alistair had become a lot less... playful of late. He was always locked away with Damien, learning. He'd gotten back into Necromancy, recently, wanting to truly master it so that he could rival the Necromantress. It would never happen, but being nearer to her power was certainly beneficial. Alistair knew that he needed to surpass all mortal limits that he possibly could... and while he had done well on this journey, he was not quite there.

"Jon?" he questioned. "What are you watching for? There's nothing for you to learn here, really. Just Necromancy stuff - on a much higher than surface level," Alistair stated, glancing at him. It was peculiar that Jon wanted to learn of Necromancy, though knowing him, he could've had any intention or any purpose for being here. He was... wholly unorthodox, always, at all times. And certainly, as a part of that, very difficult to predict.

Kleine simply shrugged and walked away. There were no patients right now, anyhow. It was raining outside, and no one wanted to slip on cobble going to the doctor... that was counter-productive. So they simply sat, in Kaelserad, and learned. It was peaceful, and enlightening.

Looking back to Damien, Alistair opened his palms and laid them onto his lap. "So... siphon is withering but with... essence draining. Stealing life force - but not the soul. Not flaying, but... health stealing. Like from the tales, of what us mages all supposedly do," he grinned. Damien simply nodded.
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Jon nearly scratched a big line across his page when Kleine showed up. He scowled at the man; he'd wanted to sketch in peace! He hadn't been bothering anyone. He'd just been sitting quietly outside the door listening until the stupid revenant had ruined it. Now he felt awkward watching, and he packed up his writing materials so Alistair could learn in peace. Or at least settle down a little bit; he'd come back to check on him. Right now, he had a subject he could actually ask questions. "Sorry Alistair." he apologized, gathering up his things. He chased after Kleine and caught his arm. "Wait!"

He let go of the Revenant and cleared his throat. "Look um. I'm still not exactly sure what you are. Could we go somewhere and talk?" he asked. "I'm just uh, curious is all. And if you let me, I'll sketch you. I just want to learn. I...I have a million questions and Alistair doesn't seem to see the point in answering any of them." Jon chewed his lip and nodded to the lawn outside. He headed outside. What better way not to disturb Alistair than to simply go outside and sit on the grass, and talk? He had so many questions. He was bursting with them. Alistair didn't always want to answer them and Damien was busy.

Jon settled down on the grass and patted the seat next to him for Kleine. "So um...you're a...revenant. I think. What's the difference between you and a Lich? Is it still...you in there? Is Alistair just puppetting you? What was your life like before this? Were you the same way you are now, or different? Do you still have the scars of where you died? Do you rot?" the questions came tumbling out of him in a rush. Kleine was a powerful research tool in Jon's opinon. He wanted to see him naked; not for any sexual purpose but to study him fully. Did he have reflexes like a human, did he urinate, was he capable of being cold, did he eat at all? All of those questions swirling in his head.
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At first, Jonathan's request for Kleine to indulge his questions had been - somewhat - flattering. He certainly reveled in the idea of actually showing his merit and intellect, and so with a somewhat curt - yet warming - nod, he followed the other mage out to the yard as Alistair and Damien whizzed at one another about high-level Necromancy. Kleine was a Lotharro of below average height for his race, though he was taller than a typical human male. He was lean and athletic in appearance, but with a runner's physique rather than a warrior's. His face appeared exceptionally youthful, and he had bright and friendly blue eyes, with bright blond hair to match.

He was... cute, and few had ever disputed that. Adorable, was perhaps a more accurate word - not overly youthful, but the way in which his eyes always seemed smiling and the faint freckles on his cheeks rose with his smile... he was just very pleasant to look at. Originally, Alistair appreciated him for that reason alone - though over time, they'd become good friends. Kleine and Alistair had been traveling together for nearly two arcs, and never once had they truly felt negatively to one another . . . although things of late had been somewhat strained, if only because Alistair had been oddly ambitious, and equally authoritarian.

When they finally sat together in the grass, however, he immediately regretted it... staring at Jonathan with a mouth half-open, as if he were viewing upon something disgusting or shocking... or both. A Revenant? Him?

"Um," the Lothar immediately waved away the notion. "I'm not a Revenant. I'm a Lotharro," he said, lips fakely smiling as he attempted to be polite. He was considerably different than Alistair, who might've just called Jonathan a dumbass and told him to read up on journals. Kleine was... quaint, pleasant, but also passive aggressive at times. In the face of lacking knowledge, that same passive aggression came out full throttle.

"But," he began, playing the diplomat, "I can explain Revenants to you!" Kleine stated, once again with that friendly... eye-smile he always did. It certainly made him easy to warm to.

"Revenants, are dead," he said. "Liches are not fully dead, but not fully alive. I don't know if I'd even call them undead. Revenants have no life left in them, only a soul living within an Emetyte well... typically. There is nuance to that," the Lotharro stated, though he wasn't quite sure what that nuance was. Alistair would have to explain that - if Jonathan ever asked after this. It was a lot.

"So... there's sort of something still left of them, in the well. But they live on an instinctual, routine intelligence, and when they fight it's based on an intrinsic memory instilled into them. Their soul, living within the well, acts intelligent in all given ways; for some reason, however, speech and similar forms of comprehension are lost on them. They, at best, can be forced to speak but they do not know their words. If they do speak on their own, it will be sort of a... odd muscle memory, again. Common words and phrases at best. That's why, though you have seen Deovan wandering around Kaelserad, you never see him speak - only mutter. He can look at you, and seem intelligent, but there is no true sapience within. It is a false awareness, forged by the physical alone. The mind of the Revenant is not truly left in-tact," Kleine explained.

He clearly knew an immense amount regarding those beings, but... being with Damien all day did that. After Damien's unfortunate transformation, he had been unable to reveal himself or leave a confined space within Kaelserad. Kleine tended to him, offered him his much needed socialization, and learned from him in exchange. It was... sad, but also incredibly insightful. He valued their time, and their lessons.

"Revenants do rot," he added, skipping over some of the questions due to the possibility for redundance. That, and... Jon simply asked too many questions. "But slower than other thralls, I think. The Emetyte well and the soul keep them in good shape, I think? Not sure. But I think they do rot... very slowly," he said, shrugging. "Alistair can repair them, though. Necromancers can restore corpses to their original form, from the moment they died. When it comes to Revenants, he always keeps them in top condition - it is simply foolish not to."
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Jonathan was charmed. He smiled at the lotharro and scooted a little closer to him on the grass, a wide grin on his face. Those smiling eyes spoke to him and Kleine seemed a lot more friendly and willing to answer questions than Alistair was when it came to these things. Jonathan wanted to take full advantage of that. He scribbled down everything Kleine was saying at a furious pace. "That's absolutely incredible!" he commented. "So they're a bit like an old human. They can't quite grasp language anymore even if they're still in there....in some capacity. I'll have to study Deovan, see if he can provide some further insights. There has to be something left of the soul, Necromancers aren't Aberrants. They don't destroy it, only resurrect the dead for their own purposes. But hearing that they rot but the mage must...do upkeep on them, is truly amazing. How much ether does Alistair expend on such a task? I don't even want to know. He's so much more powerful than I ever imagined."

Jon sat next to Kleine. "Now....whats a lotharro? I don't think I've met one of you before. I mean, are you a part of his necromancy? A student like me?" he asked. "You're far too beautiful to be undead. You just can't. Not with those eyes." Jonathan found him adorable. The sweet, blond thing with large blue eyes that could have drawn him in any day of the week. He loved Alistair but...his drive was very strong. He smiled charmingly at Kleine. "How did you meet Alistair, anyway? Are you one of his apprentices? What's your spark?" he asked suddenly with a light in his eyes. He wanted to talk to more magic users. He settled close to Kleine.
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Kleine raised a brow in concern. Jonathan was almost... too excited? It didn't seem mentally stabilizing to be that excited by anything, and certainly not magic. While Kleine appeared friendly, and often was genuinely so, he was also... concerned. And judgmental. Jonathan immediately came off as a wild card to him - probably dangerous if left unchecked, and Kleine honestly questioned Alistair's ability to see mages impartially. He frequently offered them the benefit of the doubt when they didn't deserve it, and treated them with a very particular form of discrimination: patronizing mercy, much like a father to his children.

All of them, here, were mages. Alistair had already begun to grow a fairly considerable group of the Arcane, considering mages were typically not vast in number. Hundreds at best would gather in any one organization - even tens of them was momentous. But within all of these arcanists lived opportunity for violence and mayhem, and too many would slip through the cracks.

He knew Jon was an Aberrant. He didn't trust him, not at all. So while the other appeared to be flattering him immensely, scooting nearer as he complimented his apparent inexorable cuteness, Kleine maintained his distance. He was not naive, and was virginal for a reason - the man was selective, and certainly skeptical. If Jon was acting in such a way with him, how would he act with others whom Alistair did not even know? Did he cheat? Did he intend to seduce Kleine as a form of leverage, or tearing them apart?

Clearly, he did not have a wholly innocent mind to match his face. He was... always worrisome, knowing people and the darkness within them.

"Uhm, well," he started, sighing. Alistair quickly appeared at the windowsill, opening it and then disappearing behind the curtains. While his doing so was quick, abrupt and non-suspicious, Alistair wagered that the mage had done so to observe the two and their interactions. This only made Kleine feel considerably more nervous, and he was already beginning to grow... concerned about some of these questions.

How did this man not know what a Lotharro was, for one?

"Uh - a race," he simply said. There were nearly ten million Lotharro, and they were especially prevalent in West Idalos, including in Ne'haer. At one point, his people ruled more than half of the western continent, sacking Hiladrith and nearly taking total control of the Kingdom and their neighbor, Etzos. Yet, Jon didn't know what they were. He was... oddly offended.

"Well, fortunately, I'm not undead - so the laws of reality seem to be working," he stated, awkward laughter escaping his lips. Gods, Jon was a strange man, he could only determine. It was oddly alarming to speak to him. "And, erm I'm not one of his apprentices. I do have magic, though. Becoming. I use it... occasionally. Not all too magical as a person - I learned Becoming as a service to my former master, which is coincidentally how I met Alistair. Once upon a dream, I was his slave," Kleine explained. There was more complication and nuance to that as well, but, it appeared their lesson was over... and the larger mage emerged from the room by climbing through the open frame of the window. Alistair observed the two more directly before waving, lightly, and stepping forward - only to start tugging on a bit of string that had gotten stuck on a strange jagged bit of the frame.

Alistair frowned. "Sodding hell," he muttered. "What are you two discussing? Mind if I join you?"
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Jonathan's wild curiosity couldn't be managed by many. He had an incessant thirst for knowledge. He loved learning for the sake of learning, and it was going to get him into real trouble some day. He smirked when Kleine scooted away from him. So, a little shy as well, and probably aware of Jon's intentions. Or what he thought were Jon's intentions. "I don't bite, you know." he mentioned to the young man. Maybe his reputation as an Aberrant was preceding him, or Kleine had heard enough of the lusty screams coming from Alistair's office and surgery. Jonathan raised an eyebrow at the unsatisfactory answer as far as his questions about the Lotharro. He'd heard things about them; his father disliked them entirely. He'd seen one or two. But he didn't know what they truly were and his conversations with them were a bit pedestrian for his tastes. He knew nothing of their language, or culture. That was what he meant.

He smirked. "Becoming, eh? I've heard that's an interesting magic, twisting around your own body." he said. So Kleine was a mage; they were all mages here. Good, he could learn more about Becoming from Kleine. "I've always wanted to know...does it hurt? How do you make yourself into a creature smaller than yourself? Where does all the extra...you...go?" He didn't get to plunge too far into questions about Becoming, because Alistair chose that moment to jump through a window and come join them. Jon raised an eyebrow; were Damien's lessons that bad that he couldn't use the damned door? Or was he protecting Kleine from his advances? He frowned. Alistair had effectively ended the lesson and Jon hadn't gotten to ask a fifth of his questions or get them answered.

Jon shrugged. "Becoming." he said simply. "I was curious about it." He stood up and went to Alistair, sighing and shaking his head. He picked up the trailing end of Alistair's string. Ether coated it as he touched it, gently winding the fabric back together with Jon's gentle guidance. He liked using Transmutation for things like this. Repairing, crafting, and artistry. By the time Alistair settled Jon had repaired the string and was seated next to Kleine again. "What were you learning about in there? And what happened to Damien? His arm.."
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Liberation. Kleine was immensely satisfied when finally Alistair squeezed through the large window frame, joining them in the yard. He was half ready to scurry off, made to feel an immense discomfort at the man's... odd behaviors, provoking a leeriness in Kleine that filled out through his bones. Why was he so inquisitive? Why did he feel so enthralled by virtually everything? It wasn't even magic, alone - he even wanted to know about the Lotharro. And about Kleine. And everything. He was like a small child, with a thousand, thousand questions.

All of which, Kleine had no intention on answering. He was not a soundboard, but instead, a nurse. While initially he was flattered by the man's respect for his knowledge, the Lotharro quickly grew impatient with him. Internally, however, he knew why. Because - he was very naturally shy, and very much afraid of advances or even friendships. Alistair and Damien were his only true friends, and adding onto that list was a hesitant thing at best, certainly in the case of a boisterous oddity like Jon.

Instead of answering his questions, Kleine simply allowed Alistair to speak, digging his thumbs into the dirt beneath the grass and avoiding eye contact with... well, everyone.

"Becoming?" he questioned. "Uh," the mage started. "A lesson for another time, perhaps. Let's not delve into too many magics, too quickly - it's not conductive to learning, and it's why too many new mages fail to progress in the art; they don't focus enough into it, and spread their interests around flippantly," Alistair explained. He was, as always, stern and preachy. But he'd been learning more about Transmutation from Damien of late, and could act as a proper mentor in that field. Besides - they were going into a Fracture, later, which provided Jon the opportunity to learn of Ensorcelling... more Transmutation... and even, possibly, Aberration.

"I was learning about Necromancy - a spell called Siphon, and earlier, Protocol," he said. Alistair lowered himself onto his knees, and held his hands out on both sides, raising his open palms out towards the sky. "Siphon is... very strong," he stated. An almost transparent green energy began to emit from his palms, as he focused his ether into his hands. Wither was the first technique he'd cast, before altering it, seeking to incorporate a draining effect into the spell. Siphon stole life force, taking from the victim to the caster... mending injuries, restoring physical and even emotional energy. Everything that was taken was given to the Necromancer - an ability that, at times, could be life-saving.

Of course, even as he funneled his ether out through his palms and the torch of corrosive energy sprung from them, he could not be certain that it was effective. Siphon, it appeared, could only be fully mastered when levied against the living . . . thus the suggestion by Damien to hunt the bandits of Yurrova. Alistair frowned; Jon would probably spend that whole mission moping about Daeva, considering it was on the same premise that she was lied to and slain.

For now, however, Alistair had the right to lament... and feel sore. Damien's condition was brought up, and he frowned, lowering his eyes to the grass and patches of blatant soil.

"Damien was damaged, heavily, in a Fracture. Even a Lich is not invulnerable within one, as Emea holds power over ether. A Nightmare came upon us, and we had no chance for victory. He has lost a great deal of the power that came with Lichdom, and... he remains wounded," the mage explained, glancing behind him to look through the window. He saw Damien through the frame, the curtains parted as soft wind whistled through. He sat, quietly, reading a book with one hand - he could scarcely clutch anything with the other.

It was sad to see him so fallen. But they could only move on. Tragedy was, inevitably, a part of life... even unlife.
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Jonathan wasn’t exactly content with that line of thinking, but he could see the logic in it. After all spreading oneself too thin he could learn bits of things and nothing at all of one. He had to temper his curiosity with a bit of discipline. He nodded. “Jack of all trades master of none.” He repeated the adage. “Sorry. I haven’t gotten an opportunity to talk to Kleine much and I guess I got a little curious. I’ve never really spoke with a Lotharro before. My father hated them for some reason. Said they were cursed by the immortals.” He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at Alistair. He watched intently as his lover stretched out the energy of the Siphon and scribbled down notes about it, smoothing our his rumpled paper on the grass and trying to write carefully so as not to pierce the parchment. “So you can grant life or take it away. Can the same be said of Aberration? Can I reverse the process of flaying and piece a soul back together with the Harvesters aid?”

He followed Alistairs eyes to Damien and he nodded sadly, acknowledging how truly horrific it was. “Could he learn to clutch something with the other? I would think with some therapy he could try. Grip small things then larger ones. He can’t give up like this. We have to heal him.” He got up. “So how do we do that? How do we fix him? He shouldn’t be so damaged; he’s a good man and we should do everything we can to help him. That’s what we want to be, right?” He tried to smile up at Damien. “Why was the Nightmare so cruel to him? I know they are malevolent but...how did tyou get so close? How did it surprise you?”
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