4th Trial of Ashan, Arc 718
The Museum Vaults
Neronin let his gaze flicker up from the tome he was struggling through to glance at the door of the vault. His chest remained still, his body slightly hunched over the book. The only movement in the vault for a long time had been his eyes across the pages of the old book and the flickering flame inside his lantern. Neronin had a habit now of becoming still in a way most could not achieve. He found his body no longer fidgeted, instead his discomfort lay in the deathly cold that emanated through him. The closeness to death.
The necromancer let his eyes settle back on the page, urging his mind back to the distraction at hand. He struggled through the book because in part the text was old and faded, and in part because he did not have the proper training to read something so complex, he struggled over a few words. It irked him. He resolved that when he had more time he would practice his words and letters more, and perhaps pursue other tongues besides common. A clever man needed more than one tongue.
That settled he set about his task of reading the old text once again. Soon, though, he found his mind drifting again. The exploits of this old merchant-historian across Eastern Idalos seemed not to hold his attention as he hoped. Neronin felt his mind shifting back to that newest spark, the one Vuda had forced on him. The spark hummed within him, a more real sense of life than any sensation of his own mundane body. Of course, it was the least and meanest of his magics, but it intrigued him. He found his mind drifting towards this magic rather than the book. It flared at his attention, burning hotter within him.
Neronin lifted his hands and let the spark coat them in an ether Barrier. He watched in the candlelight as the ether slid over him. It had no visual substance, but he had long since become aware of his own power, and could feel the spell coating his body. Deep within him he felt the oldest and darkest of his sparks pulse with jealous anger. He ignored it momentarily, knowing he could not for long. The necrotic spark had grown to be like a second being in him, the moods and urges becoming more defined, and less resistible.
But he was not yet so controlled by his spark. Neronin felt the somewhat new sensation of ether output from this spark and reflected on his own choices in life. He now felt more sensation, more life, from these castings than he did from the sense of sunlight on his face, or laughter in his belly. The tastes of food had become negligible and the beating of his heart never wavered in fear or excitement. Surely, he felt fear and excitement, but none affected his mortal coil in traditional ways, as if there was a lag there. But the sparks, they roiled through him and reminded him that he still lived or in the least existed.
The Museum Vaults
Neronin let his gaze flicker up from the tome he was struggling through to glance at the door of the vault. His chest remained still, his body slightly hunched over the book. The only movement in the vault for a long time had been his eyes across the pages of the old book and the flickering flame inside his lantern. Neronin had a habit now of becoming still in a way most could not achieve. He found his body no longer fidgeted, instead his discomfort lay in the deathly cold that emanated through him. The closeness to death.
The necromancer let his eyes settle back on the page, urging his mind back to the distraction at hand. He struggled through the book because in part the text was old and faded, and in part because he did not have the proper training to read something so complex, he struggled over a few words. It irked him. He resolved that when he had more time he would practice his words and letters more, and perhaps pursue other tongues besides common. A clever man needed more than one tongue.
That settled he set about his task of reading the old text once again. Soon, though, he found his mind drifting again. The exploits of this old merchant-historian across Eastern Idalos seemed not to hold his attention as he hoped. Neronin felt his mind shifting back to that newest spark, the one Vuda had forced on him. The spark hummed within him, a more real sense of life than any sensation of his own mundane body. Of course, it was the least and meanest of his magics, but it intrigued him. He found his mind drifting towards this magic rather than the book. It flared at his attention, burning hotter within him.
Neronin lifted his hands and let the spark coat them in an ether Barrier. He watched in the candlelight as the ether slid over him. It had no visual substance, but he had long since become aware of his own power, and could feel the spell coating his body. Deep within him he felt the oldest and darkest of his sparks pulse with jealous anger. He ignored it momentarily, knowing he could not for long. The necrotic spark had grown to be like a second being in him, the moods and urges becoming more defined, and less resistible.
But he was not yet so controlled by his spark. Neronin felt the somewhat new sensation of ether output from this spark and reflected on his own choices in life. He now felt more sensation, more life, from these castings than he did from the sense of sunlight on his face, or laughter in his belly. The tastes of food had become negligible and the beating of his heart never wavered in fear or excitement. Surely, he felt fear and excitement, but none affected his mortal coil in traditional ways, as if there was a lag there. But the sparks, they roiled through him and reminded him that he still lived or in the least existed.