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Weight of the World
#1
Weight of the World



[Image: TressianPractice-.gif]

...Death borders upon our birth, and our cradle stands in the grave...
• Joseph Hall •






The Novice




The smell of latex filled the air.

A gnomish invention by any means, but even science has it’s applications in the Art of the Magi: Arcane...

...Especially in the intricate patterns of the Ley Lines. So many formulae, so much to calculate. Calculations, that is what everything comes down to in the end. They determine how Azeroth circles the sun. How the spark of life finally exits the body. How Tress’ scalpel carved into the corpse’s flesh.

Green eyes darted from the subject’s brow, where his gloved hands carved a near perfect circle, to the book only inches away. As flesh sundered it mixed with the smell of his elastic trappings, creating a distinct aroma; The aroma of memories. Of days long past that had somehow slipped through the man’s grasp. So many years in pursuit of the dark art, and here he was, still stuck at the beginning.

Tressian scoffed as he went, leaning back from his work for a moment just as much to get a different perspective, as to physically represent his opinion of how his studies had gone. The scalpel made a flamboyant flourish, one which in the company of others would have never been put into action. He was a different man in the midst of his work however, and it often brought about a joy that only another certain... Pleasure could bring. The skin tore once more as the Alteracian pushed his tool into the decaying corpse: A triangle here, a pentagram there, and on the outer edges of the circle some form of planar rune that defies a definitive explanation. The scrawling script of the Demonic.

Laying the tool upon the table, the Necromancer to be surveyed his handiwork once more.

“I’m no artist, but I must say... It’s a piece to admire.”

Tress pressed a gloved thumb across the necrotic circle, the thin layer of dust that accompanied the glove rubbing unto his pièce de résistance. For the first time that night Tress looked his canvas in the eye. He wasn’t fresh perse. A day old, two perhaps, but his eyes were already starting to spoil; To rot. Decay. They had a particular look at this stage that Tress could never fully describe. Not that anyone had ever asked that is.

He patted the corpse’s head, removing his gloves shortly after. As silly as it seemed, this wasn’t even the hard part. That really was all in the rune. This... This was as simple as lighting a match; An act granted, that Tressian hadn’t gone through the motions of in years, but the point still stands. His hand hovered above the rune, and for the first time since Kul Tiras, he felt a sense of wrongness about one of his spells. Never before, had something so terrible so vile so evil... So perfect graced his body.

The Lifeblood of the Damned seeped from Tress’ palm in a green wash, pouring into the rune. It was mechanic really, how the glow it gave off flooded the the otherwise black room. Threw itself against the aged black stones, the mire of countless lost souls leaking from between the mortars. As the corpse twitched, so too did the rotting wood that held together the innards of the Slaughtered Lamb seem to. The entire room convulsed as the meaning of ‘Eternal Rest’ was proved to be quite false, for this body was anything but resting. In fact, as time went on and Tressian took a step backward, the dead rose fully, sitting stoic straight upon the table. Immediately, there was a sort of connection that Tress could feel. Stronger than when he had raised rats... But not all encompassing by any means. A thread of thought that wound through the fabric of reality, connecting him to this creature. It was a tenuous thread, fraying all along it’s length, but a thread nonetheless. A thread that, unlike most, would grow stronger with time.

Hollow eyes stared at Tress for several moments.

After completing several menial tasks around the room, the creature fell into a lump at it’s master’s feet.

Finally dead.

He looked at the watch that he withdrew from his pocket, marking down ‘One Minute, Twelve Seconds’.

"Seventy-two seconds of animation..."

...Of pure undeath.

A new record.

His record.

His victory.

Tressian grabbed his scalpel once more as a nearby acolyte scurried forward to drag his former plaything away from him. For the rest of the night, not a single corpse would stay mobile for as long as the first; They would never feel the bitter embrace of undeath for as long as the first. But Tressian knew. The memory of the event was lodged in his mind, and would act as a driving force in the days to come.
"Every gun..."

[Image: Jonah-Hex-Counting-Corpses-Flaming-Leap.jpg]

"...Makes its own tune."


~ The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly ~
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#2
The Confessions of Naz’groth Soulrender

Defect of the Burning Legion

Necromancer

[Image: Notebook-P1-1-1-1.gif]

Spoiler:
We... The Fallen Triad, succumbed to the allure of power at the hand of the Legion in the hope that future generations would not be forced to waste their lives as we have. Consider yourself lucky beyond comprehension that you will not be forced to endure the pain that a Demonic Master would force upon you.

Be proud to know that there are others, just like you, who took that risk.

In this novel, a confession as it may be, I Naz'groth Soulrender will show you, be it Human or Orc, Elf or Troll, the path of the Necromancer with no payment aside from your own time.

Tressian’s gloved hand ran across the page presented before him, touching rune after rune. He could inscribe nearly all of them. Empower them. But they seldom did as promised. They never performed as well as he had hoped. This Naz’groth’s confession was nothing compared to Thalindel Dawnwing’s: A fellow member of the Fallen Triad.

The man’s green eyes weaved through the print of the introduction several times, a discontented frown managing to find it’s place behind locks of hair that fell in front of his face. Tressian flicked the last paragraph with a finger, “With no payment aside from my time! Hah...” Black shoes of fine leather, a short heel protruding from the sole, turned across the aged stone floor, “...Perhaps if it didn’t take days to decipher what was being said. If the script could answer the questions that I have. But no. Text cannot. A mentor still reserves that privilege.”

The book promised what Tressian had hoped to garner for years. The skill to raise the undead. To resurrect his prior mentor, the only stable figure in his life. What lengths he had gone to to get this tome, all for naught! The Coven in the Ghostlands... The poison in their well... So many bodies. The Magi would have liked to collect them, but perhaps the stench of fresh corpses was too much for the nearby Scourge to resist, the poor masterless fools.

And here he was, several steps ahead, but no closer to becoming what he hoped to. Nearly all the spells were runes. Sigils. Marks. Child’s play, used to prevent the practitioner from succumbing to arcane corruption. He needed something else. Something more.

“I need Naz’groth...”

Tressian slipped the book closed, letting it’s cover fall into place, hiding the forbidden contents from view. The arcanist took the tome in hand, heading for the exit of his humble Alteracian home, to gaze at the night sky. His vision drifted in the general direction of Outland; Or at least, where it was thought to be. The Gnomes had come up with a few theories, and the Dark Portal had always been of special interest to Tress... It was finally time for him to visit the massive dimensional waygate. Time for him to enter the world of the demonic, on the shattered plane of Outland, within the furthest reaches of the Nether.

––––––––––––––––

Black boots kicked up a small cloud of dust as the out of place form of an Alteracian nobleman stepped out of the Swamp of Sorrows, into the former resting place of the Black Morass. Pulling himself down into a squat, the man rubbed a line through the red dirt beneath his feet. He ground the substance between thumb and forefinger, bringing it up to his nose as he stood. A soft smile graced his face as he looked out at the vast expanse before him. The Fel was palpable even this far from the Portal.

“...The Blasted Lands.”

[Image: region-blasted-lands-large.jpg]
"Every gun..."

[Image: Jonah-Hex-Counting-Corpses-Flaming-Leap.jpg]

"...Makes its own tune."


~ The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly ~
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