The Absconding Arcana of Wayward Wizards

[Wanderer]

Closed to Hollow.

Not all of Anebrilith was reformed when the magical city of Beinost rose from the souls of the dead. Not all of the dead were complicit with this transformation, and so many ruins remain both within and outside of Beinost's borders. Some have become landmarks, converted into memorials for those who lost their lives in the Corpse War. Others, such as the ones well outside the city limits, have become impromptu hideouts where the ghosts of the malevolent spirits still reside.

Arandur walked the halls of one of these old buildings. His footsteps were slow and soundless, his eyes surveying every nook and cranny suspiciously. It was hard to tell what purpose this structure served before the war. Its walls and ceiling were cracked, with many holes above where sunlight would shine through during the day. The floor was in complete disarray, with what was left of it separated into several large, cracked slabs of stone with dirt in-between. To humans, this type of building would mostly resemble a schoolhouse, but elves rarely had such communal places of learning. An elf's childhood is long, and their minds wander toward their desired path in life without hurry. The most they would do is pursue various apprenticeships. It could have been a clinic of some sort, with small rooms separated by thin walls to prevent contamination.

His hood was down, since he needed the full faculties of his senses, but his mask was on. The Wanderer was prepared for any immediate confrontation, and it was preferable for those of his kind to be wearing masks into battle. Despite its look, the mask did not hinder his sight, in fact the specially colored lenses helped him discriminate clearer the distinction between the arcane and the material. In his hands was his crossbow, fitted with a single iron bolt. Any corner he could turn may lead him to his prey.

As he entered another intersection wings of the structure, he spotted a small sprout growing out of the ground near the corner, under a particularly wide gap in the ceiling where light likely pours through. He knelt down to the sprout, which stood robustly with two leaves and a small bulb at the top. They had a wordless conversation, as Rangers are apt to do with the green life of this land. Arandur knew, then, what transpired in this particular intersection. He felt as though he was there, although viewing from the vantage point of the ground, looking up. A couple of robed elves and and a robed elf walked in a daze through the intersection, their eyes devoid of any comprehension. They walked down a hall, and then disappeared out of his sight. As Arandur turned the corner, they were gone. The sprout had told him all it knew.

He followed from there, maintaining his careful stride. His prey was one of the fastest growing demographic in Beinost: Wizards. It was difficult to pinpoint wizardly misconduct, as the College Arcana promotes a naive laissez-faire attitude to magic and its potential for misuse. Magic, they claim, is blameless: The user's intent determines its volatility. There are exceptions, however, and murder is certainly one of them, especially murder of a magical origin. Last week, a body was found of a young mage in one of the ruins around Beinost. This prompted an investigation, but no clues were left at the scene of the crime. The case, of course, was handled in a particularly non-magical fashion, as it was deemed a normal homicide.

However, all of that changed just two days ago, when two more bodies were found. Finally, a link had been established: The bodies were completely drained of their magical potency, and this happened before the murder. This clue roused the ire of the College Arcana, who produced a more comprehensive investigative force. It also had the unintended side-effect of getting the Wanderers involved, for one of the victims was a Wanderer herself. Arandur became involved immediately after that discovery. He resolved that this murderer would not live for the transgressions committed against his kind.

Unlike the Beinost investigation team, Arandur had a solid lead in the form of a scent. The murderer left no scent, but the fallen Wanderer's scent was clear to Arandur. He pursued the scent immediately, and alone. That was why he was here now, getting closer and closer to the source. The entire building gave off a strange aura, which is possibly the after-effect of what happened here. As Arandur walked into what would otherwise be an empty room, he aimed his crossbow at what he saw: Three dead bodies, two elves and one human.

Their eyes were closed, as if they were in a dead sleep, but Arandur could smell the death on their lips. They were pale and thin, lying on the ground in their robes without any visible marks that signified a struggle. Dried blood formed marks around their eyes, ears, lips, nostrils, and possibly other places that Arandur didn't care to explore. This matched the details of the other victims as well. He lowered the crossbow, beset by the frustration of being too late. He doubted that there would be any tangible clues, but as luck would have it, there was a trace of magic on one of the bodies. He turned the human over, and discovered a quarterstaff. It was very faint, likely eclipsed by the magical talent of the victims and the potency of the killer, but it was there. He was left with the unsettling notion that he may have been over his head. As a Warrior, he may have been able to deal with the killer in a prevalently martial manner, nullifying his magics and removing his spine without much trouble. As a Ranger, he was still far too inexperienced to deal with any potential magical threats. Begrudgingly, he accepted that his inability to find the murderer was a blessing in disguise.

The next problem was the matter of the quarterstaff. He had no way of scrying its secrets, for that was in the realm of wizardly. Still considering this a matter for the Wanderers, he did not plan to present this evidence to the Beinost investigation force, but it was not at all unwarranted to perhaps seek the assistance of a wizard.

[Hallow]

The Wizard Hallow was used to ghosts. It sort of went with the territory, quite literally, in the case of Beinost. He had seen every sort of undead spirit in his brief occupancy of the Tower of Ravens, malevolent and benevolent, uncertain, quite dominant and even quasi-theological. Nothing, at least not anymore could surprise him.

“Except this,” he muttered to himself, staring at the glowing figure before him.

Whilst a wizard possessed the ability to see things he shouldn’t see, be it dead or alive or magical in nature, what he did not often get to witness was the rather peculiar oddity of a dead wizard. Not a necromancer, a liche or a stubborn Lecturer that simply refused to pass on until he had delivered his last semester seminar, but an actual, real life (excuse the pun) dead wizard.

What made this particular dead wizard all the more intriguing was that he kept muttering something about murder. Hallow’s skin tingled beneath the dramatic folds of his Shadow Brand, which he had extended into a full travel cloak to keep out the bitter cold of the early dawn light. The moment Malefor had mentioned he had come across this particular individual; Hallow had quite literally dropped limbs to rush out across the infirmary courtyard in a whirl of excitement to investigate.

Now, he rather wished he hadn’t.

“They killed me,” he said again, a long dreary and sorry excuse for a wizard’s voice empowering the obvious.

“Yes, yes, you’ve said that,” Hallow paused to take a mental note, “forty two times in fact. What I need to know, if the Order of Hem is going stop this happening to anyone else, is who killed you?” He thought it was a simple question, but talking to ghosts did not conform to normal social etiquette.

The ghost turned to face Hallow, and stared inquisitively at the enclosed black iron helmet that covered Ashley’s face. His anonymity was crucial to his continued development within Beinost, and to his on-going clandestine practises as an honest necromancer; he could not risk even the dead screaming his true name from the crooked rooftops of the city. The alleyway was secluded, a dead end, and the ghost had remained stuck to a wine barrel refusing to move for anyone for two days.

“They did.”

Hallow sighed, “They are who exactly? Or what, for that matter,” many strange creatures lived in the ruins and catacombs of the city. Some of them voiced strong opinions about what they thought of wizards and magic in general. Vampires, ghouls, umber hulks, Hallow had even heard rumours about Rakhshasha in the northern quarter under the old Divination College. So many potential culprits, he thought to himself wearily.

“I didn’t see, did I?” The words were a little more coloured this time, and Hallow took a polite step back in case magical disturbances removed his hair.

“Okay, I’m sorry. However, is there anything at all that you can remember that can help me find who did this to you?”

The wizard removed his hat and padded out the peak so that it stood upright, and then he looked at it longingly. His ponytail and pointed ears were a curious mix of Radasanth style and Raiaera tradition, and from his multi-layered robes, Hallow guessed he was, or had been a wizard of the romantic tradition of destruction and a hint of bard song.

“A fellow cluck of wizards asked me the same question. They said their names was, was, well, I don’t believe he did now you mention it, but they was a wizard all the same. They were looking, like you,” he pointed a bony and effervescent finger at Hallow’s heart, “for the culprit.”

Hallow had heard of the questioning sort of wizards. They were like the Wizards of the College, only, they had a better Thayne’s notion of right and wrong and took it upon themselves to right said wrongs without resorting to anarchy. He did not understand the notion of wandering down many paths in search of 'truth' (he had trouble learning one, after all) but he muttered silent thanks that he was not going to be alone. He pulled the Shadow Brand tightly around his entire body, leaving only his gold laced helmet exposed to the night air.

“Do you know which way they went?”

The wizard nodded, tucked his hair behind his ears as if the notion of normality were comforting to his ethereal mind and set his hat pride of place back on his head. He kicked his boots against the side of the barrel, as if he were setting down for a long night of doing nothing in particular, and looked through the slits in the helmet right into Hallow’s soul.

“They mentioned going to the old laboratory complex, east of here, over the river. They said something about a trail, an aura, and a rather composite need to find ‘him’ before the-” the wizard blinked. He was sure the nice man in black had been there two seconds ago.

Before the ghost realised he was alone, Hallow had fled into the comforting embrace of the night’s touch and fluttered through the space between spaces across the city. The smell of peppermint and almonds followed him, an indicator that the dead in the spirit world were angry, perhaps at the thought of someone killing wizards, or perhaps at the intrusion from a particularly confused wizard who still didn’t know quite who he was or what he was doing.

All that mattered, Hallow thought as he landed in a cellar to catch his breath. Is that I stop this, before it gets out of hand. He stepped back into the shadows and remerged a second later on the street outside the laboratory. True enough; the ruin was an old and perfectly secluded spot for a good ‘bout of magical murder. He took a deep breath, then a sniff, and wrinkled his nose at the smell.

Hallow might not know much about his potential allies in this case of absconding arcana, but one thing he had they would not, a most useful tool for tracking the wandering wizards of the night, was a sure certain nose for death. The rickety windows, broken walls and collapsing roof, which stood in stark contrast to the rebuilt residences on the opposite side of the street clearly said 'death.'

“And this place reeks of it,” he said ominously, flicking his robes over his shoulders to ensure his armour was on display as a sign of peace to those who knew of the Order of Hem and pulling his Grimoire from the folds. He tucked it under his right arm and carried it with him like a badge of scholarly officialdom, then stepped towards the large cracked doors.

[Wanderer]

There was not much time to waste. The night wouldn't last forever, and the scent was starting to get faint. Luckily for Arandur, the College Arcana never slept. Studious wizards were generally insomniacs. He walked into a huge antechamber and but kept his hood up, showing the desire to see the eyes of others while they can not clearly see his. In his right hand he held the quarterstaff, but it was wrapped with a white silk sheet. To say that there were walls would be misleading, as bookcases lined the walls. Where there weren't bookcases, there were tables and staircases. The antechamber had too many levels to count, as each little plateau lead to up to more plateaus, or down to previous ones. Anybody new could get lost in here for hours, get deep enough and it might be days. Arandur wasn't planning on any exploration.

This particular wing of the College Arcana could be confused for its great library, as there were far too many books to count. However, this was only a small section devoted purely to the art of identification. Making sense out of gibberish from ancient tomes, ascertaining the spells kept in scrolls, and various forms of scrying. Some of the maddest wizards spent their time here, forever lost in the question of whether or not they're dealing with a forgotten text or pure nonsense. They were too deep for Arandur too see, somewhere high above in the maze. Every now and then a spell would go off, but there were magical wards installed in each plateau that contained the effects. Anybody seen at the front of the antechamber, near the entrance, was the least likely to be a sociopath.

"Warram Cael, at your service," said a voice from Arandur's side. She was a short, lithe elf with black hair and blue eyes. The lack of sunlight was evidence from her pale skin. She wore a green tunic with a white coat over it, and her glasses were so clear that from certain angles the lenses were invisible. "You're either an apprentice or a visitor, and I take it you're looking for an answer in quite the hurry."

Behind her was a table with stacks of scrolls on the ends, with a few different colored feather quills in the middle. It looked like she was inscribing spells, but Arandur wasn't knowledgeable enough to discern her precise activity. She stood in front of the table, likely having gotten up when Arandur walked in, ready to help as always. Her favorite location was the great library at the school, but sometimes she sits here in the scrying wing, poking here and there through the mysteries, and making sure none of the wizards here were going too insane.

"This quarterstaff," Arandur started, unwrapping the staff from its silk covering. "I need to know everything about it. Is your assistance to be relied upon?"

"Indeed it is!" She beamed. Her arcane senses already picked up on the staff's magical properties, and she quickly cleared out the table by knocking all of the scrolls to the ground. This careless action made Arandur blink, as the misuse of magical items, scrolls included, was not in his nature. She placed the staff on the table, cast an incantation, and then turned around. "It's a template." Arandur looked confused. "Oh! Well, a template is sort of like... a blank slate. It's like these scrolls actually, but for an item. You prepare it using Tempurio Arcana, and then cast a spell on it. Then other people can use the spell through the item. Um, it's sort of like..."

"I know how to use equipment that contains spells."

"Great! That will save you time, because you are in a hurry! This template has been incorrectly used. Someone either missed their mark or accidentally let it too close to a spell they were casting, because it's only partially charged. It can't actually reproduce the spell that was used on it, so my advice is to erase what is on there and start over."

"I want to know what spell was used on it."

"You don't know? Hmm. I can do a color test." She reached into the pile of scrolls on the ground and selectively picked one out and read the incantation on it. Suddenly, the staff turned purple.

"Color test?"

"The magical aura bends and displays a color that corresponds to a specific school. There are different color tests, and it's up to the wizard who wrote the spell to determine colors for the different schools, so we generally just make our own. In this case, it's transmutation."

Arandur was silent. He only had a vague idea of the different spell schools.

"It's sort of like, things that change the mind, body, or both. Transformation, altercation, you could make someone stronger or allow them to breathe water. That sort of thing."

"I see. I thank you for your help, and if it doesn't trouble you too much I have one further question."

"Ask away."

"Any books borrowed lately that involve... magical extraction?" He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but he remembered that the only reason he found the quarterstaff was because the bodies around it were completely devoid of the kind of magical aura you would expect from a wizard.

"Ah, I'm not sure that I'm privvy to-"

"I know," came a gruff voice from behind the two. "Care And Feeding Of A House Corpse. Loaned out to my troublesome wayward apprentice Ashley Turgor."

[Hallow]

There were only two methods for removing the stench of death from your nostrils. Both of them involved perfume and pegs. Hallow, as he entered the crumbling building, abandoned to decay in the wake of the war, and regretted not having either. Though used to the stench, it lingered in his throat like a gag reflex waiting to happen, creeping in through eye slits and cloth without cessation of hostilities.

His heavy boots cast echoes into the gloom, and he pulled the Shadow Brand tighter as he ventured through the entrance hall and turned left through a half collapsed door frame, stooping as he pushed under a low beam before righting himself in the room beyond.

In the darkness, illuminated only by the thin lines of moonlight which peered through the window and the cracks in the roof, he could instantly and fearfully make out the shapes of three, immutably once living objects. They were huddle together on the floor at the centre of the room, which was decorated with bloodied runes and a large circle of disturbed chalk which surrounded the corpses. Hallow’s limited knowledge and exposure to teaching at the College Arcana outside of necromancy told him they had tried, feebly, to prepare some sort of defensive measure against a much stronger, or perhaps less conventional foe than they were used to.

“Oh dear,” was all he could muster as a vigil for the dead.

Their robes were tattered and torn, and as he approached, their faces were haggard and drained not only of life, but of form and structure. Their cheek bones were seemingly gone, as if ethereal hands had reached through skin to snap away the marrow and grind them to dust. Their limbs were contorted, snapped almost like twigs in a strong breeze, and their shoes were missing.

That did not surprise Hallow.

The only way up in the wizarding world was through another wizard’s shoes, and quite possibly his hat, too.

As he leant down, he ignored his better judgement and reached out a gloved index finger to touch the chalk. To disturb a magical circle was a crime in some parts of the world, but here in Beinost, and to a man of the Order of Hem, those rules did not apply. Instantly, it felt warm to the touch, as if power still lingered in its half-formed line. He set his Grimoire on the floorboards to his left, which creaked as if they would give way and swallow him up without a moment’s notice and rubbed the dust together between thumb and fingertip.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he said loudly, the noise that came from over his shoulder alerting him to a rather inappropriate and potentially painful death, “I’d say this was the work of a blood mage.”

A second later, he forgot who he was, what his purpose in life was, and just what it was he was doing in the building.

The murderer smiled.

A good wizard knew never to return to the scene of his magical crimes.

But this wizard, was anything but good.

[Wanderer]

"He's here," said a crouching Arandur, consulting one of the weeds growing along the walls of the ruined door way to the laboratory.

The history of this structure became clear to him while he was in the College Arcana. Many potions were brewed, herbs grown, and catalysts prepared within these hallowed walls. It was one of the first targets in the war, to cripple the portable supply of magic to the front lines. Most of anything that remained was cleared out long ago, but in the cracks of death there existed some faint remnants of what once was.

The Wanderer traversed the halls once more, but this time his crossbow was not at the ready. His mask was not on. This was quite unusual for one of his kind when going into certain danger. The scent attached to the killer was still as strong as ever here, which meant he had either returned or never left in the first place. Did he know that Arandur was here before? Perhaps he was afraid, having heard about the Wanderers before. Maybe he knew that he was being tracked, and leaving this hideout would expose him. One who has mastered a Path is truly a frightening creature, but Arandur was a mere Ranger initiate. He hadn't even chosen a new mentor since the war's end, which put his training in a sluggish pace.

He came upon the room of the murders once more, but there was something different as he approached the opening. He stopped, staring at the hole which once housed a door before it was torn off its hinges. There was someone inside. Arandur concentrated, trying to see if the scent matched his suspicions. He pulled out a cylindrical object, a type of canister that was reserved for letters. Holding it in his hand, he turned the corner and saw the figure of Ashley Turgor.

"We meet at last," smiled Ashley, his muffled voice carrying a hint of glee. "Am I what you expected?"

Arandur thumbed the tip of the canister, holding his head down to obscure the top half of his face, "You are who I was looking for, just now."

"Quite the handiwork, if I do say so myself. I was thinking of dispatching four at once next time, maybe five? It won't be long until I am strong enough to start challenging the more powerful wizards."

"Challenge?" Arandur looked up. "Of no challenge does one participate unwillingly."

"I did not expect a Wanderer to understand my brilliance. However, I am quite pleased that someone of your stature has come to capture me. That means my actions have caused quite a stir indeed." Arandur realized that this man did not know that one of his victims was a young Wanderer on her first path. "I see no point in wasting effort fighting. I shall come along willingly, and confess to the entire matter. A bit of warning: They will not keep me long."

Arandur gripped the canister tightly, "Before we go, I have a query."

"I will attempt to answer it to the best of my ability."

"Do you know what became of Turiel of the Four Paths?"

"I apologize; I am not familiar with that name."

"That's unfortunate. When I find you, there will be no reason to let you live."

"Wha-?" Ashley stepped back, but it was too late.

Arandur popped open the lid of the canister and flipped it over, allowing the scroll to fall out. He grasped it with both hands and pulled it from both ends, holding it up into the air and reciting an incantation he just barely memorized a short while ago. He was suddenly surrounded by transparent chains, forming the shape of a sphere around him, extending outwards through Ashley and disappearing, followed by a brief flash of light.

As the light faded, Arandur walked up to Ashley, "I have a few questions for you as well, but for now there's a killer to be caught."

[Hallow]

For a moment, Ashley took stock of his surroundings. From behind the pale glimmer of his visor, he analysed the slender form of the man who seemed to be accusing him of something, and press-ganging him into service of some sort. It was at that moment that the wizard Hallow smelt death, and when he turned, he saw the corpses, and pieced several awkward clues together into something horrifying.

“Was, that me?” If the stranger could have seen Ashley’s face, he would have seen a flabbergasted man’s expression of doubt. “No, it can’t be. I only popped out to get a book from the library…” He looked back at the corpses, and smelt the fine hint of salt and thyme in the air, which was the only way to describe newly rotting wizard. It had often been said that you could tell a man’s school of practice after his life ended just by the smell of his festering innards. These wizards had been conjurors.

+++

“Good afternoon Hallow,” Warram Cael said with a chirpy enthusiasm. Though strange, she was rather fond of the necromancer, who was one of her premier, if wayward students. His pursuit of knowledge reminded her of the first years of her own studentship in Beinost.

She looked up at the foreboding presence of the necromancer before her and instantly turned to point him in the direction of the appropriate aisle in the vast catacombs of the College’s Grand Library. He had been a frequent visitor of late, and she had taken the time to get to know his business, or at least his academic business to be of better service.

She was the sort of librarian that enjoyed her work. So much so she often abandoned her academic duties, her duties in teaching Hallow to put loaned tomes back onto their shelves and finger the pages in secret.

“Thank you Warram, you are looking resplendent this evening,” he nodded with a polite bow devoid of expression even behind his mask and walked on.

+++

It came back to him slowly, but surely. Whatever had charmed him into compliance had been in his head, guiding his actions, subtly making him a tool and cleverly placing all the blame on him. He had been lead here to take the fall, but the stranger was one step ahead of them both. Ashley hated many things in life, from burnt bacon to screaming children right through to this; not knowing what the hell was going on.

“Quite agreed, I have as many questions for you as I no doubt have answers,” he stooped to break the chalk circle around the bodies, remembering enough about basic magical ritual to know that it would release the souls bound into the charred corpses and set them into whatever strange world or void awaited them. As he rose, he took a deep breath and then turned to his new superior.

“My name is Hallow, I am a wizard of the College Arcana, though they would not admit it if you were to ask. You no doubt know my sigil and cloak as the traditional garb of a member of the Order of Hem?” It was a rhetorical question, one which added tension to the conjuration of a heavy black book from nothing into Hallow’s outstretched hand.

“I am not accustomed to being so easily fooled and tricked,” which was a lie, given Malefor, his liche tutor spent every waking moment doing just that. “Please, what do you know,” he looked down at the sorry looking faces, “of these poor souls and the murderer who committed such a horrible act?” Though his mask did not give away any sleight in his emotion, his voice wavered with a delicate mix of curiosity and apprehension.

+++

Hallow left Warram to her desk duties, whistling along to the elf’s song as he traipsed his heavy boots over the black and white tiles to the section in the library he liked to call his home away from home. Aisle twenty seven left of the statue of Rakes the Mad and thirteen shelves along was his destination. Countless candles burnt brightly in tall, gothic stands, carrying twenty thick half melted chalks of reheated wax in their spindly, iron wrought branches.

As part of Hallow’s initiation ceremony into the College, he had to prepare three hundred of them himself, by hand. He chuckled fondly with a tinny laugh as he turned a corner and came at last to the chronological section of necromancer diaries, journals and surgical trivialities

The low ceiling and the ornate gold leaf etching in the ceiling gave the moment a spurious sort of glamour. He ran his gloved finger over a random book on the sixth shelf up, and started to read the titles with his head cocked slightly to the right. They were painstakingly organisation in a filing system Warram herself had devised, which made finding things you wanted to difficult, and finding things you shouldn’t far too easy.

He pressed his digit hard against the orc skin spine of Margaret Ethelstead’s Emporium of Evil and remembered the map in his head which would guide him to his required book. Special permission had been obtained months ago to study this particular tome, and Warram had pressed him hard about using it, a warning repeated every time he took tea with her.

The very second he touched Care and Feeding of a House Corpse, he realised what she meant, and something rushed into his head with a flourish of malefic, a rising sense of vomiting and then a sharp kick to the temple with a psionic steel toed boot.

+++

“That fucking book,” he spat, the phlegm catching in his mouth guard and dribbling down the inside of his helmet into the neck joist.

He realised how reckless he had been, and considered the consequences. Somebody had charmed him to use his abilities, connections and knowledge of death for their own nefarious purposes. The very principle tenet of the Order of Hem was to prevent the misuse of necromancy, which in itself included the misuses of necromancers.

Hallow was furious, and very much afraid. He felt violated.

With a flash of brilliance, he concentrated onto the Shadow Brand and lengthened it so it covered his shoulders and the entirety of his body. Instantly he felt secure, though it was a feeble bastion against the many worries which drove his headache into greater levels of annoyance.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, Mr…sir, officer? I will be sure to comply to help catch whoever did this.”