Curse

Elrodien · Mar 27, 2007, 11:20 AM // 11:20

I had to write a creative piece for a course I am studying at the moment and I ended up using Guild Wars as my subject (since I spend way too much time playing it

).

I would have written in more detail, but I was limited to 600 or so words (which I overran anyway..)

Anyway here it is... hope someone gets the title

Necromancing the Gravestone

Being a necromancer is hard work. You just would not believe what I have to do to follow my profession. In a land of magical creatures, spells, and a God for every day of the week, you would have thought a necromancer could have just got on about their business without as much as a raised eyebrow. Unfortunately, the intelligence of the average villager in Tyria is roughly equivalent to a Troll’s big toe, and that is why I am about to jump out of my house from the top floor. Why the top floor you ask? Well, the rest of my house is on fire and there is a mob of torch bearing villagers surrounding my house telling me to hurry up and die. Maybe an explanation is in order.

Last week I moved to a sleepy little village called Beetletun, deep in the heartland of Kryta. I had hastily fled from Ascalon after a little incident regarding a zombie potion, the mayor of the city and his dead grandmother (she was rather animated at the time). The journey was long and harsh, but I needed to be far from the rule of Ascalon and its persistent city guards.

So, I staggered into Lions Arch thirsty, hungry, tired and dirty. I was quite near death which was nice – well, for a necromancer it is nice to attune yourself with your profession from time to time. The village itself was situated in a sunlit green valley. A wide river slowly crept down the valley towards the Krytan Sea which was only a day’s ride from here. The yellow bricked town houses looked quaint with their thatched roofs and vegetable gardens. The villagers all chatted to each other as they went about their business, laughter rising in the air occasionally. It really made my skin crawl and I almost threw up at the sheer thought of living in such a ‘nice’ area. But, desperate times require desperate measures, so I decided I would lie low for a while here before making my way to another city’s slums.

After a quick chat with one of the local leaders, I had been able to ascertain that no Ascalonian soldiers were in the village and that I could buy a house for 2,000 gold pieces. I eagerly handed the money over (I was never short of coin – being an occasional grave robber has its perks ).

So after a few days, I had discovered the local cemetery. The Reaperleaf plant, so called because of its scythe-like leaf, was in abundance around the edges of the walled graveyard. I was ecstatic. With all this Reaperleaf, I could raise and animate the entire cemetery and have an entire army to command! I could return to Ascalon and teach that haughty Mayor a lesson or two! So, I began to cultivate the reaperleaf at night and began preparing the rituals needed for a mass exhumation. The ritual called for Arcane symbols scratched into the ground, chanting, black candles and all that. It is all pretty over the top really and one, more sensible necromancer, argued that the same spell can be cast using a stick and small round stone – but where is the gothic drama in that?

So, there I was, lighting the arcane candles and chanting prayers to Grenth the God of the Underworld in the cemetery when the shouts of the villagers broke my concentration. Looking up I seen them all standing at the low cemetery wall torches raised.

“You were right Sam!” shouted one ruddy faced farmer “He is a necromancer – and he is trying to turn our loved ones bones into zombies!”

It is hard to deny an accusation like that whilst stood in the middle of a pentagram, wearing necromancer’s robes and lighting candles in the middle of a cemetery, but you have to try all the same.

“Not at all, my friend!” I beamed. “I was just enjoying the beautiful scenery here!”

“In the dark?” asked one.

“Hence the candles my good man!” I replied.

“In a cemetery?” growled another.

“Well, well, I had no idea I was standing in a cemetery! Oh…gravestones! By Grenth, I must have wandered in here accidentally.” I said cheerfully, with a manic grin on my face.

The crowd all looked at one another, frowns creasing their ever so simple faces.

“Only necromancers use the God of the Underworlds name like that” Said an elderly villager fixing me with an angry stare.

That is when I turned and fled, leaping over the cemetery wall and dashing into my house, slamming the door behind me. I locked and bolted the doors and windows and stood at the bottom of the stairs, breathing heavily, covered in sweat from my exertions.

The doors and walls of the house were sturdy. I thought I was safe until one bright spark (pardon the pun) thought it would be a great idea to set the house on fire.

So here I am about to jump out of the window. It is no big deal. The mob will kill me, I will cast Spirit Transfer with my dying breath and hopefully I can find a recently slain corpse to inhabit (preferably my own if they don’t burn my corpse as I always thought of myself as rather handsome for a necromancer) within the next day or two.

Whenever I raise my undead army, I will definitely come visit this place again.

Well, here goes…

Unreal Cyn · Mar 28, 2007, 05:18 AM // 05:18

Man, I totally enjoyed that! I love your wry wit! Well done.

doinchi · Mar 28, 2007, 12:38 PM // 12:38

Very well writen, I really enjoyed your brand of humour.

Elrodien · Mar 29, 2007, 09:24 AM // 09:24

Thanks for the warm words