WRGTD teaser

Some origin story teasers for you all. Just a rough draft so far, but I hope you all enjoy, and feel free to give feedback.

Where Roses Go To Die.

               There is no kingdom to be saved, no rival factions or political groups at odds with each other. There is only little Mashiah, staring down at her favorite cat, as he draws his last breath. The cat she had personally picked from a litter of strays in the neighbor’s barn, who she raised to be her little shadow. The little cat that grew large and fierce, her protector from a wild goat stricken with brain blight. Her fierce and dangerous bodyguard of jet black fur, Muffin.

“Daddy” Mashiah began to sob. “Please save Muffin!”

Her father had his large hand on her little six-year-old shoulder, looking down at the cat who had fought one last battle, but sadly this time lost. The boar that had charged after him and Mashiah on their walk had been scared off by the now grown and large cat, but not without puncturing the cat’s lungs with a tusk. He knew the best option was to put Muffin out of his misery.

“Misha sweety, I’m so sorry.” He spoke to his daughter in a soft soothing tone, trying hard to fight back his own tears. He grew fond of the little asshole over the years. The cat was a great mouser, however loved to leave the still smoldering bodies of fire mice in his slippers or on the kitchen table. However there were moments when Muffin was sweet and even followed him around in his office as he worked.

“He was a brave boy” Arnesto took in a deep breath “I don’t know the magic or spells to keep Death at bay here, child. I am terribly sorry. I’m no Necromancer and even then, I fear one skilled in those arts is limited as well.”

Mashiah watched, her little hand wrapped around one of Muffin’s front paws, as the fearless protector took his last breath.

               Sometime would pass while Mashiah mourned the loss of Muffin. Even her childhood friend Klara couldn’t break her of the spell that gripped her. That was the start of the rift. Mashiah lost in her sadness and loss, Klara had begun to make other friends among the other girls of their age. It was around this time; the Necromancer came to town.

               Standing tall and leaning above the crowds that had gathered, the dark-skinned Necromancer known only as Joziah had stepped up onto a small stage in front of the university students and staff.

Arnesto had brought Mashiah along with, he was after all the head of magical research and development and if the boss wanted to bring his young daughter, he could.

Mashiah had shown an interest in learning more, darker touched magic, than her mother Matilda had wanted. She wanted for her twins to be reasonable Mages and respected among the magical society, however her morbid daughter was obsessed with death. Yet another thing that separated Mashiah from her mother and drew her closer to her father.

Joziah pulled back the sheet from a cadaver in front of him, lay out on a gurney. No one gasped, it was just the dead body of a peasant, the class had seen many bodies in their studies by now. Weather for healing practices or body transformation magic. Mashiah noticed her father did not attempt to cover her eyes by this time. He knew better that she would protest and her small whines would draw attention. She had noticed a few of his fellows, however, take a glance in her direction to measure her reaction. She gave them nothing. She had seen what the human body looked like without clothing from textbooks, and a model in her father’s office. She was well versed by now in sexual education and reproduction at twelve years old. It was important to know how the human body functioned and where babies came from was a part of that.  This was her first in person body however, but she wanted desperately to impress her father.

“You can see the skin has been cleansed and prepared for the sigils I am about to draw on the vessel’s torso with an ink made of Fire Root, Smudging Grass, ash of a Dark Wood tree, blood of a Red Dove, ground dust of a human skull and the ash formed from a Ghoul’s tongue.”

One of the fellows raised their hand. “Most of those ingredients are very hard to find sir, especially the Ghoul’s tongue.”

“Very true” Joziah answered back. “There are less than fifty known Ghouls left in our world, known of any way, and most of them are in prison pits, fed bodies from institutions like this one” he gestured out with his arms. “We keep such creatures there for our own protections. Should they decide to start feasting on fresher flesh, rather than that of departed loved ones. We don’t wish to relive the past Ghoul rebellion.”

Joziah took his ink quill from a nearby podium and began to draw the sigils on the corps as Mashiah leaned up to whisper to her father.

“What was the Ghoul Rebellion?” she asked.

Arnesto leaned down to whisper softly back to her. “A batch of swamp Ghouls had invaded a village in the nearby desert and ate almost all of the villagers, having changed their taste for more fresh and living meat to devour. The local Mages had to use a strong magic to stop the Ghouls. The Ghouls and what was left of the village were petrified in crystal.”

“The Glass Oasis?” She looked up at him, pleased with herself that she remembered the name from her lessons.

Arnesto went to nod when the clearing of a man’s throat cut through the room. Arnesto stood straight and smiled, a bit embarrassed.

“So sorry sir. My daughter had a question.”

Joziah stepped around the table and looked up too little Mashiah. “What is your name young lady?”

Arnesto went to answer but found his throat suddenly dry, his tongue locked in its place. He noticed Joziah with his thumb and first two fingers locked in a spell of silence, pointed in his direction.

“I was asking the child sir, not you.”  He released the spell and Arnesto felt his senses slowly return to normal.

“I am Mashiah Hillgreive.” She spoke as loud as she could to be clear.

Joziah gestured to join his down on the operating stage. “Come this way Mashiah.”

She felt her father tense beside her, but she pulled away and walked down the steps, past the other onlookers, to join the necromancer on stage.

“Can you draw well?” He handed Mashiah the quill and slip of paper with the sigils on it.

“Yes.” Mashiah took the items and looked down at the sigils.

“I need these particular sigils drawn on the souls of the feet.”

Mashiah took her place at the body’s feet and carefully looked down at the paper and made her first line. Her first time seeing a dead body, and now she had to touch it. She knew she should be disgusted, but she wasn’t.

Joziah went on with his lesson as he used another quill to finish the sigils on the chest of the body. Once Mashiah was done with the feet, she was asked to repeat the sigils on the palms of the bodies’ hands.

Joziah then drew an intricate design on the face and head of the body. As Mashiah was drawing on the hands, she realized the body was strapped to the table. She took another glance at the feet to find its ankles secured with leather straps to the table as well. She glanced up at Joziah, ready to ask about the straps when he had finished his tasks.

He examined her sigils with an approving nod of the head.

“Very good. You may have a future as a Necromancer some day young lady.” He gently placed his large hand with long fingers on her head and gently pulled her away from the table.

“The straps” Mashiah muttered out softly.

Joziah simply looked down at her with a small smirk and winked at her. Mashiah felt her heart hammer in her chest, not really enjoying the thought of that look on his face, while at the same time curiosity and excitement were screaming in her head.

Grabbing an item from the podium, Joziah held it up over his head. A coin.

“Silver is key here. Should you attempt to use any other metal, it may go very badly.”  Joziah pushed the silver coin between the teeth of the corpse and into its mouth.

The coin had no sooner passed its lips and Joziah had begun speaking in a darkened tone with vigor and passion. Magic was a language of passion and the stronger your intent, the stronger the emotions you needed behind those words.

Mashiah had taken a step back as she watched with a front row seat, Joziah placed a hand on the head of the body and screamed words of dark magic against the body.

The first twitch came from the hands, the curling of the toes before the jolting of the torso from the table. The body slapped back onto the wooden surface hard, only to launch up again, and again in an erratic fit.  

In a short time as Joziah’s words and voice roared out from his lips, the body began to tremble and shake, coming to a crescendo of rattling wood on tile floor, hardened flesh slapping against wood, gnashing of teeth and the voice of Joziah growing dark and demonic and then, silence.

Joziah stepped back from the table, his dark skin had paled slightly, sweat on his brow running down his face, out of breath. Mashiah’s eyes trailed from him to the body on the table who was once stiff and cold, was now looking around the room, alert, strapped to the table still, but very much moving.

The room broke into applauds and surprised chatter. Mashiah stepped forward to get a better look but Joziah stopped her from getting too close.

“Although seemingly to be alive, this individual is still very much dead. If left in such a state for too long, the corps will go one of two ways.” Joziah took a moment to catch his breath again and steady himself, still with a hand on Mashiah’s head.

“The body could rapidly decay, leaving the corps to become a pile of rot in moments. It could also sustain and go on wandering, taking on a hunger for flesh.”

“Is that where Ghouls come from?” Mashiah asked innocently. She heard a few laughs from the audience.

Joziah held up a hand to silence them. He looked down at her and smiled.

“No child, one is born a Ghoul. They are not made. They are a species such as humans, or the fae, or the gnomes.”

“Oh” Mashiah smiled up at him. “So, you have to have a Ghoul baby to make a Ghoul” She stated out loud. A few laughs erupted from the audience again. This got a genuine smile from Joziah.

“Yes, but unlike the other creatures, only two Ghouls can make a third. This creature is still for all reasoning human,” he gestured to the animated corps on the table. “But it’s brain functions are gone and has reduced to only simple needs now. If the body is fresh enough or a being is close to the edge of death and brought back with such magic, can you create an acolyte. A loyal, mindless servant. To destroy such a creature in either case, you must disassemble them and bury each part in separate graves, unless you area s killed Necromancer, where in you can use a simple incantation and a sharp knife to remove the coin from the throat or gut of the zombie. In that case you also should keep the coin in your magical collection, since it now contains a part of that body’s essence.”

The body began to convulse again and a horrible stench and sounds of gurgling rose up from inside.

Joziah gently scooped Mashiah up in his arms and stepped off the stage. “This could get messy my dear.” He sent her back to the top seating area with her father.

The body shook harder and harder as parts began to fall off and hit the tile floor.

The room watched as the body shook it’s self to pieces on the table. Joziah ordered for two members of staff to push the table out into another room and away from the onlookers.

One woman raised her hand “So, is there are a cure for Death, or a spell of immortality?”

Joziah smiled and took a seat at the edge of the stage, parts of the body only inches from him.

“No, there is no cure for Death. We can prolong life with some spells, either with certain talisman, ritual tattoos long forgotten by our current Mage parishioners, or by becoming a being of long life such as a siren or vampire, but you have a better chance to live longer by just taking care of yourself.” He got a few laughs from that last part. “The spells of a Necromancer worth with Death and utilize the absence of a life force to put something else in it’s place. You cannot bargain or cheat Death. If you ever meet such a being,” he shook his head and laughed “then that is not a being I would ever wish to cross.”

Another woman raised her hand and asked, “Can Necromancy be used to save a life?”

Joziah sat up straighter and nodded slightly. “Yes, but you have to be very practiced to do so and quick. You must be able to deliver a perfect resurrection spell in a high moment of stress, before the last beat of the heart. You have no room for error. The subject will also always feel cold, never able to get warm again. Some have felt paranoia of being followed or watched. I suspect it’s because you took from Death, what was meant to be hers. You can also only ever do this once. If the person should come close to Death again, they will go very quickly the second time, and attempts to stop it with any spells will grow sour”

Mashiah raised her hand this time.

“Yes, my little helper.” Joziah gestured to her.

“Why did you get so tired after working that spell?”

Joziah slowly stood up to address her. “Well, my dear, it’s because in order to animate the dead, you need to add life. I had put a part of myself into that corps. Only a small bit.”

“But, how much do you have to give, before you die?”

Joziah looked up at her somberly. “Depends on the spirit I have. I don’t do these demonstrations but maybe once every ten years for that reason. If I were to try and raise more dead in a short time, I would stop my own heart and join them quicker than planned. Some Necromancers cheat this exchange by using souls they trap or imprison from others, or the use of certain items that can only be granted by Death herself. But those items are very rare.”

The bell at the tower tolled out for the change of classes and the onlookers began to file out. Mashiah ran down to Joziah as he shook hands of those departing.

“Mr. Joziah!” Mashiah looked up at him again with wide eyes. “Can I be your apprentice?! I want to learn Necromancy!”

Her father was close behind her, a bit out of breath. He was well fed and out of shape from his years sitting at a desk.

Joziah knelt down to be closer to her level, still having to lean down to look her in the eyes. “Come find me when you are older and already skilled as a Mage. Learn the fundamentals first, then come see me.” He tussled her long dark hair with his huge hand and stood back up. He leaned over to Arnesto and whispered. “I have never met a young lady so interested in the dark arts as your child. You have your hands full.” He smiled and patted Arnesto’s shoulder before leaving into the back room where the body had been taken.

That day left a mark of Mashiah for sure. From then on, all things dead found their way into her collection, or center of conversation.

Perhaps if she had known this magic years ago, Muffin would still be at her side. Maybe as a loyal acolyte, still protecting her. She wouldn’t have had to say goodbye to him. He would still be at her side, sleeping on her legs at night, catching Fire Mice and leaving them all over the house.  She missed him. She missed her true friend. Her thoughts drifted to Klara, her other friend.

               The look of disgust on Kalara’s face as she looked at the pile of bones and bird skulls in Mashiah’s lunch basket.

“Why?” Was all she asked.

“They look neat. This is what’s inside us, not this exactly, we aren’t birds, but the bones.” Mashiah held up the bird skull in front of Klara who recoiled slightly.

“Hey Klara!” Came the voice of another girl came across the courtyard. “Come with me to the observatory. Jassica and Mazy are waiting.”

Klara gave Mashiah a slight look of awkward disappointment and Mashiah felt her heart sink into her chest.

“Can I come too?” Mashiah asked softly.

Klara gave a nervous look as she stood back up and stepped away. “I’ll ask. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Mashiah watched as Klara ran to the other girl whey they talked a bit, looked over at Mashiah, then talked some more. The other girl began to walk away, Klara looked to Mashiah and shook her head, shrugged, then followed the girl, leaving Mashiah sitting in the grass with her basket of bones and a bird skull in her hands. A faint snap and pop sound came from her hand and the skull crumbled to her lap. Hello loneliness.

               While Mashiah was saying goodbye to her beloved protector Muffin, across the realm in a small desert village outside the grand city of Dale’s Port, a little shadow of another kind tried like Hell to keep up with his older brother and friends.

With light olive skin and pale blond hair, Moss did his best to keep up with the gang of boys, running and laughing ahead of him. He tripped and fell, smacking hard into the dusty ground and felt the hot tears sting his eyes. He was small and couldn’t keep up.

“Hey hold up!” Moss recognized the voice of his older brother and heard his feet draw closer.

“I just wanna play too!” Moss sobbed. He looked up at his brother who was practically a grown-up in his eyes, at the age of thirteen. Moss himself was only seven. The age difference was always a struggle to their mother who did her best to raise the boys by herself, with the help of the village of course.

After the last bout of pox that hit the village, leaving many of their women unable to birth new Ghouls, Moss was one of maybe a dozen younglings left.

Creek knelt and helped his brother up. “You wanna play with us? Ok.” Creek, after years of having to watch little Moss, was tired. He wanted time alone with his friends and not having his pesky little brother at his side all evening long. The sun was starting to finally set. Ghouls were not a day people. They dwelled in the dark, usually underground and in swampy lands, but they had been forced from their ancient lands years ago and forced out into the hot, dry wastelands, in hopes that they would just die off. Ghouls however are resilient creatures. Not only did they survive, but they found a way to bring water back to the dry lands and had even created an oasis in the desert.

“How about hide and seek?” Creek looked up to see his friends giving him the stink eye. The “What the fuck are you doing?”

“That sounds fun!” Moss smiled big and wiped the snot from his nose. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to…” Creek looked around and spotted the old metal smoke house where the village would cook their large stocks of meat by drying it in the large metal container, in the hot sun. “Hide in the smoke house while we hide, count to forty and come look for us, got it?”

Moss nodded eagerly and allowed his brother to guide him into the metal shed like container and close the door. There was a portion of the door tore out, allowing for a bit of moonlight to spill in, enough for Moss’s nocturnal vision to see around him inside.

He stepped inside the door slammed shut and locked behind him.

“Wait?” Moss turned around and looked through the hole in the door. “I can’t get out!” He cried.

“We’ll come let you out when we’re done playing” shouted one of Creek’s friends. “Brother!” Moss’s voice cracked and he reached through the hole in the door

He drew his arm back inside, and looked out through the hole and the tears in his eyes. He watched as the heads of his brother and friends disappeared on the horizon. Moss choked through snot and tears, calling for Creek to come back and let him out. He was scared, and didn’t like being alone. His little heart thumping in his ears. He was angry and sad, and scared all at once. He wanted his mommy.

The boys were gone from sight only a moment before the bright, blinding light came. It was silent, bright and all went white. The world had gone from dusk to day in a second, hot and scorching, then came the aftershock.

A wall of dust came at Moss hard and fast but by then he couldn’t see it. He felt the container get thrown, him inside it, tossed around like a pebble in a bucket. He knew his face hurt, he was hot, like being cooked. The world around him lifted, then slammed against him, then lifted again, then slammed against him. He was being tossed around inside the smoke house as it was thrown several times out into the desert. The roaring sound followed, deafening and shattering. He felt it in his bones, the booming thunderous clap of a million storms, then silence.

Still, darkness, and silence remained.

               Moss wasn’t sure how long he had laid there. He just knew that everything was, not. Not dark, not white, just not there. He could feel though. He began to move slowly inside the metal smokehouse. Faint cool air came to his skin, all over him. He felt his body to find most of his clothing torn, burnt, gone. He felt along the walls or was it the floor? Trailing his little hands along what was left of the shed to find his way out. He knew how to get home in the dark, granted he could see in the low light easily, and at the moment there was still nothing. He felt his way outside where the air seemed to be humming, the ground felt smooth and hard. He couldn’t feel the now familiar sand but instead something that felt more like smooth pottery.

“Mommy!” Moss cried out. The tears he had cried earlier were dried up and gone, but he knew if he could, he would cry. Reaching up to his right side of his face, where his lips should be were his teeth, and where his soft fleshy cheek was, was now hard bone.

Scared, Moss began to shuffle faster toward home.

What he didn’t see, or rather couldn’t, was the crystalized remains of his village. He felt his way past several huts until he found the one that he was sure to be home.

“Mommy!?” Moss cried out again. He was met with only silence.

His hands reached out for a chair he knew to be by the door. He knew his mother’s shawl was draped over the back and his fingers felt what should have been wool but was instead crumbling, smooth crystal-like substance. The shawl, now crystalized, crumbled under his touch. He walked forward, hands out before him, until he found the bed where his mother hand been resting. She wasn’t feeling so well that day and told Creek to watch over little Moss so she could rest.

Moss felt the figure in the bed that was once his mother. Now a statue of crystal, once flesh and bone. Moss could feel bits of the crystal structure crumbling and flake off his touch.

“Mommy?” Moss whispered softly. He climbed up to the bed and into her lap, ignoring the snapping and crumbling of her crystal body. Ignoring the hard shards that poked and scratched at what remained of his skin, Moss curled up in her lap like a cat and slept.

Unsure if he slept for hours, days, or a week, Moss was lost in the darkness of his own mind, comforted by the crystal shell that was once his mother, in the crystal cemetery that was once his village.

Forcing his people from their home wasn’t enough for the surrounding villages and cities. They wanted all Ghouls dead. The fact that his people didn’t die off, and in fact began to thrive, had rubbed the humans the wrong way. They took action by gathering powerful Mages from all over, to do something about it. But that’s a tale for another time.

Moss was resting, not quite asleep, not awake, something between, when he heard footsteps. They were soft and slow, but he knew what he was hearing.

He stirred slightly and heard the steps pause a moment. Maybe a Mage come to finish the job? No, it was someone else. Something else.

“One remains?” Came the voice of a woman. Her voice however was many but also one. It was as if hundreds of people spoke at the same time through her.

Moss slowly sat up and turned his head toward the voice.

“Oh child” came her strange voice again. Despite the footsteps sounding as if they were at the door, he suddenly felt a cold, bony hand on the left side of his face. The side that still had flesh. “You are a string willed child I see.” She spoke again. The voices of many starting to come together into a singular female voice now. “What is your name little one?”

“M, Moss.” He answered.

“Moss. Moss the Ghoul child, the only survivor of a genocide.”

At her last words, Moss finally felt tears run down his un-ruined side of his face. The woman’s bony hand wiped the tears away and she pulled him close to her.

“I can’t leave you like this” she said softly. “I shall give you a choice I don’t normally offer. Understand?”

Moss nodded his head.

“You can stay here to die with your people. You are close to starvation and dehydration, so it won’t be long. Or you come with me. Your people have their own magic that I would hate to see lost to the world because of greedy acts such as this. I can teach you that magic and more. Become my apprentice.”

Moss pressed his face against the woman’s shoulder and let her hold him. He felt scared but knew his mother, brother and entire village were all dead. He rested his head against her neck and whispered. “Go with you.”

Lifting Moss up as she stood, Death stepped back out into the darkness with her new ward in her arms. Walking through the crystal ruins of what was once a thriving village of exiles. She would never let him forget what really happened here, even when the rest of the world would tell another story.