R. Prioleau - The Necromancer's apprentice

Master Dagg's peculiar ways never ceased to amaze me. I soon learned that he was a master of the dead — an arcanist, as he preferred to call himself. His work was not accepted by everyone and as a result, he went into isolation in these dank caves where he practiced his dark arts.

After so many horrific close encounters with creatures of the dead and undead, it wasn't long before my own interest in the Arcanic Arts grew, which he was pleased and willing to teach. Ironically, there was a certain love that we both shared in the quest for knowledge of life and death. I had regretted the day I called him a madman. He was, in fact, a beautiful artist and a master of his trade. I was sacrificed to be his beloved test subject.

“Do not fear death; embrace it,” he would always tell me.

… And I did.

I allowed him, without resistance, to do as he pleased; enduring every spell he cast on me and every substance I was injected with, fully-aware of the hazardous risks. I could not think of a better place to die than with my beloved master, doing what he had taught me to love. Though I had endured the experiments, it did not mean I never felt the effects. I was aware of so many things done to me in so little time that I almost felt as though a part of my soul was dissolved. Yet, despite the consequences, I loved what he did to me. I admired him more than just my master. He was the entity which soothed the darkness that was always inside me. He knew my happiness and pain, and fed upon each in his own search for the Greater Knowledge.

“What is the Greater Knowledge?” I asked him one night as we worked in the laboratory.

He smiled faintly as he responded, looking off into the distance, “The Greater Knowledge … It is defying all that is perceived as truth and becoming one that is incomprehensible. It is being the contradiction in a world of conformity.”

My brow furrowed in hearing those riddling words; I was left confused and speechless.

He never spoke any further on the subject whenever I asked again, which only left me curious as to what he was truly planning.

I awoke late one morning, still feeling tired after another long night's session of properly preserving poisons and spell components. Master Dagg was an excellent teacher, but he almost always overwhelmed me with an incredible amount of information to retain in one night. He would often argue that ‘repetitiveness was what teaches the mind conformity,’ and his words eventually held true after putting me through weeks — months of repetitive and monotonous lessons. While I was not considered a full-fledged arcanist like Master Dagg, I became confident enough in my own skills and knowledge of the Art.

I crawled out of bed and trudged sleepily through the caverns which were still quiet at that hour. I assumed Master Dagg had gone out again. It seemed common for him to set out during the early morning hours to tend to his daily errands, which consisted primarily of restocking supplies for his laboratory.

Master Dagg eventually trusted me enough to leave me alone in his home, well-aware of the risks of his beloved laboratory being used without his permission. Perhaps some other greedy fool might have fallen into such a tempting, but obvious trap; however, I knew better than to dabble into that which I did not fully understand. Master Dagg also allowed me to leave the cave at will, but I was not allowed to go beyond the swamps. A constant overcast loomed in the skies above, shrouding the misty swamps in a blanket of grey shadows.

My mornings generally began with a good hunt. Over the months, I became more proficient in my hunting after studying and mimicking Master Dagg's methods. For a man his size, Master Dagg moved more graceful than a feline. It was apparent that his ability to hunt was innate. Though, I was nowhere near as good of a hunter as he, I was still able to catch enough food to sustain me for the day.

The swamps were always flowing with abundant marine life; the only other signs of life I ever saw. How ironic it was that this small pocket of wetland was cherished by someone so proficient in the Art of death and undeath.

Breakfast today was light, consisting of a weak catch of two small minnows that didn't make much of a dent in my belly's hunger. When I finished, I traversed through the wetlands, allowing my mind to wander. I meditated on the peaceful sounds of the swamps, which invigorated my spirits. This place possessed a hidden beauty of its own — it was no wonder Master Dagg had chosen it to claim as his territory. The swamps were so far from civilization that it was unlikely anyone would think to find him here.

… Or so I thought …

My subconscious snapped back to reality at the faintest sounds of footsteps sloshing through the murky waters. At first, I thought it was Master Dagg, but the movements sounded too slow and full of hesitation, as though the intruder was unsure of their destination. My eyes scanned the immediate area, finally resting on the silhouette of a figure several meters away. The figure sported a human male's build and walked as such.

I stood with a wary feeling in the back of my mind as I watched him approach. “Is he … really alive?” I whispered aloud in disbelief.

I could not recall the last time I had seen another humanoid creature that was not already a corpse. I doubted Master Dagg had received many visitors out here — nor did I think he would have been very pleased to find one here while he was still away. I licked my dry lips as I struggled with the urge to warn the stranger to turn back, but he spoke first upon noticing me.

“Miss! What are you doing out here in these treacherous lands?!” the man called out, his regal-sounding voice tinged with genuine concern.

I narrowed my eyes at the stranger suspiciously. “N-No,” I stammered, “I … I must be seeing things. You are not really here. This is all my imagination.”

The man tilted his head curiously at my response before hastening his steps towards me through the shallow, murky swamp waters and finally stood before me.

I lowered my head and ended up staring down at two, steel-plated boots. Perhaps, I am not delirious, after all, I thought. My snow-white hair covered the pale, malnourished features of my face, as I remained silent.

“Are you all right, Miss?” he asked in a soft tone. He waited a few moments before finally placing his gauntlet-covered hand on my shoulder gently.

I immediately tensed at his icy touch. Beneath the layer of care and concern that the man sported, something about him unnerved me. After some hesitation, I slowly raised my eyes to meet his. I gazed upon a man donned in exuberant armor branded with the city of Lakis's emblem. His emerald eyes reflected a mix of concern and curiosity.

“Miss? Are you hurt? Can you understand my words?” he inquired again, looking at me closely.

I averted my gaze around the rest of the swamps, fearing that Master Dagg would suddenly return and catch me associating myself with an outsider. I wanted to run, but doing so would risk the stranger discovering Master Dagg's hidden home.

Turning back to him, I sighed deeply and nodded in response. “I am fine,” I said morbidly. “Please, leave.”

He raised a thin, ebony brow and reluctantly lifted his hand from my shoulder. “Leave you? In these swamps? You must be mad. You are lucky to have not been eaten by that accursed creature that lurks in the area.”

His comment sparked my curiosity. “What creature do you speak of?”

He looked around the swamps briefly before returning his attention to me and lowering his voice. “It is a Dragon — a terrible, black Dragon with the face of a skull, to be exact — and he is the very cause of this dreaded blight that our beloved country has been forced to endure for many months.”