Excerpts from the Notebook of Larissa Aylomeinne
Posted: Thu Sep 25, 2025 6:55 pm
Written in a precise, studied hand, this notebook is nontheless a cramped document, filled with brief notes and diagrams, alongside diary entries. One such entry is the following:
I had not expected such a dramatic start to my tenure as Court Mage. I have not yet even been introduced at the castle, but matters of import have walked right up to me. The young priest of the Four, Ciprian, was to accompany me to the local sawmill to deal with some minor administrative task. Arriving a little ahead of schedule, I met someone else entirely. A figure robed in green, with an all-too-familiar mien. The bloodstained scythe the stranger bore and the golden mask on its face could be none other than those once belonging to the late Zomactelonyvarix. Power twisted around them, if the skeletal dragon at their feet wasn't enough proof of their magical strength. I was sure there was only one person it could be.
"Rudyard, is that you?" I asked, but the figure ignored that name as if I'd not spoken.
Ciprian was less conversational, throwing every curse and imprecation his faith had for necromancers at the figure. But the stranger shrugged off them all, eventually ignoring Ciprian completely.
It was me they had come seeking. They had much to tell - strange rumours, things hard to believe. And ever the offer of alliance. All the while, I felt the chill of their power. It was all I could do to maintain a polite facade.
I didn't expect to also have to struggle to restrain laughter. Ciprian, braver if not wiser than I, kept up his litany of damnation against the stranger and all necromancers. Eventually, the figure raised a hand, and I saw the ripple of magic across the priest's form. He screamed, yelling that he'd been cursed, and cast his raiments aside. I recognised the magic, though - nothing more than the spells a mage uses to sharpen the mind and tauten the thews. Bursting into giggles wouldn't have suited the mood - but at least it eased the tension, for me if not for the Brother. Ciprian eventually regained his courage (and his clothes), which seemed to earn a grudging respect from the necromancer.
At last he parted ways, and I let myself collapse against the piles of lumber, heaving heavy breaths until my hands stopped shaking.
I had not expected such a dramatic start to my tenure as Court Mage. I have not yet even been introduced at the castle, but matters of import have walked right up to me. The young priest of the Four, Ciprian, was to accompany me to the local sawmill to deal with some minor administrative task. Arriving a little ahead of schedule, I met someone else entirely. A figure robed in green, with an all-too-familiar mien. The bloodstained scythe the stranger bore and the golden mask on its face could be none other than those once belonging to the late Zomactelonyvarix. Power twisted around them, if the skeletal dragon at their feet wasn't enough proof of their magical strength. I was sure there was only one person it could be.
"Rudyard, is that you?" I asked, but the figure ignored that name as if I'd not spoken.
Ciprian was less conversational, throwing every curse and imprecation his faith had for necromancers at the figure. But the stranger shrugged off them all, eventually ignoring Ciprian completely.
It was me they had come seeking. They had much to tell - strange rumours, things hard to believe. And ever the offer of alliance. All the while, I felt the chill of their power. It was all I could do to maintain a polite facade.
I didn't expect to also have to struggle to restrain laughter. Ciprian, braver if not wiser than I, kept up his litany of damnation against the stranger and all necromancers. Eventually, the figure raised a hand, and I saw the ripple of magic across the priest's form. He screamed, yelling that he'd been cursed, and cast his raiments aside. I recognised the magic, though - nothing more than the spells a mage uses to sharpen the mind and tauten the thews. Bursting into giggles wouldn't have suited the mood - but at least it eased the tension, for me if not for the Brother. Ciprian eventually regained his courage (and his clothes), which seemed to earn a grudging respect from the necromancer.
At last he parted ways, and I let myself collapse against the piles of lumber, heaving heavy breaths until my hands stopped shaking.