Pangaea-world.dk

In the woods near Trinsic there is arguably one of the coziest little wizard towers in Britannia. It's not exactly a fortress, but it's spacious enough for two necromancers who want to practise their dark arts in relative privacy. Funny thing, no one had told Sam that they were moving! Fortunately it didn't take long for the ghost to find his very own necromancer, Darrol Argeledougal. Darrol probably just forgot to tell Sam that they would be living in Shira's tower for now. Yes, that must be it. He has been concentrating on his training, after all. It's certainly better to see him train hard than have him moan about his forgotten skills and lost fortunes.

Ah, but the tower is so nice inside! The first thing Sam noticed was the bearskin rugs. He got a little bit too excited about them, but hopefully Shira and Darrol won't notice the few stains of ectoplasm... Or if they do, hopefully they won't get too mad.

So far Darrol hasn't noticed anything. He just sits there, reading and studying, muttering to himself. Sam tried to get a conversation going about whether "yonks" was a real word and whether the dead ought to have their own bank boxes, but Darrol hasn't warmed up. He seems awfully moody, considering how much progress there has been. He and Shira are all set to pursue their necromantic goals and now they even had a little home of their own and...

Oh well. He must be going through a phase of some sort.

"Aaaaand that is why I think that it's a bad idea to play hide and seek with a poltergeist", the transcluent figure finishes one of his wild ramblings. Then he folds his arms and tries to think of a new topic.

"So, hey. Anyway. You and Shira. Are you two going to get married?"

Darrol, being always connected to the netherworld, grabs the nearest item on the table and throws it at Sam. The obsidian paperweight passes right through the ghost and ricochets off a stone staircase. Come to think of it, Darrol looks pretty miffed.

"Um.... Is that a maybe?"

Gosh, the affairs of the living are so complicated.

The calm and silent night of Trinsic is interrupted by a high pitched scream.

"No... No... NO!"
Shira wakes up yelling and shivering only to understand that she has been yelling. She is having a hard time catching her breath.

Her test of a theory that you could contact the netherworld more often if you were clinging between life and death had backfired. Surely it had made her stronger and her abilities had grown enormously, though at what cost. The nightmares felt horrifying. She had lost count how many times she was brought back only to be struck down again. But at each pass from the land of the living to the netherworld she felt her necromantic powers growing.

Still catching her breath Shira glances at the bed next to hers. It's empty. That must mean that Darrol is either just across the room reading or outside taking a walk. She glances across the room to her laboratory, though the stool there is empty. She covers her eyes while sobbing as she is having a panic attack. Her heart is beating and she has a hard time inhailing more air to her lungs. Flashes of visions fill her mind. Axes decapitating her and maces bashing her skull repeating.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply she manages to calm herself down just enough that she can breath properly. She stands up from the bed and walks to the water barrel and washes her face. She is still trembling like an aspen leaf and sobbing uncontrollably. She raises her head and stares herself from the mirror above the barrel. Tears dropping to the barrel break the silence that has filled the candle lit tower.

She walks toward the beds and grabs the pillow from Darrol's. A picture drops to the floor and she picks it up to look what it is. Her lower lip trembles and she drops the picture to the foor.



She runs up to the roof of her small tower and stares at the forest surrounding it. The air feels fresh like it would have been raining. A breeze shifts the hem of her night gown and makes her white hair dance in the moonlight. Still sobbing she squeezes the pillow and and whispers.
"Where are you?"

Some time passes and Darrol returns from his affairs. Rumaging through his pockets he finds the keys and opens the door. The sight he sees is something he could have not expected. Shira sits legs crossed on her bed rocking herself while hugging Darrol's pillow. She glances at Darrol with her watery eyes.

On hindsight, Darrol probably should have left a message or something. Earlier on his way to the tower he had noticed a bunch of lizard warriors in the woods nearby, so he thought he'd pop out a bit, get some nice fresh air and make sure that the lizard folk stayed off their premises. Nothing unusual there.

When he left Shira had been sleeping, but as he came back some time later Shira was, to his surprise, sitting on her bed, her eyes filled up with tears. Apparently she had seen a nightmare that had upset her tremendously. At first all she could do was to hug him and cry.



"It was a terrible dream, I saw the blade of the axe coming down again and again! We never should have never done that awful thing", she told him, sobbing.

She was referring to a drastic training method they had experimented with earlier. Darrol would have to agree, it was quite a sacrifice to die a thousand deaths simply to get a better grasp of the nether realm. At first he had instinctively tried to dodge the blade of the warrior who was "helping" him, just because it was impossible to stay still and he thought he'd never get used to the feel of cold steel being shoved right through his bony ribcage. After a while he thought it would be easier if he turned his back so he couldn't see the blade coming. The worst part of the training he had spent with a warrior who was terrific at healing, but not so good with his aim. Darrol vaguely remembers screaming something about 'clean cuts and true strikes'. It was a horrible mess, the pentagram on the stone floor had been covered in blood up to the point where it was impossible to stand on it without slipping.

It was an ugly shortcut, but very effective. Obviously Darrol had seen a few unsettling dreams as well afterwards. It was nothing he couldn't cope with, though, since he had spent all his life dealing with necromancy one way or the other. It's funny how one gets used to all sorts of things other people would consider bizarre and morbid.

Maybe Shira's dreams were somehow worse than his? Or maybe she was just more sensitive? It was awkward seeing her in tears like that. Darrol thought she had been amazingly headstrong and ambitious so far - so much so it almost frightened him. But then again, pretty much everything in the field of necromancy was quite new to Shira. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, she hadn't been ready for the sacrifices they'd have to make?

Anyway, when you see a woman cry, you have to hold her close and say things like "There, there; it's going to be alright". So that's what he did. And he stayed up, stroked her hair as gently as he could and watched over her as she fell asleep again. And it worked. It actually worked! And yet Darrol doesn't have any delusions of 'things going to be alright'. According to his experience, things usually start to look somewhat better right before everything goes horribly, utterly and outright irreversibly wrong in every sense of the word.

As Shira once more shifts in her sleep, Darrol turns away from the candle light and glances over at her sleeping figure. Hesitating, he abandons his notebook on the table, walks over to Shira's bed and carefully pulls her blanket over her bare shoulder, making sure she's warm and comfortable. The woeful Mr. Argeledougal has never really understood women all that well and even though everything is... fine, really... He can't shake the feeling that he's tip-toeing on a field of explosive runes.

Darrol Argeledougal tugs down the hood of his death shroud. Hard as he tries, he can't really get any determination into the gesture. The weather is terrible, his runes are slippery with rain and sleet, and he would have to get to Moonglow as soon as possible.

The letter arrived just as he had feared it would. Of course it was a relief, too. It would have been terrible if something had happened to Lethe during his long absence. While he was stuck, due to his own incompetence, in a magical rift between two worlds, time passed on in Britannia. In a peculiar twist of fate, it did so faster than it did in the dimensional pocket Darrol was stuck in. Many people thought he was simply dead. Lethe Quedver, a woman he once swore to marry and never did, was not one of them.

I never thought you'd be dead, she wrote in her letter, because I never felt like you would be. But you know I've always been a rather sensible woman, so it would have done me little good to throw away my life and career in a mad and impossible quest to find you.

Their relationship had always been amiable and professional. If it hadn't been for her conservative and condemning parents, they might have eventually even got to the point of purchasing rings and everything... And that would have been the proper thing to do. If not for the sake of decency, at least for the sake of...

Stefanun is doing well. He remembers you vaguely. After he started showing some little talent in speaking with spirits your old master Mr. Aldemarius paid us a visit, but I told the old hoot to clear out. He might be a friend of my father, but I won't allow him near the children.

...The children? Wrapped inside the letter Darrol has found a silver locket. Inside it are indeed two little portraits. The image of a dark-haired young lad left Darrol breathless for a second. The boy has grown so much. It's like only yesterday Darrol tried to stop him from eating sand and wandering off into the woods. But there is another portrait. A young girl with awkwardly familiar features. Darrol has never seen her before, though.

I've sent you a piece of jewelry I always carry with me. The girl is called Adele. She's a sweet little darling. Doesn't she have the most beautiful eyes?



Indeed, the shade of green is striking. No Aregeldougal ever had eyes like that, but Darrol has seen that piercing emerald color before. As the pieces of the puzzle came together, Darrol felt that in a certain sad way he is actually happy to know that Lethe hasn't been alone during these years. But how... How on earth should he explain all this to Shira? She knows that he was once engaged, thank the deities. But that's not where it ends. "Oh, hey. Did you know that my son is studying to become a necromancer like me? What, I completely forgot to mention that I have a kid? How silly of me!"

Nope.

Darrol hangs the locket on his neck. It feels very heavy. The morose necromancer would love to see the person who'd manage to muck up his life as badly as he has.

That night Shira was once again alone. More alone than she had felt since...

Her thought is interrupted by a hissing sound. Last night Darrol had slain a Lizarman Shaman that had dared to enter the tower. Shira had not even thought why that would be, and just let it be. It was a peculiar accidence, right?

She rushes to the roof to see what is making that noise. She sees a small horde of lizardmen surrounding the building. Few arrows fly to the roof as their marksmen try to kill her on sight. She runs down to grab her codex and staff as the doors give in. Two large warriors are holding an oaken tree branch that shattered the door to pieces. She tries to fend them off with her staff while speaking incantations. A growling noise echoes in the tower as the spell fizzles. "Reagents!" She yells, and drops the codex. Wearing only her night gown, every strike from the ax or warmace of a lizardman is more excruciating as the last one. At this point she drops the staff, for it is only making her slower. She was trained by a monk and still should have some strenght in her punches. She bashes the skulls of the warriors repeatetly, while gracely avoiding most of their strikes. She downs two of them and waits for the second wave. She wipes blood of her face and breathes heavily. Her forehead is bleeding and the loss of blood starts to get to her. She feels dizzy.

A potion flies inside and shatters to the stone floor. A powerful shockwave slams her against the bookshelf and she barely stays conscious. A red tinted lizardman walks inside holding a staff and growls victoriously. Like a fearsome tiger Shira leaps from the ground and starts pounding the unwanted guest. This lizard is different, this one is tougher. It sweeps the legs under Shira with the staff and she falls to the ground hitting the back of her head to the stony floor.

Shira tries to raise her head and notices that her ears are ringing. She grabs the closest object she can find, and it is the statue of her porcelain steed. It must have fallen from the shelf as she was slammed to it. She flashes a slight grin as she starts the incantations on summoning the steed. Everything looks cloudy and her ears keep ringing. The white porcelain steed Dawn flashes to the room and as Shira searches the lizard with her gaze. she has time to recoqnise two words trough the ringing, leaving only time for her to gasp. "Kal Vas ...".

The ringing in her ears stopped.

It was silent.

Shira wakes up from a cold and wet floor. She slowly raises to a sitting position and glances around. Three lizardmen are lying on the floor dead, one of them a red tinted caster. Dawn stands in the doorway guarding it. In the yard outside lay the corpses of two marksmen. "Did.. did you do this?" Shira utters. Dawn turns it's head and glances at Shira. Then with a flash it turns back to a statue. Shira grovels to the doorway and grabs the statue. She holds it tightly and examines it. It is full of cracks and here and there pieces are missing. She sobs as she realises what has happened.

She glances around the room and notices that the floor is wet. The water barrel has been knocked over and most of its water seemed to have been poured where she was lying. She remembers the pain and the two words she heard. "Dawn must have doused the flames." she says.

She rises up and limps in front of the mirror. She glances at herself and screams so fiercely that the mirror shatters. Her hair has been burned and her face is covered in black ash and blood. She tries to scoop what is left of the water in the barrel to wash her face. Strings of hair stick to her hands and she starts to tremble. She rushes back in front of the shattered mirror to glance at herself. Her face isnt burned, a bit swollen, but it will heal. Her hair though, the lovely snow white curves. They are all but a memory, at least for while.

She rips a page from her diary and writes "Dont worry. Im alive. You can find me in Nujelm If we still have a future". She places the piece of paper under Darrol's pillow. She grabs her robe and rushes out. The tower is left full of water, dirt and blood on the floor.

This must be the right address. Darrol looks up at the two-story house. It's located outside the city, and its stone-walls are covered in tangled Vines. The ones who live here appreciate their privacy; even the windows are so high it's hard to see if anyone is home.

The necromancer hesitates, nervous as ever. He finally gathers his wits and knocks on the door. There's no turning back now. After some excruciating seconds the door is opened by a tall, devilishly handsome man dressed in lavish clothes. Darrol recognizes him right away.

"Buva", he says. "You haven't aged a day. Not that... Not that I thought you would have. "



"Yeaaas. Darrol has come home", Buva drawls, his face a smug mask of pleasure. He looks right about as flawless and indifferent as the last time they met. He measures the short necromancer with a pair of striking green eyes. "Welcome. You's not older, but thinner now. Is your blood running weaker?"

"I-I'm fine, really", Darrol stutters. After seeing some normal friend or a relative after this many years, one would think that it would require some beating about the bush before bringing out any embarrassing or difficult topics. Darrol knows that with Buva, though, one can just skip such questions. With him one can skip pretty much everything that's considered appropriate human manners. And besides, it's better to get this thing cleared straight away before even asking if Lethe is home. Darrol hurriedly opens the locket and gestures at the portraits inside.

"The girl in this picture, Adele. She's... yours?"

"Mmmyeaaas. Little girl. Was not meant to be, but is anyway."

"How is that even possible? Does this mean that... You and Lethe, you're...? What are you? Are you seriously... something? Do her parents know about this?"

Buva shrugs. Darrol is not surprised by his aloof attitude. And no matter what these two have been up to, Lethe probably knows what she is doing. After all, she was always the sort of person who kept things neat and tidy, not letting private matters (no matter how strange they were) get mixed up with her career or public relations. Lethe was splendidly well organized, like that. Never faltering or making a fool of herself. Darrol can imagine that a woman like her could talk a creature like Buva into behaving properly - even if her wand of hellfire had suddenly ran out of charges.

"Well, um... I got Lethe's letter and... Is she home?"

Darrol can't decide whether Buva's lips curl into a sincere smile or whether he's just being playfully malicious. "We are all here", he replies. Without any warning he grabs Darrol firmly by the collar and yanks him inside. Darrol fumbles with his lich staff and tries to keep on his feet as he is escorted - or dragged, more like - inside the house of Miss. Lethe Quedver.

The sound of scribbling fills the stony tower. Darrol lies on the bed and writes to his notebook. Shira glances at him and smiles, then continues writing to her diary.

"The past weeks have had alot in them. After the lizard-man raid I was feeling down for a while but Darrol did find me from Nujelm, and even helped my hair situation. He seemed to like my hair short (what is up with that?), but after few bottles of Miss Miracle's Hair Elixir I had my long hair back. Everything on that matter is fine now. Also the fact that he returned from Moonglow meant alot. I did fear that he wouldnt."

"He didnt come alone though, so to say. He is a father? Darrol? I know he had a thing with Lethe but was it that serious? I guess that explains why they were going to get married. I wonder how Lethe will think of me. She is supposedly with that Buva fellow, but she and Darrol still have a past. And a kid! Stefanun is probably a really bright kid considering his parents. Im still unsure if I ever could, but I really would want to be a mother. And now its either Stefanun or Sam that is closest to a son I could ever have. Even though Darrol can be a bit of a man-baby at times."

"I got to meet Stefanun. He was just perfect. A bright kid that has a bright future. He should never need to ask for anything. He is interested in necromancy and will become an aspiring one. I wonder if Lethe would let me teach him, with Darrol of course. Its not like he wouldnt see me anyway if he is going to start spending time with us."

She dips the tip of the quill to ink and glances at Darrol. The notebook rests on his chest and the pen has fallen to the floor. He has fallen asleep. Shira smiles and calmly walks towards the bed. She grabs the pen and notebook and places them to the drawer. She then removes the boots and cloak from Darrol without waking him up. She even slips white slippers made of polar bear fur to his feet, after which she pulls the blanket on him. She kisses him on the forehead and whispers "good night imp". She then returns to her writing.

"Each passing day I treasure more the things I have in my life. It is considered normal to wish for a family, health and a home. I have that now. I have a loving man, and even if there is no children of my own, there are those that might become close to me. Still I feel that I lack something, like there is a big part of my life that just isnt there. It must be my past, I need to look into it. Before the Cult, before the exile."

"The meeting with Divius Aldemarius was dreadful. I have never seen Darrol in such agony as back then. That pompous bastard is probably after Stefanun and Adele. I wouldnt ever let him do anything to those two. It is not my burden to bear, but I guess I just get really protective about kids. I know what it is like to loose a childhood, and I do think that Darrol has a vivid memory of what that is like. It would be a cruel fate if Stefanun would be trained by the brother of whom trained his father. It should be Darrol that tutors him, not that insufferable man."

"It is late as I write this. Darrol is fast asleep, though the cough keeps me awake. I cant tell him that I have trouble sleeping at times. I know that his sickness is stable, but he is sick nevertheless. I would never let him sleep somewhere else if he is finally starting to get accustomed to the fact that this is also his home."

"Will I ever be truly happy again? Will I be satisfied with what I have or is there always something I desire? Shouldnt I have everything that I need? Isnt the greatest thing in my life lying on a bed on this very room? Does he know it?"


Shira stands up and grabs her diary. She places it in her drawer and prepares for a unrestful night. She dons her night gown and goes under the warm blanket. Her thoughts wander away to her past. Feeling gloomy she falls a sleep though not much rest is given to her. She keeps waking up trough the night to strong coffing and wheezing sounding from the bed next to hers.

The necromancer Darrol Argeledougal has had a lot on his mind lately. He has gotten to know his son Stefanun at a very crucial time. The bright-eyed lad is almost old enough to begin his studies as a magic user and hopefully nothing less than an actual necromancer. And he would need someone to tutor him.

Shira has been keen to take young Stefanun under her wing. And so has Mr. Divius Aldemarius, the younger brother of Darrol's old master. Both of them would like to get a hold on Stefanun's education.

Stefanun's mother, Lethe, has been quite adamant on not letting the Aldemarius brothers anywhere near her son, and Darrol ought to be glad that Shira is also being very protective over the boy. Surely it would be better for the child to be schooled by someone trustworthy and close to home.

And Shira would be most capable. Perhaps the best one for the task.

Darrol sighs deep and rubs his temples. He has been training hard within the walls of Shira's secluded tower. The last remaining candle has burned away a while ago, but Darrol hasn't yet even noticed that he is surrounded by darkness. He's trying hard to meditate and concentrate on the flow of mana within his veins. It's ever so toilsome because his mind is swimming with disheartening thoughts. The thoughts tell him to give up and stop trying. They tell him that his lungs are failing him, that he's weak and useless. They tell him that while Shira is no doubt destined to become a necromancer in every sense of the word he, on the other hand, seems to be destined to be a plain old Argeledougal; the sickly seed of some common, illiterate farmer.

How tremendously enigmatic would it have been to be born into an aristocratic family. And how exciting it must've been for Shira to realize her dormant abilities and to see them bloom so fast, to have that ardent desire within, to make seemingly impossible things happen by sheer willpower, to be so headstrong and beautiful. And on top of everything else... Could it be that she even might have inherent necromantic powers coursing in her blood? It's an intriguing thought and something they might want to inspect further.

Darrol stares at darkness that used to be a stone wall before the last of the remaining candle light faded. Thinking back, he feels humbled by the gifts Shira has given him and he feels privileged to be part of her life.

But he doesn't feel like he would be capable of tutoring his own son.

The shame of it all is hard to come to terms with. Granted, he has always been rather bookish and his knowledge on necromancy has been first and foremost academical... But the sense of insecurity and awkwardness has always been there, holding him back. He was never quite good enough to please his old master, and just as he had been about to grasp something resembling actual status and power he had been whisked away to oblivion due to a magical calamity. Maybe this was the universe telling him - not so subtly - that there was no point in trying at all?

Earlier in the evening Shira made a little jab aimed at Darrol's rustic background. Of course it was all in good humor and it was not her intention to be mean. For the last hour Darrol has tried to shrug the whole thing off. He absent-mindedly reaches for his pocket and produces a vial of special tincture that he has been taking for the past days. The stuff tastes vile, but it helps him not to cough his lungs out, replacing the dry hacking with just a slight sensation of soreness around his chest.

He should get a little rest, call it a night. But right now training seems to be the only correct option. Seems like it's either that or nothing.

Meanwhile, Divius Aldemarius is mildly displeased. A recent meeting with Darrol and his new acquintance Shira Silverwind had revealed that while Darrol was just as hopeless and spineless as before, this new player on the stage was something else altogether. It would seem that Darrol has a tendency to end up in the company of strong-willed women.

The first such lady in Darrol's life is, of course, miss Lethe Quedver: daughter of the esteemed wizard Menzora Quedver and mother of Darrol's firstborn child, Stefanun. The child whose future Divius has great interest in.

Sitting at a desk in the room he has rented from Britain for the duration of his visit there, Divius dips his quill pen in an inkwell and opens his notebook

-Arrange a meeting with miss Quedver

If Stefanun's own mother does not have a say in this matter, then who? So far, Lethe has not been able to see eye-to-eye with the elder necromancer, but at least she has not been directly opposed to his plans, as Silverwind appears to be. Divius still has hopes of winning Lethe over, and with luck these recent developments might yet be to his advantage.

Divius reaches into a small pouch of sunflower seeds and plucks one into his mouth. Then he dips the pen yet again, brow furrowing.

-Investigate Shira Silverwind's background

In fact, it would probably be wisest to do this even before speaking with Lethe. Talent like Shira's does not come from nowhere, and odds are that looking into her past will give Divius not only insight to her motives, but who knows, maybe even something that can be used in a debate.

Another line, in rapid succession:

-Speak with Stefanun personally

This is, of course, a given. Arranging an opportunity to do so is the problematic part, with the overly protective Silverwind constantly looming over the boy's shoulder. Thanks to a certain source, however, Divius happens to know exactly where to look for him at the moment.

The necromancer snatches another sunflower seed from his little pouch. Speaking of said "certain source"...

-Send letter to Menzora Quedver

He might be interested in hearing what his little servant Ripkin has been up to, recently. In the same letter, Divius could maybe bring up the matter of Stefanun's education, just briefly. The wizard is, at the end of the day, Stefanun's grandfather, and as such might have some passing interest in his grandson's future.

The old necromancer pauses to think for a moment and rubs his forehead. All this trouble for the sake of one boy? Is it really all worth it?

Divius closes the notebook, satisfied with his list for now. A prestigious apprentice is a valuable asset for any necromancer. Stefanun has magic in his blood from his mother's side, and if Darrol didn't have gifts of his own, Divius's dear brother Vasculio would have harvested much more than a single eye from his body a long time ago. The ties formed with the Quedver family do not hurt the deal, either.

Divius sighs. He cannot help but wonder how much easier all of this would be if people did not unjustly compare him to his notoriously cruel brother. Weariness begins to take over Divius's mind, but there is one last task he wants to have sorted out of the way before retiring for the night. He takes a sheet of paper, and begins writing once more.

Dear Corvus, he begins. Not the young man's real name, of course, but since he insists...

Now that your training and apprenticehood is coming to an end...