Break 2 - Mortan Osserfid

Tipping the scales...

In a clearing off the beaten path, away from Teywell's wagon, Mortan sat in the middle of his makeshift laboratory. A small canvas tent, made as meticulously clean as possible given the circumstances and lit by a small bit of magic, housed the even smaller gnome. The soft sounds of the skeletal guard he had patrolling outside fell on deaf ears as he studied for the hundredth time the small pulsing cyst he had pulled out of that barbaric fighter back in the warehouse. It was unlike any of the necrotic tumors he had found before. This one seemed stable and living. And yet, it was connected to the others, though he couldn't explain why. When he brought his finger close to it, it seemed to reach out for him; an unclassified symbiotic life form. A symbiotic life form that lived off of blood.

And as eerie as that was, even to him, there was no real threat generated by this cyst. Indeed, it seemed the remains of blood it left behind showed as clean and pure blood itself, removed of a good many, but not all, diseases and abnormalities though a bit lesser in cellular count. It's symbiotic nature did not kill the host and might even be beneficial under the right circumstances, but the procedure would not be painless nor would the recovery ever be truly complete, even through magical means.

And yet, the knowledge it offered was incredibly tempting. He had even almost broken down and destroyed it outright the first night he had studied the cyst. It had stank of evil magic, far darker than he would ever be comfortable with using himself, and the cyst was almost black in color itself but upon closer examination the magic was not coming from the cyst proper but a small bit of grafted scale, expertly installed and hidden to the unseeing eye. It gave off heavy compulsion magic auras, which almost made the gnome feel pity for the fighter they had killed. He was certain that the man's actions had not been his own, and while his path to Gharlamaal was just and correct, it hadn't been walked on his own feet.

Needless to say, a half-day and his deft hand at dissection had removed the offending bit which was promptly cleansed to the best of his abilities and destroyed. The cyst quickly began to, for lack of a better word, heal itself over the next several nights until it now gave off a hue similar to that of a raw boar's liver and pulsed in even rhythms. It looked...healthy. And it seemed to speak to him, telling him of incredible power and abilities; of knowledge. And so, he had decided.

He stuck his head outside to recast his undead sentry before placing an impromptu gag, made up of a bit of hard leather and some wrapped cloth, into his mouth and binding it tight. He lay fresh rags and warm water, with a couple of sprigs of Sigmus Flower for sterilization purposes, at his side before removing the cyst from the small container with one hand. With his other, he reached for the ceremonial dagger sitting in the water and thrust quickly into his own chest. He stifled his screams from the pain as he worked. A true necromancer did not cry out for mere trivialities such as being cut. The pain suppressors he had administered to himself earlier helped.

As he continued to flay his own living skin, Mortan concentrated on his objective to keep the pain at bay. This power would be his; would be Gharlamaal's. There was a man of his own calling out there somewhere who was stronger than he was, tainting the paths of others for his own amusement. Every balance must be maintained. For every light there must be a dark, and for every dark there must be a light. He would balance this dark as he saw fit, by fighting magic with magic. But their current powers were not equal. He planned to fix this.

As he completed the self-opening, he brought the now blood-frenzied cyst to his own chest. A sharp, very intense pain hit and then swelled inside the necromancer, quickly overtaking his senses as a sick suckling sound filled the tent. The necromancer screamed until he could no longer. With his last conscious breath, he begged Gharlamaal for healing as the darkness overtook him.

He did not sleep, but he did dream. Foreign information making no sense as it twisted through his head. Men in Grey Robes; an Eclipse fading the Sun; an Iron Box, marked with Serpents and Runes, stinking of Death; something from the Box flashing in an Unholy Light; Chanting filling the Room; the Sun going out entirely...

Sometime later, he awoke to find the wound at his chest completely healed. So much so, that for a moment he thought the entire thing may have been a dream; a vision from Gharlamaal. However, upon close inspection he noticed the light, yet clearly defined, scar across his breast. A slash very much like that of a tiny scythe. Under it could be found a very slight lump that pulsed that same sick rythym as it had before. He smiled to himself as he felt the soft pain that he knew from this point on would always be there. But with the pain came the power, and it was his.