Becoming
A Story of Segrus the Necromancer
Segrus the Necromancer felt the sightless eyes staring into him while at the desk of the collector, Darlock Latar. He knew they would be unblinking, clouded, devoid of the animation of life without meeting its gaze. The vapor of the dead on this earth, the illusion less than the reflection of a passing memory, was not settling well to one so acquainted with death. Despite a black, hooded mantle still covering him through the process of research, Segrus still sensed the hollowed eyes unflinchingly waiting for his.
The figure crept on him when he first entered the residence, and it appeared frequently in the resolute silence most ghosts of the past carry perpetually. He studied its garments and face carefully before resting himself in Darlock’s office. A dress shirt hung drearily, untucked and dulled yellow in age on its torso, and banded at the cuffs with an ornate style Segrus recalled was known in Palkan. It surprised him very little to note leggings with a classic style to match, a decrepit pair together underneath the shirt. Unusual in regards to the other articles, this remembrance had no proper shoes to adorn its feet. Further details were particularly obscured due to the transparent nature of this ghost.
An eerie grimace masked its visage with an age beyond age eternal. The mouth was slack enough it exposed a ghastly stretched gum below a row of teeth. No tongue guarded the throat—just an empty hole to the wall behind. Segrus turned away and prevented himself from staring into its eyes further, at least until after the research was complete.
He continued on studying the maps and manuscripts before him to secure the route he ought to take. The city Palkan was formed far to the east of a mountain range named Kyscallistrom in the previous age, any longer colloquially known as Kriss. A prior map showed the passage he trailed to reach Kriss from the south, from the desolated city of Evvine.
Some testimony surfaced in Actal, near Kriss, which matched the losses he had seen in Evvine. Perverse, foliaged growths rose up against the souls of the folk there, defended against through fire well before Segrus arrived. They unfortunately lacked the method which caused the schism against nature. Without a direction to draw him closer to the culprit, Segrus was driven to seek out a familiar confidant.
He needed Darlock’s estimation on the murderer’s progression through the world, and was eager for collaboration to discover the sorcery used. Darlock’s expertise under multiple studies, his access to references ancient or recent, and the sharp mind he used to discern information were capabilities Segrus valued highly in his companion.
The office itself existed as a marvel, the walls each filled to their full height with the discoveries of Darlock. Primordial artifacts—implements and icons and common items—were cataloged to show where they were unearthed. Attempts had been made to secure old parchment of their impossible symbolized language.
Using the information the two had aggregated in their respective methods, Segrus prayed answers were nearly upon them.
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When the day was half finished, Segrus rose from the table to break from the distraction of Darlock’s written rambling. His friend often gave the impression of being aggressively descriptive in the works left on the desk. Segrus amused himself with the thought of exchanging banter with Darlock on it later.
Segrus methodically examined the contents of the shelves in the room, beginning a path near him and circling around the perimeter, until he located an object of interest. The spirit was ever-present in the room yet no change occurred in its demeanor or movement in its position.
On one shelf tucked between books on myth, kept inside a small glass box, was a blackened shard. It had the look of being rough from age. Cracks had formed down its length along the porous surface. Without opening the glass lid, Segrus identified what was being kept inside: a fragment of skull. A small tag had scribbled on it in Darlock’s handwriting the word, “Grove.”
Segrus lifted the lid slowly with care and pulled out the skull piece. It felt heavier in his hand than should be and the texture, which he expected to give him the impression of being through fire, was instead spongy to the touch. Under the conditions he felt it begin to slip away from him. Reflexively he pinched his fingers to avoid dropping the piece, and finally grabbed it less gingerly.
With the piece fully in hand, Segrus stepped away from the shelf and looked closer. There were no outside clues to resolve his curiosity on its weight. Cracks were too shallow to expose the inner layers and nothing squeezed out from pressing. Finally, Segrus forced his necromancy into the shard.
The immediate pain caused him to drop whatever was in his hand. In place of a shard, a ball of sharp thorns grew. It grew too quickly for Segrus to make an appropriate decision on how to proceed and instead he chose to retreat away as dark vines thick of needles shot across the hard wood floor. Through luck, each of the runners missed his boots; however, the growth was not done.
Segrus chose not to flee the room. He felt a resounding call to face the horror before him, even if it awakened to devour him whole. Unarmed of his weapon, a long dagger he gained to end the enchantment of necromancy and the undead, he used these moments to develop a plan. Something within the dead plant reacted to his power, and therefore, he thought, it should obey his command.
“Stop,” Segrus commanded out loud.
What once was a small ball of thorns had grown into a mass larger than a bush up to his waist, and it was becoming without pause. Thick vines branched into more runners, and they climbed onto and into whatever it touched. Glass which protected other artifacts cracked and shattered as the thistle pierced it. He had little time before he would be overwhelmed.
“Stop,” Segrus commanded again as hesitancy creeped into his voice.
His gaze, trapped by the emerging monster before him, momentarily flickered to the side as a change caught his eye. The haunting presence had abandoned him. It disappeared with its soulless gaze so completely Segrus felt shocked. He backed away until he could go no further away. In a desperate attempt to control the situation, he reached out try touch the plant and found his hand lanced on every patch of skin. Bleeding and trapped from escape, he waited.
Black plant mass shifted until a form separated from the rest. The new form struggled in resistance, molding itself apart until it took the shape of a headless person. Without explanation, the body pulled up the vines around it and grappled them. Two plants fought in back and forth manner. One grew forward, trying to take over any leftover space; the other pulled hard, overtaking progress by grabbing more and more vines.
It seemed to Segrus, by the time he could see the sun through the study’s window, any energy he gave the fragment was now exhausted. None of the thorns blocking his movement around the room had yet withered. They blanketed too many surfaces to make an escape or gather a tool to forge through. If he twisted too carelessly, he knew the cutting would be tremendous.
He bided his time for Darlock to arrive by assessing what remained. The shard was contaminated. It acted as a tool to violently spawn in response to magic. Clearly, he had misunderstood the evil bewitchment that plagued so many places he traveled. Specifically, Darlock studied only the most ancient and antique. Whatever was kept in this study was not from this age, perhaps multiple ages ago. This supplanted his assumptions on recent attacks experienced in the areas he traveled: his attacker had potentially set behind traps well before his forefathers stood on the clay they formed from. Damage, and death, stretched across time for its victim.
Most importantly, the vile plants rooted into the human soul to become this hated imprint on bone. Segrus hoped to soon put the poor, lost man to rest.
