Necrology

AC 995. Quentin discovered my experiments on Wallace. That mad wizard is dangerous! Even after the shock of seeing his latest newborn cut open into a bloody pulp, his fragmented mind could still much sorcery. Only my protective spells of the Radiance saved me from sure destruction. Of course, with the timely arrival of Brannart, Quentin's assault on me was soon over. My grandfather did not hesitate to restrain Quentin with his dark enchantments. He had, after all, done this often before. I hope Brannart did not sense my use of the Radiance. But then again, he had no reason to even suspect that his "mere babe" of a grandson could wield magic anywhere near his.

What is it about newborns? In such a tiny mass of material flesh is encapsulated the very essence of being, the very potential of life and creation and energy, of years to be lived, of dreams to be fulfilled. And yet, these babies are so fragile, so weak, so prone to illness and injury, so easily returned to the realm of death where they had only so recently sprung from. Babies are a nexus of living and dying. I wonder why no one else before me has explored this mystery as a possible source of necromantic power. In any case, my experiments with Wallace, and achieved a new circle of power in my craft.

AC 998. Quentin and Mary will have quite a surprise. A zombie double created in my image, sweet, innocent, and cherubic, dressed in my best play clothes, perfumed with rosewater to disguise the stench of rotting flesh, is riding with them in a carriage on the way to Fort Sablestone. It will remain quiet and gentle, politely obeying Mary's every request, until two weeks from now, when it innocently leaves behind a small hand, rotted off at the wrist, or perhaps its head falls off and worms and maggots crawl out of its severed neck. Mary will scream in abject terror.

Quentin, mad as he is, will scream, then laugh, after realizing my trickery, then destroy the zombie child in a blast of water and ice. Mary will not know what happened to me and might even fear that it was the real me that Quentin destroyed.

AC 1000. My suspicions have finally been confirmed. Brannart is a lich. I find it ironic that no one else seems to know this fact. Has everyone in the Clan McGregor been subject to some geas or another like good old Quentin? He must have attained lichdom well after Quentin was born, and surely he must have succeeded by using the powers of Necromancy. One must also consider that the progenitor of the McGregors was himself a lich, and ironically named Brannart himself. History has repeated itself and foolish mortals remain ignorant to the fact.

There is one matter I fear. There are rumors among the Craft that the High Master of Necromancy has the power to call upon lichdom to himself. Does this mean that my grandfather and rival to the throne of Klantyre is also my rival to the High Mastery of the Craft?

AC 1002. I have learned the power communicate with the dead. I wonder why it has taken me such a long time to learn this necromantic power, when a madman such as Quentin has always been haunted by spirits and ghosts. The Dark Powers be damned! But more than this power itself, I realize that the true importance is what I can learn from the dead, the secrets thought long forgotten, the knowledge buried in the past. My true power shall stem from that.

AC 1004. I have finally made contact with the shade of Lothar McDonald, the Black Necromancer, who sacrificed thousands of Fenswick innocents for his dark arts. I have learned that the legends of his heinous acts are greatly exaggerated, but that the darkness of his evil live on even in death. I have felt first hand his black rage, particularly towards that blackguard Robert Moorkroft who slew him.

AC 1008. My quest had lead me to the writings of Walter McKinnon, the past Master of Abjuration at the Great School of Magic, destroyed in a succession duel. It seems Walter had determined the location of the legendary Sash of Lichblood. I will commune with his spirit tonight and see if Walter indeed found the baneful artifact.

AC 1010. My minions have returned with the Sword of Jeremy Moorkroft, stolen from the crypts beneath Fenswick Keep. It is the self-same sword that slew Lothar McDonald, and if legends be believed, slew the lich Brannart "the Red." Even as I touch the Moorkroft blade, I feel its destructive holy power emanating from this paladin's sword. I can only imagine its effect on a true creature of undeath.

AC 1014. Finally, I have risen to the fourth Circle of Power in the Craft. It is time for me to put my plan to work, for not only do I much to do, but I must keep it hidden from the eyes of Brannart.

AC 1015. I write this with a weary handy but I must write this lest my mind pushes back the horrible memories into oblivion.

Taking control of Quentin's frayed mind was the easiest of my tasks. From that moment, I had to work fast, lest Brannart discovered something amiss. I enchanted Quentin with protective wards against undead and necromantic magic, and also Brannart's resumption of control of his mind. I then had to equip Quentin with his most powerful sorceries, spells of destruction, summoning of his watery monsters, conjurations of deadly elemental forces. I then equipped Quentin with an array of magical weapons, rings, wands, girdles, torcs, boots, down to his bonnet and kilt, all crafted and fully charged over these past months and years. And finally I armed Quentin with the Moorkroft sword and the Lichblood Sash. At that, I sent Quentin to face Brannart.

I knew better than to be present when the battle took place or even witness it through scrying devices. I did not need to after all. The sounds of spell battle echoed through the Tower of Crownguard. I could hear the explosions of spellfire, roar of thunder and lightning, crashes and blasts of furniture and stone walls, ghostly moans from the very maw of Death itself. Idiot servants who went to investigate the commotion did not return or returned as walking corpses, flesh barely hanging from their bones. A sudden flood surged through the halls, carrying debris, and bloated corpses, and weird creatures of water. The sun, usually already darkened by the gloomy clouds, seemed to be eclipsed. The upper floor of Brannart's towers creaked like a dam about to burst. Blood began to drip from the ceilings and the walls. One moment, the air became hot like a furnace, the next a winter chill ran through the air. Then I felt it, the emanation of the energies from the Radiance. Brannart was probably using it as a last means against his attacker, a son he only hated suddenly besetting him with the powers of two powerful wizards. I did well to equip Quentin with my own Radiance spells to counteract or at least match Brannart's own. After a few more loud explosions and a final wave of the Radiance magic exuding from Brannart's tower, all was eerily quiet.

AC 1015. I have found Brannart's phylactery and destroyed it. I was initially confounded by the jewel in his bonnet and the golden plaque above the throne, both magical decoys ensorcelled to radiate his lich essence. Finally, I find the true source of his unlife: an ancient bagpipe in his private chambers, made of dragon bone and nightwing leather. I shall soon claim my legacy to become the Prince of Klantyre and the High Master of Necromancy.

AC 1016. I am greatly perturbed. My studies into the Craft have confirmed that Mastery of the Craft transforms one into a lich, which Brannart was. But I have come to realize that Brannart was not the High Master of Necromancy. Could there be some other malevolent force that was the High Master?

Author: Kit Navarro