_Look at you now, rotting away.
Look at you now, remember this day.
You can't remember, can you?
You don't know how to, can you?
Look at you, you're pathetic.
You've become everything you hate.
You are nothing, make something of yourself.
I can show you the door, but you must open it._
"You there." Alazreal barked as he approached the group. Idiots, the lot of them. Eyeing him as if they knew him, why would they? He would not lower himself to such scum.
"Tell me where the gravryard is." He demanded.
The pale elf woman spoke up. She took her sweet, precious time to speak. It sickened Alazreal, he wanted answeres, and he wanted them at that moment.
"Um…" She said shyly before she pointed her finger North East, towards the gates.
Yes, he remembered now. In his haze as he came back from the graveyard the other night, he couldn't recall his steps. Slowly, the memories were returning. Slowly, like a snake slithering through the grass for it's next victim, his senses were returning. He could feel it.
He brushed past the three and made his way for the graveyard, still dirty from crawling out of his own grave.
He had found the graveyard, and he had found his gravesite. Thankfully no one had seen it, or if they had they left whatever he was burried with inside.
What was he burried with, he wondered, as he hopped casually back into the grave...
A red spellbook, a crooked gothic style "I", facing the right, implimented on the cover.
A black spellbook, a crooked gothic style "A", facing the left, implimented on the cover.
Along with two bloodstar amulets, one his own, one his brother's.
He took them all, both spellbooks tying them onto his belt. As well as the amulets, putting them over his head hanging around his neck.
Then he saw it, the bloodred gem, glowing faintly. The light inside fading away.
His bloodstone, the bloodred gem the size of a fist, was meant to resurect our young necromancer if he would ever die. Once and only once, could this vile gem be used, and the price was costly. This selfish creation was none other then that of his father's. Alazurus' cult of Darkrune necromancers back in Thay. Alazreal would often gaze into it, gazing at the power he once possesed, obsessing over it.
"NO!" He thought. "This cannot be!" He growled as he took the gem and clenched it tight, knowing all too well what this meant.
He quickly slipped the gem away and opened the black spell book, flipping through the pages.
Past the cantrips, past the low-level spells, past all the muck he'd grown to detest. As he flipped through the pages, he understood less and less, he had no idea what any of the more potent spells meant, no idea what ingrediants to use to tap the weave.
"DAMN YOU IKURUS! WHY ARENT YOU HERE TO HELP ME!? YOU BASTARD! " He thought to himself, as he often did, yelling at himself, scolding himself or others in his mind, knowing all too well that they werent there to hear.
He tied the book back into his belt, letting it dangle as he regathered his bearings. He needed to find his brother, he needed to know how to properly manipulate the weave again. He couldn't leach the power he once had from the gem used to revive him, it was too late for that.
He made his way past the graveyard gates back into town. he found a small shop run by an elf who knew how to mind his business, he decided to clean up there, he also borrowed a quillpen and a piece of paper from the elf to write a note.
As he came out, he marched towards the group he saw earlier.
"Spellweaver, where is it…" He asked the group, awaiting a response.
The blonde halfling male, the pale skinned white elf, and the brown haired human looked at him.
The pale skinned elf, once again pointed him the way...
