Private Tales A Professional Interest

[Movrin]

Some rumors reached Movrin sooner, some later, but at one point or another he gathered them all. Staying in touch with the whole wide world wasn't easy when you spent majority of time on the road, among corpses and graves, but he did make sure to check in with civilization often enough, after all, his research could miss some important points if he didn't. And on one such occasion, while visiting Elbion, a place that would now only welcome him in its darkest streets, far from the college he once studied in, he heard a story. A story of a woman, who got exiled. A story of a woman who he couldn't help but see as similar to him. Necromancer, they whispered in such a tone that make his lips twist in a sardonic smile. A professional interest, thought Movrin.

And so he set out, on a journey that wasn't particularly hard, even if it was quite long even with the help of portal stones, yet this was the first travel in almost a decade that truly made him impatient to reach his destination as soon as possible. The companions of his craft were rare and few, and most of them he knew already, some on friendly terms, some not, but there was a respect between them. Each of them had their own interests, goals and morals, tied to this one discipline of magic.
Getting something fresh was rare. And Movrin cherished it, because it meant new knowledge, new perspective and new possible allies.

He was quite eager to find out who this Harrier Wren truly was. And whether she was worth all the talk.

Finding Crossroad Mire turned out to not be all that hard. There were maps posted in many villages in the general area he had been pointed in, and afterwards it was simply a question of figuring out its crude lines. And even if that hadn't worked, he could have followed the distinctive reek of the undead that he had learned to distinguish well enough throughout the years.
And so he did. And so he found the rumored place.

It turned out to be quite grim and ghastly, which made him feel certain appreciation, and, quite obviously, full with undead, which made his lips twist with disapproval. Movrin didn't like disturbing the dead, not in such a crude way, but putting them to their final rest would have been awfully rude, so he simply passed the poor animated corpses, sinking into the steady stream of other visitors. If there was something truly charming about this place, then it was the fact that nobody gave him the dark, fearful looks he had grown to expect from people. In fact, he walked through the village almost unnoticed, his form being one of the least interesting here.
The first time when somebody actually looked at him was when he approached one of the creatures inhabiting the place, asking for directions to the infamous necromancer. After a far less polite question and some amount of coin, he got the answer.

Stepping into the roadhouse, he found an elven girl who pointed him to the exact room, this time without him having to use any force. She gave him a grin that somebody else would have considered threatening. Movrin ignored it.
He was here for a very particular thing.

As he finally reached the door, one that he had been going towards for the last few weeks, crossing a continent, following whispered rumors, he didn't hurry to break in just like that. It would have been rude and possibly dangerous, so Movrin knocked first, three times, loud and clear.
His hood was thrown back, face neutral, but there was something more lively in his eyes than what could be found there most days.

Harrier

 

[Harrier]

A skeleton opened the door and grinned. Not because it was pleased to see Movrin, but because it was a skeleton. If you no longer possess a face, grinning is a matter of general principle.

Behind the skeleton was an unassuming woman in worn travel clothes. She'd just looked up from a workbench upon which she appeared to be splicing a gristo eel with an undead secruyu lizard.

"Welcome to Crossroad Mire, stranger. If you're looking for Harrier Wren, you've found me. Let him in."

The skeleton, still grinning, complied.

 

[Movrin]

Movrin wasn't too surprised to find another skeleton opening the door in front of him, yet his gaze still couldn't help but linger on it. Not with fear or disgust, but rather something full with sorrow, almost wistful. It was a common practice, not using which made him the black sheep in their ranks. Yet no arguments had ever changed his view on this kind of undead, sad and wrongly disturbed creatures.
However, he didn't say anything.

His attention was almost instantly draw to the woman behind the skeleton, a woman who had the distinctive feel of somebody close to death. Harrier Wren, he knew even before she spoke.
Movrin bowed his head in a greeting as he stepped in the room, looking around shortly, before he spoke himself. "Most grateful," he answered to the welcome, his tone plain, "I have indeed been looking for you. The stories of your studies and achievements go a long way," the faintest trace of a smile tugged at his pale lips, "My name is Movrin. I doubt that you've heard of me, although my name was once recognized in Elbion. I might call myself a student of similar arts as the ones you pursue."
Of course, it didn't quite reach to the very essence of it, but for now Movrin stopped at this brief introduction. There was no use in going on and about for too long, he would get to his point sooner or later, yet Movrin prefer the first over the former.

And for now it was curious enough to examine the woman a bit closer.

 

[Harrier]

"Movrin? That name's known to me. I've made a study of other Elbion exiles."

Harrier poked the needle into the eel's living corpse and left it standing there for safety. The eel didn't appear to mind. She washed her hands in aqua vitae, took off an apron, and rolled down her sleeves.

"Some called you a necromancer like me, but I never heard there was proof."

 

[Movrin]

So she had heard of him. Very well. That would make certain things easier for him.

"I see. Well, my story is a rather old one, so forgive the assumption that it isn't one that would make many people curious," his tone held a brief tone of dry amusement. With all that had been going on in Elbion lately, any for him that meant the last few decades, there were hardly many reasons to dive into history, especially one that he had. There were more exiting stories. With more blood and magic, more lowly desires and no sense of right and wrong. The kind of stories that people enjoyed nowadays.
"I was and still am necromancer, that much is true. Although my usual practices are far from those that people consider to be part of necromancy," he explained, as his eyes wandered to the skeleton once more, "To begin with, I hardly ever disturb the dead."

"I study the matters related to death, and, as you know, there aren't exactly any textbooks written on it," death was a taboo after all, something not to be spoken or asked about. And the society that believed in that still called itself civilized. "So I am highly curious about any possibilities of... exchange of knowledge, if that sounds pleasant enough to you."

 

[Harrier]

"What, him? He's not disturbed. Happy as a clam."

Harrier took a seat in a comfortable wooden chair and indicated its partner as a place for Movrin to sit.

"I'm always open to what you propose, and Crossroad Mire is the best place for it. You'll have to visit the library when we're done here. World's best collection of the quote-unquote dark arts. So tell me, Maester Movrin: if you don't disturb the dead, what does necromancy look like as you practice it?"

 

[Movrin]

"We might as well agree that we have a different view on this subject right away," Movrin didn't try to smile anymore, his tone was calm, steady, but firm with what he said. He didn't make any motion to do something about the poor corpse, but he didn't take his words back as well. Ah, this had been the subject of many arguments, and, he supposed, it was going to be so for the centuries to come.

He took the seat offered to him with a brisk nod, his overly polite facade cracking a bit. After all, Movrin wasn't all that much in his element, trying to be sociable to this degree.

"That's good to hear," and the mention of book collection most certainly did make his eyes glint a bit. What memories it raised. Of his old student days, when he had still relied on libraries more than anything. What pure times those had been.
"For me necromancy is an art of respect," he began slowly, as if considering his words, although this was hardly the first time he had had to explain this, "I help those who need help for finding their final rest. I speak with those that wish to be spoken with. I study the subject of death itself very closely. And, well, sometimes I walk on the other side of the veil. Briefly. Although I do believe that out of all creatures living on this land right now, I have journeyed the furthest."
It had been his test. His very last, grand test among the priests of death who had thought him the knowledge so ancient that it had barely preserved even between them, who were of elven blood. And he had ventured once, loosing his breath only to regain it once more. And then he had done what most of the others never did: he repeated it. Several times.
It was dangerous, it was grim and confusing, and also highly educational.