Hungry Necromancer

[Rogue Spirits - 127]

The fruits of my labour, my tiresome labour of two days worth of walking about, eyes glowing and hands wisping with mana. Spirit Hunting isn't as fun as it may sound.

But it's well worth the reward. I now have over a hundred Spirits in my charge, fueled with mana and tethered to me in some by the use of the spell. The more Spirits I use the spell on the more I grow to understand the tether it forms between us.

The tether is the familiarity of my mana. Since my mana is empowering to them, and since it fuels their physical states and powers, well, it means that anywhere these Spirits are they will be pulled towards me if I deign to call on them.

But then there comes the mess I've made with these Spirits. I can't tell any one of them apart. Well, except Anselm and the other [Loyal Spirits], but the rest, the Rogues that I have formed a modicum of connection with via my single summoning of them, I can't pick them out no matter how much I concentrate.

With the aid of a few Spirits of playful children, I practised picking them out and found myself disappointed. But it's no matter, should the need arise, all I'd do is call them all, the closests would arrive first followed soon after by the others.

But with the Rogues I've also learnt, much to Anselm's dismay, that it takes even more mana to overwrite their will with mine than I initially thought. In fact, there are some arrogant Spirits I've summoned that outright battle against my will.

'I know I've lost that one for good, no way he'll become Loyal.'

It's a bit troublesome but I'd rather focus on overwriting those who don't struggle than playing tug-of-war with the one that does. It's not like anything makes him special anyway, aside from the stubbornness of course.

But there are special Spirits among the lot. Beside me, in my chambers is a very old man, a man perhaps older than the Village itself if his claims are worth any salt.

He stands near my height, wearing a ceremonial looking robe with a large, golden necklace hanging around his neck. His hair is grey but balding so it's nothing more than little wisps of white here and there, his face is full of black spots and some more visible moles and his lip wrinkles in a tight frown as he stares defiantly at me. 

"So, you're telling me that you're the Mayor of Demme?"

He breaths and stretches, "The very first, appointed by King Hargun himself, this Village was created as a reward for-"

"A reward for your exceptional prowess with battle Magic in the War against Mafiel, the Kingdom next door."

He frowns.

"But you can't do any magic, how can you prove you're a mage if you can't do any magic?" 

This is how the man is special, his claim to the Mayorship of Demme is a bore compared to the prospect that I could be resurrecting wise, ancient Mages and willing them to battle at my side. The war with the Marquess is all but fought and won if I can pull this off.

He shakes his head, "I told you, I have tried moulding the mana within me, a foul thing yours is turning out to be by the way," I roll my eyes, "But it simply won't bend to my will, I cannot get it to evoke a blade of wind, nor a storm or even a gentle breeze."

"Could it be that the very foul mana you speak of is the reason you can't manage any spells?" The door clicks shut and the presence of the Mayor piques all of our attention.

I'd almost forgotten I called for him. He stares, his lips parted, awestruck at the man before him. It seems the old man's claims are true, he is the first Mayor of Demme.

The old man in turn stares back at Alric, his mouth hung open for all but a moment before it snaps shut and curls into a sneer as he glares daggers at the Mayor, "You fiend!"

Faster than I thought him capable of moving the old man shuffles his way across the room and starts smacking Alric over the head, Alric's hands raise to block the rather weak blows and cover his head.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Alric yells, as an elderly man himself it's a bit comical watching him get the equivalent of a spanking.

"How could you subject the people to such gruesome years?" The old man hacks, huffing like his body won't let him beat the shit out of Alric, his descendant of many, many years.

The smacking stops, but not for a lack of trying on the old man's part, but because we're present. I catch him glancing back at me, his mood already sour. I bet he's thinking he ought to save face, if not for himself then at least for his descendant.

Head bowed Alric continues to mutter out apologies, "I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought I was saving us. The King, the Marquess, no one would answer our pleas."

The old man grunts and does what I think is a shrug, "The Royal family has lost its honour it seems, that part is not your fault. Still, a Demon from Reais? You should have known better."

At this point I'm sick of watching the family discussion, "Well, he didn't and now I rule this place by proxy, now if we could get back to what Alric was saying when he came in?"

They nod and find seats.

"As I was saying...your mana is 'foul' as my Great Father put it, because it's attuned to the kind of magic you perform. You train every drop of your mana to become familiar with the spells you perform. That's why the more you practise a spell, the less mana it costs to use it over time, that's your mana tuning itself to your magic.

"Now, think of it like a mix of dyes in a pot. Your reserves are a clear colour at the beginning, but when you begin practicing magic you drop some of the uh...green colouring into the pot every time you use a spell, soon your pot is entirely green, not a clear spot to be seen, you may even reach the point you don't need to practise anymore.

"But take that green pot and give it to someone like Great Father here whose pot in life was...uh, let's say yellow and it becomes a struggle for him to change the green into his yellow, it takes more yellow to even stain the green, unlike it would if the pot was clear. I believe this is the reason Mages that practise more than one kind of magic are extremely rare."

When he's done he coughs, clearing his throat and has his eyes darting about nervous. I don't bother much with him, only sighing as I nibble on my fingernails.

"So what you're saying is that it will take an inordinate amount of time before you Father here can produce a single gust of wind."

He nods and I turn to the old man.

"What do you think? You're older, aren't you wiser too, tell me there's a work around."

"If there was, don't you think I would have been working on it?" He snaps, shaking his head, "In the first place it's wild thinking to be resurrected like this, if anyone should have a work around, it would be you, Necromancer."

Right, it all comes back to me and Necromancy, doesn't it?