Zoltar the Red's Musings

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Zoltar the Red's Musings

Postby Aethereal » Thu Dec 30, 2021 3:58 pm

These are the writings found within a nondescript - albeit warded and kept under lock and key - journal kept upon the person of ‘Zoltar the Red’.

My descent here has been a product of necessity, yet it does not precipitate the end of my work. Most amusingly, the same cannot be said of my predecessor. Oh, the contortions upon their face as they realised all of their machinations against me amounted to nothing. Just as they have become. Nothing.

I am certain that this descent of mine, is nothing compared to the descent to come of the entire homeland. The Council of Zulkirs are both blind and utterly incapable of deflecting the endless powerplays of the Zulkir of Necromancy, and should any of the wise heed mine counsel they shall know for certain that the Catastrophe of Eltabbar is but a foreshadowing of the ruin to come. Necromancy, though hardly the least of schools, at the height of its achievement and by design should empower not a populace, not a people, not scholars and philosophers and true masters of the Art, but a single power under whom all should be bound in eternal servitude. This, is the endgame of Necromancy. And if I’m not in it, I can’t win it, and I am most certainly not in it. Thus, I should see the dark crown of the Lich’s throne burnt down to a husk and atop that ruin and festering decline that the practice and practitioner so adores, Necromancy shall be put in its true place. Made to serve, not rule.

Serve as the lowest echelon, and upon the corpses of such ceaseless labour shall return the opulence and true power that is our birthright, the True Art, the ultimate Art, unrivalled, incomparable, barely contained yet perfectly composed – magic fuelled by inspiration itself as the source...

Not in this generation, it seems. Damn it all.

Incompetence of all the other Zulkirs, who might hide behind their excuses dressed up as the pretence of ‘all is going according to plan’ but the balance is undone. Worst of all, I’m not in it. I quite simply can’t win it. Because you can’t win it, if you’re not in it!

Damn. It. All.

The other noisome condition surrounding Necromancy is that it has undoubtedly reached a new horizon. Velsharoon has ascended, and of all people my feckless, good-for-nothing, untalented sister has gone and become an acolyte. She couldn’t muster the power of the bloodline, so off she goes to beg for her spells from her new Master. Pathetic. Yet the damnedest irony of it all is that as a result, she is now IN IT. Yes, now aligned with the rising star that shall be the doom of all inspiration and decline of standards and ultimately the power structure that sets us apart from every uncultured layabout tribe of nobodies calling themselves a nation or state in this world. It’s enough to be done with not just the declining political situation but this whole damned Prime Material.

But I am done with those spittle-licking, boot-sucking servitors and in time enough I shall show them all the folly of subservience to the unworthy. Or perhaps, in their hour of need, I shall merely laugh at the pitiful grave they have dug for themselves. There are other ways to win, than to be in.

And so, I have executed the perfect exit strategy. Before my flight, I secured a most revealing piece of lore, something that has the power to topple the status quo. I have uncovered evidence suggesting a forgotten link between Eltabbar and the Citadel of Conjurers dating back to the great conflict between the useless attempt at ‘empire’ of the Narfelli and the Old Empire. On the intention of establishing an Enclave here, unbeknownst to my predecessor, or any of the others, I have little doubt that I shall secure the salvation of the homeland here – and if not that, then it shall serve me just fine when all else goes to ruin. I shall win, by being without. The perfect irony of my own construction. As it should be.

Yet it is a damned thing that already more taint of fetid necromancy is the first thing I should uncover in my assessment of what seems to be the sorriest excuse for civilisation proximal to my target. But I can work with this incompetence. It is a weakness awaiting exploitation. This place, ‘Vlasta’, has a cavern network I have so easily commandeered. It can be turned into the perfect staging ground, though notable opposition exists in the presence of these ‘Warswords’, beneath them, the local militia who form the majority of its defences are clearly less talented. Once again, this can be worked with. One must simply find the means of ingratiation. Clearing out those renegade undead “for them” will be a good first start.

I shall also require assistance. There must be some wretches around here down on their luck. The sort who’ve no other alternatives yet ambitions for more than they can accomplish alone… The sort who need a Red Wizard to show them the way.

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