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Your name is Alexander Barsley. Your family, formerly a group of prominent nobles, have been hunted down for the crime of necromancy and most of them have been killed. But your parents are now living as liches in a cozy dungeons and everyone else was already dead, so it could have been worse. The responsibility for carrying on the family name and traditions have fallen on you. You’re the last of the Barsley Necromancers, and it’s time to define your destiny.
You and Marcus have been scouring over maps for the last hour. Your goal is simple, the remains of Barsley Castle and the extensive, labyrinth of catacombs that were built beneath it. The catacombs are centuries old and are very much a staple of the Barsley family, since nearly every member of the family was buried there and are sealed away to prevent any magical ‘leaks’.
The problem is that the entire area is a hotbed of activity. None of them can find the entrance to the catacombs, as long as a member of the Barsley family inhabits the catacombs, then you need an invitation. The real problem is that, unlike in the past, your mother can’t just teleport you in since the catacombs are magically sealed, and a lich like her leaving would be a huge beacon to anyone looking for it. And it’s not just Inquisitors who would benefit from finding your family crypts. Dark Mages, other Necromancers, and a host of unsavory folk would love to access even the highest levels of the crypt.
Welcome to Banished Quest! You take the role of a young mage labeled a criminal by his people and cast out into the wider world. In the last thread you received the artifact you sought from your Master and set off to claim your new estate.
Note: Using names or trips in this quest is heavily discouraged. While it is impossible for me to prevent you from doing so, I ask that you not. I will also not count any votes made while using names or trips.
Volume One: Path to Immortality Chapter Five: Herp-d-derp, I'm starting a quest at 00:30 edition.
Last time, on Feral Necromancer Quest: You did a lot of housekeeping and chores. You cleaned up the ruins you are staying in. You communed with Bathory, and re-established a venue of communication. You learned a little alchemy and nearly burned the library down. You taught Lathrian some Shamanistic magic, and a little bit of necromancy, but not enough to be properly capable in either. He dislikes you less now. You were reading some books on engineering when the conclusion of Feral Necromancer Quest four came.
"I'll keep it short," The doctor says flipping his clipboard shut, sadly, "I don't think there's any one in this colony, much less on this world that can help you. This suite," He taps the medichine next to him, a little yellowed and worn but well worn, "Is good, but it doesn't have the supplies. I would gladly order some but-" "But, it'd cost an arm and a leg, and, the pirates or warlords would probably hit the cargo ship before it reached planetside," You finish for Doctor Tabin. He nods sadly.
"I'm very sorry."
"I see," You say. It's a little sad to hear, but you've lived a good, long life. 67 years is nothing to sneeze at. Most of your friends had died long before you, at far younger ages. You can't feel any upset at the doctor's powerlessness. This was a rustic colony, to say the least. An abandoned project struggling to feed itself. You'd just come in since you were going deaf in one ear, and he'd noticed the swelling in the skull, and grey flakes coming off of the skin. You scratch at it, wince, bring your hand back. Little twisted bits of skin gone hard.
You're on Saronic, far away from home. You landed here twenty years ago, getting away from the dissolution of the Throne systems, and the civil war that tore the Immortal Empire apart. But that was twenty years ago. You had a life here.
"How long do I have?" You step off of the table, get to shaky knees. The doctor helps to steady you up. Young man, a good man. "Ah, well," He shrugs, "It seems to be some kind of cancer- though, er, not a regular one. Otherwise the machine would have taken care of it-" "Do you have an estimate?" You chide him. He seemed so skittish about death, the boy. He deflates.
"Three? Maybe, four months?" He shakes his head, "I'm so sorry." "You already said that," You chuckle, patting him on the shoulder, "Don't worry. The dead hold no grudges."
"Look, what I said earlier about the generator, you don't have to worry about it, I can-"
