SITB wrote:I meant more on the line of is necromancy* the art of (usually) using negative energy to animate dead bodies, or is it the damning process of forever ripping a soul from the afterlife and forcing it to serve you for all eternity in decaying corpse (etc,etc..) ?
That varies with what type of undead we are talking about. There are three general types of undead. Mindless reanimates, those which possess the mind and soul of the original living creature (although possibly horribly warped), and those which are the shade (a remnant of the living creature's intelligence and personality) given power and form.
Or more to the point, is necromancy in itself an utterly repugnant field of study or just an unseemly branch of magic?
That's a matter of opinion. It is a very dark art, but some aspects of it can certainly be used for benevolent purposes.
*True necromancy that is. Just casting, say, Enervation or other spells from the necromancy type doesn't count.
Nalifan wouldn't agree.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
That varies with what type of undead we are talking about. There are three general types of undead. Mindless reanimates, those which possess the mind and soul of the original living creature (although possibly horribly warped), and those which are the shade (a remnant of the living creature's intelligence and personality) given power and form.
So, does raising those 'mindless reanimates' harm the soul that previously occupied the body or is it just distatsteful by good aligned clerics and the like?
Nalifan wouldn't agree.
I guess that's becuase I view it form an outsider point of view where some spells just get dumped into necromany because the game designers/storyteller wanted it, rather the "in-game" view where those spells probably use the same basic framework or some other magi babble explnation.
Though I think that the only questionable part of necromancy lies in raising the two alter types of undead (providing that the first one doesn't harm the orginal soul)
"Power is merely the faculty to act. It is a kinetic quantity few can grasp. The deaths of these fanatics costs me nothing. I can replace them. Because I never stop moving."
SITB wrote:
So, does raising those 'mindless reanimates' harm the soul that previously occupied the body or is it just distatsteful by good aligned clerics and the like?
There is no harm done to the soul by reanimating it's corpse. There are a host of moral issues associated with such reanimation as well the issue of distaste.
I guess that's becuase I view it form an outsider point of view where some spells just get dumped into necromany because the game designers/storyteller wanted it, rather the "in-game" view where those spells probably use the same basic framework or some other magi babble explnation.
Though I think that the only questionable part of necromancy lies in raising the two alter types of undead (providing that the first one doesn't harm the orginal soul)
Your view is overly narrow. Necromancy is a broad art dealing with life and death, spanning abilities as enhanced vitality, life extension, resurrection, life force transfer, augmentation, and destruction; as well as creating, binding, and destroying the undead. In other games, such as Earthdawn, the field is even more expansive. It is rich with opportunities to engage in moral bankruptcy for personal profit.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Your view is overly narrow. Necromancy is a broad art dealing with life and death, spanning abilities as enhanced vitality, life extension, resurrection, life force transfer, augmentation, and destruction; as well as creating, binding, and destroying the undead. In other games, such as Earthdawn, the field is even more expansive. It is rich with opportunities to engage in moral bankruptcy for personal profit.
I guess that's because I'm more used to the theartical type of necromancy than the actual D&D representation of it, and thus if I'd be pointed to Nalifan as a great necromancer(in story) I would likely ask "Where are the walking corpses?"
Anyway, a thought struck me. Did Nalifan re-established his clones backups? And if he did, could he just suicide* and teleport back to re-claim his stuff and mess around with the kingdom because now he has no limitations?
*Ignoring the fact that he probably would view that act as demeaning to himself.
EDIT: Nevermind, I just checked and they bound him to serve for a year and a day so dying and returning more powerful than they can ever imagine can't happen. Though the clone question still remains.
"Power is merely the faculty to act. It is a kinetic quantity few can grasp. The deaths of these fanatics costs me nothing. I can replace them. Because I never stop moving."
He has clones. As for necromancy . . . it's a word deriving from two sources. On is divination by talking with the dead and the other is nigromancy . . . black magic. It's sometimes just thrown around to mean magic in general. Go check a dictionary. Mere walking corpses are both aesthetically displeasing and rather weak for a magician of Nalifan's caliber.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Nalifan will capture a soul if he feels they 'deserve' it.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
These days, doesn't he have an Astral Construct following him about to capture the souls of anyone who dies near him?
Speaking of which, is there anyway for his crew to track that?
Clever man. The construct didn't come with him. He can "whistle" for it, but he won't.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Because without an explanation that he probably can't give, they'll track it, start laying waste, and he'll be compelled to stop them. Gaah, stupid Epic level bindings.
Hmm. Could he whistle for it, then park it over the center of Khaduli territory(I seem to recall him sending it somewhere in the last story)? Block his own presence from scrying, keep a magical look out for thier arrival, and hit them with an explanatory Sending? Or is the binding effective enough to recognise that this would result in the utter obliteration of the Kingdom when the time period expires?
Anyway... I doubt Nalifan would fight his friends. Not only would they be smart enough to not immediately start killing indiscriminately, but all Nalifan has to do is simple tell them what happened. Then they'll be pissed, but will know they shouldn't screw those people over because Nalifan would be compelled to stop them.
And if they DID do some damage, then Nalifan "stopping" them by explaining the situation would, well, count as stopping them. I think you guys are just expecting Greek tragedy where there shouldn't be any.
I went to the librarian and asked for a book about stars ... And the answer was stunning. It was that the Sun was a star but really close. The stars were suns, but so far away they were just little points of light ... The scale of the universe suddenly opened up to me. It was a kind of religious experience. There was a magnificence to it, a grandeur, a scale which has never left me. Never ever left me.
The flaw in your reasoning is that Nalifan's posse already know that there were traces of a binding spell, IIRC. Knowing that Nalifan would be in some way bound by whoever kidnapped him (and with some serious magical mojo to boot), they're not gonna drop in and say 'So, Nali, how's everything?' Instead, they would plan a decapitation strike to try to wipe out those who hold the puppet strings before Nalifan can react and stop them.
At the same time, Nalifan KNOWS how they think, and knows that if they can find him, they're GOING to attempt a truly ruinous attack on the kingdom's leadership and if they fail to kill even one of them, then he'll have to kill all of them. As a result, it's in his vest interest to ensure that they can't even begin to come near to finding him. Yet.
Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
White Haven left out the damage that will be inflicted purely out of spite and vengeance (protip: high level sorceresses do not like having their husband's enslaved), but other than that he's essentially correct.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
True, but I hardly expect Nalifan to week bitter tears for his enslavers and their civilization IF the geas were out of the way. Shit, I hardly would, and I'm not even a tenth as ruthless.
Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
White Haven wrote:True, but I hardly expect Nalifan to week bitter tears for his enslavers and their civilization IF the geas were out of the way. Shit, I hardly would, and I'm not even a tenth as ruthless.
He does very much care about killing his friends and loved ones though and the geas will compel him to do that in order to protect Vanyard et. al.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
White Haven wrote:True, but I hardly expect Nalifan to week bitter tears for his enslavers and their civilization IF the geas were out of the way. Shit, I hardly would, and I'm not even a tenth as ruthless.
He does very much care about killing his friends and loved ones though and the geas will compel him to do that in order to protect Vanyard et. al.
It would be interesting to see a fight between Nalifan and Trizk...
But not that way.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
The weak winter sun did little to warm the air as the column of knights and common soldiers trod through the snow. The sky was mostly clear and the snow was only an inch or two deep, but it would get thicker. Winter was not through with them yet. They carried supplies on their saddles and would requisition more at Stadhall, the most important and powerful of the river keeps.
Darmira was up front, just behind the column's van. Stasia rode beside her, a smile curving on her lips. The women laughed and joked and gazed into one anothers' eyes. Darmira said something, low and soft. Stasia strained to hear it, leaning towards her lover.
"Knock it off," Handren hissed as he rode up beside them. "Too damn many people can see and draw the right conclusion."
Darmira looked at him frostily. "I am a princess of the blood."
"You're a woman who needs the loyalty of her god damn army and for that they better see you as a princess of the blood than a cunt struck dyke bitch! Get a fucking grip."
"There is no law-"
"-but that doesn't mean shit, does it?" said Handren. "You going to argue representational theology and abstract roles with the army? Think they have the fancy tutors to know what that means? Father, Mother, Son. Triad. Women with women is a joyhouse spectacle or a target on the street. We have a damn priest of the Son with us. Get a full blessing from him tonight, in public, and don't be seen with your leman. There's enough talk as there is."
He dropped back to the rank just behind them. "He's right, you know," said Stasia softly. "It's hard enough being a woman. Being . . . anything else will make it harder still." She turned away stiffly, the faint glimmerings of tears in her eyes. She did not cry.
The farmhouse wasn't too far from Vinmark's walls. The barn had hastily been converted into a crude bunkhouse and almost all the rooms in the house had been filled as well. Nearly two score and still more came. Duke Ericorn's agents were negotiating to buy a nearby farm, a task made easier by the knowledge of an unspeakably cruel and unstoppable army to the south that would surely invade once the snows melted. An urgent desire to be elsewhere warred with greed and hard coin had a magic all of its own.
Miranna had a fox fur lined robe, courtesy of the queen, which kept her somewhat warm even on the bad days. The robe was dark, which helped for hiding stains, as well as generally looking good on her. It was a trifle large, but that just made her slightly more imposing.
Inside Yenethen, a fourteen year old witch's apprentice who had somehow managed to learn his letters, was teaching a half dozen of his elders how to read the symbolic language that Nalifan had employed. She had grossly underestimated how valuable it would be. She was surprised anyone could survive casting some of the degenerate garbage that passed for some of these hedge witches' magic, let alone produced useful results from it.
Another dozen wizards and sorcerers, ranging from a ferociously powerful girl in her early teens to a wizened old man, practiced magic in the south field. They stood in a widely spaced line and blasted snow and turf with various emanations of magic. Pulses of light, clouds of acid, arcs of lightnings, and blooms of fire blasted and blistered the poor defenceless earth.
Miranna wasn't watching them. They were practicing, after having been assessed and having proven able to both wield magic and read the spell glyphs. She was in west field with the latest arrivals, four ragged looking vagrants. Three were family, a mother and her son and daughter. The fourth was an old charlatan, still spry, who made his living doing trickery from village to village. All claimed to have real power.
"Show me what you can do," said Miranna to the girl who was somewhere between fifteen and twenty and far too skinny. The girl nodded her smudged face and started singing softly. She cupped her hands and blew into them. A soft, golden light began to glow there, turning her fingers red as it shown through them. She opened her hands and the light stayed there, a small glowing sphere.
"Can you do anything more spectacular?" Miranna asked.
"No," she whispered shyly.
"I can," said her brother. He clasped his hands and pointed them at the earth. His eyes glowed bright orange and a gout of flame erupted from the earth, sending snow up into the air and then being drowned by the melt water.
"Good," said Miranna. She turned to the mother. "And you?"
"My magic only works on living creatures," she said. "I can freeze their muscles or put them to sleep or make them weak."
"Very well," said Miranna. The woman might be lying, but with two children, even if she suspected that at least one of them was an adopted stray, that had the power that wasn't likely. Miranna would know either way soon enough. "Take your children inside, get some stew and some blankets and find a good place to rest." She turned to the Charlatan. "And you?"
He pulled walnuts out of thin air and made coins dance, but as she had suspected there was not an ounce of power on him at all. He had a pleading look in his eyes. "Come on," said Miranna. "I can't keep you, I'm sorry, I don't have enough room for the ones with magic, but I can give you a hot meal and a blanket before sending you off into the cold."
The gratitude on his face was painful to see. By the Old Father and all of his children, there was so much that needed doing and she had so little to do it with. She hoped she would have the strength and the wisdom to see it all through. What else could she do? She was already harnessed up and pulling as hard as she could. She could only pray it was enough.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Heh, Nal might have gutted the charlatan for wasting his time, or found some terrible use for him. Or at least not have wasted food on the guy.
Any job worth doing with a laser is worth doing with many, many lasers. -Khrima
There's just no arguing with some people once they've made their minds up about something, and I accept that. That's why I kill them. -Othar Avatar credit
Alan Bolte wrote:Heh, Nal might have gutted the charlatan for wasting his time, or found some terrible use for him. Or at least not have wasted food on the guy.
You misread Nalifan.
In fact, he would have given the man food and a place for the night, because then that man would spread nice words to the others he knows, and some of them might have real talent. It would also give Nalifan's magic school a good reputation, which never hurts, especially since Magic is questionable to the religion these people follow.
So, in this case, doing the 'good deed' would be in Nalifan's best interests, and doesn't cost or harm him in any way. What's a bowl of soup and a blanket compared to that?
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Nalifan is calculating first, vengeful second, and intermittently heroic a somewhat distant third. He'll fuck you up without a second's thought if it benefits him, if you touched a hair on the head of anyone he cares about, OR on one of the occasions when he decides to tilt at windmills. He's got an angel on one shoulder, but it's hogtied and gagged, so it doesn't get to speak up often.
Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
There is power in belief. Not much power and it is a frail and fickle thing, but just as pebbles become an avalanche there is in belief power enough to influence magic and nourish the gods. Humans fear the night. Elves love the star filled half light and consider it their time just as they consider magic their Art. Drow embrace darkness in all its forms and draw strength from it.
For all these reasons Nalifan waited until the lurid and unpleasant orb of the sun had set behind the mountains and twilight came upon the valley. This world's moon was half the size of Selune and unaccompanied, but a welcome sight nonetheless. Nalifan waited as the light faded and gazed up at alien stars. He found and named new constellations. The Hydra, The Wolf's Maw, The Hammer, The Reclining Whore, and others. The moon slowly travelled across the sky as the hours passed.
With nearly half the night gone, Nalifan judged that the right time to begin the spell had arrived. He began chanting softly and reached into a pouch that was hanging from his belt. Inside was a mixture of ground demon bone, gold dust, nighteye pollen, and alchemical crystals grown in a solution of his own blood and then ground into powder.
He cast the powder over the still bones of the dead dragon, his feet stepping into the air and finding solid purchase as he walked over the mammoth cage of bone formed by the dead dragon's ribs and spine. The drow continued to chant as he stood above the ancient leviathan's head and cast down the last of the powder.
His fingers dipped into another pocket and he cast three pinches of silver flakes into the wind. He voice rose. The night grew darker, the stars pinpoints in a sea of absolute dark. The moon glowed a pale red, as if it had been stained by fresh blood. "I name you once Deathwing," he shouted.
"Deathwing I name you a second time! Three times I name you Deathwing and I bind you now and forever! Rise my servant, rise and heed my will!"
An aura of golden light shown softly around the dragon's bones. Tiny red pinpoints of light flickered in empty eyesockets. The shade, a remnant of what the dragon had been, stirred in bones that had been his when it had been one of the living. Dark and deadly magic, as vast and endless as the sea, surged through it and into it, filling it with awesome power. And shackling him with unbreakable bonds.
The great skeleton teetered and then tore itself from the earth in an explosion of violence. A bony neck reared back from a fleshless jaw came a below of rage and malice. Great jaws opened and then closed. The great horned head bowed before its master.
Nalifan D'Azurentien smiled and a small lens of blue crystal danced over the knuckles of his left hand. The night's fun wasn't over yet.
Krazad bolted awake and thrust off his sleeping furs. The cold night air caused his flesh to tense and the witches that shared his furs stirred uncomfortably. He tossed the covers back over them and stepped across his yurt to table where implements were ready for his use.
It was hard to determine the Carnivora's age. His hair was grey, but his lean body displayed wiry musculature that showed no hint of sagging on a frame that was almost devoid of body fat. Numerous scars, the majority self-inflicted, marked his body. When it came to the magic of suffering, predation, and consumption not even the Arch-Necromancer Nalifan D'Azurentien was his equal and like the god he worshiped he grew stronger from every kill he devoured.
The foreign wizard was working high magic again, that much he could sense. His wards against scrying made direct observation of the vicinity around him impossible, but Krazad had other ways of learning about his foe. The very high magic that Nalifan wielded could be senses and subsequently analyzed for more clues about Krazad's foe and the nature of high magic in general.
Krazad didn't think he would be able to learn how to employ his enemy's magic before they confronted each other, but he was confident that there was little he would not learn in the course of devouring his doomed foe. He gripped a thigh bone scepter and performed the opening motions of his probing spell.
He felt the faint ripples of the spell and sent the probe closer to the source of the magic. In his illuminated vision he could begin to make out fragments of the spell pattern. Yes. He would learn exactly what workings the foreign mage was performing, where he was performing the, and how to counter them.
Nalifan crushed the lens between the fingers of his adamantine gauntlet. The spell contained within it was loosed, rushing through the air and finding the Carnivora's probe. Nalifan intoned the words of a spell and smiled. "Humans," he said. "Humans and their patterns. Did he really think I wouldn't figure out how he was doing his spying, given the paucity of effective options, or did he merely think I wouldn't be able to do anything about it? Perhaps I shall find someone to answer that question before I finish driving the Khaduli down the path of extinction."
No one had ever managed to convince the arch-necromancer that gloating was an unattractive quality.
Krazad felt the magic of his probe quiver and then the spell pattern was violent torn and disrupted. Another spell was interfering with it. The foreigner had probably sensed his probe and attempted to destroy it. Then the chaotic magic reorganized into a strange pattern. It took him a moment to recognize it. A conduit. His spell hadn't been destroyed, it had been exploited by another spell to transmit someone or something here.
A cold flash ran through his veins as he realized that the conduit would pierce all of his yurt's defences because it was using the probe that he had cast earlier. The foreign wizard was cleverer than he thought. The initiators of his most potent defensive spell began to tumble from his lips. Blood red runes appeared around his body and they glowed like newborn stars.
Too late. A spasm wracked Krazad and blood spewed from his mouth. Red hot knives seemed to pierce his lungs and heart. The Carnivora of the Khaduli fell screaming to the floor of his yurt as he felt the full force of The End of All Flesh.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Out of simple curiosity, what exactlly are the effects of "The End of all Flesh" in-game? It appears too be Nalifan's favorite kill spell for the big stuff. If you really want them dead, accept no substitutes!
Out of simple curiosity, what exactlly are the effects of "The End of all Flesh" in-game? It appears too be Nalifan's favorite kill spell for the big stuff. If you really want them dead, accept no substitutes!
It's an epic death spell using the "slay" seed with DC and SR modifiers. I haven't actually stated the thing out.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
The question then becomes what is left of a being of the Carnivora's power and clearly unnatural essence when you obliterate the human side of him. I don't believe for a moment that he's...well, I won't use the word 'dead' because we just saw a 'dead' dragon moving, but I don't believe he's dealt with.
Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
