Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

The night had been relatively calm, if one could excuse the smell that always seemed to resonate from this community around this time of night. He did not live in the most distinguished of environments while within Andaris, but until he'd finished finalizing his business in Sabaissant this was the city in which he operated for most of the duration of his working hours. Either way, he was not a man who necessitated the wealth offered to him by his family. This disheveled home was meager, but appropriate for his actual earnings, which were far reduced from the exquisite wealth his family had accrued via the businesses and taxation they were responsible for within Venora.

The house he owned had a few secrets laid within, most interestingly; quite literally in his closet were Grayson and Alaric, his two defenders ala undead minions. He did not enjoy entering Andaris without some form of protection, and with the civil war soon to enter its apex, noblemen like him were in even greater danger than the commoners they usually disposed of with such ease. Alistair had actually been writing about these matters - the civil war, in the late of night. He had begun writing to old friends and those he thought might have the rationality necessary to support the current reigning King rather than a would-be Kingslayer and usurper. He'd begun to think on what sort of letters he'd relay to the greatest of his friends and allies of old - recently he'd come back from a meeting with Peake in Sabaissant, and perhaps next it was time to inquire upon the state of mind of the Lady Elyna Burhan.

He began to pen his letter, starting with of course flattery; To the beautiful Lady Elyna, he wrote. Perhaps that was crass in some form? They were once to be married, but no longer. She perhaps realized he was of a persuasion that didn't suit her, and her persuasion the same to him. He couldn't properly manage to summate his 'brilliant' thoughts in the form of actual words. How curious this whole noble process could be.

Despite the lateness of the night, the door had begun being pounded upon. A knock. Knock, knock, knock, it continued. Being the recluse he was, he fully intended to ignore it. He'd gotten many knocks at unfortunate times, and often when he checked the door it was some news column or an advertisement to some bakery that he didn't give a damn about. After he'd ignored the continuous knocking for long enough, however, he heard a familiar voice. Resoundingly familiar - it was one he'd heard a mere two seasons ago, and many times before that. Andraska. Come on, Ali. Open the door, he said. Immediately, the older brother's attention rose and he came to his feet. He opened the door shortly after - the house wasn't quite large enough to where he had any real distance to close. He was quickly and boisterously greeted with his brother's charming smile, the boy yelling brother! enthusiastically. That was unlike him - he wasn't quite the closest to Alistair, despite the fact that Alistair had wished for them to be so. Andraska was always more of a rebellious type, the sort of man to hang with those of a much lower economic class and of infinitely lower birth. Alistair preferred high society by far, as he was less so a physical man, moreso a scholar.

Bottom-line; he wondered if this enthusiasm meant he needed something. It was ill to think of family like that, but with strained relations came shallow needs. It didn't take him more than a moment to notice that Andraska was, in fact, here to get help. It was probably the egregious moaning that cued him to that one. "Oh dear," he replied. Unlike most others in the family, Alistair's temperament was ice cold, and so something like this didn't really bother him. Just another patient in a list of many, and an arrow from the shoulder wasn't all that bad considered some of the stuff he'd seen. Lord, he would never again wish to discuss the bowel blockage surgery that resulted in a middle-aged woman shitting all over his hand. Andras asked if he could fix it. The man nodded. "Of course. I'm no novice," he replied calmly. He looked to his closet to ensure it was sealed tight; couldn't have undead minions falling out from his wardrobe while his brother was visiting.

Then, before he'd let the men in, he eyed Andraska up and down. His attire was different - black leather, styled like a guard or something else. He'd seen similar outfits in various areas of the city, especially in the noble quarter. He would have to ask about that later - probably after he asked how this ended up happening. The man took the injured individual from Andraska's support and into his own, slowly leading him to his bed. The man couldn't help but ask Andraska a question as he inched his way to the 'operating bed', however. He looked past his shoulder and to the younger Venora. "What would you have done had I not been here? I'm usually not in Andaris, and you're very well aware that this man could die from this, correct?" In response to those words, the man began whimpering. Alistair hushed him, setting him on the bed and asking that he stay seated upward.

"Andras, hand me my medical kit. It's in the top drawer near the closet." He pointed at the piece of furniture, then examined the bolt wound. Bolts were often nastier to remove than mere arrows, as they tended to lodge deeper due to a degree more of piercing power. This was going to be a very crude and bloody surgery, which was just wonderful considering it'd be done atop the bed he planned on sleeping in for the night.

"Also - how did this happen? Trying to impress someone with your ability to hit live targets?" He rolled his eyes as he asked, the faintest grin on his face, one that the patient did not appreciate. But he wasn't expecting gold nel for this, so the 'patient' would just have to deal with his crude and insensitive humor.

He could hardly believe his innocent little brother was suggesting removing the body if the man were to die. The surgeon did not really care whether this man lived or died, but the degredation of his family's moral values was alarming. He'd always, perhaps as a form of his own neurosis, depicted his siblings as this serene and idyllic flock with himself being the outsider - the morally bankrupt beast of a man who had done exceptionally harmful things for his own sake. Seeing Zvezdana become such an angry and vengeful woman and Andraska mold with the ideals of street rats and commoners was a disappointing change. It wasn't merely his brotherly instincts that made him feel this way, but his perception of Venoran dignity as a whole. He had begun to realize that this family was on the verge of falling to ash, with a generation of children who did not possess the virtues of old. The Venoran virtues: beauty, elegance, growth, nobility and devotion.

Tristan, his cousin, was not an exception to this breech. In fact, Andraska - in the off chance of Alistair being elsewhere - entrusting his fate with Tristan didn't seem very wise from Alistair's perspective, as Tristan always rang as sort of a wild card in his eyes. He detected his own morbid tendencies in that man, and that man probably detected the same of him - both of them were different than the common individual, and that made both of them dangerous. Alistair did not trust Tristan as it was. "That man wants something," Alistair said. "I can see a sort of loathsome ideology in him. Perhaps none of you have noticed it, but . . ." He paused for a moment. He needed to word this properly. He knew Andraska was aware of how apathetic, cold and ruthless his brother had turned out. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage so that he could speak plainly, clearly. "I'm different, you know that. Not the same as regular people, as others. Much less human by nature." He didn't feel as if he was criticizing himself by saying this. It was merely a point of fact. As such, his expression did not change in the slightest as he relayed this to Andraska; he did not even engage in eye contact with him, merely examining the wound as he spoke.

The arrow shaft itself had not broken off perfectly from the tip as it punctured the man's shoulder. As a result, it was very likely that wooden splinters could lodge into the interior of his body and cause infection, bleeding and other forms of damage. He realized this surgery would be much more complex than your basic arrow removal, as the bolt struck hard, unexpectedly and with a level of resistance which fractured the wooden shaft near the tip, probably at the point of impact. He began to pull out the bolt from the man's shoulder, which resulted in the man wailing exceptionally loudly and cursing to the Gods. Alistair used this pain to decrease his awareness, so that he could properly finish what he was relaying to Andraska without the man gathering anything remotely legible from the conversation.

"Tristan may want the Duchy." He said this plainly. As someone who was involved in the politics of the upper strata of Venora, he knew of the ruthlessness of many of the more powerful families, including the Venora cadet branches and the secondary and tertiary families of which Tristan descended from. "I cannot be sure as I have had limited contact with him," he clarified. "Even so, you must always be careful who you trust. If he were to release knowledge that you attempted to dispose of a body, he could disenfranchise the entire primary Venora line and result in my own forced abdication from the ducal throne." He did look at Andraska as he said this, though, as it was an important lesson to be learned. Alistair had come to detach himself from dependence on others, and so the necessity of trusting others entered the fringes of possibility. Even so, for what little he knew of love and how weakly he experienced it, he loved Andraska. He wanted to protect him from harm - that was one of the few human things about him.

As Andraska spoke of how exceptional he was at marksmanship, Alistair merely glanced at him. "Is that so?" He asked. At least one of the Venoran brothers was expected to be a proper warrior - to take place in jousts, tourneys, all the like. If that was to be Andraska, that was all the better for Alistair who could focus on his intellectual and magical studies rather than pointlessly proving to others a physical aptitude that was unnecessary of an administrator of the Duchy. "Well . . ." He began to speak, evading entirely the discussion as to why the man somehow deserved to be shot. "Not that my survival requires this knowledge, but I would wish to know what the daring Andraska is getting up to in Andaris. We haven't talked about your personal life in too long. It's always about my new medical practices or whether or not Zvezdana is getting married to some stubby Warrick chap. We only ever see one another when mother is around, and I believe she finds your big city antics quite embarrassing." He smirked at his brother. Back in the old days, when they were younger, Alistair had mocked Andraska's belief system which was so far distanced from his own and that of their parents. He could recollect at least a few times in which Andraska grew angry and irritated with him for his mockery, but Alistair continued nonetheless, and even now a portion of him found it funny just how much of a different individual Andras had become from Alistair who once - a long time ago - served as what the older brother always perceived as being a rolemodel.

The official questions quickly cast aside this line of intrigue, however, and he replied to Andras with proper directions. "I have a tool that is very thin and allows me to move around rended flesh in order to view the interior of the body. Then, I have a tweezing tool that allows me to pluck remnants of wounds from an individual's body. Furthermore, bandages to prevent infection. All of these will be necessary, as well as the reading lantern I left on my desk over there. I want you to shine the light on the wound and gently apply the long, thin tool to the wound to move his skin and fleshy bits away from obstructing my gaze. This requires precision so you do not somehow get bits of the arrow lost into his flesh, or even somehow the bolt itself, as this could result in his demise." He was shortly thereafter informed that Andraska was on drugs, which made him roll his eyes. He brought in a dying man to his room and then wanted it to 'go quickly'? Alistair would have laughed if he had it within him. Instead, he looked at his brother blankly and spoke in a stern voice. "I don't care. Sober up. This isn't going to be fast. This is going to be grueling, painful and messy. The kind of messy I don't really like being sprawled all over my bed. The kind of messy I don't like being brought to me in the middle of night, yet one I am dealing with for your sake. I'm going to need you to stay sharp."

Alistair couldn't help but offer his younger brother a solitary, bleak frown as he said you're human, just different. Honestly, as far as the Necromancer was concerned, the difference - the clear and veritable distinguishing between he and the other humans around him was perhaps the most damning part. "I suppose that's always been the problem," he said. He didn't like to express his personal feelings on particular matters, but as he had begun to mature and Andraska too, he did not feel the same fear as before in expressing himself properly. Alistair lacked in the sphere of emotion. Sometimes he could feel it manifesting purely, and sometimes - even in the face of things others found breathtaking, good or ill - he could feel nothing at all and merely had to masquerade as a proper, compassionate human being.

However, regardless of this lack of emotional affinity, he did carry some degree of bitterness, and in the area of discussing his true and distinctive nature his emotions resonated the strongest - he had always struggled to define himself, to align with things and individuals and places that made him happy. He instead did things and performed actions merely because of significance on a more basic framework; medicine became an obsession because it was useful to society, Necromancy due to the implications of preservation and eternal life. People, ideals, other such common interests of others were difficult for him to process the same way. It was like his brain was wired alternatively to other human beings. As a result, he had been ostracized by many in his life, except for those who clearly wanted to befriend him due to the evident benefit of the close relation to a future Duke.

It was a life of isolation. That was the life of one who was 'different', as Andraska called it. Different. "People don't like those of differing natures. If you can think about all of the arbitrary things individuals despise each other for without even having a conversation, you'll understand what I mean to express. Many hate one another merely due to being a part of a particular race, such as the common conception by others that humans are pompous and destructive. Then you add in religion, culture, language, social and economic class, and you have a formula for a very negative disposition before one even speaks a word. So then - how powerful do you imagine a deterrent such as the fact that I don't even process the most basic fundamentals of human life? There's an actual term for my kind of 'different' in the world of psychological studies, and it's sociopath. Commonly portrayed as murderers, egotists, neurotics. I have a difficult time determining emotional responses. It's more an affliction than anything else, one that I have paid for across all my life. And yet - this affliction is one that I would be called a witch for, possessed by a demon, cursed by the Immortals. No. I would rather be inhuman than 'different'. Different is far worse." For a period of time after that, he remained in silence. He absorbed what Andraska said about Zvezdana and the marriage and all that, but his mind had fixated on all he'd just said. The saddest thing was, he didn't really feel a thing saying all of that. Perhaps just nervousness that Andraska would judge him for it, and perhaps the concept that he had broken etiquette by speaking so plainly and - almost dangerously to his brother.

He did not want Andraska to see him as a weak man. Alistair had always exuded mental fortitude - his discipline and independence were bar none, as that was required of him to gain traction when his personality and sense of charm and other such things was so terribly diminished. Displaying to others a feeling of bitterness, in any form, was harmful to the image he'd maintained for so long. If there was any one thing he wished of Andraska, it was respect and admiration. He wanted to be a proper older brother, rather than the recluse he was often characterized as.

"No," he finally spoke again. His eyes remained on that of the bolt, and finally he'd pulled out the broken shaft, though its shattered pieces and the arrowhead remained. "She didn't end up marrying melonhands. He would be a terrible bachelor, as our grandfather is a Warrick, and thus the marriage is nigh-incestuous. Instead, she went for the dashing rebel Veljorn Burhan, most likely so that she may become the Queen of our nation. I can't fully ascertain her reasons, but I don't really enjoy the thought. Yes, a Venora on the throne, but one who is highly estranged from the family. I can understand her reasons why, as our father is not the nicest individual. Mother and I learned that before you two were around, really - it was us he projected his morbidity onto. Even so, her rebellious phase should have long ended. We could have all convened to execute father for the crime of child abuse, molestation, adultery and falseness. Instead, she ran away. Problematic." He sighed. That was sort of a theme with his siblings. They all ran. He wished he could too, he really did. But that wasn't the life given to him. He didn't believe in the Immortals having a plan for individuals, but he did believe in fate. It was his fate to rule Venora. That had become clear to him, in his own mind, in all the suffering he had faced by not shying away from the task.

As Andraska returned to the bed with the tools, Alistair watched carefully and guided his hand by hovering over it with his own. He gestured for Andraska to move slowly and peel back the flesh with care, and then he lowered his precision tweezers into the man's wound to begin removing fragmented shards of the wood that surrounded the head of the bolt. It was unwise to remove the bolt first, as the shards around it would merely fall about and spread around, lodging into the flesh surrounding them. He was focused, precised, but utterly competent in what he was doing and so the difficulty was far reduced from those of his amateur days.

"Could you spread the flesh apart a bit more? I need more vision," he asked. As for the man's progressive state of drug affliction, his brother offered a 'response', of sorts. "We're going to discuss your usage of dangerous intoxicants and your wilder lifestyle after we're done saving this man's life. This conversation is mandatory. Just so you know." He knew he sounded authoritative and bossy, but he was still the older brother and that meant something, regardless of the fact that Andras was now an adult. He did not believe anyone in the family to be a real adult. They had all lacked in structure and maturity for a long time, and now it had begun to dismantle them from within. He needed to know why things had devolved to what they were now, from perspectives other than his own detached worldview. And he wanted to learn all that he had missed in the many years of detachment from his closest relatives. Perhaps, he thought, it was during times like these where the two of them could actually regain lost ground with one another, rather than when surrounded by the falseness that swelled in their 'dapper, jovial' family events.

For a time, and despite the precision and focus necessary for the operation at hand, he felt something akin to a tranquility in the presence of his brother - who had been assisting him in his surgery and speaking to him of things Alistair had never before dared to talk about. He even told him not to change. The man looked to Andraska as he continued speaking and paused his work in pulling out the fragments of the bolt. He said you wouldn't want to be like me. Alistair didn't know about that. Andraska had issues - drugs, sex, delinquency, but he also had a passion that his older brother never possessed. A sort of juvenile and rambunctious personality that Alistair would never be able to rival, yet one he craved. He'd always felt like he missed out on his entire youth. He was almost thirty now and he had nothing to show for it. Nothing at all.

Alistair could tell his brother was growing restless, antsy. Andraska had to be calmed down, but he was unsure as to how. Words were all he could offer him in this situation, one where he was apparently coming down from recreational drugs or whatever he'd claimed earlier. He looked to his brother with almost a sadness in his eyes. He was to reveal something to him - something he had never revealed. Something to use to show Andraska that maybe he didn't have it so bad after all. But before he could speak, Andraska's restlessness took hold and he claimed he was to let go of the skin. Alistair almost yelled 'stop', but was too late in doing so, and Andras released his flap of skin and rapidly pulled out the metal instrument. As he was pulling out he jabbed the instrument into his fold of skin, and Alistair's hands were put out of place, which resulted in him accidentally digging his precision tweezers into the man's bloodied flesh.

At that moment, everything fell to a chaos that neither of them could have predicted.

The patient surged upwards and screamed, which resulted in Alistair's tweezers getting lodged into his flesh and digging deeper, getting stuck. They quite literally dug into and snapped one of his veins, and blood streamed from his body directly onto Alistair's stunned face, the man freaking out and eratically rampaging around. He pushed Alistair away and ran from the bed, screaming, "I need bandages! I need bandages! I'm bleeding!" The medic jumped to restrain him despite his violent rampage. The wounded man saw that Andraska was searching through his drawers already, and so he bursted into the closet.

A scream was the last thing he would hear, "NO!"

Alistair's eyes were filled with shock. The man opened the closet only to be greeted by his two armored undead minions, Alaric and Grayson. The man stood paralyzed even despite his previously ongoing rampage. Alistair grit his teeth, and then by tuning the energy of the wells, he commanded Alaric to grab the man's wounded shoulder and apply pressure that would dramatically increase the exertion of blood. Grayson grabbed his mouth to silence him, and Alistair stepped behind him and bashed him several times on the back of the head. He passed out, and continued to funnel blood out through his shoulders. The floor, the bed, it was all bloodied. Everywhere.

Alistair looked to his brother. He was quiet, for a time. He let it all sink in for his brother. He let it all sink in for himself. Andraska would know now . . . know that Alistair was a Necromancer.

"You fucking fool," he cursed. He could feel anxiety, fear, anger; everything swelling inside of him. The man had to die now. Alaric lowered himself to suffocate him to death, all the meanwhile Alistair charged at his brother and pressed him against the wall. He was bloodied all over, and Andraska would be too. "You fucking idiot. How could you think that was the right idea? How? How? Fucking, how?" He lowered his head, clenching his fists tightly around Andraska's leather armor. He honestly could describe this feeling - as it was now - as absolute desolation. All his life, he'd been hiding this. All his life he'd been trying to protect his brother. And yet... and yet...

Now Andraska and Alistair were accomplices in a murder, and his brother would know. Everything. All that he'd tried to conceal was laid before him, and what could Alistair do to right this great wrong? How could he ever seek to lecture Andraska when he was now a murdering Necromantic freak in his eyes? For good?

. . .

"I wish to preserve life," he whispered to Damien, the Lich who had guided him in Necromancy for a long time. A lifelong mentor and friend, he would be, one with a similar worldview to Alistair himself. "Do you?" He asked him. And of course the man replied . . . yes. Preserve life in whatever which way, an obsession of his. Preserve innocence, youth, beauty - perhaps it was the obsession with these traits that compelled him to adore Andraska, Theodore, and all of the other young and gallant individuals in his life. He immortalized those who stirred something in his heart - for emotions in Alistair's life were things that came upon him perhaps once a decade. There was the first emotion, fear, when his father beat and abused him in ways he did not wish to speak of. The second . . . lust, for when he fell for the allure of William Grayson and deigned to keep him as a friend and companion, if only to stare at him from afar. The third, sadness. He had felt it before, indeed, when the slave Alaric sacrificed his life for Alistair. He did not cry, but he felt that deep pit of swelling emotions stir inside of him. It hurt. But the strangest part of him enjoyed it. Even as his eyes began to water, even as his lips sunk into the most miserable frown, he felt himself compelled by a twisted glee that could never again be obtained.

He kept them forever with him when they died, as mementos of his humanity. Proof that even Alistair Venora can feel, despite how evident it was that he was - and would always be - a monster with no heart, but rather instead the organ that pumped his blood with not a lasting vestige of emotion dwelling within it.

And now . . . anger. That temporary vestige would be immortalized too. Andraska was one of the few in his life to ever compel him to feel emotion. Perhaps that was the most demented reality that came from all of this. Andraska's greatest gift was that for yet another moment he allowed Alistair to feel, but an emotion as volatile and dangerous as it was unique and complex. And for as short as it lasted and as powerfully as it made his voice boom, it was gone. By the time Andraska pushed him away and commanded him not to make contact with him, Alistair was made again into the hollow being he always was. Empty. Emotionless. Calm. Rational. Nothing but an eternal wallflower dwelling in the distance, watching pure beauty flourish while festering and loathing in his own blanket of emptiness, cynicism, and a bitter hollow.

His expression normalized. The two minions walked up behind him and they stared at Andraska alongside him, one behind each of his shoulders, looking into Andraska's complexion with the depth of their cold and dead eyes. Alistair . . . sighed. "What an unfortunate situation," he said. The man pulled out as many towels as he owned from his drawers, and began to soak them in a bucket he'd kept for washing his face in the morning. Each minion held a towel, and they scrubbed the floors studiously to his command, the Necromancer standing calmly and observing his environment. He began to think of ways in which to dispose of him.

"I don't want the body," he replied to Andraska rather plainly. "I'm not just any drab Necromancer. I have tastes. Alaric and Will were special to me, and thus they remain. This man was naught save a screaming monkey, and so he will not. Instead we must dispose of him. Quickly." He moved to Andraska and leaned forward, though not getting quite close enough to 'bother' his brother who was quite clearly in a loathsome condition. Alistair did not know how to help him. He did not understand this feeling he felt. In Alistair's eyes, murder was just another part of survival. He had no knowledge of empathy; it had just never occurred to him. It was the mess he grew angry over, and the revealing of his secret, and all of that. This man's death was unimportant. And Andraska knew he was a Necromancer now - that could never be changed. Why continue to be angry?

Though he was surprised that Andraska said nothing in shock of his brother being a Necromancer. Such a thing was punishable by death or exile in Rynmere, and greatly taboo in every corridor of the nation. He surely was not handling this well at least, Alistair assumed, which was why he sunk into that demoralizing position on the bed and spoke very little of it all. What could Alistair say though about his surprise? I'm sorry that I'm obsessed with preservation? Andraska should know why that was. He merely had to look at everything Alistair had ever expressed, and that was to say nothing at all. He didn't think like everyone else. Instead he fixated on this premise that immortality could provide him with the knowledge of emotions, of the ability to feel as others do. As if love, lust, anger, jealousy, all of these things could be earned like trophies in the walk of life. But he believed they could. After all, today was evidence. He felt genuine anger for the first time, and only several months after experiencing sadness at Alaric's demise. It was as if he was making progress. Honestly he felt quite overjoyed at it all - at least in the limited way he could feel joy!

But there was all of this backdrop to ruin it. He frowned and assisted his minions in cleaning the blood. What a pain.

"Will you tell mother and father?" He asked, as he lowered himself to clean the blood. "Or Zvez? Or anyone?" He looked up to his younger brother and raised an eyebrow. "You know they cannot find out. I will be hung if they do. I won't threaten you by saying I'll reveal this whole debacle to them if you do inform them. I do care for you, as much as I can at least. I just want you to care for me as well - and for the good of the family. And that means not ruining our house reputation by telling everyone that I'm a Necro and getting me executed. Do you understand?" He sighed. There was just so much blood, everywhere. How could someone bleed that much? That man must have had quite the strange biology. At least he had a healthy bloodflow.

"I also forgive you for bringing this bloody mess to my doorstep. You don't have to beat yourself up about it. Mistakes happen, and people can die from them. Use this as a lesson to advance forward. I've lost patients due to being unable to save them before. Not quite the same circumstances, but even so - I didn't let it eat away at me. A stray arrow can kill. Antsiness can ruin a perfectly good operation. Life lessons here."