16th of Saun, Arc 716
Incisions into the ribs of the victim. Strangely small, like throwing knives, yet none to be found. Based on the folding of the rended skin, they were likely extracted from the dead body. Still somewhat warm, so the death was recent - at least within the past twenty four hours. In fact, this was perhaps a dangerous place to be, yet he was surrounded by hills and had found himself in a valley; it was unlikely that they would be able to sneak up on him. Besides, his undead minions Grayson and Alaric were with him, cloaked and armed to the teeth. He could reliably say he would be safe. Though, he wondered. Throwing knives were oh-so-rare though to be used as a weapon, and the style itself was not native to Rynmere. Was it a foreign assassin? This man was dressed well; could have been a noble or a merchant, men who gain many enemies. He could not be sure.
His corpse had already begun to rot, though very slightly. Alistair examined the swelling of his flesh by moving his palms across his cadaver, from nearly head to toe. There was some 'bloating', he'd call it, along the stomach; also swelling in the arms and legs. Alistair began to use Corrosion, his energy connecting to the flesh of the victim and reducing the grow of rot and other forms of clear rigor mortis, restoring each sector of his body to the state it was in when he just died. He had already removed much of his attire. He was a well-built individual, which implied noble rather than merchant, as nobles often had to go to battle and many of the young men - like this one - were Knights and other such things. Alistair was a rare exception, mostly because he was the heir and one renowned for his intellect rather than his skill with a sword.
Frankly, he did not know if he would be a good soldier or not. He merely knew that more than likely, he preferred scholarly pursuits.
The man found a signet ring on the corpse's finger. A red ruby cordelia. The red cordelia represented House Languedoc. This must have then been their son - one of the two. Gaston Languedoc or Guillaime Languedoc. He was blond of hair, green of eyes. They both were. What could be something else he could examine to discover his identity, he thought. He looked to see if there was a number or something on the signet ring, perhaps displaying symbolically his place in the line of the succession. No luck. Alistair inspected him further. He had notable lips, and a very soft complexion. His shoulders were wide and he had a lean body type. He was young, perhaps early twenties. This must have been Guillaime based on what he remembered. It was not a good idea to reanimate a dead noble, but he had already done the same with Lord Grayson. This was a dilemma.
The man ordered his two undead minions to pick up the body of the recently dead, throwing him over his undead steed. Alistair crossed his arms, and looked to the distance. He began to contemplate the reality of this decision. Reanimating Guillaime Languedoc would be all fine and dandy, but there would surely be a great search for him. Alistair would need to find a place to store him quickly, and far away from here as well as his family villa in the countryside. Furthermore, if Alistair's minions ever were discovered, the manhunt for the Necromancer who reanimated not one but two sons of noble families would be pursued relentlessly, and they would surely bring Attuners into the fray to discover the connection between the minions and their master. He would be dead meat, and for what? A nobleman's corpse was no better than a commoner's - perhaps just a bit more valuable in the nostalgic sense. But this was not a good investment at all, no. Alistair would be better served leaving the body here.
He mounted his horse in place of the body, though first tucking the signet ring into the corpse's pocket to prevent graverobbing by commoners who passed by. Whoever the killer was, they did not seem to care for his material wealth. He swore he could see them there, though. There. In the distance, atop one of the knolls beside him, he could swear he saw a silhouette, blocked by the setting sun. He wondered if it was the hunter watching over their prey, coming back to uncover the vulture that was Alistair pecking over his corpse. He did not know. But he knew one thing - they must have noticed. The Necromancy. He got his horse to gallop towards the hill, pursuing the silhouette blocked by the coming of dusk.
Incisions into the ribs of the victim. Strangely small, like throwing knives, yet none to be found. Based on the folding of the rended skin, they were likely extracted from the dead body. Still somewhat warm, so the death was recent - at least within the past twenty four hours. In fact, this was perhaps a dangerous place to be, yet he was surrounded by hills and had found himself in a valley; it was unlikely that they would be able to sneak up on him. Besides, his undead minions Grayson and Alaric were with him, cloaked and armed to the teeth. He could reliably say he would be safe. Though, he wondered. Throwing knives were oh-so-rare though to be used as a weapon, and the style itself was not native to Rynmere. Was it a foreign assassin? This man was dressed well; could have been a noble or a merchant, men who gain many enemies. He could not be sure.
His corpse had already begun to rot, though very slightly. Alistair examined the swelling of his flesh by moving his palms across his cadaver, from nearly head to toe. There was some 'bloating', he'd call it, along the stomach; also swelling in the arms and legs. Alistair began to use Corrosion, his energy connecting to the flesh of the victim and reducing the grow of rot and other forms of clear rigor mortis, restoring each sector of his body to the state it was in when he just died. He had already removed much of his attire. He was a well-built individual, which implied noble rather than merchant, as nobles often had to go to battle and many of the young men - like this one - were Knights and other such things. Alistair was a rare exception, mostly because he was the heir and one renowned for his intellect rather than his skill with a sword.
Frankly, he did not know if he would be a good soldier or not. He merely knew that more than likely, he preferred scholarly pursuits.
The man found a signet ring on the corpse's finger. A red ruby cordelia. The red cordelia represented House Languedoc. This must have then been their son - one of the two. Gaston Languedoc or Guillaime Languedoc. He was blond of hair, green of eyes. They both were. What could be something else he could examine to discover his identity, he thought. He looked to see if there was a number or something on the signet ring, perhaps displaying symbolically his place in the line of the succession. No luck. Alistair inspected him further. He had notable lips, and a very soft complexion. His shoulders were wide and he had a lean body type. He was young, perhaps early twenties. This must have been Guillaime based on what he remembered. It was not a good idea to reanimate a dead noble, but he had already done the same with Lord Grayson. This was a dilemma.
The man ordered his two undead minions to pick up the body of the recently dead, throwing him over his undead steed. Alistair crossed his arms, and looked to the distance. He began to contemplate the reality of this decision. Reanimating Guillaime Languedoc would be all fine and dandy, but there would surely be a great search for him. Alistair would need to find a place to store him quickly, and far away from here as well as his family villa in the countryside. Furthermore, if Alistair's minions ever were discovered, the manhunt for the Necromancer who reanimated not one but two sons of noble families would be pursued relentlessly, and they would surely bring Attuners into the fray to discover the connection between the minions and their master. He would be dead meat, and for what? A nobleman's corpse was no better than a commoner's - perhaps just a bit more valuable in the nostalgic sense. But this was not a good investment at all, no. Alistair would be better served leaving the body here.
He mounted his horse in place of the body, though first tucking the signet ring into the corpse's pocket to prevent graverobbing by commoners who passed by. Whoever the killer was, they did not seem to care for his material wealth. He swore he could see them there, though. There. In the distance, atop one of the knolls beside him, he could swear he saw a silhouette, blocked by the setting sun. He wondered if it was the hunter watching over their prey, coming back to uncover the vulture that was Alistair pecking over his corpse. He did not know. But he knew one thing - they must have noticed. The Necromancy. He got his horse to gallop towards the hill, pursuing the silhouette blocked by the coming of dusk.
