Post by Admin on Aug 16, 2021 23:15:48 GMT
When warm blood still flowed through his veins, and the light still shone upon his face, Isteros was a field surgeon. He would accompany the Tuathan forces to battle, stayed in their encampments, rested in their forts. During peacetime, his work was enjoyable. There was blood and pain, illness and injury, but it was natural and something he could help mend - but during war he saw something different. The violence he saw was beyond anything he could have imagined. These were not accidents. Every wound was intentional, inflicted in hatred or in fear. It was unmanageable, and there was no way for him to fix it all. There was so much bloodshed, and so many hurt. Even among those he could get to, there was often nothing to be done except wait for them expire in blood and tears.
Isteros began to forget the faces of the men he worked on. He grew callous. He stalked through the field with purpose, performing triage with efficacy. To those fatally wounded, with a flat expression, he would quickly sever a major artery, using a scalpel so sharp the patient often didn't even feel it.
He also became fascinated with the process of dying. He began to seek out knowledge of necromancy. He began collecting tomes and studied texts. On the field, he would discreetly perform a quick spell or two here, noting their effects and adding it to his library of forbidden knowledge. He came to understand much, learning enough to utilize however he saw fit. The possibilities were endless - the power he could wield and how much it could provide to all. He continued his studies, going so far as to attempt rituals on the dead out of sight, and quietly discarding the evidence of his necromancy.
Careful as he was, suspicion by the troops was his downfall. Ultimately, he was taken away, arrested for crimes against the king's men, despite his efforts, though he knew the benefits of the dark arts he had studied. His judgement was swift, and his execution was set for the very next day. Yet, he did not fight, he did not beg for mercy. He proceeded along, with the same cold hearted gaze he had earned in his time on the battlefield. On the first morning of the season he was executed. By night he was buried. By the morrow, he rose from the grave, more powerful than he ever could have been in life.
Isteros began to forget the faces of the men he worked on. He grew callous. He stalked through the field with purpose, performing triage with efficacy. To those fatally wounded, with a flat expression, he would quickly sever a major artery, using a scalpel so sharp the patient often didn't even feel it.
He also became fascinated with the process of dying. He began to seek out knowledge of necromancy. He began collecting tomes and studied texts. On the field, he would discreetly perform a quick spell or two here, noting their effects and adding it to his library of forbidden knowledge. He came to understand much, learning enough to utilize however he saw fit. The possibilities were endless - the power he could wield and how much it could provide to all. He continued his studies, going so far as to attempt rituals on the dead out of sight, and quietly discarding the evidence of his necromancy.
Careful as he was, suspicion by the troops was his downfall. Ultimately, he was taken away, arrested for crimes against the king's men, despite his efforts, though he knew the benefits of the dark arts he had studied. His judgement was swift, and his execution was set for the very next day. Yet, he did not fight, he did not beg for mercy. He proceeded along, with the same cold hearted gaze he had earned in his time on the battlefield. On the first morning of the season he was executed. By night he was buried. By the morrow, he rose from the grave, more powerful than he ever could have been in life.