The Journey of Neffriel Brom

[Ebannon]

Lost in thoughts of his studies, Neffriel nearly overlooked the creature until it was almost on top of him. A large shape, several heads taller than a man, eclipsed the illuminating rays of the sun causing him to snap out of his thoughts and focus his attention to the road ahead. Grey and black spotted fur stretched over a ropey-muscled frame and capped by a canine head; the gnoll whipped its muzzle towards him, and bared a mouth full of pink-stained teeth as it issued a vicious growl in warning. Neffriel pressed to the side of the road to let the beast pass.

Neffriel allowed a glance back at the gnoll as it strode away, the gold ornaments around its arms and legs jangled with each step and he noted a second such creature on the opposite side of the road. The two beasts flanked a broad man clad in crimson-hued half-plate as well as a hairless older man dressed in expensive fitted robes of a much more vibrant red. The beasts kept pace, heeling to the men's flank. Neffriel’s gaze lingered on the robed man, a Red Wizard, amongst the highest caste in Thay. With his attention diverted, Neffriel had unknowingly wandered too close to the robed man, and the gnoll had reacted as it had been bred to do, protecting its master. The Red Wizard rounded a corner and left his sight. As the red wizard disappeared into the distance, Neffriel began to think of his own future… the imminent culmination of his apprenticeship, and, should he be deemed worthy, the offering of the red-robes.

His apprenticeship. The thought brought him back to the moment at hand, and he turned his pale eyes upward to the azure of the sky. Another perfect day -- a reminder that everything within Thay, even the weather, yielded to the red wizard’s dominion. He felt the warmth of the sun directly above him on the crest of his clean-shaven head marking the noon-time hours. The auction would begin soon. He had little time to dawdle. Gathering his own black robes around himself, Neffriel hurried down the meticulously even stones of the High Road towards the gates of Nuthretos, the towering natural wall of the Second Escarpment growing ever larger on the horizon with each step. He paused at the mouth of the city. A large force of men clad in chainmail stationed themselves within the outermost fortifications of the city gates stopping each traveler before funneling them into Nuthretos’ walls. Even from a distance he recognized the seals on their armor and shields as men belonging to tharcion Dimon. An unshaven middle aged man held up a hand stopping Neffriel as he approached. Neffriel’s ice-blue eyes traveled to the long braids of the man’s hair, before meeting the man’s gaze. The man’s eyes squinted as the unspoken message was received, “I stop under the authority of your master, and not for you, slave.” Wordlessly, he passed a handful of coppers to the toll-collector and entered the city.

[Ebannon]

Navigating through various stalls of the City’s bazaars, Neffriel's senses were assaulted by the smells of innumerable spices, the shouts of merchants promoting their goods, and the pressing tide of the crowd. Both the wealthy stores, and poorer stalls that lined the streets displayed all assortment of items from mundane to magical. Neffriel’s glacial eyes however remained fixed ahead allowing himself to be carried by the flow of people toward the market proper, and at its heart, a stage of thick timbers drawing an ever growing crowd. His features calm and emotionless, Neffriel swept his attention over the crowd noting the presence of several red wizards. His eyes moved to the stage as a bulbous red mage sauntered to the center of the platform barking out the commencement of the auction.

“Men and women, Lords and Ladies, and above all honored guests and colleagues…” the large wizard’s voice carried clearly over the muttering of the crowd.

“… I have combed my stock, traveled to the boundaries of our empire and beyond, and now come before you with this…” the speaker paused theatrically, “… the finest selection of slaves you will witness until I next return to you.” He swept a broad arm over an average-seeming group of miserable humanoid slaves surrounded by armed men and several menacing gnoll-guards ready to unleash their restrained ferocity should any slave dream of disobedience.

“I am pleased to bring to you my first offering… a rarity in these lands, from the mines of the earth, a hearty dwarven male strong of shoulder and broad of back.” A dwarf, long-haired and bearded was lead to the stage, his will had been broken either by the slavers malice or by magic that much was plain. The dwarves’ eyes never left the stage floor while his fate was decided by the crowd. After several wealthy commoners opened bids, a sizable offer from a nobleman won possession of the dwarf. Neffriel paid little attention to the bidding, he stood calm and still, barely breathing, awaiting a more suitable slave to be offered. His thoughts once again drifted to his studies.

The slaver’s booming voice drew Neffriel’s attention once more. “Well bid! well bid! … A steal at twice the price!” The large wizard thundered as he retook the stage. He beckoned to the armed men to bring forth another slave. An attractive woman scarcely out of her teenage years was pushed roughly onto the stage.

“This beauty was discovered only days ago within wandering near Lapendrar without papers, do I hear thirty for her?” Neffriel glanced over the frightened woman appraisingly, he features remaining serene, he paused waiting for opening bids.

“Thirty!” Neffriel turned to the voice, finding it belonging to a foppish merchant, and looked to the crowed awaiting a reply.

“Thirty-Five!” called out a noble to the rear of the crowd. Neffriel glanced to the crowd as the bid hung in the air for several moments.

“Forty,” he added hollowly just as the slaver begun to open his mouth to call for more bids.

“Forty-Five!” answered the noble, his shout ringing out from behind. Neffriel took a slow breath, calmly closed his eyes and opened them again as the slaver looked upon him waiting for a counter-offer.

He answer came in firm voice without emotion or aggression, “Sixty-five.” He turned to see the noble wave off the slaver’s stare and turn away. The slaver looked to the crowd.

“Sixty-five, do I hear more?’ a pause… “No? No more for this slave, healthy and strong?” the large slaver again looked to the Crowd, “Very well… sixty five it –“

“Sixty-six.” Neffriel turned, to the sound of the voice already knowing from the mocking tone and insulting counteroffer its source. One of the red wizards he had noted in the crowd earlier returned his glance with a smile dripping with amusement and venom. Neffriel knew better than to offer a counterbid, even the lowliest Red Wizard possessed considerable wealth, and should he somehow manage to win the bid such a perceived insult from a mere apprentice would not be forgiven. He returned a dispassionate but courteous nod to the mage, closed his eyes, and turned away. The wizard’s smugness was soon wiped away as another voice was heard.

“Sixty-seven” spoke an older man, another red wizard, and although unfamiliar to Neffriel, he knew by the style of his robes to be a senior magus. Now overbid, the red wizard eyes shot daggers to the senior magus who met his glance with a challenging smile. The crowd looked on in anticipation, silencing for several moments.

Accustomed to such posturing the Slaver broke the tension bellowing out with an amused tone, “The bid is sixty-seven… do we have any counter offers?” He paused allowing the red wizard a chance to overbid the senior magus, and allowing the crowd to enjoy him sweat the decision. “Then sold for the price of sixty-seven gold!” The senior magus smiled, and dispatched a long-haired slave child to sign for his purchase before departing from the marketplace. The red wizard who had been overbid flushed with anger and embarrassment cast dark eyes on those in the crowd hiding smiles at his expense. His pride damaged he stormed off.

With the presence of Red Wizards in the marketplace now thinned Neffriel easily managed to secure the winning bid on a stocky male slave which was next offered. Making his way through the crowd to he pressed a bag of coins into the slaver’s hands.

“Congradulations on your bid …” the slaver stopped, hefting his girth around himself waiting for Neffriel to offer his name.

“Neffriel. Neffriel Brom, apprentice under the Lord Magus Aiakos Barastir.” Neffriel replied in his usual emotionless cadence and tone.

“Then Master Aiakos has taught you to have very discerning eye, for you have made a fine purchase this day.” The large slaver replied with a merchant’s smile.

Neffriel returned a slow bow of his head, “I will pass along your compliments, please have my purchase delivered to master Aiakos estate.”

“There will of course be an added charge for such service,” stated the slaver his voice offering a falsely apologetic tone. “… Fifteen?”

Neffriel reached into thick velvety sleeves of his robe producing another small pouch of gold. His business concluded Neffriel set about making his return to his master’s estate.

[Ebannon]

((Warning: Following Post Contains Mature Content))

Countless black voids in the shape of books, jars, pouches, scales, and instruments of all shapes and sizes danced and swayed about the walls of the room as the ball of arcane blue light wavered in the air throwing off shadows. Neffriel reached a hand to his face rubbing the corner of his eyes with the back of his knuckles. He had lost track of the hours he had spent in the small dark room, consumed by his research. For the moment he was unsure of what exactly had broken his concentration. He stilled his breathing becoming meditative in an attempt to focus again. As he did so Neffriel picked up the distinct sound of people approaching from the corridor outside. He stopped, blinking slowly, and listened to the sounds of their approach.

“Why would he send us to fetch him? We aren’t his nursemaids… there are dozens of slaves available. I wish he wouldn’t waste my time with such matters.” Neffriel recognized the tinny voice as that of a fellow apprentice, a transmuter, Velesh.

The voice of Hephaestos, another of Aiakos’ apprentices, answered, “’Waste your time? You sound nervous Velesh, are you not making progress? Besides, you know master Aiakos has a soft spot for Deathriel.” Neffriel felt a spark of annoyance flare within him, but the emotion died somewhere between his brain and muscles as his face remained unflinching and expressionless. He had acquired the unfortunate nickname, spoken by the other apprentices behind his back, for his unshakable flat affect. Already a quiet introvert by nature, Neffriel’s intensive channeling of necromantic power and his “assistance” with Lord Aiakos in researching new spells – where he just as often filled the role of test subject as assistant – seemed to have drained what little outward emotions remained. The voices quieted as the footsteps neared. He heard them pause just outside, followed moments later by three loud raps on the polished mahogany door.

“De- …” the voice stuttered, catching itself before continuing, “Neffriel! Aiakos wishes to see us all in the grand study, immediately.” Velesh screeched out.

Neffriel paused a moment before answering vacantly, “Allow me but a moment, and I will join you.” His pale blue eyes followed the sound of his fellow apprentices’ retreating footsteps through the wall as they departed down the hallway, ultimately falling on an ornate full-length mirror propped against the far side of the room. His own reflection stared back at him, backlit by the blue-white orb of arcane light he had conjured many hours before. His thick black robes had been removed and placed carefully folded over the back of an antique carved chair near the doorway. A loose-fitting white shirt, un-tucked from his black trousers lay open at the neck showing his lean chest and neck. He stood with arms bent before him, palms upward like a surgeon. Wet blood coated his forearms to the elbows fringing the edges of his rolled shirt sleeves. His own dead eyes looked back at him, expressionless and serene as a graveyard. He looked over his fine features, the short stubble covering his face, the smear of blood on his upper cheek left by his knuckles, before turning back to his work.

The slave he had purchased several days before in the marketplaces of Nuthretos rested naked splayed face-up on the table. Eyes open, jaw slack, the slave stared upward at nothing, its mind destroyed by powerful magics. The flesh of its torso had been peeled back revealing the still functioning organs therein. Perfectly square patches of skin had been removed from the slave’s thigh and hung like photos in a dark-room on a silk-line near the table. Neffriel looked upon the slave’s body dispassionately, rubbing a hand over the hardening skin on the slaves upper arm, and noting the slowing of the heart beat as the slave slowly died. As he had several times in the past hours, he laid a hand upon the body allowing the delicate serpentine words of magic to pour from his mouth. His free hand completed the gestures of the modified false life spell he had learned from the text Aiakos has given him. With silent satisfaction he watched the heart regain its steady rhythm.


Grabbing a white cloth he tossed it casually over the slave’s body, and rinsed his arms and face in the large copper bowl of clean water he had fetched before he began the day’s study, removed his shirt, and slipped the thick black robes over his head. Neffriel departed the dark confines of the private study, pressed the door closed, and left calmly to answer the call of his master.

[Ebannon]

Neffriel navigated the long hallways of his master Aiakos’ manor. In the warm glow of the smokeless arcane torches that lined the walls he scarcely noticed the expensive vases, paintings, and other decorations which he passed at regular intervals. The thick rug which covered most of the dark polished wood drank in the noise of his footsteps, and he approached the double doors of Aiakos’ grand study in near silence.

Pushing the doors open, three sets of eyes turned in unison toward him. Velesh and Hephaestos were seated with their backs to him. His fellow apprentices craned their necks backward looking him over with scorn born of rivalry as he joined them. Seated across from the pair at a long desk of shining black wood his master, Aiakos, glared at him with the hard gaze of a stern tutor.

“It’s about time you joined – “ Velesh began with smirk. His jibe was cut off by voice drenched in anger.

“Be silent! All of you!”

"O-of course Master.” Velesh stammered and lowered his head as he turned back to face Aiakos. Neffriel moved wordlessly to a seat beside the other apprentices followed by Aiakos’ stare.

“It has been several years since the academy saw fit in their ‘wisdom’ to burden me with three witless apprentices, and as you know I’ve given each of you a final task to master before I approve your candidacy before the order. I will have you know that others Masters have made it known that their apprentices have already graduated from tutelage, and I’ll see you three burn in the hells before I let you embarrass me with failure! I’m giving you each three days … three… to complete these tasks. If you can’t prove yourself by then, you’d best save me the trouble and remove yourself from this plane!” Aiakos swept an angry look over the three seated before him.

Neffriel took the abuse silently and unflinching and met his master’s glare with a calm focus. Despite his masters’ ridicule and threats Neffriel knew that he, Velesh, and Hephaestos had advanced far faster in their apprenticeships then any others. Neffriel also knew that Aiakos took a measure of pride in that fact. He highly suspected that Aiakos was looking forward to the prestige and bragging rights amongst the others at having so quickly produced three capable apprentices, and that his threats were meant to guarantee that the three continued at their accelerated pace. Still he knew his master’s threats were not hollow. He had three days to master the necromantic ritual that his master had given him – a dangerous and complicated procedure which permanently infused the properties of bone into living flesh.

Three days.

[Ebannon]

Retracing his path through the estate’s richly decorated corridor, Neffriel pushed past a wooden door and into the blue illuminated din of his study. His mind still running over Master Aiakos’ orders and the consequences should he fail them, Neffriel was startled when a ragged gasp sounded from under the bloody sheet covering the long table in the center of the room. The slave was still alive. Neffriel moved quickly pulling back the sheet, his features set in stone, pale eyes scanning the dissected body with the intense scrutiny of a hawk. The slave’s exposed heart still beat, the lungs filled with air and released, blood still moved through the veins. Neffriel had foregone any thoughts of the slave’s survival as he left the study, assuming it would have met the same fate as the others on which he had attempted the experiment. He ran a long slender hand over the flesh on the slave’s forearm, pulling back slightly in shock from the sensation. The skin, although normal in appearance, had hardened to a bone-like texture… the experiment, the same one assigned to him by master Aiakos as the final test of his apprenticeship, had been successful.

Neffriel called to mind the slight alterations and procedures he had taken with this slave compared to those who had failed to survive the process. Taking his pale hand from the slave’s forearm he retrieved a journal from the shelf, and read through the notes he had taken. He studied each page with meticulous care until he was certain he could duplicate the process he had just performed. Neffriel knew Aiakos’ temperament and standards would not accept a solitary success amongst a sea of failures. Neffriel would have to reproduce the results, and with the deadline imposed upon him by his master, he had no time to purchase another slave at the markets in Nuthretos. After carefully weighing his options, he calmly removed his black robes and began preparing his body for the process.

[Ebannon]

The final preparations complete, Neffriel opened the necromantic text given to him by Aiakos to the page containing the bone-grafting ritual. Without pause he began to speak the spell written in the aged document. He felt a cold burn emanate from the very marrow of his frame, increasing in intensity as each arcane word was spoken. His long fingers traced the air, manipulating the weave in the dark art of necromancy. He spoke the final word of the spell, and a pulse of numbing fire shot through every nerve as the spell began to cannibalize his body to power the metamorphosis. His jaw locked. Neffriel fought to remain conscious, and used the last remnants of his strength to hiss out the words of the false life spell that he had recently learned. As he completed it, the pain subsided… the ritual feeding of the phantom necromantic life he had conjured rather than his own. He raised a hand to his head, finding it coated in a thick, viscous, unnatural, sweat. The room spun and he fell into blackness.

[Ebannon]

He was standing on the streets of a Thayan city in the darkening hours of twilight. The torches and arcane lights seem muted, their illumination traveling only a scant few feet before being swallowed by the shade of the world around him. He recognized landmarks, but impossible ones: the library in Hurkh next to an alehouse he knew to be in Tyraturos, an enchanter’s store in Pyrados next to a great obsidian monolith he had seen on the roadway near Thralgard Keep.

"I am dreaming." He thought unsurely to himself. The thought became sound and echoed strangely off the empty streets around him. He moved slowly, his perception lagging behind his physical movements in a detached manner like a person heavily sedated. Amongst the buildings and landmarks lay a familiar manor richly decorated, and far larger in proportion to the others. He recalled it from his youth as the home of his grandfather. He moved toward it slowly, fighting through the air as if it were mud. As he pushed open the large double doors his perception changed.

He was smaller, younger, and before him stood a gathering of red robed men spaced at even intervals around an elaborate arcane circle etched into the marble floor. At the center of the circle was his grandfather, an elderly man, hairless, his robes richer and more expensive than those around him, marking him a master of the arcane. The other wizards bowed in supplication and fealty offering their strength to him. Neffriel looked upon this man as he had when he had first witnessed this scene years before. Through the lens of his young mind, this man was the embodiment of power and strength, the paragon of man’s drive to dominate and bend the world to his own will. He looked upon his grandfather in awe as the seeds of ambition and envy took root in his young mind.

The world spun, the scene blurred and his perception again shifted. He was taller, older, an adolescent. A canopied bed lay before him. The room was filled with a heavy musk and the stinging scent of medicine. The curtains around the bed were pulled back by a featureless man, and Neffriel looked inside remembering the vision that awaited him. His grandfather lay in the bed. Frail, skeletal, gasping for breath. The smell of death permeated the room. His eyes were sightless and milky wandering aimlessly about the room, the flames of power that had burned in them gone. Neffriel swallowed the rock forming in his throat. He looked upon his grandfather with a growing fear as the smell of excrement filled the room. A featureless figure undressed the old man, and began cleaning and changing his sheets and clothes.

The fearless child inside him died, the first true understanding of mortality seized him. The man he had envied, the man he had aspired to match and surpass in power, the god of his childhood lay rotting from old age before him. The inescapable ruin of age and death had laughed at the power his childhood self had been so in awe by. It had reduced his grandfather to this object of pity that now lay before him -- unable to exert control over his own bowels let alone the world.

It was in this moment that his pursuit of necromancy had begun. He would understand this force of nature, this unwavering constant. He would not allow himself to be consumed by the unending hunger of death.

[Ebannon]

The flood of feelings long forgotten waned. Neffriel willed his nerves to return -- a dream -- a dream and nothing more. The scene before him melted. The distinct shapes became a fog, running together until the world surrounding him was nothing but a dimly lit haze. Slowly, Neffriel closed his eyes, stilling his thoughts. The impenetrable fog remained when he looked out upon the world again. No sound, no wind, no object visible except for the slowly rolling grey about him. Yet he detected a presence, something great and terrible welling up unseen within the vapors. The sound of words filled the air, spoken from all directions as if the fog itself had been given voice.

“You fear death, Thayan.” Each word spoken seemed to drain the dim light of the dream-world, their slow echo falling upon Neffriel’s frame oppressively. “Submit to me. Serve me without question, and through me find release from this fear. In my service you will fear only me. In my service you will find power, power enough to conquer this world, power enough to conquer death itself.”

As the last word faded something moved through the mist too fast to be seen. Neffriel felt a clawed hand, infinitely powerful, dig into the meat of his chest above his heart. He was dragged painfully upward at high speed above the mists. He looked downward in a daze, seeing the continent of Faerun spread before him like a map, the coldness of the stars impossibly close. The unseen hand pulled him downward toward the west. As Neffriel plummeted, the sprawling cities of the sword coast came to view. He focused through the pain. The thing clutching his chest drew him to the north, to a small valley, and finally slowed dangling him high above fortress of stone seated in a sea of flame.

“It is here you are called.” The same voice spoke above the roar of the inferno around him. “It is here you are needed.”

The steely fingers holding him released, and Neffriel dropped into the fires below.

[Ebannon]

Neffriel awoke, face pressed into the thick mat of the rug in his study. The stone beneath offered a welcoming coldness. He pushed himself slowly to his knees, his left hand moving to the dull ache above his heart. His hand withdrew in surprise.

Neffriel’s touch had not been met with the soft warmth of flesh, but rather a callus thickness, the feeling of bone. He ran a hand over his arm exploring this new sensation. To the eye, his flesh appeared unchanged however a touch revealed more. His experiment, the task given to him by Master Aiakos, had been successful. He had mastered the art, and in doing so overcome the final test between himself and the Red Robes. Yet he had felt something else.
He moved his hand back to the flesh above his heart. His fingers traced an unfamiliar indentation. He stood unsurely, and turned the study’s full-length mirror to face him. His features set as always in unfeeling mask, his pale eyes moved instantly to the shape embedded in his hardened skin. The darkening marks of a large hand showed plainly against his pale flesh. The pointed digits positioned as if grasping his heart. As his hand traced the mark, the images of his dream returned with startling clarity: the voice, the valley, the burning citadel, the offer of power and demand for fealty.

Neffriel pulled himself to his feet. He turned to the shelves of the study, running a hand along the spines of the many books housed there. His long fingers seized upon one, pulling it from the shelf and laying it open atop the thigh of the dissected slave. A large map of the western Faerun spread across both pages. Neffriel’s finger traced along the sword coast, stopping abruptly as it hovered above a name neatly scrawled in flowing script on the page.

“Sundren.”