Long ago, There existed a string of great villages, arranged what could almost be described as a plus formation, one village on each end and one within the center. They were held together by the works of a masterful bride maker, allowing trade and prosperity to all of them. they were so close they seemed to work almost as a single entity, though they remained united but separate. After all the time this civilization of great advances and peace had existed, a great plague swept through all five of these villages. The center village, known as novus is the one who has held onto most of its buildings. nobody within all of the villages survived this plauge, though one soul did.
A very knowledgeable alchemist, who even through all his power and ability could not save any body within his village, but he did create a “cure” as it would be.
As he drank the bottle full of seemingly random plants and parts of wild beasts, his skin turned green and cracked, his eyes dried out, then his heart stopped, his blood ran cold, and he fell dead.
Remarkably, he got back up. his cure had worked, he would no longer be bothered by any disease. He had won.
He hid what he could of his rotted body as if there were still people around that could have seen it. He had cured himself, he should have felt happy, but as he continued on with his life, he was slowly driven mad as the crippling feeling of absolute loneliness settled into his heart. No longer could he heal those who were sick, because there was no one left, not even himself. His entire lifes purpose had been negated.
He began digging up the bodies of those who were once infected, gaining more knowledge over his now indefinite number of years on the subject of alchemical ingredients.
The idea of human companionship seemed to toil with this alchemist as he tried and tried again with his slowly worsening combinations of ingredients found from far-off places in the continent. Raising the dead was a very difficult task, but not one the alchemist found impossible.
A very knowledgeable alchemist, who even through all his power and ability could not save any body within his village, but he did create a “cure” as it would be.
As he drank the bottle full of seemingly random plants and parts of wild beasts, his skin turned green and cracked, his eyes dried out, then his heart stopped, his blood ran cold, and he fell dead.
Remarkably, he got back up. his cure had worked, he would no longer be bothered by any disease. He had won.
He hid what he could of his rotted body as if there were still people around that could have seen it. He had cured himself, he should have felt happy, but as he continued on with his life, he was slowly driven mad as the crippling feeling of absolute loneliness settled into his heart. No longer could he heal those who were sick, because there was no one left, not even himself. His entire lifes purpose had been negated.
He began digging up the bodies of those who were once infected, gaining more knowledge over his now indefinite number of years on the subject of alchemical ingredients.
The idea of human companionship seemed to toil with this alchemist as he tried and tried again with his slowly worsening combinations of ingredients found from far-off places in the continent. Raising the dead was a very difficult task, but not one the alchemist found impossible.