Syrenki had a thousand and one titles. The barbarous, ever warring Petty Kingdoms to the west knew him as the Grey Wanderer, a figure glimpsed during fortuitous battles with the sun at his back and a ragged, glittering cloak of moth bitten grey trailing in the wind. Varengia, that eastern isle populated with the now civilised descendants of superstitious outworlder raiding bands called him the Barrow Lord, and around their fires recounted the tale of how when King Haelstrad refused him guest rights the Magician sunk his hilltop fort into the stone below it, entombing the King and his court forever. The scaled Vipermen of Yilinar called him the Two Headed Hawk, for he spoke in half truths, weaving truth and falsehood together in a single verse. All acknowledged him as Magician, a lord paramount of magic. All knew a final title for him, murmured in the dark to frighten ill behaved children; Syrenki the Kinslayer.

The stories could never agree on specifics of the sin; in some he was a prince, in others a lowly slave. His motivation too would change. If the tale was told by a bard in the city of love, Lannion, he was motivated by the unrequited love of a woman. In the broken cities of Once-Great Chandthira they said he had a lust for knowledge in all things. If it was told amongst the rugged southern steppe lands close to the edges of the Wyrd where barbarous raiding bands rode winged beasts then he was driven by personal revenge. Whatever the reason the stories all concurred that he trapped a spirit powerful enough to shake the roots of the world within his people’s mountainous northern halls, that he gleaned occult knowledge that could shatter the mind of all but the most prepared from it, and that in the end it damned his entire people, leaving him the only survivor. There was only one other thing that the stories universally agreed upon.

That he was a necromancer.

It had been five nights since Renard’s meeting at the Royal Oak. Four nights of half-frenzied, near sleepless study. The Wizardling had locked himself away in his room above the Granite Coffeehouse, pouring over the book Tyla had given him in the Jade Room. He had read it, reread it, and then read it again. He had spent so much time leaning over his dwarven-sized vanity table with its oblong, silver backed mirror reflecting his visage back at him that he had developed a crick in his neck that was only been exacerbated by the few hours of sleep Arlene Silverpick had ruthlessly enforced each evening with her matronly glares and tactical interruptions. Despite her proddings he had only left the room once and that had been to stock up on the tallow candles that cast hunch backed shadowplays about his windowless quarters.

Despite keeping the schedule of an insomniac, he had not been left beleaguered or tired. Instead Renard felt invigorated, his malaise of aimlessness had been banished by the tantalising prospect of knowledge and advancement, by the thought of having a purpose again. The book was not actually an educational tome, nor was it a treatise on magic or ideology, it was a journal. It had been penned in messy, spidery black ink long before Syrenki had attained the title of Magician, and it was brilliant. Syrenki had written about his day to day affairs, of the order of mountain hall dwelling necromancers he had belonged to, of magical techniques he had learned and then further tweaked and developed, and - to Renard’s supreme surprise - about his fears of never amounting to more than a middling mastery of his craft. It was something Renard empathised with, he found it somewhat comforting to know that the greatest practitioner of magic on the plane had agonised over such similar things as he currently did.

It was while reading a particularly interesting note of Syrenki’s on the viability of older corpses for a necromancer's craft that a daintier knock than Arlene’s announced a presence at his room’s door. It aroused a suspicion in him which he couldn’t quite explain, and he swiftly locked the tome away within the uppermost drawer of his vanity table before placing a hand within the folds of his velvet doublet to palm Tyla’s second gift, a sturdy wand of silver birchwood that nestled just above his heart. The tools of a wizard were innumerable and often unique, but ancient trees secreted away within deep forest groves still remembered a time when the world was young, when reality was less substantiated, and wood such as this could be whittled down into wands and staves with which to practise the adept’s craft. Renard’s breath caught for a moment as flesh touched sanded down wood, eyes dilating and hair standing on end as he felt the wild connection to the Wyrd the tool provided.

But the feeling was gone as quickly as it came and he opened the door just a crack, its metal lock chain jangling as he squinted at the bright light that streamed in from outside. When he finally blinked the sleep out of his eye and adjusted to the shafts of daylight cutting through the room his suspicion quickly dissipated. Standing before his room door was a grime faced little urchin with a flat cap upon his head. a toothy smile and an overflowing armful of pastries.

“I have a letter for you sir. Arlene told me to bring it up, she told me to say you should make sure you get enough sleep too!” He said.

Renard eyed the boy for a moment, before closing the door to undo the inner bolt and opening it up fully. “I see Arlene thinks you need to fatten up too.” The boy shrugged lightly, arms still filled to the brim with his pastries. “Alright, I’ll take the letter.” He retrieved a bronze numas from a belt pouch and passed it over to the boy, taking the sealed letter that dangled precariously between the urchin’s fingers. He was just about to open it up when he noticed that the boy was still standing there, watching him. “Is that all?”

“Is it true you’re that necromancer in the prints? The one who cavorts with vampires and raises up legions of corpses?” He questioned, eyes glittering with far more awe than fear.

Renard frowned, before leaning in and removing his red tinted spectacles to reveal the blackened eye socket the loss of his left eye had marked him with. “Oh yes. And not just vampires, but Fae and fell spirits too. Now run along, before I turn you into a…pastry.” He managed to bite his tongue and not add an ‘or some such’ to the end.

That cowed the urchin suitably enough, and he fled out of the apartment - stopping only once to pick up a dropped pastry - as Renard opened up the sealed letter.

Renard,

I hope you got plenty of practice in, I’ve arranged for you to meet with Andros Du Vogare at his estate at sunset. You’ll be interviewing for the position we discussed earlier, but I’ve secured you a number of recommendations that should make it easier for you. Du Vogare is holding a masque at his townhouse which the Imperial heir will be attending in two days time. I expect your report at our previous meeting place before that. You’ll be expected, even if I’m not there.

Signed, Your Admirer.

Reading the letter made Renard’s heart thump. He had been so focused on what he had gained from his bargain with Tyla the past four days that he had neglected so much as to think about the ‘job’ he had agreed to undertake. The sun was still high in the sky, so he decided that it would be best to contemplate it over a cup of coffee and the Morning Standard.

He fetched a basin and a jug of water from Arlene’s apartment, swiftly performed his ablutions for the day - more accurately his ablutions for the past four days - and then changed into a doublet that had been a gift from his brother. It was made in the Vitghulian fashion, with a design of pure white thread dipping through midnight black silk. Then he took his glass eye from its place bobbing up and down in a solution filled alembic sitting beside his bed he’d yet to find a use for and placed it carefully into his left socket before covering it up with his red-tinted spectacles. An attempt was made to brush his hair into a presentable form, but it remained as messy and unruly as ever. In fact, it was then he realised he was in dire need of a haircut and a shave as well. At the moment he had the air about him of a wide eyed, half mad hedge wizard who knew more about the properties of wyrdroot than magic.

He resolved to visit a barbers before his meeting at Du Vogare’s townhouse manor and made his way down to the murmur of conversation and rustling of newsprint that always echoed about the Granite Coffeehouse around midday. The blend of customer was a queer one, Arlene Silverpick’s Dwarven background encouraged a regular clientele of the long bearded stunted mountain folk, but the establishment had also become the abode of playwrights and poets thanks to its location along Merchant Road, the city renowned coffee, and Arlene’s own badly hidden love of romantic poetry.

Coincidentally, the wide framed matron was arguing with a wide shouldered man at least twice her height, his face adorned with a curling moustache so thick that it wobbled and jostled along with his jowls as he spoke. The man was Ditler Strach, a playwright who had been out of favour with the artistic establishment since his most recent two plays had been monumental duds.

“I’m simply saying that once she is kidnapped she finds his rugged good looks, timeless knowledge and hidden heart of gold attractive, Miss Silverpick.”

“And all I’m saying is that if some northern corsair bloody well kidnapped me, the first thing I’d do is kick him in the goolies Ditler, Elven or no. And please, I told you to call me Arle-.” She cleared her throat as Renard approached, offering him a smile. “Look who’s finally come out of his hiding place. You look famished, Mister Voclain. I really must get you something to eat.”

Ditler, for his part, had abandoned the defence of his latest piece and was looking Renard up and down with the obsessive sort of interest that always accompanied an artist that spied a source of inspiration. “This is the man himself is it? And wearing black, very thematic.” He thrust a hand out toward the Wizardling, “Ditler Strach. You might know some of my works, ‘The Sanguisuge’, ‘True Prince’, ‘A Death at Midnight’?”

Renard took the man’s hand and gave it a shake. Ditler’s grip was firm and trustworthy, he’d been an actor in his youth. “Yes. I’ve never had the chance to see one of your works, but I’ve heard all about them. My brother told me ‘True Prince’ caused quite a stir. Framing the Black Prince as a man wronged by the Empire, seeking to reform it. That’s a revolutionary stance to take.”

“All art is revolutionary, Mister Voclain - can I call you Renard? - Renard. May I buy you a coffee? I’d love to pick your brains, it’s not everyday a wizard such as yourself deigns to bless the common playwright with his presence.” He released Renard’s hand, instead turning to take Arlene’s and placing a kiss upon it. “My dear. Can we talk more later? Perhaps over wine? I’d love to hear more of your criticism.”

Arlene actually blushed, but she managed to collect herself before responding coyly. “If you pay, I suppose. Oh, excuse me. I should serve this other gentleman.”

The Dwarf woman made her way down the counter and left Renard alone with the playwright.

“Renard will do fine, yes. I’ll go without a drink, I prefer an empty stomach.” It was, after all, what the Wizard had been used to under the tutelage of Svenja, and he found a strange enjoyment to the edge of hunger it granted him. “I’ll answer your questions, if you answer mine. I’ve heard you’ve worked for Andros Du Vogare before, the Elector. Is that true?”

“I have. He commissioned me for a play about his father’s exploits defending the southern border against roving Virasat warbands. The whole thing was a puff piece of course, and a hack job if I do say so myself, but a man has to eat. Why do you ask?” He had grabbed Renard by the arm as he spoke, dragging the skinny man off toward a table as if he were afraid the Wizard would run off, or be snatched by some other playwright.

“I’ve got a meeting with him today. I’m going to teach his heir the theoretical aspects of magic.” Renard neglected to mention that he was also going to attempt to raise the Elector’s father from the dead. “I was hoping to learn more about him, as a person.”

“He was very professional. He had the air of a warrior about him, always carried his sword, and he seemed very at ease in armour.” Ditler leaned over the table then, lowering his voice as he questioned Renard. “I’m nearly finished with my current play. And you, my friend, seem the ideal subject for the next one. A young Wizard, hidden away by his mistress, noting his brother’s illegal doings. You truly did put the Empire before family. I’m surprised Merov Tyran hasn’t contacted you and given you a healthy pouch of gold for proving the accusations against him false.”

“Sir Tyran contacted me, and he thanked me. He also told me that when he inherits his uncle’s position as Lord of Trent, I would be due a hero’s welcome in the city.” Merov had also made sure a pouch of silver numas was passed Renard’s way, and it was currently paying his rent to Arlene, “If you want to know the truth though, I didn’t expose Sigismund for the good of the Empire. I did it for him. This was his first step on the path of true slavery to Svenja our…Our mother, I suppose you could say. Coldshank prison is a harsh sentence, but his immortal soul would have been damned if he followed that path. Undine would have left his spirit shepherdless in the Wyrd once he died.”

Ditler’s gaze lit up at that. That right there was a far more interesting motivation for a protagonist than a simple duty to the Empire. “I see. I must ask though, necromancy within the Cathedral of Undine? Do you not feel it was an affront to the Goddess of Life?”

“She is also the Goddess of Justice. I am certain she would understand the importance of what I did. Do you know anything about Andros’ father? I understand that he passed away.”

“Oh, that whole affair.” The playwright’s gaze darkened at the thought, and he glanced to and fro for others who might be listening in on their discussion. “I’d be careful not to mention his father when you meet him, mhm? There are some unflattering rumours going around about that sort of thing. His father was a robust man, strong even in his elder years. But he was struck down by an unnatural illness that not even the most renowned of apothecaries nor wizards could solve. Some say he went mad. As you should know, they say that magic cannot cure madness.”

“Mad men are often more knowledgeable on the realities - if you could use that word - of the Wyrd than even the greatest of Magicians. Thank you for the information, Mister Strach. If you’ll excuse me, I have to see a barber before my appointment.” Renard stood up then, pulling the hood of his cloak up over his head. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I look forward to seeing your next play.”

“Ah! Ah! Perhaps we could arrange another meeting, Renard? Wine at the Royal Oak? It’s a fine place, they have a special appreciation of artists. I’m certain you would enjoy it, my friend.”

“Perhaps, Mister Strach.” Renard offered an incline of his head, “We’ll see if I can make the time, I’m not hard to find should you want to arrange something.”

Andros Du Vogare’s estate was a grand thing. It boasted a white marble facade of classical pillars and massive glass windows in the Chandthiran style, amassed before it, a well trimmed lawn of verdant green blades of grass and out of season white roses were kept defended against the season’s frost by witchy magicks. The Elector’s front garden was littered with statues of great heroes from his native province of Montebard. Knights who had reached martial enlightenment and faced the trials of the Three Crones held stone swords aloft in defence against any opponents who dared step foot upon the Elector’s property, though they were less adept at warding off the riff raff than Du Vogare’s personal retinue; a squadron of disciplined Knights pledged to the Order of the Tattered Banner.

A pair of the Knights watched Renard through visored helmets as he approached the estate and knocked upon the heavy door. He was expected, of course. If he hadn’t been they would have removed him posthaste.

The door was wrenched open by a completely hairless servant with a clouded eye, thickset jowls and a set of flowing purple robes far finer than any Renard could afford, “Mister Voclain, good evening. If you would follow me? The Master of the house is in a meeting just now, but you can await him in the lobby.”

The servant led Renard to a room lined with art and sculptures, with a staircase to the upper levels of the estate on the far side of the room and a set of cushioned benches with a straight backed, thin bodied man lounging at ease upon one of them. A bow was offered his way as the servant stepped away from the Wizardling, “If you require anything, do not hesitate to let me know, it shouldn’t be a long wait.”

Renard couldn’t help but think it was a tad rude that the servant hadn’t introduced him to the other individual. It was something he would have to do himself, it seemed. He made his way to the burgundy cushioned bench the fellow was leaning upon and offered a hand out. “Renard Voclain. I don’t believe we’ve met, have we?”

The Thin Man gave him a dazzling smile, taking the hand and giving it a shake so firm and enthusiastic that Renard thought his arm was about to come out of its socket “We have not. But I’ve heard of you, Renard. I know all about you, you’re a very interesting individual, do you know that? Please, sit with me.”

The fellow patted the seat at his side, and Renard felt uncharacteristically compelled to settle down beside him. The man had a magnetism he had never experienced before, and yet, something niggled at the back of his brain in discomfort. “Thank you. Are you a friend of the Elector?”

“Hah! A friend of that bore? No, at best I’m an associate. He and I have a business deal, nothing terribly interesting. I wish to kill the Emperor’s heir, is all. In a manner of speaking, at least.” The Thin Man explained. “I have to admit that I didn’t expect to see you here though. Why are you here?”

“Ah, of course.” That seemed the most reasonable thing in the world to Renard then, but something was off. He couldn’t help but lick his lips like they were dry, there was a taste of something in the air. It was electrifying and it made his fingers tremble, it was the smallest hint of magic. If it hadn’t been for the slight niggle in the back of his head, if it hadn’t been for some ineffable six sense that warned him of danger he would have told this man exactly why he was at Du Vogare’s estate. Instead he had the presence of mind to keep up appearances, and to go with a half truth. “I have an interview with the Elector. I’m hoping to be training his son in the matters of magic.”

“Really? Come now, Renard.” The Thin Man kept Renard’s hand in his grip, shuffling closer to the Wizard. The man had an accent that Renard couldn’t place, but which was undeniably melodic. “I’ve heard of your exploits. You’re worth far more than that, I simply could not live with the thought of you being in service to that brute of a man. Why, I think I have a suggestion, if you’d like to hear it.”

Renard nodded in response, and the fellow continued on. Whenever he spoke, Renard’s ears pricked up at the sound of distant bells ringing just on the edge of his senses. “I happen to have a slight magical talent myself. And now, here you are, a man without a teacher. A man looking to learn, am I wrong?”

“No. You’re correct. Please, continue.”

“My suggestion, Mister Voclain, is simple. You become my apprentice. I shall teach you magic which could shatter the skies, reshape mountain ranges, or make you an Emperor if you’d like. All would grovel before you and hold you in the highest of esteem. Does that not sound fine to you?” The Thin Man was relaxed as he spoke, like he was suggesting the two go for a simple walk, and in the inky darkness of his eyes Renard could see the glint of starlight. “All I would ask is that you complete a few errands for me at some point, and that the two of us would be the closest of friends.”

Something continued to niggle at Renard’s mind. This person could teach him much, he was sure of that. But then he thought of his previous tenure as an apprentice and of how he had lost an eye to a beating at the hand of one of Svenja’s acolytes. Never again would he place himself willingly under the tyrannical command of another, no matter how honeyed their words. “My apologies, sir. I’m afraid I’m not looking for a teacher. I very much appreciate the offer. Perhaps we can collaborate as equals, another time, mister….I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ve quite forgotten your name.”

The Thin Man waved his hand this way and that, offering it out once more. “You are forgiven. Of course you don’t want a teacher such as I! It would make it far too easy for you, and you delight in the challenge. How about -” He was cut off as the servant returned, and he shot the fellow a glare that could stop hearts.

“Mister Voclain? The Elector will see you now.”

Renard again thought the servant rude, as he failed to acknowledge the other guest in the slightest and then without shaking the Thin Man’s hand the Wizard stood. “I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short, my meeting is quite important. It was a pleasure to meet you, a good day.” And with that said he was off, following the servant further into the manor.

The Thin Man seethed, his hand clenching into a fist. A heart attack would be the servant’s sure fate that evening, for stealing away such a fine prize.

Andros Du Vogare's study was a splendidly appointed thing. Lined with portraits, armour, all manner of weapons such as gem hilted swords, wickedly brutal axes and halberds engraved with swirling designs. Black powder weapons from the earliest hand cannons to the most complex hunting rifles donned his walls, and to the side of his desk even sat a genuine, original Dwarven mortar commissioned from the southern Lagholds three decades ago.

Thick tapestries hung from the walls, one depicting ancient battles against the long since crumbled Chandthiran legions in striking red and gold, another a knight’s lance piercing the hide of a slithering Yilnari Snakefiend in silver and green, and another the coronation of Andros’s own great grandfather as Emperor, before his death at the Black Prince’s pallid hands.

The Elector himself was the image of a noble warrior. Straight backed in his chair with short cropped blond hair, amber eyes and just a hint of pointed ears betraying a slight intermingling of Human and Elven blood. He introduced himself to Renard amicably enough, explaining how he had read of the man in the prints and heard tales of his prowess from a surprising number of his peers. The discussion went well enough, Andros explaining his heir’s need for education in all theoretical matters of magic - though none of that necromancy nonsense would be required - and asking about Renard’s prior teaching experience as well as his magical aptitude.

It was an unfortunate thing that Renard had never been queried in such depth before. The reality of his lack of teaching experience became evident, and though he was able to speak of his prowess in esoteric matters it came across simultaneously as boastful and incomprehensible to a man lacking in an education of the secret arts. He was quite certain as Andros offered him a polite, well practised smile, stood from his desk and led him to the door fifteen minutes later that he had somewhat flubbed the job interview.

“Thank you for your time, Mister Voclain. I do have a few other mages to speak to about this position, but I’ll make sure you’re informed of our decision in due course.” Andros went so far as to pat him on the back consolingly as he opened the door and motioned out toward the head servant Renard had already dealt with. “Phylos, could you see our friend to the door?”

The servant - Phylos, evidently - nodded toward his master. His demeanour had changed in the last fifteen minutes, his complexion was a deathly shade of pale and sweat dripped down his jaw and hairless brows. “Ahem. Just this way, Mister Voclain.” As he led Renard back through the house it was with a wobbling gait and the strained huffing of a man twice his age. It was enough to alarm the Wizard, but he couldn’t help but also sense an opportunity. He doubted he’d be returning to the estate again after this, which meant escaping the gaze of Phylos was of the utmost importance if he was to do as Tyla had asked him and uphold his end of the bargain. By the time they entered the now empty waiting room - Renard’s thoughts tickled at the empty room, he was certain there had been another guest awaiting a meeting with the Elector. What had their name been again? - Renard was holding the servant up with one arm.

“You seem a little overburdened, Phylos. Why don’t you sit here? I know the way to the entrance, you don’t need to lead me.” He settled the fellow down onto one of the benches, waving away his objections, and stepped back.

By this point Phylos wheezed and spluttered, unable to push himself out of the chair to follow, and a feeling of indecision filled Renard. If he left the servant it was unlikely anyone would stumble on him for at least fifteen minutes or so and he knew that could make all the difference, but if he alerted another house servant there was the chance they’d try to lead him out of the house themselves, and then he wouldn’t have the chance to search for the entrance to the Du Vogare estate’s tomb.

He bit at his lip in frustration, and then half a moment later elected to poke his head through a few doors before he found a maid dusting along the portraits of a room fitted as a mini-art gallery with a feather duster. Imbuing his voice with all the authority he could muster he called to her, thrusting a finger in her direction. “You. Phylos has taken ill. See to it that a physician is called immediately.” His tone made the woman start, and glance at him like a wide eyed doe. Perhaps he’d gone a little too hard on the attitude, but this was no time to change tactics. “Don’t stand around gawking! Now girl, now!”

She skittered past him, off down some hidden servant corridor. With his moral obligations fulfilled - and feeling just a tad pleased with his ability to conjure up a commanding aura despite the bruising his ego had taken in the interview - the Wizard strode his way back past the wheezing Phylos and through the corridor they had just come from. On the way to Andros’s study he had noted a set of wide stone steps disappearing down into the dark, and ventured that it was his best bet for finding the family tombs.

Once he had returned to it he paused at the foot of the stairway, peering down into the utter blackness at its bottom and hesitated. It brought to mind the cramped crypt halls his teacher, the sorceress Svenja, would force him to flounder within without a torch or lightsource for a night when he failed her in ways real or imagined. But when his ears picked up the clanking sound of armour making its way toward the waiting room he quickly grabbed an oil wick from the wall, forging his way down into the pit with its flickering light as a guard against the darkness.