Moonraisers
In the hills of the Dreadbone Mountains, deep within the kingdom of Ocero, raising the dead is a tradition going back thousands of years and countless generations.
It is also illegal by royal decree. Being caught performing necromancy can lead to years in the dungeons, conscription to the royal army, or even death.
Do not try this at home.
“Yeah, the real trick to a mashing circle is the runic wards incorporated along the edges. Let me tell you, mess one of them up, and when the various body parts bind together you’ll get all kinds of gooey run-off slipping out. From there its no time to a bone behemoth slipping free, and if that thing don’t get you then all the dins who come to stop it will.” Claremont Fleshweaver looks out across the star-lit forest clearing, where Saflewert, his student, is etching symbols in the ground with a magical wand.
Between the graveyard dirt on his pantaloons and the stink of death on his hands, no one would mistake Claremont for a typical wizard. As a nineteenth generation moonraiser, he’s well acquainted with having to work under the cover of darkness.
“Used to be, everyone knew a dash of necromancy,” Claremont explains, gathering a bundle of severed arms hauled over from a nearby battlefield. “Necessity of life out here. Horse goes down and it’ll be a month until the next trader comes through? Better bring that pony back for a few more weeks of labor. Might not be as good or as quick, but a zombified horse can still pull a plow. Then one asshole builds an army of the undead and suddenly kingdom law is says our entire industry, our heritage, is illegal.”
Claremont is referring to a historical figure known as the Dark Lord Mordrous, a gifted necromancer who tried to overthrow Ocero, nearly succeeding. Since that attempted coup, undead have been banned in all forms across the kingdom.
Tossing the gathered arms into the circle, Claremont pauses to cast a small breeze from his fingertips, cooling away the sweat from his brow. “Course, the need don’t vanish just because a king makes a decree. Remote regions like this, it’s hard enough to even find capable help, especially with so many joining the royal army. Undead don’t need rest, can survive on scraps if they need to eat at all, and never get tired. You know why the dins never raid any of them high-dollar wealthy farms in the capital? Because they know they’d find the same situation as everywhere else: undead picking up the slack to keep things running. Moonraising isn’t just part of Ocero’s history, it’s an essential piece of the modern economy.”
Over in the middle of the circle, Saflewert is nearly finished laying down the runes, stepping nimbly around the various body-parts piled up around him. Claremont heads over, dropping a few feet and a rogue hand into the mix.
“Most of our work is zombies,” Claremont explains. “Not the brain-chomping kind, that’s the mark of a shitty moonraiser. Lose a helper, bring back the body, sometimes a little bit of the skill. Every now and then you get a customer willing to spring for a full mental re-animation, but it’s gotta be someone with real specialized skills to be worth the gold on that one. Now this, this is something a little different.”
The mound of flesh stands higher than either man, Ocero’s wars providing a constant flow of materials. War-time didn’t just happen to coincide with moonraising season, this profession was all about working when the opportunity was present.
Scanning the ground and noticing a couple of missed toes, Claremont scoops them up, chucking them onto the pile. “The bone behemoth, it’s something like a guard dog. Lots of claws, teeth, flesh, just a real lump of trouble. Our client has their own enterprise of ill-repute, and wants a little protection in case the dins come calling. One of these might not stop a full party of them, but it’ll get you enough time to escape.”
Colloquially called “dins”, the paladins of Ocero are always on the lookout for moonraisers, keeping careful track of any runs on graveyards or purchases of specific reagents. Most moonraisers learn to grow as much of their own as possible, or trade directly with one another, rather than risk exposure. Even with such precautions, performing necromancy is a serious risk. Caught in the act, Claremont and Saflewert would be facing years in the dungeon, assuming they survived the raid itself.
“Now I love raising, it’s in my blood, passed down from my teacher and his teacher before him, but it is dangerous,” Claremont emphasizes. “That’s what a lot of this new generation of raisers doesn’t appreciate, we’re out here mucking with the forces of life and death. Make a few mistakes, the wrong magic can spill over, and that’s how my uncle managed to zombify everything from his knees down. Did help the arthritis in his ankles, though.” Claremont walks the line of the glowing circle, checking every rune that Saflewert laid down. He takes his time, examining each one thoroughly until satisfied, then moving on to the next.
On the third-to-last rune, he pauses, motioning for Saflewert to come closer. “Look down here, on the bottom right edge. You flipped that rune around the wrong way. If we’d activated it like this, instead of keeping our creation bound until subjugated, you’d have shot it straight up into the air, and I imagine it would have been angry on landing.”
Saflewert goes pale, but Claremont merely claps him on the back. “Still, not bad for your third circle. Took me a lot longer to get down to these small mistakes. Lets get it fixed and you can start the ceremony.”
With a few gestures, Claremont slightly shifts the rune. By the time he looks up, Saflewert is standing next to the cauldron, conjured flame dancing in his palm as he leans down to the pile of wood. Realizing his apprentice is moving ahead in eagerness, Claremont quickly dashes out of the circle, getting clear only a few steps before Saflewert’s flames ignite the kindling beneath the cauldron. Dark smoke instantly begins to bubble forth from the thick mixture inside, rolling directly into the circle and flowing into the body-parts.
Picking himself up, Claremont makes a cursory effort to brush some of the grass and dirt from his filthy robes. “The hard work is in the prep. Once we’ve got the potion ready and the runes in place, just a matter of letting the magic run it’s course. We’ll have a bone behemoth standing in no-time, the next tough part is getting it under control. Can’t guard unless it takes direction. That’s why we built the circle to be unbreachable until the job is done.”
From within the now smoke-filled circle, a form rises up, largely hidden in the dark mist, yet undeniably tremendous. Various limbs poke off, little more than shadows for the moment, each waving about. Without warning, it lurches forward, slamming into the edge of the circle. A bright red wall appears, blocking it from advancing further.
“See, when you do it with proper expertise and know-how, moonraising isn’t any more dangerous than-”
A shattering noise fills the air as the red wall gives way, crumbling to nothingness while the runes all catch fire. Claremont stares at the development in stunned silence, moved to action only once a hand rockets out and grabs for Saflewert, dragging only his pointy hat into the darkness.
“Of course, thinking back, I probably should have double-checked those last two runes before giving the go-ahead,” Claremont admits. “Come on, we have to get out of here. Dins will be arriving soon, and we don’t want to deal with that thing while we wait.”
Claremont and Saflewert dash into the forest, leaving behind the hideous shadow growing larger with every passing moment, reaching out and beginning to climb the trees. It lets out a horrendous bellow that echoes through the night, rising all the way up to the bright moon shining overhead.