Writing Prompt 1 - Necromancer Prologue
PROMPT
There was the cloying sent of mid-summer flowers, melting bee’s wax and sweat throughout the ballroom. It laid like something sweet and thick along the back of his mouth. Anthony Callan breathed in deeply and held the stink of life in his lungs before pushing it out forcefully. Leaning back against the wall behind him, one hand disappeared into his breast pocket. Out came the slim, delicately engraved silver case that had arrived on the most recent ship from France. From it came a finely rolled cigarette. Personally, Anthony would have preferred to have that imported as well, but it simply was not done. No respectable man smoked anything other than Virginia tobacco, and one certain did not living in the heart of tobacco country. Slipping his case back into his pocket with one hand, Anthony fished out a the small box of white phosphorus matches he had procured the night before while enjoying distinctly more base entertainments than those to be found in Harris Hall. The blasted things were notoriously difficult to light. With a careful flick of his wrist, Anthony managed not only to get it to catch but carefully made sure the resulting sparks flew away from his person. He knew better than to risk a phosphorus burn. Holding each half deftly, he brought them together just long enough to catch before swiftly flicking the flame out.
Breathing in deeply, he had to admit that the light, acidic tang of the local crop was easier on the lungs. He ignored the pointed look the Mrs. Landers sent his way. Her husband’s lands were barely a fourth of the size of his father’s and had failed to put out a decent crop in decades. If she thought for a moment that her disapproval meant anything more to him than the buzzing a fly she was clearly suffering from self delusions of grandeur. The only person who could take him to task for smoking in front of a lady was the Master of Harris Hall, and Anthony had had that small minded brute of a man jumping at his every beck and call for months now. Mr. Harris might be over a decade Anthony’s senior, but the fool was also far too eager to believe every superstition and wives’ tale. It had not taken much to convince the other man that Anthony held sway over the very spirits that still haunted the dark forests just beyond civilization’s fields. The other man had been so ready to believe that Anthony had not even had to actually deliver any proof, merely the promise of it. That alone had been enough to cowl a man like Mr. Harris. He would not dare say a word of censure to Anthony’s face, not even if Anthony had set fire to all of the man’s fields and certainly not over something as paltry as a cigarette. The poor Mrs. Landers would just have to swallow it.
With a scowl, Anthony let his eyes sweep once more over the crowd of people gathered there that night. Harris Hall, while well fitted by the current Mr. Harris’s ancestors, was still a relatively small estate, and it only held the likewise relatively small genteel of the surrounding lands. Most were little more than farmers themselves, and even more were still struggling to recover from the War Between the States. Unfortunately, the Callan estate was situated in the middle of all this littleness. That meant that for most of Anthony’s life he had seen these same limited people over and over again on night such as this one. He had already pulled just about as much as he could out of each and every one of them. None of them were of particular use to him at the moment. Most of them probably would faint dead away at the very notion of the kinds of things Anthony thought useful.
Anthony needed new blood.
There was the cloying sent of mid-summer flowers, melting bee’s wax and sweat throughout the ballroom. It laid like something sweet and thick along the back of his mouth. Anthony Callan breathed in deeply and held the stink of life in his lungs before pushing it out forcefully. Leaning back against the wall behind him, one hand disappeared into his breast pocket. Out came the slim, delicately engraved silver case that had arrived on the most recent ship from France. From it came a finely rolled cigarette. Personally, Anthony would have preferred to have that imported as well, but it simply was not done. No respectable man smoked anything other than Virginia tobacco, and one certain did not living in the heart of tobacco country. Slipping his case back into his pocket with one hand, Anthony fished out a the small box of white phosphorus matches he had procured the night before while enjoying distinctly more base entertainments than those to be found in Harris Hall. The blasted things were notoriously difficult to light. With a careful flick of his wrist, Anthony managed not only to get it to catch but carefully made sure the resulting sparks flew away from his person. He knew better than to risk a phosphorus burn. Holding each half deftly, he brought them together just long enough to catch before swiftly flicking the flame out.
Breathing in deeply, he had to admit that the light, acidic tang of the local crop was easier on the lungs. He ignored the pointed look the Mrs. Landers sent his way. Her husband’s lands were barely a fourth of the size of his father’s and had failed to put out a decent crop in decades. If she thought for a moment that her disapproval meant anything more to him than the buzzing a fly she was clearly suffering from self delusions of grandeur. The only person who could take him to task for smoking in front of a lady was the Master of Harris Hall, and Anthony had had that small minded brute of a man jumping at his every beck and call for months now. Mr. Harris might be over a decade Anthony’s senior, but the fool was also far too eager to believe every superstition and wives’ tale. It had not taken much to convince the other man that Anthony held sway over the very spirits that still haunted the dark forests just beyond civilization’s fields. The other man had been so ready to believe that Anthony had not even had to actually deliver any proof, merely the promise of it. That alone had been enough to cowl a man like Mr. Harris. He would not dare say a word of censure to Anthony’s face, not even if Anthony had set fire to all of the man’s fields and certainly not over something as paltry as a cigarette. The poor Mrs. Landers would just have to swallow it.
With a scowl, Anthony let his eyes sweep once more over the crowd of people gathered there that night. Harris Hall, while well fitted by the current Mr. Harris’s ancestors, was still a relatively small estate, and it only held the likewise relatively small genteel of the surrounding lands. Most were little more than farmers themselves, and even more were still struggling to recover from the War Between the States. Unfortunately, the Callan estate was situated in the middle of all this littleness. That meant that for most of Anthony’s life he had seen these same limited people over and over again on night such as this one. He had already pulled just about as much as he could out of each and every one of them. None of them were of particular use to him at the moment. Most of them probably would faint dead away at the very notion of the kinds of things Anthony thought useful.
Anthony needed new blood.
And not just to relieve his boredom, which was almost as oppressive as the heat. More than that, he needed new blood if he was ever going to take his projects any further than simple curses conjurer’s tricks. He was tired of petty things like befuddling the stableman and causing all of the neighbor’s milk to spoil. Certainly, he had made great success in all these things, working the way he was from only a few vague books that talked more about the wickedness of such things than how to actually perform them. Even tormenting the local priest was no longer the entertainment it once had been. The old man barely spoke a word these days that was not a fervent pray, convinced as he was that the very demons of the earth rose up to torment him every night. The illusion of which would continue to haunt the rotting old man until someone found the dead and mutilated corpse of a fawn nailed down inside the crawl space beneath the chapel. One of his better pieces of work, especially since he had to device a way to obscure the stench of decaying flesh to be able to leave it for so long. Petty things, all of it. He had gone as far as he could with dried herbs and animal flesh.
He needed something more.
But where to get such a thing? Certainly he had access to many more or less willing bodies. His own father kept several employed and there were always more to be had. But a work of art was only as good as one’s materials. At this level in his craft it simply would not do to work with something so crass. He needed something better. Something unique.
Watching the mass of people who slowly shuffling about the floor as witless as any other beasts, Anthony Callan’s eyes narrowed.
He needed something more.
But where to get such a thing? Certainly he had access to many more or less willing bodies. His own father kept several employed and there were always more to be had. But a work of art was only as good as one’s materials. At this level in his craft it simply would not do to work with something so crass. He needed something better. Something unique.
Watching the mass of people who slowly shuffling about the floor as witless as any other beasts, Anthony Callan’s eyes narrowed.
