Speaker 1: The Necromancer of Pricene contains adult content and may not
be suitable for children. Parental guidance is suggested. In the
world of Turinlay rests an enormous island called Pricene. The
nation of Pricene is governed by a king and council,
though the real power rests in the hands of ten
cursed immortals, powerful supernatural figures who serve only their self interests.
The land is plagued with black blooded monsters, corrupt political leaders,
and bloodthirsty bandits, and the one man who is willing
to stand up to them all just so happens to
be an unholy abomination, a summoner of the undead, the
Necromancer of Pricene.
Speaker 2: Welcome back, my fellow scoundrels, outcasts and miscreants. Allow me
to summarize what's happened thus far. I returned to the
town of Willow's Bend after leaving Frank safely behind in
a nearby field. The Festival of the Faded Four was
in full swing by the time I arrived. The heroes
were being celebrated for the victory of the Highway bandits
and their murderous demon, which you and I both know
is complete bullshit, but what are you gonna do? Finch
sought me out and we discussed the watcher who had
come to town, one of the cursed, a man named Wrath.
She also not so subtly implied that she didn't trust
me and would be keeping her eye on me. Fantastic Mike,
the owner of the Rusted Saw, gave a speech in
honor of the Faded four, and then the townsfolk and
the advents got nice and intoxicated. Just as the celebration
was really kicking off, three more of the monstrous bears
attacked the town. The scene was gory and terrifying, and
the advents did little to help. While I would like
to tell you that my necromancy was unleashed into its
full glory and I saved the day, it was actually
Wrath who stepped up. He made quick work of one
of the creatures, and things were beginning to look up.
That is until he threw his sword, which lodged itself
safely through my back. My name is Charts. I have
the ability to reanimate the dead, and I'm on a
quest to kill the most powerful man in pri scene
if I'm still alive. That is chapter six, the word
of wrath serenity. I lay in a small grove just
outside Ecodon, enjoying the melodic chorus of birds and the
warmth of the autumn sun on my face. The wildflowers
had retreated into hiding, leaving the trees to take center
stage and their vibrant display of fiery hues. My head
rested on the book that I'd brought along to read,
some fictitious tale of knights and dragons. I'm sure I
remember this day. How could I forget? It's haunted my
thoughts every day for the past two years. The scent
of approaching rain filled my nostrils, its earthy promise, both
calming and urgent. Rainstorms rarely lingered this high in the mountains,
but I was not dressed for wet weather. Reluctantly, I stood,
brushing the grass from my tunic, collected my book, and
began the short walk home. The world shifted in that
unsettling way only dreams can manage. The vibrant leaves shriveled,
turning to ash. Smoke billowed skyward, blotting out the sun
and choking the birds into silence. My chest grew heaving
with dread and I found myself running toward Ecoden, propelled
not by fear but by a grim, unshakable urgency. No
monsters chased me through the forest, although dreams of that
nature have haunted many of my nights. No, this time
I was the pursuer, chasing what I already knew would
be found. Everything shifted again, as dreams do. The forest blurred,
and I was suddenly at the edge of Ecodon. The
ramshackle wooden gate meant to keep out wandering goats and deer,
hung open. Smoke poured out from behind the walls, curling
into the sky like a malevolent specter searching for escape.
The sun had abandoned us in favor of a looming
darkness that seemed to stretch beyond the heavens. Frank appeared
in the gateway, grinning his best smile, which he referred
to as the Ancient Charmer. His arms extended toward me,
each hand offering a choice, a perfectly cut tiger's eye
gem in his left hand, a seed from the tree
of life in the right. The choice was presented a
gem merchant like my father or a necromancer. But hadn't
I already chosen?
Speaker 3: Or?
Speaker 2: Moreover, hadn't the choice already been made for me? Frank's
eyes locked onto mine, pleading for a decision, and yet
sorrowful that such a choice must be made. I hesitated.
This wasn't how it happened. Frank didn't greet me at
the gate, nor had he offered me the gem or seed.
I shook my head, refusing both the illusion and the decision.
The choice had been made for me long ago, and
I bore no blame for what came after. Frank's smile
faded into a grimace as he dissolved into the nether
scape of the dream world, another figure emerged in its place, Taller, broader, menacing,
They broke through the veil of smoke, wielding a long
black pike tipped with a cruel leaf shaped spearhead and
two jagged hooks along the shaft, one near the head
and one closer to the weapons center. His eyes burned
like smoldering coals, and his teeth gleamed with a predator's
hung As he leveled the weapon toward my chest, icy
terror climbed each vertebra of my spine, paralyzing my body
and silencing the scream trapped behind my lips. The man
was a nightmare incarnate. His grin mocked me, a grotesque
mirror of Frank's ancient charmer. This wasn't real. Ekadin never burned,
and I never faced this nightmare. I pushed through the
fear and straightened my back, standing resolute and challenging the
demon before me. I would not be intimidated. I was unafraid.
I was, and that is when Torch's pike pierced my chest.
The sharp medicinal smell of iodine, mingled with the soft
herbal sweetness of lavender, pulled me from the depths of unconsciousness.
My hands explored my surroundings, and I found my self
tucked into the most comfortable mattress I had ever lain
in the ticking of a clock's pendulum, hammered rhythmically, the
only sound in an otherwise oppressive silence. No bird songs
heralded the day, no insect chirps claimed the night. Only
the mechanical heartbeat of the time piece. As the haze
of sleep lifted, panic took its place. Where was I,
what happened to the monsters, to the town, to Frank?
And where were my clothes? I became acutely aware of
my nakedness save for the bandages tightly wrapped around my chest.
The fabric itched against my skin, adding to the disorientation
of not knowing what the fuck was going on. I
pulled my elbows back to lift myself on the bed,
but the movement sent a searing pain through my shoulder
and back. I yelped an agonizing cry and collapsed back
onto the mattress. Torch had stabbed me with his pike.
Only no, that wasn't right. I was stabbed through the
back by Wrath, not the figure from my nightmare, two
different watchers, two different nightmares. I clinched my eyes, willing
myself to breathe through the pain. Clarity grudgingly resurfaced. I
used my left hand to wipe away the newly formed tears.
The singular source of noise was the first item to
grab my attention. A grand clock towered against the wall,
its wooden frame beautifully crafted. It reminded me of a
piece Frank's father had back and echoed in Homesickness bloomed
in my chest, a painful emotional ache that rivaled my
physical wound. I forced my eyes to continue their inspection.
A cart near the foot of the bed held tools,
many of which I had only ever seen from artist
renderings in medical books. Behind the cart, pressed against the
far wall, was a beautifully crafted bookshelf packed with to homes,
both horizontal and vertical. Dozens of books were stacked on
top of the case, and more still on the floor
in front of it. Bizarre art decorated the walls, and
clothing littered the floor. A desk sat beneath a window,
neat and orderly, contrasting the chaos around it. My gaze
fell on the pile of clothes, my tunic cut into strips,
my blood staining the fabric. My hand instinctively moved to
my chest, tracing the bandages. The pain burned like a
slim fire poker, sliding through my torso and exiting my back.
I gritted my teeth and looked out the window. Beyond
the glass, the tops of limbering pines and quaking aspens
swayed to a light breeze. I was on the outskirts
of Willow's Bend, or perhaps out of the city entirely.
I forced myself upright, curiosity outweighing caution. A book sat
prominently on the desk, A journal perhaps its leather cover
hinting at secrets within. I was just beginning to reach
for it when the door creaked open Raft entered.
Speaker 3: Ah, you're awake. That's wonderful, but I suggest you lay
back down. Any undue stress could reopen your wounds. I
did a fine job stitching you up, but you've lost
quite a bit of blood, and I don't recommend losing
any more if you can help it.
Speaker 2: Where am I?
Speaker 3: You're in my home. I brought you here after the
attack at the festival.
Speaker 2: Are we still in Willows Bend?
Speaker 3: Yes, I have property in the northwest corner of the town.
I enjoy the tranquility of the place, don't you.
Speaker 2: I should go.
Speaker 3: I have to, You have to what You're in no
shape to travel. My things are at the end the
rusted saw. The rusted saw burned to the ground during
the attack, and with it your belongings. The items you
had on you when I brought you here have been
kindly stowed in a small box at the foot of
your bed. Nothing is missing, if that's a concern, All
my things, they are only possessions. You can find more.
The important thing is that you're alive now. I have
some medicine for you. It will help you sleep while
your body recovers from the wounds.
Speaker 2: What is it?
Speaker 3: Why are you a doctor or nurse familiar with the
ways of healing?
Speaker 2: No, but I do like to know what I'm about
to put into my body.
Speaker 3: Well, that's reasonable. The tincture is a mix of rowan
leaf a gave muddled the blackberries, and water. Are you satisfied?
Speaker 2: I guess good.
Speaker 3: Now open up and drink it. You have a long
road to recovery.
Speaker 2: I drank the tincture and slept.
Speaker 1: The necromancer of Pricene will return after these messages. Hey everyone,
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Speaker 2: I woke from a dreamless slumber. The weight of the
drug induced unconsciousness still pressing on me like a one
hundred pound blot. My body felt sluggish, the ache in
my right shoulder surfacing like an unwelcome reminder of reality.
I blinked against the haze, purposefully reaching up with my
left hand to rub the sleep from my eyes. Once again,
the window drew my gaze a faint rectangle of impenetrable blackness.
Night had claimed the world outside, and the towering pines
nearby formed an unbroken wall that barred any light from
the moon and stars. Rath sat at his desk, scribbling
something into his journal, his form illuminated by an assortment
of candles and lanterns. The door of the bedroom was
now open, but the space beyond was shrouded in darkness.
This room was the only area Wrath carried to lighten.
I turned my attention to the watcher, taking in his
features to the best of my ability, given the limited
view of my current angle. His hair was a tangle
of black curls, cut short. He had changed out his
red button up for a and his charcoal vest was
neatly folded over the back of his chair. The sound
of his pens scratching against paper echoed in the quiet room,
punctuated by the occasional sip he took from a whiskey glass.
It wasn't until that moment I realized how parched I felt.
My mouth was dry and burning, my lips cracked and swollen.
I felt like a used polish cloth left out in
the sun, stiff and crusty. Almost as if he could
sense my thoughts, Rath's voice broke the silence.
Speaker 3: You must be thirsty. Would you care for a glass
of water?
Speaker 2: Yes? Please?
Speaker 3: Of course. How does your shoulder feel?
Speaker 2: Okay? I think I'm afraid to move it too much.
Speaker 3: Well, that's okay for now. Tomorrow we'll begin working on
some light stretches to ensure future mobility.
Speaker 2: How long have I been here?
Speaker 3: For? Five days? So far? Here, drink this, it's water.
Speaker 2: Thanks.
Speaker 3: The first day was the worst by way of your wound.
After getting you stitched back together, the fever set in.
Speaker 2: I had a fever. Was it an infection of sorts?
Speaker 3: The fever was extreme enough that I felt it appropriate
to keep you in a drug induced slumber. I attempted
to keep you hydrated throughout that time, but you're a
difficult patient. If I'm being honest, I'm sorry. I'll think
nothing of it. In any case, your fever finally broke
late this afternoon. You were medicated one final time just
before dusk, and then I monitored you to see if
your fever would return. Luckily it did not. I re
bandaged your chest about two hours ago, assuming you would
have then, but you must have been exhausted because you
barely fidgeted while I worked.
Speaker 2: I thank you for healing me.
Speaker 3: Well, I'm happy to be of assistance. Well, it only
seems right considering I'm slightly to blame for your wound.
Speaker 2: You threw your sword at me.
Speaker 3: Well, not at you specifically, you happen to place yourself
between me and my target at an unfortunate moment. The
sword pierced your right shoulder blade down to the hilt.
The singed blade exited through your chest and struck the
creature that was holding you.
Speaker 2: Did you kill it?
Speaker 3: Yes, I nearly killed you as well.
Speaker 2: Did the thing bite me?
Speaker 1: No?
Speaker 3: Your only wound of note is from my blade.
Speaker 2: Then I don't understand, with the way the wound looks,
the sword would have missed anything vital. Why did I
get so sick? Why was my fever so bad? Wait?
Is your blade poisoned?
Speaker 3: I thought you said you weren't a doctor. You seem
well educated in the human anatomy for someone unassociated with
the profession.
Speaker 2: I'm not a doctor. I just like to read a
lot about human anatomy, among other topics. Interesting, you're sidestepping
my question. How did I almost die?
Speaker 3: Charts? Do you know who I am?
Speaker 2: You're a Watcher, one of the cursed named Wrath.
Speaker 3: Wrath is my station. My name is Benjamin Wright, and
I am indeed one of the Cursed. Are you feeling
well enough to continue with this conversation?
Speaker 2: I feel fine well despite the shoulder, but I'm not tired,
if that's what you mean.
Speaker 3: Okay, why don't you tell me what you have heard
about the Cursed. We can start there and I'll fill
in the gaps.
Speaker 2: I've heard different stories, many conflicting, but most agree that
the Cursed are one of the three branches of leadership
and the Watchers. They partner with the political and administrative
branches to run the guild. People say that the Cursed
do not participate in standard mercenary work. Some people say
they act as assassins for king and council, but others
say they've been elevated above mercenary work, and instead the
curse pursue their own agendas. How am I doing so far?
Speaker 3: I have no notes? Please continue?
Speaker 2: All right? There are ten cursed in all. Some say
the cursed can't die of old age. They will live
forever as long as no one kills them. Others think
it's a persona handed down from one watcher to another
when the current cursed is ready to retire.
Speaker 3: Both statements are nearly true, while at the same time
comically false. We do not live forever, but the aging
process of a cursed is significantly decelerated because of their
bond to their woe shard. With that said, I do
not know of any curse that has died of old age.
They are either slain in battle or their cursed weapon
takes them.
Speaker 2: It takes them. What does that mean? And what are
woe shards?
Speaker 3: Each of the cursed watchers holds a cursed weapon. We
call them woe shards. Mine is named the Singed Blade.
It holds vast amounts of energy that I can access
at will, but no power is truly given freely.
Speaker 2: Seems unnecessarily cryptic.
Speaker 3: Each time I access the power of the singed blade.
It drains a little more life from me. It is
something we cursed prefer not to discuss. As for your
second point, our stations are not handed down from one
watcher to another. Instead, if one of the cursed falls,
the other watchers will be given the opportunity to take
their place. However, the decision does not belong to the cursed,
It belongs to the Woe Shard. A watcher will attempt
to wield the cursed weapon in question. If they are rejected,
the watcher is eliminated.
Speaker 2: You mean they're killed. Do the cursed kill them or
does the weapon the weapon?
Speaker 3: They are given one day to bond the woe Shard.
If the bond is accepted, they become the next cursed.
If the bond is denied, they are destroyed.
Speaker 2: Why would anyone take that risk?
Speaker 3: Why wouldn't they? Most people believe that they are special
in one way or another. They are young and untouchable
with their peers. They romanticize their future, dreaming fantastical stories
about what their life will be like once they've tamed
the weapon. It isn't until they are standing before the
wo Shard that their fear takes hold, and by then
it is too late. Pride winds over logic and they
take the weapon, giving their lives over to fate.
Speaker 2: How many of them die?
Speaker 3: Frost Reaver is the cursed battle axe that belongs to
the Watcher Dread. It is the most recent of the
ten to be claimed. Over the span of six years,
one hundred and thirty seven watchers attempted to wield the
axe before frost Reaver finally selected the next Dread.
Speaker 2: One hundred thirty seven watchers died.
Speaker 3: Yes, many of them perished within minutes of touching the axe.
The very nature of the weapon is a curse, draining
the life away from any it deems unworthy. Once a
wo shard has bonded its watcher, it will reject any
others that attempt to touch its metal. Additionally, the chosen
wielders are in turn cursed, their soul slowly being drained
in exchange for power.
Speaker 2: Who did Frostreaver choose as the next Dread? What made
them so different?
Speaker 3: Well, I'm sorry, but that is not my story to tell.
What more do you know of the cursed weapons? Uh?
Speaker 2: Not much, just that no two are the same. You're
the only person that carries a sword.
Speaker 3: It's a fashion, but yes, you are correct, no two
are the same, though many have similar attributes. For instance,
all cursed can sense their weapons regardless of distance. If
I were to leave the Singed Blade on a ship
and let it sail across the lane, would see I
would inherently know which direction I'd need to travel in
order to find it.
Speaker 2: That's handy in case anyone ever stole it.
Speaker 3: No sane person would ever attempt to steal one of
the Woe Shards, but I guess you're correct, it would
be handy. Another attribute they all share is that no
mortal human besides another cursed, can survive a blow from
one of the weapons.
Speaker 2: What do you mean your blade ran me through and
I survived.
Speaker 3: Yes, you did, and you shouldn't have. You should have
died immediately. Do you remember when you asked if I'd
poisoned the Singeblade. The answer is no, I did not.
There is no need for me to add poison. It
is deadly on its own accord. But for some reason
it did not kill you. I'm not certain if that's
because the Cingeblade didn't want to kill you, or if
you're somehow resistant to it, But I intend to find
out Now the time for conversation is over. You need
your rest, and I should return to my studies. But
I have more questions and you will have plenty of
time to ask them, but not tonight. Tonight you rest.
Tomorrow the real work begins.
Speaker 1: Charts is voiced by Josh Allen. Benjamin Wright aka Wrath
is voiced by Ray O'Hare. Audio engineering by Adam Culbertson
and Richard Collins, editing by Tisha Zang, Music provided in
part by Elizabeth Blakeley and written by Nico Rodriguez. The
Necromancer of Pricene is a Creative Typo Entertainment production. For
more information about this show, our cast, or other shows
under Creative Typo, please check out our website at www
dot creative typo dot com. And thank you for listening.
A very special thank you to our executive producers from Patreon,
Nick Mead and Patrick t Arsenal