Path of the Necromancer - FACTION WARS

Prologue

Knowledge is power. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

In that case, let's all get smart and grow evil together.

* * * * *

The Drunk -

As the man swayed along the crowded city street, his drunken mind reflected on the nature of his city. And though he couldn't feel the thrum of the city's beating heart through the swaddling of his inebriation, he knew it was there. He wondered what the heart of the city was, what gave it the pulsing rhythm that pumped traffic through arterial boulevards, or that bled people down side streets and minor squares. He'd been to many cities in his life and they all had their own character. Differing sections and districts coming to life at different times throughout the everpresent cycle of the sun. Financial districts would discharge their lifesblood into the restaurants and bars as the shadows grew in length and thickness. And yet throughout it all, regardless of the nation, state, or layout, it was the alleys that gave a city personality.

Seattle was no different. Boulevards and highways 'made' a city, gave it function. But it was the alleyways that gave a city personality. Alleys acted as shortcuts, or circuitous routes that nestled hidden gems. Some were little more than hairs on a map, like him, forgotten, without a name, discarded offcast that had served their purpose, left to rot into obscurity.

Yet, It was precisely for this reason the man, the man that had lost even his name to alcohol, sought such an alley. An alley such as that could provide riches to someone such as him.

"Nice coat."

"Blll?" The Drunk nasalled, trying to locate the speaker in the pitching street.

The man, cut in casual black, was smirking. "How many times?"

"Buuh?" The Drunk blinked.

"How many times you fucked it?"

The lady by his side giggled. "Oh you're so bad!" Swatting him playfully on his arm.

"Heh, I know."

They continued walking, their cutting words of derision, disgust..., and something else beginning with d, fading in the echo of her clicking heels.

'Dripped?' The Drunk thought, wobbling away. 'No... People's eyes don't drip. They, they,' He waved a hand expansively. It nearly tipped him to the floor. 'They, they disregard. They disdain! Yeah that was the one. They drunk and He Distain.' No wait, that was him. He was drunk. He was The Drunk, thank you very much, and they distained him for it.

'What do they know about it? Eh? Nuffin'.' He thought as the search continued. The streets were lively even at this time of night, the warmth of the noonday sun long since washed away. 'They don't know nothin'.' He thought again, swaddled in warmth.

His coat was his most cherished possession. A coat like this, worn as it may be, could make all the difference when living on the streets. It was a shelter, a companion, a ward against the worst, a comfort when the worst eventually occurred. He would have traded it in a heartbeat for just one more precious dark amber bottle of oblivion. That he already had one clutched in each oversized fist was of no consequence. In his experience there was always room for another. Just one more.

But that was foolish. Even he could appreciate the patches that loosely resembled a jacket would never sell. Thus, his quest for riches was foremost, utmost, and consuming.

He continued to meander lazily in search for the perfect alley. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for, but certain he'd recognise it when he saw it. Alleys were the treasure hunt of life. Afteral, he'd found a ring once. Oh that was a good find... or so he'd been told. He couldn't actually remember any of the following week, or how much he'd gotten for it. But his friends had told him it was great. More often though, a couple of coins, maybe dropped headphones, they were always good for pawning. They weren't that common a find anymore, but he was hopeful.