Artisan - The Olaf Saga, Part 2

Contrition.

The Artisan couldn’t decide if the word was an entirely fitting descriptor, but it was the closest that came to mind as he dangled in the closet with chains biting into his arms and the Hand’s zombie grumbling disconsolately somewhere beside him. Contrite, and humiliated; the god amongst corpsecrafters brought low and shamed by his own experiment gone awry. Of all the outcomes he had expected…

The boy – no, rather Olaf, though the doctor couldn’t bring himself to determine whether this change was owed to a prideful refusal to admit that the one who’d subdued him was a mere boy, or the acceptance that the disdainful connotations of the term no longer truly fit, or a bit of both – in any case, he had traveled the week’s ride with them back to the tower. He had been confused by their ghost driver and horrified by the face of He Who Walks, attributing the Abyssal’s ruined visage to the fighting in Boden. His inquisitive nature had been a bad fit amongst the aggravated and taciturn Deathknights, the questions never-ending even as the Artisan worked to pry a shard of claw out of He Who Walks’ flesh and stem the resulting infection.

In short, he owed his continued existence to the Deathknights’ orders to collect him alive. He would learn in time, the Artisan figured.

The carriage had eventually arrived at the tower, dropping them all off save for He Who Walks, who was to go on to see the Walker in Darkness. The first detail to draw their attention had been the lack of feral zombies roaming the grounds, and the presence of a ghost standing at the gates. The questions had been swift and rather irritated, but the Abyssals learned that the zombies had been rounded up recently by another Deathknight, and the ghost was to serve as their butler.

An odd trade, but as it carried no sign of the Walker’s wrath, Artisan was inclined to accept it.

Entering the tower, he decided on his first two objectives – one, to locate a room for the young Dragonblood, and two, to forbid him from ever entering the basements unattended. It seemed that neither would be a problem at all, especially the second; Olaf was ever at the Artisan’s heels, inquiring as to when he’d begin learning necromancy.

Repeatedly and frequently.

The Abyssal was quick to dismiss this chatter as nothing more than background noise – after all, he of all people could not condemn the Dragonblood for his eagerness to learn. His own planning kept him from growing too annoyed with the manner of Olaf’s expression anyway. Finally, the next stage of testing was at hand, and preparations had to be made.

Managing to break away from the Dragonblood’s pursuit while he was busy settling into his room, the Artisan made his way to the basements to speak with his assistants. Silently, he prayed that at least a handful of them had previous experience with living subjects, and were not merely well-versed in stitching pieces of dead flesh together.

In this, he was rewarded – his assistants all possessed at the very least a basic knowledge of medicine. After selecting a small team that seemed to offer the most promise, he detailed his plan to them and instructed them to be ready.

Returning upstairs to the common area, he was greeted by the immediate recommencement of the pleas that he begin training Olaf soon. The other Deathknights, relaxing, glanced up only briefly if at all in response to this as the Artisan suppressed his urge to snap at him to be silent. Instead, he clapped a hand on the young Dragonblood’s shoulder, looking him in the eye and trying his best to sound earnest.

“Yes, you will learn – in time. First, though, with your leave I’ll need to perform a few tests. Necromancers have certain differences from your average person with no magical aptitude – they must, you see, or else wouldn’t everyone be able to use sorcery? These tests will allow me to quickly determine your capability—“

Artisan’s voice droned on, his sentences growing longer and more overfull of technical language that he was entirely making up as he went along. The Dragonblood’s expression grew into a frown, until at last he cut the Abyssal off with, “But I can already do necromancy! See?”

The Deathknight took a hasty step back as Olaf began to cast, the others in the room glancing up in mild interest as the room grew darker, and a ghost eventually appeared, bowing to the Dragonblood and asking how he could serve.

No matter.

From behind his book, He Who Walks snorted, “Parlor tricks,” as Artisan stepped forward again, unbothered by this turn.

“Of course, though of course you know that’s nothing. That you can do it without the slightest training is testament to this fact. I need to be sure that you’re capable of learning true, worthy necromancy, and not a mere trick or two. And – again, of course – you’ll find that the process is much more swift, and comfortable for you, if you allow me to put you under – that is, asleep – for the duration.”

Olaf began to begrudgingly agree to Artisan’s words, but at the last addition, he again shook his head. His face betrayed deep concern about this idea, and the Abyssal felt his temper beginning to break.

“Look, if you’re going to be this way, then frankly I don’t see why I should teach you at all. I am to be your teacher, and you’re honestly questioning my words from the very outset? I refuse to take such a student.”

Faced with this implied ultimatum, the Dragonblood gradually accepted Artisan’s terms, allowing the doctor to sedate him with a chemical-soaked rag. That accomplished, his assistants carried Olaf down to the basements, to where Artisan had curtained off a section of one of the surgical floors and ordered that all current projects be kept carefully out of sight.

At last, he thought to himself, sighing. Hopefully this will help me get back in the Walker’s graces after that last…incident. As he pulled on his gloves and readied his surgical tray, he noticed that the majority of the other Deathknights had made their way down to observe the procedure. Irritated by the audience, he said nothing, but rather called for his assistants to bring the Hand’s zombie over.

For this particular graft, he had chosen one that would hopefully be relatively unobtrusive – the third phalange of the first finger on the left hand. To his surprise, this joint was well advanced in its state of metallization, with the cartilage and tendon beginning to be altered as well. Cutting into the tendon was relatively simple, but he had to call in his assistants to help separate the cartilage from the second phalange, employing the use of a hammer and chisel to finally break it free.

Once it was finally separate, attaching the partially-metalized tendon to the organic tendon in Olaf’s hand was another difficult matter, with Artisan snapping a few surgical needles attempting to suture the severed ends. Finally, it was done, although the metal showed no signs of spreading after an hour. Unwilling to keep the wound open, he decided to leave the metal as it was for the time being, and bandaged and splinted the Dragonblood’s hand in a relaxed curve.

Like this, he was returned upstairs and kept heavily sedated. Over the course of the day, the Artisan studied him closely, although there was little apparent change other than his slurred muttering as he bordered on the edge of drugged sleep.

The doctor himself was beginning to nod off when he heard his charge start grumbling about his finger, the annoyed complaint quickly escalating to howls of pain. Artisan hurried to check the bandaging, finding that Olaf’s index finger had gone from a reddishness to a worrying shade of purple. Even after years of working almost exclusively with the dead, training and old habits led the Artisan to quickly grab the Dragonblood, rushing down to the basements and calling to his assistants.

By the time the doctor reached the table, the Dragonblood was screaming and thrashing, and even leaning his entire weight on him, the Artisan was unable to pin him long enough to secure the straps that would hold him in place. Finally, he managed to get the affected hand steadied, and dragged a scalpel down it to find that the metal had fused to bone, and that the purple hue of infection was rapidly sweeping up Olaf’s wrist.

His assistants arrived at last, and the Scarlet Shadow suddenly appeared at his side. “How can I—“

The Midnight let himself trail off as Olaf made a concerted effort to throw the doctor, howling and demanding to know what had been done to him as he landed a mighty kick to the Artisan’s gut, sending him flying and then skidding across the floor. Coughing harshly and feeling his chest for cracked ribs, the Deathknight struggled to his knees. “If you could just relax, I could help –“

It was the Daybreak’s turn to fall silent as he saw that Olaf had regained enough freedom to begin crafting a swirl of Essence between his hands, although the spell wavered, wobbled, and grew unsteady as soon as he began to shape it. “FUCK,” the Abyssal swore as loudly as he could without breath, hurrying backwards on his hands and knees, “Get behind a wall, you idiots!”

The spell backfired with a flash of black light and the faces of ghosts, the sound of an explosion wracked with howls and screams echoing throughout the tower. When the sound faded, the Artisan crept back towards the table to find nothing but darkness.

“Scarlet Shadow,” he snapped, “take care of this.” As the candles one by one flared back to life, the Artisan saw the twisted faces of his two dead assistants, and Olaf, looking terrified and pained. “Get me another set of men,” the doctor grumbled to the Abyssal, before addressing the Dragonblood again, “Cease this now, I can take care of the pain if you’d only cooperate.”

“What did you do to MY FINGER?” was the boy’s response, rising to a howl before he sprinted away from the table, clutching his hand close, though at the same time seeming desperate almost to be rid of it. Cursing again, the Deathknight took off after him, following him towards one of the rooms off of the main floor.

The Abyssal came to a sudden halt as he realized that this room was the one that housed Hand’s zombie, which was currently freed and apparently fixated on killing him. Olaf was working his way up towards the ceiling, but the Artisan fell back several steps, calling for the Midnight caste in a voice that was just short of a harried scream.

What next? Seriously? He groaned as the Scarlet Shadow stepped in, beginning to seize command of the zombie as Artisan dodged around it and tried to heave himself into the gap in the ceiling that Olaf had created. The zombie turned after him, and Artisan struggled to keep his boots free of its claws as it tore at him. Finally, the other Abyssal’s orders set in, and the zombie gave up the chase.

The doctor dragged himself up through the ceiling to find Olaf clutching his hand and pacing before the stern-faced form of He Who Walks, who was lecturing him on the proper behavior of necromancers. Grateful for the intervention – it had to have been a charm – Artisan crept up on the boy and grabbed his hand, feeling for the temperature of his fingers. “I need to take him back downstairs and—“

Suddenly, the boy resumed his howling cries, clawing desperately at his chest. Artisan looked over, seeing the veins growing purple through the torn rags of the Dragonblood’s shirt, and a moment later, Olaf passed out.

“I was hoping to avoid this,” the Artisan grumbled, hefting the boy and carrying him downstairs once more. “Thank you, though.”

Setting him back onto the table, the Artisan secured the straps over his limbs and checked him over, finding only a weak pulse. Unwilling to give up the experiment just yet, he decided to keep the boy sedated and treat his fever while monitoring the metal.

The rest of the circle was likewise unwilling to wait for Artisan’s observations, and decided to go on to investigate the raiding of nearby towns which had caught the Walker’s concern. Ungrudgingly, the Artisan opted not to go along.

For two days, the doctor remained awake in the surgical area, contemplating what to do. The infection would not abate, and as the metal spread onto the Dragonblood’s wrist, the flesh of his hand refused to heal. It began to show signs of gangrene as the metallic phalange grew out of it and sharpened to a needle-like claw.

The Artisan warred with himself over these days. On the one hand, he had been disappointed at every turn to see that the metal would not spread in a single subject, and here it was, finally working. On the other hand, the metal appeared to be destroying the flesh, and he assumed that destruction of the flesh would inevitably lead to death. Ordinarily, this would be no concern of his – but Olaf was a most unusual Dragonblood in his aspect, and with the evidence of his early aptitude and readiness to learn, could in time make a great assistant for the doctor.

That swung the decision – justifying to himself that it came from a standpoint of practicality, and from his dislike of waste, he would end this experiment.

Calling to his assistants, Artisan prepared to begin the surgery once more. As they readied themselves, one of the mortals happened to brush against the protruding claw. Moments later, he complained of feeling unwell, then collapsed, dead. Pausing everything, the doctor had the affected hand fitted with a heavy mitten to prevent further accidents.

Cutting into the boy’s arm, Artisan determined that the metal had visibly spread into his wrist, so he selected a point a few inches above it, and began to saw into the bone. Halfway down, there was a sudden screech, and the doctor pulled back the bonesaw to find the teeth entirely stripped from it. The metal, it seemed, had spread further along the bone’s marrow. Swearing, he grabbed for another saw and chose a point further up the arm, near to the shoulder. This time, the saw bit deeper before there was that same screech.

Throwing the ruined blade aside, Artisan folded his arms in frustration, rocking on his heels and calculating. With the difference in the metal’s spread, he estimated that it wouldn’t become purely osseous material until some way through his collarbone and ribcage.

The doctor bit his lip nearly hard enough to draw blood.

“Fuck it. I’m going to do it.”

He gestured to his assistants to prep for the more invasive surgery, but one of them quickly inclined her head towards Olaf. Looking over, Artisan saw that the clawed finger had picked free of the mitten, and was working on shredding the strap that held that arm immobile. He began to throw himself forward to intervene, but recognizing the swirl of Essence that came with the freed hand, he instead hurried back, crying out a warning.

This again, and no one to help—

Instead of the explosion, a ghost appeared, bowing and asking how it could serve the Dragonblood. Olaf commanded it to free him, his voice oddly metallic, eyes shining. The ghost moved to help, and Artisan stepped forward.

“I intend to reverse this.”

“Let me leave,” was the Dragonblood’s response.

“I can fix this. I can turn you back to the way you were – but only if you let me. If you leave, you will not have this opportunity. You will die.”

Olaf, freed from the restraints, advanced on the Abyssal. The ghost also turned on him, trying to grapple him as he backed away, but Artisan managed to evade his grip. “Let me fix it, please. It will be like this didn’t happen, and you’ll be as you were – do you remember who you are, Olaf?”

The Dragonblood’s inexorable approach was backing the Deathknight towards the closet that held Hand’s zombie, and Artisan bristled at this intended indignity.

“No! I will help you, but if you do this, you will never recover—“

From the closet, the corpse of the assistant who’d been felled by the strange claw rose, and, uncontrolled, shambled for the doctor with a hungry moan. With the ghost still trying to grab him, and Olaf still approaching, Artisan dove around the Dragonblood, smoothly evading a sudden attack and springing to his feet. His hands rose, gathering dark Essence as he made a swift gesture towards Olaf...the attack dissipating harmlessly before it even struck him.

“Get in the closet.”

“Won’t you just listen to me?” the doctor’s voice rose in fury, shaking. In response, the Dragonblood grabbed him, the Artisan writhing in an attempt to regain freedom as Olaf hurled him to the ground on his back. Gritting his teeth, Artisan scrambled back and away from the metalized Dragonblood.

“Listen to me,” he repeated, wheezing for breath, “This wasn’t how I thought the experiment would go. I didn’t realize that this would happen – but it’s not too late, I can fix it, and you can have revenge. After this, I’ll have to do the same to myself – you can watch, I promise that—“

Laughing, Olaf grabbed him and threw him to the ground again. The doctor groaned and didn’t rise, putting up no fight as the Dragonblood grabbed his leg and dragged him to the closet. Without gentleness, he hefted the Abyssal and bound his arms in the chains that typically held zombies. The Artisan allowed it, head lolling to the side, staring expressionlessly at Olaf.

“You said you’re going to do this to yourself,” the Dragonblood spoke finally, grabbing Artisan and putting the clawed hand to him. “I can do it for you. You want that?”

A stab of terror jolted through Artisan’s daze, and he stared at Olaf in shock. “DO YOU?” he repeated.

“…no…” the doctor finally answered, then let his head droop forward as the Dragonblood, laughing, left him in the closet and slammed the door behind him.

It was dark, and silent once the screams from outside had ended, save for the rattle of the Hand’s chains in the small space of the room. As the adrenaline from the fight faded, Artisan shook, fear and despair crowding out his feelings of indignity. Where could he go next? This experiment had been his hope of making up for the debacle in Boden, of redeeming himself in the Walker’s eyes.

Now, there was nothing. He had nowhere to advance with his testing of the metal, unless he were to branch into the Abyssals. After this occurrence, he was not sure that such would be a wise course of action.

Less than the metal, now he couldn’t even test or observe the strange Dragonblood either. He was surprised at the way that pained him – Olaf’s natural ability and his eagerness to learn had, in a way, reminded the Artisan of his mortal self.

There was a time when you wanted to learn, didn’t you, and it nearly led to your death, didn’t it? He thought, bitterly. Ah, fool. You’ve done the same here – but you didn’t know this would happen.

“No,” he croaked dryly in denial. More fool he, to not consider something like this as a possible eventuality. But if he had, what would he have done then? Forgo the testing of the metal to keep the Dragonblood safe from a mere possibility? Of course, the Walker would have been so pleased by that.

I couldn’t have won either way, he finally reassured himself, although he wondered why he still felt so discontent.

Finally, the door to the closet opened to reveal the face of the tower’s ghostly butler. “Master Artisan,” he clucked in disapproval, approaching to help lower the Abyssal from the chains. “You seem to be going through assistants alarmingly fast.”

Feet once more on the ground, Artisan rubbed his arms, meeting the ghost with a glare that was mostly devoid of its usual venom. “Nevermind. Get me writing materials, now.” The butler bowed out, and Artisan stepped back onto the surgical floor.

The assistants that had been helping him had apparently been slain in Olaf’s escape, and were currently reanimated. Others were corralling them away, trying to clean the room up a bit. Shaking his head and ignoring it, the doctor walked off to meet the ghost butler.

xXx

Further Results on the Testing of the Material Discovered at Marama’s Fell

Reported by the Artisan of Flesh and Bones


Testing was attempted on the young Dragonblood, the graft being a sample of the phalange and tendon from the original zombie. At first, the material appeared inert, but over the course of the night, infection took root in the Dragonblood, and the metal began to spread, seeming to react to his Essence.

Once the metal had set in and fused with the bone, the subject displayed an animalistic wildness, perhaps owing to the degree of severe pain the transformation from osseous to metallic material caused. In later stages of the material’s spread, he displayed an almost madness.

The subject’s strength was increased beyond my ability to restrain him. The site of the graft also grew and sharpened into a needle-like claw which almost instantly destroyed any mortal that it pierced. They were reanimated soon after.

The metal seemed to spread to encompass the subject’s tendons and cartilage, but the flesh itself showed signs of decay very quickly. Treatment could not relieve this symptom.

The metal’s spread seemed to behave differently than it did within the original subject, in that the growth was not the same as it appeared externally. It spread much faster within the marrow of the bones than along the periosteum. This difference interfered in my ability to rapidly end the experiment once the subject proved difficult to handle.

As such, he has escaped the grounds of the tower, and his location is presently unknown.

xXx

The Artisan paused, wondering what, if anything, he should add. As he looked up, he was startled by the looming presence of He Who Walks.

“Get ready,” the Moonshadow ordered curtly, “We’re leaving again.”

The doctor hastily folded the letter, handing it off to the ghostly butler before rushing to gather his things.