ROLEPLAY HQ - ereshkigals-wrath

The life cycle of a dark mage has been always the same for everyone. First years you are greeted as a hero, for becoming someone who is up against an unavoidable death, you get lavish clothing, respect from people surrounding you and privileges that even some of high ranking anima mages don't receive. The next years are of hard work and decent wealth. These are the golden years of every dark mage. The final years are ones of a grim reminder that your life is reaching it's end. And for Namtar the same fate was coming close by each day. The average life span of a dark mage during the service is 15 years. For Namtar, this was the beginning of his 15th year of service. The final one. The knowledge that every day could be the last one for him was always reminded by weekly checkups by the local priests who would take a good look at him, and be ready to act if worst had happened. The Dark mages don't really die, the death is always done by the guards or anyone who is assigned to the task. What happens to a Dark mage in reality is that their minds become blank, they become power hungry and slowly drift to darkness, causing terror upon the land. To avoid unnecessary catastrophe, the king had ordered all guards to execute any dark mage who has fallen into darkness in the early stages. This period is also known as the most hard working time of the Dark Mages time, as their last days of being sane are being used to the final extent. They work until they die in a sense. Namtar felt that lately, the work load has been really huge as of lately. However there was a hope in his eyes. Hope that he might stay sane whatever it would take. There have been many books talking about the fall of dark mages, and an interesting writing had crossed Namtar's eyes. A writing about a dark mage, who once managed to live 8 more years after the 15 year mark....

"You have at most a year and a half to live." The physician announced as he loaded up his equipment. "There is nothing more than I can do. You should get your things in order now, before it is too late." With that he excused himself from the small ivy covered cabin in the middle of the forest. Yasmin had spent more silver coins to summon the doctor than she generally made in a year and to hear him tell her mother that there was nothing he could do royally pissed her off. She refused to believe this to be true. Her mother, her smart and loving mother only had a year and a half to live? No. She would change this fate, and she would prove to the physician that he was wrong. At least, that was what Yasmin had intended. A year and a half came and went in the blink of an eye and in that time the half-elf had spent studying books on all things pertaining to herbal remedies, legends, and alchemy. Months she did toil away, creating one concoction after another in hopes that her mother's worsening symptoms would be alleviated. After many fails she managed one or two successes. No longer did her mother cough up blood, the spots on her skin grew faint though they did not fully disappear. With the glimpse of hope she had been given Yasmin's drive to find an actual cure had begun. Three years came and went in the blink of an eye, each new potion or poultice that Yasmin had created had prolonged her mother's death by twice the expectancy that the physician had originally given. Yet she didn't not manage to find an actual cure. Currently the half-elf was hunched over at her worktable, bottles upon bottles, dried herbs, mysterious glowing liquids that bubbled our steamed in beakers and pots littered the old oak table. Tanned hands ground fermented leaves in a bowl. .