Despair of a DeNurem

[Mirtok 2853]

~ Drasus' Laboratory in the DeNurem Manor, 1845 ~

 

It was a rather pleasant morning in the County of Mordskov, nestled along the Northern borders of the Grenz. Drasus sat idly at the family meadery that sat atop a small bluff overlooking the pond. Glimmers of light reflect off the water's surface and onto the facade of his family's estate. The gentle chirping of birds and the occasional croak of some far off toad echoed over the cool alpine air. He looked about the tasting room where patrons would come to sample the latest batch of mead affectionately fermented by his Grandfather Alren. Bringing a glass up to his face, he took a swig of his choice vintage, Mordskov Reserve. The same drink of choice of his grandfather, he thought to himself what a life that man had led.

 

Although Alren had never received any formal education in the arts of alchemy, under his watch the Empire was able to develop incredible weapons of war- cannons. Said weapons proved invaluable during the Inferi Incursion as hordes of demonic spawn eek forth from an otherworldly plain, threatening all that the descendants had stood for. If it were not for those cannons many brave Imperial soldiers would have lost their lives against such indomitable foes. Titanic monsters rampaged across Korvassa were only ever brought low by the mighty power of a humble powder.

 

Drasus on the other hand was fortunate enough to be guided in the arts of alchemy by masters of the craft. An old comrade of his father and grandfather, Doctor John Pruvia took him under his wing and showed him the ancient lexicon of the alchemical symbols. He showed him how to render the regents from flora that the common man would otherwise overlook. How to combine ingredients, temper them, process them, and yield products that seemed greater than the sum of their parts. But so much of what he was able to do had already been done countless times before, and though handy, were far from revolutionary. It had been a great number of years since last the Empire was locked in conflict; But happy is that country which in times of peace think of war. With the duties of the Archchanceller at the forefront of his mind, he was motivated to discern that next great discovery that would ensure the continuation of this great era of Imperial peace.

 

He finished his drink, taking in one last deep breath of the bountiful fresh air of his home before he had to resume his work. He maintained a laboratory within the grey stone protection that was the DeNurem Manor- if one could call it that. During the off seasons with the Imperial Diet, Drasus found that he had a considerable amount of time on his hands that he could spend on any number of innovations and projects for the Empire. It was during this lul that he decided to take on a feat of similar stature to that which the Generalissimo Alren had done at a similar age. The raw power of gunpowder was something to behold in its own right but was still very much a crude and chaotic force. 

 

Donning a sophisticated set of spectacles with varying degrees of magnifying lenses, Drasus poured over a collection of writings that he had been working on over the past two years. Various diagrams of cannon barrels, itemized lists of ingredients that comprised a standard batch of gunpowder, detailed observations of the combustion process, and something else that looked untested. He was certain he had not been the first to think of it but thus far none have actually been able to achieve it. He muttered to himself . . .

 

“There must be a way to refine gunpowder in order to produce the same projectile force but in a more wieldy form. Could it really be as simple as reducing the scale? But then the propellant as it is doesn't yield the same power proportionally. It must be the recipe then, a new ingredient or combination thereof that will achieve what I am looking for. Or maybe something else entirely? There simply must be a way to harness the mechanics of cannonry but in a handheld form.”

 

Several ideas burdened his mind, each an entire undertaking on their own. But he was an industrious man and it wasn’t too often he shied away from a challenge. In the months following, Drasus compiled an ever growing collection of raw and refined materials, countless diagrams populated the walls of his lab, a number of prototypes pending projects occupied the tables, books penned by his own hand filled every available shelf space. He had meals brought down to him, rarely leaving his academic sanctum, his focus locked on discerning the secret answer for his self prescribed quest. With each trial, failure, and adaptation, he could feel himself inch ever closer to his goal. Each attempt bringing new understanding or inspiring new leads to pursue. He was close and he knew it.

 

For the first time in months, the obsessed white haired alchemist allowed himself a break from the toils of discovery. He once again returned to his familial meadery where his son Dimitri was hard at work tending to the honey bees. Soaking in the warm sunlight into his now even paler skin, he closed his eyes while sat on a bench facing the pond. The sounds of nature about him were ever more pleasant having been so immersed in the pinging of hammers, the grinding of mortar and pestle, the shrill pops and bangs of failed attempts at explosive propellants echoing off the cold stone walls in his lab. For just a moment, Drasus’s mind was freed from its analytical prison. But in a flash, his eyes snapped open and the noise of the world around seemed to quickly recede into silence. His heart began to race, blood rushing to his face . . .

 

“I’ve got it.”

 

Without so much as another word, Drasus hurried off towards the stone manor. Dimitri looked up from his work, peaking an eyebrow in slight concern for the sudden haste exhibited by his aging father. Just then, his wife Sorrow strolled down the trail that led down from Dobrov with a fresh batch of flowers in hand. He smiled at her and resumed collecting the alpine honey that was a staple good for the family business. As the sun moved across the sky in the hours since, Dimitri enjoyed the same peace and tranquility that had seemed to give Drasus a much needed moment of clarity. Although he had not lived out careers of splendor like his father Drasus, grandfather Alaric, or certainly not of his great grandfather Alren, he was more than content with tending to his family and the County. He dutifully managed the bee colonies that provided a comfortable livelihood for his siblings and maybe even one day his own son. Dimitri wasn’t one to want, merely to be fulfilled in the humble pleasures that life offered in the way of purpose and love- both of which he had found.

 

As the sun began to set over the Mordskov valley, Dimitri packed up his tools and locked up the meadery doors for the night. He had also managed to finish the most recent batch of Mordskov Reserve, setting aside a bottle for his father that he intended to bring down with his nightly meal. With food in hand, Dimitri ascended the steps up into the tower in which Drasus kept his lab. He could hear strange clinking noises muffled through the floorboards above him. Thinking nothing of it he continued up each step until he reached the final flight of stairs ending in a heavy reinforced wooden door. Upon drawing nearer to the door, the clinking sounds were replaced with some sort of whiring or buzzing that Dimitri had never heard before. Just as he reached his hand up to push open the door and deliver his fathers meal, he was suddenly lifted from his feet.

 

There had been no time to process in his mind what had happened. A violent flash of light. Was there a boom? Dimitri was killed on impact when he hit the opposite wall, the door to his fathers office ripped from its hinges and flung into his limp corpse. His body lay crumpled mid way down the flight of stairs, his bones largely shattered, and blood leaked from his head feeding a sickening red pool. The atmosphere of the chamber was clouded in debris and lingering particles that obscured the light that shone through the now destroyed windows. Black smoke wafted out from the vacant doorway into Drasus’ laboratory. The floors and support beams of the building creaked and groaned, seeming as though they would collapse after withstanding such an intense blast.

 

Something yet still stirred from inside the blackened room, labored shuffling, a raspy breath. The rest of the DeNurem family rushed to meet whatever calamity had occurred, shocked at the scene of carnage presented to them. Vatar DeNurem, Drasus’ daughter, made a dash past all the destruction looking for her father. Her shrieks broke the momentary silence.

 

“Someone send word to Doctor Pruvia! We need to let the Emperor know what has happened immediately!”
 

[VIROS 2915]

Josephine Augusta receives news of the horrible accident from a courier late in the evening. The middle-aged duchess pushes aside her work (a few scattered blueprints and city maps), pressing her fingers to her temples. She speaks to the courier before her in an even-toned melancholy. "This is a calamity. Has my imperial father been informed? Will Drasus live?" Almost as an afterthought, she touches a cross pendant about her neck and mutters a prayer to St. Kristoff, patron of the Hanseti people whom Drasus' ancestor had once ruled as Hochmeister.

[BenevolentManacles 2232]

Philip II sauntered about the countryside astride his beloved horse, Percival, this afternoon. There was, despite the gloomy afternoon mist in the plains of the western Petrine fields, a wonderful smile on the Emperor's face. He relished nothing more than to be outside the marble walls of the metropolis from which he ruled the Empire, to imagine he was once again marching in the army of Alren. Though now his foe was the fox or the boar of the wood, and he had no titan to guide him to victory.

 

As the Emperor shifted in his saddle, the retinue of Imperial soldiers looked up from the various conversations. The brigadier on horseback to his right snapped back to attention, to continue their march.

 

Then shook the earth, and then came the raucous, devilish noise of a distant blast, and even Philip II could feel his heart sink.

[valecu 2128]

As the unpleasant news began rapidly spreading around the Empire, the recently ordained Philip brooded deeply for his close friend. The priest felt on his knees, facing the altar - hands clasping in prayer for the health of the Archchancellor.

[Jokinghills 825]

Lieutenant Quinn Darkwood would hear the news and note "Damn it,  we can only hope that the doctors will go above and beyond for this"

[Kholibrii 1211]

Within a private room of Sunholdt, Anne Josephine stood upon a fitting platform as a gaggle of aging women moved around her, lifting luxurious fabrics of red and blue towards the d’Arkent for her to choose from. After vibrant fabrics had been picked out for multiple dresses the women moved to black fabrics. “Do we always have to prepare for the worst?” Anne grumbled as she stared at the blacks, reluctantly picking out a fabric with ornate golden detailing. “This one. It could fit a modest event which is great because, No one is dying!”  The young d’Arkent commented, refusing to believe anyone would be dying soon.

[Mattiii 1663]

Otis de Rosius lay reclined on his bamboo chair that very afternoon, marinating in the Redenford Sun. The babbling brook nearby drowned out the spiraling thoughts of the imaginative Architect and thus he slowly fell asleep. He returned to Chateau de Rosius later that day where he had received word of the seemingly immediate new Ministry and the sorrowful events that had occurred at Mordskov. "The DeNurems shall be in our prayers tonight." He offered his hand out to those gathered around the Rose Table and lowered his head.

 

[Phoebe202 1057]

Elodie de Rosius sat with her brother at the Rose Table, praying. “God protect him. God be with the DeNurems.” She murmured, signing the Lorraine.

[Bawg 494]

After several days, the Doctor emerges from the DeNurem Manor with red stained clothes, an unbearable stench, and a ivory cloth that is drenched with crimson. He sat at the top of the steps and hung his head to gather a few moments of solitude and order. 

The old man closes his eyes as he begins to slowly fade into a slumber. He feels at peace that his work was finished, but the images of his colleague will forever be branded in his memory. 

"Charred to a crisp. Head to toe. Forever transformed by the fire of invention."

 

"Apply a concoction of frostvine and serpent's stalk to soothe the burns. Pack tippen's root wherever he bleeds. Carefully wrap him in bandages drenched in the blood of the white lotus. Change bandages over... And over... And over again. Monitor his breathing. Mitigate the damage." 

 

The elder Rhenyari widens his eyes as he returns to consciousness, he reaches into his pocket to examine his pocket clock. "DeNurems are damn near indestructible, I'll tell you. An average man would have been killed. Like poor Dimitri." He smiles before stuffing his watch into his coat and stands from the top step. "Time to change his bandages. He should be able to speak soon."