story:
Deimos was banished from his homeland, looked down upon and shunned. All the young kalon wished for was to see his mother’s smiling face again, gleaming down at him. Deimos first began studying witchcraft when he was a kit. In secret of course, since the sorcery was frowned upon in his village, viewed only as satanism and devil-worship. Deimos never planned on using it, the magic just fascinated him; this was until the sudden death of his mother. Deimos quickly began to seclude himself from society, the death of his mother impacting him immensely. Unable to come to terms with her death, Deimos became endorsed in the practice of necromancy, in hopes of contacting his deceased mother one last time. Even the idea of reviving her from the grave, seemed plausible.
Deimos sat in the darkness of a secluded forest, a small satchel containing the required materials to cast a necromancy spell in paw. Deimos pulled out an old book of necromancy and shamanism from the satchel and placed it on the ground in front of him. The book felt as though it was staring back...did he really want to go through with what he was doing? The answer was yes. Flipping through the dusty pages, he stopped on a resurrection spell. The Odyssey's passages contained many descriptive references to necromantic rituals: “rites must be performed around a pit of fire during nocturnal hours”. Following as the book instructed, he began to scavenge around the woods and collect small sticks and dry leaves. Deimos wandered until he located two stones of the same size, striking them together until they sparked, setting the small heap of wood and leaves into flames. His eyes quickly darted back to the old book, scanning the pages for the next step of the ritual. “Blood of sacrificial animals, to concoct a libation for the ghosts to drink while reciting prayers to both the ghosts and gods of the underworld,” seemed easy enough. He was an animal, surely his own blood counted.
Taking out a small shard of broken glass from his bag, he began to mutter an unknown language under his breath as he brought the shard up to the bridge of his muzzle. Deimos did a quick slashing motion and winced at the pain. The warm liquid oozed over his nose and onto the cold soil below him and as it dripped, he managed to cup some in his paw. Smearing it onto the page containing the resurrection spell, Deimos continued on with the given steps, still speaking the unknown tongue. Before long, wind began to pick up, causing Deimos to shut his eyes. He could hear a distant voice shouting out to him, a familiar voice, but he ignored it. “Deimos! You filthy knave! How dare you!” An old Kalon shouted down at him. Deimos’ eyes sprang open, and his lips peeled back into a snarl. “You don’t have any reason to be meddling in my business!” he snapped at the woman. The unusual change in weather must have been what alerted her of his actions… “I do if you are breaking village rules! I am in utter shock, Deimos...how could you even think about putting the village at risk with your treacherous black magic?” The elder Kalon looked at Deimos with remorse in her eyes, obviously upset with the situation.
“Deimos, you are hereby banished! No longer will you put our peaceful village in danger with your radical actions!” she declared. “Don’t ever come back, you’re unwelcome! You’re lucky that I won’t have you executed for using such sorcery!”
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