The Transubstantiation of Master Aamon

When the scrying stone rang, Aamon was in his laboratory, killing a man.

To be fair, he wasn't much of a man... a bedraggled beggar from the local village, unlikely to be missed by anyone. And the actual killing, via a globe of poison gas, was both relatively swift and humane and only a small acceleration of the man's foredestined demise, soon enough, through disease and famine.

Moreover, the benefits of the murder were clear and immediate, both for Aamon himself and the greater College of Necromancers. For without the raw material of a fresh corpse, how could he test the newest iteration of the Excellent Reanimating Syllable, designed for quick and efficient zombification?

So when the scrying stone tolled like a bell from the study next door, Aamon heaved a sigh of irritation under his mask. Luckily he had not yet broken the capsule of poison gas; he lifted it from the beggar's head and placed it aside for the moment, to the instant (if transitory) relief of the patient.

His familiar Ahktoi purred and began rubbing itself against his shins as he strode to the study. With a gesture, he called the stone to life to see who had disturbed him. For a moment he thought the aerial materialization was a mirror, for the face that peered back at him was a skull-mask identical to his own.

"Zeromus," he sighed. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

The mask could not smile, of course, but Aamon swore he could detect the familiar smugness beneath.

"Can we not simply exchange pleasantries," the remote voice hissed, "Brother?"

Entered by: 0x9611…BE9A and preserved on chain (see transaction)