Alwyn the Family
Byline: Gary Llewellyn
Dateline: November 4th, 2017
Necromancy is a specific niche branch of Thaumaturgy, more properly known as the Lazarus school. Necromancy is the term fanatics of the Lazarus school (also known in Thaumaturgic circles as Lazaroids) coined for themselves to legitimize the idea that the Lazarus school was its own discrete practice and not just that one really fucked up semester in college.
When you think of a necromancer, do you think of that emo kid your daughter is dating or those 18 months in high school you were goth? Understandable given all the terrible death poems you wrote, but those who indulge in morbid fascinations are more likely to become entropists rather than necromancers. Instead, it’s a complete and total revulsion and vilification of death that drives one to necromancy. Death is a villain to be conquered, not a lover to be romanced. A necromancer is unlikely to ask their boyfriend to dress up like Morpheus. Sandman, not the Matrix, you cyberpunk pukes. Instead, look to yoga classes, crossfit sessions, and GNCs.
Look to people who take 150 vitamin supplements a day and pack their world in bubble wrap and Styrofoam peanuts, people who think trunk-or-treat is an idea’s what’s time was long overdue. People scared so shitless of the oblivion that awaits that they live in a perpetual panic room. Introduce these people to a little Magick and the next thing you know they’ve declared war on Thanatos himself. They wind up lost in the Chapel Perilous thinking they found the grail and spend crucial years of their life getting high on their own supply and talking loud shit in bars that would get you 302’d in most US states. Take it from your pal Gary, kids, I know Magick looks like fun, but first work on getting your head enough out your ass to realize how much Crowley’s was in his. In the meantime, read the Tibetan Book of the Dead and Cosmic Trigger. You’ll be fine.
Alwyn Morgan was all of these people. A health nut who was afraid of his own shadow. So schized by death he couldn’t even attend his own parents funeral. When he was a just a kid, no older than fifteen, he dove straight into the hard stuff; Western Hermeticism. The next thing you know he’s repurposed a curtain rod and a butter knife and shouting in bad Hebrew. The Jews tell us one can not approach the Kabbalah until they’re 40 for a fucking reason. But two years later, Alwyn’s in the Golden Dawn getting owned by Blavatsky in arm wrestling. Then one evening he’s watching a Punch and Judy show, or whatever they did for kicks in the 1900’s, when he meets this older chick and she takes him back to her place. His horny 18 year old brain thinks he’s going to get to see some ankle for the first time, but she starts in on evangelizing about Thaumaturgy. So this guy has to go home, stiff as a board, and jerk it to a wooden carving of Zelda Fitzgerald or something. In those precious few seconds between when he shot it into his hosiery and getting horny again, he started eyeing the pamphlet Madam Cocktease laid on him, mostly because he was still under the delusion that he still had a shot at checking her wrists out. The rest is history.
As soon as Alwyn got a whiff of necromancy he was a full blown Lazeroid. Nothing else much mattered, not even ankles. At first, he seemed to be able to keep it cool, but it wasn’t long before he tried his first resurrection. I wish he could have picked a corpse whose checks clear, but wish in one hand, I guess. After Mort, Alwyn seemed to chill out again. He was left weak and shaken since he’d used his own life energy to raise Mort. Not having much experience with necromancers, his family assumed he learned some sort of lesson. I don’t know how much experience you have with using your own life to resurrect stuff, but that shit will rot your brains. Alwyn got his strength back and was at it again. Several resurrections later, it seemed like he had gone mad to the point of incapacitation. His family made him a bedroom in the attic, where he spent most of his time talking to himself in Enochian. This was Alwyn for decades. My ward Stephanie, his granddaughter, only knew him as the weird old guy in the attic who occasionally said racist shit about Italians. And then one day, whatever was rotting in his mind got its fill. He vanished without a trace. No one heard hide nor hair from him for months.
Until, one day, Mort caught wind out of Tanzania. Some of the local’s recently deceased had risen at their own funerals and applied for driver’s licenses. That’s when Mort hired me. He sent me to Tanzania to do some bullshit Page Five Girl ripoff on Popo-Bawa, and I needed the money. Still do.
I don’t know if it’s Morgan’s intent to replace the living with the dead or if he just wound up like that guy living behind the supermarket who’s always walking around collecting boxes and pushes the baby doll with half a head around in a shopping cart. Either way, shit’s getting old. Now, if we could get ahead of him instead of always being behind him… I could really use a network of spies right now.
Sitting This One Out
Byline: Stephanie Morgan
Dateline: November 4th, 2017
Heya, SEG-er’s. I’m traumatized! Ick. Gary, that’s my granddad. Gross. (That’s what I heard. Dude was a horndog. – G. Stop! -S. I also heard he was redacted like a wildebeest. -G. Final warning. -S. Moina Mathers used to redacted his redacted until he redacted. They were finding redacted behind the furniture for weeks. -G. Kobolds! Until further notice Gary Llewellyn is blacklisted. -S. Alright, I’m sorry, call off your goons. -G. I’ll call them off when I stop involuntarily picturing my grandfather having sex. -S.)