Days in the Life of a Necromancer

Tyograth, the necromancer, freed himself from the corpse and stood up. Drawing a long and curved ceremonial dagger from the wolf he grumbled at the missed chance of getting rid of further disturbance by the witch. But he had much to prepare, to worry about other things, to go hunting after her. "Guard the entrance!" His voice echoed through the now empty tunnels. Slowly the now undead wolf rose, trotting to the tunnel's opening. "Good pet!" Tyograth said, imitating mockingly the former owner's voice.

With a deafening growl the silver dragon one last time rose high into the air before smashing down onto the ground, sending shockwaves through the vale. Leaking blood out of many wounds, his armour scorched and torn, Tyograth tried to catch his breath. This fight had been much harder than he had imagined. Of course he had searched for an extremely large and powerful specimen, but he had not calculated the immense power of the dragon's lightning breaths. He went over to the lifeless body and sunk his fangs deep into the still warm body.

Slowly his wounds begin to close, as the deep red blood of the dragon began to fill him with new life. Feeling healthy enough he stopped, since he had bigger plans for the dragon. He slowly began to slice the dragon's head from the rest of the corpse. Tyograth did not hastily stab away furiously just to get the head off. Every slice he made, and was it only very small, had a deeper purpose. Finally the gigantic silver dragon head was lying before his feet. He wrapped it into a deep red cloth he brought with him and quickly left the battlefield, not to be surprised by an angry relative of the slain.

With an amused expression Tyograth watched the numerous carts, filled with halflings and dwarves, timber and tools, passing by the outskirts of the moor. He did not think badly of them, not at all. It truly was a honourable task they had set themselves to. He had heard nearly every detail about their mission, while lurking in the mists of the moor, not revealing his presence to any of them.

The halflings came from a village, a bit to the southwest of the moor, at the southern boarder of the Kettin hillside. This village fell numerous times victim to raiding trolls, most of them just passing by on their attacks on the city of the dwarves. They had to feel the wrath of trolls anxious to get to real battle at the gates of the town, the wrath of bored trolls following the attacking army, and frustrated trolls, when an attack on the city had failed. The halflings crop was destroyed many times, their cattle stolen, their houses destroyed. Now the bravest, halfling men and women, have spoken before the king of Kettin, who had granted assistance in a big, dangerous and most honourable plan. They were creating a way post, in a narrow valley just at the outskirts of Kor range.

This valley, known to be a primary access to the caves, the trolls call their home.

Still, Tyograth couldn't suppress a chuckle. If they knew that, after he had finished his experiments, all these things would be without meaning anyway. All that he had gained on knowledge about the bone altar had been true. It had been a big grave, the last resting place of an ancient wyrm...at least the biggest part of it. The dark magic of the altar had kept it from decaying. It still felt warm to touch, as if slain only recently and not centuries ago. He was sure the witch had no idea what a treasure she had possessed, a treasure that would ensure the doom of others, and his gain of infinite powers.

Sending an insane cackle over the moor, cold shivers running down each halfling and every dwarven back, the misty form of the necromancer disappeared into the thick fogs hanging over the swamp.

Tyograth listened carefully. What was that? Did he hallucinate? He admitted to himself, that he had slept not much, since the pixies arrived in the moor. Every since his experiments and preparations had failed awfully or gone into a very wrong direction. "By the dog...", someone yelled. There, there it had been again. Someone's voice echoing through the fog. "...your slime ridden countenance shall be destroyed!" he heard the voice yell.

Was there someone threatening him? HIM? Clutching his fist around his dagger, anger rose inside of Tyograth. No one ever would be alive to tell, they had threatened the menace of the moor, and came away with it.

"Never in a thousand millennia you misty breezily!", another voice replied. So there were two people quarrelling here. A new interest began to take form in Tyograth's mind. He needed some new apprentices anyway. His halfling apprentice had stumbled into one of the security installations of the tunnels, being cut in half by the spinning wires. And half a halfling did not make a good apprentice....

A pile of mud besides Tyograth began to stir, slowly packing a ball of filth, the hurling it to the east.

Stunned the necromancer looked onto the ground. He really needed to sleep more or.... WHACK! A sphere of ice hit him right on his head. What the hell was going on here? With a lunge he jumped to the east, to get a surprise attack on the sphere hauler and fell right through masses of smoke, belching from a hole in the ground.

"By the dog..." the fog itself yelled "...your slime ridden countenance shall be destroyed!"

WHUSH! Another ball of filth flying in from the west hit the ground. Slowly Tyograth began to understand what was happening, and he knew perfectly why at the same moment. His experiments of yesterday, the shudder of the earth as he channelled enough energy from the ground. And last the missing results, while he stood there and waited for something to happen....something HAD happened, but not what he intended to do....

He had enough; it was time to do something. These pixies, spoiling the beautiful dark moor with their glittering dust, drenching the ground in their fairy magic, this had to end, or else he would not be able to revive his darling ever! He alone would probably not be able to drive those fluttering pain in the neck away, but he already knew, who would be gladly willing to offer assistance.

"We have." was the answer given by Tyograth. "You make these pixies disappear, with your choice of how, but fast! In return I will help you bring back to life ..whoever.."

"Yes, exactly..." an annoyed necromancer replied. And with a mocking tone he continued: "...your hero, he will walk amongst you once more, and bring doom over your enemies.."

"Our enemies, actually." the priest corrected. "But, one last question. Might I ask why the pixies are such a menace to you? Small, nice, fluttery pixies?" as his time of mocking had come.

"They spoil the moor! They spoil my experiments! They ruin the dark energies of the ground!" Tyograth barked furiously. But the high priest already had vanished. Tyograth returned into the altar, cursing the gith, cursing himself for letting rage overcome him because of the priest's mocking. He knelt down beside a gigantic scorpion tail and continued to stitch the dangerous sting of unknown origin onto a wyrm's body, using needle and thread of pure magic. The gith would pay their price, even a higher one than the pixies would have to pay to the gith.

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