Worshiping the dead

His first successful awakening of the dead had been upon an old barkeep killed in a fight within his own establishment. The blade had been linked to a young elven warrior, of whom Serenaroth had acquired the dagger, by thievery. Even with the death of a known civilian, the people had pleaded with the baron, Serenaroth’s uncle, to have mercy upon the lad because of his past glories and acts of heroism. Faced with such a crowd, the lord released the prisoner into the wild, a mere banishment upon his person. Livid with rage at his own failure and the freedom of the young fighter, Serenaroth had tried in vain to track him down. He did however hire a tomb raider, who acquired the body from the cemetery. As the old bartender’s decomposing fingers broke through the earth and shattered his resting-place, laughter could be heard echoing through the night.

From then on, the necromancer perfected his evil ways learning from books and study, trial and error. He quickly acquired the skill necessary for raising multiple corpses in a wider area. He also became adept at controlling them from farther distances as well as being able to rise the dead from outside his domain. Days before, reports had been given to the baron that undead beings had been sighted within the city, attacking helpless elves in their own homes. Serenaroth had mustered all of his will not to laugh when his uncle spoke of these incidents. He had just left his father’s brother’s keep before returning home. He sat upon his old worn chair, looking out the window into his own cemetery. Still no one suspected that bodies littered the underground, only his father’s grave stood proud and untouched. At first, he had to rearrange the earth after the undead returned to their unmarked graves. Now, his magic was at a point where he could manipulate those graves to his liking. His power grew but still he waited for his father’s resurrection, he wanted to be certain of his attributes. His reverie was brought to a halt as he heard a knock on the door. Only one person dared disturb him. "Come in Vertalior, I suspect you have some news?" Questioned the necromancer, his voice harsh and coarse. "Yesssss Serenaroth, yesssss, tisssssss massssster that’ssssss be sssssssssending me." Answered a hissing voice. The disguised lizardman entered, caressing a bundle in his arms. He quickly looked right and left before making his way to the dark wizard. Serenaroth opened the package, revealing an old volume. The smell of oiled leather spread to the outskirts of the room, the necromancer took a deep breath, a smile slowly spreading upon his lips. "Massssster ssssaysssss thisssssss be worth a good amount, he wantssssss the sssssssssword." Whispered the creature. Serenaroth’s eyes darted to the miserable creature, his smile retreating. "Why do you choose that form to visit me, I have told Lokyutis that I despise it." Threate ned the human. The lizardman stepped back but did not change his form. Although a cloak and hood, gloves and boots covered his appearance, his voice was unmistakable. Still the wizard drew forth the blade of his father, it’s silver reflection piercing the darkness of the home. He handed the hilt over to the lizardman. "You do not fool me shapeshifter, although you may deceive innocent fools with your trickery. If you return to my home in a form other than human, you shall not return to your master." The lizardman’s shape had changed in the last few moments, taking a more human form. After a minute’s time, the hood fell back to reveal a beautiful woman. Serenaroth laughed and signalled him out.

Lokyutis and his pet shapeshifter have been Serenaroth’s main source of documentation on the undead and art of necromancy. They have provided him with many volumes, always requesting a magical artifact in return. The sword just acquired marked the end of Serenaroth’s magical wealth as he lacked any other item with mysterious properties.