It was a small community; no bigger than any of the other frontier towns outside equestrian borders, but still large and close enough to remain apart. It had a sizable marketplace with a steady merchant route, and a forge that made fine steel. Shops and eateries were aplenty, and the carefully maintained park was frequented to by many. It's main exports were grain and weapons.
At the end of Main Street was the chapel - the home to an order of paladins devote to the destruction of all things unholy, evil, and unjust. A place of zen, and tranquility where initiates train to combat the undead. An unshakable bastion of harmony.
So It goes without saying that, a necromancer, calmly trotting the campus, and not in fact laying siege, would be a peculiar sight, indeed.
The cloaked and hooded stallion, barded in comfortable robes, walked at a leisurely pace, bobbing his head to a tune only he could hear, and generally just going with the flow. A fiery amber colored muzzle stuck out from the hood, a lazy smile on his face, and a shock of straw colored mane bounced as he went. He wore the earth pony build well.
He walked with a jovial gait: not a self-centered swagger: but one of a pony who knew not to bet on sinking ships. Of one who could laugh at the fragility of life.
The courtyard terrace he walked was large - about the size of a hoof-ball stadium, and decorated with garden beds and delicate pots full of fragrant flowers. Climbing plants hung from the balcony that encircled the terrace, clinging to the pillars that held the walkways standing, and entwined the marble hoof-rails like cracks. Stained glass windows gleamed in the mid-morning sun.
The Necromancer regarded it all in passing, nonplussed by the dirty looks he was getting; mostly from the newer paladins - the veterans having come to tolerate his presence, if begrudgingly. They understood the advantages of having him there.
You fight fire with fire, after all.
The oak doors to the keep opened soundlessly and The Necromancer entered the hall. Banners with the chapter's glyph - a shinning war-hammer trimmed in ebony decorated the chiseled marble walls, and the occasional alfresco displayed busts of ponies long since passed.
Again, it was all spared nothing more than a passing glance, the majesty having worn off some time ago.
Apparently having arrived at his destination, The Necromancer cast a glance over his shoulder to the adjacent doors of the archives - where he spent the majority of most days. He returned to the door in front of him, and with a grin, threw them open with the same spontaneity that he had come to be known for.
"Mornin' everypony, sorry I'm late!" He said, sounding anything but sorry. His chipper tone had the last traces of an accent to it, but still gave his I's the whisper of a H to them, making an 'ah' sound when spoken.
Grin firmly in place, The Necromancer trot up to the stage of the lecture hall, where Elder Berry - The Elder and highest ranking, was waiting beside the podium. An almost imperceptible smile tugged The Elder's lips, but his face remained the same neutral look that he had come to be known for. The Elder was an Auburn coloured unicorn stallion with a greyish brown mane and a warhammer for his cutie mark. He regarded The Necromancer with old and wizened eyes that had no doubt seen a lot in his lifetime. "You're late." He said. "You where supposed to be here at dawn."
The Necromancer shrugged. "It's always dawn somewhere." He replied. While the remark was disrespectful, it carried nothing behind it - he respected the elder greatly. One does not entrust one's phylactery to just anypony, after all.
The Elder gave a gravelly huff of laughter. "That it is." He agreed. "Are you ready, lad?"
The Necromancer nodded. "Yep, let's get this show on the road." He agreed. "Newbloods to mess with, scrolls to read and all that." He said with a grin.
Rolling his eyes, The Elder said, "just don't traumatize them." And took his place to the left of the stage. The Necromancer trot up to the podium, using it to steady himself on his back hooves. He cleared his throat to get the attention of the 20 or so gathered in the room and they ceased their mutterings. He waved eccentrically.
"Hello, initiates! Welcome. For those of you that don't know, I am A necromancer - THE Necromancer." As expected, the room exploded into an uproar; somepony in the back even shouting "burn the witch!". It took 2 minutes and a commanding stomp from Elder Berry to calm them down. The Necromancer's grin couldn't have gotten bigger. That was always the best part.
He waited for the hushed whispering to lull, and continued. "I'm here today to talk to you about my part in the order, and what I," he placed a hoof on his barrel, then motioned to the crowd. "Can do for you. Now, you might be asking; 'wait, but, what can this dashing rogue do for me?'"
The elder rolled his eyes.
"We'll I'm glad you asked!" The Necromancer chirped.
"Healing of course." He continued energetically. "I can heal up to, and including death, but we'll come back to that in a moment. Now, in accordance with the chapters creedo written by Elder Berry," he motioned to said stallion, who nodded, "I have to ask permission first. ...So how about it?" He asked with a winning grin.
A stocky, broad shouldered earth pony stood up. "Why in the name of all that is holy would anypony want you to touch them with your filthy magic? I'd rather get shoed by Sizzle!" Accompanying 'yeah's' followed suite. A quite voice in the back asked what was wrong with his horseshoes, but no pony paid any attention.
The Necromancer's grin turned coy. "Very well. But let me ask you this; if you found yourself on the battlefield, moments from death, staring down some rapscallion's blade, would you change your mind? It's your choice in any case, but I'd personally like to get back up and watch the look on my enemy's face as I cut them down moments after they slew me. It's a barrel of laughs, trust me." There was murmuring from the crowd, ponies saying things like; "he has a point" and "seriously, guys, what's wrong with my shoes?" But there were still a good portion of neighsayers, worried that he'll 'taint their flesh and souls' or some such nonsense.
Their funerals, he thought, shrugging.
"Anyways," he said, gaining their attention, "back to the the topic at hoof. Now, in the event that I cannot heal you for whatever reason; separation from the group, being soul severed, whatever, I'd ask you to donate your body to the order. An undead paladin is... Heh." He trailed off with a drunken grin. They were one pony armies: even just one was worth 100 zombies, 50 skeletons, 25 ghouls or 10 lesser Demons.
'So... Much... Power.' He drooled at the thought.
"Lad, your catching flies."
Snapped from his reverie, The Necromancer cleared his throat and cast an apologetic look at The Elder. He mouthed the words 'heh. Sorry' and returned to the podium.
"Any questions?"
=====><=====
It was with a few hours of Q and A later, that saw The Necromancer in his unofficial dwelling. While he had quarters of his own where he slept, a large portion of his day was spent in the archives reading. The librarian, a lovely old mare by the name of Ruthless Slaughter (just Ruth, dearie), was nice enough to give him one of her triple platinum cards which granted full access.
It was an effective system, made redundant because apparently ponies forgot how to read, it would seem. On its best day, the archives would see 6 ponies max. Illiterate ruffians.
The Necromancer reclined lazily on one of the cushions, the light filtering in overhead warming and bright. Dust motes drifted with a laziness on par with his own, and the occasional flick of a turning page was the only sound in an otherwise quiet library.
Ruth still saw fit to 'shush' every other minute, but what are you gonna do?
The book, an excellent read, titled: My Grandma's A Were Pony - 101 ways to sew doggie jackets, was quite informative. Despite the deceptively queer tittle, it was the best abridged volume on wereponies available. Other titles are available, of course.
The Necromancer was flipping through the pages, occasionally stopping at an interesting bit, when his ears perked at the sound of hooves. He looked up to see a navy-blue earth pony stallion approaching.
"Hiya, I'm Converse Kicks, or just Kick, or just Converse for short. Are you the necromancer?" He asked rapidly. Despite looking to have gone through puberty some time ago, Kick's voice had a slight rasp to it. He had a smile on his face that reminded The Necromancer of his own.
"I am THE necromancer, yes." He replied.
"Great! Okay, So, I'm a new initiate here, and I saw your presentation this morning - interesting stuff, by the way - and just wanted to ask if you'd heal me if I get hurt, please?" He said energetically. The necromancer could already tell he would get along famously with kick.
"I can." He agreed, smiling.
"Great! Cheers, T.N! Can I call you T.N? Imma call you T.N." With that he turned with a speed that would have a Pegasus flustered, only to whip around on the spot again. "Oh, I almost forgot! Can you do me a favor, please?"
The Necromancer's interest piqued. He didn't get asked to many favors; apart from the occasional 'long walk off a small pier' shtick.
"What is it?"
Kick pawed at the desk contemplatively. "Well... a buddy of mine said that I had about as much of a chance as completing paladin training as I did of finding a green snake in a sugarcane field, mon. ...So I was wondering if you had any way of making me better!"
The Necromancer laughed amusedly. "AND you have a brain on you, too. You're gonna go far in this organization, kick. Oright, I can do that." He closed his eyes and channeled the magics.
As a necromancer, he drew from 2 separate energies - life and death; both of which came from the earth. So, as an earthpony, he merely acted as a conduit, unlike unicorns who had a fixed mana pool. Through strain and training, his ley lines - the channels that ran like veins throughout his body carrying the inherent magic that all earthponies have, and connecting them to the earth - had become the equivalent of an average unicorn's reserve. The larger the reserve, the more life or death magick that could be absorbed at a time. He was just a medium for it to flow through.
His hoof slid across the table, weaving life energy into a shaped form. It didn't come as readily as death energies to The Necromancer, for obvious reasons, but soon a small, deep-blue coloured ball coalesce atop his hoof. It churned like a calm ocean break, glowing aetherly and creating a whisper of air. When he was satisfied, he opened his eyes.
Kick was looking at the display like a kitty to yarn. If The Necromancer didn't know better, he'd say the navy stallion was about to ask if he could roll around on it - A look that was more often than not, the common to seeing life energy in its raw form. He laughed and flicked the ball at kick's chest.
It made contact, seeping into his barrel harmlessly. "Oh, tingly." he coed, rubbing at the spot. He looked up at The Necromancer after a beat.
"There. That'll take some of the strain off of your hooves. Your limits are increased and it'll help condition your body in weeks, rather than months," He elaborated. "Drink more juice, ya hear?"
"Thanks! I-"
"Heh, of course the mouthy one would find the fool." A snobbish voice said from an aisle. It was one of the more stubborn initiates from the briefing that morning.
Everypony was silent.
"How many stories would you say you could survive falling?"
While The Necromancer didn't follow through with his threat, he did glue the rude newcomer to the roof with his magic.
"It says it's sorry, or it gets the hose." He hissed, scratching at the air like a cat.
'Zippy' as they had come to call him, groaned in equal parts motion sickness and exasperation.
Kick giggled from the cushion he was seated at. "Look at him go! Like a pony on rocket-powered rollerblades!"
Zippy, for lack of better word, zipped laps around the library's dome roof, his already green coat getting greener by the second. lines of blue energy streaked behind his hooves like contrails.
"Go zippy go!" The Necromancer and Kick cheered.
"I'm! *spin* sorry! *spin* please let me down?!" He begged. Each word came with a new rotation, distorting it slightly.
After one final lap, and with a flick of a hoof, Zippy was sent sliding across the library roof, down the far side wall, and out the door. Ruth closed it with an application of her magic and a 'shush'.
"Aaaaand it's good~!"
They both broke out into fits of laughter, one of them even giggle-snorting; making them both laugh harder.
Oh yes, we'll definitely get along, The Necromancer decided.
When their laughs had subsided some, they bumped hooves for a job well done.
"I think he broke a new record!"
"I'll add it to the archives later."
The Necromancer returned to his book, only to jump when a shrill shout tore through the air.
"ZAMBIES!! THE ZAMBIES RE' COMING!"
An eyebrow respectively rose on each stallion, both turning to regard the other. "Err... ...What?"
Kick was the first to get it. He flinched into a half-crouch, his eyes wide. "Zombies!" He whispered.
"Oh, zombies." The Necromancer said thoughtfully. Then blinked when it processed. "Zombies!?"
They both scampered towards the door, almost tripping over each other and themselves. The Necromancer was the first to get there. He popped his head through the portal, looked both ways like a responsible adult, and then filed into the hall at a brisk pace.
The chapel's facilities were built around the courtyard, making navigation a cinch. It was pretty much just a white-washed rectangular castle.
The terrace doors where thrown open for the second time that day, startling a few ponies who had no doubt come to see what was going on. The Necromancer and Kicks charged out.
A sizeable crowd had already gathered, including The Elder - He stuck out that way - and Converse Kicks gasped. The Necromancer just looked (strangely enough) determined.
In the midst of the crowd, a bleeding Pegasi messenger was laying, half cradled in The Elder's hooves. He had numerous cuts and scrapes, and looked to have a broken wing. He wore a tattered courier's raiment over seaweed green fur and had a monotone blue mane. The pair rushed over.
Quickly, The Necromancer sat down on his haunches beside the injured pony, bringing his hooves to bare. Then, remembering his promise, looked to The Elder for an okay: seeing as how the messenger was unable to do so.
The Elder nodded and the he began work.
The Necromancer closed his eyes - if only for concentration - and his hooves began to tingle with life energy as it flowed into them from the earth. It was absorbed into his ley lines, then refined into the proper spell, and finally, flowed into the Pegasi in a mater of seconds. Spells were always more potent if the energy didn't have to travel back through the earth (commonly used on ranged spells, levitation, zippy, ect), so instead, The Necromancer ran his hooves across the more serious wounds at a close distance. Cuts sealed, forming scars, and the bleeding stopped as the healing glow continued.
When it was clear that the messenger wasn't about to bleed out, The Elder offered a canteen, to which the pony drank from gratefully. He nearly choked as The Necromancer used numbing, then fixing spells, to set his wing. He groaned, but otherwise drank up.
When he had his fill, he spoke tiredly. It was with an airy accent, and a... Dramatic stutter?
"Oh, oh it hurts real bad, real bad. It hurts."
The Necromancer paused his healing - apart from a few cuts that he couldn't reach, this pony looked fine.
"Where?"
As if to reply, the messenger let one rip.
Those gathered all cringed in disgust, the Elder's professionalism stoping him from dropping the stallion, even when his eyes watered. Laughter that sounded distinctly like Kick's could be heard somewhere.
"So Much better. Oh, a lot, lot better." The messenger pony coed, rubbing at his stomach.
The Necromancer blinked. "Did... Did y'all just fart in my general direction?" He asked, at a loss, then frowning as he realised he slipped into his accent, sneered. "You filthy little monkey! C'mer! I'll have you, I will!"
The messenger pony's eyes shot open, his blissed out expression changing to one of surprise, and he opened his eyes to see an enraged Necromancer, flailing wildly, but restrained by a firm hoof on the head from The Elder.
"Calm down, lad."
Begrudgingly, and with a snort, The Necromancer obeyed but still glared daggers. He mimed the 'I'm watching you' motions and crossed his hooves with a huff.
"Now," The Elder continued with a level voice that could only come with practice. "How did this happen?" He inquired of the injured pony.
The messenger seemed thoughtful for a moment. "Well, I had half a loaf of bread, cheese and I-"
"Not that," The Elder groaned. "Your wounds! How did you get them?"
The messenger pony seemed to seize up; like he was reliving a particularly difficult memory. He clenched and unclenched his jaw rapidly, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. "Zambies!" He cried suddenly, "They-they were everywhere! And skeletons! And zambies! And Everywhere!!"
A calming hoof slap was administered by The Necromancer. He was happy now.
The messenger sputtered, but managed to get back on track. He looked up with a sudden seriousness.
"Tartarus has opened."
This time, the messenger did find himself dropped on the floor, along with the jaws of Everypony present. Even the ever stoic, Elder Berry, and the mule veteran, Tight Ass, were having trouble reining in their surprise.
Unsurprisingly, The Necromancer handled this like he did any other situation: he laughed.
=====>10 minutes later.<=====
The Necromancer's room was a simple affair. Decorated sparsely, and not, in fact, with skulls or bones, as some would believe. (Except for the corpse of a goldfish floating in its tank that he'd been too lazy to reanimate.) But that didn't count.
The medium sized bed faced the only window in the room, and a sizeable bookshelf acted as partitioning. Numerous titles lined the shelf, organised like a Minotaur in a Neighpon shop - that is to say: not at all. An oak desk sat adjacent, littered with drawings and diagrams; formulas and such.
The distinct sound of ponies being armoured and drilled sounded through the window, finding its way to his room. The Necromancer paid it no heed, however - he was too busy rummaging through the closet and wardrobe for the saddle-bags and armoured duster he'd prepared for such an occasion. It had everything he'd need, plus more.
Quite a lot would change soon; a chain-reaction of events, indeed. The Necromancer could only hope. ...Hope, and drink juice.
He drew his hood with a grin.
=====>Elder Berry, 4 hour later.<=====
The feeling of an army at ones back was an empowering one, thought The Elder. He'd felt it a few times before; when he was a young buck, spry as a doe, and built like a manticore. Sadly, Pi-sho and biscuits had given him the belly of a trophy hound, though. He laughed at that.
Hammy always said I loved those cookies, even to a fault, he thought with a sense of melancholy. The Elder chuckled under his breath.
He'd emptied the chapel, leaving only the skeleton crews and servants behind a few hour ago, if the sun was correct. The march to shady sands - the canyon where the Nether portal stood - would take at least another half-an-hour with the size of the army.
behind him, 200 pairs of armoured hooves thudded against the ground, echoing off the great pines. Ferris was thick with Forrest's, thankfully none of it the Everfree. That would be a march The Elder didn't want to Repeat.
Each paladin was barded in plate and chain of White and black, weapons from bastard-swords to halberds all clacked and clattered agains the stallions and mares sides. Their cutie marks were printed on the large, roundish right-shoulder pauldrons, while the chapter insignia went on the left. Some ponies had capes across the plates on their backs, barrel and sides, while others had decorative and non-decorative scarves around their necks.
The elder himself, had personally inspected each piece of armour, and could easily say it was of fine make. Crafted from metals mined in Glittergulch mine, the chapel had spared no expense. He'd even worked with The Necromancer to imbue it with magic to further its protection to the wearer; not that he'd tell anypony, though.
Speaking of The Necromancer: he hadn't blown anything up yet, so Elder Berry could say the day was going better than expected.
He froze suddenly with bated breath, as if just merely having thought it would jinx the peace. No, that's silly. He-
He loosed a long-suffering sigh as the resident Necromancer and an initiate floated past atop a rock, laughing wildly. Where they found the time to paint flames, and the words "bits, burritos, and babes", he'll never know.
The initiate - one 'Converse Kicks', if he remembered correctly - was half a hair shorter than his flying (floating?) companion, and had a lean build; probably a farm hand looking for the excitement a plow and field couldn't provide. His cutie mark was a star, encircled by a white ring. The Necromancer wore a black and brown, hooded combat duster, he noted.
Despite the spectacle, the elder smiled: it was good to see the lad had made a friend. Celestia knows he could use one, he though with a half-grin.
A film of magic glowed from under the boulder, a deep neon green colour. It still amazed him every time he saw it - an earth pony throwing around spells; who knew? Absently, he rubbed at his chest, where The Necromancer had once almost taken his life, only to save it.
With a chuckle, he exhaled and continued the march.
=====><====
=
"Hey, T.N, can I ask ya' something?"
"As long as it's not 'where do we go when we die', then sure!" The Necromancer replied over his shoulder.
Kick gripped Dwayne (the flying rock) tighter as a particularly daring manoeuvre was pulled off. "Oh, okay. ...So remember this morning, when you talked to the recruits about... ...yeah?" It was clear from his tone that Kick felt awkward broaching the subject.
"Mmhm?"
"Well, don't you think its a bit... Immoral? I mean I'd hate to be trapped in my own body as some kinda.... zombie... Thing, and-"
"A thrall."
"What?"
"A thrall. That's what you're talking about. Or zombie, zombies pretty close, too." He explained. Kick still looked nervous, so hoping to assuage some of his fears, The Necromancer smiled comfortingly. "Don't worry, though. I made a promise a long time ago that I'd never bind a soul - restless or otherwise, without permission, and I intend to keep it." seeing Kick's confused look, he elaborated.
"See, when somepony dies, their soul lingers for a time." He said. "In this window you can re-bind it to their bodies, other things and objects, but that's a bit more complicated, and I don't really want to get into horcrux's right now. Anyway, Any time after the window, and the soul becomes restless and unstable. That's what makes the zam... er zombies you see so mindless - they're just husks held together with a restless soul, and, more often than not, not even the correct one, too."
"And you don't do that?" Kicks asked, relaxing somewhat.
The Necromancer shook his head. "Nope. I'll only ever touch a soul if I have permission to put it back into whoever lost it. After I Heal them, of course. I use reanimation - which is shaped death energies to keep it kickin', and a 'brain' of life energy to keep it thinkin' - on the corpses and skeletons that didn't make it; like I said at the meeting. And that's after the window the soul can't be returned ends, comprende?. They aren't as strong as thralls, but they'll give anything up to a Greater a run for their bits. Undead paladins, NOW that's another story!"
Kick nodded, ducking under a low laying branch out of reflex. He looked around to see the trees thinning out some - they must be close to the treeline.
"Hey, are we-" That was about as far as he got, before Dwayne stopped suddenly, catapulting Kick through the air. He yelped in surprise; but rather than furrowing a kick-shaped trench like he was expecting, Kick instead found himself redeposited atop Dwayne by the scruff of his armour.
He cast a grateful smile and a nod at The Necromancer, only to pause at seeing the shocked and...terrified...? look plastered on what he could see of The Necromancer's face inside the hood. He followed his line of sight.
