04/02/2026
The Tale of The Necromancer
Too small.
Too big.
Too many holes.
And on and on it goes as the lone necromancer scavenges through the piles of bones. He is up to his elbows as he sifts through endless bony remains, searching for *just* the right piece to complete his next project. There is no reason to not be picky. After all, there is no shortage of bones. They litter this world from pole to pole.
Though "world" was not quite the right term for it....
Wasteland? No. That implies that there is "waste" here. And there is not.
Hellscape? No. That would imply it is hell, and it is not.
No, the term for a world like this is simple. This world is a corpse.
Its surface had gone gray and lifeless long ago, like the decayed remains of a bloated cadaver. Its grass gone dry, its earth now spongy with slime and discharged fluid. The things that the necromancer believe used to be "trees" were now little more than scratching claws that rake at the clouded sky. The once beautiful bodies of water had long since either run dry, or become so choked with bodies that they resembled little more than landfills. The sun never shone through the thick ceiling of clouds, and the earth was forever painted in a monotonous gray hue.
But it is not the dead trees, nor the filthy lakes, nor the matted sky that draw the attention of those that still dwell here. No, the only thing that matters now are the bones. Bones of animals, of people, of monsters. Of anything and everything that used to call this once fertile place "home". They are everywhere. They strangle the waterways, they carpet the floor, and they stretch high, high into the sky as towering mountains of pale white. They stink of rot and dust, and sometimes if you listen *just* close enough... The wind that echoes through them sounds an awful lot like screaming.... The necromancer doesn't know why they are there, the necromancer doesn't know how they are there. And he does not care. For all he sees them as, are resources. Only a means to create anew.
The necromancer knows no one else lives here anymore. And that includes him. He does not think himself to be alive, nor does he think himself to be dead. He simply is. He knows not what he wishes to accomplish, he knows not where he is heading. All he knows is search, scavenge, and summon.
There are others like him that roam this rotten realm. Others that are neither dead nor alive, warm nor cold. And it is against them that the necromancer plots. It is because of them that he is forced to endlessly walk among the mountains of bone and sinew. It is because of them that he endlessly forages the skeletal towers. It is because of them that he desecrates the remains of the dead to build his shambling, clattering, army.
Or at least, that's what he tells himself.
For as the necromancer looks over his shoulder, he sees an awful lot of amalgam skeletons.... But not an awful lot of other necromancers.
In all truth, the necromancer has not seen another of his kind for centuries. A part of himself, deep down, knows they are all gone. He knows he is alone in this fetid world. But he will not admit it to himself.
Is it because of loneliness? Is it because of remorse?
No.
It is because he would get bored.
For if there is no other necromancers to fight, then to whom will he send his skeletal army? Who's screams will he listen to? Who's flesh will he watch be ripped free from its frame?
What a dreadfully boring thought.
So he continues to walk. He continues to build. Despite a lack of enemies to fight, despite the fact that HE. IS. ALONE.
Or at least. He was.
For as the booming thunder rips through the stale air of his corpse world, the necromancer knows something is finally happening.
And there he sees it. Through a shimmering, glittering crack in the sky. Another world. A world of lush green green, sparkling blue water, and happy, fat, fleshy people.
The necromancer can't help but smile.
Is it because he is happy to see a world that isn't dead?
No.
It is because this time.... He will get to watch it die.
Bye bye, Dollies~!
