Necromantic Unbirth by SkeletalBookeeper (WebArchive)

The life of a necromancer was not, she reflected bitterly, one of comfort. While the ironic life of a being dedicated to the raising of dead tissue was certainly not without its’ pleasures- mostly of the flesh- it was, by and large…

“Disgusting.”

She spat the word to nobody in particular as her mud-stained robes were thoroughly drenched in a downpour that could only be called torrential. Fat droplets spattered on the battlefield, ensuring no crows or other scavengers would be after the somewhat fresh remains- but it would not last. She had to be quick about this work, and a grisly work it was.

If you were watching the curvaceous sorceress go about her work you might find it a ghastly sight to find her bare hands covered in blood, her nose sniffing at the torn remains of a wood-elf as if the scent of viscera and death were the finest Lagorian perfume.

You would not recognize the words she murmured, an ancient blessing so old not a soul knew who originally spake it- and you would not see her hands gently caressing one pallid cheek, closing the eyes that still shone with a bravery only a warrior knew.