In the haunted reaches of the Gleamwood, there is no ‘society’. There are only hardscrabble hamlets and the worn roads that link them. Anything beyond, anything off the beaten path even a little may as well be no man’s land—for certainly no men survive there. Overgrown, monstrous corruptions of forest wildlife creep just out of sight of the few torches that line the roads; but they’re not the sole reason why this land’s fallen so far.

The events that led to Gleamwood’s darkening have fallen from memory; it was so long ago that no one even knows what the sun looks like—not firsthand, anyhow. At best its rays may beat against a thick blanket of clouds, diffusing into a pale, weak illumination that only serves to allow people to see just how desolate their surroundings have become—or to have more of a warning when the risen corpses of their ancestors shamble out from the wilderness, driven by naught but mindless urges of destruction.

The threat of the undead isn’t in their skill in combat; they may not tire or feel pain, but their skeletal, rotted forms fall with ease under a well-placed blow. The most effective weapon against them is a blunt object—so it isn’t as if the surviving populace scattered throughout the countryside has any problem with self-defense. Nor is the danger in their numbers per se; attacks are rarely overwhelming in size—it’s their frequency. There is never a reprieve; the idea of a family letting their children play even in their garden is inconceivable. Leaving one’s home without a weapon, even to get water from the village well is as unwise as going for a morning jog wearing nothing at all in the midst of a blizzard.

In the face of such harsh subsistence, it’d be easy to wonder why those who dwell in the shadow of Gleamwood’s dense forests of pine and the terrors that lurk within remain. For some, it’s the promise of wealth—a land that even in its prime was more suited for farming than anything else has much in untapped resources. But for most, it’s a lack of ability. To leave means to be able to carry all that they own safely, along with themselves for the better part of a month—avoiding attention from feral beasts and befouled chitinous horrors, fending off the ever-present packs of roaming undead; even their fellow man, driven to unsavory deeds of violence and theft. No threats are as prevalent as the wretched corpses; no other force in the realm has taken so many lives and ruined so many homes. In a nutshell, the people of Gleamwood have nothing they hate more than the undead, and all related to them. There are no more graves, only funeral pyres. Families without the pain of loss do not exist here.

In such a grim place, it’d be a natural assumption that anyone even tangentially related to the dead would be looked upon with suspicion…let alone those who could raise and command the very same mockeries of life. After all, why would someone who can animate the dead come here, if not to take advantage of lawlessness and discord so they and their endless minions could wreak havoc?

It’s a question that occasionally came to one girl’s mind, when she heard tales of such dark travelers from her fellow villagers. Her parents had died of sickness when she was barely old enough to write and while the rest of the villagers did what they could, in the end she was raising herself. In time, her light brown skin became roughshod, marred by the scars and blemishes of a hard life; her cherubic, spritely nature that once shone in her big, brown eyes dulled by the realities of living in constant fear and strife; her raven hair frayed and unkempt…What was the purpose of keeping up appearances when there was nothing ahead in life but an early death and burial by fire?

Victoria was her name, but by her sixteenth year she felt it to be as much a joke as the land’s name. There was no victory here, only another day surviving…but to what end? More misery? Not even the thought of skulking skeletons and shambling corpses frightens her as much as the realization that this, this is all there is. There is nothing above just surviving; it’s just this village, slowly becoming less and less until everyone’s dead. Her growing listlessness was sadly common among some of the softer-hearted inhabitants of Gleamwood; as varied as people can be, some are unable to persist amid such oppressive despair. Victoria grew distant from the others in her village, spending more and more time on the quiet outskirts of town. In her mournful solitude, the girl found herself at times wondering what people would think if she was slain by some feral creature, or roaming corpse. Would they go looking for her? Would they even know where to look? Would they even care? Ultimately, one part of her suspected that many in town thought she’d just wander off one day, only to be struck down by whatever denizen of the woods came a little too close to town. Indeed, that’s almost what happened on one fateful day.

It was roughly midday, based on where the dim clouds were the ‘brightest’. Victoria had been wandering among a dilapidated potato field, although now only weeds and worms thrived in the dirt—it was much too far from the village center to be safe from roaming fiends. She was staring at one of those writhing grubs, deep in empty thought when she heard the hollow footsteps of her murderer. Turning around, her eyes met empty sockets and a jawless visage; she saw the raised, weighty tree branch. As it came arcing down towards her, the girl had only one thought: at least she’d see her parents again.

Bone shattered under a crushing blow and arms fell limp…but not hers. She had shut her eyes to await the end, but when they opened, she saw her would-be assassin crumpled in a heap, its skull cracked open. And then, the most unbelievable sight, beyond her scope of imagination.

Undead fighting undead; led by a tall, thin woman who looked as if she was a walking corpse herself. As pale as the fallen snow in body and hair, with piercing turquoise eyes and clad in armor that appeared to be made of bone itself; one hand alight with unholy sorcery while the other swung a wicked sickle through rotting flesh and sinew like it was mere air. That same magic burned in the sockets of her osteal guard; a pale hue the same as the dark mage’s own eyes. Howling spirits whirled and struck through the bones of the attacking undead, causing them to burst into pale flame, crumbling to ash before they struck the ground; and with each swing of the wicked woman’s scythe the very essence animating her foes faded, drawing into her form instead.

She and her minions totaled fewer than six; yet they managed to fell no less than twelve risen corpses—along with the straggler that tried to strike Victoria down. She couldn’t believe it; how? Why? So many questions come racing into her docile-no-longer mind, and she finds herself unconsciously stepping towards her apparent savior.

“I would advise you to not come closer,” spoke the pale woman, turning around to face Victoria. Her voice was at once mystical and imposing; with a rich depth that ensured it’d carry across distance with ease. “As you may well know, the dead have a habit of not staying such.”

Victoria pauses mid-step, eyes briefly widening before she realized that was spoken out of caution, not brusqueness. “I…Why did you do that? Save me, I mean.” Her own voice is shaky and tense; far from the musical tone it normally has. Now that she’s able to realize how close she came to a grisly end…

“Why does anyone who has the ability help someone who cannot help themselves? Or chose not to…” she says rather pointedly, much to Victoria’s chagrin. Although when she tries to muster up the words to retort, they fail to coalesce. She might not feel like accepting an early death now, but a few moments ago…

It doesn’t serve well to dwell on what could have been. Inhaling sharply, Victoria glances back towards her village, then at the necromantic woman once more. “Well…thank you. I just don’t understand, you…your skeletons; why would you fight others?”

“Swords can be used to kill good and evil men in equal measure; magic is much the same. The tool does not force someone choose to commit good deeds or great transgressions, they alone make that decision.” At that, she turns around, her risen soldiers walking in lockstep as she heads towards the treeline, away from both Victoria and the road.

“Wait!” Victoria calls out, taking several steps forward. “That doesn’t answer my question though; why are you here? In this place?”

Turning back around, the older woman raises a brow as she crosses her arms. “This place? Do you mean your village?”

“Well, this…here, this forest in general. The whole land,” Victoria says awkwardly, stumbling over her words as her mind processes what she’s only a short while ago witnessed. “But that too, I ‘spose.”

“Supplies, if your village will allow me entry. The dead may not need to eat, but I am not quite so fortunate.”

‘Fortunate’…what a truly odd term to use for the living dead, Victoria muses. Still, this woman didn’t have to rescue her—and certainly doesn’t have to be as well-mannered as she’s been so for. Helping her out is the least she can do. “Well, if you can keep the skeletons out here then I’d be happy to make sure no one gives you a hard time while you’re here. And you don’t have to pay for a bed if you want to sleep in a safe place, you can stay at my house!”

Sirkotu seems genuinely surprised by the offer, silent for a moment before her expression softens, and she nods towards Victoria. “I appreciate your generosity then.” She waves a hand out towards her skeletal warriors, and they all at once fall to pieces, the individual bones crumbling to ash that scatters across the decrepit field before they hit the ground. “Please, lead the way,” the pale woman says politely.

“Sure; although can I ask a question, uh…What’s your name? Sorry,” Victoria says with an awkward grimace before starting back the way she came, through the field and towards the main road into town.

“There’s no need to apologize. You may call me Sirkotu; and you?”

“That’s a strange name. It’s not a bad one, but did your parents give you that? Oh, and I’m Victoria! Right…”

“A pleasure to meet you Victoria,” the necromancer says with surprisingly warm smile. “But no, that is not the name of my birth. I gave that name up long ago when I joined my order. It’s considered a rite of passage; a way for…ah, forgive me. I can sometimes drone on.”

“No, that’s alright! I’m…well, you aren’t what I was expecting for a necromancer. I’m a little curious, honestly. Sorry if that’s rude,” Victoria says, once again frowning with a downward gaze.

“It isn’t rude at all to be curious, Victoria. You don’t need to keep apologizing…but to finish my answer since you want to know, taking a new name is a way for us to show our commitment to our order’s ideals…as for what those are, that is something that would take some time to explain. But our goals are noble, if that might set your mind at ease.”

It apparently does, as the young brunette is positively bursting with further questions before long. It’s only when they get in sight of other villagers that she quiets down, not wanting them to overhear anything that might put them in even more of a suspicious mood. There aren’t many villagers left who roam the streets during the day, but those that do either gawk at Sirkotu’s bizarre appearance, or they stare daggers into her, either too wary or too disgusted to go further than that however. Their experience with the only proper shopkeeper left in the village would’ve likely have gone even worse if not for Victoria’s presence; he openly said that because he ‘liked seeing a child here smile for once’ that he’d serve Sirkotu. Throughout all this, the ghostly pale woman shows not even a hint of annoyance or offense taken at the villager’s reactions; even when Victoria presses her about it, all Sirkotu says in response is that she ‘doesn’t expect everyone to have an open mind.’

The afternoon outside turns into an evening within Victoria’s home—rather dilapidated and as unkempt as she is, even compared to the rest of the village houses. Victoria’s questions only increase now that they have privacy to speak freely, and Sirkotu is quite willing to oblige the girl. From magic to history, favorite childhood stories to some of the necromancer’s exploits in battle; they chatted the evening away until it was finally time for them to turn in. Yawning, Sirkotu rubs her eyes with a deep breath. “I must say Victoria, you are not what I expected to find here. When I saw you in that field, I had presumed…well, that you were someone very different than you are. This was a welcome change from my usual solitary evenings.”

“I’m just glad you’ve been so willing to indulge me,” Victoria says with a polite, if a little bit sad smile. “I almost don’t want this night to end; I know we could just keep talking!”

“Ah, I’m sure you could Victoria, but I’m afraid I need my rest. Walking cross-country drains more out of you than you might think, but we’ll have time to say our goodbyes tomorrow.” At that, Sirkotu starts to get up while Victoria mulls over what was just said. ‘Our goodbyes’…

“Sirkotu?” the messy-haired brunette asks, her dark eyes peering up at the alabaster woman, a mixture of trepidation and anxious anticipation showing prominently on Victoria’s face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course; what is it?”

“Can I come with you? Tomorrow, I mean. Traveling.”

Now it’s the necromancer’s turn to look surprised, her faintly glowing eyes opened wide. “That is…unexpected. Why do you wish to come with me?” she asks, lowering back down to sit cross-legged in front of Victoria once more.

With some time to think, Victoria wonders why indeed. Venturing out into the dangers of the wilderness with a woman who wields undeath like others wield a sword? It’s the sort of thing that should strike fear into her heart to even consider…but as Victoria looks at the corpse-pale woman, she comes to a realization: she isn’t afraid. Looking at Sirkotu, even remembering how she fought with haunting magic, flanked by her osteal guardians…there isn’t any fear; not like the fear she felt when she realized how close she had come to death. Not like the fear the previous times she’d come face-to-face with the risen dead either.

This woman wasn’t afraid either. She stands against monsters and doesn’t bat an eye; she’s cut them down like chaff before the wind. Victoria’s had nearly seventeen years of life to this day, and the only times she truly was without fear was with her parents. And now…

“I almost…died. I…I don’t have anything here, not really. You see what I have left since…since my parents…well, you know what happened to them. I…” part of her wants to say what’s been unsaid this entire evening, why she was ready to accept that makeshift club splitting her own skull open. But it’s one thing to be aware of how close she was to accepting her death; it’s another to actually give such a terrifying thought voice. “I don’t want to end up in that situation again, at the mercy of that terrible monster today.” Victoria wants this, truly. She knows that she’ll slip back into her mournful ways once Sirkotu leaves—and what might happen then, when she’s in the midst of her crushing melancholy and no piercing-eyed, stalwart necromancer is there to save her? “A-And, you have a, well, distinct look. I can get supplies for you! I know how to fight too-well, swing a stick at least…”

Sirkotu looks at Victoria for what feels like an eternity, staring in silence with an impassive, focused gaze. Finally, just when Victoria’s anxiousness was coming to a head, the corpselike woman speaks. “I cannot promise your safety. Nor can I promise that you’ll be better off in my company than here…I am on my second year here, and you are the first who’s been cordial to me. But…I suppose I could use the help with the locals. You know what I will be doing; the dangers that you will be exposed to. If you still want to come, then I will not deny you.”

Sirkotu rises back to her feet after that, and Victoria nods silently to her as she mulls over what the necromancer said. What if she can’t handle the dangers out there, and she turns tail, fleeing back here and hiding under the covers?

As quickly as that fear arose however, it’s struck down by a simple truth: this place isn’t truly safe. Perhaps worse, it offers nothing but existence to Victoria. No chance for happiness, no opportunities to make something of herself…just stagnation, and perhaps meeting a similar fate to her parents. Ultimately, the ‘security’ of this village didn’t protect her parents. More than that, her close encounter with death made Victoria realize just how truly terrifying the roaming dead are. How many others saw what she saw, but had no one to save them? The very thought knots Victoria’s stomach.

These are the realizations that give Victoria…not hope, but something more enduring. A goal; a purpose of her own. To not give in to despair and cower, helpless and afraid of what lies beyond the village’s torchlight. To understand this woman, and what allows her to face such horror down willingly—what lets her make her own safety. That’s why Victoria goes straight to bed, and wakes up early to pack her bags. When the two of them left town early that morning, Victoria doesn’t look back.

In the coming weeks, she learns much about her savior; small details at first. Sirkotu came from afar—as she put it, ‘a world away’. She came to this land for a simple, if daunting reason: to hunt down the source of the darkness plaguing Gleamwood and root it out. Victoria had heard stories in her youth of knights in shining armor, dedicated to rooting out corruption and evil wherever it took hold…she had never assumed that someone so stark in contrast would have similar goals.

In time, Victoria also learns why her companion had first taken up such dark arts. Much like their first encounter, Sirkotu had been a young girl when she met her master. Her curiosity had also been the impetus for her decision, albeit it was less curiosity about the man who taught her and more what his magic could do. For Sirkotu, the idea of raising the dead was almost spiritual. Those that aren’t buried in graves rarely wished to die where they did; their lives forever remained incomplete. By giving their bodies new life, they can still serve—and in some cases, even gain vengeance on those who felled them. As Sirkotu put it, ‘Life is a grand cycle; one of death and rebirth. We do not disrupt this cycle, we merely keep it in balance.’

At first, Victoria was merely curious about who Sirkotu was, and why she made the choices she did. As she learned more and more however, she began to understand in her own way what her companion’s goals were. Why she’s chosen such a harsh, unforgiving life, to be seen as evil despite working tirelessly towards good. As Victoria becomes more accustomed to life on the move, she finds herself wondering what she might do with the rest of her life—however long it may be. Her thoughts always seem to come to the same conclusion however…so one evening as the two of them sit in the midst of a small clearing, warmed by fire and watched by Sirkotu’s skeletal sentries, Victoria acts on her thoughts.

“Hey, Sirk? How old were you when your master took you as a student again?”

The necromancer rolls her eyes ever so slightly at her given nickname, although she hardly seems perturbed by it as she looks up to meet Victoria’s gaze. “Mm? Eleven. Why?”

“I was just wondering…were you always, well. I don’t mean to be rude,” Victoria says with an awkward chuckle, “But…pale? White hair, those eyes…they’re the same color as the magic you use, so it can’t be a coincidence, right?”

“You aren’t being rude Victoria, although I appreciate the concern,” Sirkotu says, her lips curling upward ever so slightly. For her, it’s practically a beaming smile; while the necromancer may be a kind soul at heart, her emotions are almost as subdued as the dead she surrounds herself with. “In my youth believe it or not, I looked as you do. I think I was a little darker, but we had the same color hair. My training as an acolyte took years, and it required me to endure much. It was not painful or harsh…but our spells are not simple, nor effortless. We have to learn how to draw upon the essence that all magic, all life holds to help fuel these spells so we are not overtaxed; the process of learning how to do this drains our bodies however. It’s not instant…but what it takes from us in appearance it gives to us in ability. We can imbue ourselves with as much might, stamina or alacrity as we need, and use it as we see fit.”

Victoria had a suspicion that magic was partly why Sirkotu was so pale, but hearing that they once looked similar makes it hit home just how much her friend’s endured, all for such a selfless purpose. “That’s strange, not even being able to remember what you looked like as a child. You don’t look that old.”

Sirkotu’s smile widens into a wry grin, a brief expression of genuine emotion before her more reserved nature takes hold again. “Looks can be deceiving, Victoria…I appeared to be in my thirties before my eighteenth birthday, and I’ve looked more or less the same ever since. When you can channel the forces of life and death, age becomes…academic, really.”

If anything, such a revelation about Sirkotu only increases Victoria’s interest. “Well…you’re definitely still flesh and blood. So I ‘spose that’s not too bad if you just live a long time…It only took you a few years to learn necromancy though? That doesn’t sound so bad—well, aside from the life-draining part. That sounds grueling, as if learning magic was hard enough. Were you quick at learning it compared to other necromancers?”

“No, not at all. My saving grace for being such a slow learner however was that when I do learn something, I never forget it. It becomes second nature to me. Something that my master seemed to appreciate in fact…perhaps because it lessened the chance of my newfound abilities causing me to develop undue arrogance.”

“So…” Victoria starts, glancing down as she purses her lips. “Do you think you know enough to take on a student?”

A rare look of surprise is Sirkotu’s immediate response, the older woman remaining in thought for a moment. “You are asking to be my apprentice? I wouldn’t think that someone from here would want such a thing.”

“Well…I’ve been traveling with you for awhile now. I’ve sort of gotten used to these guys,” Victoria says with a nod towards one of the statuesque skeletons around them. “And, well…I’ve seen what you can do to help people with this. I know you mentioned something before about an academy for your order, so maybe I could just go there instead if you’d rather not? I don’t want to make you feel like you have to do it yourself of course!”

“Ah…” Sirkotu says, more somber now. “I am afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

Sirkotu turns her gaze towards their campfire, watching the crackling flames dance their tireless routine against the darkness as she speaks. “Suffice it to say that you’d have better chances of sprouting wings and flapping above the clouds, than to be able to travel to the land I am from. I…effectively am the only one here. I may be the only one left, as it’s been, well. Quite a while…”

“Oh,” Victoria says with a bite of her lower lip and a downward gaze, “Sorry Sirk. I didn’t mean to make you feel sad…” At that, she stays silent, not wanting to say anything more to potentially upset the necromancer.

“I accept.”

Victoria consternation inverts, and her gaze snaps upwards. “What? You mean…?”

“I do.” Sirkotu nods, before looking back over towards Victoria. “My master showed me a dead baby chick, then reanimated it before my eyes. The time from our first meeting to me agreeing to learn from him was measured in minutes…and I’ve known you for far longer than that.”

“Well…I-I, I’m grateful,” Victoria stammers, “I didn’t think you’d agree honestly…it just seems like you’d want someone…I dunno, more serious, I ‘spose?” Victoria asks with a shrug before quickly adding, “Not that I’m having second thoughts! I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“I think you are serious though, Victoria. You might make awful jokes about these skeletons at times,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “But you understand the difference between evil and dark. You never once said you hate the undead either…you’ve said you hate what they do. You hated people dying…but you don’t let that feeling turn you towards violence. There is one thing to be said, however.”

Victoria straightens in her seat, swallowing as she stares attentively at Sirkotu. “Of course; what is it?”

“This is not an idle pursuit, Victoria. I trust your intentions, but you need to understand…this is a calling. Your very being will change, and the powers we command will mark you for life. A potentially very long life…other facets of life will still exist, of course—I personally enjoy playing the flute,” Sirkotu says, waiting long enough for Victoria’s cracked grin to settle back down before continuing.

“That is all secondary. This is…your life, essentially. Are you prepared for that commitment? It isn’t the sort of thing you can refuse later on…you may choose to never cast another spell again, or reject all our order’s teachings…but you can never stop being a necromancer. Do you understand?” Sirkotu asks, not unkindly.

Victoria’s first impulse is to nod right then and there, but she understands the gravity of what Sirkotu’s saying well enough. It’s something that she should at least review in her head, just to be sure—and to show her potential master that she’s not acting on a whim. Her mind goes back to what she’s been mulling over for awhile now however; what her purpose in life will be. What she wants to do with the time she has on this world…however long or short.

She should’ve died that day. If it wasn’t for Sirkotu, she would’ve. If it wasn’t for the actions of a stranger, she’d be dead. Such nobility in this desolate place…perhaps, even though Victoria didn’t realize it that day, that was the reason she wanted to follow her friend-turned-teacher. She had never seen such a selfless act before, and in a way, it reminded her of her parents. How they just…loved her, without any condition. It was the right thing to do and they did it happily.

With deep breath, Victoria looks back at her unusual friend, her smile soft but sure. “I do.” She feels the urge to say more…but really, that’s all that needs to be said.

“Very well.” Sirkotu pushes herself up from the forest floor before extending her hand out towards Victoria. “I figure for someone who’s so sure in their decision, you’d want to begin learning immediately,” she asks, warmth evident in her voice.

For the first time since the loss of her parents, Victoria feels not just safe, but secure. There’s a surety in her decision that wraps around her like a blanket, and she takes that outstretched hand without a moment’s hesitation, pulling herself upright. “You bet Si-…master. What’s the first lesson?”

“Let’s see…I suppose I can start with something simple. If you do well, I might show you how to raise a golem of clay…or as you liked to call it, ‘Rocky’.”

“Ooh! Speaking of names, I was thinking about a nickname for me. Sirkotu’s a cool one, even though that’s your real name…Zack, Zick, Zir…Zirda—what about Zirdalen? That sounds cool, right?”

“One step at a time Victoria…now. Watch my arms closely.” Sirkotu says, beginning the first moments of the rest of Victoria’s life.