“They’re not,” Jillian assured, “My family makes a point not being political. Wouldn’t make sense to antagonize part of our clientele and all.” Then she scoffed: “Cursed items. That’s exactly the kind of rumor that could ruin a business in Zerul. So long as they don’t [i]hurt [/i]anyone… Still, they could be forced to go elsewhere if their reputation is harmed too much. Maybe Relimon or Wenal.” [i]It’s not fair they should suffer any consequences at all. It wasn’t about them, never was.[/i] It all just made her hate Zerulic culture and law even more. Worse, she figured that, no matter what would or wouldn’t happen to her family, she was almost guaranteed not to see them again. And if she did, it would be anything but pleasant. Not unless she could prove to them that it had been [i]worth [/i]it. That she hadn’t meaninglessly destroyed a life given to her on a silver platter for nothing. That she had burned the old to make something better. Prove them wrong, or die in a ditch. There was no in-between anymore for the young witch, and her desire to live was as fierce as Gerald’s even without his wasting affliction.

She realized that she had been quiet after that for a handful of awkward seconds and startled. Looking to keep the conversation going and break the silence, she reiterated on a previous point of his. “Materials, huh?” She stretched out her legs, one folded over the other, towards the fire. The pale-skinned things were rather spindly, unaccustomed to exertion. The last few days of journeying had probably been the most taxing experience they had ever been subjected to.

“I thought necromancy [i]was [/i]more about the control of energy than the fabled desecrating of dead bodies. Or is it intertwined? Personally, I find reanimation distasteful.”

It wasn’t, strictly, that she lacked the bravery to face – or even create – undead minions, though they certainly were a disturbing sight that she was not (yet) accustomed to. Simply, the prospect held no appeal to her. Controlling lifeless, mindless dolls seemed so boring and [i]predictable[/i]. The witch in her recoiled at the idea of a minion that simply [i]executed[/i]. What she desired, though she did not know this, was a minion that had a will of its own. One that would act in revolt, question its master. One that could be bullied and forced into submission. Something that would give the magician the tremendous satisfaction of having conquered a creature and having made it their own. Not control, but dominance.

It was the siren’s song that lured Jillian into the depths of black magic, a false pretense of being able to master the untameable.