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[center][h1]Zarathia[/h1][/center]

[b]Necromancer.[/b]

The word cut Thia deeply with unintended and unknown accusation. The halberd resting lazily against her chest, burned in right hand, her fingers squeezing the cold metal until her knuckles turned a pale white. Gazing into the distance, from where the sobbing stranger had come, she saw smoke slowly beginning to rise on the horizon. There had been no small amount of violence committed, but there could always be more.

Too late, she thought, her anger fading as she drank slowly from the waterskin she held in her left hand. Her deliberations shifting to the doom that the villager was mournfully recollecting.

Who was there to save? The dead were dead. The undead were undead. The unfortunate souls ensnared by the foul magic of a necromancer could not be saved, they could only be freed, delivered to their deserved rest.

She could have kept going. She had no need to follow the road. She had not particular place to go. She did not believe in any destiny save that of the grave. She sighed and remained on the rock on which she was perched, studying the wretched, bloodied man in front of her with a look that revealed moderate irritation. She felt no pity, merely anger. It was always the same. Begging. Wailing. Desperate calls for help. The horror no longer moved her. It no longer touched her. She saw little more than weakness, cast in a painfully common pattern. Everyone expected to be saved. Everyone was waiting for a hero.

There was a hum, the rhythmic pulsing of power, a infernal orchestra that seemed to echo through the air. It pulled at her. It called to her. The feeling was familiar, a sensation that tugged at her buried memories, and filled her with a most unwelcome feeling. Longing colored by hatred, most desperately invoked, sent a shiver rising up her neck. She had no interest in encountering any reminders of her past. The Lady of Death had been right about one thing, the dead had no place in the world of the living, not even as specters.

Replacing the stopper in her waterskin and tying it to her belt, Thia rose from the moss covered stone, shifting her halberd until it loomed in front of her, ready to strike with the smallest of motions. With her free hand she brushed the dust off her robes, faded gray reappearing from underneath shades of brownish dirt with each motion. Her armor offered welcome resistance beneath the thick cloth. And her helm clattered mutely from where it hung slung over her shoulder.

The corner of her lips shifted into a lazy smile that never traveled close to her eyes, "Coin. How much? How much are you willing to pay? How much can you pay?"

The words tasted wrong, sharp barbs that cut the inside of her mouth, leaving her mouth swirling with a metallic flavor, like blood. And still she swallowed, accepting the bitterness, heedless anger driving her forwards. The Fates might have trapped her. The three witches might have ensnared her with their dark magic, but she would not work for free. She was no servant. She was no guileless believer. And she was no hero. Not by any measure.