[center][h3] [/h3][/center][h3][hr][color=#82786E]Brandon Unicorn[/color][/h3][hr][indent] [/indent]
The figure’s words hit a deeper part of Brandon—one that wanted to appease his family and live up to his name. Being assumed dead was much better than being assumed a coward, and he could still correct that misconception. He could seek out his father and explain his circumstances, prove that misfortune had befallen him.

The more sensible part of him, though, knew that wouldn’t be an option if he wanted to find the people who’d done this to him. If he were to identify himself now, he’d stain his family name. A Unicorn being killed and reanimated? It was unthinkable, and his family would be better off thinking he ran away. Plus, identifying himself would put a target on his back. A Unicorn being reanimated was bad enough, but a Unicorn who wanted to go on living despite being reanimated? He may as well declare himself a necromancer at that point.

The figure waved their hand, and Brandon’s vision shook. As he was trying to comprehend what was affecting his vision, he was confused to find that his body was moving by itself, and he realized with surprise that the figure must have joined him in his body. His hands moved and his lips whispered words unfamiliar to him, and he was horrified to see the ground shifting under his feet as corpses came alive, sockets and joints wisping unholy green. Some had weapons, some had pieces of armor, and some had parts of flesh that sloughed off as they rose, falling to the ground like unnecessary decorations cast aside in favor of hard, white-cast ivory. 

As his stomach churned, the voice in his head spoke again, stating what was already apparent. He wasn’t just some reanimated corpse, he was a [i]necromancer[/i]. Full and proper, and quite a strong one too, if being able to raise a throng of corpses meant anything. The sight of all the bodies he’d pulled from the grave drew forth a wave of shame and disgust, but the voice in his head was right. Brunnerstadt’s followers would regret doing what they had to him. He’d see to that much.

A shade of uncertainty in the voice in Brandon’s head took him by surprise, and he paused, realizing that he’d regained autonomy over his body. Clenching and unclenching his gloved hands, he listened to the voice, heartbeat quickening when the voice revealed their weakness. Taking off the helmet, he could do it–free himself right now of the responsibility the voice was trying to have him take up, run home and try to explain his circumstance and position. His chances of avenging himself were as low as his chances of being able to rejoin his family, and it was clear which one would be easier. 

Breathing in, then out, he approached a skeletal horse, reaching to touch the creature’s skull, which shone white below the smudges of dirt covering it. On its back was what remained of a saddle, and there was no sign of a bridle or reins as it pawed the ground with one hoof, head bobbing as it nudged its skull into his hand. It lacked mane and tail hairs as much as it lacked skin and eyes, but Brandon could imagine the spirit it might have had at one point in time. 

As he stared at it, wondering how best to go about mounting it, it moved, kneeling before him. A look around had him realize that none of the skeletons had moved from where they’d risen, not even to look at him, and at this thought, a horde of skulls turned to look at him, the grinding of bone on bone sending chills down his spine. 

He stared at the undead around him for another second, struggling to come to terms with what’d happened thus far. Then, swallowing, he turned back to the horse, his mouth drier than what must’ve been comfortable if his body had still been alive.

[color=#82786E]“I won’t take off the helmet, but in return you’ll continue helping me.”[/color] He grasped the skeletal horse's shoulder blade, finding a foothold on the skeleton’s leg that allowed him to step onto one stirrup and swing his leg over and into the other. The horse rose as soon as he felt comfortable enough for it to do so, raising him so he could look over the army around him. [color=#82786E]“Guide me and answer my questions, and I’ll heed your words.”[/color]

His words came firmer than he felt, and his hand on the spine peeking out over the pommel of the saddle trembled still, however detached to it he felt. The only troops he’d ever led were the patrols of men he’d been sent out with, but here he was with an army, emulating the confidence he saw in his father and brothers. 

[color=#82786E]“We set out,”[/color] he said, his voice raised enough to carry through the empty plains around him, and though he felt like he was talking to nothing, the army heeded his words, starting forwards into the night. The moon and stars gave him direction in the desolation, and if the voice was correct, he was likely to the west of the Unicorn border. The way to go, then, was west still. They’d head towards the rocky foothills there, where an orc tribe was said to have set up camp, and he’d grow his army like the fel-wielding Asha-worshipers he’d only heard stories of until now, wield their powers and join their ranks like he already had. 

[color=#82786E]“Can you hear my thoughts?”[/color] Brandon asked after another moment of silence on the road, his army slow but steady by his side. [color=#82786E]“And what should I call you?”[/color] 

Thinking about the voice as just a voice was inaccurate, but at present that was precisely what the figure had become—merely a voice in his head, or helmet, rather. He could free himself of it if he should tire of it, and free himself of allowing it to read his thoughts as well, if it could. But that was a bluff, just as his words before had been, and he figured the voice knew as much. He needed all the help he could get right now. He could direct his army with a thought, but he had no idea how to maintain or increase it, or even wield it, for that matter. Would they fight as soon as he thought it, just like they’d start and stop when he did? He’d find out soon enough, he figured, and he swallowed again, uncomfortably aware of the hollow weight in his stomach. 

The sight of a smoke trail in the sky, lit up by the moon and clear against the cloudless sky, showed him where to go, and his army changed trajectory for it easily and almost imperceptibly. Almost, because he was aware they had, both because he’d willed it to happen and because he could see where they were headed now. He’d been raised on stories about Unicorns triumphing over demons, orcs, and sorcerors, and he retained a healthy fear of all of them, but he’d always feared necromancers more. Now, though, orcs seemed such a trivial fear. In comparison to the half-decayed bodies around him, goblins and centaurs didn’t seem so bad. Maybe he’d still tremble before a wyvern or cyclopes when he saw one, and maybe the shock was still affecting his thoughts, but he felt like nothing could faze him anymore. He was dead and dying, his breaths as false as his life, and if he could go down doing a little more good than bad, maybe it’d have been worth it accepting his fate as the doomed Unicorn.