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    The world was outside that door. The sounds of anger and hate and righteous fury and chants of passages of their holy books drifted through the great gao door, teasing and taunting Kiv, reminding him that his end was soon. Yet he didn’t care. It didn’t matter to him that his death was approaching; death meant little to him after all. He was trained to harness and master death. They could stab him with every sword in the kingdom and it wouldn’t even faze him. They could shoot him full of arrows and chop off his limbs and cut out his heart and he wouldn’t even feel it.
    But that one weapon… that sword wielded by Bræk, the hated Beadolēoma. That was different, that was powerful… and it had killed the only person in Kiv’s life whom had ever cared for him.
    The old man was so still, so quiet, so… dead. Considering they were supposed to be necromancers, seeing someone so lifeless like this was almost unreal. Kiv had been taught that death was never the end, that unlife was simply another step in existence, the true step for existence in fact. Life was frail, short and often wasted, but unlife was everlasting, strong and powerful… and yet.
    Here was his master, his eyes closed, his body unmoving. The very thing, his soul, his spirit, whatever it was that made him him was gone. Now… Kiv was all alone again. Everything had abandoned him, everything had betrayed him and soon, he too would join his master’s soul in the maw of the great undead lord, Asmodeus for all eternity.
    As he heard the last of the castle’s summoned demons and undead ghoulish warriors fall to the onslaught of soldiers, peasants and the knight himself, his eyes slowly travelled upwards to the door and his mind drifted, just for a moment, to his sister, to the very start of all of this madness, of this life which it seemed all but Kiv had chosen for him.

*** - Of all things one should remember, my dear boy, is that whilst a heart may stop beating and the flesh rot away, the bones remain useful for many years to come! – Quote of Necromancer Igyon Notæk. - ***

    “BIG BROTHER!” Smerte yelled as she ran over to him, a huge smile on her tiny face and her arm’s open wide to hug Mase as she did. She had tanned, almost dusty brown skin, but her eyes were bright orange and her horns a very peculiar golden brown, a sign of innocence and beauty. She was a tiny little thing and she wore a single dress which was a faded pink in colour. She had a single golden band around one of her still growing horns, the only piece of jewellery she had.
    Mase smiled a little as his sister collided into his side and gripped in a tight hug, and he put an arm around her in turn but kept one hand on his brush. Mase had short, just curling dark horns on his head and dark, almost black eyes. However, his most unusual feature was his dark, almost charcoal black-brown skin. He was wearing a top also, and a pair of loose shorts, both a matching dirty grey and patched and worn. He had dirt all over him and many stains on his top as he’d been working all day, as was his chores placed onto him due to his… special status.
    “You mustn’t be here,” Mase said quickly, but without losing his smile, “Father will not approve.”
    Smerte let go of him and looked up, grinning sweetly, “I know! But I don’t care, father can’t order me around.”
    Smerte, despite being young, knew how to abuse her adorableness to the extreme. It was the only reason she’d never been smacked by their father for hugging and spending time with Mase. Even the servants got a strong look of disapproval whenever they talked to Mase, even if they were giving him instructions. If his father could afford to have them give him only bits of paper to hand out their orders, then he would have done years ago.
    Mase was a special case in the large mansion that was his family’s home. His father was an old war general. He had personally won the battle of Hguuyti and captured a space-gate from the demons that had been using it to bring in terrors to Vort. Now the gate was used to travel to Irk and other planets for peaceful trade, a great boon to their Kingdom indeed.
    However, when he’d come home he found that his wife, whom had become pregnant before he left, had given birth… but it wasn’t the son he wanted. The dark skin, the dark eyes, the dark horns, they were all signs that the child was cursed and had been marked by a demon. He had shouted and accused his wife of sleeping with devils and making pacts with the dark lords.
    Then he’d turned his anger onto his newborn son, almost banishing him from the family and throwing him onto the streets before his mother begged him not to be so cruel and to keep the boy in the home, even if he had to work the rest of his life as a slave. Mase’s father agreed, and thus, the boy had been given his own little hut on the other side of the mansion garden, away from everyone and completely secluded from society… except for Smerte, she visited him often and was the young boy’s only friend.
    Her actions were the only rays of light in Mase’s life, which really said a lot.
    “Well in that case,” Mase smiled even wider, leaning onto his broom “I must ask you how were your lessons today?”
    The little vortian girl rolled her eyes, “Boring! All they teach me is writing, reading and how to be a good wife!” She looked back to her brother with wide, rather annoyed looking eyes, “I want to learn all the things that Yuûri and Byron learn!”
    Yuûri and Byron were the older brothers of the family, the twin son’s who would inherit all the wealth, power and land that their father had spent years of his life to earn. They didn’t deserve it however, as even Mase knew of their exploits with the unmarried peasant girls in the nearby village and the foolishness in which they spend their days drinking and bragging of deeds they’d never done.
    Smerte on the other hand had all the signs of being a proper inheritor of the estate. She was smart, fun, eager to learn and loved by everyone. But both Mase and Smerte knew that she would just be married off and turned into a son-making machine the moment she got to her eighteenth birthday.
    Such was life in their age… her brothers were there only to continue the family line, whilst she would be used to form alliances… and Mase? Well, he would eventually die and be brushed under the carpet, forever forgotten by history.
    Well, that is unless his sister saved him like she always talked about doing. “When I get married, I’m dragging you with me. I can’t be left alone with some boring snob! What if he tries to hug me or something!” She giggled and smiled at her brother, “I’ll need you to protect me.”
    “I can barely protect myself,” Mase muttered in a low voice, but looked up to his sister with a brave, if a little sad, smile, “But I will try, dear sister.” He sighed heavily now and looked over his shoulder to the barn, “I should get going, the cumal’s need to be cleaned out. It’s a job that’s specially left to me you know.”
    “Wow! You must be great at it!” Smerte squeaked out in pride, even as Mase rolled his eyes knowing that it was only left to him because no one else wanted to shovel cumal poop around.
    “Goodbye for now my dear sister!” He called as he turned to leave, waving to the little angelic girl, unknowing that events of that night would forever transform his life.

*** - Never look too deep into the warp, for there are things which lurk there, sleeping gods of madness, plotting demons of chaos, which will use your soul as a plaything for all eternity. – Quote of Necromancer Gùr. -***

    FINALLY, it was done. He may stink like cumal crap but it was finally done. The stables were cleaned out and Mase could finally retire to his little hut at the end of the garden to sleep. There wasn’t really much else to do there, although he did have a few books and he’d been trying to teach himself to read but it was really hard considering he had no idea which sounds went to which letters.
    Still, he stomach rumbled in hunger as he put away his shovel and looked around, he knew that this place would be wrecked later on when his loud and stupid brothers returned to ruin all his hard work as they always did. They’d probably have sex with some damn bar wenches in the hay then he’d have to throw all that hay out and replace it and UGH. It really never ended.
    Now, on a usual night, Mase would have simply walked to the door, took one last look around and shut it, locking it and leaving for the servants quarters for some left over food then to his hut, but not tonight, no. Perhaps, watching from vast swathes of space with powers incomprehensible, forces of which no mortal mind could ever understand moved, shifting just slightly in the way of the universe to alter this young boy’s destiny for whatever means they needed him for.
    Or perhaps it was just that he’d left the shovel on a bit of an angle, causing gravity to do what it does best.
    Either way as he turned, he heard something wooden slide along the barn wall, and as if everything in time had slowed, he could only turn to watch in horror, a terrible pit of bile sickness suddenly appearing in his stomach and his mind going blank as the handle of the shovel hit the small lamp that had been illuminating his work.
    In what seemed like seconds, the lamp had hit the hay-covered floor, already dry from the hot summer, and the fire started to spread like a pack of wolves rushing through the barn, eating more and more of everything it touched, consuming anything it could.
    His mind however could only think of one thing, his punishment. He knew that it would be harsh, hasher then anything he’d ever suffered before. Mase wondered if he would be killed for this, it was certainly a possibility as this was just the kind of thing that would get any of the servants killed, and with his condition…
    As he backed unconsciously towards the door of the barn, trying to get away from the raging heat and approaching ravenous of the fire. The only thing he could think of doing was running, running to his hut, grabbing whatever he could and just going, fleeing as far and as fast as he could across the fields, away from the fire, away from his punishment… and away from Smerte.
    As the cumals began to cry and scream in their strange, noble yet screeching voices, Kiv turned from the barn, fleeing out the door, his eyes filled with shameful tears, knowing that he was likely to die this night should his fate continue on the course which it always had.
    Perhaps it would be better if he just stayed in the barn and burnt with everything else, it’d save people the effort of looking for him… yet, his primeval drive to keep himself alive for whatever reason pushed on him, telling him to move faster, breathe more, focus harder on his task at hand. He reached his hut in less time then he could think, or perhaps he just wasn’t thinking, everything was on autopilot and he was just quivering silently in the back of his own mind, wishing he’d wake up to find he’d fallen asleep on the hay again.
    But he didn’t, every moment told him this was real and that he wasn’t moving fast enough.
    It didn’t take him long to gather everything, his letters that Smerte had given him, words memorised rather then learned, and his few books. He threw on his winter coat, which he was sure he’d need, and put on his boots which were already mostly worn through. He carried his belongings in his favourite, and only, blue blanket which he wrapped around his neck and slung to his back.
    Again, in the blink of an eye he was out, running across fields of his father’s land, avoiding the main local town of Mansh, at his fathers command the populace would rush after him with pitchforks and torches, being even more superstitious and violent then his own father. The preacher of the Avatar at the local temple had already warned everyone of Mase’s ‘demonic influence’ and everyone there gave him a wide birth, unless they wanted to kick him or spit on him or something.
    But then where was he to run? The only other place was… Kharmon Forest, the Forest of the Dead. According to local legends, in the time of the pagan gods when the Avatar had yet to form on the mountains of Eldgania, the dead of the local vortians would be buried within the forest, and at night, a terrible black fog would creep from the unseen centre of the forest to claim the bodies and souls of those deceased.
    Today no one went in the forest, not in day nor night. No one cut down the trees either, for it was said that the bark was made of bone and would not burn in any fire.
    The very thought of entering such a black and unholy place terrified the runaway and he paused at the end of the last field as the barn burned brightly behind him, despite the surprising distance he’d covered. He guessed he was good at fleeing since he had so much practice running from his father, his brothers, and people in general.
    A sudden wave of exhaustion hit him, his body catching up to his mind and everything sliding out of autopilot. He could taste copper on his tongue and his legs ached from running so fast. His lungs burned for more air and he could feel every heartbeat as it desperately tried to supply his body with energy. He could already feel his clothes drenched with sweat, sticking to his skinny form.
    He thought about taking a moment to breathe, but a sudden noise made a terrible chill run down his spine. Shouts, angry shouts, his father’s shouts.
    As if he could already tell his death sentence had been announced he climbed over the stone wall that served as the last boundary to his old life and this new, uncertain future. In a small way, he felt freed. He no longer would ever have to obey someone else, or shovel cumal poop or clean any other floors!
    That was of course, as long as he could survive long enough to escape his father. His pace only quickened as his feet hit the hard ground, the sounds of his father’s war taaruns yelping behind him. They would soon get on the cumal that hadn’t been startled by the flames and come after him, but he had at least a good ten minute start on them. Perhaps he could close the distance between himself and the forest before they got to him… if they were lucky.
    His padfalls were swift as he ran, the feeling of a cold night breeze blowing against his body helped keep him cool, even though it made his sweaty clothes cling to his body even more. Mase’s breathing was also more controlling, knowing that the taarun would be able to hear him, as well as pick up on his probably strong scent trail.
    Mase could already hear the galloping of the cumal’s behind him and his pace increased as the first few tree tops of the great and terrible forest drew up ahead of him, their terrible, arching branches like fingers trying to claw their way out of the nightmarish realm that lay within the dark forest of the dead. Part of him was seriously considering which was worse, the fate he’d suffer in the forest, or the fate at the hands of his enraged father and brothers.
    Fire or darkness…
    Something inside him answered, something he’d never really felt before but yet, knew was there. That thing that made him happy to be alone in his dark cabin, that thing that let him disbelieve that which the Temple preacher shouted to him… the same thing now answered and told the young boy, that deep down, he knew the forest would be, dare he say it, safe.
    Wind was whistling past his head, almost biting at his face, even as he sprinted at full speed he could hear the cumals getting closer and closer, drawing towards him. He didn’t look back as Mase knew that swords would be drawn already and their cold steel hungering for his head. Such an age was his, when the killing of a young child, barely entering puberty, could be justified on the count of his skin colour, it was barbaric.
    His feet were in so much pain from running over soil and grass and rock and his legs ready to collapse at any moment. Mase’s lungs had no more oxygen. He was running on pure fear now, onward through the last, desolate field and over clumps of jarweed bushes to the terrible forest.
    He couldn’t outrun hate on cumalback, it was impossible. And if the anger of his family didn’t get him first the taarun would spear him with their tusks and tear him apart with their sharpened claws. Death was before him, in the form of the cursed trees of Kharmon, or behind him in the form of sharp teeth and sharper blades.
    And that is when he stumbled and fell, barely a few feet from the edge of the unnatural looking forest, his small, slightly clawed toe smashed into a rock, hidden by the wild grass that grew leaning away from the trees. He felt pain scream from his ankle, knowing he’d twisted it, and he landed face first into the grass and soil, instantly bruising almost all the front of his body as it hit branches and other small stones on the ground.
    Finally he turned his head as he looked up, nothing but a blank, all encompassing fear showing in his dark eyes. His father, wearing only his night robe and his sword sheeth at his side was leading his two sons on the back of his war cumal, his father’s height short by most standards with a roundish face but a strong, war-trained body. His skin was a dull grey but he had bright, angry orange eyes and his barred teeth showed that he had quite a few of them missing from being hit in the face so many times. One of his silver horns was chipped, giving him a terrible, fierce look.
    Mase could see in his eyes that his father held no love for him, only hate, only a final excuse to kill the mistake that had plagued his family for years.
    It was as if everything had gone into slow motion, the world moving to the crawl of the moons across the sky. Slowly, the thundering cumal stopped before him spraying soil and earth into the air as it skid along the dry summer ground before his father jumped down, never taking those hate filled eyes away from his unwanted child. Behind him, Yuuri and Byron held tight the leashes of the taarun, who growled and strained against this hold, wishing to tear the flesh from the boy themselves.
    Mase didn’t move, he couldn’t, he only waited for the blade to sing softly and slowly through the air and end his life. The design of the blade giving it a unique call of death, as each blade forged for each noble gave a distinct whistle when swung, his fathers was soft, almost unnoticeable, but yet, so chilling.
    He unscathed his sword, the old vortian still not taking his eyes from the boy he hated so much, and raised the blade above his head. The wind whistling once, softly, through the field making everything in Mase’s slowed-down world dance softly and move as though it were making way for death itself.
    The blade fell. No final words, no last regrets, just an end to a life that didn’t matter. Mase closed his eyes, not wishing to see his own death. But then, he heard a loud thud, and he knew instantly something had stopped the blade. His eyes opened only to see the very tip of the blade at his forehead, and a large, very dead and marled piece of wood stopping it.
    The world jumped back into full speed, perhaps even a little faster then before as his heart was beating so quickly. He turned his eyes again and notice, standing by his side, a tall figure who was seemingly radiating a darkness around him, as if he was illuminated from inside by shadow itself. His voice was like rugged metal moving across a stone floor and whilst it sent a terrible chill down Mase’s voice, he still didn’t fear it as much as his father’s own anger. “Leave the boy alone, he is in my dominion now.”
    His father looked to the figure with wide eyes, and for the first time in his life, Mase could see fear in the old vortian’s face. However, it quickly vanished as he tore his sword from the staff and kept it raise, growling at the hooded figure. “Leave, dark one, this is my own business, not yours.”
    “Anything that is on my land is my business,” The vortian spoke again, his voice making the taarun cower and the cumals screech and try to get away from the terror that emanated from this one being, “Leave, Lord of Mansh, the boy is on my land, he is my property now.”
    Yuûri was slowly backing away from the confrontation, showing his true colours, as his brother Byron did the same, stammering, “F-f-father, lets just g-g-go.”
    Their father turned to them quickly and yelled, “COWARD!” Before glaring back at the dark lord and growling slowly, “The boy burned down my barn. He must be punished.”
    The dark vortian slowly turned his eyes down to Mase, or at least Mase thought he did, he could see nothing beneath that dark hood apart from the taller vortian’s mouth and chin. However, for a second, he was sure he saw a flash of deep, awful red before the dark being looked back to Mase’s father, “This is not your land to cast punishment upon. Leave my land, and the boy, or you know what I will do…” His voice lowered to an odd, harsh, almost strained whisper that Mase only just heard, “Your little secret will be revealed, Coeûr.”
    Coeûr? Mase couldn’t help but wonder who this ‘Coeûr’ was… was that… his father’s name? Mase had always and only ever referred to his dad as ‘sir’ or ‘father’ and had never heard him referred to by any other name. To have anyone talk to him on first name basis must only mean that this being, whatever or whoever he was, held some great power that not even his own dad would eagerly challenge.
    And what was this secret? A part of him almost wanted to ask, but he knew that being quiet would safe his life and besides, he’d been quiet most of his life, this wouldn’t make much difference.
    His father glared deeply at the terrible, shadowy being before, without another word, turning and jumping onto his cumal, turning around and leaving, galloping off whilst Yuûri and Byron hurried and stumbled to try and follow him, eventually managing to gallop off along with him and the taaruns following close behind.
    For a second, Mase just looked on and watched as the last of his family abandoned him to this complete and rather terrifying stranger, but then he remembered that this terrifying stranger had saved his life and that it would be polite to at least thank him.
    However, as he turned to talk to the tall vortian, he was only answered by a sharp thwack to the head from the wooden cane. “Well boy!? Stand up! Let me get a good look at you!”
    Mase wasn’t quite sure what was going on but he attempted to scramble to his feet, that’s when his body was rudely reminded that his ankle was twisted and he screamed in pain and collapsed back down, grasping his ankle and letting tears re-form at his eyes.
    The dark lord standing over him groaned and Mase was sure he was rolling his eyes from under his hood. “Fine,” He mumbled as he raised his staff, “I’ll take you to the castle.”
    Before Mase could even reply in any way, the tall irken hit his staff into the ground. Suddenly, terrible shadows from the arching trees behind them moved forward, swallowing the young vortian and the sorcerer. Mase felt something numbing grab him, covering his body like a blanket and the world… shifted. He couldn’t see it shift as all he could see before him was the all encompassing gloom, but he could feel it. He could feel his body being pulled by some strange force through shadow and darkness.
    The shadows retreated and the numbness faded, such an unsettling, yet, almost natural way to travel. Mase wasn’t scared or worried by the darkness, if anything, he felt like he was safer within them. There was a feel like the shadows would hide him, keep him safe from harm… perhaps it was wrong of him to think so, but considering his company, he was sure the sorcerer would hardly say otherwise.
    Mase suddenly felt the biting, almost deathly cold of the stone floor on his butt and hurriedly looked around him at his new surroundings. Walls of some terrible castle now loomed around him, their bricks old and grey and ancient, however, there was a genteelly flickering fire, casting some heat into the room and some great, creaky looking chairs around him.
    “Sit down and hold your leg up,” The voice of taller adult rang out beside him, making Mase jump slightly before nodding and slowly pulling himself to his feet, or foot, and hopping across to one of the large, leathery chairs. They were actually rather comfortable, as Mase found when he sat down upon it, and he moved to his side to stretch his leg out, his swollen ankle throbbing in pain.
    The dark robed sorcerer moved close to him and knelt down, moving an old, wrinkled hand over the young vortian’s ankle. Mase shuddered, his touch was so cold, colder then death. However, he felt something… strange happening to his ankle, like something inside it was moving around. He squirmed slightly, only to draw a frown from the hooded figure with a short, “Stop wincing boy, if you’re going to be my apprentice you’re going to have to grow up a little.”
    Mase’s eyes suddenly widened, “Ap-p-p-prentice?” He shook his head, “Oh no, no, no, Sir, I can’t, I’m no good at magic and-”
    The old vortian frowned and growled at him again, “Boy, you’re a born necromancer! Look at you! Now stop whining and stand up!”
    Mase couldn’t help but frown a little as the strange feeling, almost like someone was knitting inside his ankle, went away. What the heck was a necromancer? Was that bad? Whatever it was, he would gladly try and become one if it meant staying here with this strange, creepy but yet helpful old sorcerer. It was better then being with his father after all.
    The hooded figure drew back and leaned onto his staff, almost as if he was tired as Mase flexed his ankle only to find there was no pain, not even an ache, nothing. He had heard of magic healing before, but never had he actually seen it never mind being actually healed himself. He hopped forward and smiled in glee, this was amazing! He wouldn’t mind being an apprentice if he could learn to do that!
    However, his amazement was cut short when he receiving another whack to the head from the staff and the old necromancer. “Stand still boy! Hurm, so full of life…” There was a slight, dark chuckle from the old man, “We’ll soon get that out of you…”
    “What,” Mase blinked as he stood still for the old being, “What do you mean?”
    The sorcerer grinned and drew up to his full, the room seemingly getting darker as he did so and Mase shivered. The old man slowly began to walk around Mase, who stayed perfectly still as he did, almost afraid to move for another whack on the head, and of course, from the very presence of the powerful magic this old man wielded.
    “You’re scrawny and small for your age,” The hooded man grumbled, “But you have the signs, powerful signs as well, yes…” He stopped as he walked back in front of him, “Tell me, boy, what is your name?”
    “M-my name?” Mase looked down, “It’s Mase, sir.”
    Immediately he was hit on the head with the staff, something the young vortian was almost expecting. “Look at me when you speak to me!” The sorcerer ordered before relaxing a little as Mase looked up to him, “And don’t speak unless spoken to! I hate chatterboxes.”
    He paused for a moment, looking to the boy before saying, “You will no longer go by the name ‘Mase’, do you understand?” He watched as Mase slowly nodded his head, “That name is nothing but a memory to you now, a relic of a time when you were unimportant.” He smiled slowly, “As my apprentice, you will be known as… Kiv.”
    “Kiv, sir?” Mase, or now, Kiv, asked slowly.
    “Yes, Kiv,” The old man nodded slowly before lightly muttering, “It suits you, as you’ve caused quite the quarrel recently… yes, Kiv it is.” He went back suddenly to standing up straight and now asked, “Kiv, do you know what Necromancy is?”
    Kiv shook his head, not wishing to speak or do anything in case he got hit again. He wished he could do that healing thing on his head, he was sure he would have a huge bruise there by the morning.
    The old being chuckled, “Well, prepare to learn, because you will learn and be tested. You’ll learn how to control the dead, raise the bones of the long gone, drawn spirits to your will and summon the most terrible of demons to do as you please.”
    “But, but…” Kiv couldn’t help but utter with wide, frightened eyes, “But that’s evil!”
    Another strong whack to the head, “And we’ll get that out of you too! You’ll see that there is no good or evil, no black and white,” He chuckled, “Morals are objective, boy, as are the energies and magik’s of this universe. Think of that as your first lesson, but for now, come.”
    The tall figure turned and began walking towards the nearest door; his long cloak flowing as he did so and Kiv followed behind closely like a lost little taaruip wondering what the word ‘objective’ meant. Everything here frightened him, but yet, he wasn’t terrified. Sure, he jumped at the shadows and whimpered a little at the creaking and occasional moan that came from deep within the castle, but yet… he couldn’t explain it but he felt like he was only supposed to jump, only supposed to be scared.
    If anything, being close to this being who he knew now to be someone of evil and darkness, he felt safe and secure. He felt like he had someone looking out for him and for the first time in his whole life, he felt wanted.
    “S-sir?” He asked softly as the walked through, wincing a second in an expectant head-whack, but when none came, he relaxed.
     “Yes?” The older and taller being asked as they walked on, “Come on boy, spit it out.”
    “What’s your name, sir?” Kiv asked quietly, wishing to know the name of the being who was going to turn him into some dark sorcerer.
    “My name, hum, yes it would be good of you to know.” He stopped and turned around to face the young boy, a ghost of a smile on his old face, “My name is Skændsel, but you will refer to me as Master Skændsel, or just Master, understand?”
    Kiv nodded several times. Master Skændsel, Master Skændsel, Master Skændsel. He would drill the name into his mind, there was no way he’d get his new Masters name wrong, not when it meant being whacked on the head with that staff.
    Soon, they arrived at an old, wooden looking door which Skændsel opened with a tap from his staff, something Kiv was amazed to see and couldn’t wait to learn. The tall, old man ushered his new apprentice inside with a simple frown and the raising of his staff, and Kiv was all too eager not to get on the bad side of the old man.
    His eyes widened however at the room. It was simple, with a bed, a small pail of water next to a mirror, some windows to let the light of the moon in, a desk with a chair and a single bookshelf. The walls were made of the same, grey stone that everything else seemed to be made of, but there were some long, old banners hanging from the walls, the same as the ones he’d noticed through the castle, showing a strange deep red sign on pure black made of a line within a diamond, like some kind of weird eye, with two ‘horns’ coming from top. There was also an old rug in the middle of the room with strange, almost alien looking patters, but strangely, it really tied the room together.
    Kiv blinked and turned around, “Sir, this can’t be my room. There’s too much stuff in here.”
    He could tell Skændsel was raising a would-be eyebrow at him before frowning, “Well I could throw you in with the cumals if you’d like.”
    “No, no, no!” Kiv raised up his hands, “I’m fine here, Sir.”
    “Stop saying Sir!” The Master necromancer commanded, “It’s Master!”
    “Yes, Si-erm, Master,” Kiv looked down, then realised Skændsel didn’t like that and looked up again, “I’ll be up early tomorrow for you, Master.”
    “Good, because your training starts immediately,” Skændsel stated bluntly before going to shut the door.
    He was only stopped when Kiv weakly called out, “Goodnight, Master!”
    Skændsel paused with the door opened just a jar before muttering a very strange and almost confused sounding, “Yes, goodnight.” It was almost like he had never said it before, odd.
    Kiv looked around the room again once he was sure his Master had gone and he sighed, taking off the little backpack he had on, still made of his now very dirty blue blanket and placed them all on the old wooden desk that was now his. He’d never had a desk before, it was rather exciting. He smiled as he threw off his shirt and pants and crawled into his new bed, which was oddly comfortable… well, it beat sleeping on piles of hay anyway.
    As his eyes closed, even amid the sounds of some terrible, unearthly, yet oddly serine screaming from somewhere deep in the dungeons of the castle, he felt like, well, like he was… home.

*** - If your god tells his children to write a book, does he tell him everything? The meanings to the lives we live, the morales we are given? Why is it in your books, your literature, that the killers always have a deeper meaning then the reader is first presented with? Is this 'god' really telling you everything? Or... is he testing you, and telling you to find the true meaning behind the ink of the scribe? To teach others, what is to be cherished about life. – Quote of Necromancer Torr una Awiergan. -***

Description
    The world was outside that door. The sounds of anger and hate and righteous fury and chants of passages of their holy books drifted through the great gao door, teasing and taunting Kiv, reminding him that his end was soon. Yet he didn’t care. It didn’t matter to him that his death was approaching; death meant little to him after all. He was trained to harness and master death. They could stab him with every sword in the kingdom and it wouldn’t even faze him. They could shoot him full of arrows and chop off his limbs and cut out his heart and he wouldn’t even feel it.
    But that one weapon… that sword wielded by Bræk, the hated Beadolēoma. That was different, that was powerful… and it had killed the only person in Kiv’s life whom had ever cared for him.
    The old man was so still, so quiet, so… dead. Considering they were supposed to be necromancers, seeing someone so lifeless like this was almost unreal. Kiv had been taught that death was never the end, that unlife was simply another step in existence, the true step for existence in fact. Life was frail, short and often wasted, but unlife was everlasting, strong and powerful… and yet.
    Here was his master, his eyes closed, his body unmoving. The very thing, his soul, his spirit, whatever it was that made him him was gone. Now… Kiv was all alone again. Everything had abandoned him, everything had betrayed him and soon, he too would join his master’s soul in the maw of the great undead lord, Asmodeus for all eternity.
    As he heard the last of the castle’s summoned demons and undead ghoulish warriors fall to the onslaught of soldiers, peasants and the knight himself, his eyes slowly travelled upwards to the door and his mind drifted, just for a moment, to his sister, to the very start of all of this madness, of this life which it seemed all but Kiv had chosen for him.

*** - Of all things one should remember, my dear boy, is that whilst a heart may stop beating and the flesh rot away, the bones remain useful for many years to come! – Quote of Necromancer Igyon Notæk. - ***

    “BIG BROTHER!” Smerte yelled as she ran over to him, a huge smile on her tiny face and her arm’s open wide to hug Mase as she did. She had tanned, almost dusty brown skin, but her eyes were bright orange and her horns a very peculiar golden brown, a sign of innocence and beauty. She was a tiny little thing and she wore a single dress which was a faded pink in colour. She had a single golden band around one of her still growing horns, the only piece of jewellery she had.
    Mase smiled a little as his sister collided into his side and gripped in a tight hug, and he put an arm around her in turn but kept one hand on his brush. Mase had short, just curling dark horns on his head and dark, almost black eyes. However, his most unusual feature was his dark, almost charcoal black-brown skin. He was wearing a top also, and a pair of loose shorts, both a matching dirty grey and patched and worn. He had dirt all over him and many stains on his top as he’d been working all day, as was his chores placed onto him due to his… special status.
    “You mustn’t be here,” Mase said quickly, but without losing his smile, “Father will not approve.”
    Smerte let go of him and looked up, grinning sweetly, “I know! But I don’t care, father can’t order me around.”
    Smerte, despite being young, knew how to abuse her adorableness to the extreme. It was the only reason she’d never been smacked by their father for hugging and spending time with Mase. Even the servants got a strong look of disapproval whenever they talked to Mase, even if they were giving him instructions. If his father could afford to have them give him only bits of paper to hand out their orders, then he would have done years ago.
    Mase was a special case in the large mansion that was his family’s home. His father was an old war general. He had personally won the battle of Hguuyti and captured a space-gate from the demons that had been using it to bring in terrors to Vort. Now the gate was used to travel to Irk and other planets for peaceful trade, a great boon to their Kingdom indeed.
    However, when he’d come home he found that his wife, whom had become pregnant before he left, had given birth… but it wasn’t the son he wanted. The dark skin, the dark eyes, the dark horns, they were all signs that the child was cursed and had been marked by a demon. He had shouted and accused his wife of sleeping with devils and making pacts with the dark lords.
    Then he’d turned his anger onto his newborn son, almost banishing him from the family and throwing him onto the streets before his mother begged him not to be so cruel and to keep the boy in the home, even if he had to work the rest of his life as a slave. Mase’s father agreed, and thus, the boy had been given his own little hut on the other side of the mansion garden, away from everyone and completely secluded from society… except for Smerte, she visited him often and was the young boy’s only friend.
    Her actions were the only rays of light in Mase’s life, which really said a lot.
    “Well in that case,” Mase smiled even wider, leaning onto his broom “I must ask you how were your lessons today?”
    The little vortian girl rolled her eyes, “Boring! All they teach me is writing, reading and how to be a good wife!” She looked back to her brother with wide, rather annoyed looking eyes, “I want to learn all the things that Yuûri and Byron learn!”
    Yuûri and Byron were the older brothers of the family, the twin son’s who would inherit all the wealth, power and land that their father had spent years of his life to earn. They didn’t deserve it however, as even Mase knew of their exploits with the unmarried peasant girls in the nearby village and the foolishness in which they spend their days drinking and bragging of deeds they’d never done.
    Smerte on the other hand had all the signs of being a proper inheritor of the estate. She was smart, fun, eager to learn and loved by everyone. But both Mase and Smerte knew that she would just be married off and turned into a son-making machine the moment she got to her eighteenth birthday.
    Such was life in their age… her brothers were there only to continue the family line, whilst she would be used to form alliances… and Mase? Well, he would eventually die and be brushed under the carpet, forever forgotten by history.
    Well, that is unless his sister saved him like she always talked about doing. “When I get married, I’m dragging you with me. I can’t be left alone with some boring snob! What if he tries to hug me or something!” She giggled and smiled at her brother, “I’ll need you to protect me.”
    “I can barely protect myself,” Mase muttered in a low voice, but looked up to his sister with a brave, if a little sad, smile, “But I will try, dear sister.” He sighed heavily now and looked over his shoulder to the barn, “I should get going, the cumal’s need to be cleaned out. It’s a job that’s specially left to me you know.”
    “Wow! You must be great at it!” Smerte squeaked out in pride, even as Mase rolled his eyes knowing that it was only left to him because no one else wanted to shovel cumal poop around.
    “Goodbye for now my dear sister!” He called as he turned to leave, waving to the little angelic girl, unknowing that events of that night would forever transform his life.

*** - Never look too deep into the warp, for there are things which lurk there, sleeping gods of madness, plotting demons of chaos, which will use your soul as a plaything for all eternity. – Quote of Necromancer Gùr. -***

    FINALLY, it was done. He may stink like cumal crap but it was finally done. The stables were cleaned out and Mase could finally retire to his little hut at the end of the garden to sleep. There wasn’t really much else to do there, although he did have a few books and he’d been trying to teach himself to read but it was really hard considering he had no idea which sounds went to which letters.
    Still, he stomach rumbled in hunger as he put away his shovel and looked around, he knew that this place would be wrecked later on when his loud and stupid brothers returned to ruin all his hard work as they always did. They’d probably have sex with some damn bar wenches in the hay then he’d have to throw all that hay out and replace it and UGH. It really never ended.
    Now, on a usual night, Mase would have simply walked to the door, took one last look around and shut it, locking it and leaving for the servants quarters for some left over food then to his hut, but not tonight, no. Perhaps, watching from vast swathes of space with powers incomprehensible, forces of which no mortal mind could ever understand moved, shifting just slightly in the way of the universe to alter this young boy’s destiny for whatever means they needed him for.
    Or perhaps it was just that he’d left the shovel on a bit of an angle, causing gravity to do what it does best.
    Either way as he turned, he heard something wooden slide along the barn wall, and as if everything in time had slowed, he could only turn to watch in horror, a terrible pit of bile sickness suddenly appearing in his stomach and his mind going blank as the handle of the shovel hit the small lamp that had been illuminating his work.
    In what seemed like seconds, the lamp had hit the hay-covered floor, already dry from the hot summer, and the fire started to spread like a pack of wolves rushing through the barn, eating more and more of everything it touched, consuming anything it could.
    His mind however could only think of one thing, his punishment. He knew that it would be harsh, hasher then anything he’d ever suffered before. Mase wondered if he would be killed for this, it was certainly a possibility as this was just the kind of thing that would get any of the servants killed, and with his condition…
    As he backed unconsciously towards the door of the barn, trying to get away from the raging heat and approaching ravenous of the fire. The only thing he could think of doing was running, running to his hut, grabbing whatever he could and just going, fleeing as far and as fast as he could across the fields, away from the fire, away from his punishment… and away from Smerte.
    As the cumals began to cry and scream in their strange, noble yet screeching voices, Kiv turned from the barn, fleeing out the door, his eyes filled with shameful tears, knowing that he was likely to die this night should his fate continue on the course which it always had.
    Perhaps it would be better if he just stayed in the barn and burnt with everything else, it’d save people the effort of looking for him… yet, his primeval drive to keep himself alive for whatever reason pushed on him, telling him to move faster, breathe more, focus harder on his task at hand. He reached his hut in less time then he could think, or perhaps he just wasn’t thinking, everything was on autopilot and he was just quivering silently in the back of his own mind, wishing he’d wake up to find he’d fallen asleep on the hay again.
    But he didn’t, every moment told him this was real and that he wasn’t moving fast enough.
    It didn’t take him long to gather everything, his letters that Smerte had given him, words memorised rather then learned, and his few books. He threw on his winter coat, which he was sure he’d need, and put on his boots which were already mostly worn through. He carried his belongings in his favourite, and only, blue blanket which he wrapped around his neck and slung to his back.
    Again, in the blink of an eye he was out, running across fields of his father’s land, avoiding the main local town of Mansh, at his fathers command the populace would rush after him with pitchforks and torches, being even more superstitious and violent then his own father. The preacher of the Avatar at the local temple had already warned everyone of Mase’s ‘demonic influence’ and everyone there gave him a wide birth, unless they wanted to kick him or spit on him or something.
    But then where was he to run? The only other place was… Kharmon Forest, the Forest of the Dead. According to local legends, in the time of the pagan gods when the Avatar had yet to form on the mountains of Eldgania, the dead of the local vortians would be buried within the forest, and at night, a terrible black fog would creep from the unseen centre of the forest to claim the bodies and souls of those deceased.
    Today no one went in the forest, not in day nor night. No one cut down the trees either, for it was said that the bark was made of bone and would not burn in any fire.
    The very thought of entering such a black and unholy place terrified the runaway and he paused at the end of the last field as the barn burned brightly behind him, despite the surprising distance he’d covered. He guessed he was good at fleeing since he had so much practice running from his father, his brothers, and people in general.
    A sudden wave of exhaustion hit him, his body catching up to his mind and everything sliding out of autopilot. He could taste copper on his tongue and his legs ached from running so fast. His lungs burned for more air and he could feel every heartbeat as it desperately tried to supply his body with energy. He could already feel his clothes drenched with sweat, sticking to his skinny form.
    He thought about taking a moment to breathe, but a sudden noise made a terrible chill run down his spine. Shouts, angry shouts, his father’s shouts.
    As if he could already tell his death sentence had been announced he climbed over the stone wall that served as the last boundary to his old life and this new, uncertain future. In a small way, he felt freed. He no longer would ever have to obey someone else, or shovel cumal poop or clean any other floors!
    That was of course, as long as he could survive long enough to escape his father. His pace only quickened as his feet hit the hard ground, the sounds of his father’s war taaruns yelping behind him. They would soon get on the cumal that hadn’t been startled by the flames and come after him, but he had at least a good ten minute start on them. Perhaps he could close the distance between himself and the forest before they got to him… if they were lucky.
    His padfalls were swift as he ran, the feeling of a cold night breeze blowing against his body helped keep him cool, even though it made his sweaty clothes cling to his body even more. Mase’s breathing was also more controlling, knowing that the taarun would be able to hear him, as well as pick up on his probably strong scent trail.
    Mase could already hear the galloping of the cumal’s behind him and his pace increased as the first few tree tops of the great and terrible forest drew up ahead of him, their terrible, arching branches like fingers trying to claw their way out of the nightmarish realm that lay within the dark forest of the dead. Part of him was seriously considering which was worse, the fate he’d suffer in the forest, or the fate at the hands of his enraged father and brothers.
    Fire or darkness…
    Something inside him answered, something he’d never really felt before but yet, knew was there. That thing that made him happy to be alone in his dark cabin, that thing that let him disbelieve that which the Temple preacher shouted to him… the same thing now answered and told the young boy, that deep down, he knew the forest would be, dare he say it, safe.
    Wind was whistling past his head, almost biting at his face, even as he sprinted at full speed he could hear the cumals getting closer and closer, drawing towards him. He didn’t look back as Mase knew that swords would be drawn already and their cold steel hungering for his head. Such an age was his, when the killing of a young child, barely entering puberty, could be justified on the count of his skin colour, it was barbaric.
    His feet were in so much pain from running over soil and grass and rock and his legs ready to collapse at any moment. Mase’s lungs had no more oxygen. He was running on pure fear now, onward through the last, desolate field and over clumps of jarweed bushes to the terrible forest.
    He couldn’t outrun hate on cumalback, it was impossible. And if the anger of his family didn’t get him first the taarun would spear him with their tusks and tear him apart with their sharpened claws. Death was before him, in the form of the cursed trees of Kharmon, or behind him in the form of sharp teeth and sharper blades.
    And that is when he stumbled and fell, barely a few feet from the edge of the unnatural looking forest, his small, slightly clawed toe smashed into a rock, hidden by the wild grass that grew leaning away from the trees. He felt pain scream from his ankle, knowing he’d twisted it, and he landed face first into the grass and soil, instantly bruising almost all the front of his body as it hit branches and other small stones on the ground.
    Finally he turned his head as he looked up, nothing but a blank, all encompassing fear showing in his dark eyes. His father, wearing only his night robe and his sword sheeth at his side was leading his two sons on the back of his war cumal, his father’s height short by most standards with a roundish face but a strong, war-trained body. His skin was a dull grey but he had bright, angry orange eyes and his barred teeth showed that he had quite a few of them missing from being hit in the face so many times. One of his silver horns was chipped, giving him a terrible, fierce look.
    Mase could see in his eyes that his father held no love for him, only hate, only a final excuse to kill the mistake that had plagued his family for years.
    It was as if everything had gone into slow motion, the world moving to the crawl of the moons across the sky. Slowly, the thundering cumal stopped before him spraying soil and earth into the air as it skid along the dry summer ground before his father jumped down, never taking those hate filled eyes away from his unwanted child. Behind him, Yuuri and Byron held tight the leashes of the taarun, who growled and strained against this hold, wishing to tear the flesh from the boy themselves.
    Mase didn’t move, he couldn’t, he only waited for the blade to sing softly and slowly through the air and end his life. The design of the blade giving it a unique call of death, as each blade forged for each noble gave a distinct whistle when swung, his fathers was soft, almost unnoticeable, but yet, so chilling.
    He unscathed his sword, the old vortian still not taking his eyes from the boy he hated so much, and raised the blade above his head. The wind whistling once, softly, through the field making everything in Mase’s slowed-down world dance softly and move as though it were making way for death itself.
    The blade fell. No final words, no last regrets, just an end to a life that didn’t matter. Mase closed his eyes, not wishing to see his own death. But then, he heard a loud thud, and he knew instantly something had stopped the blade. His eyes opened only to see the very tip of the blade at his forehead, and a large, very dead and marled piece of wood stopping it.
    The world jumped back into full speed, perhaps even a little faster then before as his heart was beating so quickly. He turned his eyes again and notice, standing by his side, a tall figure who was seemingly radiating a darkness around him, as if he was illuminated from inside by shadow itself. His voice was like rugged metal moving across a stone floor and whilst it sent a terrible chill down Mase’s voice, he still didn’t fear it as much as his father’s own anger. “Leave the boy alone, he is in my dominion now.”
    His father looked to the figure with wide eyes, and for the first time in his life, Mase could see fear in the old vortian’s face. However, it quickly vanished as he tore his sword from the staff and kept it raise, growling at the hooded figure. “Leave, dark one, this is my own business, not yours.”
    “Anything that is on my land is my business,” The vortian spoke again, his voice making the taarun cower and the cumals screech and try to get away from the terror that emanated from this one being, “Leave, Lord of Mansh, the boy is on my land, he is my property now.”
    Yuûri was slowly backing away from the confrontation, showing his true colours, as his brother Byron did the same, stammering, “F-f-father, lets just g-g-go.”
    Their father turned to them quickly and yelled, “COWARD!” Before glaring back at the dark lord and growling slowly, “The boy burned down my barn. He must be punished.”
    The dark vortian slowly turned his eyes down to Mase, or at least Mase thought he did, he could see nothing beneath that dark hood apart from the taller vortian’s mouth and chin. However, for a second, he was sure he saw a flash of deep, awful red before the dark being looked back to Mase’s father, “This is not your land to cast punishment upon. Leave my land, and the boy, or you know what I will do…” His voice lowered to an odd, harsh, almost strained whisper that Mase only just heard, “Your little secret will be revealed, Coeûr.”
    Coeûr? Mase couldn’t help but wonder who this ‘Coeûr’ was… was that… his father’s name? Mase had always and only ever referred to his dad as ‘sir’ or ‘father’ and had never heard him referred to by any other name. To have anyone talk to him on first name basis must only mean that this being, whatever or whoever he was, held some great power that not even his own dad would eagerly challenge.
    And what was this secret? A part of him almost wanted to ask, but he knew that being quiet would safe his life and besides, he’d been quiet most of his life, this wouldn’t make much difference.
    His father glared deeply at the terrible, shadowy being before, without another word, turning and jumping onto his cumal, turning around and leaving, galloping off whilst Yuûri and Byron hurried and stumbled to try and follow him, eventually managing to gallop off along with him and the taaruns following close behind.
    For a second, Mase just looked on and watched as the last of his family abandoned him to this complete and rather terrifying stranger, but then he remembered that this terrifying stranger had saved his life and that it would be polite to at least thank him.
    However, as he turned to talk to the tall vortian, he was only answered by a sharp thwack to the head from the wooden cane. “Well boy!? Stand up! Let me get a good look at you!”
    Mase wasn’t quite sure what was going on but he attempted to scramble to his feet, that’s when his body was rudely reminded that his ankle was twisted and he screamed in pain and collapsed back down, grasping his ankle and letting tears re-form at his eyes.
    The dark lord standing over him groaned and Mase was sure he was rolling his eyes from under his hood. “Fine,” He mumbled as he raised his staff, “I’ll take you to the castle.”
    Before Mase could even reply in any way, the tall irken hit his staff into the ground. Suddenly, terrible shadows from the arching trees behind them moved forward, swallowing the young vortian and the sorcerer. Mase felt something numbing grab him, covering his body like a blanket and the world… shifted. He couldn’t see it shift as all he could see before him was the all encompassing gloom, but he could feel it. He could feel his body being pulled by some strange force through shadow and darkness.
    The shadows retreated and the numbness faded, such an unsettling, yet, almost natural way to travel. Mase wasn’t scared or worried by the darkness, if anything, he felt like he was safer within them. There was a feel like the shadows would hide him, keep him safe from harm… perhaps it was wrong of him to think so, but considering his company, he was sure the sorcerer would hardly say otherwise.
    Mase suddenly felt the biting, almost deathly cold of the stone floor on his butt and hurriedly looked around him at his new surroundings. Walls of some terrible castle now loomed around him, their bricks old and grey and ancient, however, there was a genteelly flickering fire, casting some heat into the room and some great, creaky looking chairs around him.
    “Sit down and hold your leg up,” The voice of taller adult rang out beside him, making Mase jump slightly before nodding and slowly pulling himself to his feet, or foot, and hopping across to one of the large, leathery chairs. They were actually rather comfortable, as Mase found when he sat down upon it, and he moved to his side to stretch his leg out, his swollen ankle throbbing in pain.
    The dark robed sorcerer moved close to him and knelt down, moving an old, wrinkled hand over the young vortian’s ankle. Mase shuddered, his touch was so cold, colder then death. However, he felt something… strange happening to his ankle, like something inside it was moving around. He squirmed slightly, only to draw a frown from the hooded figure with a short, “Stop wincing boy, if you’re going to be my apprentice you’re going to have to grow up a little.”
    Mase’s eyes suddenly widened, “Ap-p-p-prentice?” He shook his head, “Oh no, no, no, Sir, I can’t, I’m no good at magic and-”
    The old vortian frowned and growled at him again, “Boy, you’re a born necromancer! Look at you! Now stop whining and stand up!”
    Mase couldn’t help but frown a little as the strange feeling, almost like someone was knitting inside his ankle, went away. What the heck was a necromancer? Was that bad? Whatever it was, he would gladly try and become one if it meant staying here with this strange, creepy but yet helpful old sorcerer. It was better then being with his father after all.
    The hooded figure drew back and leaned onto his staff, almost as if he was tired as Mase flexed his ankle only to find there was no pain, not even an ache, nothing. He had heard of magic healing before, but never had he actually seen it never mind being actually healed himself. He hopped forward and smiled in glee, this was amazing! He wouldn’t mind being an apprentice if he could learn to do that!
    However, his amazement was cut short when he receiving another whack to the head from the staff and the old necromancer. “Stand still boy! Hurm, so full of life…” There was a slight, dark chuckle from the old man, “We’ll soon get that out of you…”
    “What,” Mase blinked as he stood still for the old being, “What do you mean?”
    The sorcerer grinned and drew up to his full, the room seemingly getting darker as he did so and Mase shivered. The old man slowly began to walk around Mase, who stayed perfectly still as he did, almost afraid to move for another whack on the head, and of course, from the very presence of the powerful magic this old man wielded.
    “You’re scrawny and small for your age,” The hooded man grumbled, “But you have the signs, powerful signs as well, yes…” He stopped as he walked back in front of him, “Tell me, boy, what is your name?”
    “M-my name?” Mase looked down, “It’s Mase, sir.”
    Immediately he was hit on the head with the staff, something the young vortian was almost expecting. “Look at me when you speak to me!” The sorcerer ordered before relaxing a little as Mase looked up to him, “And don’t speak unless spoken to! I hate chatterboxes.”
    He paused for a moment, looking to the boy before saying, “You will no longer go by the name ‘Mase’, do you understand?” He watched as Mase slowly nodded his head, “That name is nothing but a memory to you now, a relic of a time when you were unimportant.” He smiled slowly, “As my apprentice, you will be known as… Kiv.”
    “Kiv, sir?” Mase, or now, Kiv, asked slowly.
    “Yes, Kiv,” The old man nodded slowly before lightly muttering, “It suits you, as you’ve caused quite the quarrel recently… yes, Kiv it is.” He went back suddenly to standing up straight and now asked, “Kiv, do you know what Necromancy is?”
    Kiv shook his head, not wishing to speak or do anything in case he got hit again. He wished he could do that healing thing on his head, he was sure he would have a huge bruise there by the morning.
    The old being chuckled, “Well, prepare to learn, because you will learn and be tested. You’ll learn how to control the dead, raise the bones of the long gone, drawn spirits to your will and summon the most terrible of demons to do as you please.”
    “But, but…” Kiv couldn’t help but utter with wide, frightened eyes, “But that’s evil!”
    Another strong whack to the head, “And we’ll get that out of you too! You’ll see that there is no good or evil, no black and white,” He chuckled, “Morals are objective, boy, as are the energies and magik’s of this universe. Think of that as your first lesson, but for now, come.”
    The tall figure turned and began walking towards the nearest door; his long cloak flowing as he did so and Kiv followed behind closely like a lost little taaruip wondering what the word ‘objective’ meant. Everything here frightened him, but yet, he wasn’t terrified. Sure, he jumped at the shadows and whimpered a little at the creaking and occasional moan that came from deep within the castle, but yet… he couldn’t explain it but he felt like he was only supposed to jump, only supposed to be scared.
    If anything, being close to this being who he knew now to be someone of evil and darkness, he felt safe and secure. He felt like he had someone looking out for him and for the first time in his whole life, he felt wanted.
    “S-sir?” He asked softly as the walked through, wincing a second in an expectant head-whack, but when none came, he relaxed.
     “Yes?” The older and taller being asked as they walked on, “Come on boy, spit it out.”
    “What’s your name, sir?” Kiv asked quietly, wishing to know the name of the being who was going to turn him into some dark sorcerer.
    “My name, hum, yes it would be good of you to know.” He stopped and turned around to face the young boy, a ghost of a smile on his old face, “My name is Skændsel, but you will refer to me as Master Skændsel, or just Master, understand?”
    Kiv nodded several times. Master Skændsel, Master Skændsel, Master Skændsel. He would drill the name into his mind, there was no way he’d get his new Masters name wrong, not when it meant being whacked on the head with that staff.
    Soon, they arrived at an old, wooden looking door which Skændsel opened with a tap from his staff, something Kiv was amazed to see and couldn’t wait to learn. The tall, old man ushered his new apprentice inside with a simple frown and the raising of his staff, and Kiv was all too eager not to get on the bad side of the old man.
    His eyes widened however at the room. It was simple, with a bed, a small pail of water next to a mirror, some windows to let the light of the moon in, a desk with a chair and a single bookshelf. The walls were made of the same, grey stone that everything else seemed to be made of, but there were some long, old banners hanging from the walls, the same as the ones he’d noticed through the castle, showing a strange deep red sign on pure black made of a line within a diamond, like some kind of weird eye, with two ‘horns’ coming from top. There was also an old rug in the middle of the room with strange, almost alien looking patters, but strangely, it really tied the room together.
    Kiv blinked and turned around, “Sir, this can’t be my room. There’s too much stuff in here.”
    He could tell Skændsel was raising a would-be eyebrow at him before frowning, “Well I could throw you in with the cumals if you’d like.”
    “No, no, no!” Kiv raised up his hands, “I’m fine here, Sir.”
    “Stop saying Sir!” The Master necromancer commanded, “It’s Master!”
    “Yes, Si-erm, Master,” Kiv looked down, then realised Skændsel didn’t like that and looked up again, “I’ll be up early tomorrow for you, Master.”
    “Good, because your training starts immediately,” Skændsel stated bluntly before going to shut the door.
    He was only stopped when Kiv weakly called out, “Goodnight, Master!”
    Skændsel paused with the door opened just a jar before muttering a very strange and almost confused sounding, “Yes, goodnight.” It was almost like he had never said it before, odd.
    Kiv looked around the room again once he was sure his Master had gone and he sighed, taking off the little backpack he had on, still made of his now very dirty blue blanket and placed them all on the old wooden desk that was now his. He’d never had a desk before, it was rather exciting. He smiled as he threw off his shirt and pants and crawled into his new bed, which was oddly comfortable… well, it beat sleeping on piles of hay anyway.
    As his eyes closed, even amid the sounds of some terrible, unearthly, yet oddly serine screaming from somewhere deep in the dungeons of the castle, he felt like, well, like he was… home.

*** - If your god tells his children to write a book, does he tell him everything? The meanings to the lives we live, the morales we are given? Why is it in your books, your literature, that the killers always have a deeper meaning then the reader is first presented with? Is this 'god' really telling you everything? Or... is he testing you, and telling you to find the true meaning behind the ink of the scribe? To teach others, what is to be cherished about life. – Quote of Necromancer Torr una Awiergan. -***