Curtis
It was cold, grim, and brutal in the harsh winterlands of the North. Where the more brazen and brutal folk of shapeshifters makes their home in the icy regions of Gantrick. Where food is scarce and survival is the fittest, there is a reason that its inhabitants are forced to become much fiercer and wild. For the nature of these very lands don't give a single speck of mercy to any life other than their own.

To the lonesome trail of the Morthal Forest Road, a single individual clad in heavy winter clothing of white and light materials would be trekking a calm day of winter in the middle of a soft and dim afternoon. The white specks of snow gently moving down with grace and elegance. Heavy fumes of white mist would come out with each breath, as if he has difficulty breathing. But who wouldn't when their lungs are filled with frostbite?

But other than the cold temperature, it was at least quiet and peaceful. To the road ahead towards Alynthi, the safest route for him to go is through these lands. But this was also the longest road to get there. Whatever where it may be, at least he is patient. Eternally patient. For a few days is nothing compared to the unknown time of millenia within the hellscape of the Plane of Dreams. 

His backpack on his back, being so large that it can be associated to a goliath's was merely lightweight. Or at least, having enough to carry it properly. It can be assumed that its magically enchantment by nature for him to carry such a thing. But other than that, he is burdened by the things he carry. 

After a few moments, shapeshifter wolves would come out of the clearing of the trail. Brandishing black serrated swords with every ounce of their body covered in thick leather armor.

```Well now, we have a gold mine ripe for the picking!```
-

The individual would slowly move back. Though more emerged from behind him. Two at the front, and three at the back. "**Please, let me pass. I'll give you my gold, just spare me and my work.**" His voice was ominously demonic and dark, though there was indeed a tone of fear and anxiety to it. But he did not fear for his life.

He feared for theirs. For they do not know that the dead calls him their leader. Their Prince. And when the dead senses that their majesty is in danger, they shall rise to enact revenge to the living.

```Yeah... We'll spare your belongings and your life! I'm sure you'd make quite a slave for those nobles. Bet they'll give us tons of gold with someone like you.```

While all of them laughed and cackled, the individual would slowly raise their head to reveal a porcelain mask underneath all that winter gear of fur and leather. "**... Sir, how many have you killed?**" 

```Probably too many to count! But I'll make sure that you're unharmed~```

The atmosphere began to tense as the masked individual lays dormant and silent. A chilling breeze of wind moving through the place, awaiting the suspense to take fold. "**Then I'll make sure your soul is split equally to your victims.**"
Heather
It was his calling yet again — as Count Aarin Micah Loer soared over the freezing, grim lands of Gantrick. Being in the air, Micah could already feel the biting chill at his fingertips even through his gloves, and angled his body, spreading his feathery wings to lower his altitude and fly in a warmer level of altitude. 

He muttered something under his breath as he neared the commotion, and his body blurred as he angled his wings for a dive. An individual was being surrounded by what seemed like shapeshifter werewolves. He swiftly dove right into the group of bandits, his figure still in an illusionary blur, sending up a cloud of snow. There was a flash of yellow — a crackle of lightning, and Micah's lightning imbued sword stabbed straight through the torso of one of the bandits and out, before whirling around, his agile footwork allowing him a quick retreat as he stood beside the individual.

His figure finally came into a clear form revealing a tall woman with long, wavy blond locks, large feathery wings, wielding a crackling lightning-imbued sword. He held an arm to his face to protect himself from the biting cold.
Diane
The masked individual would stand motionlessly in front of the bandits. Slowly increasing his inner strength to unleash his unholy cruelty. But before that, as silent as an owl and as loud as thunderstruck, a yellow flash appeared right in front of him that tore through the torso of one of the bandits with a mighty thrust. 

He was merely standing in place, watching the scene unfold. Watching. Studying. Analyzing. Unfolding strings of information with each passing second to assess his next set of actions. Not before long, the masked individual would see of a woman standing beside him with wings he was all too keenly hateful of. "**Ah, a child of the false justice. Though it seems that your actions greatly differ from that of your creator mother.**" 

His demonic voice was both distasteful and disgusted, yet it still held a respectable tone. Seemingly commending the knight of their bravery to intervene with the fight. Though it wouldn't be very evident to the subtle messages and hidden emotions.
-

Walking up front, he let out a deep sigh while the rest of the bandits would ready their melee weapons to charge against the both of them. However, the wounded would start tending to its own wounds by covering it up with bandages. Now that his face is out of his partner's point of view, he would remove the porcelain mask to reveal a shadowy face. From it were a myriad of eyes glowing a dim light of green with pupils having demonic traits and aesthetics. 

"**The dead demands retribution.**" 

Unlike earlier where his voice is both menacing and demonic, the voice he now uses is unlike any other. Benevolent, soothing, compasionnate, it was like the voice of an angel that may even rival or exceed that of a siren's call. Heralding doom in the most graceful manner. 

 "**Oh victims of these evildoers! I call upon your tormented spirits! Ye who has been spoiled of life! Take your revenge and seek true justice! I call upon in the name of Lawrence Silvermoore! Rest through the blood of your killers!**"
-

Deep within the woodland forests of the morthal trail, dozens of spirits would soon spring forth. Chanting harrowing screams of anger, malice, and agony. They would fly through the area, in between the bandits and Vidal. Lawrence would be seen covered in soul-like flames. His arms covered with an intense glow of cyan colors that reveal the skeletal structure of his arms wreathed in spectral blue flame.

```What are you all doing?! KILL HIM! KILL THE NECROMANCER!```

The four bandits would try to attack Lawrence and Aarin, but they felt rather slow. Very slow. As if the vitality of their agility was somehow drained out of them. "**Not even the God of Death can save your souls from me.**" The spirits had conjoined themselves with one another to form a horrific shroud around the caster.

**Spirit Shroud**

He spoke in a neutrally positive tone with his face away from the knight's point of view. "**Now then, to the newcomer, would you need of help? The dead will provide cover should you need their assistance.**"
Heather
The Countess frowns at the masked individual. "False justice? I do not understand, I'm afraid."

Her voice was ever so cool, deep, and whispery, but in reaction to such a distasteful statement of herself, it echoed a challenging tone, as if she dared this individual to challenge the laws of justice and protection she lived and fought for her entire life. 

As Aarin spectated the individual, the harrowing screams arose, tearing at her own heart that made Aarin wince ever so slightly. As if attempting to instinctively counter such necromancy, her white eye seemed to glow a bit more for a brief moment — but if any instincts to suppress the dead spirits arose, Aarin brought those instincts down. This necromancer, no matter if she liked it or not, was dealing against the bandits. 

"You are of great use," Countess Loer says simply, with no care or consideration of what this necromancer felt towards being regarded as merely 'useful.' She brandishes her sword, lightning crackling with energy, her yellow eye glowing brightly whenever she brings power into her imbued, golden sword. 

"Nevertheless," Her voice raises in volume, "I will punish the evil with appropriation as justice wills me to. Only after that may your dead rest once more."

She puts herself in a stance, and with gritted teeth, dives right into the shadowy shroud of the dead, with such startling speeds as if a flash of an incredibly strong gust of wind had just flown by. Had the grim, freezing weather made her physically cold, being near the presence of the dead spirits chilled her own internal systems and heart. The presence of such vile, unrestful beings did not soothe Aarin Micah, but the opposite. It was truly light and dark, the light struggling to prevail against the dark, and coordinate with it.

Once positioning herself so that she was decently surrounded by the bandits all around her, she stamped her good foot down with extra force on the ground, pivoting around on that foot in a whirlwind-like

Spin as she flung her sword out, slicing through the bodies of the bandit in one quick, light, but clean spin. Her heart thudded wildly even in her ears — attempting to push away any negative turmoils of feelings rising in her heart thanks to the harrowing presence of the dead.
Diane
The leader of the group was able to defend and evade to a far distance from the two individuals. With the haunting presence of the dead and power of lightning cowering down on them, the odds of this battle is impossible as his men were struck blow after blow by the knight in an area of death created by the necromancer.

"**Let true justice be served.**" It seemed as though Lawrence ignored the words of Aarin, but that doesn't mean that he didn't hear such things. The time for hate is not appropriate at this hour, for the dead is in need of their just deserved rest. He raised his spectral hands up in the air, seemingly preparing to cast a spell.

With the knight's protection against the bandits, the necromancer was able to cast his spell with perfect clarity without any delay or error. "**Bloom and Decay.**" Soon, bursts of necromantic energy began to explode from the ground at random. The screams of pain and agony filled their air as one by one their enemies fell with bodies decayed to a point that they turned into lifeless husks. On the other hand, Aarin would feel invigorated. The ominous and foreign feeling of darkness embracing him as if his light was welcome in the land of shadows.

His instincts may start to calm down at such a comforting yet confusing feeling, for people always believed that darkness was evil and the light was good. Though only very people truly understood the concept of the two elements was not by their nature, but by the people who wield it.

-
The leader would see his allies turn into lifeless husks, shaking and trembling with his tail behind his legs. He slowly moved back only to fall to the ground, jaws shivering in absolute fear as his eyes saw a nightmarish figure. Lawrence would simply walk in front of the remaining bandit with face still hidden with the exception of his multiple glowing eyes with his hands simply holding the straps of his large backpack.

```DE-DEMON! INHUMAN! MONSTER! ABOMINATION!```

Hearing those words, the necromancer would reveal a sinister smile beneath his shadowy veil. Those horrible eyes seemingly delighted in the fear of the bandit before them. "**You're just like the rest of them.**" Suddenly, the Spirit Shroud would collapse with the ghosts of the forest seemingly bursting outward towards the remaining bandit.

```No! NO! NOOOOOOOO!```

The bandit was carried off in spectral mist, being pulled inside the depths of the forest. Only his tormented voice echoed across the woods. Becoming faint with each second until there was nothing but silence. For a moment, Lawrence would slowly move his body towards Aarin. That sinister smile still present, yet it would fade away as a seemingly humble looking spirit would appear beside him.

-

"__Thank you, my Prince. You have given us a chance for justice. Now we may rest. However... The Knight...__"

Lawrence would slowly shake his head, the gazes of his eyes seemingly turning empathetic and sorrowful. "**All of you have suffered enough in these woods. Rest and cross peacefully in death.**"

"__As you wish. Prince Lawrence...__"

The ghost would slowly fade away with a reverent bow to the necromancer. Soon enough, he would direct his full attention towards the knight. Several of his eyes seemingly staring at her with caution and aggression. "**Now then, I suppose your kind wouldn't allow one such as me to continue on living? With your corrupted belief of justice created by your wretched goddess being the judge of my life?**" 

Both his hands and arms still held their spectral appearance. Lawrence still having his guard up against his ally in front of him. If Aarin is observant enough, there was doubt and fear behind those aggressive and untrusting eyes. "**I await your reply.**"
Heather
Aarin Micah stood, sheathing her sword. Her expression was less neutral than usual, the force of her eyes glaring at the necromancer through slightly narrowed eyes. Her heart still thudded even after the feud had completed, and they emerged an almost effortless victory against some shapeshifter bandits. Yet, it thuds against her chest, struggling to fully recover and calm down from the harrowing screams of the dead that had surrounded her in an extremely uncomfortable close proximity. 
Allying herself, even briefly, with a necromancer was a first in her century-old life and experience. And she wishes to avoid such pairs altogether ever after this. Her light against the necromancer's corrupted darkness flickers, struggling against the dark.

Micah blinked slowly at the necromancer's aggressive, but *Wary* Statement. Her white eye glowed a bit more again, but nothing happened. As she stood there silently, unmoving, as if a robot for a few moments, her wings flared open and close, and she crossed her arms.

"It is as if you accept your demise here instead of fleeing, necromancer," Aarin said rather icily, "To me, I only protect against any evil-willed people, not specifically anyone with a darker mindset." She narrowed her eyes, "What are your intentions to be here in such a place like this, if I may inquire?"
Curtis
"**As if I would lose to the likes of you. Knight.**" With a single snap of his fingers, his spectral aesthetics would disappear in almost an instant as it bursts itself around the user before fading. "**Hmph. You speak as if you know true darkness. Yet, knights like you can grasp that it's only related to evil deeds and destructive power. What a foolish delirium. Certainly Kamara and Ulmos' fault.**"

He would grunt in response to the question, though it sounded more like a beast rather than an ordinary individual. Soon after, he would take off his hood to reveal the abomination of a humanoid race. Eyes with green demonic pupils crawling around his face in constant slow motion, writing in flesh and creating tears against his flesh.

On his neck was a wide slit of a mouth, small sharp teeth could be seen yet not in complete or consecutive rows. Seemingly displaced in between each other as if it was a monster's mouth. "**And why should I? By what right do you demand of me with such information? Is Kamara looking for a way to apologize now?**"
Heather
The Countess gazed at the necromancer with solemn yellow and white eyes that betrayed no emotion. Her lips seemed to thin.

"I am not like the '*Likes of me*," She states coldly, her hand suddenly resting on her sword handle but not yet unsheathing it. Her wings flared in and out, flapping in harsh air strokes towards the necromancer, intentional or not.

Staring at the abomination of what was supposed to be a humanoid face, Micah would frown slightly.

*Who .. Or what is this, exactly?*

It clearly seemed, by the way he spoke of Her, that something may had happened that causes him to think of Her in such a seemingly negative light. Micah narrowed her eyes. She did not favor anyone who does not hold much respect to her Goddess.

A Goddess should be fair, and had no need to apologize to an individual, most especially a *Necromancer.*

"Kamara does justice the way it should, necromancer," Micah said firmly, "I do not believe She owes anything to you, more or less an *Apology.* Gantrick is a harsh, cruel place, with little to seek and gain. It strikes me curious to know what you seek in such a region like this."
Curtis
"**She owes me everything. For a millenia of pain. Every god owes me. The good. The bad. The wicked and the righteous. Though I do not expect you to understand. You lived under the favor of your goddess. However, they allow me to turn into this... Monstrosity. Where's my justice? Where's the justice that the dead deserved?**"

"**Where was she when I needed her most? Hmph? The supposed goddess who reigns over justice. Yet she can't even bother to send someone to save me from an obvious tower. Through all the thousands of knights and followers, I was left alone to rot simply because...**" In that moment, he hesitated to continue further. His voice was already on the verge of intense anger. Yet he stayed calm, cool, and collected throughout all his dialogue. Though it was evident that there was pain his tone, excruciating pain.

"**I say again. I will never say my intentions here to you. Why would I trust someone who I just met, and most of all, a servant of the one who betrayed me?**"
Heather
This particular knight had never really been referred to as a *Servant* To Kamara before. He didn't know what to think of it.
Aarin frowned, a visible, obvious frown. For a moment, he didn't know what to say.

".. None of the Gods are perfect, and they cannot be expected to achieve everything happening at once — and by dumb luck, your calling did not reach Her, or any of the other guardians of us." Aarin Micah kept his voice neutral, composed. He clasped his gloved hands together, as if in a praying motion.

".. Condolences for what you've been through" Was what Aarin Micah managed to muster out. He ran a gloved hand through his silvery-blond locks over his head. "Someday, Kamara will answer to your calling, and she will provide the justice you seek.

"It is also better to live on in peace. If you ever feel so connected with the dead, necromancer, you'd know as much as the dead would know on resting in peace after turmoils of chaos, destruction, and anger."
Curtis
"**Kamara will never answer my call. Only a fool would think of asking help to divinity. No, we are merely tools to be used by the gods. We would never be viewed as their children or people. Only tools. And ONLY tools.**" Suddenly, a large book sewed on with different skins and tissues would jump from the necromancer's backpack, it hopped into his arms to close in him.

It would contract and contrast as if it was a living and breathing organism. Scrapings of paper would be heard as if it feels its master's pain. "**Indeed. But that doesn't mean our deaths were from a fairy tale. A happy ever after. Some of us die a gruesome death. Such act would eventually turn into an undead of its own. As a necromancer, I know that there's truly no peace. For death is everywhere.**"

He would soon cover his head with a hood once more, masking his monstrous face save for the glowing demonic eyes that peers through the dark. "**Since you did not attack me, I only have one advice to you. Whatever you do, do not trust the gods. They spew truthful temptations to our ends.**"

"**Perhaps if circumstances were different, I would've serve the noble beliefs of the gods. Perhaps I would've been a man of renown. Instead, I am shunned and feared for what I have become. Only the dead treat me for what I really am.

Though... I still find it confusing. Usually, the undead call their summoners with a title of lord or master. But instead, they call me a Prince. A Prince of Pestilence.**"
Heather
*Pestilience* Means plague .. Was this necromancer struck with one in the past that led to the misfortunes he faced then and now? Count Loer flared their wings open and closed wordlessly, his lips thinning.

"I believe the Gods, especially Kamara, has led my spirit down here and created me to protect and shield the unfortunate and weak." Micah lowered his eyelids, crossing his arms.

"I daresay I do not mind if I'm a mere tool to Kamara. I'm born and created to serve one purpose, and it is to bring justice on Kamara's behalf. I do wish, and perhaps believe, that she sees me as her child, but I am truly her sword. One of her workers to serve justice."
Curtis
"**Then you're a lost cause. When the light burns too bright, remember that the dark will consume you. The Balance must be maintained. For even in good, there's evil lurking within. That's the ugly truth of life. Of Mortality and Divinity. Though I admire your duty to protect, it is only within the reason of a goddess. That in itself is a mockery of your existence.**" Lawrence would slowly look at the husks of the bandits around him, one by one he began to drag them up on a pile. After that, he began to dig through the snow and hard soil with his gloved hands.

"**Just... Just stop talking about you serving with your justice. Each time I hear about it, it makes me nauseating. And it angers me that you say that with full confidence and yet I, died and reborn, still not saw a speck of your word. If you were so boastful of your duty, why not rescue the slaves of Gantrick and Lazaroth?**" His words were as painful and excruciating as a snake's venom, yet it was truthful right to its very core.

"**The slaves would've been liberated by now if your people believes in the justice you serve. And yet, I can still hear their call. To end their pain with revenge. So many lives torn asunder by false hope and justice...**"
Heather
Aarin Micah tenses evidently at the necromancer's comments. 

"I may seem like I have a side, but I am in between," Aarin Micah states rather coldly, "I only follow what my superiors and Kamara wills me to do, good or bad."

But what stung the countess inside right now was that she faced someone who had not been treated with proper justice. Just one of the people in the world who Aarin Micah Loer failed to shield from the miseries of the world.

".. I will take that suggestion into consideration, necromancer," Micah's voice was evidently more wary than the strong, cold tone she used in the sentences prior.
Curtis
"**... Good or evil? Are you willing to be a mindless puppet? Falling yourself to the cost of lives?!**" His voice began to create a more apparent tone of anger and malice. He was slowly losing control. When he had created a small hole on the ground, the man stood up. Wreathing his hand in spectral blue flame, he had burst out necromantic energy to the earth. Creating a large hole enough for the corpses to be buried.

"**Your superiors will never heed your consideration. You will only be fallen on deaf ears by the very people whom you serve.**" Suddenly, a malevolent aura soon bursted out of his body. His body covered in spectral and dark energies, mixing a shade of black and ghostly blue colors. "**When the time comes that you make the wrong decision, I will be the one who will destroy your comrades. Men and women alike shall be consumed by numerous plagues and pox. They will breed and produce the most vile of concoctions that even the Goddess of Pestilence will be horrified of it.**"

"**Heed this warning well, for the rise of the dead is the consequence of life.**"
Heather
Aarin Micah flinched back slightly as the necromancer bursts such a dark, malevolent aura of death out of his body out of control due to his anger. 

She had never dealt with something like this before — some*One*. A person who never received justice despite the horrifics and misfortune he faced in his life. A person who questioned her own beliefs, motives, and her actions and serving of justice she had pledged to do her entire life. He was so enraged by hate and the thirst for revenge, the darkness of engaging with the dead consuming his body and inner souls, and now he wishes the demise of everyone around him.

This was a man who seemed to have stepped too far into the dark, and can no longer see even a speck of light.

"... *Necromancer. If you ever set out to do such things, bear in mind that I will aim to stop you.*"

Aarin had been called something like a *Mindless puppet* Here and there. She had thought about it her entire life. But what use was she in the world if she was anything but Kamara's servant and puppet? This was her entire reason of existence. She was born destined to serve Kamara something like a *Mindless puppet* Her entire life until her ends. 

"The only dead that wishes to rise are the people who deserves to be dead, but to not rest in peace. I only dispel the lives of those who bring upon misery, who are evil-willed and dares to go against the law of order, harmony, and justice." Aarin Micah unsheathes her sword and twirls it about, lightning crackling simultaneously as her yellow eye glowed fiercely.

"The innocents lives that were ended by any circumstance usually choose — and are able to rest in peace, without having the will and urge to rise against the living."
Curtis
Before anything else, a ghostly figure would appear right beside Lawrence. It was cloaked in ghastly translucent dress with a hood so it isn't clear who or what she is, but her figure alone defines her as a woman. She whispered to him to his ear, to which the aura around the Necromancer began to die down. "**You're right. It's no use, her mind is lost to the divines. There's nothing we could do to save her from the lies that blinded her. What we can only do right now is hope that she makes the right decision. Or else, we will be forced to act accordingly. There's no redemption for a grave sin.**"

He would soon turn his attention to Aarin with hands crossed between each other. Seemingly looking her in a prideful and challenging gaze. "**Perhaps it is a choice, yet some don't have that luxury. And that is the truth of this world.**" The ghostly figure would slowly move the mutilated husks of the bandits one by one into the hole, after which she would vanish into thin air.

"**Catch.**" From the pockets of his bag, he would throw a seemingly large glass container containing a red fluid from within. It seemed to be a medium healing potion. "**I don't like debts. This is your reward for helping me kill the bandits. It is the very least I could do, even though I didn't need assistance.**" Turning back to the corpses on the hole, he would raise his hands up in the air.

They began to wreathe themselves in spectral blue flame that showed the skeletal structure of Lawrence's hands as they began to fill the hold with necromantic energies. "**Now, leave me to my work. I need to make sure that the dead will be at peace. No need to have ghostly bandits running around like maniacs in the land of the living.**"
Heather
Aarin Micah shivered, his wings folding in on him for a few moments. True, not all the dead would have a choice to haunt the living or rest peacefully. To Micah, it may be their natural resentful souls unable to rest, or that they died unwilling, and now sought to complete their unfinished stories as the dead.

He jerked his head towards the necromancer after watching the ghostly figure in a trance-like way, and managed to catch the glass container. There was a red fluid within, and Micah's senses told him that this seemed to be a medium healing potion. Okay, sure, the necromancer didn't want to be indebted to him, but Count Loer felt accomplished.

He tucked the container into his coats and lowered his head briefly.

".. Good luck, necromancer."
Curtis
"**... Good luck to you as well, Knight.**" Presumably as she made her exit out of the morthal trail, Lawrence would've finished his ritual and the burial rites for the dead that he had killed. He was kneeling in front of a homemade grave sign made entirely from wood. Behind it was a large mound of snow where he buried the dead. 

When the prayer was over, he would look above to see falling snowflakes gently raining down from across the sky. With one landing on Lawrence's forehead. "**Hmm...**" He began to pack his things and started to travel once more. Bearing his mask on his face, his journey to find the most foul of diseases continue.

A different ghostly figure would soon appear right beside him. It spoke in dark whispers that Lawrence seem to hear in full clarity. "**I was hard on the knight because it what she... He... I don't know, They? Deserved. You heard what she said, I won't let her decide a choice that would cost the lives of innocents.**"

The ghostly figure spoke back to him. "**I... I know. At least we gave them something to think about...**" With that, he would disappear through a snowy mist as he treks across Gantrick once more.