text: [Themes: historical]
  
  All around you is the smell of warfare. Acrid smoke from the campfires, piss and refuse from the latrines, sweat from the men.
  
  And fear. You smell that too.
  
  These men have reason to be afraid. You have spent the last few months fighting King Harold's enemies, only to march double-time to confront his most dangerous yet; William of Normandy. His army is camped below, twelve thousand men strong, in comparison to your eight thousand. There is reason to be afraid. Are you afraid? No, you affirm decisively in your mind. You are not afraid. You are Lord Aethelwulf, The Lord In The North, King Harold's most trusted advisor, and the veteran of a hundred battles. Why should you be afraid of an army of ragtag Normans who come to die on your sword?
  
  Shaking such doubts from your mind, you stride purposefully through the bustle of the camp, intent on checking on the forward defenses. A pair of giggling urchins weave nimbly around you and a staggering drunk lurches out in front of you, notices your sparkling chainmail armor and backs away, apologizing profusely. Striding onward towards the edge of the English camp you pass the watchful gaze of the sentries unchallenged and stand at the upper slope of the hill.
  
  You are not alone. Another man sits on the hill, wreathed in the shadow of the setting sun. Drawing closer you recognize him as Acwellen, a minor lord, but stalwart fighter. His face is stone, his jaw grimly set and his eyes staring out at the horizon. Looking over his shoulder you see the black smoke smearing the red evening sky. In the distance the town of Hastings burns. In the blurry uncertainty of the setting sun, you cannot tell if the glisten at his eyes is tears or just the sparkle of dying sunlight. Acwellen's son, you remember, was put in command of Hasting's garrison.
  
  Above the treeline you can just make out the crackle of flames. Hastings burns.
  
  > remind him his son could be alive
  Adamantly, you grip him by the shoulder and turn him to face you. Kneeling, you look him in the eyes, grasping his shoulders with sudden ferocity.
  
  "Listen to me Acwellen! Your son may not be dead. Every hour men from the garrison at Hastings enter our camp. There are survivors. Do not give up hope so soon"
  
  Acwellen sighs raggedly, and seems about to disagree, but instead nods fiercely.
  
  "Yes. You're right. I cannot give up hope, my son... my son could still be out there"
  
  His conviction appears slight, but at least you have gotten his attention away from the blaze of Hastings' buildings. Acwellen exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.
  
  "Can we win this battle?"
  
  The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.
  
  > Yes
  "Yes!"
  
  You bark, with a sudden harshness that surprises both Acwellen and yourself.
  
  "Yes"
  
  You continue in a softer tone.
  
  "We can win. This is not the end."
  
  In your mind there is no room for doubt. You cannot afford it.
  
  Behind the screen of trees the town of Hastings roils with flames and the Norman William's horde assembles.
  
  Adamantly, you grip him by the shoulder and turn him to face you. Kneeling, you look him in the eyes, grasping his shoulders with sudden ferocity.
  
  "Listen to me Acwellen! Your son may not be dead. Every hour men from the garrison at Hastings enter our camp. There are survivors. Do not give up hope so soon"
  
  Acwellen sighs raggedly, and seems about to disagree, but instead nods fiercely.
  
  "Yes. You're right. I cannot give up hope, my son... my son could still be out there"
  
  His conviction appears slight, but at least you have gotten his attention away from the blaze of Hastings' buildings. Acwellen exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.
  
  "Can we win this battle?"
  
  The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.
  
  > No
  Hidden by the dense screen of trees, twelve thousand Norman warriors wait. Each one is battle ready, and battle hardened; professional killers. Within your camp waits fewer than eight thousand men, but of those eight thousand only three thousand can be trusted. The rest are just farmers, weary and ill-disciplined. Even with the high ground, these numbers are far too slanted.
  
  You know it with a dull certainty; only death awaits you here.
  
  Acwellen is still looking at you, waiting for a response. Your mouth moves of its own accord, the words escaping in a wisp of breath.
  
  "No."
  
  Adamantly, you grip him by the shoulder and turn him to face you. Kneeling, you look him in the eyes, grasping his shoulders with sudden ferocity.
  
  "Listen to me Acwellen! Your son may not be dead. Every hour men from the garrison at Hastings enter our camp. There are survivors. Do not give up hope so soon"
  
  Acwellen sighs raggedly, and seems about to disagree, but instead nods fiercely.
  
  "Yes. You're right. I cannot give up hope, my son... my son could still be out there"
  
  His conviction appears slight, but at least you have gotten his attention away from the blaze of Hastings' buildings. Acwellen exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.
  
  "Can we win this battle?"
  
  The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.
  
  > Don't know
  Hidden by the dense screen of trees, twelve thousand Norman warriors wait. Each one is battle ready, and battle hardened; professional killers. Within your camp waits fewer than eight thousand men, but of those eight thousand only three thousand can be trusted. The rest are just farmers, weary and ill-disciplined. These are long odds, and even with the high ground, this will be no easy victory. Acwellen is still looking at you, waiting for a response. You shrug grimly.
  
  "I don't know Acwellen. I don't know."
  
  Behind the screen of trees the town of Hastings roils with flames and the Norman William's horde assembles.
  
  All around you is the smell of warfare. Acrid smoke from the campfires, piss and refuse from the latrines, sweat from the men.
  
  And fear. You smell that too.
  
  These men have reason to be afraid. You have spent the last few months fighting King Harold's enemies, only to march double-time to confront his most dangerous yet; William of Normandy. His army is camped below, twelve thousand men strong, in comparison to your eight thousand. There is reason to be afraid. Are you afraid? No, you affirm decisively in your mind. You are not afraid. You are Lord Aethelwulf, The Lord In The North, King Harold's most trusted advisor, and the veteran of a hundred battles. Why should you be afraid of an army of ragtag Normans who come to die on your sword?
  
  Shaking such doubts from your mind, you stride purposefully through the bustle of the camp, intent on checking on the forward defenses. A pair of giggling urchins weave nimbly around you and a staggering drunk lurches out in front of you, notices your sparkling chainmail armor and backs away, apologizing profusely. Striding onward towards the edge of the English camp you pass the watchful gaze of the sentries unchallenged and stand at the upper slope of the hill.
  
  You are not alone. Another man sits on the hill, wreathed in the shadow of the setting sun. Drawing closer you recognize him as Acwellen, a minor lord, but stalwart fighter. His face is stone, his jaw grimly set and his eyes staring out at the horizon. Looking over his shoulder you see the black smoke smearing the red evening sky. In the distance the town of Hastings burns. In the blurry uncertainty of the setting sun, you cannot tell if the glisten at his eyes is tears or just the sparkle of dying sunlight. Acwellen's son, you remember, was put in command of Hasting's garrison.
  
  Above the treeline you can just make out the crackle of flames. Hastings burns.
  
  > say "..."
  You have no words. Perhaps Acwellen's son is alive, even now rallying survivors and waiting for the cover of night to slip into the safety of the English camp, yet more likely he is dead, cleaved open by a Norman axe, or gutted by a Norman blade, or shot by a Norman arrow. Lying there, consumed by the inferno that lights the evening sky in the distance. You cannot offer false consolation. Instead you stand by him, silently sharing in his grief. Acwellen exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.
  
  "Can we win this battle?"
  
  The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.
  
  > Yes
  "Yes!"
  
  You bark, with a sudden harshness that surprises both Acwellen and yourself.
  
  "Yes"
  
  You continue in a softer tone.
  
  "We can win. This is not the end."
  
  In your mind there is no room for doubt. You cannot afford it.
  
  Behind the screen of trees the town of Hastings roils with flames and the Norman William's horde assembles.
  
  You have no words. Perhaps Acwellen's son is alive, even now rallying survivors and waiting for the cover of night to slip into the safety of the English camp, yet more likely he is dead, cleaved open by a Norman axe, or gutted by a Norman blade, or shot by a Norman arrow. Lying there, consumed by the inferno that lights the evening sky in the distance. You cannot offer false consolation. Instead you stand by him, silently sharing in his grief. Acwellen exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.
  
  "Can we win this battle?"
  
  The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.
  
  > No
  Hidden by the dense screen of trees, twelve thousand Norman warriors wait. Each one is battle ready, and battle hardened; professional killers. Within your camp waits fewer than eight thousand men, but of those eight thousand only three thousand can be trusted. The rest are just farmers, weary and ill-disciplined. Even with the high ground, these numbers are far too slanted.
  
  You know it with a dull certainty; only death awaits you here.
  
  Acwellen is still looking at you, waiting for a response. Your mouth moves of its own accord, the words escaping in a wisp of breath.
  
  "No."
  
  You have no words. Perhaps Acwellen's son is alive, even now rallying survivors and waiting for the cover of night to slip into the safety of the English camp, yet more likely he is dead, cleaved open by a Norman axe, or gutted by a Norman blade, or shot by a Norman arrow. Lying there, consumed by the inferno that lights the evening sky in the distance. You cannot offer false consolation. Instead you stand by him, silently sharing in his grief. Acwellen exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.
  
  "Can we win this battle?"
  
  The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.
  
  > Don't know
  Hidden by the dense screen of trees, twelve thousand Norman warriors wait. Each one is battle ready, and battle hardened; professional killers. Within your camp waits fewer than eight thousand men, but of those eight thousand only three thousand can be trusted. The rest are just farmers, weary and ill-disciplined. These are long odds, and even with the high ground, this will be no easy victory. Acwellen is still looking at you, waiting for a response. You shrug grimly.
  
  "I don't know Acwellen. I don't know."
  
  Behind the screen of trees the town of Hastings roils with flames and the Norman William's horde assembles.[Themes: grimdark fantasy, serious, war, fantasy, villain protagonist, grimdark]
  
  Well, you did it again. You slacked off all semester and didn't study for your finals. There's no way you're going to pass your nature magic test tomorrow. Those things are always killers. You don't even know why you enrolled in that class; you aren't even interested in being a nature mage. You don't even like the damn outdoors!
  
  Oh wait, you know why, it's because you saw a cute witch taking the class, so like a dumb ass, you signed up for it. Naturally the moment you tried to impress her with some sort of cantrip, she laughed at you and said even if she was straight, she wouldn't go for a half assed hedge wizard like you! You really should've known better, half of those witches are lesbians anyway. That whole Mother Earth Goddess worship caters to the rug munching. (And no, there aren't any MALE witches, any self respecting man would call himself a WARLOCK, not a damn witch!)
  
  (Sigh) Like your little sister's B'ar'b Dolly once said "Magic is hard!" Indeed. Sometimes you curse the day your mother passed her magical elven blood on to you.
  
  Still, you're here now, so you need to make the best out of your life. You're already going to hear it from both of your parents of how you've been nothing but a disappointment to the both of them. Your Dad will probably do a little more than say that, he'll probably personally ride up to the University and beat the hell out of you for wasting his hard earned pillaging money to send you there in the first place.
  
  Arrgh! You just wish you were good at SOME kind of magic! You have the ability; you just don't have the focus! That's always been the problem with you. Your sister has it easy, she took after Dad. Narrow minded focus on killing someone with a blunt instrument doesn't take too much effort. Of course you had to be the one that greater things were expected of.
  
  You've tried all the schools, evocation, conjuration, illusion, divination; all of them. You can't excel in any of it. You can only get so far and then the words and gestures and well all of it just becomes too fucking confusing for you.
  
  However, you haven't tried the "darker arts", but your Mom would definitely never approve. (Your Dad probably wouldn't care, but if you upset your Mom, it's a warhammer upside the head) In fact it's illegal to study any of them. They caused too much trouble in the past and nearly destroyed the world at one time. All who are known to even dabble in such arts are immediately taken into custody and executed.
  
  You don't think you'd want to be summoning demons anyway; even the few "friendly ones" that work on campus are fucking assholes to the Nth degree. You can only imagine how bad the ones who haven't been living among mortals are.
  
  However there is another dark art which you have to admit you've always had a bit of curiosity about.
  
  The art in question is necromancy.
  
  At this point you're willing to at least see if you're good at ANYTHING, so for shits and giggles you decide to blow off your test which you're going to fail anyway and go see if you can find out more about this outlawed dark art.
  
  Though being a lazy sort you decide to try the library first.
  
  [Author's Note: Additional Notes: This story is definitely more "story" than "game", however there are two distinct paths that can be followed, each with their own pitfalls and additional choices. There is also "one true" ending in which can be considered a "win" (You'll know if you got it, because you'll get an epilogue) This story can get long, and assuming you're surviving, years do pass in it and you and your environment will change. There are a few points in the story where there are links that lead to more background information on various people and things. While not completely necessary to understand the story, they do give you more insight into it. The text that accompanies some of the pics are also done for similar purposes (Your journal entries, personal thoughts, letters written to you, etc)]
  
  > go make a trip to the library
  Even though you're supposed to be a wizard in training, you spend as little time as possible in library if you can help it. Normally you just check out whatever you need to read for a class and leave.
  
  You have little faith in finding anything substantial on Necromancy in there, but maybe you can find something that will at least quell this thirst for knowledge on it. You realize you're treading on dangerous ground, but you have to try to learn more.
  
  The library is huge however, and you're unsure of where to look, it's not like there's a section on Necromancy or Outlawed Magic, but you figure you'll look in the History section first.
  
  You glance and browse through the stacks until you pick up a few choice books that look like they might contain something, sit down in a quiet corner and begin to read. Naturally you don't learn too much. The history books mainly go on about how bad the Dead War was, important battles, the atrocities of the Lich Lord, the typical stuff you've read time and time again. Still, you're determined to find something new.
  
  You spend hours reading until you realize you've spent the day in the library and that it's now night time. Oddly the library is mostly empty, and that's probably because finals are now over, one of which you've now undoubtedly failed. You think of how stupid you've been to obsess over an outlawed art that you probably wouldn't be any good at anyway! You've only been dwelling on the subject to ignore your own problems that you could've tried to solve yourself, instead of fantasizing about being some Necromancer. Raising the dead...what good would that do you? Delusions of grandeur. You wouldn't have enough motivation to try to take over the world anyway. There was only one person who truly motivated you, and she's gone.
  
  You begin to think about Serena and begin to feel sorrow like when you first lost her. You've had enough of death. You leave the library in a daze and head back home to sleep off this miserable day.
  
  You can't escape though; even your dreams bring death. You dream about Serena. At first she's alive and vibrant, and then suddenly she dies before your eyes. Then you see her grave with you sobbing over it and shouting how you demand that she not leave you.
  
  Then she rises from her grave...and you wake up only to come face to face with her! She is a ghost floating near your bed.
  
  "HOLY SHIT!" you shout and back up against your headboard.
  "Shhhh! Hush my love, I'm risking a lot just by being here." She says looking around as if someone is going to bust down your door any minute.
  "Serena, what's going on? This isn't a dream is it?"
  "No, my dear I assure you that I am very real. And I have a message for you."
  "A message?"
  "Yes, embrace death and all the beauty it has to offer."
  "You want me to kill myself, to join you?"
  Serena laughs a bit. "No silly, you are to become a necromancer and bring the purity of death to the world."
  "...yeah right. With my aptitude of magic, I doubt if I could raise a mouse skeleton."
  "You always did lack confidence in yourself. I suppose that's why they sent me to motivate you one last time. Though I admit, I would've come to see you anyway."
  "They?"
  
  Serena side steps your question and continues.
  
  "Look we haven't much time, but you HAVE the ability to become the greatest Necromancer since the Great Lich Lord who brought the world near the brink of extinction centuries ago, but you cannot do it alone...at least not yet. You must have allies. There are others like you on this campus who long to practice the dark arts. Seek them out and take over this college as your first step to your destiny."
  "What? Hold on! What makes you think I want to do all this?"
  
  Serena floats closer to you and touches your face with a ghostly hand. You feel completely calm.
  
  "Because deep down it IS what you want. You know your thoughts are dominated by death. You even think of me rather than living girls and I've been dead for years. The very fact that your mind played a part in summoning me here is also proof of your desire."
  "I miss you..."
  "I know you do, but my point is, even before I died I remember you having an interest in the dark arts. Indeed it's part of what attracted me to you. But now I must return and you must fulfill your part in this world, whether you succeed or fail at this endeavor will ultimately be up to you, but I believe you will succeed."
  
  Serena then floats a little closer to kiss you.
  
  "Farewell, my love." She says and then disappears.
  
  You're now wide awake and pacing the floor. You've been ambivalent about pursuing this path before, but the more you think about it and with this visit from Serena, this is the path you're going to choose. And why not? It's not like you have any better options in your life at this point.
  
  You're going to do it, and though Serena mentioned others like you being on campus, you're damned if you have a clue to as of knowing who they are since you don't really socialize. Still, you can think of two people that could get you started. (Or at least not rat on you, when you start inquiring about Necromancy)
  
  The next day you take your first steps towards darkness...
  
  > Go talk to your creepy conjuration professor, Mr. Demar
  Serena's right, you're going to need the help of others and you head to Mr. Demar's office.
  
  Mr. Demar's class was probably the only one you didn't struggle in too much. It's not really a popular field given that conjuration can lead to summoning demons. Still, there is use for it on a minor level, though of course it's strictly regulated by most governments.
  
  Mr. Demar was a good professor, but the general agreement by everyone in your class, was that he was REALLY creepy. Plus there were always rumors about him. You always got the impression he was interested in doing a lot more with his area of expertise, but had to settle for teaching. He always seemed to be alright with you though.
  
  When you get to his office, surprisingly it's open and he's busily shuffling some papers around.
  
  "Mr. Demar?"
  "Huh? What? Damn it, I thought I locked that door! Oh it's you, what do you want? And lock that door."
  "Well uh...I had some questions..."
  "Okay, what are they? Out with it." He says continuing to look at some strange parchments.
  "Well, uh...I guess it's about magic, and I guess um..."
  
  Mr. Demar looks up at you like he's going to slap you for stuttering so much. You finally speak up.
  
  "I want to know more about Necromancy."
  
  Mr. Demar steps back and gives you a few inspecting stares.
  
  "I dunno what you're talking about, in fact if you don't get out of here I'm going report you to the dean for asking such questions." He warns, but you get the impression that he's not telling the truth. He probably thinks you were sent to spy on him by the dean or something. It's not like he hasn't been held under close scrutiny before.
  
  "Mr. Demar, I'm not trying to get you into trouble, it's me! I really want to learn Necromancy, and you're about the only one I think can help me! I actually was worried about coming to you and I was nervous about the whole thing!"
  "Hmm, well I guess I always did think you were inclined towards the dark arts and given your annoying stuttering a moment ago, you do sound like you were nervous. Okay, you want to learn? I'll teach you. I'll teach you like I'm currently teaching so many others right now. Surprised? Yes, the time is coming to pass that we who are inclined to REAL power begin to make our place in this world...permanently. Though I still have concerns about you, I mean while you did about average in my class, I'm well aware that you're not exactly the best student in other fields. I question whether you can handle the power of the dark arts, let alone become a Necromancer."
  
  You stand up straight and reply. "I'm confident that this is my path."
  
  "Good, I'm glad you said that, because there's no going back and this path is not for the weak. We also must maintain secrecy at all times until the day that we may take what is rightfully ours. Now come with me, we're going to see exactly what kind of potential you have."
  
  Mr. Demar casts a spell and opens up a portal. He then prepares to enter it and beckons you to follow him, which you do. Suddenly you're whisked away into a place of near darkness. Given your immediate surroundings you'd guess that you're underground somewhere. You can hear the clinking of chains though nearby and moans.
  
  "Where are we?"
  "Your testing area, this where we're going to find out what exactly you're made of. In the next room, you'll find some undead friends. They're currently chained up, but they won't be for long. Now, you can kill them, but as a Necromancer you're supposed to be controlling them, so obviously you should try to do that."
  "But I don't know how! You haven't taught me any spells!"
  "And I'm not going to, you're going to have to figure this out yourself, but I will say this, it's all about the strength of willpower. Tap into your magical energy and if you have what it takes, you'll succeed. I'll leave you to it."
  
  Demar disappears back into the portal and leaves you all by yourself. You've really gotten yourself into it and now there really isn't any going back, and you can hear the chains from the next room dropping to the ground and the moans getting louder and closer.
  
  There's a large bone on the ground and not much else in the room, and you can't run either as there are no other exits.
  
  > pick up the bone and defend yourself
  You pick up the large bone and prepare for whatever is coming at you. A couple of zombies enter and as soon as they see you they shamble over.
  
  You're a little shaken, and you attempt to do exactly what Demar said, but you're not having any effect. Soon one of the zombies is almost upon you and you lash out with the bone.
  
  You give a few good whacks to the first one's skull causing it to collapse lifeless once again. You do the same to the second one. You're breathing hard and thank the fact that they were slow enough not to easily catch you.
  
  However, your victory is short lived, when Demar appears again.
  
  "(Sigh) you killed them, after I told you that was not the purpose. Plus you gave a poor showing in even attempting to control them. I don't see a future for you, if you cave under pressure like that."
  
  You're a little dejected, but the worse is yet to come, when you find you won't be leaving this place. Mr. Demar can't risk you knowing about this place yet not being a disciple of his. He didn't last this long being undetected by taking chances.
  
  With a few quick mumblings and you feel your body ravaged by rot. It's a horrible death, but one that results in you rising to take the place of the "test" zombies you just ruined.
  
  You spend your remaining undead life shambling around underground until eventually when Demar feels it's time to attack, you're one of the first cannon fodder troops to be destroyed in the attempted take over.