Zachariah

Sparrow Skull Organics It smells as if it was soaked in... rum? 15 Zachariah Well-Meaning Necromancer Sparrow Skull Organics It smells as if it was soaked in... rum? 15 Restless "You're slipping, Zeke." Ezekiel sits up straight, rubbing his eyes. Zachariah pours him another shot and smiles as reassuringly as he can. "You need to look after yourself. These guys owe you a break--what'll they do if their leader worries himself to death, huh? I'll try to raise a few more zombies. Nothing's broken through yet."

The tavern patrons drift past the two, pausing briefly beside their clan-leader. Then they notice his conversational partner, and their eyes slide over the black-gold robes and the skull pin clasped across his breast. And then they keep walking, and the few that acknowledge him just murmur "druid." "Necromancer," he corrects. Ezekiel shakes his head.

"It's no use, mate. They're not--"

"--not worth it?"

"That's not what I was going to say."

The necromancer's laugh is soft and dry. Other dragons edge away. Xorvuxi skulks in the corner, watching them pass with the sort of half-smile only a skull can manage. After this meeting, Zachariah will return to his cottage to interrogate dead raiders, and the neighbors will claim he's communing with ancestors. And then they'll leave baskets of fruit on his doorstep. He's snacking from one.

"I'm getting old, Zeke--old and fat. And when my little black heart gives out, it'll take my zombies with it, and you'll have idiots up to your armpits asking who'll do the weeding. And you know what they'll put on my tombstone? Druid!"

Ezekiel drums his claws on the table as he tries to think of some defense. He sighs and shrugs. "We're not using them to weed."

"Oh right! I guess I won't get a tombstone." Zachariah laughs again, though it sounds a little empty. "Then just shove me in the compost pile--that way, once your perimeter fails and it all goes to sh*t, I can follow suit."

The necromancer finishes off the round and balances the shot-glass between his claws, letting the light filter through its etchings. A relic from some unremembered raid on some unremarkable enemy. Crystalline proof that they used to do something. He's tempted to refill it, but Ezekiel breaks the silence.

"Why are you still here?"

"Why're you?"

And the silence returns, twice as thick and a little cold. Ezekiel tries to say a half-dozen things: his mate, son, god, duty, whatever. None seem quite right. So he shrugs, his formal-wear slipping, revealing shoulders lean and scarred.

"Maybe I'm just lazy, Zach. Maybe I know I could be out there spreading the jungle, but I went and got soft. And maybe I like these guys, even if they're happy to keep a secret, and maybe I like them more because of that. But I figure it's different if you're the secret being kept, huh?"

Zachariah just grins and toasts. But a half-mile away, his familiar Ygabah throws back its head and howls. The neighbors shiver a little and add more fruit to the baskets. The necromancer leans back, still studying the glass, and thinks a long time before speaking.

"I guess I'm here because I'm needed, Zeke. Someone has to keep your secret society of paper-pushers in line, right?"

"So if I left tomorrow, you'd stay?"

"Nah."

And it's quiet again, and Ezekiel feels his friend's eyes on him. The silence is clogged with messages: that there's no thanks great enough, no debt owed, that Zachariah shouldn't waste his life supporting someone else's dream, and the dark undercurrent--that if it wasn't for his support, every dragon here would be dead or worse. The metallic taste of inevitability and responsibility. The horrible fact that, despite everything, the necromancer had a good heart. And that a good heart was owed something in a bad world, and after all the work he'd done, maybe it'd be alright to be selfish on his behalf. Just a little selfish. Ezekiel clears his throat.

"You heard that coatl's proposal. Thoughts?"

"Mostly that she's crazy as sin. But I did some research and--while it kills me to admit this--she's got more and better troops than me, and their combat record speaks for itself. Loyalists, every one of them. She'd keep you safe."

"Then I guess I'd better let her in, huh?"

Ygabah is silent. Xorvuxi relaxes, letting her jaw hang open. Zachariah can't meet his friend's eye, so Ezekiel just pats him on the shoulder, eyes misting, before settling silently back into his chair. The tavern empties, and the two sit in silence for a long, long time.




Ygabah is one of the remnants of the long-dead Beastclan tribe that inhabited the Labyrinth. It's not much of a talker, but Zachariah maintains it's about as smart as any dragon, albeit slower to process things. Zachariah did NOT raise Ygabah and Xorvuxi; they're naturally-occurring undead who willingly contribute to his studies. Ygabah is pretty huge and camps out behind Zachariah's house, where the neighbors try very hard to pretend it doesn't exist. It knows, and it thinks it's pretty funny.

The ban on necromancy is one of the few things shared openly by Nature and Plague.