Lazarus

Lazarus carries a fine sword. The blade is long and keen, resting comfortably in his claw and glinting in the light of the sun. Where did it come from? It it so easy to swing, natural as if it was a part of him.

Was it the blade his father gave him, when he was but a hatchling? You'll be a good warrior some day.

Perhaps not. The sound of shattered steel still rings in his mind sometimes, clear as the sound of bells ringing over the parched earth to call the worshipers in to their sermon. Clear as the rolling and crashing of waves upon the shores of his dreams.

Awake, Lazarus tells himself that he has never seen the sea.

His eyes are blue, but only when the light catches them. Usually they are sickly green, gently glowing. A cloak of unnatural magic, a dark sickness that paints his red breast with a slithering black scar. The air around him is cold, but he breathes still.

She saved him, pulled him back from the cold claws of death. Lazarus loves her, owes her more than his life. He will repay that debt. He stands like a sentinel at her library door-

-and the sound of waves grow dimmer in his mind.

Lazarus carries a fine sword, and he doesn't care to remember where it came from.

---

Lazarus is the personal guard of Penance, and is usually found standing at her library door. Not that the necromancer needs protection most of the time. Though he owes her his life, he can never seem to remember why.