Nenaith

Traitor. The word has followed him all his life. Nenaith is Ice-born, the supposedly loyal and steadfast of the flights, but he left his birth clan for another heading north before he was fully grown. He still remembers leading the assassins from his new clan right into the heart of his old one. They never stood a chance. Still he does not really have a reason for dooming the lot of them. It was simply something he could do, something that was possible, and he had never been good at denying himself anything.

Eventually he left that clan too, for another, again and again. Not all met the same fate as his first, but he always made sure to leave with more than he had brought with him. Each time he adopted a new clan, he moved further north, eventually settling in plague for a few years. It was there that he heard of Necromancers. Power. He had taken the Trials shortly thereafter and attained that prestige for himself.

Then, he was a traitor again. For something began whispering to him the moment he emerged with a pale tan hide from the Wyrmwound, something dark and more powerful than he had ever sensed before. Of course he bargained with it. Lich-hood was just another step, and it mattered little what happened to him in death.

His wings and markings had darkened quickly, so much so that he had needed to leave before a month had passed to keep suspicion off himself. There was little left for Necromancer society to offer him, other than the power he had already taken for his own. Betrayer. The word meant next to nothing now, though it always brings a grin to his face when he hears it.

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• Passed his Necromancer Trials with ease, becoming a Necromancer in full early in his life but quickly became disillusioned with the power he had gained, as that was why he had attempted them in the first place. He found the society a vain and petty creature, not at all like the great hoard of power and knowledge he imagined.
• He chose his familiar quickly, caring little that it was not native to plague, he was not, why should it matter? It came with him when he turned to the Shade, cowed into submission by the violent temper Nenaith was prone to during his early days.
• Turned to a bargain with the Shade within the first year, offering the blessing he held in return for a far darker power than what he initially commanded. He drew on this power with abandon at first, and his coloring darkened and his primary reverted quickly, resulting in a hasty retreat from the domain of other Necromancers. Eventually found an established coven of Lichs to pledge himself to, finding them much better company.
• When an outpost of Necromancers was established in a nearby clan, he and the others decided to try to wipe it out; they had operated with impunity in the area for some time, and had no desire to see that end now. There were many of them, and only three Necromancers with a few 'Servi to stop them. That was the last mistake most of them would ever make.
• All six of the coven went to ambush the lead Necromancer, alone with her Necroservus outside the boundary of the clan - which they could not cross - and attacked. Nenaith had thought it a sure thing, the 'Servus went down quickly, the Necromancer standing over him was weak, and only one of their own had fallen to her thus far. Luckily for him, he was the farthest away when her power raked over them all.
• Ahead, he barely saw as the others fell, too consumed with his own pain and disbelief. The Shade powered them far beyond the limits of any Necromancer, and yet they were failed by one? A last glimpse before his vision faded showed a limping figure with bright, gleaming eyes take on a putrescent glow.
• He woke next bound within the bowels of the very outpost he had hoped to destroy, taken prisoner and powerless, his hide forever marred by the plague that had run through him. His connection to the Shade was there, but he could not access it, and as a pale mirror stood over him with a terrible glee in his face, Nenaith wondered if it might have been better to die.