Ryrram

Necromancy is a gift one must seize for themselves rather than a gift of birth and blood. That is what he supposes drives Gladelings to pursue it. Necromancy is an achievement while their Nature power is something the Gladekeeper gave to them upon birth. It is a choice rather than a destiny. That is certainly why he decided to take the Necromantic Trials. At least in part.

Ryrram has always been ambitious, but among the Gladelings, there are no ranks to climb, no status to claim, nowhere more to go than the station where you are born. It is stifling. The lot of them are little more than glorified gardeners, tools to the Gladekeeper's hand. There are even some among the elders who insist that it is a Gladeling's duty to abandon all sense of self and devote themselves entirely to being nothing else than a tool, a thing. It was never something he wanted for himself.

He knew, from the first moment he learned what a Necromancer was, that he wanted to be one of them. The missionary had come here, into the very heart of enemy territory, to spread the word of her goddess and recruit the willing to her mission. He remembered the elders had been truly appalled by her daring, that they had sat about and huffed with irritation at everything for weeks after she had gone. Who among them would listen to a heretic? Any who did would surely be denounced as traitors.

That had bothered him, a little, at first, when he first began making plans to leave. But a reprimand for having an opinion had changed that quickly. They could call him betrayer for abandoning the Gladekeeper and his birthright all they wanted. It would be a far deeper betrayal to stay and allow himself to be erased. No. He would not fade into the docility and homogeneity that had ruled his life so far. There was a clear path out now, and he wasn't about to let it slip by. He left that evening, and never looked back.

The looks he got that morning, when he showed up for the Trials at the Rim. No one said anything or tried to stop him, but he got more than one side-eye, and he heard multiple dragons poorly disguise laughter into a cough. The overseer Necromancers had muttered something about the hassle it would be to drag his body out, that they would leave him to rot, that he could not possibly be loyal enough to their Mother to survive, much less attain the marks of her blessing.

It was stubbornness and will, mainly, that got him through it. The gaping faces when he stepped out of the Cauldron alive and with his hide forever marked, he would never forget. The Plaguemother's gift had been given to him, for what he still believes was an unholy amount of spite. Not even failing to draw the plague back into himself after infection had been able to dampen his mood that day.

He does not regret his decision, even though it has not resulted in true Necromancy, but landed him the position of a Necroservus. Ryrram had heard that his Nature abilities might be changed or even lessened by this process, and while they have certainly changed, he would venture that his ability has increased. Always he has been able to make things grow, he was a Prophet before the Trials, but now they grow faster, as if empowered by some secondary force. It is the prerogative of the Plaguemother to adapt and survive, and he believes that has affected his magic. Why else would leaves that should grow bright and green always now be specked with spots of disease in an otherwise healthy specimen?

Poisonous plants in particular have come easier since he failed the third Trial. Those he can grow with barely a thought, only needing the seed and some dirt. He could probably grow something deadly, like hemlock or snakeroot, in sand if he tried. Not that there is much sand to be found so deep within the plaguelands, and even if he would like to try, the Necromancer he was assigned to would prefer that he be efficient. Though that does not mean he does not experiment with hybridization in his off-time.

It is almost ironic that he has been assigned a Necromancer currently obsessed with toxic and poisonous plants. His knowledge and ability to grow a mature plant from a seed or sapling within a few days has proved invaluable already. The Necromancer is even interested in flora that might not be poisonous on their own but could have poisons derived from them. Ryrram's voice is constantly hoarse from talking about the different properties of whatever he has just grown, discussing theory or the best extraction method, and warning eager hands away from skin-born toxins.

It is a fine life, he thinks. He has all but abandoned his birthright, despite that its power is what allows him to do this. But that was something he had accepted long before beginning his Trials; should where and why he disappeared ever be discovered, he would be disowned and disavowed, and he most certainly would not be welcome to return. That did not bother him as much as he once thought it might. He is happy here, and he was not happy in his home clan. And here, he has nothing to fear from those who might hunt him down as a deserter.

He has no regrets about what he has chosen to do with his life, and is pleased with the gifts he has received in return. For all that most would see becoming a Necroservus as a failure, he isn't sure he would be doing anything different had he been a full Necromancer. In the end, he is not missing out on anything he might have otherwise experienced that is worth mourning.