...Rez, rez again

He would not surrender to this specter of failure! He had never accepted defeat and now would not be the day! He kept going at it. He would take as many sacrifices as was necessary! He would surrender not anything to this terrible alter, but the still beating hearts of his enemies and those unworthy and weak enough to find themselves as fuel and tinder for the fire that billowed only to raise his own might!

Without Stella, without his beloved, his ambition was all consuming! It was eating away at him that he could not figure this simple thing out. Necromancy wasn’t too hard! At least in theory. In practice, that art of the morning lord was annoying and difficult as all hell to work and deal with. But in the end he knew that the sacrifices and work would be well worth it. Legions to command and to control. His mouth salivated at the thought of the possibilities. He wanted to roll over the forces of the unjust and bring them to heel. Then claim those cities for himself, or whatever greater lord he served, and reap some personal benefit. But why let selfish possibilities get in the way of a benevolent action? Details, details.

Of course, once Stella returned, he could have his servants care for her as he saw fit. Wouldn’t that be funny? Propose to her with an undead entourage? He could go for that. He could most definitely go for that. But then his mind floated about. Would she really feel the same way about him once he had become determined and dedicated to this depraved art? Once he himself had become depraved? And even if she did, how much depravity could she bear? He also had ambition to acquire the secrets of Death Magic, and that in and of itself was arguably and even more depraved practice.

But no. He forced himself from those thoughts. Far be they from him! As far from him as Stella herself was from him! Needed to keep practicing his work. Even despite the possible losses. He narrowed his thoughts and his focus as he had at it once again. He was committing to this depraved art. It was his to become master of! And no one would tell him differently.

Another advantage to this is that he would have another art that he was uniquely determined at. Uniquely able at. He would be doubly inexpendable to whichever lord he would serve. Dominion over both the art of writing runes, that useful and able tongue of the magi, and the control of the undead themselves. The ability to raise those who had fallen in battle, and bid them their service to them once more. And every day his knowledge of Runes grew and swelled. And he would refine this black art of Necromancy until he was able to commit to it fully and do it as if it was as simple as writing his damned name!

<font color= green> “Lord Azrael, Morninglord and Dawnbringer, Angel of Death, give me your blessing and your strength as you gave my father, allow me this to do you your glory and to do your purpose. To wipe the servants of the false gods from this world, especially that of the usurper of your title, Saekanis. That wolf of black desires and taker of your positions, allow me to spell their doom and your justice with the legions of your realm!” </font> And again he would try. He would keep moving that energy through him to press himself towards success. To press himself to succeed. This art was his to master.
He would not submit to this! He would claim mastery over every one of these terrible arts! They would bend and submit themselves to him! He would continue repeating his prayer as he charged the runes and allowed the mana to circulate. As he bid the soul to bind to that carcass. That pile of dead bones, loose flesh, and terrible viscera and detritus. He would call to it as he called to the morninglord! Binding it to its new prison! Binding it to his terrible, tyrannical, and now depraved will!

And at the last moment, as the runes fired their chains and bound it to its new body. As they found their way to their new target. He would lose his resolve. He would tire. From the energy expended and the pain that wracked his body. He was suffering. He was in pain. But every attempt was a gain. Every trial through the fires was a step in the right direction. And he would keep taking those steps until he reached the peak that he sought. The mastery over Necromancy. Nothing less would do.

And he would achieve it. His focus had shifted from the acquisition of Death Magic, to that of  Necromancy. But this was all calculated. For his machine to work, the charged runes not only needed the blood and the souls of sacrifices of others in order to make them powerful, they also needed two others, like the original two death magi circulating the soul, to continuously charge the machine throughout the procedure. And he didn’t trust people. Especially not since Greidon himself had begun to defy his orders. The skeletons were not only useful and powerful in and of themselves

They were also the means to an end. An unquestioning and undenying, as well as fully trustworthy, aids in his final gambit to acquire Death Magic. It was all calculated. But that was all dreaming and pipe fodder until he could get a skeleton and a corpse to animate for him. And he would figure it out. In the name of his father, and more importantly, in the name of his whole house, he would figure that out!