[Location]Order of the Syphons

[Apophis]

Followers of Brachus and necromancers to a man, inside Malice there was a large, powerful guild of magic-users. The bleak cabal, the dread sorcerors. They called themselves the prodigy, for they had all learned the necromantic lore from their master; Brachus. Officially they were known as the order of the syphons; for they took the life energy of others, to strengthen their own. For they were what supported most of what was Malice's zombie army, deep down in the catacombs, the tunnels underneath the subterranean city.

These dark cowled men -and perhaps women, for their robes revealed no such thing- walked around bowed through Malice, shielding their faces from those who would one day become their minions in death. They had no desire to see them as they were now; alive, nor did they want to show who they were, before they joined the order. They walked around, showing their black robes to make sure the people of Malice respected them for their work, respect which was clearly shown by the one or two meters that people stayed out of their way at all times.

At specific times during the day, they retreated back into their building, a dark foreboding citadel within the deepest confines of the city. Banners clearly displaying the white talon that marked their cult flanked the iron door. The talon was chosen for the symbolic way it clawed at things, never letting go of it's prey, like the order. Once in their clutches, no one left, victim or member, all were theirs until the sect was done.

Entry was not so much forbidden to all but it's members, but just impossible. The door did not open for anyone who did not have clearance by the guards. Knock as one might, only a slight, soft, rasping whisper could be heard asking a simple question:

"Name?"

[Zilly]

Had the girl been any more adventurous, she would have approached the Order sooner. Even she, a student of Brachus, always made a note to avoid the black-robed figures whenever she saw them. She avoided them, not necessarily because she knew who and what they were (fanatics of her master) but because they looked kind of scary. Lately though Zilly had grown more and more bold, until the point which she was practically unafraid of the weird looking recluses who walked around all day in the dark robes. Like the little girl she was, she giggled at them when they passed, ducking behind cover in order to avoid their disapproving gaze. It always brightened her day to see the weirdos threatening to curse and to disfigure the unsuspecting public.

So why, now of all times, had master Brachus sent her to them? Surely even her master, who was a wise and intelligent man, couldn't help but snicker at the way they carried on, in spite of their fanatacism. She loved master Brachus, dearly so, but these people were a bit strange and Zilly wondered just how she could possibly help them that they couldn't help themselves. She didn't particularly want to join their ranks, not a chance of that actually, but she would help with what she could. If only because her master had told her to.

Recently, Nal'sama had been getting a little worried about her. All day, every day the girl spent in training, exerting her will over the corpse of a slave, commanding him to do some of her chores, then resting and doing it over again. Every day she spent honing her necromantic powers, refining them and thinking of new and more efficient ways to cast her spells. Nal'sama, on the other hand, had grown worried over her obssessiveness. When he'd introduced her to his friend, Krez, all that time ago, he had never expected her to progress so far. Krez had needed an infirmary assistant, and Zilly had been available. He'd half expected the girl to get bored after a while, give up and quit. Little did he know the endless willpower and desire of children.

She stood next to him with that serpent dagger, that strange gift from the man who had shown her kindness and reaffirmed her dreams in the depths of malice, was carried at her hip like a cherished possession. It hung off a belt, sheathed like a swordsman might carry his lonsword. There was no wind. No sunlight. Life in Malice might as well have been life in a vysstichi city. Nobody ever went outside, save for those venturing in and out of the city. The only breeze was on the outskirts of the city, where there were a few windows. As the girl stood overlooking the topside market, she couldn't help but feel slightly suffocated. Maybe she'd get out and do some running for master Magnus sometime, and get her first breath of fresh air in an era. Depending of course on what these Syphons wanted of her.

Leaning against her knee, azure locks braided around her shoulders, the girl stepped back from the ledge and leapt over, her wirey frame moving through the air with grace and nimble agility. Landing with hardly a sound on the cold stone floor, she resembled a little spider crouched on the floor before rising up and taking a slow look around. The Order of Syphons... she murmerred to herself, the idea of paying their little cult a visit not striking a particularly good chord within the elven girl.

Standing before the great white talon, the girl swallowed a bit before levelling her gaze with the door.

"Zilly" she replied to the voice in the door, a determined and cold look on her face. The look she had worn when she'd first learned to zombify a corpse. If these people were as big of bullies as they looked, they'd have to look somewhere else for a victim. Zilly would not be easy prey for the shadowy cult.

[Apophis]

From behind the door came a rattle; bones upon bones, an endless torrent of skeletal warriors or a small wind chime perhaps. It was hard to say, but once a small door within the larger doors opened, it was safe to say that it had been but the necklace of one of the monks. Black clad, and decorated with jewelry made from the bones of the death, a tall monk had opened a small enough door to admit a single man -or child- access to within the dark halls beyond.

"Welcome, Zzilly." A hissing tone answered. "Massster Brachusss had informed us of your assscendance and your immediate arrival." The warlock turned, and as he did so, his robes sweeped more than any other; he had a tail. He hissed as he spoke, and as he walked away, the door closed behind Zilly, as if, in fact, by magic.

The steps the necromancer took, were moreso shuffles, down the black hallway. Illuminated with candles all across the walls, hallways led away from the main chamber, almost right behind the door. Large pillars supported the tall roof and between those rows stood other black clad men and perhaps women. It was impossible to tell, in the manner of how they stood lined up, what gender they were. Perhaps it didn't matter here.

About between a dozen and two dozen figures stood there, their heads all bowed down, or at least, this was Zilly's assumption; for their hoods hung down low, as if in bowing. Maybe they were watching her, as she was led closer to the group, where from one stepped forward, holding out a cowl to the little elven girl.

"Don thisss robe." The saurid told the little girl. "We mussst make hassste; the battle isss nearly over; we mussst reanimate our troopsss and replenisssh our ranksss. You are fortunate that you have been chosssen by Massster Brachusss to accompany usss, that he hasss found it fitting to blesss you enough to promote you."

[Zilly]

Promote her? He must have been talking about her recent apprenticeship. Well, recent, in comparison to her time spent as an initiate. She'd mastered those spells with almost unbearable ease, but the thought of being promoted hadn't even crossed her mind. She remembered it as though it were yesterday, the strange event around her impromptu promotion, the ascendance that had made her so proud. Looking at Kraiber, she didn't feel so weak, or so far off from what she wanted. But when looking at Brachus, when observing him...she felt weak. Weaker than she could ever have imagined. It seemed no matter where she went and what she did, no matter how hard she worked, there were always people who made her feel like nothing but a flea, a gnat doing nothing more than annoying.

Zilly knew the through though. When it came to necromancers, Brachus was the most powerful in malice. She was certain of that. None of the Syphon flunkees could match him, but it would serve her purpose if she could learn from them. The young necromancer, the mere child...she had to grow beyond that in order to prove her worth. If she was going to prove herself to Malice, to the one place that would take her in, she'd have to have goals and, right then, right there, she set her first: to beat the greatest of all those within the Order of Syphons, to earn their respect and to be called the greatest necromancer under Brachus.

With that in mind, the girl hesitantly took the robe from the saurid. She couldn't see his face, and the voice that echoed from the darkness of his hood made her apprehensive. The girl had never seen a saurid before, and therefore had no idea what sort of creature had such an accent. That was almost irrelevant, what was of more concern to the apprentice was the actual words, as masked by long "s" sounds as they were. They were to reanimate the troops? He had to mean the undead forces that were primarily powered by master Brachus, from on his throne. She couldn't have asked for a better opportunity!

Zilly had taken special interest in the undead, and it had, of late, become her specialty. Even outweighing the arts she had learned under Kraiber, in the infirmary. Healing through death. It had been the fault of Brachus, who had spent quite some time with her in teching her how to raise the dead and control them. With her healing abilities, too, Zilly could easily repair most injuries they sustained, such as reattaching lost limbs. The undead were a million times easier to work with than the living. Mostly because they didn't scream when you stapled their bones back together.

Sliding the small robe over her head, it dwarfed her little, short dress. For some reason, the young necromancer appeared almost cute in the black, almost depressing outfit. She didn't pull the hood up, because she'd just look like a midget, or maybe a dwarf, with her elven features masked in shadow. Besides, it wasn't like she had any desire to truly join their ranks anyway. Maybe that was what they were expecting, since she was a student of Brachus, after all. Zilly felt different from the flunky members of the Order though. She was different than them. She meant more Brachus, she had to. Even if not the most powerful beneath him, that was only a matter of time.

Her goal was set, and the young necromancer would accomplish it no matter what. Even if it meant fighting and clawing her way to the top, she would earn her place at Brachus's side not only in favor, but in stand alone power as well. She had a talent those depressed, hooded flunkies could only dream of. It was about time she proved it.

[Apophis]

"Exsscellent." the saurid said, as the little elven girl pulled the robe over her clothes. He was pleased at her acceptance of their gesture. Someone else, however, was clearly not.

From within the formed ranks stepped forth a robed figure. Something was swirling from underneath those robes -like a tail, but not as big as the saurids one. A katta most likely, and as the woman spoke, her race was confirmed as one of the feline. "She cannot join!" The female katta spoke aloud; protesting the little elf's acceptance within their ranks.

"She has not completed the initiation rite and therefore has no right to wear our robes! She is no progeny!" she exclaimed, obviously angry at the little brat's sudden acceptance within their ranks. Maybe she had undergone some drastic initiation ritual and wasn't keen at soemoen getting in without. A few robes murmoured in agreement, though not loudly.

"We have no time." The saurid pleaded, urging them to move to the field. "The Enamoriansss will come for their dead; we mussst take action now, under cover of night to pressserve our warriorsss." A forked tong slid in and out underneath the robe as the saurid spoke hurriedly; he obviously had great plans for the day, or night, whatever time it was now.

"She needs to undergo them!" the katta raged; "No time!" the saurid replied angrily. "We need all of oursss to animate the corpsssesss!" he flurried his arms in the air, to emphasize the urgency. "The more time we wassste, the lesss we have for our tasssksss! Our massster commandsss it!"

"And the rules of our guild are strict!" The katta retorded. This was a circular argument that would provide endless amounts of fun, for the arguer. Not for little elven girls who wanted to practice their necromancy, though. Perhaps someone needed to intervene.

[Zilly]

As if, in fact, the girl actually cared about their little Order, the endless bickering waged back and forth seemed almost important. On the other hand, Zilly found no amusement in their little initiation quarrel. Some trivial matter, if at all relevant. The cat obviously held a grudge, and took any position she might have scraped and scrounged her way up to a little too seriously. Pulling back wayward strands of azure hair, the girl had about had enough of their little squabble. Casting a sharp glance at the irritating katta, Zilly's eyes wandered from her to the saurid with unreadable curiosity. Those strange eyes rummaged through the halls of shadow and candle that she'd found in the recesses of Malice. The ranks of failures, of dark soldiers whom though they could understood the sphere of necromancy with black robes and scary rituals. The black, gothic robes were the most pathetic of all, and she found it somewhat detestable to wear them like some kind of new recruit.

Zilly had grown out of groping desperately for any sort of company she could get, for any sort of love she could find. She had family, kind of, even if it wasn't in the traditional sense. Looking at these dark robed, hidden necromancers, she couldn't help but wonder what it was that they were missing in their lives.

"If it's a trial you want, I'm not afraid..." she said, in a tone that gave no illusion of her siding with either one of the beast-people, "but just know that what I do, I do for my master. Not for you or your guild." her words left nothing to the imagination. If there were any questions towards her motives, they were all put to rest then and there. With a fierce look in her eyes, the girl flicked the hood up over her head, azure tresses spilling out the front, over her tiny little chest. Some would question whether she really was and elf, or just a monster in disguise. Before it was all over, Zilly would make them think twice about the answer.

A shadow cast over her face, her lips caught the light just right, that delicate little jaw unmoving, emotionless. Words were useless, just as often as they were useful. With people like the Order of the Syphons, she'd just have to let her actions talk for her.

[Apophis]

"A good ssstart." The saurid whispered, as Zilly was pushed forward, through the marching throng. As soon as the little elven girl had said the words, the katta had jumped up and proceeded to lead the delegation, quashing any murmours of haste with but a glance. Zilly had wanted it herself, had she not?

"Sssome like you now; for your love of our massster, Brachusss." he spoke to her, as she was marched along. "Mossst do not like Assshar, the pantheri." he pointed out. "But ssshe had influencsse, power." He could not relate any more; the group had arrived at a small altar, within the black stoneworks. It stood between two pillars, the size of a man's bed. Four clasps, two at each small end lay there, their purpose most obvious : restraining the occupant. There was a gully too, that lept inside the table only to become visible again by the mouth of a gargoyle sculpture, the only decoration the grizly slab held.

"Lay there." The katta boldly stated the obvious, as she, from a sheath, drew forth a curved dagger, the size of Zilly's lower arm.

[Zilly]

They liked her? How very reassuring. She said nothing, but her unflinching, unrecognizing gaze spelled it out well enough; she really could have cared less whether they liked her or not. Maybe that was what made her likeable. You'd expect nothing less from a bleak sect of necromancers in the city of Malice. You'd expect nothing less from Malice, for in the dark city, power was the one and only key. Words meant nothing, and even the little girl knew it, she knew a lot more than she should have. More than any other little girl would.

Silently, they held their little procession in dread calm. In the back of her mind, Zilly knew what was to come, though she could not put it into words. There was no need. Shunning any sort of acknowledgement from the saurid, the girl allowed herself to be led along, deeper into the shadowy complex. If it was a trial the katta wanted, it was a trial she would get, but if it was pained screams and crying she was after, well, she would have to look to another little girl for that. Didn't she know? In that harsh world, little girls had to be strong to survive. Whatever pains lay in wait, they would be overcome, just as every other difficulty in her life had been. Just like always.

She didn't even take pause to examine the table. Reaching into her robes, the young necromancer undid the buckle on her belt, sliding the leather strip out from beneath the shadowy robes, dagger and all. Unflinching, that eerie gaze met that of the katta for a moment, but then continued on. She didn't wait, didn't take time to explore her surroundings. That didn't matter.

Instead she simply sat down, the thick material of the cloak protecting her from the icey chill of the table. It reminded her of the operating tables in the infirmary. Strange to have the tables turned, to have someone else 'operating' on her. She held no hope in what was to come, she knew, instead choosing to prepare herself, a low, deep sigh pulling free from her little lungs. Eyes closed, azure locks spilled out over the table when she lay down, that little chest moving up and down in slow, rythmic motion. Meditation. Clara. She focused, allowing herself to slip into the celestial realm, to reassure herself, no matter what may have come next and at that moment...it wasn't fear that raced through her veins.

[Apophis]

The katta was most likely smiling -though it was hidden underneath the hood of her robe, it would likely be the thing she would do.

Her paw extended -it was black fur, so she was likely a pantheri- and grasped the hem of Zilly's robe, and flung it up. "We shall not ruin a perfectly good robe just yet, little one!" she said it as if the cheap piece of cloth was too good for the little elven girl. She then twirled the dagger near Zilly's belly, waving it as if looking for something.

"Prepare yourself!" she said and with a single motion, plunged it into Zilly's stomach. With a sharp line, crossed from her left side to her right. "From closeness to death, comes an understanding. Survive, and understand!" She laughed. It was painfully obvious that she didn't want the little elven girl to actually gain any of this understanding at all.

The wound was all across her belly; like a fire that burned. It bled like a flood, all across her stomach, overflowing. This wasn't a nice thing -these self absorbed cretins went quite far with their initiation rite. Perhaps too far.

[Zilly]

It was sort of a shame, to ruin her charming little belly. It was even more painfully obvious than the katta's lack of real care that the shadowy figured could care less just how cute her little tummy was. As the blade slid cleanly into it, the little elven girl arched her shoulders forward. It had been a long, long time since she had felt pain of that magnitude, and she had to resist the urge to buckle over. Long ago, Zilly had cried away all her painful tears, those gentle sobs that stemmed from aches in her belly and wounds on her body. All that was left were those of emotion, within the mind. This was not one of those, and so, tears never came. Whether it was pure strength, honed through eras, or simply an inability to cry for such things anymore was irrelevant. What the katta didn't know was that the girl understood pain all too well for someone her age, or any age.

On the other hand, this was a whole new world of pain. The rippling, burning sensation within the bowels of her stomach sent searing sensations rampaging through her chest. It occurred to her that these may not have been the most planned, coordinated initiation rites ever. The meaning was clear, but survival meant more than just having a strong will and a deep philosophical understanding of the closeness necromancers share with death. Like a bleeding child, she felt the rush of blood from her body, almost like she could feel it, slowly draining away. It hurt, a lot.

Zilly was no ordinary necromancer. She had studied under Kraiber for sometime, and knew well enough the ins and outs of bodily wound, both mortal and repairable. This wound upon her stomach, it was easy to fix. Wounds cutting into the belly were painful, but they were also slow to kill. She'd healed dozens of stab wounds, the downside of course being that none of them were actually wounds inflicted upon herself. That didn't mean there wasn't hope.

With blood rushing down her hips, onto the table from the open wound on her stomach, Zilly struggled to maintain clara. With even the slightest bit of vis, the girl could begin to 'unmake' the wound, the reverse the process of death within her cells. With her advancement in the art, she really no longer needed bandages and gauze to keep the bloodflow from worsening. In essence, the girl had the power to rebuild, to resurrect, her very cell structure from the ground up. In the end the effects were roughly the same as those of a thaumaturgist, but the methods were different and the final results were still largely unknown, even to Kraiber.

Zilly had her own hypothesis on the reconstruction of tissue via necromantic energies. Though not necessarily 'undead' in the traditional sense, she was sure the repaired area of flesh held a level of unlife, not at all matching the undamaged portions of the body. It seemed she'd be getting a chance to test her theory after all.

Focusing hard, the intensity of the situation began to take over and Zilly could feel her mind going through the motions of spellcasting on automatic, while her thoughts were elsewhere. Breathing heavily, the girl didn't even need to move her arms, her head pressing against the ritualistic table. Even then she could feel the necromantic energies well up within her, threatening to burst free in the form of an acid glob, or maybe just a bolt of poison to the brain of the katta. She controlled it, holding in the wants and desires of her dark craft. The desire to kill. For the time, the powers of death would be used to rebuild, to undo that which death had already created.

With an intense, on-the-fly channelling, the girl siphoned the energies into her own stomach, allowing the necromantic forces behind Instill Life to take effect and regenerate the damaged tissues, from the skin to the blood right down to any and all damaged organs. She'd achieved a new level of mastery in the necromantic arts, and with it came new mastery over old spells, and an expanded ability to expound upon them. She would heal herself, and teach that irritating katta what she really knew of pain. Seasons spent studying nothing but, they led to an ability to grasp and to understand. Until you can experience something firsthand, you never truly know.

Her wound cut deep, but the deathly energies cut even deeper. Not offering a single tear, a solitairey moan or even a growl, the girl would repair the wound dealt her. She understood death and pain well enough, that wasn't what this was about. Zilly knew better than that, to believe that nonsense Ashar had spoken. This was a proving ground, and it was also Zilly's first battle. A battle not only against her enemies, but against the world, against herself. A battle she would most definitely win!

[Apophis]

As she accessed her power, Zilly also felt it lessening. Flowing away from herself. Her gauged belly was not only a leak for her life's blood, but also a conduit to which her mana, her vis streamed, rapidly. She was losing her precious energy.

But, the smart elven child had focused before she was hurt; a clever idea, for it would've been agonizing to try and block the pain now; it would've been far more difficult to focus whilst hurt, than to maintain her state of meditation now. Especially with her little body, wherein such a gash seemed far larger than it would in a full-grown. Where there would be more blood, more time, more energy to cast the needed spells, to weave the arcana into it's proper form. Had she not gone into clara beforehand, she would most likely die soon, unable to reach Clara due to the draining distraction.

That was not the case. The warlocks looked amazed as Zilly grasped the strands. They had not really expected such a small child to actually succesfully do what she was doing now; wield her magics like that. The Katta took a step back as Zilly felt the bleeding staunch. She was afraid. She was afraid of getting drained of her own energy, to satisfy Zilly's hunger for regeneration. Some of the others too, apparently, as they gazed at her regrowing belly. Tissue knitted together as the blood became a hard, brown crust.

"Sssee?" The saurid spoke, his hand on the altar. "Ssshe has proven herssself now! Ssshe isss one of uss; of our Massster!" Most of the rest started to murmour in agreement. There was nothing to argue about now; she had proven to a point that she was worthy, though very tired.

"We have wasted energy idling around here though!" A human voice called, crackled, like Brachus was, from underneath a hunched hood. "We should make haste towards the plain; Many of our minions lay there, and many fresh ones are awaiting our gifts. Zilly, will you join us?" He then asked, when all cloaks and hoods turned to face the new speaker.

[Zilly]

As the arcane weave rushed through her body, Zilly struggled against the wound for a time until finally, she could feel nothing left to repair. It was draining, attempting to close a wound from which your blood and energy escaped from, with the very energy that was escaping. But the spell had flourished under fire, and any attempt to squelch the young girl's talent had ended in vain. The katta's attempt at forcing her through undue suffering, and perhaps killing her, in order to keep someone so young from joining their ranks had, in essence, backfired right in her face and, as she sat up, Zilly felt exactly what Ashar backed away from. Hunger. Deftly, the girl rose to sit, her eyes flashing open with bone-chilling unfeeling towards the wound inflicted, as though nothing had happened at all. She looked at Ashar, and for a moment, had to control her primal urges, the forces that told her to use the katta's life juices to rejuvinate herself.

If it wasn't for the sound of a human voice, snapping her back from mad, vengeful thoughts towards the stunned katta, the girl might have very well done just that. Anger rose up within her, but quelled itself as the human spoke. After that, all that was left was the cold, gray and empty shell within her heart. She didn't feel fortunate to be alive, or even happy. The resonating chill within her left the girl with a lethargic feeling sinking into her stomach. Any naivity she might have had was once gone, she knew well and good what Ashar was trying to do. She had been trying to kill her, and had been given an excuse to do so. Instead of lashing out, she listened. Not to the whispers of the dreary little hoods, but to the human, who chose to speak aloud, above the others. He was strong, she could tell. Even if not in arcana, he was strong. He reminded her of her master. Then again, they were all students of Brachus in one form or another.

Her hood down around her shoulders, Zilly allowed her breathing to return to normal of its own accord. Calmly, she allowed her vis to regenerate in the more generally accepted way - on its own. They seemed to be pushing towards their goal, like they were on a schedule, so the girl wouldn't hold them any longer than necessary, by taking the time to drain a certain katta of her vile energy. Not out of hate, nor out of malice...but out of coldness. An eye for an eye and the purity of revenge, but instead of that she just slid from her little slab, the black robe that Ashar had held in such high regard staining with her own blood as she did. It made no difference to her what the katta thought of her precious robes. All she wanted to do was practice her abilities, to surpass them all. To not only surpass them, but crush them like flies. Like the ant she always felt like she was.

Her robes falling back into place, minus the bloodstains, the girl stood there, coldly...silently, as though nothing had happened. Still clinging to he shards of clara, even through all that, Zilly focused upon the human. Still afraid to show his face, or maybe that was their gimmick. They never showed their faces. A flush flooded onto her face as the color in her cheeks returned, the same old dark, vibrant hue blending the ebon of the vysstichi and the fishyness of the thelyrie. It was actally easy to miss her dark skin, until she was drained of all color by blood loss.

"Shall we, then?" she unambiguously asked, her vis reserves already slowly regenerating. Elven affinity to arcana? Maybe. Or maybe she was just about a hundred times more resiliant than any girl her age...or anyone at all.

[Apophis]

It did not take long for the procession to follow suit. The trudging following was actually quite fast. Short, seemingly-lumbering steps followed in quick succesion of one another to provide a fast column of sinister black clad wizards through the city streets. Whoever was still up and in Malice, that meant quite a few people for Men were always up at all hours, to do whatever it was that they did- quickly scurried out of the way, for these wizards could sap your strength, and turn you into a feeble man, if not less. An undead slave, a mutant corpse. Anything they desired. Feared as much as respected they marched solemnly towards not the main gates, but a sidegate. Not up, but down.

Cavern passages were crossed, secret entrances opened, and solemn, unidentifiable guards ignored, or chanted to. Curses were warded off, and slowly but steadely, the troupe marched on until they reached a ramp, up, with a large hatch, as well as a row of zombies on either side of the passage, stretching at least a hundred wide on each side. The hatch was opened by gears and levers, to which first, some oil was applied.

"Againssst the sssqueking." The saurid warned Zilly. "When we reach topssside, conjure up all the corpsssesss you can and lead them down here again. Ssstay low, little child."

It was still night outside, as the necromancers scurried up, into the darkness, into the remnants of the battlefield.

[Zilly]

Tracing long pathways through the darkness within the bowels of Malice, this was no extraordinary things for Zilly. She'd been through the darker reaches of the city countless times, be it in service to Brachus or in merely seeking solitude outside her little home. But to come so close to the surface, and not merely upon the roof and through the battlements, well, that was a rare thing indeed. Not since the war had begun had Zilly truly left the complex, even set foot on ground outside of the city. The gathering of corpses to replenish the armies was a start. She'd been hungering to test the limits of her ability to raise the undead. Sinking down into clara as the saurid spoke, Zilly hardly heard his words. It was really nothing she didn't already know. Stay low, work fast. The same laws applied to pretty much everything done in Malice.

As darkness met darkness, Zilly saw the night sky for the first time in a long time, without having to look between iron bars. As it was meant to be seen. The gentle breeze whipped through her hair, coaxing her onward. It felt good to be outside again, better than she could have imagined. The smell of death pervaded everything, but didn't deterr the girl. She'd grown accustomed to it, maybe even desensitized to it...or maybe she'd just grown a taste for it. Month after month, season after season of working only in death could do that to a person.The dark, near abandoned battlefield wasn't exactly a change in pace, but again, it was definitely a start.

Pausing momentarily to take in the dark, foreboding scenery Zilly took a deep breath and walked swiftly onwards, out into the night. Or was it morning? She could never really tell, but it didn't really matter. Breaking out at a fairly quick pace, the scenes of battles past quickly became evident. She had, it seemed, a knack for sniffing out these kinds of things. Her gait breaking over the remnants of a clash between orcs and Daltinians, all of them very dead, Zilly knelt down and touched one, an orc, on the forhead in order to establish the link. She could probably have done it from a distance at that point, but given the situation, it was probably just more energy conscious to do it the old fashioned way.

Closing her eyes, the girl combed into the recesses of the husk of lifeless flesh. She could feel the ara in him was different from those still living. It was still there, for energy never really left the body, but it was different. Decaying...not as fresh as the good baker's bread, fresh from the oven. So to speak. It really didn't matter though, since she'd be the one keeping him aloft, and not the other way around. It was a misunderstanding that necromancers actually went into the brains of zombies and got things working again. Even the most basic functions were impossible for a zombie formed in such a manner to calculate, every movement had to be transcribed by a necromancer and thus, there was no brainwork involved. Or at least that was how Zilly had come to understand it.

But still, the head was as good a place as any to channel energy to. So she did, her focus on the essence of death allowing her to channel the required energy, just enough to kickstart things, into the long-dead-soon-to-not-be orksy thing. With one simple technique, the girl Altered the energies within the corpse to what it was that she needed, a big lump of flesh that got up and walked around. It was then a creature, a being, a wholly different thing from what it had been seconds ago. Alteration was a powerful tool. Able to change the fabric of reality itself, and to alter truths otherwise deemed absolute.

This was the easy part, and Divination was even easier than that. Weaving a path of beautifully choreographed arcana, Zilly Divined her will over the nothingness of death. It was simple, considering there wasn't really anything in his body to struggle against her. The energies were neutral, practically dead, and just didn't have the desire to fight back against the overwhelming horde of invading energy. Weaving these two techniques, the girl would create something terrifyingly beautiful.

Smiling, she stood and took a few steps back. "Rise," she telepathed without a word, instead merely pointing at Malice "go now, return to the city, into the depths. Over there. Be quick about it. Or else! Zilly commanded, as though the thing could actually understand her threats, or take them to his cold, rotting and decayed heart.

She waited but a moment longer, then turned to find another to raise, repeating the process, repeating the orders. For some reason, she felt as though claiming those who had previously been members of the Enamorian army as, somehow, deviously appropriate and fitting. To become monstrous slaves to the war machine you'd tried so desperately to defeat. The idea clicked within her, and she quickly found the nearest Daltinan to work her magics upon while the other lumbered hastily, as hastily as the undead can, off into the darkness, returning to their master. It seemed the orcs as well would prove doubly useful, protecting their homes even in death. How fitting.

Working diligently, the girl would be out her all night if she had to. Raising corpse after corpse, resting as needed, all the while becoming more and more versed with the spell. It sure beat raising undead rats.

[Apophis]

Soon enough, a veritable train of the walking dead were marching towards the entrance to Malice. From around the battlefied, the dead rose up, all around zilly, the walking dead drove mindlessly to their tasks. Arrows stuck in them, guts falling out of their damaged armour. Bodies missing limbs walked past her, as well as the horribly burned. Reeking corpses slowly marched, their energy willing but their physical presence lacking. They seemed to drag their bodies along, as if it was an enormous weight, slowing the lumbering undead down as it were.

Soon she had done three herself, but she was getting tired. Her energy was getting dangerously low -Zilly had to support three orcs or humans -she hadn't paid too much attention to what it were, what she brought back to the world of the living if only by her extended force of will. Other necromancers were already returning, seemingly out of breath and tired by the nights hard work of endlessly casting their spells and working the weaves of their magic incantations.

The daltinan forces were still out there, somewhere. Near the treeline. Their fires were only smouldering embers now, but rumours amongst the Malician necromancers on the journey was that the enamorians had plenty of rangers with them. This rumour was confirmed to Zilly when her newly animated corpse sat up before her, ready to work her instructions, when an dull thud was heard by the elven girl. Closeby. Very close by. The zombie before her suddenly had a strange bulge in it's chest at the right side. That, and a clean white feathered arrow stuck from the zombie's back was an obvious hint of the presence of snipers.

Then a scream. One of the necromancers working closeby to her, collapsed backwards, as he was searching for someone fresh to work upon. A white streak had passed through the air just before. He -or she- collapsed backwards clutching his or her -let's not be sexist here- chest. Suddenly, around her, Zilly's comrades in arms were casting protective spells -bones swirled up from the ground, and spirits encircled the dark wizards. Were the rangers at the treeline? Or were they hiding closer? It was too dark to tell...