Years passed by in his end; how many years was it now, it’s always so hard to tell?

150 years ago. 892 CC in the depths of summer; it was a bright summer’s day in the Kingdom of Arar, in a small village tending to crops with his family. His father was a lightning mage, Arari citizens wielded lightning at their fingertips, they caught fish, they grew crops, some even automated production like in Sumar, controlling Golems with electricity. Life was peaceful, calm, the smells of honeycomb, of mead, of sweet pollen fragrances, of sweat in the fields, the sounds of laughter, women’s laughter, and the occasional shrieking of the little ones who were outside playing who were too innocent. The grounds were tilled, the water hit the ground from pumps, the splatters too soft on the pavement, ox groaned and men huffed. Then the ground shook, the crops burned, Demon soldiers came out of nowhere cut women in half, outright put children on spits.

“Athamar you have to run!”

Zaps of electricity killed the two biggest Demons, but the thunderous footsteps followed Athamar. Athamar ran to the local villages mage library. Lightning could be heard outside, searing the insides or simply overloading the nervous systems of the Demons leaving them dead. The flesh smelled; the grunts of Demons, the screams of Humans. Athamar picked up a book with a warning sign.

“To be destroyed,” he read.

Black hair and blue eyes, the blue eyes staring at the forbidden text.

Bind your soul to your own skeleton to be a Spectre Lord, accept the your death of your body is only the beginning. Say I accept.

“I accept…”

Athamar rushed outside and spun lightning. Perhaps it was the bind he had made on himself, the mark of the damned that allowed him to fight like a lunatic. His family torn to shreds were avenged, but there was nothing left, imps and Demons, and Devils appeared, and after hours of fighting in the village, the Arari military showed up. Athamar was dead. Maras arose in his place as a Spectre he wrought sweet revenge, he barely knew what he was doing, hopping from place to place, summoning other Spectres to fight with him, and they whittled down the Demons killing them all. Maras turned his head, seeing the Arari army cast lightning bolts at him.

No. You’ve got it all wrong.

He couldn’t speak, he did not know how to speak through his new skeletal body.

“It!”

“Kill the monster.”

“Wasn’t me!”

“Enough excuses. Die!”

Maras hopped away, and fled northwards to Dina. He knew that was where he could learn about his new self.

All the thoughts brought him back to the present, his ghostly army tearing through the Bacteria, clasping his light blue skeleton frame, thinking of how it all came to this. I sure learnt how to be a Necromancer. But these skills I feel I could have picked them up from a book just as well. Demons. Men. Necromancers, the Undead. Nothing is perfect I suppose. I’ve seen it all. Men kill just as much. And yet. I hate the Demons, and yet I know that my purpose now is much more than that.

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“What is it I seek Ildrid? Perhaps it’s vengeance, but I am beyond that kind of petty Human justification. I haven’t existed for this amount of time to be so trivial…”

“What?” Ildrid said, “what are you harping on about?” Was what Ildrid said, but he wanted to hear more.

Maras didn’t have any nerves but he jumped a little, clasping his skeletal face with a groan.

“We are fighting for so much more, for our own justice, but you know what?”

“What?” Ildrid asked, not knowing what would be said next.

“Let’s do what we want, we’re already dead right?” The Spectre Lord said simply.

Ildrid stared at the ghostly skeletal figure, Ildrid’s skeleton pale white, Maras had a pale blue glow to his skeletal visage.

“What are you suggesting?”

“We can do anything Ildrid, change everything that’s the long term plan,” he paused, “but for the short term perhaps the Demon realm, maybe they need help? At the very least we can threaten them so they never declare war on our world.”

“Help?” Ildrid asked confused, “are you trying to intimidate them?”

‘Help’ is hardly the right word Maras. I know you don’t want to help.

“Yeah, not just the Demons, all of them. Everything,” he whispered, “for 150 years I’ve been a dog Ildrid, let’s change history.”

“And now you’re a wolf is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

Maras thought about the implications of the word. Hovering over the ground.

“Ildrid, some fight for causes, some fight for love, some fight for ideologies, others revenge and others for mere profit,” Maras paused, “There is so much injustice in this world, particularly among the living. We are not cursed by the flesh, so maybe we can change things in a way they can’t.”

Ildrid chuckled a bit and stared at his friend, Maras merely contemplated existence.

“Were you not trying to kill that Warlock? Changing things is not so simple. Even the Undead have a nature Maras, you will find yourself in a situation you did not intend, doing things you did not plan, and perhaps that’s more of a true definition of fate than any.”

The words stung and Maras chuckled lightly.

“Yeah you’re probably right, The Warlock, yes, but for what?” Maras wistfully said, “purely based on orders. I am pretty sure the Warlock fled this world because of it. All because they were afraid of his power,” he paused, “perhaps I can’t escape what is in store for me, I can at least make sure those Demons don’t come back.”

“Can you?” Ildrid said simply, “Their fear of the Warlock is reasonable, who knows what he could do,” Ildrid said, “but the Warlock is gone now. I don’t know if you can actually stop them coming here.”

“It might be,” Maras mumbled, “but we forced him out of the world, and all the chaos that ensued because of it.”

“Necromancers discussing morality,” Ildrid laughed, the irony, “but yeah, the world’s fucked up.”

Maras looked at Ildrid and nodded.

“Without necromancy I would be dead in Arar,” Maras said melancholically.

“You died in Arari,” Ildrid quickly retorted.

“Fuck you!” Maras snapped back.

The two of them chuckled a little, and then went to work clearing Bacteria, hours later they appeared before the rough ocean. Basara the Ghoul Lord marched endlessly through endless Bacteria hordes, his own horde of ravenous beasts poisoned and ripped apart those beasts.

“Basara continue growing in strength,” Maras communicated with his Ghoul Lord telepathically.

The skeleton and the skeletal ghost stared into the precipice of a cliff, then went onto some more gentle rolling beach slopes. In the end they turned around, Maras used green crystals to open up a portal to the Demon world, carefully storing some for his return journey. The ocean rhythmically chopped at the shores, a soothing sound. Maras and Ildrid sat down, their minions fought in the background against the ravenous hordes.