Return of the Teacher: A Necromantic Scene

“We can’t keep running like this,” said Phren, out of breath. “We have to stop her. You’re a necromancer, how do we stop her?” “I have no idea. This isn’t some lost soul in the wilderness. This is a rotted goddess!” “There’s no hiding from this thing,” continued Phren, “and there’s no throwing it off.... Continue Reading →

My Year in Art and Writing

A lot has changed this year, even just art-wise for me. In the spirit of reflection, I thought I'd compare some of the stuff I made early in the year to the stuff I made later. Hopefully I've improved a little bit. The top row is drawn in ink, and the bottom row is drawn... Continue Reading →

Melt for Me, Necromancer: a poem

If I was ice, he was fire. Melting away the socially acceptable curves and smooth opinions. Melting down to my flaming obsidian core, dripping like magma down trembling ice. He kissed me there, my most tender spot. I shuddered so hard the earth broke away. “You don’t have to be human if you don’t want to,”... Continue Reading →

Necromantic, Chapter One: The Visitor

The stranger came like rot on the breeze. Swift, silent, and unpleasant without making any lasting impression. He was ultimately forgettable – contextless in all contexts – and that kept him safe. There were two ways to stay safe that Cyr had come across in her short life: be frightening enough, or forgettable enough, and... Continue Reading →

Lavender Fog: A Necromantic Drabble

The past is colored in lavender fog whenever he tries to remember it. He can see the bodies if he focuses, but their clothes are faded, the setting obscure, his age uncertain. When he tries to remember details, he finds that he can imagine things having been many ways at once. At one time, he imagined... Continue Reading →

Winter: a poem, based on Necromantic

You're swallowing fire again. You never promised to stop, but for your apprentice, I had assumed... This is no place to raise a child. Among the cold heather of the frozen highlands, eating roots and drinking broth, traveling with a master who forgets to cook for two, learning the craft from a dropout who never completed... Continue Reading →

Not A Hot Dream: A Necromantic Scene

“Morning, Laddo.” Maccuccio greeted Cyril the same way he greeted her each of his mornings. Cyril was never quite sure what a “laddo” was, but it was said with a smile and gruff upward nod, so she figured it was a term of endearment. Drifting in the cold morning air was the smell of whatever... Continue Reading →

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