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My father was a necromancer. My mother was a necrophiliac. The moans and the maniacal laughter would keep me up at all hours of the night. As I would sit up in my bed, I would drown out the noise by talking to my plushie dog Snappers. We'd talk about life. That cute outfit that I saw at the mall. What it would feel like to be a zombie like the ones my parents play with. The strict Math teacher that would yell at me for chewing gum in class. How much I want to turn 18 and get out of this damn house. What I want to be when I grow up. "A lawyer. Or maybe a journalist. Something where I don't have to smell rotting flesh and my dad's rancid cologne every day." Snappers never said anything back. Just lifeless and inert, unlike the corpses my parents would play with. One day I asked my dad if he could bring Snappers to life the way he'd bring the dead back to life. He laughed at me. "Silly girl, he's just a piece of fluff and cloth." But they're just skin and bones. "Yes, they are. That's what makes it possible. They were once alive. I bring them back." So I asked "What if they don't wanna come back? Maybe they like being dead." Dad just laughed some more and patted me on the head. The tombrot that I contracted after him touching me for the first time since I was born caused my hair to fall out that day. The kids had a field day with me for the next couple of months. The few girls that keep in touch with me still call me Baldy. I kinda like the name now that I haven't been bald in almost 20 years. That conversation with my dad sparked an idea in my little adolescent mind, though. Do the zombies and skeletons and assorted undead really want to come back? Do the corpses of supermodels that overdosed on antidepressents really want to be reanimated to perform an orgy for my mom's pleasure? Do the dead vessels of soldiers and mercenaries really want to be revived so they can just die again when my dad needs to do some dirty work for The Fallen? I started to feel sorry for the undead. No one ever thinks about what they want. After a long time thinking about it I told Snappers that one day I would do something about it. One day I would find a way to take into consideration the feelings of the zombies of the world. I would show them that they're people too. I would show them that I cared.
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Unwanted Companions
 Necromancer: Ultimate
It wasn't until my last year of law school that I remembered my promise. My grouchy math teacher from middle school passed away. Some sort of cancer. I wasn't able to attend her funeral, but I was feeling nostalgic one afternoon and decided to visit her grave. I found the ground unearthed where her grave should be. The dirt still reeked of my dad's cologne despite the graverobbing taking place several hours earlier. After going on numerous similar field trips I learned to recognize these sorts of things. After tossing down the bouquet of flowers somewhere close to the grave I smelled another familiar fragrance. I turned around and saw the decaying form of Mrs. Walkowski. Huffing and grunting and drooling bile. Her mouth chewed instinctively at some imagined bone or morsel of flesh. She was hungry but she didn't want to eat me. But she was all but begging for a bite to eat, like a dog begging for scraps. After a few moments of staring at me with her dead puppy-like eyes she wandered off without even trying to devour my brain. It was as if she looked up to me like a pet looks to their master. As strange as it was at first, it felt somehow natural. Strange, sick and totally unwanted, but natural.
Unlikely Friendships
Necromancer: Ultimate
My boyfriend at the time was a prick. Sure he tried to love me up with flowers and jewelery but I was only tolerating his presence because it gave me easy access to his notes from class. The semester was almost up so I only had to deal with his self-absorbed "conversations" about him and his wants and his needs and his nonsense for a few more weeks. Or so I thought. The night after my encounter with the former Mrs. Walkowski I called Brandon up and asked him to meet me at the park across the street from the cemetery. We made out for a few minutes before I insisted we take a little stroll around the neighborhood. He seemed a little creeped out that we were heading towards a cemetery, but the idea that he'd be getting some later if he went along with me definitely kept him from speaking out. My trained ear could hear the shambling of various zombies in the background. "Its just some cats prowling about," I told him. After a few minutes of wandering about the cemetery I led him to Mrs. Walkowski's gravesite. I walked right up to the edge of the dug up grave. "Don't worry, man" I said as I held out my hand to him and winked at him, giving him an "Its ok" look. He smiled back at me and came to take my hand. As his fingers touched mine the rotten hands of Mrs. Walkowski shot out from inside the grave and dragged Brandon down into the dank hole. As he screamed for my help I skipped off happy. I'd done my good deed of the day for the undead. Sure it involved Brandon dying, but I have to admit, knowing that the dead can come back to life its kinda hard to feel sorry when someone dies. They just become a potential undead friend in need of a little pick-me-up.
Follow The Follower
Necromancer: Ultimate
I passed my bar exam on my first try. The police were never able to link me to Brandon's disappearance. I got a job at a nice, quiet law firm specializing in consumer advocacy. I continue to do little deeds for the undead. Its slightly unnerving that the zombies have a way of finding me, though. As I sit up at night I ask Snappers why he thinks the zombies know where I am. He just sits there with his one button eye staring at me, as lifeless as the cadavers that follow me around and even more silent. I like helping out those more unfortunate and more dead than I am, but every now and then I would like to go one night without seemingly running into a zombie in need of something to devour. Just the other night a pack of juvenile undead happened to be wandering in the streets outside of the bistro where I was eating dinner. I snuck back into the kitchen area, opened the back entrance, and called out to the little kids. On the news I heard that five employees were eaten in the process. Good to hear that. I never stick around to see the undead reap their rewards. I don't need to see the results of my actions or to hear a garbled "thank you" from the zombies. I feel just as good knowing what I did brought them some joy to their anguished unlives. But I still want to have some time to myself.
Following Fancy Free
Necromancer: Ultimate
Sometimes the police come to my door asking questions. They claim I've been witness to several crimes involving necromancy and cannibalism. They never charge me with anything, they just ask question after question. They know about my parents, who are currently serving 10 year sentences for selling bootleg necro-porn to minors, but despite that they never attempt to link me to the killings. They chalk it up to karma for being the daughter of a sicko wizard father and a depraved mother. And its true. I'm sure this is their fault somehow. The way I behave is most likely some mixture of hereditary disposition towards necromatic skills and simple childhood trauma. If I ever get caught in the act that's what I'll plead. But despite that knowledge I still genuinely feel sorry for those unfortunate restless souls. They can't help who they are, just like how Snappers can't help he's nothing but fluff and cloth. Just how I can't help that I care.
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Hall Of Fame!
Survival - 10 Wins!
Brutal - 2 Fatalities
