The necromancer leaned back on a small cottage, slime from his new, distorted body ruining the thatched roof, and smothering a passing chicken. Life… or perhaps death… was good.

The defenders of the realm had killed him half a dozen times already. Each time, a mutated combination of his corpse-controlling abilities and the mage’s resurrection spells had caused his ghastly form to lurch back to – whatever he was.

But, whatever was an undead colossus to do now? He contemplated overthrowing Blackthorn, but his mind cast back to a trip the undead college had once taken to the seat of power. There was far too much administration involved in running a country. What to do, what to do?

He threw his horrific head back and laughed. Of course. It was so simple.

A moongate opened before him, and he slithered through.

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