A bedraggled, wild eyed Tyron stood over four neatly arranged skeletons on the ground. His hair was messy and beginning to knot, the dark circles and the bloodshot streaks of his eyes evidenced his lack of sleep. For two straight days he had laboured. Without rest or pause for even a moment, he had continued to work toward raising the best possible minions he could, and finally he was done.

For a dizzying moment, he swayed on his feet before he caught himself.

"Water," he rasped.

He tried to flex his aching fingers as he staggered to his pack and removed the last of his water skins. He'd need to refill very shortly, and his supply of fresh food was starting to run low as well. It was possible to survive for a long time on salted and preserved meat, but it was far from ideal.

He didn't know if he could get back into Woodsedge yet, and he couldn't be sure Dove would survive to make their next rendezvous. He hoped that the Summoner would be there, but he couldn't depend on it.

He gulped down the lukewarm water and then slumped down against the wall of the crumbling cabin, leaning his head back to rest against the wood. His hand shook as he fumbled some hardtack from his back and put it in his mouth.

The status ritual had been a big one, the change he went through large enough to knock him out once again. He'd awoken to find a wealth of new knowledge seeded in his memory by the Unseen, as well as the extensive changes done to his mind.

With his Intelligence as high as it was, his command over magick and his own thoughts had only grown stronger than before. He could even feel it resonating with his mystery, there was perhaps a chance of it developing in the near future, something that would enhance his growth even further.

The ritual he had learned from the Anathema feat had been complex beyond belief. The bare edges of it that he could understand so far were intimidating. Although he wouldn't be able to master it, or even properly learn it in time to apply to his next four minions, he had high hopes that the knowledge he would gain would help him dramatically in the future.

Plugging the leaks and sealing the Death Magick within each bone had been one of his main thoughts when he'd selected the ritual, he'd been hoping it would provide him the means to turn each bone into a 'container' to prevent any magick inserted from escaping.

He may eventually be able to do that, but for now he didn't have enough of a grasp on the new words of power or sigils that he had become dimly aware of. He certainly couldn't perform an extended ritual over every individual bone.

So he'd applied the methods he'd been developing, sensing each skeleton piece by piece, attempting to smooth out irregularities and promoting the development of Death Magick naturally occurring within the remains.

With four skeletons so close together, he made use of the opportunity to study the unique interaction they had with each other. The miniscule traces of energy that jumped from one to the next frustrated him no end. He couldn't find the connection that allowed the energy to move, he didn't know why it was happening, or how, or even if it was a good thing!

He did everything he could to pour over each skeleton, studying, attempting to fix mistakes, saturating them with arcane power. Then came time for the intricate and painful task of creating the stitching required to make them move.

Tyron was quite pleased with the final result. His work around the joints in particular had improved a great deal. That should result in smoother and more efficient movement for his minions, which would lessen the drain on his energy and make them more deadly in battle.

The more he progressed, the more Tyron had begun to appreciate just how connected each part of his new profession truly was. Proper preparation, the stitching, casting the spell, each element bled into the next and had a huge impact on the final quality of the minion. Only when he had completely mastered all of the techniques he was learning would he be able to create the best servants.

Until then he was just wasting the materials that came his way.

Once he felt better, Tyron checked his notes and focused on recovering his energy. He had to get through four casts of Raise Dead before he could rest. He'd already lost too much time, who knew what the rift was up to by now? If there were more rift-kin out there, then that was experience he could be hunting.

He'd been interrupted three times during his work to help his skeletons repel monsters. Luckily they'd only been smaller critters and they hadn’t run into anything he couldn't comfortably handle with a little undead assistance..

But it underscored the point. He needed more minions and he needed to get out there as soon as he could. He was already a level seven Necromancer, if he reached ten, he'd have another two spell choices and an additional feat to choose. That represented another fundamental growth in power.

He keenly felt the need to accelerate and move faster. There wasn't time to hesitate.

His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, but even with the warnings of Dove ringing in mhis ears, he stood and prepared himself for four consecutive casts of Raise Dead.

The fatigue didn't matter. His mind was focused. With each successive use, he was becoming more comfortable with the ritual, his understanding of the ins and outs, the intricacies as process, was constantly improving.

The research he'd been conducting on the words and sigils he was less familiar with was also progressing. With the changes he'd made, he hoped to see a more efficient connection between himself and the skeletons, allowing them to move more whilst draining less of his magick.

With his mind settled, Tyron sharpened his thoughts, raised his hands and began to speak.

Four hours later he collapsed on the floor of the cavern. He didn't even need to use a spell to put himself to sleep.

He woke ten hours later, his mouth and throat dry and aching.

His living conditions were certainly catching up with him. Considering the rough sleep, lack of food and water, he was holding up remarkably well, but he couldn't go on like this forever.

Despite his fatigue, Tyron felt invigorated. The moment he became conscious, his awareness expanded to include the connection that he shared with his minions. His seven minions. Even standing completely still, he could feel them, and the minute drain they put on his energy by simply existing. With all of them moving and fighting, he would struggle to maintain the drain for long, but he was excited to see how well his latest four would perform.

He rose and stretched, trying to get the kinks out of his back before he shook it off and crammed some food in his mouth, too eager to get going to waste any more time.

Once outside he couldn't keep a smile off his face as he ordered his minions to gather before him.

Instantly the draw on his magick increased as the skeletons walked in their silent, eerie way towards him, forming a rough row for him to inspect. The sight of them gathered sparked a sense of pride in the young mage. This were his minions, creatures of arcane spellwork and mundane components that he had made. He reflected that a craftsman might feel the same when gazing upon a completed work, or a carpenter at a finished building. He had laboured for hours over each one of these skeletons, performing meticulous, demanding work. It may not be the same as spending days or weeks on one grand masterpiece, but nevertheless his effort reflected in the final quality of what he had created.

The latest four were the apex of his current achievements. They benefited from everything that he had learned, every test and improvement he had made, along with the boost from his first feat. As far as skeletons went, they were the cream of the crop.

Sadly, they remained unarmed.

His first order of business should be to return to the site of the battle and try to retrieve some weaponry if at all possible. He'd been more concerned with securing the remains. For a moment his thoughts turned to what the slayers would think of their bones being used to construct undead controlled by a rogue mage, but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind. He wasn't responsible for becoming what he was, and he intended to use his minions to battle the rift-kin. Hopefully the slayers would be able to find peace with that.

Actually, he could speak to the dead now, technically, but he resisted the urge. It was time to take his skeletal horde on the road!

"Let's head out," he declared to the silent row of undead.

Don't talk to the minions you moron.

He started to lead the way, but paused and smiled when he realised he now had sufficient followers to create a rough formation around himself. After directing his older servants to pass their blades to the newer, he positioned them at his rear and allowed the four strongest to be his vanguard. In this formation he marched back toward the place where Cilla had fallen.

Being surrounded on all sides by skeletal warriors gave Tyron a certain feeling, as if now he could call himself a real Necromancer. He'd come a long way since his Awakening but he felt as if he'd barely improved at all. Seven minions was a great step forward, but ultimately, was a pitifully small collection. Dove had been very clear that he needed to pursue greater numbers of servants.

"No matter how you slice it, kid, a polished shit is still a shit. You'll succeed by burying people in it, not cutting them with it," Tyron did his best to mimic the Summoner's droll tone.

He didn't agree. Forget some metaphor of hardening or polishing, he didn't view his skeletons as destined to be weak. If sufficient effort was expended then they could be improved, and if effort was all it took then effort he would supply.

He hadn't been underway for long before they were intercepted. From the bushes ahead a small pack of skittering rift-kin emerged, screeching in a high pitched whine as they rushed towards them.

Taken by surprise, Tyron cursed and begun to weave a magick bolt together, but by the time he was ready to cast, the small monsters had already reached his first minions. With sharp jaws, the creatures tried to snap at the legs of the skeletons, but Tyron's latest minions proved their worth, stepping back smoothly to avoid the strikes and swinging with their crude weaponry.

His three remaining skeletons advanced steadily and Tryon's mind began to ache as he tried to direct seven different minions at once. He quickly realised it was impossible and settled for general commands that the skeletons could interpret with their very simple 'minds'. As he'd feared, supporting this many skeletons created a massive drain on his energy and he hesitated as he reached for his pocket. He didn't have much candy remaining and he needed to get used to fighting without it. Being overly dependent on the crystal was a good way to get a mage killed.

He grit his teeth and returned to directing the battle mentally, urging his skeletons to surround the critters and trying to direct them to better support each other.

The rift-kin spat and snapped their jaws as the slow swings of the skeletons rained down on them. They were much faster than the walking bones that assailed them, but like all monsters, they were mad with rage and pressed forward, desperate to inflict whatever damage they could. With minimal direction from Tyron, the undead were slower to respond, and he was worried that they would be hit as a result, but his fears proved to be unfounded.

Against just four opponents, his seven skeletons pressed their numbers advantage, harassing the smaller monsters and knocking them off balance. Even his unarmed minions proved their worth with comical looking kicks that distracted the rift-kin and prevented them from attacking his more dangerous skeletons.

Satisfied that they could last without him for a moment, Tyron took the time to cast Supress Mind, savagely crushing the resistance of the rift-kin and holding it still as he directed one sword wielding undead to finish it off. With one of their number killed, the remainder were even further outnumbered and quickly fell.

Tyron was positively beaming as he reassembled his legion. Four smaller rift-kin would have been a difficult fight for him just a few days ago, but with greater numbers and superior undead, he had been able to win with relative ease. When he managed to get weapons in the hands of all of his skeletons, things would improve even further.

However, in the back of his mind a nagging thought demanded his attention. He was still a long way from the rift and running into four monsters already was a bad sign. He would need to be careful.

And indeed, he ran into another small pack before he reached his destination, but his undead proved more than a match.

The sight of Cilla's grave, where he had buried the bright girl only days before was saddening and Tyron stopped a moment to pay his respects before he scouted about the trees, hoping to find any gear that might still be usable. At first he was worried he'd come up empty handed as the first sword he found was broken, snapped during the fight, but luckily a few pieces seemed to have come through unscathed.

A mace that was heavier than he would have liked, the extra effort required to shift the heavier weapon would come from his magick after all, but it was an effective tool against the chitinous exterior of the local rift-kin. He managed to find a shield with only a minor split in it, which would serve well enough, as well as two blades.

To his most promising skeleton, the largest of the four newer additions, he gifted both the shield and the mace. It was necessary to adjust the strap on the back of the shield to get it to fit the undead's much thinner arm, but once that was done, the skeleton seemed able to hold it well enough. Tyron could only hope it was smart enough to block properly.

With the rest of the weaponry, all the members of his army were at least armed. Some of the swords were in poor condition, but that couldn't be helped. If he found the time he might perform some maintenance on it himself.

The thought of a skeleton polishing a blade was enough to make Tyron laugh, but he quickly settled and began to plot his next move.

He had two objectives. The first was to quickly gain experience by hunting down rift-kin. There appeared to be no shortage of those, even a great distance from the rift itself. This meant he had a wide area to range in with little chance of being discovered by active slayers. In fact, if the level of danger was increasing, there was a slight chance that nearby settlements and farms, like the one that he'd encountered on his journey to Woodsedge, would be evacuated. So he'd be able to move across an even wider area if he wished.

The second was to continue the hunt for materials. He couldn't support any more minions than he had now, but it was naive to think he wouldn't lose any during his hunt. The skeletons were surprisingly tough, imbued with Death Magick as they were, but they were far from invincible. If he ran into the larger monsters, casualties would be inevitable.

If by some miracle he didn't lose any, he would still need more remains. As his level increased, so did his capacity to hold and regenerate magick, which meant he could support more. It fact, now that he'd reached this point, Tyron hoped he would be able to rapidly increase his power as he could hunt and gain levels faster than he could hope to before.

"Time to get hunting," he laughed to himself.

For the first time since he had arrived in Woodsedge, he felt a glimmer of hope.