— I'm not here looking for absolution —
Stave does not come to the field often, but that is changing.
It is changing because something like ambition has set a flame in his young heart. It is changing because the world around him is shifting and he is smart enough to know that he needs to move or risk being crushed. So he breaks from Pangea—from the stony hills and the endless, ringing of its potential—and he moves to a place that reeks of commoners and feels poisoned with its static, dead sense of average.
But the necromancer still comes.
He rests in the shadows, his gangly body growing into itself as he nears his first year.
He rests and watches—nothing capturing his attention enough to push the arrogance aside in the interest of action. That is, until he sees her. She is small and grey and yet there is something underneath that digs a sharp edge into his ribs. He angles his head, depthless black eyes narrowing in thought, before he sighs and pushes away from the tree. He leaves the small, mangled bodies of animals that he had resurrected in his wake and instead walks forward by himself—his tail snapping at his hocks.
When he is close enough, he pauses, breathing in the scent of something otherworldly.
“Hello,” his voice is smooth for one so young and his smile practiced but empty, cold.
“My name is Stave.”
