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The ground is still wet and soft from rain as the Necromancer makes his way across the jungle, bare feet barely leaving a mark as he walks.
A soft breeze blows through the trees tonight, disturbing his long hair and making him sigh, almost content. The heat of the day doesn’t bother him, but the chill of the night always presents a pleasant change, and he more than welcomes it.
What he does not welcome is the lack of the usual cacophony of sounds one would hear in the jungle at night. It is normal for it to be quieter when the sun is down of course, but even a layman could tell that the silence that permeates through the air is unnatural, and as the master of the wilderness that surrounds him, the Necromancer feels it in his bones.
There has been a distinct wrongness in the air as of late, that he knows. He feels it, they all feel it – the insects on the ground, normally reckless in their confidence, have been scurrying away at any noise not even trusting their poison or venom to take care of any threat. The snakes do the same, slithering away deep into their holes, hissing at anything that walks by.
Even the apes and birds have been uneasy, keeping to their trees and only daring to come down when the sun is high in the sky.
His felines have all been on alert as well. All the destructions have been tense, on edge – they sense the hostility that has spread through the jungle. They see how the trees have grown wicked and vicious, roots snatching up whatever gets close enough, how even the lakes and rivers have turned against the wildlife, dragging animals into their depths for no apparent reason, driving away even the flora on its margins.
And it’s clear that it’s been affecting them as well; they’ve been wilder, easier to rile up, more violent than necessary.
The Necromancer does not appreciate it. The idea of an outside power acting upon his beasts already displeases him immensely – that the whole jungle, his jungle, seems to bow to it as well leaves him less than happy.
And his wrath, he knows, can be felt throughout the wilderness. The trees might be bent to another’s will, but they will not dare touch him, shrinking away as he walks by, his feet bare and the fragile fabric of his skirt dragging behind him in the mud. Regardless of whom they bow to, they would never be foolish enough as to attempt anything against him.
He is not past burning them down to the roots along with this entire jungle, and they know it.
So they behave and keep quiet as he passes them by, not a whisper exchanged between them. For a moment he wonders if it’s fear of him that keeps them from talking, or if the ability has been taken away from them by another, but he eventually decides he does not care.
He considers burning them to the ground for nothing but the sake of it after this is over.
As a rule, there is very little natural lighting in the jungle – moonlight often isn’t able to penetrate the thick foliage of the trees around him, and since his ability doesn’t depend on light, he rarely bothers with it. He welcomes the darkness, and it welcomes him.
Except darkness feels different here now. It’s heavy, almost tangible and the distinct foreignness of it does not sit well with him.
His felines are all around him, restless and hyper-alert to every shift in the environment. Their eyes shine bright with ill-intentions, and their fangs are still stained with blood from their earlier meal.
The Necromancer’s rage flows through them, burning hot in their blood, and it only grows hotter as the new presences grows stronger, keeping them all on edge.
Including the Necromancer himself.
Because as much as he’d like to pretend, the jungle and its inhabitants are not the only ones affected by whatever is out there – it acts upon him as well, if in a much different way. It doesn’t have him running away in fear as it does with the more sensitive beings, and it doesn’t influence him as heavily as it does with the stronger ones. Instead, he feels it calling out to him, trying to draw him in.
It was subtle at first, almost gentle, but it’s been growing stronger and stronger, as if whoever is calling out to him is losing its patience.
It all angers him to no end; he feels like a prey being lured into a trap by the promise of easy food, or like a pet whose disobedience was amusing at first, but has now wore off its owner’s patience.
He is even angrier at the fact that he can no longer fight the calling.
So he follows the breadcrumbs, pumas, jaguars, oncillas, black panthers, ocelots and even a couple of eyra cats and margays on his tail, his own claws itching to inflict damage upon anything that crosses his path. He is very much aware he’s walking right into a trap, but he is more than confident in his ability to get himself out of any situation, should the need arise. Millennia have taught him that there is little he can’t escape, and he has never had any trouble leaving everything behind if he must.
A good sense of self-preservation has always been one of the his best traits.
He’s nearing the southern limits of the forest now, and the absolute stillness around him says a lot about how close he is to finding what he seeks. The air is thinner by the cliffs of the plateau, and the Necromancer feels the hairs on the back of his neck prick with anticipation.
It’s watching him, he knows. He can feel its eyes on him as he walks, accompanying his every move, and his claws grow longer on instinct. Around him, the animals have started to growl low in their throats, closing the circle around him as the presence gets stronger, almost suffocating.
It all happens in a heartbeat – one second everything is quiet, only the sounds of the soft growls of his beasts echoing in the darkness. The next there is a gentle, almost inaudible rustling of leaves coming from his left.
It’s all it takes.
The Necromancer jumps into action without hesitation, skirts falling behind him as he shifts midair, faster than a heartbeat. His aim is flawless, and his prey goes down with ease, their low groan of pain almost buried under the sounds of his beats’ growls, the Necromancer’s monstrous new form keeping them down.
“Aren’t you wonderful?” The being under him says, and the bright look of delight on their ash-grey eyes is the first thing the Necromancer registers. That, and the fact that they seem wholly unfazed by the weight of an enormous puma on top of them.
Their hair is long and white, and it spills out around them, contrasting beautifully with the darkness of the ground and of their skin, and the longer the Necromancer looks at them, the more he’s convinced this might be one of the most beautiful creatures he has ever laid eyes on.
He shakes those thoughts away, however, and growls a little louder and pressing his paws a little more forcibly against the chest underneath him.
“I’ve been watching you for weeks, you know.” They lift their head, and the Necromancer draws back, confused. “You are a strong one. Resisted me for longer than anyone else.”
He pulls back, suspicious, and his beasts do the same. There’s power brimming in the air around the person beneath him, almost dense in its intensity, and it speaks of their situation – he only did what he’s done because he was allowed to. He is not the one in charge of the situation.
As if on cue, his mind starts to fog up, his vision growing blurry and his limbs weak. He backs away, until his far from the stranger on the ground, but it has no effect. Slowly, almost painfully, his body starts returning to its previous form without his consent, and a low whimper escapes his mouth as he tries and fails to stop it from happening.
The transformation takes much longer than usual, and he has almost shed his feline form entirely when something inside his mind snaps–
A sudden surge of energy runs through him, fueled by his anger and outrage at his own powerlessness, and at once he jumps back into the stranger’s chest, long claws ripping into his flesh with ease and slicing him open.
It had been a while since the Necromancer had ripped through anything more than an animal, and he feels satisfaction sending shivers down his spine.
It doesn’t last long, however.
It doesn’t last long, because instead of the screams of anguish he was expecting, a startled gasp follows his attack, and he looks down to find the stranger looking up at him with fire in their eyes.
“Now,” The stranger says, uncaring of the thick golden blood gushing out of the deep cuts on their chest and collarbones. “that was not very polite, was it?” Something cracks in the air, and the Necromancer feels the stranger’s power hitting him as if it was solid, and he’s thrown back, hitting the trees behind him with a loud thud.
The stranger is on him in a second, hoisting him up by the neck like he weighs nothing. There is poorly concealed rage in their eyes, and for the first time in a long time, the Necromancer is afraid.
It angers him to no end.
“What do you want?” He asks, voice hoarse from the lack of air and defiance exuding out his every pore. The hands around his throat tighten, and his won automatically grasp at them in an desperate attempt to breathe. The stranger bares his teeth at him in a mockery of a smile, and the grip tightens even more. “Who the fuck are you?”
“You may call me Melkor.” He says and releases him.
The Necromancer falls to the ground, gasping and choking as he tries to catch his breath. His beasts seem to sense his distress and gather around him when Melkor moves further away as if to shield him while he recovers.
“And what business does he who rises in might have with me and mine?” The Necromancer spits out, and Melkor lifts a brow at him. “The winds whisper of you.”
“And the peoples whisper of you.” Melkor’s eyes shine bright with interest as he approaches once more, slow steps still menacing enough to make the beasts retreat with his presence. He offers the Necromancer a hand once he’s close enough, which he eyes reluctantly, but takes regardless. “The Necromancer.”
Up close, the Necromancer can see the claw marks on Melkor’s chest and neck starting to heal, his golden blood oozing much slower than before, and he has to fight down the inexplicable urge to lap at it.
“And the reasons for the mighty one’s visit?” He asks, displeased to find he has to look up to face Melkor. “Or has he come only to disturb my jungle?”
“You are very crass, has anyone ever told you this before?”
“Yes. Others often make the mistake of thinking I care.” Melkor’s deep chuckle is more than pleasant, but the Necromancer refuses to acknowledge it.
“And very beautiful as well.” Melkor says, running a slow finger down the line of the Necromancer’s jaw, making no attempt to disguise the prurient curiosity with which he eyes his bare body.
The Necromancer makes a show of baring his neck at him, feigning coyness with confidence. Experience has taught him much about how to deal with those who think themselves above all others, and he has found that this is always the best way. “And what is your name?”
“I do not give what is mine away so readily.” The Necromancer says. “Especially to those whose intentions are unclear to me.” He grins, petting the ocelot nearest to him. It was brave enough to approach the both of them, he reckons it deserves some praising. “It might come back to haunt me, after all.”
“Is it really that difficult to trust me? Even with your own name?” Melkor seems amused, a brow lifted and lips curled up in a smile.
“Names are far more powerful than most give them credit for.” The Necromancer moves away, picking up his skirts from the ground and wrapping them around himself once again. Being naked doesn’t bother him, but he rather likes these and he’d hate to forget them. “And the whispers the winds have brought me do nothing to reassure me of the character of whom they pertain.”
“You must know then, I can always get what I want by cruder means.” Melkor approaches him once more, getting close enough that the cold he exudes has chills running down the Necromancer’s spine.
He looks up, unimpressed.
“And I am the one who is crass?” He asks, and Melkor laughs, eyes shining bright with fascination as he looks down at him.
“You are delightful.” He whispers, running his thumb on the Necromancer’s bottom lip and smiling when he lets out a soft gasp at the touch. “I would very much like to have you working for me.”
“And why would I do that?” His voice is breathy, filled with genuine curiosity as he tries not to react so openly to Melkor’s gentle exploration of his features. “What can you offer me that would persuade me to join you?”
“The question is not what I can offer.” Melkor’s smirk is full of promises, and he looks at the Necromancer with cold ambition. “The question is what do you want ?”
“Ah, I do enjoy the sound of that.” The fingers on his cheekbones are slow as they trail down, tracing the curve of his neck and his collarbones, and he lets out a sigh of content. “And what would be required of me?”
“What you do best.” Melkor says. “Or are you not the greatest craftsman these lands have ever seen?” He runs a hand through the Necromancer’s long dark hair, toying with the silver ornaments tied along the scattered braids.
“You have done your research. I must applaud you, appealing to my ego is always a good strategy.” He answers and Melkor laughs again.
“Telling the truth. I would not have come here if you had not impressed me.”
“Oh, I should be flattered, then.” The Necromancer’s lips quirk up in a smile, and Melkor seems far too pleased.
“Very much, yes.”
“What a great honour I suppose it is, then, to have the mightiest of all kin invading my forest and attacking me.”
“To be fair, you attacked me .” Melkor says, playing with the many piercings on his ears. He’s hunched forward, so completely in the Necromancer’s personal space that their breaths mingle together.
“Because you invaded my jungle.”
“I came in peace!” Melkor exclaims, sounding very much entertained by the whole situation, and the Necromancer finds he rather likes being on the receiving end of that smile.
“You lured me in with mind tricks and corrupted not only half the wildlife, but the environment.”
“I excel in a lot of things; unfortunately, subtle approaches are not one of them.”
“You have yet to apologise for any of it.”
“Now, you must know that is not going to happen.” Melkor brushes his hair away from his face, a grin playing on his lips. “But I do promise to work on that in the future.”
“I suppose that is better than nothing.” The Necromancer shrugs his shoulders, trying to move away, but a hand on his wrist stops him. “Yes?”
“You have not answered me.”
“I do not recall being asked a question.” The grip on his wrist tightens a little, not enough to hurt, but enough to show archness is not appreciated.
“I made you a proposition. You have not given me an answer.” Melkor plays with the inside of his wrist, nails dragging themselves down the main artery, and the Necromancer gasps softly.
“Proposition?” He asks, feigning confusion, and the nails dig a little harder into his wrist. “Oh, of course. I remember it now.”
“Good. Your answer?”
“Depends on yours. I have a demand.”
“You may ask it.” Melkor says, half surprised, half amused at his impertinence.
“I would like to take the beasts with me.” As if on command, the animals come forth to stand around him once again, subdued but still unsettled.
The Necromancer pulls his wrist free from Melkor’s grip, and kneels down by the animal nearest to him, a jaguar almost abnormal in its size. He pets its spotted tawny fur with admiration, until its eyes shine orange and a sudden pained howl cuts through the air.
Slowly it starts shifting, growing , its bones cracking and twisting and its fur getting lighter until it’s as white as Melkor’s hair. Its fangs grow longer, unnaturally sharp, as do its claws, and a third eye appears on its forehead, glowing an odd red colour, the pupils slit like a snake’s.
It takes a while, but by the time the transformation is done, the jaguar stands twice as tall as before and everything about it seems otherworldly, from the colour of its fur to that of its eyes. It seems angrier, as well, more savage looking, but there’s a bizarre intelligence in its eyes that was not there before.
“I would hate to waste the effort.” The Necromancer says as Melkor stands in awe, looking at him and the jaguar with wonder and a hint of admiration.
“Of course.” He smiles and leans down, long hair falling down the Necromancer’s shoulders as he stands above him to inspect the animal. “I think… I would very much like to have you with me.”
“Well, if you insist.” The Necromancer rises to his feet, standing in front of Melkor, mouth twitching with the urge to smile. “I suppose I could do you that favour.” Melkor laughs, petting the giant white beast next to them. “You may call me Mairon, then” He says, before bowing and adding: “-my lord.”
“Oh, I do believe I’ll thoroughly enjoy having you around, Mairon.”