"Raise the dead," they said, "It'll be fun,' they said.

Ok, they never said that. The one thing they did say was never to experiment with necromancy. Surely, resurrection didn't count though, right? That's animating skeletons and liches and stuff. This should be a positive thing, at any rate.

I guess it helps to know who or what you're resurrecting, though.

Magic is hereditary, and while nobody knows exactly where it began, and sometimes an anomaly does pop up, for the most part magic runs in the blood, and it's that simple. As such family lineages go back at least a few hundred years for most, a thousand or so for a few select families. Know someone who was "descended from Charlemagne"? Chances are they're magic. Or full of it.

In any case, nobody's lineages go back much past that, and right now you were sincerely wishing they did. With a few fateful words you had brought back to the world something that should have stayed dead - that you wished had. And it was sizing you up.

Sanavar, The End of Hope, among other epithets, stood before you, and when they spoke, your marrow chilled in your bones. "Greetings, my progeny." The words were... felt, not heard. "You are powerful for one so young."

Stammering you answered, not exactly knowing what you'd say as the words dribbled out. "Thank you, I'm a bit of a natural" you said, already feeling like being too proud of your accomplishments today is a mistake. Still, you babbled a bit because you knew who you were speaking to, and didn't know what else to say. "I mean, I study whatever I can get my hands on." The spell you'd pulled out from the abandoned magical library lingered in your mind. Casting your eyes to the floor, if only to break the gaze of Sanavar, you fumbled behind you to bring the scroll forward, the thought of a way to undo this passes over your mind.

Seizing upon the dusty parchment and bringing it around in front of you, you look up and suddenly realize Sanavar towers directly in front of you, and they reach out and snatch your wrist. "Old magic indeed," a voice of flame and smoke reverberates in your mind as they appraise the scroll, as your wrist feels frozen and smoldering at once. "This place is a source of immense power, and you were wise to try this ritual here. By our wisdom we shall make of you our Emissary to this world, and you shall bring them under my heel. Kneel, progeny."

Wrist still in an iron grip, you do as commanded. A hand that seems to shimmer in reality, there and not, reaches out to touch your forehead. Your free hand behind you, and with all your concentration, you make a symbol that your master taught you, something to be used in direst emergency. Finishing not a moment too soon, you feel an inrush of seeming incomprehensible thought, and the realm around you swims and shifts.

"Rise," commands the voice of terror. Shakily clambering to stand, your vision swims violently in a manner you've never contemplated. Behind the unholy being a light so bright it causes you disorientation and pain explodes into view, a luminous being emerges. Hearing your name as if from a great distance you wince and double over, only feeling the aftermath of what happened.

Sanavar roared as the blast of magic impacted them, and you felt the blastwave washed past you. Glimpsing him from between Sanavar's legs, your old master and grand master of your order completed another spell lifting Sanavar off the ground and into the wall behind you. Scrambling to your feet you summon what energy you have and steady yourself as Sanavar prepared to counter attack.

Remembering a spell you'd once read through the brain fog, your master's blast was caught and deflected by Sanavar as if he'd sent a training flare. Adrenaline slowed your perception of time and seeing an opening, you unleash a swarm of razor-like voids in space. It tore at Sanavar's flesh, and over the sound of pain, in your mind you hear that darkest voice in rage and shock, "You dare to attack with my own magic, progeny!?!"

Mid summon, your master was staring at you in something between appraisal and horror. Focusing to clear your mind and appreciating what had just been said, you realize you never studied that spell, or even heard of it.

Like a splinter in your mind, a spell calls to you. A brief flick of your wrist sharpens your recollection, the memory of the scroll you'd had before clarifies. Sanavar, seeing the curl of your lip, takes a defensive stance, ready to deflect your spell. A complex twisting produces a burst of electricity in the air. Directing your motion directly at The End of Hope, the deflecting spell starts, but stops as quickly as it started. A gentle gust of wind enters the room through boarded up windows, and Sanavar fades to mist.

"Master, I..."

"We will talk about this," he says sharply, but then, softening, "after some rest."

"And much more," you think to yourself, without meaning to.

Your master's eyes widen in shock.