[h3]Gian[/h3]

*warning, it gets really nasty

The creature walked out in the field-made-hell alone but not alone. The dead around him were twisted and contorted, gnarled by their struggle and last earthly fight. Their eyes, bloated and yellowed, bulged up from their bloodless sockets, staring blankly up past him- perhaps to a god- as he passed by them. The bodies were charred from unholy flames. The smell of them clung to his face and hands. He noted the faces of boys and girls he had seen run through the streets of Maplestead years ago- when they were merry and care-free. Now they were bloodied and mangled. He saw the faces of old men and lame men. women who were mothers. Of course he even saw bodies without faces. And faces without bodies.

As he walked he came to the conclusion that those that had died were either too young or too old or too shredded to be used for what he wanted. In fact, most were not worthy for parts because they were so blackened by flames. He regretted choosing this gate. The man, cloaked in black, has only been drawn to the east gate because of the blood curdling screams he had heard. They excited him. By the gods, they reminded him of the early days in the War- when the killings drenched the earth a dark soapy red.

A moan drew him out of his nostalgic thoughts. The necromancer turned his black gaze on to the face of a young man, who writhed on the ground, attempting to turn on his side to stand up- but without an arm or legs. One of this mans eyes was dangling against his cheek, smacking against it like a deflated blue balloon. Intrigued, the man crouched next to this delirious boy and considered him for a moment before speaking,

"The gods sure hate you, lad. Wonder what you did to deserve such a fate.." The single working eye turned and looked up at the necromancer. Perhaps it was the gray face of the stranger or maybe he believed that Death had come to collect him- but the dying man tried to speak. However, no words could be made without most of his teeth and a tongue full of holes. The impostor of Death smiled and watched the man bleed out- he watched the life leave his eyes.

Shortly after this the man began to piece his way through the bodies. Dirtying himself with their blood and their decay. He cut apart those that he believed best for body parts- he took arms, hands with wedding rings, feet- he avoided legs and torsos because he had neglected to bring the proper tools. Once he collected what he wanted he returned to the small mule drawn cart. The mule widened its eyes at his approach- for she was not in fact a mule but a girl that had been cursed by the necromancer years ago. He tossed the body parts into the cart carelessly- covering them with a tarp. He then began to talk to her as they walked back into town through the sewer-way.

"You know, Balbasa," for that was what he called the mule despite it not being her true name, "I did not want to watch the boy die earlier... I did. But, you see, something compelled me to end his life quickly. I did not, of course, but I wanted to. It was the strangest feeling." The mule nervously nickered.

They arrived in the slums of Maplestead soon enough and were soon lost among the lower-class fashion of dressing in dark fabric and hauling mule drawn carts with tarps over them.

He soon heard talk of Heroes arriving back from battle. That they would all be gathered at the Tavern of Heroes. The creature had no interest in the living. In fact he was sure that he and these heroes would never cross paths.

"we've failed to gather sufficient parts, little Balbasa. Let us head to the next gate and gather at least a whole, strong body." Again, his only reply was the nervous whiny of his mule.

After walking some ways- the pair found themselves at the North gate. There the guards, assuming that they were the war field clean up crew or something, allowed them passage outside. Once the gates were hastily closed behind them they surveyed the battlefield. It lacked the charred and burned earth from East gate- but the carnage was equally as disturbing. More shredded faces here- no doubt by some massive animal, although he could not see one anywhere nearby.

[@Uruvion]Perhaps it was how his armor glinted in the light- but the face down body of Vance caught the body collectors eye. The man skirted across the field, giddy and excited like a child, toward this find. And, yes, upon his approach he noted that whoever this person was- they were indeed the proper proportions and of good health. He turned Vance over with his hands- the blood had not left his face! no doubt he had died not moments ago. Vance's armor made it hard for the necromancer to see that he was still shallowly breathing.

"Gods- I've lucked out. A little wear and tear on that shoulder- but otherwise!" And he stooped down next to the body, he began to unbuckle the armor,

"Just need to get this damned- ugh- tinfoil heap off of'em." In the process of doing this, however, his fingers brushed against Vance's skin and he could tell that the other man was alive. Disgusted he drew back,

"No..." He groaned, his hopes dashed. He'd really hoped to have had a chance with a proper specimen. The slums only ever offered sickly bums and druggies. Perhaps.. he could kill this man here? He could! He could and that would solve his problem.

Gian reached in to his cloak and withdrew a sacrificial knife, ready to plunge it into Vance's throat- but he was scared from this act in the last second from someone by the gates, calling out suddenly.

He hid the knife and glanced back- a medic! Damn, the odds of that. The man sprung up and ran to his cart, jumping on the back of his mule and jerkily riding away.

The medic, accompanied by Eve, was at once by Vance's side. He drew the man up,

"Let's get out of here, son. The gods know- that man looked insane."

With the help of some guards the medic helped Vance to the clinic, where he was treated for his wounds and kept under close observation until he was to wake next.

[h3] Jere[/h3]

*will edit in later I'm too tired ;A;