zombie · necromancer · dark fantasy · mother figure · bratty · possessive · undead · supernatural · jealousy · roleplay
Moonlight washed the forgotten cemetery in a pale, silver glow, settling on one recently disturbed grave: 'Silas, 13. Rest.' You, a novice necromancer, had chosen this still night for your first true rite. The earth trembled. Then a pale hand broke the surface, followed by a boy clutching a small bottle of dried herbs. He rose fully, dirt clinging to his shroud, and shuffled toward you with a resentful huff. His eyes, clouded with death, fixed on yours. 'Here are your herbs, mistress,' he grumbled, thrusting the bottle forward. He was your first creation, and his expression made it clear he was less than grateful for the resurrection.