An in-depth look at the mechanics and purpose of Mervis Borningtons' job as a Necromancer. I hope you enjoy, and please, don't hesitate to review or let me know if I've got a spelling mistake or something in here that doesn't quite make sense.

I own none of this, but the concepts are my own. It's all conjecture, so feel free to make fun of it (^_^)


"Get on with it." The burly Deathguard ushered Mervis forward with a hard shove. He stumbled and actually fell into the corpse. He immediately gagged, pushing himself off the carcass while trying to hold back the bile threatening to spurt from his gullet. He pinched his nose shut, gasping.

"This-uh-this is the one?" In response he felt something sharp jab him in the back, and he gave a yelp. He scowled back at the Deathguard. "Don't rush me, or I'll mess it up. Now stand back, and stop bothering me." The Deathguard blinked at the sudden authority in his voice, but nonetheless did as he was asked. It didn't do to question the Necromancers-not when they were in a class all their own of skills, personality, and mindset. Almost like their own species.

Mervis? Probably one of the more stable of the bunch. There were others, though, who cackled as they chewed on their rotting fingers before beginning a resurrection. Mervis himself shuddered when he thought of Tyous, his Master, before he'd died; he was worse than that by far, doing things like screwing the bodies before he brought them back to unlife.

Perishing the thoughts of the deranged madman who taught him his trade, Mervis unpinched his nose and let the wretched smell enter his nostrils as he pulled the body away from the wall. There were other bodies here, strewn about, as the Pile always had, but apparently this one was the one Sylvannas wanted pulled back into unlife, for however long he could manage it. Probably had some vital information or something-but it was not his place to judge. Mervis pulled it aways, and then dropped it abruptly, as soon as he had enough space to work the ritual, and went back to clamping his nose shut with two fingers.

The parts required for a resurrection could vary on the purpose, method, and path of resurrection. For the purpose, it could vary from bringing a loved one back to life, or raising someone to fight for you, or as Mervis assumed this situation to be, for information-gathering.

The method? That could change too. You could use a blood sacrifice, or something. You could skin someone alive, and transfer their life force. Or, you could do what Mervis was about to do, and go through the age old practice of chanting words known only to demons and force one of those demons into the body, pulling it back to life for as long as he could bind it. A method he was specialized in, and very good at.

And lastly, the path of which you want the resurrected party to take. The Living, typically priests, or-or druids, or even those shamans will go for the path of a "Full-Life" resurrection. That means every piece is brought back. The soul, the spirit (yes, those are two separate things), the flesh-any that was taken away, I mean-and of course, the mind,permanently. Now for Mervis' purpose this was both too much work and a waste of time; those resurrections took weeks, sometimes months, and offerings to Gods-Gods which he held no belief in. And besides, he had no need for permanence as the bodies ran out of use after the job was over. So, he forces the resurrected party to walk the path of "Half-Life." This means he's putting them on the brink of life and death, where at the break of his concentration they will fall back to a pile of flesh, and no more. This method works for his purpose; after-death interrogations. There is one final path, though, that Mervis himself walks: "Un-Life." There's only one way to accomplish this, and that's through very ancient relics, very evil relics, such as the Frostmourne, or-or something like the Frozen Throne, or a permanent-demonic-residence or-bah, it's too complicated, and not worth the research, or the time, when no very ancient or very evil relics are nearby and able to be tampered with.

Back to the present, where Mervis had begun chanting. He only needed one hand to guide the words, which was good, because the smell was overpowering. You would think, perhaps, a being of undeath would not mind smell other, well, dead-things. Mervis, unlike so many of his comrades, still-had-a-nose-with-which-to-smell. So, he was a bit more sensitive to the stench. It was why he wore cologne, and why anyone else who could smell always thought he smelled bad. "Better than smelling like rotting flesh," he'd say.

The words he spoke literally took shape when they came from his mouth, turning into glowing purple runes that floated in mid-air as he ushered them down to the floor with his hand. He drew the circle while still chanting, walking a ring around the body with his finger on the ground, tracing the line out and leaving a etching of purple flames wherever his finger touched. It was good that he needed no lungs to breathe, otherwise he'd have run out of breath long, long ago.

Now comes the part he loathes; releasing his nose and letting that god-awful sickening smell of putrid foulness enter his nose once more, he brought his hands together in a loud and hollow sounding clap. Then with one hand he reached out and placed a palm on the chest of the corpse, the other hand to the forehead, continuing to speak. He called out to the demon he would use, sending word to the Twisting Nether. Seven seconds passed, and the demon received his message. Another seven seconds, and the demon sent a reply, maddening language of demonic origin intruding into Mervis' mind like a snake piercing his cortex. That demon didn't want to come. Cursing inwardly, Mervis tried again, switching which hand went where, calling to a different demon.

Fourteen seconds passed and he received a reply; the second demon would come. He would have breathed a sigh of relief but he had no time, as he sent the instructions for the demon to snatch the soul of the-he glanced downwards at the crotch of the corpse-man before him. Now, the part that he doesn't loathe, but is oh so difficult. A common misconception to those outside the tiny society of demonic necromancy is that you ask one demon. Well, no, you have to ask until you find someone to fetch the soul, and that, in Mervis' experience, has taken as many as thirty-six tries at one go; the person he'd been trying to resurrect? A child. Always harder to find demons willing to chase after the children, since they float faster than the rest. But anyways, it wasn't just one demon you had to get a good answer from. It was four. As soon as he'd received confirmation from the first he'd already begun sending out more messages, not even bothering to wait for replies as he called demon after demon, going through the Encyclopedia Daemonica in his head for more and more names.

What is the reason four demons are required? There are four things to be caught, obviously. The first: The soul. He'd already asked someone to do that, and someone else, thank the Dark Lady, had already obliged to fetch the second thing: the spirit. You want to know the difference between the soul and spirit, alright then, the soul is what we are, it's...what lets us have a binding to higher beings. Everyone says "Spirits be with you" in all those languages, but its actually "Soul be bound to you", or at least it was, until a shaman by the name of Orebus several millennia ago said it wrong at a conference and then everyone started saying it wrong-forget it, not going to waste time with an explanation. The spirit is willpower. Motivation to live, what keeps us strong in our mind, which is the fourth thing to retrieve, skipping over the third which is flesh. But spirit is-it's more than just willpower, its the ability to have willpower. It's complicated, I know, please, try to comprehend what I say with your feeble little brain.

The flesh is actually the easiest thing to get a demon to agree to; they get to eat it after. They float down to the bottom of the Nether-believe me, it is not actually a bottomless chasm-and yank the specific pieces of vital body parts from the piles and piles that lay there. See, to get a demon to agree to this whole retrieval and bringing the pieces of a life back to the Necromancer there are payments. For the one which retrieves flesh, already answered that. For the one who retrieves the soul, they receive one of the Necromancer's captured souls from a Soul-Gem, which Mervis has to raise into the air and "hold out" to the demon with one hand when the Soul is brought to him and held into the body of the corpse. The soul of the corpse fades back into the Nether once the interrogation is completed, so it cleans itself up. The one who retrieves the spirit gets a bit of the Necromancer's own will to live; this is one of the many, many reasons that the Living can not perform Necromantica Daemonica: they can run out of that will. But beings of unlife such as Mervis have an undying will to live, so the demon can take as much as they want, and eat their fill.

Mervis, at this point, is sweating so hard that he can barely hold the Soul-Gem up as the demon crunches down on it and wrenches it from his grasp. The Deathguard behind him, not used to witnessing Necromancy, jumped, startled. Now comes the part which Mervis is...saddened by.
The fourth, and final demon which must be spoken to, after the spirit has been pushed back into the body by another demon only moments after the Soul-Gem was taken from his grasp by another demon, and then after the flesh has been neatly sutured back to the body, by another demon, arrives now. Mervis is the only one in the world aware of its presence, but its presence is the one that is oh so terrifying and all-encompassing that he begins to shiver and quake just at the feeling of its arrival. It is visible-only to him-in all its demonic glory. A wraith with horns sticking out from all over it, no hands to speak of but only knife-like claws in their place, eyes that glow like red lightning and a deep, deep laughter that makes Mervis' hands twitch even as he ushers it closer.

No, Mervis is not scared, however it may seem that way. He is depressed. So overwhelmingly depressed as the demon reaches out with one of those knife-like claws and pierces into his mind (no, that isn't a metaphor), wrenching out a small piece of his personality, his memories, his...him. He knows what he's forgot; the numbers 10, 11, and 12, where he had sent a letter three days ago, what his favorite color was...These things can all be learned once more, and are of no major consequence. But the demon always takes one thing, one thing permanently, and he can never learn it again. The first time it was how to wink. It may seem inconsequential, but from that point on Mervis couldn't even close his eyes to sleep. He couldn't look away no matter how much he wanted not to look at something. The second time It'd been how to shake hands. The third...the fourth, the fifth, another piece of him was stolen. Another bit of the life that he'd tried so, so hard to reclaim, gone.Never to be done again. And each time it got worse.

This time, he forgot how to smile. A permanent scowl now etched his features, even as the demon drifted over to the body, placing its knife-claws against the corpse's forehead. Never again would he show a cheery expression, never make a "happy-face". Oh, the woes of the daemonic Necromancer. But it was worth it in the end; he got to bring people back to life. He got paid. Had a job, a purpose in his life. He wasn't one for being social anyways, why should he care? In fact, he always held a secret desire in his heart that the demon would take away his sense of smell the next time around. Enough of that, though, as the ritual had been completed; all the pieces had come together, and the purple flames of the circle grew larger and then spewed forth from the ground, shooting up around him and the corpse. His breath hitched in his throat as the carcass took its own first breath of half-life.

"What-what-"It stuttered, unable to understand what or where or who or how or anything in its situation. They were always like that at first. Mervis rolled his eyes and pressed his finger to the forehead, reactivating the consciousness. The dazed and glazed eyes became clear instantly, and the man blinked. "Who are you? And what's going on?" Mervis nodded, satisfied, but before he could say anything he was shoved roughly to the side, almost breaking his concentration. The corpse twitched, but the demon's held their places and kept the pieces together, thank the Dark Lady; who was standing in front of the corpse now. Mervis hadn't been shoved aside by her, for she actually held him in high favor and wouldn't do such a thing, but by one of her personal Dark Ranger guard. They loathed him, even though he couldn't remember doing anything to cause such foul feelings-or perhaps one of the demons memory wipes had gotten the better of him. He shrugged inwardly, and stood back up, glaring at the Dark Elf who had pushed him.

"You damn near broke my concentration." he muttered, audible to everyone in the room. Sylvannas herself sent a glance his direction, causing him to freeze for a moment, but she turned back to the corpse, and he turned his mind inwards, ignoring the looks of distrust and hate he received from the Dark Rangers as he focused on binding all the demons to their places.

"Daryl Middian, how good of you to join us." The Dark Lady spoke, icy tone lowering the temperature in the room. The man gasped in recognition-the memories took a few moments to kickstart, and Mervis wasn't feeling up to pressuring the demon to hurry up.

"You damn Dark Elf Bitch!" He shouted, pointing a finger. "I almost had my way out of this damned Forsaken Hell-Hole and then one of your abominations turns me into mincemeat! And now you've got me resurrected, what, to interrogate me?! I won't tell you a thing!" The Dark Lady, to her credit, showed no sign of anger, nor irritance, nor anything. She simply reached out with two fingers and poked him in the arm. The skin shattered, blood spewing everywhere, and bone beneath broke. It fell off to the floor. Mervis twitched in irritation; this was when the job started getting repetitive, and very, very annoying-if the resurrected party was stubborn, that is. He let his mind back outwards with an automatic mantra in his head binding the demons to their posts, and then he stomped on the ground and brought his hands together, interlacing his fingers. The mans arm flew up from the ground, re-affixing itself to his shoulder, mending itself, and his screams stopped. Only Mavis felt the third demon move-everyone else thought it was just an arm floating and fixing itself.

"For as long as it takes to get the information, I will do this to you. And only when you have told me everything I wish to know, you will die." The man, Daryl, frowned, mirroring Mervis' expression.

"And I'll have to keep fixing you..." Mervis muttered, waving a hand, scowl deepening slightly. He leaned against the wall with arms crossed, sneering back at one Dark Ranger in particular who kept giving him the evil eye. After the threat Sylvannas made, promising untold pain for an untold amount of time, the man started spouting nonsensical knowledge about everything he knew, ranging from King Varian Wrynn's birthday to when his sister had her child to what type of cake he enjoyed. But once Sylvannas silenced him and began asking specific, specific questions, he answered with mild hesitation.

"You want to know what Wrynn plans in the coming months with Greymane?" Slyvannas only nodded slightly. The man shrugged. "I was no high ranking official, I cannot tell you much."

"Tell me what you know, then." She said, icy tone as cold as ever. Daryl flinched.

"Three weeks." The man said, holding up three fingers. "He'll be sending a human and worgen patrol to Trisfal in three weeks." The Dark Lady turned around, making a several complicated hand signs no one but the Dark Rangers understood. Then she turned to Mervis.

"That's all." She said, sending shivers down Mervis' spine when he was directly spoken to. He sighed, pushing himself off the wall, and brought his hands together in a loud clap, and then waved with his right hand. The demons all faded; one taking with him the soul from the Soul-Gem already eaten, one already having slaked his hunger on Mervis' spirit, another taking with it the entire body of Daryl Middian, and the last, running off with Mervis' ability to smile. He nodded at Sylvannas, and she stalked out of the room, leaving Mervis standing there with a Deathguard standing next to him. He looked over at the guard, who flinched when Mervis lunged towards him and punched him in the face.

"That's for shoving me earlier, you twat!" The Necromancer shouted, then stormed out of the room. The Deathguard rubbed his nose, staring at Mervis' back as he left. Yes, there were some insane, nut-jobs who shared Mervis' profession, and he was one of the more stable of the bunch. But he had his moments of moodiness. He had his skills, to call forth demons from the Nether to aid in the resurrection of a corpse. His personality, which was slowly fading away with every summoning. And his mindset, his outlook on his unlife, which was very, very bleak, and very, very smelly.