Disclaimer: I don't own Diablo. The sad truth. Right there. Now knowing
that, read the fanfiction.
Undead Dearest
By Lost (Serpent Falme)
The man sat, staring at the fire. The flames tickled and flowed against his gray eyes. He took a view of the encampment; everyone he laid eyes upon would just snap their head away. They hated him, he knew it. Why hate him? Simple, he studied Necromancy. It was what he was; he couldn't change himself, it was what he did best. And for that people hated him, every single prejudice one. A "freak" was he called? Yes, that was it, a evil freak of nature. Always pointing, always mocking, "Eww. You work with dead stuff!" Or "Don't kill me mister pale freak!" How about, "HA! You're so young and you already have gray hair." Insult shot at him, each one hurting like a bullet, each one aimed to his heart. Ignore it, he was told countless times by the few who actually cared about him. What did they know? How can you ignore something so painful? People hate you, for God's sake. As in, would kill you if they could, would suffocate you with the darkness the held in their hearts. How would anyone know how that felt? And yet, it was just a normal day for a Necromancer. Always grim. Always sad. Because of people. Because of what they made him. You don't make yourself. Others do. With their words, their statements, their emotions, that's what molds you. And hate, that's what molded him, the isolated Necromancer. Not even blinking an emotionless eye, he got up from the fire, and made his way to Akara, the priestess of the encampment. He didn't know what he was doing, but it was soon happening.
A/N: Another chapter will be coming up soon. Please R/R.
Undead Dearest
By Lost (Serpent Falme)
The man sat, staring at the fire. The flames tickled and flowed against his gray eyes. He took a view of the encampment; everyone he laid eyes upon would just snap their head away. They hated him, he knew it. Why hate him? Simple, he studied Necromancy. It was what he was; he couldn't change himself, it was what he did best. And for that people hated him, every single prejudice one. A "freak" was he called? Yes, that was it, a evil freak of nature. Always pointing, always mocking, "Eww. You work with dead stuff!" Or "Don't kill me mister pale freak!" How about, "HA! You're so young and you already have gray hair." Insult shot at him, each one hurting like a bullet, each one aimed to his heart. Ignore it, he was told countless times by the few who actually cared about him. What did they know? How can you ignore something so painful? People hate you, for God's sake. As in, would kill you if they could, would suffocate you with the darkness the held in their hearts. How would anyone know how that felt? And yet, it was just a normal day for a Necromancer. Always grim. Always sad. Because of people. Because of what they made him. You don't make yourself. Others do. With their words, their statements, their emotions, that's what molds you. And hate, that's what molded him, the isolated Necromancer. Not even blinking an emotionless eye, he got up from the fire, and made his way to Akara, the priestess of the encampment. He didn't know what he was doing, but it was soon happening.
A/N: Another chapter will be coming up soon. Please R/R.