It is tradition to start with one's birth when writing one's life story. I have had two births. My second and more important birth was the night I became a necromancer, which I have just described to you. My first birth occurred on a chilly winter morning in Waterdeep, City of Splendors. My biological parents were wealthy merchants, dealing with only the richest of lords and pashas. My mother dealt with sweet-smelling perfumes and expensive jewelry. My father's trade and passion was books, which he referred to as "black gold between pages."

I hated them both.

All scholastic achievements went unnoticed, so long as they were acceptable. Desperate for some form of attention, I once purposely botched an assignment. The sheer brutality of the whipping administered by my father's manservant was not worth the attention I received.

For seven years I was virtually ignored by my parents.

Perhaps this is why I hardly blinked when they met their deaths on that cold spring evening…

Chapter Two Burning Gold

The floor was slick with blood. Servants were sprawled everywhere in their own personal crimson pools. My mother was already dead, drowned in her own lifeblood. I suppose one could call it deathblood now.

We were in our library, my father and I, the only ones left. I cowered behind my father, who thrust his arms wide to protect…his books.

"Stop it! Don't!" my father cried pleadingly.

A tall figure, cloaked in darkness, hidden behind a hideous skull-like mask, tossed a small ball of flame from palm to palm like a child would a pebble.

"You wish to escape death?" rasped the dark wizard.

"I know that I am going to die," said my father resolutely. "And also my son; however, you need not burn the books. Leave the books be! They contain history, valuable information, and emotion. They are like gold. There are no other copies left in all of Faerun."

"You would give your life and the life of your son for these books, these creations of man, made of ink and paper?" asked the wizard.

My father paled; "I would," he said.

The wizard stretched out a thin, sickly hand. "Only the life of your son is required. Give me your son, and your books will be spared."

My father whirled around without hesitation. "Come Morath. Let go!"

I screamed and bit his hand. He slapped me. I seized his robes and held on with a death grip. He yanked me off and hurled me at the wizard.

"Take the brat," said my father, sucking his injured hand. "Take him and get out of my house."

The wizard seemed shocked. Well, as shocked as anyone could seem while wearing a mask. "I did not think that you would actually do it. How heartless. I like that. Too bad you have to die."

"What?" my father said sharply.

In answer, a skeleton leapt out of nowhere and literally tore my father limb from limb. I batted an eye, but I think that was because of dust and a bit of my father's blood hitting my face.

"My name is Derir," said the wizard. "I am a necromancer of no small renown. I have been looking for a young boy with your spirit. How old are you?"

I held up seven fingers.

"Perfect. You will come with me. I will be your master from this day forth. Do you understand me?"

I nodded.

"Good, now come."

I followed.

As we left the house, Derir tossed the fireball in, almost as an afterthought. I smiled as I thought of my father's remains burning along with his gold.

A/N: It's a little darker than last time. I wanted to make it clear that Derir was not a "nice" person. After all, he is a necromancer. But I want to make it clear in future chapters that the necromancers are people, with feelings and dreams like everyone else. R&R!