"How does does someone fight a Magister?" I found myself asking that question as I practiced my new abilities.

My people were always masters of magic and the arcane. Instructor Antheol was no different.

The meaty smack of flesh on stone was the only reply. I laughed as I once again struck the magically reinforced stone with the fist of the necromancer I had possessed.

I heard the bones of his hands snap and pop nicely as I kept up a barrage of blows on a singular spot.

I felt the pain sing to me distantly. Spending months in agony, before becoming one of the undead had given me an interesting relationship with pain.

Once I would have done nearly anything to avoid it, but now each of the little jolts going up into the poor man I was controlling's head only really entertained me.

The Elf I was now hunting had achieved the title of a master mage, and was now trusted to teach young Elves on the particulars of magic.

I was determined to bring him into my fold, but I'm also certain this is the most dangerous undertaking I could chose to go through with.

The spot of blood growing on the wall offered no answer. I struck at it anyway.

Antheol was the only magister vulnerable to attack, the only one I could possibly hurt, but only because he was dangerous.

Even in the early days after the scourges assault he taught his students at Still-whisper pond, a small and beautiful little lake, just a mere ten minute walk from the Dead-scar, where hordes of undead battled Arcane guardians to this day.

I can think of one reason and one reason only that my people allowed this. Instructor Antheol was dangerous enough to keep those under his charge safe, even at a time like this.

With the exception of those within the city Antheol was the second most dangerous thing there was to me in these lands. The only thing worse for me to come into contact with would be Dar'khan Drathir himself.

Dar'khan could certainly beat Antheol, but a one on one battle between the two in an even setting could take hours. It would be years before I could approach someone like that confidently and fairly.

A piece of the stone cracked alongside my minions hands.

Not that I had any intention of meeting him fairly. Drathir taught me that lesson and I had still been cheating during the entire "Fight" we had.

No. I needed to figure out a way to bring him onto my side without violence, or to at least steal his texts on the arcane.

I gave the wall another punch for good measure, sending small portions of stone to the ground as my fist withdrew. A glance at "my" hands, and the bloody ruin they now existed as, told me I should probably stop playing with this little toy before I break it.

It was time to reflect on other things.

I withdrew from my puppet, watching as he collapsed on the ground, before gasping out in pain as awareness returned to him, cradling his nearly destroyed hands.

"Get yourself patched up."

"Y-yes my lord."

As a specter I found I could push those I took control of farther than they could take themselves traditionally physically. I could run faster, harder, and longer. I could casually lift weights the victim would need to strain themselves to even move.

The only cost was their body. If I over-pushed them I could tear muscles, break bones, and potentially even push them into death. That was not the only side affect unfortunately.

The power the ritual granted me was great, but it over saturated into the body of those I took over, causing a breakdown If I remained too long. I should have expected something along those lines.

Everything comes at a price was the first lesson every would-be mage learns. Even as a failure Felendren, I knew the truth of this.

This was a price I was all too willing to pay. In less than half a year I had managed to grow to a kind of power it takes some practitioners years to achieve.

If I had to switch bodies a bit more often than I'd like to get the "Living" experience it was no issue. Besides, if I was truly desperate for a permanent residence, my old body should be just fine.

Ti'swena had done his work well. almost surgically handling the process of making my body worth something again. He removed the tumorous growths within my back that had come about from magical overuse, he straightened my spine, made crooked by the growths and my forced stature.

My muscles had been either replaced or repaired with small portions from the zombified trolls, returning my form from a thin and wisp like creature to the muscled and well proportioned shape that magic had once given me.

My leg had been replaced with one from one of the weaker zombified wretched, before my flesh was embalmed, and preserved to prevent the onset of rot and parasites.

At my own personal request my bones were etched in magical symbols of necromancy and voodoo alike, spiritual aids in gathering and storing mana.

Unfortunately while my general shape and maneuverability had been restored, my once bronzed and tan flesh could not be returned. A patchwork of stitching and mismatched skin covered my body now, leaving the impression of the athleticism and beauty I once had only at a distance.

I had bandages wrapped around the flesh to cover the sight. To the untrained eye the body of Felendren the banished had been restored to its past glory, and had been wrapped in bandages to recover from whatever process had given me my body back.

I'm certain the rangers have already reported to their superiors about such a beautiful lie. Elves and wretched alike would hunt everywhere for the criminal who had unlocked the secret to healing our twisted bodies.

Glorious.