Sercyl Ovion, the Blood of Vol abactor
Forcing one's beliefs onto others is frowned upon by most Seekers. Search for inner divinity is something that a person can do only on their own accord and wasting breath wrestling with someone's close-mindedness rarely ever bears anything of value. That is why most of my brothers and sisters would rather spend their time on research and other more observably useful undertakings than go around preaching our path to everyone in sight. And there is nothing wrong with that choice of priorities in my opinion.
What I object to, however, is a complete disregard of what grants any faith its strength - the support of the people. Despite all the prejudice that necromancy historically has been subjected to, our predecessors were able to survive and thrive for thousands of years because no one could deny their usefulness. Seekers lived in these harsh lands because it was we who could make the undead-infested ground safe once more. Seekers gained power during the War because it was we who supplied the country with lacking labor and new soldiers. And Seekers still rule in Atur to this day because no matter how much the king and the warlords like to blame us for every sin imaginable, they will grovel before the Grand Duke the very moment another crowned idiot decides to start the War anew.
But that's the grand scale of things. There is also an average person, a small man, a simple farmer, or a craftsman. Many make the mistake of overlooking common folk but they can become a great asset that requires very little to be spent on its obtaining. We cannot replace House Jorasco in the field of medicine nor do we plan to challenge their monopoly but any true cleric can heal a desperate crownless soul for free once in a while. We can also help settle a minor dispute. We can also help a commoner's voice in reaching someone with power. After all, these are small favors but the word spreads quickly that those "necromancer fellas" can help out if you ask them and that they might not be as bad as everyone claims them to be. Thus hostility turns into tolerance, tolerance grows into interest, and interest may become understanding.
That is why I elected the path in front of me. I may not have the talent and knowledge to advance our pursuits of divinity in any meaningful way but I can supply the young blood to the cause and I can become the bridge that connects Seekers and the rest of the world.
That's why no matter how much I'd prefer to remain just my old friend's guest, I can't help but plunge myself into THIS.
"Sovereign and the Six! Some weirdos shot Uncle Garrick!"
"There is a purple elf among them!"
"That's the orciest orc I've seen! What on Eberron did they feed this guy with?"
A rumbling of incoherent shouts took off moments after two loud explosions pierced through the wailing of a blizzard.
Upon coming out to see for myself, I could agree with the assessment: the orc in front of us was some of the "orciest" I've seen so far as well. The outlines of owlbear muscle could be seen even through the thick fur coat and a garland of what looked like artificer devices. The young man, by the looks of it, towered over all people present and that could probably wrestle Droaam ogres stared at us in confusion. His grip around the long smoking staff tightened with caution.
Another quite noticeable silhouette belonged to a slim blindfolded archer. Two long forehead horns prevented him from putting the hood all the way through. That allowed me to see two long even by elven standards ears bending against the fabric. What kind of ancestry is that? A satyr? One of those mysterious horned men that sighted in Droaam? A half-elf half-oni?
It didn't matter at the time. I continued surveying two others. A violet-skinned woman was displaying obvious distrust towards us. She was tall with long ears, strangely elongated brows, and raven hair. The amount of pride with which she held her wizarding staff made me ponder whether she was one of the fey nobles of Thelanis.
The last member of the group looked the most normal, which isn't a high bar to clear. Still, the ginger human was the second bulkiest person in sight even if one discounted the absurd amount of metal he wore on his person. Very few people I knew could stand with so much weight on their shoulders, let alone move and fight in that steel coffin, but the man conducted himself as if it was his second skin.
"What is the meaning of this!" Rochus the village headman asked indignantly.
It took the hammer-wielding human a few moments to survey the wary people, arming themselves and their undead workers with whatever they could get their hands on. He looked as confused as his companions yet he pushed through the doubts and seemed to make the decision.
"I am sorry for intruding without invitation and I also apologize for my comrades attacking your zombie," he pointed his large hammer at the wall of wood. "But we are now being pursued by hostile undead. This place was our only refuge."
Indeed, through the hole in the stockade, a crowd of shadows were pouring with typical for their kind hunger.
"Well, I believe it's better to handle that little infestation first." I came forward. "I can banish them but I need to be close to do that."
"We can protect you," the armored newcomer said.
"Good! Rochus, ready your men to barricade the entrance once I banish these shadows. Be ready to fight off those that will come through."
'Well, it seems that the Traveler doesn't want my old bones to pine away in peace,' I thought to myself before lunging forward alongside these strangers.