Thursday, August 21- Mystery Lady
     
       Months of preparation led to this moment. The book, his inheritance, lay out in front, splayed open like an eager whore. The ritual would have to be done perfectly. After years of building up his strength, it would be ridiculous to botch the spell with one distracted moment.
     The full moon glowed ominously above, behind the cover of a solitary cloud. It was prepared to do its part in the ritual, where it provided the opportunity. The sorcerer drew a circle enclosing not only the grave stone in front of which he was sitting, but all around, to include the corpse buried below as well. He sat cross-legged in the center, with his leather bound book, seductively enticing him to begin. He focused his eyes on the book before him, as his hands skillfully lit the black candles, and then he took his knife. He began chanting the words, which will not be written here. His voice rose in a crescendo towards the end, and the knife which dwelled in his hand slashed across his wrist, the blood dripping down into the dirt.
         Everything took on as red tinge around him, and as the newly made Necromancer looked up he saw the moon turn blood red, contributing to the morbid scene. The earth below him shifted, and he irrationally thought earthquake!, before recognizing what was happening. He heard the sound of splintering wood, and a pale, mold encrusted hand shot up out of the ground. The hand was joined by another, and together they began pressing, or rather pulling the rest of the re-animated corpse out of its grave.
       What the necromancer saw, just an hour before would have frightened him, but the ritual he had just performed had worked its magic on him as well. Fear was no longer in his capability to feel. Neither was joy, sadness, or love. The only emotions he held the capacity for were anger, and hatred. This is what the necromancer saw. A immensely deformed, pale, twisted figure. One could barely tell it had once been a woman. It had clearly been the victim of some sort of torture, with its crooked fingers, and disfigured face. It walked forward with a shuffling gait, and in barely a whisper, spoke
       "Master?" it inquired.
        The necromancer grinned, and beckoned to the thing to follow him. This was going to be the most fun he'd ever had in his life.