Morning brought gray skies and muddy streets. Arlan woke curled in a corner of the rickety shed, half-covered in an old burlap sack. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and cold. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. For a moment he wondered if last night had been a dream. But the moment he thought about it, he felt that faint well of necromantic power flicker inside him. It was real. His Class was real.
He pushed open the warped wooden door and peered out. The town was coming to life—merchants setting up stalls, laborers hauling goods, and adventurers gearing up for the day's dungeon runs. Duskhaven's economy revolved around the sprawling dungeon network beneath the old ruins on the hill outside town. Every day, teams of adventurers descended to gather crystals, rare monster parts, and ancient artifacts, fueling trade and wealth. Arlan often loitered near the dungeon entrance, offering to carry gear or clean boots for a few copper coins. He'd heard countless tales of daring exploits, and more importantly, he'd heard how the guild ranked and paid adventurers. It was common knowledge that stronger Classes leveled faster and earned more. Necromancer… he had no idea how the guild would react to that. Probably not well.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Last night fear had overridden hunger, but now it returned with a vengeance. He patted his pockets—two copper coins and a button. Hardly a fortune. Enough for maybe a scrap of bread if the baker was feeling kind. Arlan made his way out to the market street, keeping his head down. He passed a notice board where new dungeoneering contracts were posted daily. A colorful poster nailed to it depicted a heroic paladin slaying a horned undead creature. The caption read: "Beware the Taint of Necromancy – Report Suspicious Activity Immediately!" in bold letters. Arlan's heart skipped a beat and he quickened his pace, feeling as if the painted eyes of the paladin were watching him.
At the bakery stall, the smell of fresh bread was almost painful. Arlan offered his two coppers for a stale roll. The baker's wife frowned at his muddy appearance but accepted, handing him a hard piece of yesterday's bread. He ate it slowly, chewing each bite thoroughly to soften it. As he ate, he overheard two guards chatting nearby under the eaves of the blacksmith's shop.
"—swear I saw old Garrus's scarecrow walk on its own last night," one guard was saying, his voice low and wary.
"Ha! More likely you were drunk," snorted the other. "But if it was necromancy, you'd better hope the Holy Order sends someone. We don't need undead nasties around here. Remember what happened in Blackstream village?"
Arlan didn't hear the rest as a cart rolled by, but he'd heard enough. Necromancy in this town would be met with pitchforks and purges. The Holy Order – paladins and clerics – took special pleasure in hunting down necromancers. Arlan swallowed dry bread, along with rising panic. He had to be extremely careful. One mistake, one hint of what he was, and people would come after him. As he finished his meager breakfast, he resolved one thing: he wouldn't let fear paralyze him. This power, unwanted as it was, might be his only chance to change his lot in life. He just needed to figure out how to use it without getting caught.