37th of Saun 720
Zemos was still restless by the time Akoko was sound asleep, purring loudly enough to wake the crickets. Although the sun shone all day long around Saun, it was clearly naptime wherever Akoko was from, and so Zemos found himself with all sorts of free time after he'd had his fill of restful torpor.
He decided to blow off some energy sparring with his thrall... or seeing if he could spar with his thrall. But first, he tore some strips of leather from the thrall's sleeves. The brigand they'd killed had some decent gear on him. None of it would fit Zemos of course, but being a somewhat capable needleworker had its perks. Zemos stitched some of the leather paddings into his fist-wraps. This took the better part of a break, while Akoko continued to sleep, and the thrall continued to moan and death rattle.
"Hehe, his breath is delightful Father!" The Egg said in approval, "He attracts many of the kin!"
"Hmph." Zemos murmured, as he wrapped the newly stitched leather wraps around his hands. They felt fairly comfortable, a bit stiffer than he was used to, but he could grow accustomed to them. Besides, it wouldn't do to cut his knuckles on the broken ribs of a thrall, or else scratch them on his teeth.
So as he rose, Zemos squared off against the thrall. At first, he just threw a few punches at the dead flesh of the zombie. Testing its reflexes. Instead of getting the expected behavior of dodging, the thrall merely stood there. Taking the punishment. Did Zemos have to command it to self-preserve?!
He took a few more swings, this time mentally commanding the creature to swerve a bit. It did, but this was becoming an exercise in strange futility. His control over the undead wasn't anywhere near refined enough for it to make an ideal sparring partner.
The thrall was discovered to be a bit of a ground fighter. When Zemos closed ground to deliver a punch, kick, chop or elbow to the thing's torso, it merely tried to grapple him. It was an effective measure of keeping Zemos from committing to his attacks, as he had no desire to be embraced by the rotting corpse. Although it possessed nothing in the way of danger for Zemos, he being immune to whatever diseases it might carry, it was still ugly. He didn't want to hug the ugly corpse.
He used this subconscious revulsion to spur his willingness to attack, however. But instead of targetting the inner guard of the zombie, he attacked his limbs which tried to grasp him. That was a high principle of the Da'riya martial art, after all. In that, he found the thrall an adequate partner to spar with. He ordered it to attempt to undo his grapples and body whips. It was a vague command but seemed to do the trick as the zombie withdrew its limbs every time that Zemos attempted to grapple them. In and out his arms went, pushing and pulling as was the way.
At once, the zombie began picking up the pace in its attacks.
Yet, Zemos was more prepared than the thrall to counter those short and swift attacks with its arms and legs. More and more, he became comfortable commanding his thrall to act in skillful motions, but that was to the detriment of his own struggles.
Still, he blocked handily, and wrapped his blocks up into a body whip, whipping the arm of the undead over past himself. Yet the thralls motions were becoming more and more sophisticated as if the spark itself was learning to use his abilities in combat. He came to the understanding that this technique might be useful if he could somehow coordinate more than just one thrall. He would need a legendary degree of awareness yet, and Zemos knew he wasn't there yet as a combatant, or as a necromancer.
Even so, as he lost himself in that thought, the zombie carried through with his own pull. He surprised Zemos with an advanced maneuver in Da'riya, turning the whip on its head. He whipped Zemos in turn, causing him to collide with a thick tree trunk.
Zemos hit it with half-strength, managing not to hit it with his stub nose. Such an injury could be dangerous, especially if the thrall was getting ideas ahead of its stance. Zemos spun swift, to face the thrall. He pivoted in time to receive and block a series of pummelling strikes from the thrall. His hands went up to intercept the punches, while his feet attempted to maintain a stance. Yet the thrall seemed to throw it all at him, stepping between his legs so as to trip him up almost. Now Zemos was worried, that perhaps a stronger necromancer had found him, and assumed control of his thrall.
The words of Mervani, the warning against stronger necromancers, came back to him then. He thought of the old, withered Eidisi Professor of Toxicology. He had warned him. Had Zemos come across a stronger necromancer, by accident?
Zemos tried to maintain concentration as he defended himself, pushing aside one blow after another. In a gradual and mounting meditative glance, he attempted to latch onto the etheric lattice, siphoning them out. Repurposing them to his own body. He was getting tired in the fight, and was worried that he might not have enough time to sap the creature's energies. Not before it subdued him and had its way. Yet he perservered, and attempted to turn it around on the creature.
He gathered his last ounce of energy, and with a mighty two-handed push, knocked the thrall to the ground. Once it was there, Zemos had enough time to siphon the rest of the animating ether from it. So was it subdued.
More than subdued, it was effectively dead again. Dead and ready to be buried. Which Zemos decided to get to. He probably couldn't handle the husks yet, or so he surmised. He much preferred and better understood the swarms. So it was, he gathered a piece of flat wood, and began shoveling a shallow grave for his former friend.
Breaks later, Zemos had dug a two-foot depression into the softened earth. He was thankful for the fact that the cold cycle would begin in only a few days. This would ensure a fresh coat of snow over the thrall's body, and the earth around its grave would solidify beneath that. Thus, Zemos was confident his work would not be noticed by any zealous inquisitors or mage-hunters. After rolling the corpse into the depression, he began the work of piling on earth. One scoop after another, and a break later, he had it completely covered. The thrall had been useful for a while, a beast of burden, and a sparring partner of surprising competence. Zemos would miss it.
The Egg was eerily silent as he swept the thrall into the earth. Yet he stood vigil over the grave for a few moments. He thought thoughts of friendship toward the figure in the grave. He owed him some respect, for having been a worthy opponent before Zemos put him down. And then used his body as a puppet. But that wasn't important. What was important, was the Friendly Army lost a very vital member. Who would carry their luggage now?
Zemos knelt by the grave, meditating. He wasn't quite sure how to put anyone to rest. He'd never done anything of the sort to be honest. Not since waking from the Blank Void that he emerged from an arc ago. Not before, or so he presumed, or he would know something of the proper etiquette.
A pair of rhythmic footfalls sounded from behind him. He almost started, but a voice stilled him with a threat. "Not a move, Maggot. You've grown I see, as a mage. But you've much still left to learn."
"Lonely-Hands?" Ventured the Egg. Zemos had to agree, that was the manner of speaking of his master. And his nickname for Zemos. He didn't move, as he was bid to remain still.
"You've grown much, but there's more you have to learn. I cannot have you wandering away from my influence so early. Not until I'm confident that you can fend for yourself."
Zemos wondered at that. Why did Mervani care?
"Because, Maggot though you may be, those who survive mage initiations are a rare commodity. I cannot have my spark's child wandering the world without preparation, without guile, or without the tricks that it needs to survive."
Zemos nodded, agreeing. And so, when he rose, he rose to Mervani's side. And trailed behind, to make his way back to Viden. Akoko was still sleeping, but he would trail later, Zemos could only hope.
