Role

Chapter 1

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'Again!' Both the voice and the whip carried a stinging crack. The searing
burn of a lash erupted across Khalmarnasa's back. For the fifth successive
time she had failed to perform the instructor's task, well not failed, but
more not performed it to his desires. She had indeed produced a jet of flame,
but rather than hot red fire, her's had appeared cold and black. Rather than
burn the flesh of the slave, whom the students were using for their studies,
it left a white ring of hoarfrost. She could not fathom where her error lay,
and the cold self-satisfied smirks of her classmates began to infuriate her
no end. She longed to plunge her hand into the chest of the tall female close
to her, Shuladira was the Archmage's favorite, favored due to her skill with
elemental spells, and also because she was the niece of the High Priestess,
so Khalmarnasa stayed her hand. Order dictated that students were only
allowed to turn their spells on each other when given leave to do so by the
Archmage.

She gathered her thoughts, everything was as she had been shown, although it
seemed that the energy which she called forth was not the element she
desired. Again she thrusts her hand forward, and for the sixth time black
flame erupts forth, accompanied by several derisive snorts. Khalmarnasa
braces for the inevitable lash, but instead the air is cut by a cold voice,
'Hold!' The tone of command resonates in the air and the instructor's arm
freezes in its backswing, the whip twitching. The congregation of students
swing their gaze to a shadowed corner, from which a elegant drow steps
forward, swathed in black robes, with silver runes of necromancy embroidered
along the edge and hem. The runes marking him as the Master of his guild.
'This is not a failing of talent my dear chap, but rather a failure on your
part to notice talent when you see it.' The instructor's jaw sets, chastised
by one he know is his superior in both talent and rank. A sardonic curl plays
on the Necromancer's mouth as he enjoys the discomfort of one he could end
with just a word. Taking a moment more to hold the instructor with the gaze
of his cold violet eyes, just long enough for the gaze to break any
possibility of contention for what he will say next. His eyes swing to
Khalmarnasa's form, 'come child, you are wasted here.' The tone of command so
distinctive that Khalmarnasa falls into step beside him without a moment's
thought as he walks out of the hall. And so her tutelage in the necromantic
arts began.
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