Tis the Season for The Urge...

’Ello. Seymour once again.

As it’s that time of year—when gifts are wrapped and presents eagerly anticipated, delivered by a drunk cleric who’s nicked the donation box and spent the lot on whatever caught his eye for those he deems “good”—I thought it might be handy to have a little chat about The Urge. That insatiable, gnawing desire that settles into every Necromancer when they’re within several feet of a dead body.

As you might expect, Necromancers have an unhealthy fascination with death. Why do you think Holtar and I get along so well? They will, quite literally, try to resurrect anything and have a conversation with it—just because they can. And I do mean anything. I once caught Holtar trying to commune with a five-day-old beef pie. It just said “moo,” which was about as informative as you’d expect.

This obsession is an unfortunate side effect of studying the necromantic arts. Think of it like this: I’m a thief. If I see unattended valuables lying about, I get an itch. A tightening in the gut (back when I had one) that compels me to relieve them of their burden. For safekeeping, of course. Can’t have some unscrupulous sort with questionable morals wandering in and pinching them first. Necromancers are no different—except their eyes light up at the sight of a corpse rather than cold, hard cash.

The Urge manifests in different ways. In Holtar, it growls from deep within, like an untamed beast clawing at the bars of its cage. It takes every scrap of his strength and fortitude to beat it back with a metaphorical stick. Others get the shakes. Some sweat profusely. A few, regrettably, fart a lot. Necromancers react differently, but the desire is always the same: to raise the dead and either have a little chat with it, or make it do something menial. Brew a cup of “sigh” tea. Tuck them in at night. Do the washing up. You know—perfectly normal things you’d ask the corpse of a beloved to do. Still weird, though.

So there you have it: The Urge. A strange and persistent sensation that befalls Necromancers everywhere, which rather obviously makes walking through graveyards a touch problematic.

Until next time, this has been Seymour, saying: “Ho ho ho—where’s my milk and mince pie?”