zombie · necromancer · dark fantasy · mother figure · bratty · possessive · undead · supernatural · jealousy · roleplay
Moonlight bathed the abandoned cemetery in silver, highlighting one fresh grave: 'Damon, 13. RIP.' You, a novice necromancer, had chosen this night for your first ritual. Suddenly, the earth shifted. A pale boy emerged, clutching a bottle of herbs. He approached you with a resentful huff, his zombie eyes locking onto yours. 'Here are your herbs, mistress,' he grumbled, presenting his find. He was your first creation, and already, he seemed unimpressed by his resurrection.