The din of battle is still ringing in my ear as I begin my work of assessing the wounds of those who fell in battle. I can't help but let out an exasperated curse under my breath. The butchery of fighting has left so few that I can save, just corpses mangled beyond recognition. Still, I find a few that still might be saved so I gather them away from the mulling warriors so that I might work in peace.

 

Procuring my bag of tools, I open it up and peer inside, looking between it and my patient before deciding first I must cut away their clothes to see the damage - pulling out a pair of forceps and scissors. My patient is stoically silent I muse in wry amusement as I cut away the bloodied sleeves. Long slashes against his arms appear as the telltale sign of a poorly defended axe blow - likely defensive wounds meant to be deflected with a weapon or shield rather than flesh. Still these wounds are superficial, not the most threatening.

 

As I cut the shirt from his chest, I can easily see the wounds are more exotic. The fabric is practically melted, I make a mental note that it might be fire or acid. Then after some consideration append that excorable or magic burns are also possible.

 

In addition to the strange burns, I see branded into his skin a bizarre pattern of rings encircling his chest which I prod gently, careful not to worsen the injuries. Realization as to the nature of these wounds dawns on me and I know the path forward now. I rotely chant the memorized words of ritual, channeling power into the strange brand which begins to stitch itself shut, and dark energy begins to thrum through the man as he convulses violently.

 

I sit back, heaving an exhausted sigh as I wipe my instruments and replace them into my bag, observing the patient as he stumbles to his feet. A dark smile crosses my face as he turns towards me, no recognition in the man's glazed eyes, only the pain of death - the Queen's Lament is an especially agonizing end.

 

I snap my fingers and click my tongue causing the ghoul to whip to attention, it will focus its pain on its new job, a tormented existence standing guard for all of eternity.

 

Finally, I turn my attention to the other corpses and sigh. How is a necromancer to make a good product when the butchers insist on removing the head as trophies?