Hanging up, because he had no other option, Tim looked out his window at the darkness outside. He could see the death within the mist, the telltale signs of raising the dead. One of the few things he could recognize- and only because his best friend thought necromancy was fascinating. But she wasn’t born a necromancer. No one in her family was one, so there was no hoping for latent genetics.

Tim shrugged on his coat and with a last deep inhale of the inside air (lacking the decaying tinge), he made his way out into the night. It was cold, wet, and well… dead. There was nothing to taste, smell about the mist. To describe the sense necromancer’s had in order to notice these things was not in Tim’s repertoire of vocabulary. Mainly because, no matter what else he did, he had done a very good job at ignoring what he’d been born as.

Then again, he was off to see the one person who was very good at reminding him about it. Simply because she liked zombie shows.