Setting up the board

You start to feel them pressing against the corners of your mind. The prayers of the ****, the hopeful, and more than a few of the insane. Most dissolve into meaningless noise, but a few stand out.

Your primary body will remain bound to Ixtacotak, but you know your ambitions will not be sated by it forever. You'll need advisors with some knowledge of all four continents if you seek to eventually rule them all. With that in mind, your list narrows considerably.

In the end, you choose three broad categories of people. Those whose wishes you, as a nascent necromantic god, are in a unique position to fulfill. Those whose wishes are irrelevant, but whose skills are useful to you. And those whose bodies you intend to use for your own pleasure and for breeding the beginnings of your hive.

The last category is the hardest. So many beautiful bodies, so few resources remaining.

Your decisions made, the thoughts of your petitioners are silenced. For a moment, you are alone again in the maelstrom of creation. Then, a patch of your vision erupts into blue flame. The fire quickly shapes itself into a pale feminine form, wrapped in black robes and gold armor. She does not visibly speak, but her voice rings out - clear, unyielding, but not demanding.

"Archdragon," the voice says. "I am Dhakepra, lord of the dead. I offer you a pact; a favor for a favor."

Your ears prick up. A favor from the goddess of **** could be extremely useful for anyone, but given your leanings towards necromancy, this could be critical.

"For too long, my followers have been persecuted on the continent of Kaldgrim," she echoes. "Hunted. Decimated. They are a shadow of what they once were."

"What would you have me do?" you ask.

"Avenge them," says the merciless voice. "Destroy the village of Farnheim. It is one of the largest bastions of worship for the northern pantheon. Kill them all, and raze the village to the ground. Spare only the slaves."

You nod. "Before I accept, I should warn you this will not be done quickly. I am bound to the continent of Ixtacotak; it will be years before I can build a large enough army to send even a strike **** into Kaldgrim in my absence."

"I am aware of your limitations," she says flatly. You bristle, but contain yourself as she continues. "Which is why I offer an advantage, a way to speed up building your forces. For every one body you resurrect, two spirits will join it. Your army will be one of spirit, not mere flesh and bone."

Well. That IS a major advantage. Not only does it bolster your numbers, the spirits may be able to overcome defenses that physical soldiers cannot.

"I accept your pact," you say without hesitation. The instant you do, you feel it imprint upon your soul. You know that there will be severe consequences should your mission fail.

You think you see a corner of the goddess's mouth twitch into something that, for a split second, could be considered a smile. "Excellent," she says. "I look forward to a fruitful partnership."

Your vision fades, and for a moment you are again faced with nothing but the dull roar of atmosphere and swirling energy inside your egg. Then you're pulled back outside your body, this time more roughly, and find yourself in a grand hall of high columns and beautiful murals. An enormous sphinx sits atop a pedestal in the center of the hall, wings folded, granite eyes seeming to stare into your soul.

"Welcome, o sorcerer," says the sphinx, its voice booming through the hall. "It has been millennia since your arrival was first foreseen. I am gladdened and honored that you have found your way to me. I am Memnoph, god of magic and knowledge. I offer you a pact, of your choosing." The possibilities flash through your mind in an instant, but what grabs your attention is the Fist of Kings - the symbol of authority and rulership, and an unparalleled arcane focus.

The sphinx smiles, taking on a warm, almost paternal aspect. "Ah," he says. "An excellent choice indeed. I take heart in seeing the Fist finally find one worthy of its power after all this time." The gauntlet materializes in front of him, floating between you. You eye it, nearly salivating over it, its splendor threatening to overwhelm even your magnificence. "Seal the pact, and it is yours."

"Name your price," you say, eyes still fixed on the gauntlet.

"A trifle," says Memnoph. "Simply worship me, perform one or two simple rituals per day in my name, and attempt to convert any sorcerers you encounter to my temple."