The dead make good soldiers. They can't disobey orders, never surrender, and don't stop fighting when a random body part falls off.
Stop complaining. You can rest when you're dead. Oh—sorry.
Brooding in the tower
Watching o'er his land
Holding ev'ry creature
Helplessly they stand
Gaze into his prisms
Knowing they are near
Lead them to the dungeons
Spectres numb with fear
They bow defeated
, "The Necromancer"
You know, necromancers are like the only kind of wizard that wears a uniform. Evokers? Conjurers? Those guys all look about the same, but if you're a necromancer you've always got to strap on skulls and wear black robes. Zack:
Yeah, but if you capture one you have to treat him according to the Geneva Convention. You can do anything you want to an evoker. Anything
I think it's just stereotypes. Just once why can't the necromancer be a really nice dude who dresses nice?
: Dr. Orpheus, could you tell the court what it is that you do? You're a type of magician? Dr. Orpheus
: Well, if you must call me that, yes. But if you are after mere parlor tricks you will be sorely disappointed, for if I reach behind your ear, it will not be a nickel I pull out, BUT YOUR VERY SOUL!
In that dread desert, beneath the moon's pale gaze, dead men walk. They haunt the shifting dunes of the breathless, windless night, brandish weapons of bronze in mocking challenge and bitter resentment of the life they no longer possess. And sometimes, in ghastly dry voices, like the rustling of sun-baked reeds, they whisper the one word they remember from life. The name of the one who cursed them to their existence, more than death but less than life. They whisper the name, "Nagash."