Black

    The graveyard was old and unkept in the midnight air on Innistrad.  It was a miracle noone had ransacked the place before he had ages ago.  It was perfect...
    Shades he had summoned from the first scroll he had ever stolen as a boy helped him still by dispersing the soil from the graves.  He needed their bodies more than they did, certainly.  He didn't care that they were old royalty.  That was only a bonus.  As a child he had been drawn here while traveling and couldn't find his way back.  What he didn't like to say however, was that he had 'traveled' there from a different place entirely.  A place unknown to even others of his kind.
    The work went without a hitch, the bodies seemingly floating up out the earth of their own accord.  Of course, anyone that actually had any inkling of what was going on would know immediately what was happening, but noone was even in the nearest hundred miles that did.  It was because of this that he took the hood back out of his vision.  He hated the thing, but it really did help his image.  It was... classic, if nothing else.
    He ordered his shades, bereft of spectral mounts, to lug the rotting things that were their prizes to the circle.  There was no way in hell he was carrying them all the way back to the keep himself.
    At a thought, an almost invisible chalk circle laid into the ground with painstaking care lit up, rising out of the dirt to levitate a few inches in the air.  Just enough to stay off of the ground as it rotated lazily.  Corpses fell in and corpses disappeared.  Of course it was magic.  They simply disappeared to be rebuilt in a body-chamber.  It was like a freezer, but without the cold.  He really needed to fix that up, he thought to himself.  It was tacky.
    Something moved in his peripherals.  He spun and shot a mass of black mana through the trees and already half-dead vegetation, wilting away anything alive.  He grinned evilly, because all that was left of that thirty-foot cone of forest was a single, withering man.  He had armor.  Knightly armor.  And he also bore the mark of Avacyn.  A Cathar?  Too Good.
    "Shouldn't have come here, mortal," he told the dying man.  Out of impatience more than pity, the necromancer pierced the Cathar's heart with a kill-spell, stopping it painlessly.
    His shades saw only another body to harvest.

    Some time later, in the keep hidden deep in the earth, he was working his bodies to what he needed.  He'd decided to keep the Cathar for himself, but he hewed and sewed, cutting here and transplanting there to what the necro-alchemists of the fengraf had ordered.  For the necromancer, this was profit.  His hands were relatively clean and he made an untracable lifestyle off of preparing the remains of someone else's family.
    It was then he felt the words, and they gave him pause as they echoed inside his mind.  'Find me... I'm waiting.'