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In the words of the Hassan, the undead are generally seen as “rather off-putting.” Necromancers are rare and poorly understood by the populace. The valuable few who escape persecution and see employment in the military are used as strategic weapons, men and women capable of commanding endless armies of shambling, mindless corpses, replenishing their forces with the bodies of their enemies.
These methods of mass production exist in stark contrast to the artistic design philosophy which the Hassan espouse. Your creators have a long and storied history of “quality over quantity,” limiting themselves to as little as one lifelong undead servant to whom they grant sapience in a complex ritual that binds a portion of the caster’s soul into the chosen vessel. These - your true kin - are often made from people that caster cherished most dearly in life; lovers, friends, and… even siblings at times.
You nearly stagger beneath the weight of this sudden realization, bracing yourself against the rough stone of a nearby wall. The fractured marble crumbles away at your touch, leaving you empty-handed and somehow lightheaded as you raise a shaking hand to your bloodless face.
Your destruction would <span class="mu-i">cripple</span> your master’s growth.
As you come to terms with the new level of self-worth you suddenly find yourself held accountable to, two familiar voices approach your position.
“...Feeling alright there?”
“Ames, I doubt it has <span class="mu-i">feelings</span>.”
The women stop a few steps away from you. One of them, her hair styled in messier curls than the straight locks of her twin, folds her arms, adopting a look of mild consternation before turning away from you. Her sister extends a pale hand–it takes you a moment to realize she’s offering to help you up. After a brief pause, you accept, though it’s mostly for show than anything else. You doubt someone as seemingly frail as her could support much of your weight.
Once you’ve collected yourself, she withdraws her hand and speaks. “I don’t believe we’ve introduced ourselves. My name is Felicia…”
She trails off, glancing at her sister as if waiting for her to continue, then coughs lightly when she’s greeted by silence. “...And this is Amelia. We’re servants of the young master.”
According to your stored information, courtesy dictates that you should respond with your own name. Unfortunately–
