There was a crackle of lightning, forking through the sky, followed closely by a rumble of thunder. Rain poured down heavily, coming down hard, and under a cemetery, there was a young girl, aged seven or eight, plotting and planning. She shivered from the cold, and hugged herself tight. She had shoulder-lenght dark brown hair, almost black, with touches of auburn, and a dark beauty about her. She crept from her stone-walled cold room, fully dressed, her dark eyes darting from side to side in anxiety. She shivered again. The cold weather really wasn't doing anything for the already freezing temple. She knew there were patrols keeping an eye out, and it would look suspicious to be creeping around so late at night. But to avoid detection, she planned to use a new trick she had learned. She bunched her fists, and called on her death magic. Even at a young age, she'd always thought she'd had a thing for it. Necromacy, that is. When she clenched her fists, the shadows from the hall appeared to slither to her side, and merge with her, concealing her from the prying eyes of the patrols. It was a strange sensation, wearing the shadows like a cloak, yet strangely comforting. It made her feel safe, though it was like wearing marble. Cold. Hard. But strong, and protective. She let her mind wander, thinking of what His Eminence would do when he discovered one of his finest, and disobedient had fled. Maybe he wouldn't care. Or maybe they wouldn't stop trying to hunt her down. There was only one reason that she had not fled earlier. Sorel. Her best friend, whom she loved, but it was Sorel who so strictly followed the Necromancer teachings, that she so strongly disagreed with. This was why, regretfully, she could not inform her of her leaving. She wondered how she would react. She knew Sorel had little friends, so she would be lonely, but surely she would adjust-
"Hey!" There came a shout to snap the girl from her daze. She had been letting her mind wander and therefore let her guise drop. The patrol ran for her, but she was smart. She knew he would not like the idea of attacking a seven year old. She smiled and ran, ran through the halls she had lived most her life. She was lighter and faster, so beat the patrol. She was almost at the exit, but all the noise had woken quite a few people. And more patrols. She skidded left, and turned sharply, heading for a large ebony bookcase, from which she grabbed a book. She glanced at its title The Dark Art Of Necromacy. She saw some people had come from their rooms. Boys and girls of her age and a little older gawped at her moxie and bold attitude. She though little of them, until she saw Sorels pale face, framed by dirty blonde hair, gaping at her. But it was the hurt in her eyes, the How could you? look that she was giving her, the look that sent daggers of ice into her heart. She faltered for a second, but a second was all that was needed by the patrols. One leaped at her, and because she was so light knocked her to the floor. But she snarled and summoned up shadows to shove him off her. That was all she could do with her limited knowledge of the magic. Then she turned tail and ran, ran out the doors, out into the cemetory, teeming with death, into the street, and ran into the dark stormy night, into which no one followed.