	It was several weeks before anyone at the Cabal, including Joskuin, noticed anything amiss about the reanimated visitor he brought back. Joskuin noticed first, of course, during a night of silent, intimate lovemaking: Something inside Ester was growing. At first it was nothing more than a lump in her belly, only noticeable when the rat pressed up against her slender bosom. He said nothing at first, thinking the inexplicable phenomenon would pass, but then other cabal members began to take note. At first they jested, claiming that Joskuin spoiled his new catch by feeding her too much. Joskuin laughed it off nervously and played along. Of course he spoiled her, he said, she was his lover. But behind nervous, chattering laughter lay an uncomfortable truth. Not only was the lump not going away, it was growing bigger by the week. By the time the seasons changed, Ester's slim, slender form was disturbed by the gentle curve of a swollen belly.
	
	The jokes stopped after that. Raised eyebrows and witty quips were replaced by evasive stares and harsh whispers. Something was growing inside Ester's corpse. Joskuin had a vague notion of what it might be, but the thought unnerved him. He finally worked up the courage to ask the Cabal Sovereign for advice.
	
	The Sovereign was a bloated, corpulent boar whom Joskuin always thought would look more at home in the fighter's pit with an axe and a full suit of plate mail rather than behind a desk full of scrolls and tomes with the staff of a master necromancer by his side. Still, none in the cabal doubted his skill with the dark arts. Those who did seemed to end up joining the ranks of the walking dead that continually patrolled the inner sanctum. Joskuin approached his desk meekly, bowing his head low as he entered. Ester followed, mimicking the rat's every action, her corpse still enthralled. The bolt had been removed from her chest several weeks prior, and the injury had been recently cleaned. The wound itself was covered by a burial shroud of brilliant white, draping around her shoulders and covering her body conservatively, much like the sun dress she wore during her second birth. The swell in her belly was plainly visible. Her keeper wore a rather nondescript grey cloak, the hood down, the shoulders and back inscribed with a symbol indicating a respectable rank. The sovereign waved a hand, inviting them in silently.
	
	“I was wondering when you would come see me, rat,” the boar said in a low, gravelly voice, “The other necromancers are talking about you and your hind.” He nodded to Ester. “Come.”
	
	“Yes, my lord,” Joskuin replied, trying hard to look everywhere but in his eyes. “I have come to request a casting on my behalf,” he continued, “to put unsavoury rumours to rest.” 
	
	The sovereign smiled, his tusks parting slightly to each side. “Wise,” was his only reply before turning to a tome on the shelf behind him. He pulled out an indigo volume with brass-plated corners and dropped it casually on his desk with a dry thud. He then rose, leaning on his staff, and walked around the desk towards a shrouded, full-length mirror. He pulled the black silk cloth away, folded it neatly, and placed it on his desk beside the book. He turned to the pair standing at his door, and slammed his staff against the ground. “Come,” he commanded. This time it was Ester who obeyed, walking towards the mirror with typical nonchalance. Joskuin marvelled. Normally it took a ferocious battle of willpower before control of a corpse could be wrestled from its animator. The sovereign just took her from him as if he were grabbing another book from the shelf. 
	
	Ester stood in front of the mirror, and the boar unclasped her shroud. The white robe fell to the floor, revealing the doe to be completely naked. The pinkness of her intimate regions had faded to the colour of eggshells, and the wound left by the bolt was nothing more than a dark, clotted hole in her chest. Aside from her apparent bloat, she was flawless.
	
	The sovereign began to read from the tome on his desk. The mirror clouded and swirled as if reflecting a storm from underwater, finally clearing as the boar put a hand on the doe's cold belly. Two sets of eyes widened. 
	
	The mirror peered inside Ester's undead body, homing in on the source of the mysterious growth. It was a dark, cervine form, curled up in a little ball. It was only vaguely recognizable – it bore no hair, and its limbs were only partially developed. 
	
	And then it moved. Joskuin had to hold on to the sovereign’s desk for support. The sovereign himself just stared, transfixed. Both parties were as speechless as Ester for several long moments as the fetus twitched again.
	
	“Care to explain?” the boar asked after an agonizing pause, his haggard eyes still fixed on the scrying glass,
	
	“I wish I could,” Joskuin answered meekly, “I knew she had sex a few weeks before I got to her, perhaps that had something to do with it?”
	
	The boar put a chubby hand to his chin and pondered. “It's possible that when you revived her, you revived her unborn child as well. But that does not explain why the fetus is still growing.”
	
	“To grow, it would need some sort of food, right?” Joskuin began to pace as he thought aloud, and his clawed feet clicked against the stone floor as he walked. “Ester obviously hasn't eaten anything, but her body is kept from decaying by the magic we ward her with. Perhaps it has an even greater effect on her child, allowing it to not only resist decay, but thrive off of it?
	
	The boar slammed the tome shut, and the mirror faded to a lustreless grey. “This is unprecedented,” he said finally, “whatever the cause, I want ester and her . . .'child' watched very, very closely. Take her measurements in a journal, record every detail. If she goes into labor, or something, I need to know.”

	Joskuin nodded, taking Ester by the hand and ordering her to heel. “My lord . . .what should I tell the others?”
	
	“The truth,” the boar snorted, returning to his desk, “Tell them she's pregnant.”

	The next few months were strangely pleasant, at least as far as Joskuin was concerned. He was tasked with keeping watch on Ester and her strange pregnancy, and the two spent nearly all hours together. The sovereign’s suspicion of Ester's child feeding on magic was confirmed a few weeks later, during a casual stroll in the halls. The wards around Ester's body suddenly faltered, and she slumped to the floor in a heap. She was reanimated immediately, but there was no telling what effect the sudden absence of necromancy had on her child. Joskuin pressed a hand to her belly on a whim, and felt a kick from within. At first he was reassured, but satisfaction turned to fear in short order. If the child was undead, as he suspected, it was somehow acting of its own accord, unrestrained by the simple commands that Ester was forced to obey. The other possibility was even more unsettling – what if Ester's child were somehow actually alive? The thought disturbed the rat, a feat in its own right, and he refused to touch her belly for weeks thereafter. 

	Eight months after Ester's death, her belly continued to swell. She was put on a bedrest of sorts, and was left in the catacombs for her own protection. Joskuin visited her frequently, of course, wandering fearlessly down into the depths of the fortress without so much as a lantern for company. He often spent the night down there with her, like an initiate on a dare. He sought out her casket and curled up next to her, warmed her with his body and whispered his sweet nothings in her soft, velvet ears.

	During one such episode, he fell asleep next to her and dreamed of water. He heard the splash, and imagined a distant tidal wave crashing though the catacombs. He awoke with a start, and to his dismay found that he was actually wet. His legs were matted with . . .not water, but something slippery, greenish and foul-smelling. He followed the stain with his finger in the dim light. Whatever it was, it soaked Ester as well. His hand reached her belly, and he felt a barrage of kicks from within. The rat's heart stopped momentarily. Ester's water had broken some time during the night, and her unborn child was frantically struggling from inside, desperate to be born.

	“Stand,” Joskuin commanded, his voice groggy but focused. Ester tried to obey, but the weight in her stomach threw her off balance and she ended up falling over the edge of the casket, the impact forcing another gush of blood-tinted birth-water from between her legs. Joskuin swore under his breath. He pulled ester back into the casket, and set her up at one end, her legs spread. Her expression was rather peaceful, and Joskuin was rather thankful she was already dead. He couldn't imagine the pain her living body would be going through, and he would never wish that upon the love of his life. 
	
	Ester's nethers bulged. The muscles inside her were contracting of their own accord, as if her undead body had finally rejected the life within her. Her blank eyes stared straight ahead at her strange midwife. Joskuin didn't know of a command that would allow her to assist her own body. “Push” might have her moving the casket instead of pushing out her own baby. So instead, he did what he could from his end, pushing down on her belly with his elbows, heaving and grunting as he tried to force the child out from the outside. The doe didn't mind.

	After several excruciating minutes, there was a wet pop from between Ester's legs. Joskuin stopped immediately, and peered below his lover's bulging belly. It was the blood-covered head of a little fawn, complete with large, floppy ears and a little black nose. Its eyes were tightly shut. The rat took the fawn around the neck and tugged, freeing the slippery body with little difficulty. There was a splash of blood announcing the fawn's birth, and then complete silence.

	Ester's body was ruined. Her slender figure was deflated and flabby, and her labia and birth canal had been torn and stretched to the point where she could take a stallion comfortably. The little fawn had landed between the two in an awkward jumble of limbs with the rat's hands still around its neck. Its body was stained a sickly green colour, and Joskuin couldn't feel a heartbeat with his hand on its throat.

	The fawn was male, clearly, his white-furred sheath and sac barely visible against his pale underbelly. His hooves were black and unusually sharp, almost pointed. His fingers looked the same, hoof-like claws that had an almost unnatural wickedness to them. His ears were also more pointed and slightly narrower. There was something else unusual as well about this fawn – it had teeth. Sharp, predatory teeth, already developed. Joskuin got down on all fours, pulling the body towards him. He held it upside-down for a few moments,wiping the bloody slime from his mouth before placing the baby face-up. His body was still warm and floppy. The umbilical cord was still attached, feeding the fawn whatever vile energies he craved, and he clearly hadn't been dead for long. Two rat-fingers pressed against the fawn's exposed chest repeatedly, and the necromancer temporarily turned into a healer, breathing life into the little fawn's corpse. The child awoke with a start only moments later, as if roused from some hideous dream. His eyes were much darker than his mothers, almost black in appearance. His cry was soft and subdued, rather distant than the urgent wailing of most infants the rat had encountered. 

	“It's a boy,” Joskuin announced, passing the baby to his mother's cold breast. The little fawn latched on eagerly with his sharp teeth and clutched his mother's dead body, and to Joskuin's surprise, the corpse actually moved to cradle him. The rat wasn't sure whether what he witnessed was some sort of bond, or whether the little fawn could somehow subconsciously control the necromantic energy he had been steeped in since his conception. Only time would tell.

	The next several years were an eventful time for the cabal. It's newest member, affectionately named “Mort”, died again at the age of three months, inexplicably. He was simply found face-down in his cot without a heartbeat.  Again, Joskuin managed to revive him, only for the event to repeat itself six months later. Each time it was almost easier for him to recover, the latest episode requiring only a few minutes of resuscitation, even though he had been apparently dead for quite some time. Ester's corpse was passed between the two like a hot potato. The little buck was apparently able to summon her with but a thought, and under his direction the doe executed complex, subtle commands that the rat's clumsy words could never convey.  
	
	When Mort finally learned to walk, he 'dragged' his mother around like a blankie. He didn't seem to understand that she was dead, or if he did, it didn't seem to bother him very much. He treated her like a pet – he cuddled her and kept her close for comfort, knowing that she would lash out in retaliation if he felt threatened in any way. He latched on to Joskuin as a father of sorts, as Ester was obviously unable to fully take care of her son. He began asking questions almost as soon as he could talk, pestering the rat incessantly with whys, whats and hows. Joskuin had never seen someone so interested in his perverse activities, and he eagerly gave the fawn a very hands-on approach to the dark arts. 

	To say Mort was a natural necromancer would be an understatement. He was a phenom. Not only was he able command the various undead on an almost instinctual level, to the point where they looked almost alive again, but he frequently wrestled the control of corpses from other practitioners with unsettling ease, and put up quite the struggle if the other necromancer fought back. By age six, Joskuin had won the right to initiate him fully into the cabal as an apprentice. This, of course, meant killing someone and raising their corpse in front of the Sovereign himself, as well as anyone else who cared to attend. There was a lively debate as to who the victim would be. An adult, armed or not, would clearly have an unfair advantage over a six-year-old. Thus, the cabal decided that the victim would be a child, like him. 

	The stage was set. Mort, now six years of age, stood on one side of the dark ring, grimly determined and armed with an appropriately-sized dagger. His opponent was an orphaned fennec girl, barely out of diapers, with sand-coloured ears almost as large as her head. She was unarmed – a canned hunt. Both Mort and his quarry wore pristine, toga-like shrouds, not only to hide their bodies without armouring them, but also to exaggerate the appearance of any wounds sustained. The crowd was eager to see the capabilities of this 'cursed' fawn, born of necromancy and death itself. The fawn heard them, and wondered to himself what all the fuss was about.
	The gong was rung, and the circle closed. The fennec tried to run, but was blocked by a wall of eager bodies, and pushed forcefully back into the ring. She cried out, and her eyes began to glisten with tears. Mort was rather unsympathetic.  His hooves clicked against the cold stone as he calmly walked up to her and raised the knife, expecting to just bring it down on top of her. She pushed his arm away and ran past him to the other side of the ring, where again she was pushed back into the fray, this time right into Mort.
	The fennec's cries were punctuated by a sharp painful gasp as the dagger connected with her ribcage. She staggered back, clutching the dagger's hilt before toppling over backwards, curling into the  fetal position as she tried to protect herself. The fawn didn't miss a beat, quickly straddling her and forcing her on her back. He ripped the dagger out, allowing her hot blood to splash onto the cobbled floor and forcing another whimper of pain from his opponent. He then pressed her head to the ground and jabbed the knife into her throat with all his might, severing her windpipe and silencing her cries permanently.

	The crowd cheered as they watched the fennec's blood spill. She squirmed for a few seconds, gurgling and gasping for breath before finally falling limp, the fawn's hands still around her neck.  Joskuin waited a few seconds to be sure, and then tossed his son a pair or onyx coins and a sheet of parchment. This was supposed to be the hardest part of the test, but the rat knew that his cervine son would have no trouble at all. And he was right. The arcane marks burned off the page, sizzling as they fell to the ground around the pair forming a small circle. The coins flashed into nonexistance, and as soon as the girl stirred to unlife, Mort dropped the scroll and hugged her, helping her get to her feet. Her eyes were grey, and her once-pink ears had become very, very pale. Mort seemed to almost brighten at the sight of her, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Kyrst!” he exclaimed, mistaking the muttering of the crowd for a shortening of his playmate's name, “Come on, we're gonna be friends!” The fawn then happily dragged her out of the arena, her hand in his, her newly animated corpse following his every move.

	The crowd was puzzled at the cabal recruit's nonchalance.  The Sovereign was impressed. Joskuin only smiled. “That's my boy,” he said quietly as he watched the pair descend into the catacombs.
