Necro Quotes

I'm sure that you psychotic necro-wannabes with delusions of godhood are all about sharing with your fellow maniacs.

My name is Chloe Saunders. I'm fifteen, and I would love to be normal. But normal is one thing I'm not. For one thing, I'M HAVING THESE FEELINGS FOR A CERTAIN ANTISOCIAL WEREWOLF and his sweet-tempered brother—who just happens to be a sorcerer—BUT,BETWEEN YOU AND ME, I'M LEANING TOWARD THE WEREWOLF. Not normal. My friends and I are also on the run from an evil corporation that wants to get rid of us—permanently. Definitely not normal. And finally, I'm a genetically altered necro-mancer who can raise the dead, rotting corpses and all, without even trying. As far away from normal as it gets.

NecroBard This unusual class combines one of the most-loved occupations with one of the most reviled.

I could shave my head and wear a sackcloth and still get a whole lot of ghostly wrong numbers. Makes me wonder if there’s some kind of ghost-necro porn industry down there. ~Jaime Vegas

The doctors removed my wasteland exterior by debriding me, scraping away the charred flesh. they brought in tanks of liquid nitrogen containing skin recently harvested from corpses. The sheets were thawed in pans of water, then neatly arranged on my back and stapled into place. Just like that, as if they were laying strips of sod over the problem areas behind their summer cabins, they wrapped me in the skin of the dead. My body was cleaned constantly but I rejected these sheets of necro-flesh anyway; I've never played well with others. So over and over again, I was sheeted with cadaver skin.

Necro in the hole,” Jim called from above. I looked up in time to see Ghastek falling out of the ceiling.

If you'd have told me two weeks ago that one day I'd be part of a not-so-merry band of Necros seeking to exterminate a couple of other magic-born gangs, I'd have given you directions to the strait-jacket factory.

All around the smell of that necro-smoke, that nether-weed. And up and at the hedonist impulse, rejoice, rejoice, in the disconnect my pretty things, fly monkeys, fly! The hip chick in the back, her legs uncrossed to let in air and let out pretention as the lights are down and it’s not necessary, nor should it be even with the lights up, all around faces, turned away and yet minds knowing, knowing there is a presence, a power about the room, the charge is different than it was before this small chick came in. Rejoice, simpatico, rejoice. It’s her night. A night of the explosion. Pow—bang-ka-boom and yet it’s whispered and yet it’s heard through the walls at 3 A.M. by attentive ears and hands clenching in the frustration of being unsolicited by the owner of this spectacle. A woman’s sigh of ecstasy, and his tears at being not the cause.

One thing that the left and right now seem to agree on is that the society in which we live is called capitalism.1 And strangely enough, both now seem to agree that it is eternal. Even the left seems to think that there is an eternal essence to Capital and that only its appearances change. The parade of changing appearances yields a series of modifiers: this could be necro capitalism, communicative capitalism, cognitive capitalism, platform capitalism, neoliberal capitalism, or computational capitalism.

Interesting. Perhaps this is an early childhood necro-sapien trait. An attempt to gain sympathy from humans in order to procure an opportunity to consume their flesh." I

About the source of the contaminate that has resulted in the re-animation of the deceased." "We saw zombies running around and kinda assumed they wanted to eat our brains or something," I said. "Actually it's flesh. The necro—um, zombies desire to consume flesh, not specifically brains. Although human cerebral matter is high in fatty—

Magic is just a tool. It’s what you do with it that determines whether it’s evil or not.