Brannon's seen things.  Dark things that manifested while he slept.  Shapes and specters with bleached bone, clacking jaws, and voices as harsh as the croak of stiffened leather.  He learned to raise things when he was a boy - birds and mice, first, then a cat, a dog, and, finally, a child to heal the heart of a grieving mother.

What he raised from the fresh earth was no child, of course, and he was driven from the town in which he'd come of age, hunted, harried, and accused of all manner of deviltry.  Necromancy was as inexplicable to Brannon as breathing.  It was something that was simply a part of him - like a third arm or eye.

He loves, fears, and hates his power, and he's outgrown his ability to mentor himself.  He's spent several years stealing books from libraries, raiding tombs, and risking life and limb to hone his skills.  He wants to put his powers to good use, for the betterment of humanity, but he's lost and waiting to be found.

Brannon's an autodidact.  He's worked all manner of trades to keep food in his belly and a pillow under his head.  He burns the candle at both ends learning about himself and his terrifying talent.