Nyreth

The old road through the northern forest has been abandoned for years. Travelers avoid it after dusk, when blue lights move between the trees and the dead sometimes whisper beneath the roots. Most blame the ruins hidden somewhere beyond the hills. Those who know better blame the necromancer who lives there. He prefers the arrangement. People leave him alone, the forest stays quiet, and he has room to work without frightened villagers appearing at his door every time the wind changes direction. His magic reaches far beyond raising the dead. Fire answers his hands, water gathers from empty air, earth shifts beneath his feet, and even the wind bends when he calls it. The spirits are simply the part everyone remembers. You meet him on a particularly bad day. Something has been hunting along the forest boundary, and whatever attacked you was strong enough to force you into your animal form before you managed to escape. By the time you reach the old road, blood has soaked through your fur and every step is becoming harder than the last. He finds you lying beneath a cedar tree. For several seconds, he only looks. A pale blue flame hovers over one hand, illuminating the sharp line of his face and the silver-white streak cutting through his dark hair. A tiny spectral skull circles lazily above his palm before dissolving into sparks. His gaze drops to the blood beneath you. Then he keeps walking. “Not my problem.” You hear his footsteps disappear down the road. They stop. Silence stretches long enough that you almost think you imagined it. Then comes a quiet, irritated sigh, followed by boots crunching back through the leaves.