Rikvi’s desk is arranged with rigid precision, yet for all of that, it feels chaotic. There isn’t an uncovered inch, and in fact, the books and notes have spread onto half of her student’s desk as well.
But the necromancer herself is absent. The magic ripples before slowly settling in the wake of a portal into the Mists.
Tove’s breathing is slow and shallow. She’s fallen far into the magic of Bjora, hunting the hunters. She hasn’t eaten all day, because the hunger makes it easier to slip through the currents and find the Boneskinners. Even the nascent ones…in fact, those are the ones she’s most interested in. If she can see how the corruption begins, perhaps she can unravel it.
They still make her ill, but the worse she feels the closer she is.
To answers? Hopefully. To a dire fate? Not impossible, she must admit. There’s a chance she could understand them too well.
Randulfr stands at the base of her tree and watches her with sharp, yellow eyes. He’s yanked her out of the tree once so far and will do it again without hesitation.
The ritual anchors. She keeps going back to the ritual anchors, also, because they’re twisted knots in the magic. But druid magic is not that of necromancy, and she can’t quite follow that the Sons are doing there.
…good thing the guild is replete with necromancers though, isn’t it?
A thought, for later…