The herbalist has more freedom than one might expect. Valuable, albeit rare, plants and mushrooms grow in the most peculiar places, and sometimes need to be gathered at a particular time of year, day, or even night. This often allowed Moira to justify her presence in odd places at unusual times. Besides, she enjoyed the work, and what began as a cover gradually became her main source of livelihood.
Opinion is divided as to whether the presence of the speckled deathcap is more closely related to the heroic deeds of the deceased or the type of marble used in crypts. Regardless of where the truth lay, this mushroom was on today’s list of potential finds for the night’s excursion to the cemetery near Forest Row village. Today, it is a small settlement mainly engaged in logging and woodworking, but at the time of the Hundred Years' War, there was a large alliance stronghold here. Over time, a cemetery was established, containing the crypts of powerful families and distinguished knights. Among them is the final resting place of Hordur the Hammer of the North, the hero of several songs, a dozen chronicled verses, and, more importantly, the son of a generous family who paid for the right kind of marble.
Moira hadn't expected anyone else to descend into this rather forgotten and neglected crypt at this hour, let alone in the middle of the forest and the dead of night. For this reason—and, though she was reluctant to admit it to herself, to avoid missing even a single mushroom—she lit her way to the grave with a spell that summoned a will-o’-the-wisp. In the worst-case scenario, she could claim she had followed it inside. In such a place, the waves of magic willing to yield to her will were abundant and potent. After a brief moment of concentration, the wisp merrily circled her and illuminated her path, trying its best to do the summoner's bidding.
As she watched it, she remembered her master’s words from her training days. The romantic notion of magic suggests that practitioners have a talent in a field that somehow reflects their character or temperament. However, her teacher—and she, following his lead—believed that it was more likely the result of chance or external factors on the child while still in the mother's womb. She had heard somewhat unsettling reports about research into the latter theory. Regardless, it is generally true that most practitioners have a natural ability in only one area of magic. There are those with talent in two or even more fields but at the cost of the level they can achieve in each as if the available liquid had to be poured into several vessels.
She had been gifted with a rare affinity for necromancy—a field that, as her teacher pointed out, had been respected and valued barely a thousand years ago. However, that was little comfort given its poor reputation today. Besides, she could have been born in a place where necromancy was completely forbidden, in which case her fate would have turned out much worse, so every cloud has its silver lining.
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When she finally reached the intended sarcophagus, casting the spell proved to be a good decision; the mushroom she sought was scarce and could have easily been missed under the dim light of an ordinary oil lamp. Eagerly, she gathered them all into a pre-prepared leather container to protect them from both the sun and possible crushing in her bag. Content with her harvest, she spent a moment admiring the craftsmanship of the artisan who had carved the figure of Hordur onto the sarcophagus lid, complete with his rather handsome face and signature two-handed hammer.
"Time to head back up," she murmured to the wisp and started toward the exit. On the way, however, something in one of the side corridors caught her attention—a faintly improper fluctuation in the magical waves. Cautiously, she entered, intrigued but slightly uneasy. Such disturbances never boded well. She slowly moved toward its epicenter, passing increasingly dilapidated tombs along the way.
At the end of the corridor stood a wall plaque, behind which, according to the inscription, rested Killian of the House of Haas. The fluctuation was subtle but perceptible. The cause was not immediately clear—it could be a curse, or perhaps the nascent stirrings of a vengeful spirit. But so many years after death? Likely a curse, then. Reading magical wave disturbances wasn’t her strongest skill. She jotted down all the details from the plaque and sketched a simple map to ensure she could return easily if needed. She intended to inquire about the man and his family in the village; summoning the dead for answers was a last resort. Besides, if it was indeed a recently cast curse, which she was leaning toward, it wouldn’t provide much useful information anyway.
Out of habit, she checked the other corridors; there weren’t many, but fortunately, no disturbances were present elsewhere. Nor were there any more speckled deathcaps. She glanced over her notes one last time, in case she had forgotten to jot something down, but it seemed she had recorded all the important details. Returning to the entrance, she brushed off the cobwebs and dust.
"Thank you, little one," she said gently, pressing her index finger lightly against the glowing center of the wisp as if pressing a dog’s nose. It flickered out and faded into nothingness. With some effort, she lit her oil lamp and made her way back to the village along the narrow path through the forest, which was fortunately rather sparse in this area. Thankfully, her rented room at the inn was on the ground floor with a separate, locked entrance, so she didn’t risk waking anyone.
Moira was already exhausted. She closed the door behind her and checked her protective spells; everything was in order. She just washed her face and gave a quick comb-through to remove anything that might have clung to her straight, red hair in the forest or crypt. She decided she’d order a bath from the innkeeper tomorrow—she was certain the comb hadn’t caught everything. She lay on the bed for a while, pondering that troublesome fluctuation, promising herself she would look into it.
Who else was going to handle it if not a necromancer? she thought, and then drifted off to sleep.
