Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Of Witches and Necromancers {1x1}

Thorn blossoms, everberries... kingsfoil. Yes, it was definitely kingsfoil.

Jonquil tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear as she walked down the vague path out of the forest and up the hill towards Regni Ruins--that is, Ruins of the Kingships. The burial place of past royalties, both good and bad. Rightfully, the herbs that grew around the ruins had been named kingsfoil. They were gangly little plants with pale blue flowers and dark leaves, and they were an excellent addition to any herbal mixture pertaining to sleep-aid. It grew so well around the ruins because of the dead bodies fertilizing the soil. A gruesome thought, perhaps, but Jonquil tried not to linger on it too long.

As she trudged up the hill, holding the skirt of her dress up so that she wouldn't trip, she could begin to see the blooms of the kingsfoil scattered around. She didn't pick any, though; the best kingsfoil was inside the ruins, for the partial shade allowed the herbs to be vibrant and healthy without constant heat from the sun during the day. So she went along, humming quietly to herself, until the hill flattened out on the top. She studied the temple-like structure for a moment, its stone columns protruding from a strangely-simple dirt floor. It was only a moment, though, and she continued on inside.

Jonquil skirted among the debris and fallen stones, being careful not to tread over the graves themselves; they had been kings once, after all. Then, she spotted it. A beautiful, vibrant cluster of kingsfoil. Ah, perfect! She stepped over a few rocks and stooped to begin gathering the herbs into the bag hanging at her side, being careful to collect any seeds that fell out of the blooms; she could use the seeds for other things. But only a minute or so after she began picking the herbs, she was attacked. The spirit of a dead king had been able to take a semi-solid form, and was now taking its angst out on poor Jonquil. Her magic didn't affect the undead; she could only cast spells and enchantments on nature or other living things. So she was defenseless against this foe as it tore at her, now conjuring its own wisp of a sword. It cornered her in the temple, having given her a sound beating already, now raising its sword in preparation to have Jonquil's spirit join his in the twilight between life and afterlife.

(Very sorry about that ^^")

I believe that the thread was intended to be a 1 x 1 between me and Jonquil.

Cyric had been on the road for days, or even weeks. The village he had last stopped in had vaguely mentioned some troubles in the North, but none themselves. A farming village with a small dock, they often did not draw enough attention to themselves to be a target, and so had been quite surprised when the Doomguide had arrived.But, he had at least assured them that he was quite nomadic when it came to his duties. He traveled, then stayed where his skills were needed, before moving on again when any threats - present or potential - had been soundly quashed. Time seemed to melt and merge together, and often it did not matter to the man, even if he did diligently keep an eye on the calendar. The forest road was worn and dusty, made all the worse by the heavy footfalls of the feathery-footed warhorse that he was sat astride. It's head was low, seemingly relaxed and focused more on the journey ahead than much else. No rush. He had seen the ruins faintly through the trees, but had not seen the figure picking through them.

But when the King stirred from his slumber to wreck his misdirected anger and roiling desire for revenge against the herb-collecting woman, he felt the sudden pull of the undead like a lodestone within his chest. An undeniable pull, a draw, not too unlike a geas; bound to act. To refuse to do so would only bring discomfort and pain, and he suspected, a lot worse. Wheeling the horse to one side, instantly it responded to the mood of its owner; ears up, head alert and teeth champing at the bit ready to bite or lash out with iron-shod hooves if need be. Feisty creature. Shifting the kite-shaped shield from his back to his left arm and buckling it as the horse took him up the sloping back, he lent forwards to aid it before coming onto the small plateau of sorts properly.

Kicking his heals in while drawing the bastard sword with his right hand, he pointed it towards the spirit. He drew in on the aether, the raw magical energy that was everywhere at all times, before channeling it through himself and down the sword before dismounting and closing the distance between them as he did so.
"I call on the judgement of Kelemvor!" Within distance of the spirit just as it began to raise the blade, did he release the spell. A white-hot flash rippled out from the Doomguide, burning whatever corpses might have begun to weakly stir around them before ripping into the deceased-animated King. The screen from his half-jawed mouth was one of torment, of anger interrupted. The sword now too, seemed alive with that same white-gray light, which soon was brought down by an overhead strike into the spirits' head; through helm and skull, near cleaving it in two with the force. Unsurprising, given the weight of the blade. It paused, then staggered, before collapsing within the circle of lightly-singed grass nearby. Too weak to fight against the spellcaster, but still clinging desperately to all it had known within the ruins.

Then he did a surprising thing, or perhaps what would have been so. Kneeling down before the fading spirit, a gauntlet-covered hand moved to rest on the others' head, the one he had just so readily damaged.
"Pass on, great King. There is nothing here for you but pain, and reminders. Go to the other side. There your kingdom will still be, there you will find your family and subjects, waiting for you. Do not cling to what no longer is." The spirit seemed to pause in its struggling, before distinctly looking towards the man. Did it just... nod? But whatever it had done, it began to fade before entirely going from sight.

With his expression grim, Cyric straightened up. Breathing heavier, limbs shaking slightly from the rush of adrenaline, but otherwise, quite unharmed. Then he remembered something. The woman, right. That was important. Sheathing the sword, he did not even so much as look back at the horse as it began to contently graze before making his way towards her, where she was cornered, and resting a hand on one of her shoulders if she was crouching.
"It is gone." Simple, matter of fact, but heavily rasping. The shout from earlier had only made his voice all the worse.