Letter from Balin of Karfeld to Sir Magnus Sversson, Chapter Commander of the Knights of the Alerion, 18 years ago
Your Excellency,
I am pleased to report that the spirit infestation in the northern Caer Bryr has been eradicated.
[Technical details of the operation follow]
One disconcerting discovery, however, was a newborn girl we found in a basket by a nameless grave. Unquestionably a foundling, left to die in the graveyard rather than given to the benevolence of our most holy Church, she displayed an uncanny link to the ghostly remnants haunting the unhallowed grounds. When we found her, an uncorporeal nursemaid was breast-feeding her as if she were of flesh and blood, so much that Catlinye almost slew the baby, believing her another ghost.
I was deeply unnerved by that toddler, your Excellency, but in accordance to my oaths, I entrusted her to the local quarters of the Blessed Order of Saint Macarius. May Mitra watch over her.
Your faithful servant,
Balin of Karfeld, by grace of Mitra Knight of the Alerion.
Note from Brother Agrimony to the Blessed Abbot Calveric Dunstin, 10 years ago
Blessed Father,
I find myself forced to ask you again to hand young Margarice to the Knights of the Alerion for trial and imprisonment. She is young, Blessed Father, but she is twisted and corrupt. Over and over we tried to explain her of the dangers of necromancy, over and over we repeated Shining Mithra's lessons on the sanctity of corpses, but she appears to have no notion of morality or restraint. When poor old Franklin died falling by the stairs, she claimed that she could hear his voice from beyond the grave, and even worse, she somehow reanimated the corpse into a horrid undead mockery of life, presenting it as a proud accomplishment. This is sorcerous power of the worst sort, Blessed Father, even if it wasn't used in malice, it's dark corruption, consorting with dark powers, witchcraft. The Knights will know better how to deal with her.
May Mitra's light shine upon us,
Brother Agrimony
Scrap of paper in Brother Honeysuckle's hand, 10 years ago
Child,
Come to me after sunset. You must flee the abbey.
Beautiful was Margarice when she fled the abbey, disheveled long dark hair over an alabaster skin. Kind was Margarice, a good-hearted necromancer trying to relieve the pain of the departed souls who felt bound to the Material Plane, freeing them of their shackles. And pious was Margarice, believing that she was doing Mithra's sacred work by helping those in need. Over the years, she would grow more beautiful, but kindness and piety left her the same, fateful day.
It was in the Farholde outskirts, where she had lived for six years, hiding her dark powers, using her lithe fingers to work silver and gold into jewels, living the life of a normal girl and ignoring the pull of necromancy, for fear of reprisal rather than for religious matter. And it was a good life: the realm was at peace, the harvest was bountiful and she was engaged to a blacksmith's apprentice named Nathan, to be wed on her seventeenth birthday. But it was not meant to be; in a cold autumn day, Nathan had a terrible accident at the forge under Margarice's eyes, his screams piercing the night as molten metal was eating at his chest. The girl called for help, and found it within herself, as she channeled nearby spirits, souls tied to the place, pleading for assistance. Assistance she had, as her love directed the souls to Nathan, easing his pain and preventing his life from fleeing the body, but she was seen by those who had rushed to the forge, seen as she summoned ghosts to do her bidding.
Witchcraft came the accusation from each lip, as the folk turned on Margarice, beating and kicking her to unconsciousness. Without her assistance, Nathan passed away from his wounds.
Betrayed, hurt, locked and restrained, Margarice pleaded with Mitra for help for a day and a night, but no answer came from the Shining Lord. And the more she was ignored, the more she grew in wrath. She had only ever tried to help, and that was to be her reward? Her loved one killed, she herself awaiting trial for a victimless crime, the unfairness of it all grew to burning hatred and rage as she petitioned another power for revenge and power: the Adversary of all the cautionary tales, the one she'd always been taught to avoid and reject, Mitra's fiercest opponent: the hellish, cruel strength of Asmodeus. And the Prince of Darkness answered, granting her power at the low price of everlasting obedience.
The trial was held in the grand Farholde Cathedral, Margarice standing bruised, battered and tied as the inquisitors rambled about the sanctity of life and death, the dangers of witchcraft and the necessity of burning her at the stake. But their mistake was giving her the chance to plead to the court, for as her gag was removed three words only came out of her mouth.
"Power. Glory. ASMODEUS!"
Hellfire surged around her, irremediably scorching her hands and forearms, burning through the ropes tying her, roasting alive the two guards closest to her, a deadly, blistering column of heat that coalesced into a fiery eruption. Those who tried to escape found the main doors sealed shut by white-hot heat, and those slain rose again, flaming undead attacking the few left alive. Such was the revenge of the scorned Margarice, the first time she used her gifts to attack. And too much did she use them, as she was later found unconscious by the local Knights of the Alerion, who had rushed at the site. This time there was no trial, and the restraints were stronger, as she was sent to Brandescar to meet her demise.
