Hemlock: Options
Hemlock sat a moment before standing. “No sense in wasting time.” she stood. With a bit of effort of bodily control and will she managed to fold the large wings on her back, more or less out of the way. Holding a hand out in the direction of the broken pieces of broken mirror on the floor. Thinking of the matter that made it up, the glass, the quicksilver and tin. Inhaling slowly, she thought of a spell she’d used many times before. Bright in the subterranean space a slow moving whirlpool of energy coalesced in her palm. A shifting swirl of white opalescent. This power made her old reserves of energy feel like a pitiful stream. This magic rushed over her like white water rapids. Mentally battering her around. The power started to shift in her, pulling at the shadows in the room drawing them in and the opalescent energy began to shift to a black color. Hemlock forced her free hand from her side with a grunting effort, the air crackling around her, making her ears buzz like she’d stuck her head in a bee hive. Seizing her own wrist and forcing it to break the magic gesture, an audible ‘fwoof’ like the sound of a large forge bellow in the city and she was in the dark basement again. Dark aside from a white-red hot glowing orb on the floor that was slowly puddling out into a flat disk of hot glass. She’d wildly overdone the mending spell. Causing all the materials to become amalgamated.
Hemlock took in heaving breaths, sucking in as much air as she could trying to catch her breath. The air felt cold. Freezing in fact. She knew she needed a fire now…but to use her power to start a fire felt like it would kill her. So she gathered up what she’d need for the fire. Putting the kindling and wood in the small hearth and using a candle lit by the still hot glass as a madeshift fire starter. It took a few sloppy attempts to get the fire started. A few burns on her fingers, spilled wax, random swears but it eventually came to life in a dull sputtering ember. Coaxed to life with gentle breaths and slowly added wood shavings, twigs, then sticks and full logs. By firelight, Hemlock looked at the half dome half melted glob of glass flecked with veins of tin and quicksilver, melted into the grout between the flagstones of the floor. “I’m just going to have to break it again to get it up…” she thought.
The voice returned. “Why are you even staying in a basement?” it questioned, “There are a few homes standing in this wretched town why are you sleeping in a hole in the ground? Do you think it poetic that the ‘undead’ girl sleeps in what equates to a grave?”
It was of little point to try to hide the answer from the voice considering she could likely just pluck it from her thoughts regardless. “It's because there are no ghosts here.”
The voice broke out into a haunting blood chilling cackle. Something so deeply inhuman that it was more terrifying than any god she’d ever met. “The necromancer is afraid of ghosts? Now that is rich.”
Hemlock didn’t want to dignify that with an answer. She wasn’t afraid of ghosts, or most ghosts at any rate. Some were in fact like the stories say and are downright terrifying, but most were benign and more or less just misty humans, or elves or what have you. Dead things that died in anger and were steeped in it in life became something twisted in death. Like a rippled reflection on the surface of water. The real reason she didn’t like sleeping around them, in a place she couldn’t consecrate the grounds. A basement. Ironically much like the angel suggested is like a grave. In that it is in the ground and easier to bless or ward. In places she couldn’t at night it was very loud with spirits begging, and crying for help. The silence in the dark cellar was the only way she could sleep.
If she could get a handle on this power…maybe blessing grounds would be a much easier job, or char her like a vampire in the sun with all the holy fire it could put out. Thoughts for another time. She needed to cure herself of the lingering spirit.
“Options…” she thought. “Kelmoran, that would mean finding the book and taking it by force or convincing whoever has it to let me use it, along with setting up mental safe guards, wards to keep him from escaping and gods know what else.” she sighed, “Not the best option. There’s Ceriden, insane, a lich, but I do know him…and that might be enough to get through to him. But I don’t fancy a fight with someone like him.” She shifted, and drummed her fingers on her knee. “Aldous. The long shot. He’s a powerful mage. Maybe one of the most powerful mages on the planet. Has a book of forbidden magic…but he’s a demon…so I’d have to cut a deal and have nothing to offer, or nothing I’m willing to offer a lust demon.”
“A lust demon?” The voice purred mockingly. “He might fancy us. Wouldn’t you do ‘anything’ to get rid of me? Might not be such a bad way to die if you think about it. He’s actually quite good looking for a Hells spawn.”
“Shut up.” Hemlock said, her cheeks hot. Sharing the mind went both ways and the Angel was showing Aldous.
“Afraid of ghosts and sex. How pathetic.” the voice cackled. “When I get free, I will rip your soul from my body, put you in a slug and salt it. That only seems fair for what you’ve done to me.”
“...Fair…” Hemlock echoed. “The Fair Lady…”
Words came from the voice, dripping with venom, and so full of rage they were incomprehensible. That settled it. She would ask The Mother for help. It was almost as much of a long shot as Aldous but the angel hated the idea, which meant Hemlock loved it.”