Wrymlung the Decayed

Hearth

Laid out to the side of Wrymlung on the workbench lent to him by his lord displays a simple diagram of a magic circle dotted with runes along its circumference which he tries to copy onto a separate piece of parchment with a stick of charcoal that stains his fingers with a thin layer of soot. It's simple enough with six runes made of straight lines and sharp angles all connected as a wheel, long lines stretching across the diameter like spokes to attach respective runes, adding depth to the meaning of the circle. He sets the charcoal to the side and inspects his work, tension building at the back of his neck and in his hands as he looks between his circle and the one on display in the old tomb. Briefly, he glances back at his lord who's analyzing some kind of glowing crystal under a glass etched with runes that curve and spiral in a soft gold color. Taking a deep breath, Wrymlung lays the parchment out in front of him and holds his hands over it as he closes his eyes, settling himself in to cast the spell.

There's a slight stir in the air as he uses the faint buzz of magic beneath his skin as a guide to call upon the force of the wind, the nervous energy that flutters within it like the heart of a hummingbird. The power gathers and swells, seeping into him as he fills his lungs with frigid air that he blows out slowly to flood the circle with magic like stirring the first sparks of a campfire to life in hopes of flame. As he opens his eyes, he sees the circle flare for a moment with warm light but slowly fade out as an ember would in a slowly cooling fire. Huffing, he holds his hands out over the circle and tries again, willing the circle to take to his magic only for it to die slowly once more. Wrymlung scowls before trying again and then again and again until he slumps onto the bench, his fist curled with frustration as he makes a soft growl of rage.

Lord Ahmose lays a hand on his back, getting him to look up, "It appears you are struggling."

"I-" Ser Wrymlung almost snaps at his lord only to bite his tongue painfully and he takes a deep breath. He shakes his head, forcing his shoulders and hands to relax, "The winds and my hands listen but this damned circle is determined to mock me."

There's a sound like softly rolling thunder that drips like honey and Wrymlung blinks as he realizes that his lord is chuckling.

"The magic of the world does not enjoy being tethered as it does so enjoy slipping free from those who would try and tame it," Ahmose pats his back fondly.

Wrymlung feels his agitation wither quickly under the presence of his lord and he sighs, "I know myself to be a novice, nevertheless, this simplest of magics escaping me is more infuriating than any training I have suffered."

"Indeed?" Lord Ahmose looks over his shoulder, picking up the parchment to study the circle Wrymlung has drawn, "I truly find little to no fault in your rendition, it must be the transfer that is troubling you so."

Wrymlung drags a hand down his face as his lord sets the parchment down, "It feels as though I may need to be led by the hand yet again."

Ahmose takes his hand, "It is no trouble to guide you, Ser Wrymlung. There is no shame in finding your footing and I am more than glad to have a pupil so ready to learn as you."

"Ah..." Wrymlung swallows and nods, "Thank you, my lord."

Lord Charnelscorn holds his hand out over the circle, "I wish to see how you have been casting, please do demonstrate..."

"Yes, my lord."

Yet again, Wrymlung attempts to cast the spell, his hand shaking ever so slightly under his lord's observation but the result is the same.

"Hm," Lord Ahmose nods, "Yes, technically correct."

Wrymlung twists to look up at his lord fully, "Technically?"

Ahmose meets his gaze, "You understand the method perfectly but magic is more than gliding through the steps etched within it. It is beyond the symbols and the words used to bind it for it is willful and wild, therefore it is only will that can grasp it." Wrymlung watches his lord grab into the air as if snatching some flying thing from the air and then unfurl his fingers to reveal a small yet roaring flame hovering over his palm, "The circle is the cast and lure, you are the fisherman who must reel it in at the proper moment which is not known but felt."

"And... how am I to know what it feels like?" Wrymlung's eyes are transfixed on the hovering flame that disappears as quickly as a breath when Ahmose reaches out to him.

His lord's hand rests on the plating over Wrymlung's chest, "You know its warmth." Lord Charnelscorn slides his hand away to tap against Wrymlung's chest, "It rests in here once summoned. At first, it is a spark and then it blooms." Ahmose spreads his fingers outward over Wrymlung's chest, "Then it roars."

Ser Wrymlung studies the flickering, purple flames that make his lord's eyes and nods, "I believe that I might take your meaning."

Holding his hand out, he closes his eyes and imagines a flame in his chest, letting himself grow warm as he thinks of sharing moments with his comrades by the fireside, hot meals shared after rainstorms, his bed... His fire flickers, threatening to fade so he calls instead upon the memory of hands returning the warmth of life to him, a cloak over his shoulders, and snatches the air at the moment he feels a tremor in the magic around him, opening his eyes to the sight of a bright flame burning about his hooked fingers.

"Well done."

Warmth blooms in Wrymlung's chest and he laughs to himself softly, incredulous at the burning flame in his hand. As he stares at the wavering, orange light, something along the wall's stones catches his eye as it shimmers in the soft glow of his fire. Wrymlung moves slowly, not sure how fast he can move his flame, lest it goes out, and looks closer at the gray stones to find a script of a kind he's never seen before written in soft blue light that fades as he moves his fire away. Tracing the path, he finds that the words travel along the wall towards the entrance.

"That... is quite astonishing," Lord Ahmose breathes in gentle awe.

"You do not know what this is?" Wrymlung keeps his eyes trained on the strange words that elude him as he continues, seeing how far they go.

"I understand the words themselves but their purpose..." Lord Charnelscorn follows him with rapt interest. "Their purpose escapes me."

Wrymlung traces the path, passing over the open door, moving faster now with more confidence in his ability to maintain the flame, almost missing the shape peaking in just past the doorframe. Whirling back, his heart hammering, he moves his fire back to reveal two hollow, white eyes peering at them from a withered face that sends a chill down his spine making him dismiss the flame and grab the hilt of his sword. The figure disappears with the flame but he can still feel the piercing gaze of those ancient, dead eyes as his heart pounds painfully in his chest.

"What troubles you, Ser Wrymlung?" Lord Ahmose places himself between Wrymlung and the door, resting a hand gently on his shoulder.

Wrymlung peels his hand from his sword, his hand shaking as he flexes it, trying to steady his nerves. He tilts his head up to look at Lord Ahmose, "Do... Do specters traverse these halls, my lord?"