Myrkul is your god of death, and you have always valued the domain over the divinity. It's an arrangement that works.
Safvara makes herself intimately familiar with death, and the dispatching of it. Corpses dust her wake, left for you to coax them back as you see fit. Things are simple.
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A bright spark of blue bleeds into the shaft of the last arrow, jumping eagerly from his fingers to sink into slim, straight wood, sinking into the soft, rich earth to bury itself into the arrowhead. Energy hums warmly along his arm for just a second longer, and the sensation fades along with the last whispered words of the spell.
Erlkazar keeps a tight hold on their borders. Even camped just on the other side it’s unlikely they’ll come to harm, but habits are hard to break. The forest and mountains around him are full of life, trees sheltering so many bright sparks.
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timeasmymeasure
