Wraithvine killed a man by accident in attempting to stop them from robbing a shop. Unfortunately, accidents happen. Then learn the man was just desperately poor and his death meant his family was now facing starvation with a very sick wife and four small children in their little, run-down, shack of a home on a failing farm. -- Lessons
A moment, a mistake, and now a mortuary. The man now on the slab had had a home, a family, and some desperate mission to make him snatch a tray of bread rolls right in front of the world's most powerful Wizard. Nobody else would have thought twice about it, but Wraithvine was like no other.
For starters, ze had just buried hir full-elven grandson. Who had perished of old age.
Ze tried paying for a resurrection, but it had failed. Now, ze paid for Speak With the Dead. Two spells that Wraithvine had no grasp on. Yet. It was a lesson that ze would embed in hir nature for the rest of hir life. There is always more to learn. That, and, Don't get egotistical.
"You have five questions," said the Necromancer. "Keep it to things the body knows. The soul has fled. Only memory is left."
The corpse breathed in. Dead eyes focussed on Wraithvine. "You killed me," said the body.
"I made a mistake and I intend to mend what I can. You took more than one needed. Who was it for?"
"Sweet... Lulanie. My Elayna... my Adela... my Doyawn... my Connyk... my darlings..."
"Your family. Where must I go to help them?"
"Sour... soil... farm. South... west. Listen... for crow's... song."
Two down, three to go. Wraithvine had everything ze needed, but had three questions in which to torment hirself.
"Was it named Sour-soil farm all the time?"
"Two years... it became... sour soil farm."
"Do you know what happened to make it a sour soil?"
"No."
"How old are your children?"
"They are... my darling babies... I failed them." The last of the breath left, and the body of a starving man lay still.
Wraithvine paid for the funeral of a farmer, and went seeking the sour soil of a farm gone bad. Ze had coin... and other things.
When an Elf makes a grievous error, it is custom to cut their hair short. An Elf with short hair is either a child or a criminal. Therefore the first act of an immortal Elf on the doorstep of a dying farm was to ask the lady of the house if she had shears. Without ceremony, without fanfare, ze clipped hir long locks as close to hir scalp as ze could manage.
Elven hair was valued by the inch. These braids came to yards.
"My hair is yours, and my servitude is yours. Until such time as you and your farm no longer need me."
The first lesson. The oldest lesson Wraithvine learned beyond mastering Wizardry... was to be certain that ze was doing the right thing.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / sadakko]
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