Jörmund

Restless Spirits

The skull was misshapen and strange to look at, Norrus was surely an ugly fiend in his days amongst the living, it may explain his greed and want for more, Jörmund surmised. Regardless, Jörmund knelt down and unclasped his satchel to collect a handful of red flowers. They smelt sweet yet oddly spicy, tickling the nose ever-so-slightly. Jörmund wondered greatly what that young girl intended to do with such flowers, even if an alchemists apprentice this was a tall order.

Did she know the flowers she asked for come from a mass grave?

What does she intend to do with these?

These questions circled in Jörmund's mind until a whisper interrupted them, if one could call it a whisper. It was more akin to steam blasting from the coals of a doused fire. It spoke with words of charred pine resin, scattered ashes, and crumbling stone.

"...........A man comesssss......ttttoooo pick the red flowerrrrrrrr? Næ.....a wizard.....an Ellri."

Jörmund shivered at the utterance, the calls of the forsaken are as warming as a blizzard's blast.

"Aye, foul specter, I come to pick the red flower and nothing more. I will be gone soon."

A second hiss of air wafted over him.

"Norruussssss........seldommmmm gets compppannnnyyy....but thesssssseee are my flowersssssss and mine alone."

Jörmund snorted a huff of air out in annoyance, growing tired of the foul feeling talker.

"These flowers belong neither to man nor giant if you wish to be specific, especially those yellow ones o'er yonder. Be gone spirit and leave me in peace, we have naught but worm hair and fig wings to speak about."

It suddenly grew cold around Jörmund, the wind died down and no bird's call made way to his ears. Silence clenched the clearing. Dead silence.

"Norrusss restssss his bones here, Noooooorris grows the red flowersssss from hhhhhhhiiiiis bonessssss......The flowwwwwwersssss are Norrus and Nnnnnnnoooooorrus are these flowers........Begone Ellri, lesssssst I drain the lllllliiiiife out of you and keep your sssssssspirit here with the rest of usssssss."

Jörmund let loose a full sigh, anger building.

"I have thrashed rock golems into cobblestone, shriveled ents into twiglings, froze demon's burning hearts into decanters, and made wyrms out of the mighty golden dragons in the Falklands. A bothersome dead traitor does little more than itch my rump, hush and sod off with ye, invoke my ire more and death will have seemed a blessing."

From his left side swelled a pressure just a few steps away, a swirling mass of aura, taking the rough shape of a hand poised to squash Jörmund, or to hold him down for something worse.

For his first retort the Elder moved his pinky a bit and flung out one of the red swirls of magic in his staff, shattering the hand above him. Rumbling began underfoot, the air shimmered with charged magic, things long at rest were waking up. Taking steps back from the skull, he cast another at the multitude of hands that began rising from the ground. Now actively motioning his staff's charges to their targets, Jörmund realized that the other spirits were now in on the exchange. Loud cracks of magical explosions filled the clearing, ringing as cannon shots amidst the stone monoliths. So began the Battle of the Red Flower.