Gizora was woken up by a combination of things. First, sunlight piercing through the flap of her tent, and landing squarely on her face. Second, the uncomfortable sensation of hard ground, after she apparently rolled off of her bedroll while she was still asleep. Third and finally, the aching tug of something draining her mana faster than she could replenish it. That was concerning, because she didn’t remember possessing any artifact that could or would do that, and any being, animal or person, that was capable and inclined to drain her mana was not something she really wanted to encounter ever, much less disheveled and barely awake. She much preferred her disasters and threats to life and limb after her morning tea, but such occurrences were notoriously noncompliant and fickle.

With a sigh, she made to push herself up, only to be startled to find the small plaque from the tomb clutched in one of her hands. Taking a moment to wake up and trace where her mana was going, her eyes widened when it turned out to be the plaque that was draining the very essence of magic from her. She tried to let go, but found that her hand was locked around it in a death grip, and absolutely refused to acknowledge her will to drop the plaque. Cursing her own body for insubordination, she instead blocked the flow of mana to that arm, instead circulating it through the rest of her body to help her wake up.

The plaque, in a stunning display of emotion for an inanimate object, was displeased with this course of action, and the pull on her mana intensified, and the plaque vibrated briefly. Gizora was, unsurprisingly, not expecting the plaque to have such an emotional response, and in her brief moment of inattention it secured its grip on her magic again and pulled. Gizora struggled to reign back in the rapidly flowing mana, and was swiftly running out of options. In the end, she stumbled to her pack, and pulled out two things: a hammer, and a knife. Brandishing the hammer, she began to threaten the magic stealing plaque.

“I don’t know how much of this you can understand you piece of shit wall decoration, but so help me gods I will smash you into dust and buy a cat for the sheer, express purpose of mixing you into its litter if you don’t fucking stop draining my gods be damned mana, right this damn second!” The outburst seemed to have startled to plaque, because its relentless draining of her mana ceased. Unfortunately, its stranglehold on the flow of her mana did not relent, but Gizora was glad for the small bit of progress. Baby steps.

Abruptly, the plaque started to glow blue, and Gizora watched in awe as lines shaped themselves into words on the surface of the metal, albeit a rather short one.

“‘Need mana. Build charge.’ Very eloquently stated, but missing some key details, such as: Why? How much? What for? Is it helpful for me? I’m not sure how much you know about people in general, but most folks don’t like having the essence of life and magic forcibly sucked out of them, certainly not without permission. And again, most folks do not take kindly to intelligent and probably cursed items that threaten their health. Now, tell me why you were stealing my mana, for what purpose, and how it benefits me. Go on, I can wait a minute or two to let you write.”

The plague did nothing for a few moments, before it started to glow again. The glow grew in intensity, and Gizora could feel the buildup of potent magic even without sensing it. She quickly shut her eyes, because the spell showed no signs of slowing just yet. When the spell had built up to the level of a city clearing fireball, the glow started to compact and shape, and the plaque levitated out of her hand, the glow centered around it. When it no longer hurt for her to face the glowing plaque, even with her eyes closed, she peeked open one eye, and the other swiftly followed suit as she stared in amazement at what, or rather who, now stood in front of her.

Where once had floated a blank, metallic plaque, now stood a short, about 1.5 meter tall foxkin. His gray was the salt and pepper grey, as were his ears, which added another 10 centimeters on his head. His face was long and narrow, not quite weaselly, but certainly looking suspicious. His eyes were brown, like old wood, almost dark enough that his pupils weren’t visible. The rest of his body matched his face, long and lean, and mildly twitchy, which didn’t help him look less than suspicious. He wore a plain green shirt, and nondescript brown pants, and no shoes, showing off digitigrade canine feet covered in the same grey fur that covered his scalp. Gizora just stared at him for a minute, before he seemed to get fed up and snorted.

“I need your mana, plebeian, to build up enough charge to activate all of the runic inscriptions built into me, so that I can siphon ambient mana from the environment as well as waste mana from you, enough to maintain this form, and demonstrate and teach magic to you, an uneducated heathen seeking monetary treasure and stumbling across the work of a master, THE Master. Tell me, why should you get any of the information I contain, let alone the information in the other tombs marked on that map I have? Do you really think just anyone can learn even the basics of the arcane, let alone the depths the Master unburied? What makes you worthy of anything I have to offer?” The foxkin’s voice was unsuited for his small, oily body, a resonating, honeyed baritone that many a bard would kill for. Gizora didn’t particularly feel like appreciating it though, given that it was used to insult, belittle, and generally mock her. She took an aggressive step forward, and emphasized her words with jabs from her finger.

“Now listen here, you glorified ornament with delusions of grandeur. I didn’t ask for this. I just wanted to explore, get rich, and live out the rest of my days in peaceful luxury. But apparently, the memory bank and inscriptions left behind by a famous lich, who no one was ever really certain existed, say that I have the potential to learn his particular brand of magic! Now, given my original goals, which sounds more profitable: trying my best not to die in tombs and ruins left behind by paranoid people with lots of money, or learning magic from one of the most powerful spellcasters who ever lived, and then unlived? So, you little glowing bastard, get your plaque out of your ass and tell me where the closest tomb is, because I’m guessing that a spellcaster whose memories I’ve been forced to live through, which specifically mention the paranoia of skilled magic users and necromancers in particular, did not leave everything I’m supposed to learn in one location. Hells, do you even have the basics?” Gizora’s tirade was delivered with significantly more emotion, venom, and passion than the arrogant rant of the construct, and he was stunned into silence for a brief moment while she panted and glared at her, her finger still stabbed against his flesh.

“.....I apologize for my outburst. I….. may have been a tad hasty, and caused us to start off on the wrong foot. 500 years is a long time to be alone, even at the edge of consciousness. My name is Nuammon, and I am a mentor spirit, a soul altered by the Master to train, guide, and accompany those who would follow in his footsteps. Unfortunately, I only have access to one of the magicks the Master based his version of necromancy around: soul magic. We will have to travel to the other tomb sites to collect the other 4 magicks.”

“Wait, his version of necromancy?” Gizora’s question visibly irritated the mentor spirit, who pursed his lips and rolled his eyes.

“Every spellcaster tends to have their own specific brand of their magic, but tend to fall into larger schools of doing things. The Master’s particular form of necromancy combines mastery of 5 separate magicks with the use of runes, which is far more complicated than the so-called necromancer killed in your village when you were a child,” Nuammon huffed. “I bet the oafish knockoff could barely summon skeletons to protect himself, and not even enhanced ones.”

Gizora pinched the bridge of her nose at the mentor spirit’s magical snobbery. What did she do to deserve this? Could she get out of this somehow? Just ditch Nuammon, forget this ever happened, and go back to risking her life with ancient ruins of questionable integrity? If only, but she was hooked, by the self-same curiosity that drove her to explore the ruins most avoided like religious solicitors.

“I’m sure there will be plenty of time to terrorize the local peasants once I have a better grasp on the magic. Now, could you kindly point me in the direction of the nearest tomb on the map, so we can collect all of the different magicks?”

Nuammon looked up from his near silent tirade against “sub-par necromancers who wouldn’t know proper magic if it was shoved up their ass and out their nose.” He thought for a second, before making a sweeping gesture with his hand. Following the path of his hand through the air, a 3 dimensional image of the map appeared. The same 5 rune marked skulls that grinned at her from the relief in the now collapsed tomb shone on the map, spread over several countries that probably hadn’t existed at the time the tombs were built. A glowing red “X” appeared near one of the skulls, presumably the tomb she had narrowly avoided making her own.

“Well, closest is relative. In a straight line, this tomb in the mountains is the closest. In distance actually travelled, accounting for change in elevation, this one on the edge of the Dark Wood is the closest. So, would you rather deal with the beasts of the mountains? Or approach the primordial Dark Wood?” Nuammon gestured as he spoke, the map reacting in kind, highlighting, zooming in and out, and spelling out names of notable areas in an elegant script. Unfortunately, the mentor spirit’s information was old. Over 500 years old, most likely.

“The one near where the Dark Wood used to be. It’s gotten pushed back recently, something about the local kingdom needing more farmland? Anyway, that one will be the easiest to get to. I just need to pack and I’m good to start making my way that direction. If I walk fast, we can make it in a little over a month! Only 36 days to the closest tomb! That’s awful! Time to pack!” And with that cheerful declaration, Gizora set about preparing for her journey.