Munich
Munich’s home was a crooked structure wedged between leaning stone tenements, its windows pulsing with an eerie blue light that never dimmed. Inside, shelves buckled beneath the weight of jars—some misted, some trembling, others howling faintly like the wind through hollow bones. The necromancer worked by candlelight, each flame whispering against the dark as he traced sigils across the floorboards with a trembling hand. When the chant reached its end, a spirit would seep from its corpse, coil about his arm, and vanish into the waiting prison nearby.
To outsiders, Munich was a madman—one of the Rumpag’s countless eccentrics dabbling too close to blasphemy. Yet to those who sought his aid, he was a necessary evil. The old man could banish a haunting, silence a curse, or even return a murdered loved one for one final conversation.
To outsiders, Munich was a madman—one of the Rumpag’s countless eccentrics dabbling too close to blasphemy. Yet to those who sought his aid, he was a necessary evil. The old man could banish a haunting, silence a curse, or even return a murdered loved one for one final conversation.