Magick is born of natural forces
love triumphant against all odds
the enchantment on mortal minds of beauty surmounting in the splendor of their forests
and in stranger places, darker, forbidden; for magick is not barred by intervention or interest
it defies mortal order, without agenda, blooming even from malice and the foulest festering wounds of cruelty

In such a place aforementioned arose the practice of necromancy
many, many years ago many thousands died of a sudden plague
that swallowed an entire kingdom off the map, casting its history into obscurity
all within the borders perished, thus the land was condemned by reason
and then abandoned by superstition, her neighbors offered no aid
fearful for their lives they turned away from the dying and dead season after season
alone they toiled and suffered, famine, pillaging and poverty, the shadow of a harvest scythe spreading over them was not delayed

With years the truth was all but myth, misplaced faithfully by historians in their books
and with masks full of theriac, resembling carrion birds, expeditions departed across the borders
often the doctors noted only the overgrowth of plants or ruins that once were towns, often so to ***** looks
for they were believed to be morbid and perverted, some were treated like witches and others like crooks
while the expeditionary doctors closed in on their consensus; that it was perfectly safe to tame the land
it was a young herbalist who discovered this sense of dread and darkness in the soil
where foreign flora, an unworldly brush and trees that dazed the senses stood
sprouted from the ashes at the site of ancient castle ruins, these Wyrd Wyrm Wood

She lived there, unnoticed having snuck beyond the open borders on a lie
and in her studies, became at one with the garden rooted in genocide
in tune with all the life, her toes bare in the dirt, breathing the air of that mad forest
the spirits adrift spoke to her on the wind, revealing their unrest
their lives ended by a sudden burst of poisonous clouds, respite and relief denied
begging as they choked on boils that burst in their throats, drowning in blood as allies on either side watched them die
all for the folly of a weapon launched from the North, falling short of the West, catapulting volleys of plague exploding in the sky
the outrage of thousands, with all the ancestors preceding them, and all the dead who walked before
fertilized in the land and shone down on by the heavens, came to her in the form of a king, so by the sword she swore:

As a Dark Druid, Necromancer and vengeful protector
of those innocently slaughtered, she bound this ghost king to her own soul
by the root of a blood-watered flower, ground by mortar and pestle  
the power to freeze bones while swinging the steel of the undead king,
with all the strength and knowledge of entire bloodlines behind her
she set forth, a ghost now forever tethered in her shadow
chained to each other, her life unnatural, she expelled the invaders
who neglected their duties only to feign woe over the drying ink of a treaty
then come to reap the benefits of benign promises.