No one likes an ivory tower quite like a mage likes an ivory tower and no matter the school of magic, the world’s practitioners tend to keep apart. So much so that even though the farmfolk who follow the Corn goddess and the priest-caste who serve Lady Flame live together in the Barony, they don’t tend to mix much, and never take apprentices from outside their own peoples. They share the land, but the lines are clearly drawn.
Of course, the gods don’t care for lines drawn by men.
They certainly didn’t when they called Niamne of Sunvale to serve at the temple of Lady Flame. She was older than the other acolytes, and came from the farmfolk who worked the land and honored the Corn goddess. Strange magics were afoot that season, the elders claimed.
Of course, it wasn’t the first time strange magics had visited the people of the Barony. The Catacombs beneath the earth are as old as civilization itself, and far more vast than the sleepy hamlets and villages tucked into the green fields on top of them, and ruled by one man–the Dread Lord. The last necromancer, final heir to a tradition of the dead that some believe ought to have been long-dead and left in the dustbin of history in the face of progress.
Of course, the gods don’t like being told they’re out of date, either.
The dark Bone god may be so fearsome that none speak of him, but old traditions die hard, especially when they’re about honoring the dead. Orphios the Profane, the last necromancer, will have to remind the good folk that the oldest practices are traditions for very good reasons.