[She can touch it. She can hear it. There is no more doubt left, as the screams of the dying who do not know themselves dead burrow into her skull without troubling themselves with her ears.]
Because I am a necromancer, and you are not.
[Those normal boots pivot on the steps, half-turned back towards Mike as she maintains the rumpled intensity of her expression, looking for all the world like someone working something stubborn out of her teeth with the tip of her tongue.
She could attempt a banishment. A sufficient ghost ward could be fashioned. There are enough materials for it, in her veins and his, let alone what already is freely offered on every surface, as infested with anchors as it may be. But it would take time, and she has reason to doubt that it would stick.]
This tower is haunted. [There is a simpler, much quicker kind of ward: practicality.] Anything you hear besides my voice isn't worth listening to, and if you hear me tell you to do anything particularly ludicrous - like lick the wall, or attempt to descend without the use of stairs - don't listen to that, either.
I will attempt mitigation. If you begin feeling possessed, make a fuss about it.
[With that, and no more, she faces back up the stairs and starts the ascent, her nails digging bloody half-crescents into her palms to ignite a low, throbbing hum of a ghost calling note. A child's kind of toy necromancy, the sort of thing they teach Fifth House infants in thrice warded rooms with their dear nannies' bones, but it will draw the attention of whatever stalks here to her instead of him.
This is practical. She really does hate dealing with possession.]
cw: minor self-injury (magical sacrifice)
[She can touch it. She can hear it. There is no more doubt left, as the screams of the dying who do not know themselves dead burrow into her skull without troubling themselves with her ears.]
Because I am a necromancer, and you are not.
[Those normal boots pivot on the steps, half-turned back towards Mike as she maintains the rumpled intensity of her expression, looking for all the world like someone working something stubborn out of her teeth with the tip of her tongue.
She could attempt a banishment. A sufficient ghost ward could be fashioned. There are enough materials for it, in her veins and his, let alone what already is freely offered on every surface, as infested with anchors as it may be. But it would take time, and she has reason to doubt that it would stick.]
This tower is haunted. [There is a simpler, much quicker kind of ward: practicality.] Anything you hear besides my voice isn't worth listening to, and if you hear me tell you to do anything particularly ludicrous - like lick the wall, or attempt to descend without the use of stairs - don't listen to that, either.
I will attempt mitigation. If you begin feeling possessed, make a fuss about it.
[With that, and no more, she faces back up the stairs and starts the ascent, her nails digging bloody half-crescents into her palms to ignite a low, throbbing hum of a ghost calling note. A child's kind of toy necromancy, the sort of thing they teach Fifth House infants in thrice warded rooms with their dear nannies' bones, but it will draw the attention of whatever stalks here to her instead of him.
This is practical. She really does hate dealing with possession.]