Hohenfels

…third generation of students, ten years… communing with spirits of the land, Gods of Eld… Mandrake shavings and thornapple leaves… Lord of Storm and Thunder…

Arne compared the notes he wrote down from memory with the contents of his diary, growing increasingly concerned. The contents of the lesson remained clear in his mind, and so did the memory of calling upon the name of a Forgotten One.

However, when it came to remembering details about Professor Nowak personally, his notes were less precise. Not even an entire day had passed, and he had already forgotten the exact number of years the shaman had been teaching at the academy. He still could remember that part of the conversation now that he knew what he was looking for, but recalling it felt like pulling a soaked boot out of a puddle of mud. Entirely doable, but tedious, sloggy, and annoying.

The banesilver, while clearly effective, did not inhibit the entirety of whatever the Professor was doing. Had the first lesson been less fruitful, Arne would have seriously considered cutting all ties to Nowak, and perhaps even his neck in the process. But as it stood, he was willing to take the risk.

Ritual magic was only the tip of the iceberg of what the shaman could teach him. Even if none of it had immediate practical implications, it was increasingly likely that he could at the very least use this knowledge when dealing with the Khan’s shamans. And anything that helped with handling those pests would be a major boon for future campaigns.

Arne leaned back in his desk chair, humming to himself. He could scarcely believe what kind of potential treasure trove he had discovered by sheer luck.

Releasing a tiny amount of magic, he softly whispered, “Donar.”

Nothing happened.

“Donar!”