A form of natural magic that her ancestors once used freely, but Sarah's blood is muddied and weak. Had she lived her life like her sisters and brother she would never had awakened the devouring magic. Many different factors fed into it. The flames of Lor Holdram, the fear and desperation of that day in the mines, but most importantly the very dust that has scarred and scoured her lungs. Magic always has a cost, but what if that cost has been payed over decades with no goal to use it for. The pain, death, and emotions all build up until the magic courses on its own. The dust in the air of Molthal is like this. It is charged with raw, latent magic. This raw power invaded her lungs and blood, awakening that ancient power in her veins.

The original cost of this magic was mere exhaustion. However, due to the state of Sarah's body her magic goes rampant inside of her. It tears through her injured, crippled limbs and forces them to work correctly. The cost of which is reliving the pain of having them heal incorrectly after every use. The remnants of the mine's dust also burns in her lungs whenever her magic activates, leaving her a hacking, coughing mess as soon as the magic ends.

While under the effects of her bloodline magic several things happen. Her strength, speed, and endurance are all increased well beyond her original limits. Her body obeys every whim and command she gives it. Her eyes burn with the white light of a hot forge, and cracks from which the same white glow drips run across her ruined flesh. Lastly, her mind is consumed with a lust for battle.

Despite utilizing the Ritual of Calling, Sarah's armour is no weaker than the traditional Ghost Mail. And in many ways it is more powerful. Her armour is made up of a collective of 99 wiling souls and a fragment of her own. Her armour is her Company. Her loyal followers and brave fighters. They give her not only strength and speed, but their collective expertise guide her strikes and movements. While wearing the armour she enjoys the ability to weave her way in and out of danger with a supernatural grace.

Not only this, but the spirits imbued in her armour are more active than in many others. They whisper guidance and warning in her ear and urge her to places of safety. She has made a name for herself upon Phorasmos by listening to them. Other Mourners trust in her leadership and follow her in expeditions that pierce ever further into the heart of the cursed island.

In addition to these wondrous effects, one more makes itself known. Her armour allows for her broken body to move correctly, though not without pain. She most be careful when she takes off her armour as her body will often violently and forcefully twist back upon itself into her crippled form. When this happens she requires assistance to force her broken body back into the armour. The process is distinctly painful and uncomfortable for those that assist her.

These heightened abilities, as of yet untapped, come with a cost. Her armour shifts in form as she passes the veil of the dead. What was once inky black becomes filled with a silvery light. She becomes a roiling beacon for the dead of Phorasmos. They seek her out with an unending hunger. Her own soul's condition becomes clear as well. Her flesh takes on an ethereal quality. The color fades from her eyes, turning them into a silvery gray, and her hair becomes stark white. In contrast to this her charred skin remains as solid and as blackened as ever.

Five living led her. Five mourners walked beside her. They walked inland into foggy banks and leafless trees. They walked away from the shore and the ocean's comforting winds. They walked as the ground turned from rich soil to sandy dirt. As thick green grasses turned into brittle yellow stems. As the ruins morphed into spectral buildings majestically carved. Great trees lined their path. Their physical reality split open in giant, white cracks. Ghostly copies burst forth from the dried husks and towered over them. Their branches crooked, sharp, and more often than not pointing directly at them. They were silent judges to their procession. They found them wanting, and from their silence rose the voices of the unquiet dead.

They laughed and cackled. They shrieked and wailed. They shouted and they whispered. So many words, so many words. They told them things, tried to tempt them from the path. They threatened them at other times. Things were thrown, only to dissolve into the mists. Shadows grew and danced around them. Twilight was upon them. They were upon the edge. The immaterial line that barely held the mindless dead at bay. Here they could just barely reach out. And here they were just barely safe. It was here, at this time, at the crossing of thresholds that the assembled procession were going to fulfill a rite. One unlike any other. The Ritual of Calling.

The spiritsmiths had all claimed it impossible. Five years was too long. None would come and the ritual would be a waste. But then an aberration, one who had appeared and for a reason no one knew, had told them otherwise. It told them that it would work. That despite her not having a spirit vessel, shards of their souls had clung to her. Cleaved themselves to her as tightly as her cloak hugged her shoulders. They weren't wrong. They had all noticed them. Especially the Mourners. They had watched as shadows and motes of silver light grew from her form. They trailed behind her like lowered wings. They hugged her broken and bent body. And as they walked the shades offered strength. Her stride lengthened and grew powerful. Her left foot straightened and her knee twisted back into place. Her back cracked straight and held her head up high. Her right arm, which had been naught but charred flesh, grew thick again with burnt muscle and renewed control. Her armor, worn strangely, now moved fluidly.

With her body held tight by these growing remnants, many of those around her finally noticed her height. And it was a rather daunting thing, especially for a woman. Standing just over a solid six feet and an inch she towered over several of them. Then the muttering started. Her lips moved and a soft voice dripped from them. They were words of apology, of thanks, of laughter, and of names. So many names. Her icy blue eyes stared at the veil. The fog thickened and it turned glassy. They could all see their reflections in the strange fog.

Then the spiritsmiths spread out in five directions on the living side. The aberration came and mirrored them, but did so amongst the dead. The mourners stood along the line, their weapons were drawn and they were ready. Sigils of power were carved from the hard dirt and spools of silver thread were laid out. Waters taken from the heart of the dead city filled the central basin. One large enough for a grown man to fully submerge themselves in. And fruits were brought out. But these were no ordinary fruits and were not meant for the living. Only one would eat of them, and then their guest would come to the feast.

It was at this point that a mourner handed a particularly large fruit to Sarah. She took it into her hands as she descended into the basin. She was careful not to cross its halfway mark, careful not to cross into the realm of the dead. Once she was submerged past her head, she took a bite. She had expected pain, but none came. Rapturous pleasure bloomed within her. A warm balm to the ever present pain. And then heat billowed. The water bubbled. Another bite. Ice flowed and the water froze. Another bite and heat came again. Another bite, and another, and another till the fruit was gone.

The Mourners watched her shadows. They grew and billowed as she feasted. They wrapped her up in a cloak of the night sky. But from it came a hot, white light. And then the shades spread out. The Mourners glanced at each other. Uncertainty and concern flashed between them. The shades grew and multiplied. They spread out behind the woman and seemingly kneeled. The Mourners looked to the dead. They had expected nothing of the ritual, despite the assurances of the aberrations. None of them had heard of a successful calling after five years. And yet, here they were. What was more concerning was that it wasn't only one spirit that came.

From the mists, more and more figures coalesced. Smiles adorned their faces. Happiness filled their eyes. All of them looked towards the woman. Some looked at her as though she was their child. Others saw their sister. More saw their friend. All of them saw their leader for whom they would brave the fields of Death. Then the Mourners heard her voice again. Only this time it wasn't whispered. Instead it commanded. It was names, so many names. Ninety-nine in total. And with each new one the figures lined up with their shades. With each new one they nodded and kneeled. With each new one they grew more solid. A hundredth name came.

"Sarah Lindwell," they all heard her clearly. They all heard her say her own name. What was stranger was that there was a response. Another black shade formed. Only, that this time it came from the fog rather than her shadow. It walked down into the pool. Sat across from her and also feasted on a fruit. Then a snap. The glassy fog shattered. The shades and spirits coalesced. Sarah was wrapped in a cloak of the midnight sky. Her opposite clothed in the moon's soft glow.

"I call you," she began again, "the Company of the Bloody Thorns."

"We hear," came a discordant response. It was made of a hundred voices all speaking in tandem. The effect was eerie and disconcerting. "As always, we follow. Our Lady." And then the shade cloaked in light knelt.