The old forest. Not a place most occupants of the Dreadlord Academy frequented of their own volition. Few paths existed save the ones used to tread between distant academic building or graveyard. To forge off the paths was to take ones life in their hands, for there was more than simply Dreadlords and Initiates to worry about in the old forest.
Chasmine had spent the last several weeks scavenging the unturned areas of the academy in search of the past. In particular, in search of a ghost of the once ruthless Dreadlord Basmarc. A man who, 100 years ago or more, received top praises from his Proctors for carving himself a place in history as one of the greatest swordsmen of his time. She'd expected him to be buried among the rest of the noteworthy dead with a grand marker on his grave etched with words of respect upon his may achievements.
Strange how the mighty and lauded so easily fell.
She found his grave through means of sheer dumb luck, some deep diving in the library archives, and a bit of instinct. Another path, far overgrown due to many years of unkeep, stretched far away from the academy, linked only by a passage through the primary graveyard walls covered in thick, thorny vines. This trail, perhaps only used by the wildlife now, wound and serpentined deep into the forest through old growth trees and large crags. A cemetery for the dishonored where not even their graves were marked with their names.
It was well past midnight when Chasmine reached the location and she wasn't yet sure if she would stay long. Basmarc's ghost had been fabled to linger in the woods, loosing spectral howls under full moons. Tonight the crescent moon's light barely filtered through the fog. She stepped forward into a hodgepodge of jagged grave markers and looked around.
"Proctor Basmarc?" the girl called quietly, pale eyes surveying her surroundings. She felt silly doing so, but she'd gotten greater results with ghosts for less. At least she had a name to go by.