Ravenbreath

When a necromancer takes control of a freshly fallen corpse—just as the breath leaves, while the soul still lingers—something happens. The body fights back. Not loudly. Not violently. But deep within the bones, something resists. That resistance condenses, pooling pain, memory, and lingering life into a single, dense gem.

A bloodstone.

They form at random. Most never surface. But when they do, they’re warm—softly pulsing, like a wound that still remembers its owner. To the untrained, they look like nothing more than dark red crystal, sometimes marbled with vein-like streaks. But those who know better understand: this is life, stolen, trapped, and unfinished.

And in desperate hands, it becomes salvation. To use it is simple—press it to skin and speak nothing. The gem melts on contact, surging warmth into the wound. It heals. It restores. It does not ask who you took it from. But the blood remembers.

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