Zoma inhaled deeply and began their preparations. First, they circled the altar with a line of powdered bone, a basic precaution when dealing with unknown artifacts of potentially demonic origin. Next, they muttered a series of incantations, coaxing the latent necromantic energy in their veins to stir. They extended their hands over the crystals, palms down, fingers splayed, and let their energy flow outward, seeking any response.
For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, thick and heavy. Then, faint pulses began to ripple through the air—like the heartbeat of something long dead, resonating with their own energy. Zoma furrowed their brow. This was not the simple reaction of a necromantic artifact. No, this was something older, a raw and chaotic magic that defied easy classification.
Curious, Zoma adjusted their stance, aligning their hands to channel the pulses back towards theem. As they did, a shiver ran up their spine. The magic, if it could be called that, wasn’t one they recognized. It felt almost primal, as if it belonged to the very bones of the earth. They wondered, briefly, if they were venturing too close to forces they could not hope to control. But the thought only fueled their curiosity. They pressed onward, probing deeper with their energy, testing the crystal’s boundaries.
Minutes turned into hours as Zoma persisted. They tried different incantations, varied the flow of their own magic, and even doused the crystals in a mixture of salt and ash to see if it would draw out any hidden properties. Each attempt met with only subtle changes in the pulsing rhythm, each more mysterious than the last.
Frustration crept into their mind, but Zoma pushed it aside. They knew this was the nature of their craft: long hours of silence, punctuated by the occasional whisper of revelation. As they packed away their tools and extinguished the torches, Zoma glanced back at the crystals one last time. They sat as still and inscrutable as ever, a puzzle they had yet to solve. But they were far from done.
