You find your calling in the old wilds, in hollows where daylight barely reaches and the ground feels alive underfoot. There you answer to the hamingje — spirits older than kindness, who expect to be fed in exchange for their power.
You learn to work as comfortably in decay as in growth, trading blood and ruin to keep the hamingje’s favor. What they give back cuts both ways: the same power that steadies an ally with borrowed grave-vigor can just as easily rot an enemy from within.
Wherever you settle, the land starts keeping your kind of company — roots that have learned the taste of the dead, ground that swallows whatever you lay on it, a weight in the air that outsiders mistake for bad luck. None of it strikes you as strange once it keeps happening around you.
It’s a lonely calling by design. You get used to a solitude the land never offers to soften, and you never quite shake the sense that whatever lives under the roots is watching you back just as closely.
What you get
- Blood rites and sacrifice offered to the hamingje in exchange for power
- Curses that spread sickness and decay through whatever opposes you
- Grave-born blessings that lend allies a share of the dead’s vigor
- Healing magic drawn from the same dark well as your curses
- A working bond with trees and earth, which feed on whatever you offer them
- A sense for the bad luck and heavy air that gathers where nature’s order breaks down
Who it suits
Players after a spellcasting path that refuses to sit neatly on either side of the healer/curser divide — comfortable with blood magic and sacrifice as tools, and drawn to grim, atmospheric roleplay in the deep wilds over straightforward fantasy heroics.