Stormcallers weave Air and Water magic together, their spells reaching heights of devastation in concert they could not achieve individually.
Just as a storm cannot be wind or rain alone, the Stormcaller must combine spells to reach peak devastation. They thus take longer to warm up than other mages and are vulnerable to foes who know how to interrupt their rotation.
It is said the Stormcaller Amunet could stop a man’s heart with the shock of her touch. Yet before she joined Thorvin Sternhammer’s crusade to imprison Greenscale, Amunet was called the Weather Witch of the Emerald March. Without the Justicar’s intercession, she would have burned at the stake as a heretic and dragon-pawn.
In the rich farmlands of the March, Thorvin’s band encountered a land beset by harsh storms and persistent frosts that had left fields washed out and barren. The March folk lay blame on the Eth woman Amunet, who stuck out with her swarthy skin and pale white hair threaded with silver. The crusaders found her bound to a stake in the village square of Smith’s Haven, surrounded by villagers bearing torches. Thorvin stepped forth as the hand of divine judgment, and bid them allow him to confront the condemned.
“Do you have the power they accuse you of?” he asked her.
“I do,” Amunet responded emotionlessly.
“Did you cause the frost?”
“I did,” said the witch.
A smirk curled on her lips. “At last, someone bothers to ask.”
As his men kept the villagers at bay, Thorvin untied Amunet. She led the party onto the March, where frost withered the delicate leaves of the seedlings. The Elven ranger Durnes wrinkled her nose, as the plants were rank with planar taint. The witch explained that she had discovered Greenscale’s minions seeding the land with pods from the Plane of Life, and called in the storms to keep them from blooming.
Together, they laid a trap for the Lifetouched wretches. The heavy rains quelled and the frosts receded when Amunet released the spells she had cast on the land. Thorvin’s party hid themselves within the field. That very night, human cultists stole through the farmland, sewing the earth with corrupted seeds.
Amunet surprised Thorvin’s crusaders with her command of weather magic. She stood back from the fray, shielding herself with gales that threw back the cultists like rag dolls. She encircled the cultists in frost, inflicting the deep chills of hypothermia. Lightning danced down from the sky, bursting single targets like ripe grapes or arcing between wretches in a terrifying game of leap frog. Though each crusader felled many cultists, Amunet racked up victims by the score.
When it was over, they found a member of almost every local family among the slain villains. Disgusted, Amunet decided it was time to leave the March, and Thorvin offered her a place in his band, the legendary hunting party destined to bring down gluttonous Greenscale.
”Should you feel a chill in your bones, or an electric current in the air, you may want to run very far, very fast. You can no more hide from my lightning than block hoarfrost with a shield.”