The necromancer kept the forest at the center of her demesne in a state of perpetual autumn. It wasn’t a dead wood, but forever on the cusp. The canopy of vermillion and gold celebrated the beauty of the final moments, the view from the Bridge over the River.
Her colleagues visited her often These necromancers were invariably dressed in black and gray, and traveled in ebon coaches drawn by skeletal horses. They marveled at her colorful forest, and inquired how she drew power from it.
She didn’t, actually, but she considered the aesthetics important. “Have some style guys,” she’d huff.

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