A name shrouded in the mists of time. A scheme of pure genius. A relic of the Mage Wars.
The Blood Beast, while originally a construct, has surpassed its beginnings to assume a place of infamy.
Blood. Ah, yes. Blood. Such a wonderful tool when you know how to use it. Welcome, my friend, to the wonderful world of Blood Magic.
...The ring slid onto her finger as if it were lovingly crafted just for her. Its diamond seemed to take in the sunlight, amplify and reflect it in every direction. Then almost immediately, the light waned and the stone went dark. Her throat clutched in a constricting gurgle before she slumped to the ground, still and lifeless.
The accepted mode of getting otherwise unobtainable information is to go visit the cranky old hermit living in the mountains. It's just the sensible thing to do. So, naturally, everyone takes their monthly excursion to the hermit's hovel to consult him on everything, from lock-jaw to lovesickness, necromancers to nasal viruses.
Now, if everyone's always visiting the poor old hermit, there's going to be an enormous queue... "Wellcome to the Hermitt's Hovele, Please Take Ye a Number and Have Ye a Seate" reads the sign outside the packed dwelling.
Imagine the poor hermit, having retreated into the mountains to escape this precise situation...