CHAPTER 3: THE SKELETON FLEET
The morning air was sharp and bracing as John soared above the frost-covered landscape, his wings cutting through the cold breeze. The river stretched out beneath him, a ribbon of icy blue winding its way through the snowy expanse. Frostholm had faded into the distance, and with it, the comforting hum of familiarity. This was uncharted territory, and the weight of his mission pressed heavily on his shoulders.
Hours passed as he scanned the terrain, his keen eyes searching for signs of life. Eventually, he spotted the faint remnants of a village nestled against the treeline. Smoke rose faintly in the distance—not the steady plume of a hearth, but the thin, erratic wisps of a dying fire. He adjusted his course, descending toward the settlement.
As his boots hit the snow, John took in the scene. The village was a ruin. Houses lay collapsed, their structures broken and charred. Bloodstains marred the ground, frozen into the icy crust. It was clear that this place had seen violence, and recently.
A faint sound reached his ears—a shuffle of movement from the trees. He turned, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his sword. From the shadows emerged a woman, tall and broad-shouldered, with a spear held firmly in her hands. Her face was streaked with dirt, and her eyes were sharp with suspicion. Behind her, a handful of figures lingered among the trees, their shapes half-hidden by the frost-covered branches.
“Stay where you are!” the woman barked, leveling her spear at John.
John raised his hands slowly, his wings folding neatly against his back. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “I’m from Frostholm. I came looking for survivors.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, her grip on the spear unwavering. “Survivors? Or scavengers?”
John took a careful step forward, his expression serious. “Survivors. I know what it’s like to lose everything. I’ve seen what Varrosk can do.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her suspicion unwavering. “What does Frostholm want with us?”
“To help,” John said, his voice firm. “Frostholm is preparing for what’s coming. We’re building something strong enough to stand against Varrosk. But we can’t do it alone. We need people—people like you—to stand with us.”
The woman’s eyes flicked briefly to his wings, then back to his face. “And why should we trust you? You show up out of nowhere, with promises of safety. That’s what they said, too, before they burned our homes.”
John sighed, lowering his hands. “I understand why you’re skeptical. But I’m not them. I fought the Warden. I killed him.”
That caught her attention. The survivors behind her exchanged uneasy glances, their murmurs faint but audible.
“You killed the Warden?” the woman asked, her tone a mix of disbelief and curiosity.
“Yes,” John said, his voice steady. “He was a monster who terrorized everyone in his path. But he’s gone now—because of me. And I’m telling you this because I want you to understand: I’m not here to take from you. I’m here to offer you a chance. Frostholm can be a place to rebuild, to fight back instead of just running.”
The woman studied him for a long moment, her spear still poised but her stance less rigid. “If that’s true, then why do you need us? If you’re so strong, why not fight Varrosk on your own?”
“Because no one can do this alone,” John said. “Not me, not Frostholm, not you. This fight isn’t about one village or one person—it’s about all of us. If we don’t stand together, we’ll all fall apart.”
The woman lowered her spear slightly, her expression softening just enough to show she was considering his words. “I’m Ragna,” she said finally. “These are my people—what’s left of them. We’ll come with you to Frostholm. But if this is a trap...”
“It’s not,” John interrupted, his voice firm. “You have my word.”
Ragna nodded, stepping back to gather her people. As the survivors emerged from the trees, clutching what little they had left, John felt the weight of their trust settling on him. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he was determined not to let them down.
“Let’s move,” he said, his wings unfurling. “It’s a long way back.”
As they began their journey, the ruins of the village fading into the distance, John couldn’t help but wonder how many more places like this The Warden had left in his wake—and how many more people like Ragna needed someone to believe in.
The forest was dense, the trees towering above with their frost-covered branches forming a near impenetrable canopy. John moved cautiously, his wings tucked tightly against his back as he navigated the uneven terrain. The air was thick with an eerie quiet, broken only by the crunch of snow beneath his boots and the faint rustle of distant wildlife.
His flight earlier had revealed an unusual cluster of stonework hidden deep in the woods—a place untouched by time and seemingly forgotten. Now, standing before it, John could see the remnants of an ancient structure: crumbling walls entwined with vines and frost, the faint outline of what might have once been a shipwright’s workshop. The heavy scent of decay lingered in the air, mingled with something far older, something... magical.
“This has to be it,” John muttered, stepping forward. The ground beneath him was littered with shards of stone and fragments of rotted wood, a testament to the centuries that had passed since the building’s prime.
Inside, the temperature seemed to drop even further. The walls were lined with faded carvings depicting longships of extraordinary design—hulking vessels with skeletal figureheads and sails that seemed to shimmer with ethereal light. At the center of the room stood an altar, its surface covered in intricate runes glowing faintly in shades of blue and green.
John approached the altar cautiously, his instincts on high alert. Resting atop it was a large, weathered tome, its cover adorned with the same runic patterns that decorated the walls. He reached out hesitantly, feeling the faint hum of power that radiated from the book. The title etched into its surface made his breath catch:
The Tome of Forgotten Tides, Volume II.
A system prompt flashed into view, its translucent letters hovering just above the tome:
[QUEST UNLOCKED: Raise the Dead Fleet]
Objective: Build an undead longship from enchanted materials and summon a skeletal crew to man it.
Reward: +2 Settlement Points, naval dominance, and expanded necromantic capabilities.
John exhaled slowly, a mix of awe and trepidation washing over him. He flipped open the tome, its pages filled with diagrams and incantations detailing the construction of necromantic ships. One illustration depicted a longship formed from enchanted bones, its mast crowned with glowing runes and its figurehead an imposing skeletal dragon.
“This is incredible,” he murmured, tracing a finger over the ancient text. But as he read further, the words began to take on a darker tone. Warnings were scrawled in the margins, written by a hand that seemed desperate:
“Beware the cost.”
“The river remembers.”
“Once the tide is summoned, it cannot be turned back.”
John’s brow furrowed, the cryptic warnings sending a chill down his spine. He closed the tome, its weight feeling heavier than before. Whatever power this artifact held, it wasn’t without consequences.
He glanced around the room once more, taking in the carvings and the altar. This place wasn’t just a workshop—it was a gateway to something much larger, something that might tip the balance of their fight against Varrosk. But at what cost?
A choice loomed before him: abandon the tome and walk away, or embrace the knowledge within and use it to strengthen Frostholm.
John tightened his grip on the book. “Frostholm needs this,” he said aloud, as if trying to convince himself. “Whatever the cost, we’ll figure it out.”
He turned and left the ruin, the tome clutched tightly under one arm. As he emerged back into the forest, the wind picked up, carrying with it the faint whisper of something ancient and unknowable.
John shook it off, his resolve hardening. He had a quest to complete, and Frostholm’s survival might depend on it.
The longhouse was alive with chatter as the villagers gathered to hear John’s report. The fire in the hearth blazed brightly, casting flickering shadows across the walls adorned with shields and tapestries. Freya stood near the head of the table, her axe leaning against her chair, while Egil, Bjorn, and the other elders took their places. Magnus loomed at the back, his skeletal frame as imposing as ever.
John entered, his wings folded neatly against his back, carrying The Tome of Forgotten Tides, Volume II under one arm. Beside him was Ragna, her fierce gaze sweeping across the room. Behind her, several of her clan members lingered, their wary expressions betraying their unease in the unfamiliar setting.
Freya broke the murmuring with her sharp tone. “Alright, Bone Caller, let’s hear it. What did you find out there?”
John placed the tome on the table with a thud, its ancient cover drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “A lot,” he said. “First, I found survivors. Ragna and her people—what’s left of them—are here because they believe Frostholm can offer them something Varrosk can’t: a chance to fight back.”
Ragna stepped forward, her voice steady but edged with skepticism. “We’ll see if that trust is well-placed. We’re here because we have no other choice—but that doesn’t mean we’ll follow blindly.”
Freya nodded in approval, her gaze meeting Ragna’s. “Good. Blind followers aren’t worth much. We fight because we choose to, not because we’re forced to.”
John gave Freya a small nod of thanks before continuing. “Second, I found this.” He gestured to the tome. “It’s another part of the Tome of Forgotten Tides. This one contains... instructions. Necromantic instructions for building undead longships and crew.”
The room fell silent, the air thick with tension. Bjorn leaned forward, his expression dark. “More necromancy? Is that really what we need right now?”
Egil tapped his staff against the floor, drawing attention. “Necromancy is a tool, no more or less dangerous than the hand that wields it. If this longship can help us control the river, it may tip the scales in our favor.”
Freya crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering. “What exactly are you proposing, John?”
“I’m proposing that we build this ship,” John said. “The tome outlines how to use enchanted bones and other materials to create a vessel that doesn’t tire, doesn’t sink, and doesn’t need a living crew. It could give us control of the river, the ability to scout farther, raid Varrosk’s supply lines, and defend Frostholm.”
Bjorn scowled. “And what’s the cost?”
John hesitated. The warnings in the tome were still fresh in his mind, but he met Bjorn’s gaze head-on. “There’s always a cost. But the alternative is doing nothing while Varrosk grows stronger. I won’t let that happen.”
Egil nodded approvingly. “A wise perspective. The river is our lifeblood, as it is theirs. If we control it, we control our future.”
Freya glanced around the room, her sharp gaze daring anyone to object. “Then it’s settled. We’ll build the ship. But John, you’ll need to explain every step of the process to the village. If people are uneasy about this, they need to understand why we’re doing it.”
John nodded. “Agreed. And I’ll need help integrating Ragna’s people into the village. We need every able fighter we can get.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Ragna raised an eyebrow. “And what if my fighters don’t want to take orders from skeletons?”
Freya smirked. “Then they’ll have to get over it. Here in Frostholm, we fight with what we’ve got. And right now, that includes John’s undead army.”
The room shifted as villagers murmured among themselves. Despite the tension, there was an undercurrent of resolve. They were a village of survivors, and they understood the stakes.
As the meeting adjourned, Freya pulled John aside. “You’ve got a lot riding on this, Bone Caller. Don’t screw it up.”
John gave her a faint smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
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UPDATED SETTLEMENT NUMBERS:
* Population: 122 (87 villagers, including 18 children and 25 non-combatants)
* Clan Fighters: 35 trained (Level range: 5–10, equipped with dark steel weapons and a mix of light armor and heavy armor)
As the villagers dispersed, John couldn’t help but feel the weight of their expectations. Ragna’s people had thrown their lot in with Frostholm, and the longship was now more than just a project—it was a symbol of hope.
The challenges ahead loomed large, but John was determined to rise to them.
The Frostholm docks were a hive of activity, the air filled with the rhythmic pounding of hammers and the chatter of villagers. Snow had been cleared from the area, leaving only the frozen earth and scattered footprints from the bustle of preparation. John stood at the center of it all, the Tome of Forgotten Tides, Volume II open on a sturdy wooden table nearby. His hands were outstretched as necromantic energy swirled around him, casting faint blue-green light across the scene.
Magnus stood to one side, directing a group of skeleton workers with sharp, precise commands. The skeletal laborers moved with eerie coordination, hauling large, enchanted bones into place to form the framework of the longship. Their glowing eyes flickered faintly as they followed Magnus’s orders.
Freya paced nearby, her sharp gaze sweeping across the dock as she barked instructions to the villagers. “Reinforce the supports! The last thing we need is the dock collapsing under the weight of this thing!”
The longship was already taking shape, its design unlike anything the villagers had ever seen. The hull, made entirely of polished bones fused with frost-covered wood, glowed faintly with runic inscriptions. The prow extended forward in the shape of a skeletal dragon’s head, its jaws open in a fearsome snarl. Runes traced along its length pulsed in time with the energy flowing from John’s hands.
“This is... unsettling,” one villager muttered, his voice low but not low enough to escape Freya’s notice.
“Unsettling is watching your village burn because we weren’t prepared,” Freya snapped. “Focus on the work.”
John glanced toward Freya, offering her a faint smile of gratitude before turning back to the tome. “Alright, next step. We need to bind the structure together with runic stabilization.” He pointed to a passage in the book, then gestured toward the hull. “Magnus, have your crew hold everything steady. This part’s going to take some finesse.”
Magnus gave a sharp nod. “Skeletons, hold position! And no collapsing on the job, or I’ll reassemble you just to chew you out.”
John knelt beside the ship, his hands glowing with necromantic energy as he traced intricate patterns onto the bone-and-wood frame. The runes flared to life as he completed each one, locking the structure together with a faint hum of power. As he worked, the ship seemed to breathe, its frame pulsing as if alive.
Freya approached, her arms crossed as she observed. “You’re getting better at this,” she said, her tone grudgingly impressed.
“Thanks,” John replied, not looking up from his work. “Turns out trial and error works wonders when failure means everyone dies.”
Freya smirked but said nothing, watching as he finished the last rune. The ship shuddered slightly, then stilled, its glow stabilizing.
The villagers gathered at the edge of the dock, murmuring among themselves as the ship loomed before them. Its dark, otherworldly aura was impossible to ignore, and despite Freya’s reassurances, unease rippled through the crowd.
One elder stepped forward, his voice trembling. “Bone Caller... is this ship safe? Or have we unleashed something we can’t control?”
John straightened, brushing snow off his hands. “It’s safe,” he said firmly. “This ship isn’t a weapon—it’s a tool. One we’re going to use to protect Frostholm and take the fight to Varrosk.”
The elder hesitated, then nodded, stepping back into the crowd.
Freya stepped up beside John, her voice low. “You’re going to have to keep proving that to them, you know.”
“I know,” John said, his gaze lingering on the ship. “But I’d rather prove it with results than words.”
Magnus clapped his bony hands together, his tone dry. “Speaking of results, I think our crew could use some practice. You’ve got the skeletons; I’ll whip them into shape.”
“Thanks, Magnus,” John said with a smirk. “Try not to traumatize them too much.”
“No promises,” Magnus replied, already turning to his charges.
Freya placed a hand on John’s shoulder, grounding him. “You’ve done good work here, Bone Caller. Now let’s make sure it pays off.”
John nodded, his resolve firm. The longship wasn’t just a vessel—it was a symbol of hope, a weapon against the overwhelming odds they faced. As he watched the skeletal workers make the final adjustments, he felt a flicker of pride amidst the weight of responsibility.
The ship stood ready for its first test. And whatever came next, John was determined to make it
a success.
The icy river glimmered under the pale light of an overcast sky as John stood on the deck of the newly constructed longship. The air was crisp, filled with the sound of creaking bones and the faint hum of necromantic energy emanating from the runes that lined the ship’s hull. The skeletal crew stood eerily still, awaiting his command. Magnus moved among them, inspecting their readiness with sharp, calculating motions.
Freya leaned against the ship’s railing, her expression a mix of curiosity and skepticism. “Well, Bone Caller,” she said, breaking the silence, “you built it. Now let’s see if this thing can actually float.”
John let out a slow breath, gripping the edges of the Tome of Forgotten Tides he held in one hand. The words from the quest prompt echoed in his mind—“Once the tide is summoned, it cannot be turned back.”
“Alright,” he muttered, glancing at Magnus. “Get the crew ready. We’re taking her out.”
Magnus gave a sharp nod. “Skeletons! Stations! Let’s move like we’ve got marrow in our bones!”
The skeletal sailors snapped into motion, their movements precise and efficient. They adjusted the sails—made from a combination of enchanted fabric and necrotic sinew—and began pushing the ship away from the dock with long, rune-inscribed oars. The dragon-shaped prow loomed menacingly over the river, its hollow eyes glowing faintly with a cold, blue light.
The ship glided onto the water, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, with a faint groan of settling timber and bone, it stabilized, floating evenly atop the surface.
Freya raised an eyebrow, her smirk betraying a touch of genuine approval. “Alright, John. I’ll admit, it’s impressive. But floating is the easy part. Let’s see if it can sail.”
John smiled faintly, holding up the tome. With a whispered incantation, he sent a pulse of necromantic energy surging through the ship. The runes along the hull flared to life, and the sails billowed as if caught by an invisible wind. The longship began to move, cutting through the water with surprising speed.
“Not bad,” Freya said, gripping the railing as the ship picked up pace.
Magnus leaned against the mast, his skeletal jaw tilted in what might have been approval. “She’s a beauty, Bone Caller. I’ll give you that. Now let’s see how she handles a little turbulence.”
John nodded, steering the ship toward a section of the river littered with chunks of ice. The skeletal crew moved in unison, adjusting the oars and sails to navigate the obstacles. For a while, the ship performed admirably, weaving between the frozen debris with smooth precision.
But as they neared the center of the river, the current grew stronger. The skeletal oarsmen struggled to maintain their rhythm as the water pushed against them, and the ship began to veer off course.
“Steady!” John called, gripping the rail as the ship lurched to one side.
Magnus barked orders to the crew, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Pull harder, you brittle excuses for sailors! Unless you want to become riverbed decoration!”
Freya grabbed John’s arm, her eyes sharp. “The current’s too strong. We need to turn back before we hit something.”
“I’ve got this,” John said, though his tone betrayed his uncertainty. He closed his eyes, focusing his energy into the ship, reinforcing the runes that held it together.
The ship responded, its movements becoming steadier, but it was too late. A massive chunk of ice loomed ahead, caught in the current. The skeletal oarsmen couldn’t adjust in time, and the ship’s hull scraped against the ice with a jarring crunch.
John cursed under his breath, the glow of the runes dimming momentarily before stabilizing. The ship remained intact, but the damage was evident—a section of the hull bore deep gouges, the exposed bone splintered and uneven.
Freya gave him a hard look. “We’re done here. Let’s get back to Frostholm before you turn your fancy ship into kindling.”
Reluctantly, John nodded, guiding the ship back toward the docks. The return journey was slower, the skeletal crew visibly struggling to maintain their pace. By the time they reached Frostholm, the once-mighty longship looked less like a fearsome weapon and more like a battered experiment.
As the ship docked, villagers gathered along the shoreline, their murmurs carrying a mix of curiosity and unease. The sight of the damaged hull didn’t help.
Freya hopped onto the dock, turning to face John. “Well, that could’ve gone worse. At least it didn’t sink.”
John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. But it’s not exactly a glowing success either.”
Magnus stepped off the ship, his tone as dry as ever. “It’s a start. And considering it’s your first undead longship, I’d say it didn’t go completely boneheaded.”
Freya smirked. “He’s right. Take the lessons, fix what you need to, and try again. This ship has potential, but it’s going to take work.”
John nodded, his resolve hardening. The first voyage had been rough, but it wasn’t a failure—it was a step forward. As he watched the villagers disperse, their whispers lingering in the air, he silently vowed to make the longship everything Frostholm needed it to be.
This was just the beginning.
The longhouse was quiet except for the soft crackle of the central hearth. John sat at the head of the long table, the Tome of Forgotten Tides resting beside him as he pulled up the settlement screen. The familiar translucent interface hovered in front of him, its glowing runes and system prompts a stark reminder of the choices that lay ahead.
[Quest Complete: Raise the Dead Fleet]
Rewards Earned:
* 2 Settlement Points
* Unlock: Naval Capability – Undead Longship
John’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. Despite the rocky maiden voyage of the longship, the completion of the quest was a tangible step forward. He dismissed the notification and navigated to the Settlement Upgrades tab. The skeletal barracks flashed, indicating available upgrades.
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[Upgrade: Skeletal Garrison Capacity]
Description: Expand the garrison to house an additional 25 skeletal warriors, increasing Frostholm’s defensive capabilities.
Benefits:
* Total capacity increased to 40 skeletal guards.
* Unlocks advanced squad formations.
* Allows Magnus to command larger tactical units.
Requirements:
* Bones: 500
* Mana Infusion: 150
* Settlement Points: 2
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John confirmed the upgrade, and the screen pulsed with light as the settlement began its transformation. A soft rumble echoed outside, followed by a faint glow from the direction of the barracks. Through the interface, John watched an animated depiction of the skeletal warriors marching into an expanded garrison. The structure now radiated necromantic energy, its walls reinforced with dark runes and bone-like spires that loomed protectively over Frostholm.
“Done,” John muttered to himself. He closed the screen and rose from the table, turning as Magnus entered the longhouse.
“Well?” Magnus asked, his hollow sockets seeming to glint with curiosity.
John smirked. “Congratulations, Captain. You’ve got more troops to train.”
Magnus clapped his bony hands together, the sound oddly satisfying. “About time. I’ll get them sorted and drilled. These new recruits had better keep up—or I’ll be reassembling them for months.”
Freya stepped into the longhouse then, shaking snow from her cloak. She raised an eyebrow at Magnus’s enthusiasm. “Looks like someone’s happy.”
John gestured toward the barracks visible through the window. “We’ve expanded the garrison. Magnus gets to boss around a few dozen more skeletons now.”
Freya chuckled, then turned her attention to John. “That’s good news. But if you’re serious about this longship, you’ll need someone who knows the river and how to lead at sea. Magnus is fine on land, but we’ll need more experience on the water.”
“You’re right,” John said, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “Do you have someone in mind?”
Freya leaned against the table, her expression sharp. “There’s a woman named Astrid. She was a sea raider before Varrosk took her clan’s shipyards. Tough as nails and smarter than most captains I’ve seen. She’s holed up with some survivors near the coast.”
“Think she’ll agree to join us?” John asked.
Freya smirked. “If we give her a reason to. She’s not one to follow blindly, but if you show her this longship and let her know you mean business, she might come around.”
John nodded. “Alright. Find her and bring her back. If she’s half as good as you say, we’ll need her.”
“I’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Freya said, pushing off the table. “In the meantime, you’d better start thinking about your next steps, Bone Caller. The longship’s just the beginning.”
As Freya left the longhouse, Magnus lingered, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “You’re building something here, Bone Caller. Just don’t forget that it takes more than magic and bones to hold it all together.”
John met Magnus’s gaze—or rather, his empty sockets—and nodded. “I won’t. We’re in this together.”
As the longhouse grew quiet again, John sat back down, his thoughts turning to the days ahead. The undead longship was a step forward, but it was only a piece of the puzzle. The river was still a battleground waiting to be claimed, and Frostholm was far from safe.
But for now, there was progress, and in this world, that was enough.