Marché was preparing to lead a group of Gravewalkers down from the castle when Lieze emerged from her room. As Lüngen had predicted, she quickly demanded that every thrall arranged for the ritual be returned to their original masters. He hadn’t a clue what had triggered the reversal of her plans, but he wasn’t in a position to protest - no matter how long it took to arrange.
The task took him nearly the entire day to accomplish, even with Lüngen’s help. He had been content to leave the thralls on the wide throughways leading towards Tonberg’s gates, but as the cult’s manpower surged into the thousands, he was forced to consider alternative methods of storage to avoid clogging every street with undead monstrosities.
Homes, warehouses, pubs - anything with space that was out of the way, relatively dry, and had walls thick enough to keep in the incessant moaning. Cultists would pop by to lend him the occasional hand, with the notable exception of Roland and his Deathguards, who turned on their heels or clicked their tongues whenever Marché was sighted.
It was a problem he had ignored up to that moment. Sokalar’s former subordinates hadn’t taken too well to associating themselves with a gaggle of corpse-raisers from the big city. They ignored his requests, immunised themselves to his rightful authority, and would leave heaps of work unfinished to be concluded by those under Marché’s direct command.
It was a matter best adjudicated by Lieze herself, but Marché knew that acting the snitch would only push the Deathguards’ prejudice into secrecy. If he desired respect from his peers, he would have to earn it - a tall task against necromancers steeled to the horrors of death.
He and his comrades’ alienation would come to a head that night. When the responsibilities of the day vanished, Lieze allowed her followers an hour or two of free time to do with as they pleased. It became something of a ritual to congregate within the Golden Flagon at nightfall, either to drink or gamble or discuss the next day’s events.
Roland was most often the ringleader of such meetings. He was young and fair-skinned and scrawny, but well-known and liked for his charisma. Few had the courage to refuse so much as a request in passing from him, either to deliver another bottle of ale or fulfil responsibilities in his stead. He did not despise Marché, but kept the two’s followers separated by social expectation and hierarchy - the original Deathguards versus the woeful sewer dwellers of Tonberg.
Drinks were shared, jeers were had, and the night deepened until every one of them dispersed to find their way home through the darkness. At least, that had been the ritual until one night in particular, when the ale had been imbibed with a tad more enthusiasm than was respectable.
“Marché!”
He heard his name called from the other end of the tavern, where a circle of shawls were formed around the largest table. He exchanged quick glances with the patrons seated at his own before scraping his chair along the floor with a screech, wobbling to both feet, and wandering over to the commotion.
The necromancers stood aside to reveal a rosy-cheeked Roland twisting the blade of his dagger into the wood, flanked by a pair of hooded members with hands wrapped around half-cups of spiced ale.
“How long have you been under Lieze, Marché?” Roland asked.
There came silence. All eyes were turned on the curly-haired necromancer. Marché felt as if a spotlight had been focused upon him. He cleared his throat involuntarily.
“...A month? Maybe not even that.” He answered, “But I’d wager I’ve seen more than a month’s worth of trouble compared to most necromancers.”
“A month.” Roland repeated, “Were you ever initiated?”
“You’ll have to be more specific than that.” He replied.
“Everyone in the Deadlands became a necromancer at one point or another, but that doesn’t mean we were all initiated.” Roland sniffed, “It wasn’t just Sokalar’s responsibility to weed out the weaklings. We had our own methods of finding out, and if you weren’t up to snuff, you didn’t have a chance of being called our equal.”
“‘Equal’, you say…” Marché paused, “-And what does this initiation involve, exactly?”
“It’s different for everyone. But one factor remains the same.” Roland held up his index finger to illustrate the point, “If you fail, then you die.”
A few reserved chuckles broke out from the crowd. Marché could tell where the conversation was going.
“...Then no.” He replied, “I was never initiated.”
“I figured as much.” Roland nodded, “We may as well do it now, then.”
“Wouldn’t it be Lieze’s responsibility to carry out something like this?”
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“You’re not trying to prove yourself to Lieze.” He said, “This is a test to see if you’re worthy of our respect. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but most of the Deathguards aren’t too pleased about being outranked by an outsider. They all survived their initiations - myself included. Don’t you see how unfair that is?”
Marché dragged out the chair opposite Roland and parked himself at the table.
“An initiation…” He repeated, “It sounds interesting. I’ll gladly take part.”
Roland grinned. It revealed a deep ugliness beneath his boyish and soft features. He pointed towards one of the necromancers standing around the table, “You. Go get a bottle of that Dwarven acid from the bar. And you - go find a candle. A long one.”
His subordinates worked quickly, returning within half a minute with both items in hand. The tall, dark bottle was unremarkable until Roland tore the cork out with some effort. From the neck wafted an intolerably powerful odour that forced one’s nose to wrinkle. It reminded Marché of the lingering stench of the alchemy laboratory hidden beneath Tonberg’s castle, only a thousand times stronger.
“This is- urgh!” Roland brought an arm across his nose, “Believe it or not, this is something those lunatics up north consider a delicacy. They call it ‘Dragon Spit’.”
The candle was placed on Marché’s side of the table. It was long and unremarkable. Roland brought over a cup that was shorter than the rest and poured in a helping of the Dwarven spirit until the lip was close to overflowing. He handed it off to a peer, who circled around to Marché and ever-so-gently placed the cup upon his head, coming to rest unsteadily within his bush of rust-red hair.
“What is this?” He asked, almost excited to hear the answer.
“This is one we’ve done before - not often, mind you. Alcohol is a rarity in the Deadlands.” Roland answered, “Pick up that candle.”
He did so, and another Deathguard appeared over him with forbidden fire hovering at their fingertip. Touching it to the wick, the candle soon had a healthy flame burning over its wax shell. Marché couldn’t allow much of a reaction - if he so much as twitched, the cup on his head would spill and cover him with a pungent slick that he feared wouldn’t wash off.
“Good. You’ll want to stay like that.” Roland suppressed a hiccup from deep in his throat, “Dragon Spit has a very troublesome history of flammability, you see. Of course, any spirit should never come into contact with a naked flame, but Dwarven brews in particular have resulted in the destruction of more than a few enclaves when improperly stored.”
He was drunk. So was Marché, and just about everyone else in the room. Perhaps that’s why he was so adamant about the initiation, or why Marché was so completely unafraid of the fact that his life was suddenly in danger. It seemed simple enough to him - sit still for an hour or two and receive the respect of his peers afterwards.
Roland must have parsed the confidence of his thoughts, for another grin appeared to stud his face with blinding-white teeth. He pointed again to the candle, “You already understand, I can tell. But there’s one factor you’ve yet to consider, or else your expression wouldn’t be so calm.”
The flame flickered. Marché observed the wax near the bottom of the wick developing a sheen as it revealed the first signs of melting. His hand was wrapped around the upper third of its length.
He realised it then. A few chuckles rose out of the crowd as his half-smirk disappeared. Within a matter of hours, the flame would have descended far enough to begin melting the wax surrounding his hand. It would be searing agony if his flesh was scalded - unbearable enough to force him to move, which would inevitably spill the cup, spark the spirits, and earn him a one-way trip to the afterlife via immolation.
“Two hours!” Roland held up two fingers, “If you can survive that long, then I’ll consider you formally initiated into the Order - your cohorts included. Like I said, we’ve done this before, but it’s the first time we’ve ever forced someone to hold the candle.”
“This is really quite mad.” Marché’s voice was quiet. He didn’t want to make any sudden movements with his mouth, “Won’t Lieze be furious if she found out I was killed?”
“I wouldn’t place so much faith in that.” Roland answered, “She understands just as well as the rest of us that weaklings don’t belong in the Order. If you can’t handle something as simple as this, then it was a mistake to recruit you in the first place.”
“Well… this isn’t how I was expecting to spend my evening.” Marché said, “But it’s not as if I can refuse now. The only thing I can do is hope that you’re willing to keep your word.”
“Don’t mess around.” Roland’s grin disappeared, “I wasn’t joking about fairness. All of us have been through something like this. I’m not going to try anything funny. You should be grateful that I’m willing to overlook the initiation of your followers if you’re successful.”
There was some kind of deep pride to his tone. A mixture of alcohol and confidence, but laced with true authenticity. Marché could tell that the man wasn’t keen on seeking his death, but an overwhelming loyalty to the ways of the Order necessitated his ruthless trial. Roland was intrigued by him - eager to see what kind of man Marché would become with the threat of death looming over his head.
“...That’s true.” He agreed, “It’s been the dream of my comrades for the longest time to finally be among like fellows. If this is my chance to bless them with that future, then I can’t back down from a challenge like this.”
“Well said.” Roland turned his head to the side, “One of you, go and grab a few bottles. It’s going to be a long night.”
Thus, the trial began. Marché’s cultists had already abandoned their table and were peeking over the shoulders of their superiors to watch him endure Roland’s challenge. So focused was the attention of everyone in the room that nobody noticed the pair of eyes peeking in from a crack in the tavern’s door.
Drayya’s shoulders shuddered as a freezing wind blew across the street. The scene unfolding before her was something she rightfully ought to have put a stop to - Lieze needed every necromancer she could get her hands on, after all. But the voracious confidence in Marché’s tone informed her that an intervention wasn’t necessary.
“What a pointless show…” She peeled away from the door and began on the long walk back to the castle, “Good luck, Marché.”