A deathly silence permeated the countryside air. Where once birdsong had ravaged the skies with incessant noise, there existed a void which only served to perpetuate a foreboding atmosphere. Past the shelves of great oaks and between the crests of grassy hills marched an army which left only death in its wake. The culmination of the Order’s centuries-long struggle against the holds of living men.
Amidst the floating necromancers and their legions of undead monstrosities, a wide berth was given to two silhouettes hovering in the midnight air. One of them - an older gentleman with a caring face which betrayed his status, was listening to the rantings of a half-rotten corpse, his patience never wavering even as he glimpsed maggots curling out of what little flesh stubbornly clung to the Lich’s features.
“The lord of lies may have teased a miracle from the Gods, but even the weavers of our pitiful world demand a price for their services.” His voice slithered into the ears, “I cannot say for certain what that price may have been, but Ricta’s gambit has only bought him time and nothing more. By my estimations, our legions should now outnumber the forces of Tonberg 3-to-1.”
“In all my years, I have only experienced 2 miracles with my own eyes, and 3 by word of mouth.” His companion replied, “When the kingdoms of man and Dwarf clashed in the crimson east, the Gods were petitioned often and without caution. Their prices often took the forms of natural disasters - tidal waves large enough to crush cities, earthquakes capable of disintegrating mountains, winds which could strip the skin from a full-grown man…”
“You mean to say Tonberg will be destroyed?” The Lich asked.
“If that was the case, it would already be gone.” His old friend answered, “No. For I have studied first-hand accounts of the Gods’ fickleness from ancient, near-undecipherable records, and their ‘price’ is not always destruction. It is not uncommon for this so-called penance to take the form of a ‘gift’...”
“Hm.” If the Lich had any need for it, a breath would have escaped his nose, “The Mercuria…”
“Oh. So you have been continuing your studies?”
“The secrets of this world are diverse in number and esoteric in nature. That which seems implausible at first may warrant a second investigation when new evidence presents itself.” Sokalar explained, “I decry these accusations of the ‘Mercuria’ by virtue of my own nature, but ‘truth’ is objective. It cannot be denied on principle.”
“My… to hear you speak so impartially… you certainly have come a long way, Ignas.”
Of all the Order’s devotees, regardless of rank, authority, or talent, no member was allowed to so much as think about addressing Sokalar so casually. He had cultivated a fearsome image which left even the most loyal of his followers reluctant to engage him in conversation, lest they overstep their often shifting boundaries.
Then there was Bardy Lüngen, the Order’s archivist. Lüngen was old and fat - very old and very fat. He was a great big rotund man with an attitude that matched both his appearance and age. He had a roundish face with flattened features and thick lips crystallised with flecks of discoloured epidermis. Instead of a robe, he wore a smooth, black vest with a white undershirt, mimicking a style of fashion once popular with Dwarves.
To Sokalar, Lüngen spoke freely and without restraint. He joked, prodded, and questioned the Lich as if speaking to an inquisitive child. He was the only man in the world gifted with such a privilege - one which Sokalar tolerated out of an unspoken respect for the man, who he had known since the earliest days of his youth.
“Has word come back from Drayya?” Sokalar asked.
“Not one letter.” Lüngen answered, “-Which, to me, either means she’s getting on with her work diligently or dragging her heels. I would place my bet on the former, considering her talents.”
“She can only do so much. I expected her to act as a scout, rather than take my mission seriously.” He said, “The impact she’s had on Tonberg will no-doubt be negligible.”
“Do you think so? I wouldn’t say that.” Lüngen folded his arms behind his back, “She’s a resourceful girl. She must be resourceful, or else her life would have ended many years ago.”
“She is one woman.”
“Perhaps. But you are only one man, Ignas.” He reminded, “Or, will you claim that the Order’s recent achievements are the result of everyone’s combined efforts?”
“We will see.” Sokalar resigned from the argument - a supreme rarity.
The time had come for a second march upon the Sovereign Cities. Over the course of the weeks following the siege, Sokalar had recouped the Order’s losses as a result of the Gildwyrm’s appearance. He had filled out the two freshly-empty positions in the Deathguards with Lüngen - who had temporarily replaced Drayya, and a faceless cultist in desperate need of a promotion to fill the purely-ceremonial spot his daughter once occupied.
“Speaking of the young lady-” Lüngen began.
“I respect you, Lüngen.” Sokalar interrupted, “-But do not probe my skull with your divination sorcery. I was performing an analysis of our situation, and Lieze crossed my mind as a variable, not a concern.”
“Even so, you would agree with me if I suggested that the young lady still lived, wouldn’t you?” Lüngen persisted regardless of his leader’s warning, “I lack the necessary reagents for a scrying, but the Gods can assure me in one way or another that her spirit lives on.”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Whether it does or does not is of no concern of mine.” Sokalar replied, his words cold as ice, “Lieze is a failed experiment. I tolerated her presence in the unfounded hope that her hidden potential would one day emerge, but I was mistaken. In time, I will synthesise another child. One which will not fail me.”
“-And if we encounter her?”
“-She will be executed, as all those cursed with life are destined to be.”
“Dear oh dear…” Lüngen closed his eyes in thought, “Such a shame…”
----------------------------------------
There was no need to move the deceased priests elsewhere. It would take too long to relocate every corpse, and more to the point, Lieze was able to tell at a glance that they were significantly higher-level than most of the corpses in the mass grave.
Lieze’s MP - 14 / 1,140
In time, she was able to raise 29 of the priests as Gravewalkers, expending most of her MP in the process. Leaving the rest of the work to Marché and Drayya, she decided to finally turn in for the night - a risky decision, considering the chances of Alistair sending even more men into the eastern district. But she knew that a tired mind wouldn’t be capable of rationalising any further attacks against the city.
When she returned to the eastern gatehouse, a few of Marché’s cultists had managed to haul over the alchemy table and bloody Dwarven ale barrel from the hideout. Alongside their delivery came a group of thralls which had been standing patiently in the crypt. With the forces of the hideout and the city combined, Lieze was easily in possession of more than 300 individual thralls, with plenty more in the process of being reanimated.
The spartan living quarters of the gatehouse were still more welcoming than the bed of straw she’d been sleeping on before Marché had managed to move 2 entire beds into the hideout. Her exhaustion was more pronounced than her body was willing to divulge, surrendering itself to sleep as soon as she closed her eyes.
There were no dreams to disturb her slumber - a phenomenon which had affected her since birth. Indeed, she had no inclination of what a ‘dream’ might have felt like. To her, there was only ‘sleeping’ and ‘awakening’.
She stirred at the break of dawn. She knew that in spite of the sleeping quarter’s lack of windows. In contrast to the restrained storm of the day prior, the sky was alive with bountiful blue as she stepped into the light, rubbing her eyes and flattening the stray shoots of her hair.
With interest, she manifested her statistics.
Lieze Sokalar Level 28 Necromancer (!SCION!) HP: 245 / 245 XP: 1,522 / 5,400 MP: 194 / 1,140 BODY - 4 / MIND - 19 / SOUL - 5 Skills & Features Greater Necromancy (lvl. 2) / Necromantic Alchemy (lvl. 5) / Identify / Heavenly Favours
“Hm…”
She was beginning to form a number of theories on the application of [Attributes]. Their growth appeared to be determined on a class-to-class basis. As for their practical usage, she deduced that [BODY] and [MIND] affected the distribution of her HP and MP. Due to the large dissonance between the two, numerical improvements to her wellbeing were skewed towards MP growth. [SOUL], however, didn’t seem to affect anything she could immediately notice.
Lieze had only recovered 180 MP. At a rate of 20MP/h, she had slept for 9 hours, meaning it was almost precisely midday. She lamented that, as her level continued to rise, the free refills of mana she received upon reaching a new level would only become less frequent.
A similar problem was gripping her comrades, which Marché was quick to point out when she made her way back to the cemetery - and which Drayya was quick to solve upon her own return to the area, carrying a number of flasks within her pack containing cerulean-blue liquid.
“...Mana potions?” Lieze tried to hide the sleepiness in her voice as she was handed one of the flasks, quickly using her [Identify] feature to answer the question.
Alchemic Drought (Supreme Mana Potion) Description - Drinking this potion in its entirety immediately restores [2,000] MP. Additionally, you gain the [Alchemy Sickness] debuff for 1 hour, preventing you from receiving the benefits of any other Alchemic Drought for the duration.
“Baccharum is coming through for us.” Drayya explained, “They’re expensive - 700 gold a bottle - but there’s no better way of eliminating the need to wait around for our mana reserves to recharge.”
Lieze peered into her pack. There were 6 flasks - 4,200 gold’s worth in total.
“You might have consulted me first…” She muttered.
“Would you have stopped me?” Drayya smirked.
“No.”
“Then there’s no problem.” She shrugged her shoulders, “As you’ve said on many occasions, time is of the essence, and there’s no better method of saving time than spending money.”
“What about the other cultists?” Lieze wondered.
“I’m sure Baccharum could supply some lesser mana potions if we need them. But the most important thing is that the three of us are kept in top condition.” Drayya explained, “How many thralls do we have now? 200?”
“-Slightly more than 300, if I had to make an estimate.” Marché answered, peering into the azure solution, “If we raise the entire cemetery… we’ll have over 500, easily.”
“I can’t imagine there are many more soldiers than that left in Tonberg.” Drayya replied.
“Not soldiers, no. But with the Church’s ranks being conscripted into the army, I believe we’ll still be outnumbered.” He placed a hand to his chin, “That group we defeated just the other day is a testament to just how many men Alistair has left to throw at us.”
“All the better that we move quickly, then.” She summed up, “Lieze?”
“That depends - did Baccharum have anything important to say about the northern district?” Lieze asked.
“He mentioned that the army’s presence in the district was surprisingly lacklustre. I could tell he didn’t want to mention it for fear of being incorrect, but his tone suggested he thought it might be a trap.”
“Alistair and his traps…” Lieze muttered, “...Well, when a man wanders into the lion’s den, he shouldn’t be surprised when the beast ambushes him. The most we can do is plan for every contingency and reduce losses wherever possible.”
“Does that mean-”
“Yes.” She interrupted, “We’ll be attacking the northern district tonight.”