The Church of Nistrul stood at the edge of Mulnirsheim, a modest and weatherworn structure tucked between overgrown hedges and leaning gravestones. Empty graves from a time before the mandatory burning of corpses was introduced.
Its stone walls, darkened by centuries of grime and neglect, were cracked in places where ivy had taken root. The symbol of Nistrul, an archway of black steel topped by a skull, wrought in blackened silver, was barely visible against the grimy old stonework. For two centuries, the Church of Nistrul had teetered on the brink of obscurity, saved only by the lingering utility of its ancient rites. The power to quell restless undead, to bind spirits to the grave, and to perform rites no other faith dared touch had ensured its reluctant place in the kingdom’s laws.
The courtyard was little more than a patch of unkempt grass interspersed with broken cobblestones, scattered with remnants of wilted offerings. A crumbling stone path led to the entrance, barely visible beneath moss and dirt. The faint smell of damp earth mingled with the tang of decay.
The team approached cautiously, the wagon rattling over the uneven ground. Inside the casket lay Luthgar’s body. Faint knocking could be heard from inside where the undead had managed to get one foot partly loose.
Selvara stayed up in the air, circling the area to keep watch in case of trouble.
Weylan paused at the door, his eyes scanning the dilapidated structure. “This is the place?”
William nodded, gripping the wagon handle tightly. “It’s not much, but it’ll do. According to my research, Nistrul’s rites don’t require grandeur. And his faith has become unpopular after the necromancer war.”
The door creaked open before they could knock, revealing an ancient looking man. He was a gaunt and frail, his robes threadbare and patched with mismatched fabrics. His pale face was lined with deep furrows, and his sunken eyes spoke of long years and little rest. He stepped aside to let them in, his voice rasping, “Welcome to Nistrul’s sanctuary. I am Father Malloric, the last servant of this hallowed ground.”
William stepped forward. “Father, we’ve brought the reanimated body of a farmer named Luthgar the Blind. We ask that you perform the ritual to determine his time of death. Can you, do it?”
Malloric glanced at him, his expression weary but resolute. “The power of Nistrul may have faded in this world,” he said, his voice steady, “but his dominion over the strands of death remains unbroken. I will perform the rite. It is one of the duties my church has been tasked in order to be allowed its continued existence.”
Outside, Ulmenglanz hesitated, her bark-textured hands clenching the shaft of her staff. “I will not set foot on these grounds,” she said quietly, her distaste for the church evident. She remained by the wagon, keeping watch on the surrounding area.
The rest of the group hoisted the casket from the wagon and carried it inside, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the stone floor.
The interior matched the man’s appearance. Sparse and worn. Rows of uneven wooden pews filled the narrow space, their surfaces dulled by years of use and neglect. Flickering candles cast a uneven light. The air was cool and heavy, carrying the faint scent of incense that had burned long ago, mingled with the dampness of the old stones.
The altar was little more than a rough slab of granite, chipped at the edges and stained with the marks of countless rites.
Father Malloric knelt and retrieved a small box from beneath the altar. He pulled out a tarnished chalice, a bone-handled dagger, and a book bound in cracked leather. Then he looked expectantly at the still closed casket.
Skorr used a crowbar to open it. Luthgar’s left foot kicked up and down, each time loosening the nails a tiny bit. Weylan looked weary. “Should we do something to further secure him?”
The cleric shook his head, a smile splitting his unkempt beard. “No need. All undead bow before the might of Nistrul.” He opened the book and laid it on the altar. He held up the dagger, and the undead fell silent. Then he dipped the dagger into the chalice, which was filled with a deep red sticky substance. He used it to draw a rune on the chest of the undead. Light flared and words appeared on the pages of the open book. Father Malloric looked at it satisfied. “I will write an official document specifying the time and date of the death of Luthgar the Blind. Do you wish me to remove those nails and repair the damage you made to his body?”
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William bowed reverently. “Thank you for the offer, but we would rather ask you to lay him to rest.”
The cleric sighed, not surprised but still a bit disappointed. He casually rammed the dagger into the undead’s chest and in seconds it crumbled to ash.
Weylan opened his mouth. “Can I…”
Father Malloric interrupted him, obviously used to exactly the request Weyland wanted to make. “The Dagger of Final Rest only works in the hands of a cleric of Nistrul. You cannot have one.”
He wrote and sealed the document they’d come for and handed it to William. “Now begone. I feel you are not in favor of the god of death.”
William reverently took the document and stored it in his shoulder bag. He thanked the cleric and the group left with high spirits.
The Church of Nistrul stood quiet and somber, but the moment the team stepped beyond its grounds, chaos awaited.
Ulmenglanz knelt in the dirt, her bark-textured hands pressed to the earth, her shimmering green hair tangled.
Standing over her was a figure clad in black plate armor, its surface etched with intricate runes that glowed faintly. Fiery orange hair framed his face, and a broad, self-assured grin split his features. His sword seemed to vibrate with anticipation as he casually held it at his side.
Weylan’s chest tightened as he recognized OrcSlayer. The sight of him should have sent a jolt of adrenaline through his veins, but his body felt sluggish, unresponsive. Something was wrong.
Flanking OrcSlayer was a woman draped in a scandalously short sorceress robe, the deep cut of its neckline as brazen as the gilded staff she held. The orb atop the staff sparkled in countless facets, scattering the suns light in mesmerizing reflections. It tugged at the gaze, making it difficult to focus on anything else.
To OrcSlayer’s right stood a proud anubian, his jackal head poised regally. His black fur contrasted starkly with the light gray of his fur-trimmed cloak, which seemed far too heavy for the weather. The jackal’s hands moved with practiced precision, weaving subtle arcs of magic in the air. His golden eyes locked on Ulmenglanz, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as his spell kept her subdued.
Weylan shook his head, trying to clear the fog clouding his mind. It’s an ambush, he thought, struggling to summon a coherent plan. His teammates stood equally dazed, their movements sluggish, their expressions blank. Around them, leather-clad figures emerged from the trees and shadows. Armed with short bows, daggers, and swords, a small army of mercenaries surrounded the church. Weylan counted at least two dozen but suspected more lurked unseen, hidden by the stealth skills thief classes were famous for.
OrcSlayer’s voice rang out, triumphant. “Well, well... If it isn’t the shepherd’s son. And what’s this? The elusive dryad who has defied our Brotherhood for so long. A duskgnome too? This is almost too perfect.” He raised his arms in mockery, his grin widening. “Nistrul will be most pleased by the sacrifices we’ll make tonight. And how convenient of you to present yourselves here, on holy ground, no less. We won’t even need to drag you anywhere.”
The mercenaries laughed at his words, their coarse chuckles echoing in the tense air. OrcSlayer lifted a hand, silencing them with a dramatic wave.
The church door creaked open behind the group, and Father Malloric stepped out, his frail frame backlit by the dim glow of candles from within. His voice, though raspy, carried undeniable authority. “What is the meaning of this? You dare bring your fight to Nistrul's holy ground?”
OrcSlayer turned and inclined his head in a mock bow. “Forgive us, Father. We are the Brotherhood of the Heralds of the Return of Nistrul. It is our sacred duty to…”
Malloric cut him off with a dismissive scoff. “Those upstarts working for Umbramar, the self-proclaimed necromancer-priest? I’ve heard of you. Your leader has never even once shown me the courtesy of a visit, despite living no more than a short walk from this very church.” His sunken eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea what this church has endured to maintain its place in civilized lands? Do you think it was easy to escape the fate of Golgoroth’s followers? Forced to the margins, reduced to tiny shrines in multi-god temples?” He waved his hand in exasperation. “And now you bring your petty squabble here?”
OrcSlayer stiffened at the rebuke but quickly recovered, adopting a placating tone. “Father, I deeply apologize for any unintended slight. Until this morning, I was unaware this church still stood. But surely, you see the opportunity before us. The dryad is targeted by a quest because of her status as the last cleric of Fliedabarr and the duskgnomes are traditional enemies of all necromancers.”
Malloric sighed, rubbing his temples. “Yes, they would make excellent sacrifices. I could feel Nistrul’s hatred as soon as they entered my church. Nistrul would delight in their torment. Yet alas, it cannot be.”
OrcSlayer’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”
The priest stepped forward without warning and slapped OrcSlayer across the face. The sound was sharp and jarring in the stillness. OrcSlayer’s hand shot to his sword, but Malloric met his gaze unflinchingly. “Strike a priest on his god’s holy ground. Go ahead. See what happens.”
OrcSlayer hesitated, then slowly released his grip, his head bowing slightly. “Apologies, Father.”
“Good,” Malloric said curtly. “You are not beyond redemption. Now listen closely: you cannot kill them here. Not in the heart of the city. It would bring ruin upon us all. Take them to the woods. Somewhere secluded. Make sure they are seen leaving this place alive. Only then may you do what you must.”
He raised his arms to the heavens, his voice swelling with zeal. “His power shall rise again!”
Behind him, the sorceress grinned and began weaving her magic again. The orb atop her staff glowed brighter, sending cascades of light into the air. Weylan, William, Ulmenglanz, and Skorr froze, their bodies stiffening as their minds were gripped even tighter by the spell. Slowly, they began to move, their steps faltering but obedient, toward OrcSlayer’s waiting minions.