Deimos, the Red Death of the North, sat bored on his throne, his eyes looking upon the ambassador before him. He was a portly man, guided into the captured fortress by a squad of royal soldiers, specialists judging from the quality of their armor. Still, the sight barely entertained the marauder, especially since the other man’s eyes darted around the throne room with a look comparable to a terrified rabbit.
“State your business,” Deimos called out, his brow furrowing as he stared down the pudgy ambassador.
“M-My name is Samson Gilder. I am an ambassador from the Lumen Kingdom, h-here to discuss terms with you.”
“Terms?” Deimos leaned forward, raising an eyebrow as he watched the ambassador fumble with his roll of parchment.
“The Lumen Kingdom will pay you a handsome sum if you agree to our t-terms,” Samson babbled, terrified.
“What are these terms, if I may ask?” Deimos stole a glance at Eli, the blind spellcaster nearing the door from which those Lumen assholes had entered through.
“We hope to convince you to cease attacks on our trading routes and settlements. With generous compensation, of course,” Samson hesitated momentarily before adding, “We also hope you could solve a problem down south.”
“South?” the chieftain questioned.
Samson flinched at the sudden question before realizing that Deimos’ sudden change of tone was that of interest rather than anger.
“Y-Yes. South. We have reports that two of our Lumen Knights were killed by a very real threat over a month ago.”
“What do your reports say about the threat?” Deimos prodded.
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Samson seemed to hesitate, his hands fumbling to put away his initial roll of parchment. “These are classified reports–”
“Describe them,” Deimos interrupted. His words carried a sense of command. Even the royal soldiers seem at unease.
Samson looked up at Deimos with a fear all too familiar to the marauder. The portly man nodded slowly, his lips quivering as he spoke out.
“From what we heard from the reports of southern clan warriors and imprisoned orcs, they say that a Draugr lurks around the southern islands. Still, these are just baseless rumors and stories from captured bandits and fleeing warriors. We’re not entirely sure what it is…” Before Samson could ramble about the other reports, Deimos waved off the ambassador.
“I will consider your offer, Samson,” Deimos called out, gesturing for his men to come. “These fine men will guide you back to your ship.” Samson seemed to protest but soon wisely decided that following Deimos’ words was for the best.
As the royal soldiers and ambassador left with the marauders, Eli turned back to Deimos, the blinded spellcaster looking straight at the Red Death despite his red blindfold. The marauder gave a silent nod to the young man, who grinned in response as he followed behind. Eli would send the ambassador off with a very special message for his superiors.
Soon, Deimos found himself alone in his throne room, the dimly lit room filled with silence. He chuckled, a grin appearing on his lips.
‘It is him. I am sure of it.’
Deimos had no other evidence correlating his theory, but his gut told him that this ‘Draugr’ was the same young man he had spared around the Frost solstice. The same young man who emanated with a strange and dangerous aura. The same young man who had defied the odds and death itself. He could still remember their conversation from that fateful day.
> “Well, James Holter… I’ll let you live for now. I’ll even leave you the ship my worthless marauders came here on. But remember this.” Deimos turned to look at James for the last time. “We will meet again, whether it be on the battlefield or on a raid. We will meet. I hope by then that you’ll put up a good fight.”
>
> Just as Deimos walked off with his marauders, James had yelled out to him.
>
> “I’ll make sure it’ll be your last fight, Deimos! You can count on it!”
“Oh, I’m counting on it. James Holter” Deimos grinned. He rested his head against his crude throne as he stroked his beard.“I’m counting on it.”