While the undead prepared for the upcoming ritual, Vanalath inspected some of the spell-preserved bodies outside of his mistress’s cottage. Since he had woken up from his evolution, he was bothered by his hunger, but he hadn’t yet had a chance to eat. The fallen ghouls they had left behind at the northeastern pass weren’t to his taste, and the hunters’ corpses here were off-limits. However, the humans he brought back from the prison the day before remained fresh thanks to the necromancer’s efforts, even if they were no longer warm.
As the necromancer left her hut with an armful of supplies, she caught sight of Vanalath carving into a torso with his sword like it was a roast.
She spoke chidingly. “We have ghouls set aside for food. You don’t need to eat our future soldiers.”
Vanalath met her gaze, his words laced with disdain. “I am aware. I simply do not share Anamu’s love of carrion.”
The ghoul in question was currently chewing on a piece of mysterious gristle. He looked up at the mention of his name but returned to his indulgence when he saw that he wasn’t being called.
“Hm.”
With that short reply, the woman left him.
Once everything was completed half an hour later, Vanalath sat in the center of a clearing outside the cottage. The ghouls had cleared a disc of ground by stamping down on the grass, and bodies were carefully arranged in concentric circles around him. His mistress had driven twelve black, wooden stakes into the earth around the perimeter of the clearing. Next to Vanalath in the center was Orimo’s corpse. The necromancer had taken the body inside her home and brought it back out, whole again, though the stitches around the neck made his cause of death clear.
That seemed to be all the preparation she required, as she now stood behind Vanalath, a hand on his back, murmuring so softly that he couldn’t make out the words. He had been told to remain still. He was a vital component of this ritual due to the Deathstone within him, but he himself did not have to do anything.
After a minute of her chanting, Vanalath began to feel something stirring within him. Closing his eyes, he focused inward, imitating the meditation he had first attempted the day before. He could tell that the cyclone within him was churning as always, but it currently appeared that something else had disturbed it. It was rapidly expanding and contracting like a heartbeat. As he watched, he began to notice a trend. Each time it expanded, it appeared a little bit lighter, almost as if it were thinning.
At the moment he recognized this, Vanalath felt something leaving his body. It took him a moment to realize that it was his energy, seeping into the circle around him. He had become a sieve, the miasma dripping out of him without cease. He attempted to open his eyes but found himself unable. He tried to move his arms. His legs.
His body was no longer under his command.
It was at this moment he realized that the trap had been sprung. The hand on his back felt like a dagger hovering over his heart. The necromancer was trying to destroy him.
Perhaps the ritual did exactly as she described. Was he a mere sacrifice to raise a few dozen ghouls?
Forced to watch his reserves of miasma dwindling away, something became gradually apparent. As the twisting fog thinned and expanded, he would occasionally see something at the heart of the storm, something that wasn’t part of the storm itself, but that moved in concert with it. A round shape with foggy edges lay there, smaller yet greater than the entirety of the storm that once surrounded it. The shape seethed, growing more chaotic as its protective shroud of miasma dwindled.
Even as he strained against the paralyzing force and the loss of his energy, the last of it drained away. All at once, everything dimmed, like a cloud passing over the sun.
Energy spent, Vanalath couldn’t even stop the voices within him from fighting their way free.
But they weren’t voices, were they? Yes, he realized what they were in this moment, on the brink of nothingness. Perhaps it was because he himself was nearly one of them, now. It made so much sense that he wondered that he hadn’t known already. The voices, the hunters he’d seen in the gray world… they were the collected spirits of those he had killed. They had been absorbed through the strange, magnetic pull of the Deathstone, and now they were emerging from within that prison. Their movements were not gentle, feeling more like shards of glass digging their way out of his brain.
After this final realization, at the moment where it seemed that everything would go dark and he would be embraced once more by eternity, he heard a familiar sound. A voice that was not a voice. It was oddly familiar, but despite this, the words were unintelligible to him. Whatever it was, it wasn’t talking to him. Once the voice stopped speaking, he felt a pulse of some strange power fly outward from within him, emerging from within the round shape at his core.
The power was like nothing he ever felt before.
Awe. Submission. These were the emotions inspired in him from the tangential encounter with this force. Though he quickly fought off the invasive feelings, their lingering presence left him shaken. Then, it retreated back inside him.
The devouring force that had absorbed his miasma suddenly stopped. His world no longer dissolved.
As the presence vanished, and the sensation of worship went with it. The shards of glass had worked their way free, leaving him feeling rather hollow. Then, rather than fading to black, everything began to brighten once more. The dimness receded, and trickles of his energy began to return, filling the empty aching of his soul. The miasma reappeared, and the indistinct, seething mass at his center stilled, once more shrouded protectively in the dark storm.
The stifling pressure on him vanished, and he could move once more. Immediately, Vanalath acted. Before he even opened his eyes, he had sprung to his feet, his hand on his sword. It was well that he was prepared, as the first glimpse of his surroundings showed him a wave of ghouls closing in on him.
The ritual apparently succeeded.
He whipped around, cleaving an arc in the air with his blade, but the place the necromancer had stood was empty.
“—I’m sorry—”
She was backpedaling through the ranks of ghouls. A glimpse of her eyes peeking through disheveled hair showed him that they were wide and wild, staring at nothing. He darted forward, weaving through the slow bodies, but he wasn’t able to dodge all of them. One grabbed his leg, and he removed the offending hand with a quick swipe. Another tackled him, but he sidestepped quickly enough that the undead only hit his side, sending him spinning. He regained his footing by kicking another ghoul he would have otherwise collided with. The smaller undead went flying, and Vanalath was propelled forward.
He was going to kill her.
“—sorryI’msorryI’msorry—"
Another swipe sent two undead to the ground. The hunters, though capable warriors in life, were still lesser ghouls.
But he was now past the encirclement. Other enemies were awaiting him: the evolved ghouls. He hurtled past them, decapitating one and cleaving another’s skull.
In the throes of his rage, Vanalath didn’t realize that the undead he struck down bore no weapons. Their attacks didn’t aim to wound him, but rather to grip his limbs and bring him to the ground. They fell like wheat before a reaper’s scythe.
[Level Increased]
Strength + 1
Agility + 1
“—I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’m—”
And then he reached her. Completely panicked, she stumbled backwards, clutching her face. The necromancer acted as if she didn’t even see him, even as she tried to widen the distance between them. Vanalath stepped on the hem of her robe, and she lost her balance, falling to the ground. Her ghouls closed in, but at that moment Anamu and Kalaki arrived, intercepting them. The two Peons held off the small horde, giving their master the time he needed.
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He roared at her. “Why?!”
Seeing her try to stand without answering him, he placed a foot on her arm, pinning her and lowering his sword to her throat. But even with that, she couldn’t even see him, the woman kept muttering her incomprehensible apologies and attempting to rise. There was a surprising amount of strength in her body, and she almost succeeded at freeing herself. Her eyes, once serene and beautiful, now looked like those of a frightened cat. The pupils had shrunken to a dot and her whites were bloodshot.
“I’m sorry.”
He had enough of this. He wanted to understand why, why she wanted to kill him, but something was pushing him on, making him inarticulate with rage.
No, even if she were inclined to explain, at this stage there was no reasoning with Vanalath. A stray thought flitted through his rampaging mind as he thrust down.
…What if her apology wasn’t directed at him?
The blade punctured her neck, and he wondered at the sensation that the floor had suddenly dropped out from underneath his feet. He pulled the sword free, and a spurt of warm blood painted his face. He wondered.
He wondered why his hands trembled.
He wondered why an abrupt chill turned the marrow of his bones to ice.
He wondered why the necromancer disappeared, and why where she once lay there now was a massive, prismatic eye. And he wondered at the blood seeping from its pupil, as if Vanalath’s sword had struck it rather than his intended target.
Status Effect: has fissured, producing two new status effects.
As the red liquid welled forth, pooling around his ankles, Vanalath dropped the sword from nerveless fingers.
You have received the status effect:
You have received the status effect:
You have received the status effect:
The blood at his feet began to rise, but Vanalath couldn’t tear himself away from the image of the eye. The liquid reached his knees. In his mind, there was only the eye. The eye.
He fought it.
[Ability obtained]:
The status effect
[Ability increased]:
[Ability increased]:
Since his birth, Vanalath hadn’t known fright. The threat of dying meant little to him. Even when Orimo had nearly killed him—twice—there was no fear of death in him. Somehow, this eye defied that part of his nature, inspiring in him the long-forgotten emotion of terror. There could only be one reason for that—a promise of something worse.
Yet still he fought it.
The status effect
[Ability increased]:
[Ability increased]:
[Ability increased]:
[Ability increased]:
And he lost.
The status effect
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Unknown entity detected within the realm of Eogan. Measuring entity.
WARNING
Specifications match (97% certainty) entity label:
Retrieving file (last updated on date [EN-E6-C1087-Y6094-D198-10:28].
Entity
Threat Level: Red 72
Interloper: negative
Fragment of Infinity: feasible (unconfirmed)
Connection to the Sated: negative
Multiversal: positive
Known realms: >1002
Key possession: feasible (unconfirmed)
Connection to The Unspoken: feasible (unconfirmed)
Threat Level upgraded to Black 99 (tentative)
Recommended action: immediate sterilization of Eogan.
Request received.
Eogan quarantine measures in effect as of date [EN-E6-C1087-Y6094-D198-10:28]. Autonomous action rejected.
----------------------------------------
Kaipo had just finished wiping down the floor of the cottage with a rag when the chaos began. A cacophony erupted outside, and he ran to the only window that had functioning shutters to see what was going on. Vanalath, the monster he considered to be among the most frightening of their number, was going berserk. The witch appeared to be running from him and dozens of ghouls swarmed him, who was trying to reach her.
The sheer violence of that sword astounded him. The undead that came too close were simply hacked apart, not even slowing Vanalath down. It didn’t take too long for him to break free and, with Anamu and Kalaki backing him up, he pinned the witch, his blade hovering over her throat. For some reason, Kaipo felt fear for her. For her. It was a ridiculous thing, for him to empathize with that witch. It wouldn’t be until much later that he realized why that was.
And then Vanalath struck. What followed was a confusing mess.
She died. She must have died. Yet, when the sword had been pulled free and blood began to spill forth, something odd happened.
Vanalath lifted his weapon, took a few stumbling steps back, and dropped the blade. At first glance he appeared to be experiencing regret, but Kaipo watched as the wight began to claw at the air, then clutch his head and begin to howl. It was a broken sound, one that set his teeth on edge. What stopped Kaipo from immediately retreating to hide as he normally might have done was the sight of the witch’s body.
She had begun to shudder. Her head twitched, her arms splayed out to the sides while her fingers dug into the dirt. These movements might be considered to be death throes, but they slowly became more exaggerated. And unlike the actions a corpse might normally take part in while expending its remaining energy, the witch’s motions didn’t stop. They just didn’t stop.
Her back arched unnaturally, a gout of blood flying from the wound on her throat, but for some reason, it didn’t fall back to earth. The blood thinned in the air, turning into a red mist and remaining suspended over her body. As if a dam had broken, all of the blood left in her body spewed forth at once, joining the cloud of crimson mist. At that moment, she stopped.
Then, her mouth wrenched open, something emerged from within that wasn’t blood. It was pitch black and roughly the size of his forearm, too dark to make out any definite shape. Kaipo, straining his eyes, thought it looked like some great black beetle. It oozed forth, crawling down her body until it found a pocket of her robes. Then, it crawled inside the pocket that should have been too small for it, vanishing completely.
At that moment, the cloud of mist hovering over the desiccated witch plunged down, enveloping her body. It condensed, growing smaller and smaller until her shape could once again be made out, bound by cords of congealed blood.
All the other undead had stopped fighting after Vanalath dealt the death blow. Now, they stood in a wide circle around their mistress, as if enthralled. All of them except for the wight himself, who Kaipo had somehow lost sight of in the confusion.
The bands of red constricted audibly, and he could hear the creaking of her bones as her own blood bound her. Then, creakingly, the corpse rose to its feet. It began to approach the house. It didn’t move like anything Kaipo had ever seen: the movements were sudden, jerky ones that gave the appearance of a puppet on strings.
Kaipo had just enough time to duck behind the table when the door opened and the witch entered. From where he was hidden, he could see her feet dragging across the floor, coming to a stop before a wooden chest. Her hands fumbled with the clasp, opening it after a few moments, and she kneeled down. Kaipo could see the constrictive red bands pulsing. The tight wrappings would have looked like those of a mummy if it weren’t for the fact that they were pulsing, appearing far more alive than the desiccated corpse that they bound.
From inside the chest a bundle was withdrawn, which was unfurled to reveal a multitude of silver needles and some other tools.
“Sorr—y,” came a croaking voice, which Kaipo only belatedly realized came from the witch’s mouth.
She continued haltingly, in a voice that sounded like it had crawled free of a crypt.
“Mas—ter. Fo—forgi—ve me. He—is y—your, vess—el.”
With one hand, she picked up the needles. With another, she lifted a small hammer. Then, the first needle was lifted to her heart, and with the hammer, she drove it into her body.
“For—give. Forgi—ve m—e.”
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