If there was one thing Ian von Richter hated it was the smell of rotting corpses. Situated at the rear of the undead army, he straightened his back to peer over the heads of the shambling dead. The beastkin forces were engaged in furious combat, yet situated at the rear of the horde, Ian von Richter was safe. Beside him, Rose's eyes dilated as she smelled fresh blood. Her fangs extended outwards gently nibbling into her full lips. Gripping an enchanted executioner's sword she watched patiently alongside the herald. Dressed in a royal battle dress, Rose looked every part elegant and martial.
The din of battle encompassed their attention. Vampiric knights had completed the encirclement. All that was left was to chew through the enemy's forces. Afterwards, the city would fall naturally to the might of Gris.
Members of the necromancer guild were behind them. Their runed dark robes were pulled tight against their bodies. Their hands moved in strange erratic movements as they muttered obscene incantations to direct the dead. Looking behind him for a moment, Ian marveled at the conductors of the well ordered symphony ahead of him.
"Does the smell not bother you, my lady?" Ian asked the vampire beside him.
"Of course it does. It is vile. Repulsive. Only the guild is used to it."
"I've always wondered, why do they use zombies? Why not only skeletons? Surely the bits of rotting flesh dripping everywhere is unwarranted."
"I am told it adds to the fear factor for mortals. Do you fear them?"
"No, my mother is far scarier. I am disgusted, however." Ian admitted with a wry grin. His fur coat vibrated as an avalanche of jingling possessed trinkets voiced their disapproval at his jab.
"It is for the small folk." Rose said confidently. "The fresh recruits, the unbloodied fighters. The freshly risen dead implies a certain profane gravitas to an assault. It implies that should they fall, their corpse shall rise and attack their brethren."
"I see.... And why must we be standing downwind?"
"Pay attention, boy. Now is not the time to wit. One of the beasts could break through." A mustached spectral man said after materializing over his shoulder.
"Yes, father." Ian reluctantly replied with a sigh.
"It is unlikely they will fight their way to us." Rose commented. "Captain Bruhart is very thorough."
Panicked screaming from the beastkin rose all around them. The groans of the dying and the already dead mixed together. Ian von Richter looked over the horde of the dead, staring at the elector prince's black greatsword as it flashed through the air severing heads like a reaper's scythe.
A defiant battlecry emerged from his lips as he pointed towards Ian. The herald of Gris felt his heart skip for a second, as it began to quicken. The elector prince was planning something. The chilling aura around him seemed to vanish, as Javert pulled his largest companion closer. The beastkin must have been mixed with a bull. His massive frame jutted above all the others. Curved horns were chipped and covered in gore. The massive minotaur grabbed the elector prince's chestpiece, spinning rapidly he tossed the elector prince forwards over the teeming mass of undead.
Javert let loose a battlecry, as he flew high and long. His greatsword was drawn back as he prepared for a landing strike. The sword 'Dragonslayer' was a grotesque hunk of iron, barely capable of cutting anything. Earlier, Ian von Richter had watched with abject fascination as the elector prince swung with reckless abandon. Now the half-crazed half-animal was flying through the air directly towards him and Rose von Erewnhest. The blade was pulled back ready to crush the vampire. Rose's eyes beheld the flying warrior with disdain as she stepped out of the way. Javert slammed into the ground alongside his sword. Dirt scattered high into the air, as Ian jumped away from the impact.
The duel began. To the herald, Rose defied all expectations. She was too agile. Her blade was too sharp. It cut through Javert's armor like it was made of nothing. Rose barely placed any power in her swings yet Javert's tendons were severed like he was made not of flesh and steel. The steel black greatsword could never have hoped to catch the noble vampiress. Ian watched the exchange in a trance. His eyes absorbed every detail, until the elector prince was crippled.
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Blood pooled from his sliced ankles. Red rivers dotted his wrist and elbows. He collapsed onto his knees unable to control his body. His hands were limply shoved into the ground to support himself. The control of his body had been robbed. The elector prince could no longer hold his sword or move. A deep guttural growl rumbled in his chest, as the look of supreme confidence faded from him.
"Hold him still." Rose commanded Ian. An attendant brought a stained basin to Javert. A myriad of ghosts flew from the trinkets covering his body, as Ian watched in stunned silence. Spectral hands pulled him closer and closer to the basin. He thrashed against the ghostly grip, yet nothing could delay the inevitable.
Rose did not hold the sword high. She hovered the blade just above his neck, ignoring the steel guard protecting his throat.
"The goddess protects me! Die you bitch." Javert yelled. Rose was a calm lake in a sea of violence. Her icy voice pierced the cries of the surrounding slaughter.
"Quiet, animal. Where is my family's other sword? Who has it? I will ask only once." Rose asked calmly.
"The champion will kill you! My brothers shall not die in vain! We will drive you from our lands!"
Rose's wrist barely moved. She dragged the executioner sword down. It barely touched the neck guard before the metal began to separate. Ian saw the panicked look upon Javert's face as he felt the blade touch his neck. Rose was slow, barely working the blade as if it would slice anything. Ian's spectral family held Javert's struggling body in place. Blood came as a trickle, then a flood as the basin began to fill. His body twitched in panicked desperate movements, until Rose's blade nicked his spinal column. A final spasm overtook him before his body lost all signal.
A final gurgle tried to escape his quivering lips before his head fell clean. Crimson specks splashed all around as Javert's head settled in the crimson liquid. Pain and fear were frozen as his eyes stared endlessly towards the night's sky. Rose withdrew her blade, nicking Ian's mother. The spectral ghost cried out in pain, as she held her thumb. The myriad of family members surrounded the ghost defensively ushering her towards Ian.
The battle was almost over. Javert's sacred band was crushed.
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Within Jorgen's infinite library, Freyes walked down the endless aisles of bookshelves. The goddess of life exuded vitality and charm in the drab quiet interior of Jorgen's intellectual sanctum. Rounding a corner, she finally found her prey.
"Jorgen! There you are! Were you hiding from me?" Freyes hummed, as she approached the reading god of magic. His cowl was directed at a particularly old genealogy of ancient wizards from a long forgotten civilization. Long pale fingers flicked to the next page.
"Your mood is unnatural. It is only logical I would hide."
"What can I say? I love getting my way." Freyes' smile radiated light, as she confronted the god of magic.
"I am happy for you. And?" Jorgen asked.
"And. I require your assistance. My new champion awaits me. They're perfect. Just the right candidate to correct the path of my followers! Come! Come! You were always so good at summoning! Help me and I shall forgive you for choosing Franz!"
Jorgen lifted his cowl up as Freyes sat at the table across from him. Already the interruption, had made him loose his place within the pages of his tome. Discordant annoyed souls threatened to spill out of control.
"His name is Fritz." He reminded her.
"Oh who cares? He's not mine anyways." Freyes said scoffing.
"I abhor the interruption, Freyes. The damage is done, I've lost my place. Shall we get started then?"
"Of course! My beastkin farm is in danger."
"Your farm. I hate what you call your worshippers. They would hate it if they heard how you speak of them."
"Their souls are mine. What else would I call it? They sit in their sacred cities like the good dog's they are, guarding the damnable demonic portals. The few enemies I send their way are just to keep them entertained. Should I think of them like yours? Should I think of them like curiosities and baubles to admire from afar? Please, they are tools. They serve us as is our due. We are gods Jorgen. We are not their friends."
"It would be much preferred if you appreciated them." Jorgen said. The myriad of voices rose with annoyance and frustration. "Much suffering is endured on their part."
"Their purpose is to worship and guard. Nothing more. Come, I tire of this stuffy library. Let's summon my champion and I shall leave you to your drab hobbies. What was it that you were reading? A book on genealogies?"
"A personal project. I'm trying to remember someone's true name." Jorgen replied casually.
He stood up, stretching his dark wings out. An ancient gnarled staff appeared in his hands as his warped back cracked in his cosmic realm. The goddess of life turned on her heels, as she began walking away. With a wave of his hand, the large genealogical tome he had been reading shut and began levitating into his dark robes. His staff clicked calmly on the hardwood floor of the library as they began searching for the exit within the maze of knowledge.