Daughter of Death - A Necromantic LitRPG

Quest ‘Final Destination’ Complete!

Reward - 6,500xp

Walls of obsidian starlight rose towards the canopy. If Lieze didn’t have a lantern at her hip, she would have been fooled into thinking she’d crossed some cosmic boundary in the forest and ended up wandering through the night sky. She turned her head to gauge Baccharum’s reaction, who gazed upon the enormous walls of the Black City with a painfully complicated expression.

“It’s been a very long time.” He mused, “I would never have been permitted to return under the direst circumstances. I suppose it’s only fitting, then, that I’ve visited for no other reason than to deliver my people from the terrible, phantasmal chains that bind them.”

“Where’s the gate?” No matter how much Lieze squinted, she couldn’t notice anything of the sort.

“There is no gate. All sorts of terrible beasts would slip in if there was.” He answered, “No - if you wish to enter, then leaping across the branches and leaves is your only way in. Brilliant for security. Not so much for the elderly, but they manage somehow.”

“Hm. Then we’ll make our own.” She gazed upward, certain that more than a few pairs of eyes were awaiting her next move, “How many Elves are we looking at here? A few thousand? The city is smaller than I imagined.”

“Around that number, yes. It’s nothing short of a miracle that so many Elv are willing to live in the same place. Makes for some cutthroat politics - a field I happen to be quite experienced in.”

Baccharum paused, “...That said, for the assassin guilds to form an alliance in the name of taking the Order down… the newest Head Shaman must be quite persuasive. Either that, or stark-raving mad.”

“No matter how proud or insane, killing him is our main priority.” She said, “Expend every effort to end his life, and if I happen to be indisposed, deliver his gemstone to me with all haste. That is our only goal - to retrieve the final gemstone and enact the Light in Chain’s awakening.”

Her final preparations were already in place. Stalkers had been dispersed throughout the army to provide the Deathguards with powerful thralls they could rely on as a last resort. The Grotesques, still screeching, still flapping their wings incessantly within the black beyond, circled the overhanging canopy to search for any Elves intent on launching a sneak attack.

Rot Behemoths, Flesh Elementals, Briarknights, Horrors - every last abomination Lieze and her cohorts had raised over the past few months were gathered to bring low the last hurdle of resistance imposed upon their thoughtless dreams.

“At least this one isn’t underground.” Drayya wandered up to the army’s vanguard to join Lieze and Baccharum, “It might be dark, clammy, humid, moist, filled to bursting with wicked sprites and lifelong assassins, but the temperate climate more than makes up for all of that. I hate sweating.”

“Drayya…” Lieze began, “You and Lüngen will remain with me during the battle. I’m sending Marché and Roland off on their own to begin a diversionary attack in the east. We have the advantage in numbers, so dividing the enemy will only make them simpler to deal with.”

“Hm. Are you sure they won’t get themselves killed?” Drayya wondered.

“You make it sound as if we’re not all trying to get ourselves killed doing this. That’s the entire point.” She paused, “...I’m sure they’ll be able to handle it. They have a few Briarknights to fall back on if the situation becomes dire.”

Drayya took a few steps ahead, disappointed to find that she couldn’t see the city over its monolithic walls, “So… we’re headed straight for the… uh…”

“The palace.” Baccharum finished, “It’s an ancestral temple tucked away at the city’s rear. We’ll find the Head Shaman there if the battle turns in our favour. Nobody knows when it was built, but the Ritual Chamber has been used as the seat of the Head Shaman for as long as Elvenkind has graced Fanrae.”

“Then that’s our destination.” Lieze nodded, “I want you keeping an eye out for any surprise attacks, Baccharum. That incident with the poison darts a few days ago has proven just how quickly the Elves can strike.”

“There’s only so much I can do against the combined might of the assassin guilds.” He shrugged, “-But I’ll pick a few off here and there. Most of them are amateurs, really - nowhere near as proficient as the killers faced during my youth. I suppose the guilds take in any old novice with a dagger nowadays.”

“Sounds like everything’s in order.” Drayya placed both hands on her hips and nodded, “I’m not a fan of farewells, so the most I’ll say is that you turned out to be more trustworthy than your occupation would imply, Baccharum.”

“I’m flattered. Really.” He sighed, “-And for all the chaos, death, and strife kicked up by the Order, I feel as though I’ve come to understand the logic beneath its fanatic dogma. I really am more interested in the betterment of the world than raising corpses, however.”

The Elf turned his head, “Lüngen - if I may say, you were the only man who seemed to have his head screwed on correctly around here. I feel as though the two of us may have been friends under different, less homicidal circumstances.”

“Blessed are these old bones to witness the end of the world firsthand, assuming all goes to plan.” Lüngen was already smoking his pipe, using up the last of his tobacco before the climactic encounter with the Elves, “My road has been long and perilous. I’ll be glad to rest once all of this is over. With the Order in Lieze and Drayya’s capable hands, I find myself with fewer regrets than I could ever imagine.”

Drayya crossed her arms, hiding something vulnerable beneath her confidence, “I always assumed your smoking habit was going to be the end of you. It’s almost infuriating to see that you’re still kicking even after all these years.”

Lüngen chuckled, “Margoh… you’re more like your father than you could ever understand. He’d have been paralysed with delight seeing the fine young lady you’ve grown into.”

“Damnable old fool… who said you could call me that?” She paused sharply, unable to form words. A thin, restrained gasp accompanied the drop in her expression, “Speaking together like this… it almost reminds me of those days in the archives. Things were a lot simpler back then.”

“By the thorns… you two were a pair of rugrats. Always getting yourselves into trouble, wandering off to where you shouldn’t have been, never apologising for anything…” Lüngen complained, but painted across his wrinkles was a warm smile, “For a time, it seemed those days would never return. It’s a weight off my shoulders to see the two of you attached at the hips yet again.”

“-And now we’re about to throw it all away. Gods forbid anything be straightforward for once.” Drayya frowned, “What about you, Lieze? Any parting words in case this goes horribly wrong? Or horribly right?”

Their eyes were suddenly upon her, expecting the sort of rallying speech that would spur them towards a glorious victory. There was nothing Lieze hated more than being placed in the spotlight.

“...What’s there to say that hasn’t been repeated a thousand times already?” She asked, “I’d like to think these past few months have freed me from the prison of my own ineptitude. But no matter how fiercely I struggle against my nature, the ‘youth’ stolen from me will never return. Memories of those pitiable days have continued to shape me - much as I wish they wouldn’t.”

“Ever the ball of sunshine.” Drayya nodded as though she hadn’t expected to hear anything less, “-But that’s what I like about you.”

Lüngen lifted his pipe and blew a plume of smoke into the humid air, “Whether or not the past remains, a single glance is all one requires to appreciate your efforts, Lieze. Under Ignas, the Order’s ambitions would have most likely ceased at the sacking of Tonberg.”

“Hm. It’s a shame his ‘ambition’ was misguided from the very beginning.” She replied, “Knowing the truth is more important to me than the imperfect solution imposed upon us by centuries of blind worship. By the grace of our own initiative, the impossible dream of the Order will be realised. So, for the love of all that’s good - try not to fumble this final step.”

“They come…”

Kesset, the Head Shaman of Elvenkind, had never worn a blindfold in his life. To his chagrin, such measures were necessary when facing down a light of any intensity - even the faraway glow of a lantern. But the Elv were no stranger to blindness, and often found themselves relying on their ears to detect what their eyes could not.

“We will spare no expense in ensuring that the cursed one is vanquished this day.” A fellow Shaman’s voice echoed through the Ritual Chamber, “We may bleed. We may die. Our home may be rent asunder; our legacies vanquished; our loved ones butchered, mangled, and turned against us… but we will struggle regardless. For that is our burden to shoulder.”

“Then… let me demand this one sacrifice of you, my brothers.” Kesset stepped towards the basin of discoloured sap sunken into the floor, “Just as the Great Oaks bless us with life, we too must offer unto them our flesh. On this day, allow the Seiliewichts their freedom to jaunt, prance, and bargain. Grant them the sacred blood, and awaken the slumbering life entombed within our homeland.”

From their robes, the Shamans retrieved curved blades of obsidian. They were unwieldy, too large - like sickles. They had more in common with the tools of farmers than implements of warfare. Each Shaman exposed their wrist to the wicked blades, slipping the edges over their flesh to create tiny, perfect incisions.

When blood ran freely from their wounds, the Shamans present stepped towards the basin and offered their limbs to the undulating sap. A few droplets was all it took - the ichorous substance grew frenzied from their shared offering, taking on a will of its own as thrumming quakes danced across the smooth obsidian floors.

“...With this, the pact is made.” Kesset said, “We have sworn our bodies and spirits to the Wichts in exchange for their unconditional support. With this power at hand, we may yet stand a chance against the turgid legions of undead at our doorstep.”

“Let us not waste a second more.” Another Shaman replied, “My brother - your God-given strength shall confound our enemies with delusions beyond their ability to comprehend. I will see to it that our kin are guided towards victory, as will the others.”

“Yes… though it pleases me not to curse my subjects with conflict, it is their decision to fight this battle.” Kesset lowered his head, “I am not deserving of their support, and yet - in this dark hour - I nonetheless find myself surrounded by sworn allies. There is a measure of peace in that solidarity. I could not ask for a more inspiring sacrifice.”

With their feet obscured by long, sweeping cloaks, the eight Shamans of the Black City departed from the Ritual Chamber. In their absence, the roiling lifeblood of the forest gathered over centuries in that ancestral basin continued to fulfil its end of the ancient bargain. Its fabled call spread from soil to canopy, through the trunks of the Great Oaks and beneath the labyrinthine network of roots spiralling into the belly of the earth, awakening the full might of the forest’s wrath to the plight of Elvenkind.