Daughter of Death - A Necromantic LitRPG

As night fell, the rain only worsened.

Warm lamplight poured from the cracked window of a home tucked into the heart of the district. A trail of soaked footprints led up from the entranceway to the second floor, where the night-chill continued to pierce through the rotting walls of a bedroom.

The fellow who resided within was neither a necromancer nor an outlaw, but someone rather unwelcome in that part of the city. Twin shades of black and gold denoted his attire as belonging to the crown, though recent events had muddied the soldier’s understanding of loyalty. Only hours ago, he had witnessed his countrymen being shot down by indiscriminate volleys - their sacrifices justified as necessary to eliminate the necromancers infiltrating the city.

But there was no victory to be had. The blood of a single woman - who, as far as he knew, may very well have been perfectly innocent, was only the first to spill that day. The necromancers had escaped, leaving in their place a horde of undead wreaking havoc through the western district. The question of where they had disappeared to was one he had been sent to answer.

“Undead here, too…” Nursing a bandaged gash on his wrist, the soldier seated himself at the end of the bed, “Only makes sense they’d be here. No patrols, no civilians…”

He was a mere half-hour walk away from his cosy cottage in the northern district, but in that moment, he felt further from home than during his days as a scout on the frontier. Back then, the Order was only a suggestion on the horizon, and the crown busied itself with matters of commerce and diplomacy rather than war.

Years later, undead were prowling the very district he had taken his spouse out to for an indulgent day of spending his hard-earned coin. He recognised the street that quaint little home was perched in - the bakery, the butcher’s, the pub. All reduced to rubble and patrolled only by the living dead.

But he was safe, for the time being. He would sleep and continue his duties in the morning, return to the castle to report his findings, and hopefully spend the rest of his days drinking wine while the new king pushed back against the Order.

A sound brought him to attention - the smashing of porcelain downstairs. It was so deliberate and scheming of a shock that the soldier wasted no time in reaching for the blade at his waist. He had already stripped himself of his armour, and there was no time to don the mail laid over the bed without exposing himself. With careful steps, he made his way to the door and peeked through the crack before letting himself through.

“Who’s there?” Careful not to attract the attention of any undead outside, he spoke with an aggressive whisper, “Show yourself…”

Despite his age, he had a keen eye for ambushes and the like. Such was the responsibility of a former scout. Darting his gaze to every possible angle, he descended the L-shaped stairs to see a fine vase in pieces on the corridor’s floor. With a flash of distant thunder that captured the room in a moment of perfect light, a silhouette darted from one room to the next, leaving a trail of frost in its wake.

“What in the Dragon’s name was that…?” The soldier’s blood ran cold. A premonition of instant death broke out from his skull - a long-lost dread he hadn’t felt in decades, “Sod this… I need to get out of here…”

He didn’t hesitate, leaping from the last steps and making a dash for the front door. He turned the knob with speed, only to feel the weight of despair dragging on his heart when a rotting hand shot through the gap as he pulled on it. A repulsive crunching assaulted his senses as he rammed the door with his shoulder, causing a slurry of blood and rotten flesh to spurt out as the Gravewalker’s arm was severed.

He had no time to think, diving into the living room while resisting the temptation to glare in the direction of the strange creature he’d witnessed moments ago. Whatever it was, he had seconds to make an escape before it would be right on top of him. With the handle of his blade, he shattered the pane of curtained glass overlooking the street teeming with undead.

For an instant, it seemed like he was home free. But as he began to vault over the windowsill, something wicked and terrible took him by the ankle, causing pins and needles to surge through his body. Having lost all momentum, he landed face-first onto the broken thorns of glass, tearing a gash in his cheek as he was dragged back into the home.

He swung like a maniac with his blade, but the creature was no denizen of that world, and the touch of steel was akin to caressing its warping skin with a feather. The freeze of death overtook his mind, and a pleasant numbness began to spread from where the fog-beast had grabbed him.

He had neither the time nor the will to scream as his consciousness faded away.

An instant later, he awoke.

His surroundings had changed. Gone were the comforts of sturdy wooden walls, replaced by cavernous welts of granite and puddles of rainwater. Despite the alien locale, he could pick out some familiar amenities through the blurriness of his vision. A pair of canopied beds, a table, and a desk. It brought to mind images of the sort of place a wizard, or perhaps a simple hermit, may have called home.

His arms and legs were bound to a dainty wooden chair that was barely supporting his weight. His left leg was numb. He had a splitting headache. If anything, he was still alive, though whether that was a comfort to him or not depended on the circumstances of his capture.

There wasn’t much for him to do besides keep track of his heartbeat, but that problem was pushed aside by the appearance of a cloaked woman from one of the cavern’s tunnels. She was using a cowl to keep herself out of the rain, rather than conceal her appearance, as she was more than happy to reveal the face hidden beneath.

“Oh, you’re awake.” She flashed a crooked smile, “That’s just grand. I was expecting to wait a few hours more, but the less time wasted, the better.”

“You… I recognise you.” The soldier’s voice was dry, “You were at the square…”

“Indeed I was. You’ll have to forgive me for not offering you the same respect. I was far too busy dodging arbalest bolts and corralling thralls to take note of a soldier’s appearance.” She placed a hand on her chest with a prideful expression, “You may have heard my name before - Margoh Drayya?”

“Drayya…”

He knew not the surname’s true significance, but it tickled a memory lodged deep in his brain. It was a name vilified throughout the Sovereign Cities, once spoken in hushed whispers but screamed in glee upon the eve of a certain man’s execution.

“The Order’s failed crusade… you’re that man’s blood?”

The woman named Drayya nodded, “His one and only daughter, come to punish the holds of men for resisting our goals. My Wraith caught you sneaking around the eastern district in the dead of night. Are you a scout sent by Alistair?”

“Oh, no. You’re mistaken.” The soldier’s confidence rose as his head cleared, “I was just out for a stroll. I’m afraid there’s nothing interesting I can tell you.”

“That’s very funny. Yes… absolutely hilarious.” She wasn’t smiling, “Well, not to worry - when there’s a will, there’s a way, and I have been tutored in ways more despicable than you could ever imagine. I knew it was a good idea to bring along my tools for the trip…”

On the wooden table in the centre of the room were arranged implements of metal and stone, as well as an arrangement of glasses the soldier could only assume had something to do with alchemy. Before Drayya could peruse her selection of tools, however, there came another set of footfalls from below, rising up from the belly of the earth.

“Drayya?” A pale face peeked through the tunnel, “There you are. Marché informed me you were ‘cleaning up’, but neither of us had the slightest idea of- oh, goodness…”

Like a disappointed mother, the chalk-haired girl covered both eyes with her good hand and sighed.

“You didn’t have to come all the way back here, Lieze.” Drayya replied, “-But since you did, why not help me hurry this along? I could always use an extra pair of hands.”

“-And what is ‘this’, exactly?”

“As if you really have to ask.” Raising a pair of rusted pliers, she snapped the tool shut with a reserved but deliberate squeeze of her palm, “Torture.”

“Not an interrogation?” Lieze folded her arms.

“Torture, interrogation… let’s not argue semantics in front of our guest when there’s blood to be spilled and intelligence to gather.” She replied, “You wish to return to the city as quickly as possible, don’t you? Let’s extract what we can of Alistair’s plans and get on with it.”

Lieze looked over the bound soldier, who returned her glare with vicious contempt.

Rikard Althos

Level 20 Scout

HP: 239 / 300 MP: 30 / 30

BODY - 7 / MIND - 3 / SOUL - 10

“Lieze Sokalar…” He frowned, “Between the abdication of our fair king and the slaughter at the plaza, you’ve been causing quite the stir lately. For how long have you been prowling Tonberg like a snake in the grass?”

“Do you know what - I haven’t been keeping track of the days. They seem to disappear faster than I can blink.” She replied, “If Drayya captured you, that means you were found lurking somewhere you shouldn’t have been. Were you sent by Alistair to scout the eastern district?”

“That’s right.” He answered honestly, “Exactly 0 of the guards came by to change shifts, and that’s never a good sign. Suppose they all must be dead now. Or worse.”

“You’re being surprisingly cooperative.” She observed.

“Gonna kill me no matter what I say, aren’t you?” He shrugged his shoulders, “Once you pile on a few more years, you’ll start to understand the importance of taking the easy way out. With how the world’s going, a quick death is turning into a privilege.”

“You’re lecturing me now?”

“Gods - you’re barely a woman.” There was a sadness in the old soldier’s eyes, “This is what it’s come to? The Lich sending his own daughter to die in his place? Then again, when you’re immortal, life must seem like such a fickle thing.”

“Life is fickle by nature of its existence. Life perpetuates suffering. Life is the root of all evil.” She said, “When this state of mind is reached, it becomes a simple matter to view life as nothing more than a limitation. The Order seeks to transcend the curse of emotion and suffering by delivering this world from mortality.”

“Rubbish.” Resigned, Rikard lowered his head, “You take the good with the bad - that’s just how it is. Certainly, there’s suffering in this world, but it’s also filled with undeniable beauty - the likes of which a neglected child like yourself would oppose out of pure spite.”

“Can we perhaps wrap up this session of human philosophy in the next few minutes?” Drayya wandered over, wicked tools in hand, “I’d like to skip straight to the part where we get to peel his skin off. We are on a schedule here, Lieze.”

“A moment.” She demanded, “-You. How much do you know about the movements of soldiers in Tonberg? The density of troops in each district?”

“About as much as I need to know - as you would expect.” He replied, “-And about as much as you could probably figure out on your own.”

“He’s looking for a quick death!” Drayya accused, “Doesn’t that just enrage you?”

“Who is Furainé Morgan?” Lieze continued her questioning, “Answer that, and I truly will grant you a painless demise.”

“Morgan…?” Rikard blinked, “You shouldn’t know that name, lass.”

“And yet I do.” She replied, “Your reaction implies she’s someone important.”

“Hm… you could say that.”

“I sense a story coming on…” Sighing, Drayya dropped her pliers and needles to the ground.