Deus Necros

Ludwig’s entire body felt like it was blurring as his feet struck the brittle layer of ash and ancient marrow beneath him, each step kicking up a ghostly wake of pale dust that hung in the air like smoke. The wind clawed past his face, cold and dry, whispering along the edges of his ears like forgotten voices. With Oathcarver gripped tightly in his right hand and Durandal clenched in his left, his fingers curled with a force just shy of bone-snapping. His undead muscles sang with strain, yet the weight in his hands felt right.

Ahead, the Queen loomed like a grotesque colossus in retreat, her body pulsing with unnatural rhythm. She moved not with the lumbering steps of a beast but with the warped urgency of something both dying and giving birth. Her root-limbs churned the earth beneath her in a frantic cadence, a blend of desperation and determination, as if some vital moment was slipping from her grasp. Her wails, piercing and raw, echoed along the shore-cavern walls, their tones neither maternal nor monstrous, but something suspended between.

Then the Queen reared, her shriek rising in pitch, and the air around Ludwig stiffened. From beneath the ash came roots wet, whip-like tendrils that lunged like striking serpents. One rose too quickly, forcing Ludwig into a crouch. He twisted, barely dodging the second, its bark grazing the sleeve of his cloak with a sound like parchment tearing. A third root arced toward his chest, and he met it with Oathcarver, slamming the blade down in a wide cleave that split it apart in a burst of dark sap. The fourth came low, sudden and precise, but Ludwig hurled himself into the air with a grunt, vaulting clear over it, his legs curling close like a dancer in mid-spin.

Midair, he hurled his one-handed scythe toward the Queen’s remaining arm, the chain trailing behind like a streak of silver light. It landed with a satisfying thud, biting deep into the Queen’s bark-slicked flesh and catching hold. In a single fluid motion, Ludwig twisted his torso and yanked, wrenching himself forward through the air toward her writhing form. The wind roared in his ears, and before gravity reclaimed him, he raised his free hand, forming a sphere of concentrated heat between his fingers.

“Fire Spear,” he growled as he squeezed the fireball, his voice taut with intent. The orb collapsed inward and shot forth as a lance of flame and spinning fury.

The Queen’s body, already unbalanced and spread thin by her extended roots and her pinned arm, had no means left to defend her womb. In a final, frantic reflex, she bent forward, hunching her torso to shield what she could. The spear struck her back in a blaze of impact, the blast cracking open her bark and sending charred fragments scattering. A pained cry tore from her throat, guttural and thick, rattling the cavern walls with the weight of her anguish.

Ludwig, still airborne, kicked at the empty air beneath him. Ordinarily, the act would have meant nothing, an instinctive flail for any other person. But Not Ludwig. His heel struck a waiting sigil, already primed beneath his foot. The [Explosive Mine] spell triggered with a burst of heat and sound, the blast throwing him higher and further, though the force slammed into his legs like a smith’s hammer. The pain registered dimly, a red notification of received damage flashed in his vision, but it was the price of flight.

At the peak of his arc, Ludwig called back Durandal with a flick of the wrist. The weapon returned to his grasp tethered by the Soul Shackles. His left hand was now free. With a clenched fist and a whisper of command, Oathcarver shimmered back into being, materializing in a glimmer of shadowed steel. Both blades in hand, Ludwig coiled his body.

He let the weight settle, both mental and physical, then unleashed it all at once.

“Explosive Surging Slam!” he roared as he spun into a descending spiral.

His body whirled with manic precision, a cyclone of steel and fire. Around him, new mines bloomed into life, exploding in rhythmic bursts as he passed. He became a falling star, his edges blazing, his roar blending with the howling of his spells. Below, the Queen raised her last arm in a futile attempt to block the descent. It was a gesture born not of hope, but inevitability.

He hit her like a divine judgment.

Both blades struck with explosive force, cleaving through the raised limb in a single blow. The arm shattered beneath the combined weight of spell and steel, fragments of bone and bark flying outward. The impact continued into the Queen’s back, each blade digging deeper with every rotation. Her spine met him with resistance, but it cracked, giving way as his momentum overwhelmed it.

Ludwig did not wait. He rose with a snarl, half-crouched upon her ruined back, his hands already moving. Durandal slashed downward, then Oathcarver followed. He carved without pause, each stroke fueled by the weight of all that had brought him here. The Queen shrieked, her cries now lacking even the dignity of form. They were keening, broken things, reflexive, unformed, like the final gasps of something unraveling.

And still he struck.

One of the Queen’s roots, thick and dark with dried ichor, surged toward him from her side in a last, desperate swing. But before it could reach his neck, the Soul Shackle flared with sharp silver light across Ludwig’s back, as if reacting to danger with a will of its own. The enchanted chains snapped upward like a serpent’s head striking prey, wrapping around the offending root and jerking it taut mid-swing. The force of it stopped the Queen’s limb cold, and with a final metallic whip-crack, the chain dragged it backward, flinging it uselessly to the side. Ludwig didn’t even glance toward it.

There was meat -and bark- on the chopping block, and Ludwig had all the blades anyone would need.