Deus Necros

The stillness that came before the surge was thick and cloying, a silence pressed thinly over the pulse of something feral just beneath. Then came the flood. The rest of the Bearowls charged in all at once, their massive shapes emerging from the misty edges of the woods like phantoms drawn to blood. Heavy paws thudded against the dirt, branches cracked under the sudden weight of their stampede, and the humid breath of beasts steamed through the cold air as they encircled the battered carriage. In the flickering firelight cast by the dying embers of their earlier battle, twisted shadows reeled over the trees and walls. The night itself had become a cage.

Roars broke across the night in overlapping waves, deep, guttural bellows from the brown Bearowls, sharper, unhinged shrieks from the Black variants. Each call felt like a warning, a threat, a mourning cry all at once. The air vibrated with their frenzy. Some of the Black Bearowls were particularly volatile, pacing and thrashing with frenzied growls. Their noses hovered too close to the torn, twitching bodies of their fallen kin, the scent of death triggering something primal in their instincts. One of the brown Bearowls, a mountain of rippling sinew, stood slightly apart and locked eyes with Ludwig. It snarled, low and thunderous, its lips twitching with restrained fury, the amber of its eyes glinting with cold intelligence and hatred.

“Why are they stopping?” came Melisande’s voice from within the carriage, muted but tight with tension, her tone betraying more than mere curiosity.

Robin’s answer came first, dry and calm, though there was a tautness to it as he slung his crossbow back over his shoulder with deliberate care. “Looks like their boss wants to talk…”

The atmosphere thickened even more at his words, like the pressure in the air before a lightning strike. Timur stepped forward, his boots cracking twigs underfoot as he calmly sheathed his weapons, the hilts clicking home with an audible finality that still held menace. “Keep an eye out, Gorak,” he said without turning, his voice low but firm, a breath away from command. “Don’t let your guard down.” Then, with a brief glance toward Ludwig’s side, he added, “Sir Davon, might as well stay with me for this one,” his chin flicking forward in silent signal.

There was a space, curiously untouched, among the circling Bearowls, a large clearing in the exact center of the tightening ring. Though the beasts snarled and shifted around it, none dared to step within. There, the mist began to gather unnaturally, thickening into something almost gelatinous, as though resisting the air itself. For a moment it looked like a mere trick of the light, but then it stirred. Shapes formed within the fog, slow and deliberate, and fangs glistened before the body did. As though exhaling its own essence, the whiteness congealed and separated, taking the form of the white Bearowl.

It stepped into view with a stately gait, each movement too smooth, too heavy, its bulk nearly twice the size of even the broadest brown Bearowl. A monster among monsters. Its harness hissed and shimmered with erratic pulses, the metal lined with strange, runic coils that steamed rhythmically, as if breathing. There was something unnatural about the way it radiated presence, oppressive, like the weight of being watched by a god through the eyes of a beast.

And atop its broad back, a figure stood.

The man was a living contradiction. His robes, though draped in luxurious folds, were woven from darkened hues, charcoal blues, sickly purples, faded crimsons. Each shade muted to the point of sorrow, as though any brilliance they once held had been intentionally bled away. His poise was that of a performer, but there was no joy in his act. The mask he wore was unmistakable, a smooth porcelain visage split in dual emotion: one half wept with a painted black tear, while the other half wore a crescent smile that bent just a little too wide. The symmetry was perverse, and yet perfect.

“Creepy ass,” Ludwig muttered under his breath, barely audible, his hand already drifting near his blade’s hilt. His eyes narrowed as he took in the figure. Thomas has spoken of seen this man before, this thing. There was no mistaking it. The Piper.

The flute the masked man held was unnaturally long, forged from what looked like a seamless blend of white marble and silver. Ornate carvings, too fine to make out in the darkness, ran along its length like veins. It didn’t gleam in the moonlight. It drank it. And at its end a long sharp spear like tip to it, that felt like it had drank too much crimson during its lifetime.

“Greetings, fellow night travelers!” the Piper called out with performative flourish, arms spread like a stage actor greeting his audience. His voice rang sharp with theatricality, with a lilt that danced between mocking and merriment.

“Quite the way to greet others,” Ludwig said coolly, though his body was tensed, his tone deceptively casual. His hand hovered just above Oathcarver’s grip, his stance relaxed but balanced.

“Indeed,” the Piper said, tilting his head just slightly. “It must be peculiar for you, as it is for me. Rare it is when prey fights back… and rarer still when it actually survives.” He paused, as though savoring the moment. “Tell me, who might you be?”

Ludwig responded by twirling Oathcarver once, letting the blade’s weight ring with the sound of polished metal shifting through air. He planted it at his side, its tip kissing the earth like a statement carved into stone. “That’s supposed to be our question,” he said. “Why are you attacking us?”

“You?” the Piper laughed, the sound distorted slightly by his mask, the dual-faced mouth unmoving. “No, I never had any intention of doing so…”

Timur took a step forward now, voice sharp and skeptical. “That’s not what these dead Bearowls were trying to portray,” he said, gesturing toward the mangled corpses nearby. “You know damn well this is a carriage that belongs to the house of Baltimore.”

“Baronies are far too insignificant for me to bother with,” the Piper replied dismissively, his tone lilting with superiority. “But rest assured, you were never my targets. Though… sadly,” he added, his voice curling into something cruel, “you’ve seen what I am. And that means you’ll have to do a lot of convincing to make me let you go.”

The mocking cadence of his tone stirred something sharp in Ludwig’s chest. His mana began to stir on instinct, circling around him like unseen wind. He didn’t channel it fully, not yet, but the latent force crackled faintly, a breath before a spell.

“I suppose that’s the same reason you killed imperial officers?” Ludwig asked, eyes never leaving the Piper. “Not exactly a wise thing to do here in Lufondal.”

The Piper made a low hum of amusement, then chuckled, a dry and hollow sound. “Hah. I’ve been here for far longer than you’ve drawn breath, young man,” he said. “Trust me, I care very little for what the monarchy of this country thinks, does, or says…” He suddenly leaned forward, bending his upper body in an exaggerated arc, like a puppet on invisible strings. “Hmm. You smell different.”

Ludwig flinched internally, though his face remained still.

The Piper cocked his head, mask staring as though sniffing something intangible. “You… are one of us?”

He vanished from atop the Bearowl without movement, no warning, no sound.

Then he was in front of Ludwig.

The ground hadn’t even registered the shift before he was there, his presence like a blink of vertigo. One gloved hand was already brushing aside Ludwig’s regalia coat, parting the fabric with infuriating ease. A flash of metal glinted, his other hand revealing something on Ludwig’s belt.

Ludwig’s muscles seized. His reaction came late, but still fast, his boots skidding over packed soil as he leapt back, his right hand snapping toward Oathcarver while his remaining arm hoisted it up, the blade resting now across his shoulder with wary familiarity. One hand planted on the ground along with his other feet while his weapon found place atop his shoulder, a wolf stance, one that he saw the Knight King use in fighting the Gluttonous Death, it came easy, and frankly felt perfect for this situation.

The Piper stepped back, lifting both hands slowly, palms outward, in mock surrender. “No need to panic,” he said, tone oily with amusement. “We’re the same… are we not, apostle?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. With the tip of his marble flute, he pushed aside his own layered coat. There, clinking softly against his side, was a nearly identical item.

A Soul Letting Lantern.

Ludwig’s jaw tightened.

‘Necros is handing these out like they were candy or what…?’ he thought bitterly, the inside of his throat dry.

“Looks like yours is the same as the Fanged Apostle’s,” Ludwig said aloud as he slowly rose to his full height, watching every twitch of the Piper’s body.

“Don’t mention that mutt around me,” the Piper hissed, the cheerful timbre gone in a heartbeat. “But I fail to understand the relation.”

“Yours are both dim,” Ludwig replied bluntly.

“Isn’t that obvious?” the Piper said with theatrical disdain, as though explaining something to a child. “We renounced Necros. So he took away the light of the lantern.”

Then, without hesitation, the Piper grabbed the lantern and yanked it free.

He hurled it to the ground.

With one swift stomp of his boot, the delicate object shattered with a crunch of glass and metal, fragments scattering like sparks.