Deus Necros

The three of them came to a slow stop before the batwing doors of the guild, the worn wood weathered by years of rough boots and rougher fists, its surface scratched and nicked by blades, rings, and time. Redd was the one to reach first, pushing one side of the door open with a steady palm, and it creaked wide on rusted hinges that groaned in protest. The noise was sharp enough to momentarily fracture the low roar of voices from inside.

As they stepped through the threshold, the tavern-like space before them swallowed them whole in light, scent, and noise. The stale bite of old ale mingled with the heavy musk of sweat-drenched leathers. Smoke hung in the rafters, not from cigars but from torches half-doused in lamp oil. A few brass lanterns swayed gently from iron chains, casting trembling shadows over long communal tables and the glinting metal of a dozen sheathed weapons.

Their entrance did not go unnoticed.

Heads turned, some subtly, some with open curiosity. Every adventurer in the room gave them, at minimum, a glance quick sweeps that measured posture, weapon placement, the quality of one’s boots and how much dust clung to them. Some looks lingered longer, especially those from veterans whose instincts hadn’t dulled, and whose minds were always tallying threat.

Ludwig felt their attention like a second weight on his shoulders, but didn’t flinch. He stepped forward with his usual quiet poise, his cloak trailing behind like a shadow stitched to his frame.

It wasn’t open hostility. But it wasn’t welcome either. It was… calculation.

The interior of the adventurer’s guild unfurled before them like a kingdom of its own. Beneath the high vaulted ceiling, the space was separated not by walls, but by activity. On one side, a sprawling bar ran nearly the length of the room, polished from use and worn smooth where tankards had scraped it bare. Behind it, shelves brimmed with bottles, liquors and tonics both, some glowing faintly with alchemical trace.

Across from the bar, a wide reception desk sat embedded into a low wall, partitioned into multiple booths where guild staff handled the long queues of arguments, bounty claims, and monster identifications. The sound of parchment flapping, coin scales clinking, and hunters shouting over each other mingled with laughter and the occasional insult hurled in jest, or not.

To their left, the “common floor” stretched open into a chaos of tables. Some were crowded by groups counting coin under the flickering lamplight, parchment sprawled and stained with ink and blood alike. Others sat quieter. One table had a black cloth draped over it and a single cup of untouched ale. No one sat there. A companion lost.

Hunters in worn leathers drank deep. A man with a broken spear resting against the wall nursed a fresh bandage around his eye. A dwarven woman was deep in heated negotiation with a pair of animal eared twins over the pelt of what looked like a lizard hatchling. All of it pulsed with life, with competition, and unspoken rules.

“Looks lively,” Ludwig muttered as he stepped further in, scanning the layout.

“This is actually a not-so-busy day,” Redd replied under his breath. His hood was pulled low, but his eyes darted like a hunted animal’s. He took a slow pivot, as if mapping the room. “We’re in luck. Nobody important’s screaming.”

Ludwig took another step forward toward the counter, intending to inquire about registration, but his movement was abruptly cut off as a heavy shoulder collided into him. The man who shoved him was massive, twice Ludwig’s bulk, red-faced, hunched over with one hand barely gripping a half-empty mug of sour-smelling grog. The other was gesturing vaguely toward Celine.

“Hey there… hic… beauty,” he slurred, teeth stained yellow and gums puffy. His breath reeked, something between rotted apples and metal. “Why not come play with the big boys… hic… and leave these children alone… eh?”

His voice cracked on the last word, wheezing as the weight of his own drink threatened to fold his knees inward.

Ludwig’s fingers had already twitched. A tension was building in his stance that felt more like instinct than thought. His ring glimmered faintly. One second longer, and the man would’ve found his body far lighter than it currently is.

Redd stiffened beside him, his entire frame drawn taut as a bowstring. “Oh no…” he muttered, eyes going wide. “This dumb bastard wants to die.”

Before violence could snap the moment in half, a second man, slimmer, sober-eyed, and wide with panic, leapt forward and seized the drunkard by the collar, dragging him back with practiced swiftness.

“I’m so sorry!” the man blurted, bowing mid-drag. “He’s had too much, please, forgive us!”

But Ludwig’s ears caught the whisper that followed, hissed with venom through gritted teeth as he yanked the drunk away: “Are you fucking retarded?! That’s a vampire, you fat sack of lard! She’ll tear your ribs through your damn asshole if you look at her wrong!”

“Sharp as a marble, that one,” Redd muttered again, shaking his head, lips pressed thin with the kind of bandit amusement that came only when someone else nearly walked into death’s mouth.

Ludwig turned to look at Celine. Expecting a curl of her lip, a sideways glance, some trace of irritation, he was met instead with… nothing. Her face was unreadable, eyes still faintly luminescent, mouth uncurved. She hadn’t even acknowledged the man. It was as though her attention never shifted. The ’insult’ hadn’t even brushed her awareness.

Before more could be said, a waiter appeared like a phantom, walking softly between tables, his uniform sharp and hands folded behind his back. “How may I help?” he asked, eyes flicking between them with gentle professionalism. “This is an adventurer’s guild. Unfortunately, common folk aren’t permitted to drink here. But if you’re in need of other services…”

“I’m here to register,” Ludwig said without missing a beat.

The waiter nodded, his demeanor changing slightly. “Ah. Then that’s a different matter. Would your companions like to be seated while you complete the formalities? You’re in luck, an instructor is in house today. Quite the convenience.”

Ludwig looked to Redd and Celine. Redd gave a shrug, indifferent. Celine gave only a faint nod, as if the outcome had already been decided in her mind.

They walked together to a nearby empty table, and as they sat, Ludwig noticed more glances being tossed their way. Not aggressive. Just observant. Celine, as always, drew the most attention. Not for beauty, though she had it, but for the cold intensity she carried like a blade across her back. Even seated, she looked like something coiled.

Redd, meanwhile, looked more uncomfortable. Not threatened. But… aware. His eyes kept drifting to corners, to entryways, to the shadowed booths where quiet mercenaries drank alone. Like he was seeing too many familiar faces from a past he’d rather forget.

The waiter returned and gestured toward one of the receptionists, who was sorting through a stack of stamped parchment behind the desk.

“She’s ready for you,” he said to Ludwig, and gestured toward a door beside the counter.

“Please follow me,” the receptionist said simply, stepping through the side door with a motion of her arm.

Ludwig followed her through the narrow corridor, the air dimmer and cooler here. Stone lined the walls, etched with faint chalk runes and small brass plates bearing strange numbers. The receptionist walked with swift purpose, her boots echoing down the corridor. The sound was rhythmic, metronome-steady, counting down the steps until judgment.

They passed several closed doors before reaching a modest waiting alcove furnished with a single long bench and a side table cluttered with parchment scraps and half-spent quills. The faint scent of ink mingled with the dryness of parchment, and somewhere distant, the soft clink of blades being locked into racks echoed through the stone walls. A torch flickered on the wall behind them, casting long shadows down the hallway’s spine.

The receptionist came to a stop before one of the doors and turned back toward Ludwig. Her expression remained neutral, though there was a subtle furrow in her brow as she sized him up, more a pause of consideration than of concern.

She reached into the satchel hanging at her hip and produced a flat wooden tray with a fresh sheet of parchment laid atop it, already formatted with blank spaces to be filled: name, origin, class, experience, skills, and known combat history. A quill rested across the top like a waiting sentence.

“The signup fee is two hundred Kronas,” she said, her tone crisp but not cold. She held out the tray. “Please place the coin in the tray along with your completed information. Fill in the blanks as thoroughly as you can. Accuracy is important.”

Ludwig gave a quiet nod. He took the tray with both hands, careful not to let the quill roll off, and lowered himself onto the edge of the bench with an ease that felt too quiet for a man of his armament. The receptionist turned without further word and disappeared behind the adjacent door, leaving him in the hush of the hallway with only the fluttering of the torch for company.

He studied the form for a long moment before dipping the quill and beginning to write.

His pen strokes were neat, but cautious. He omitted everything he suspected might raise flags, there was no mention of Necros, or of Thorn Womed Queens, flayed Kings, or the shrieking husks of perturbed demi-kin that still haunted the edges of his memory. Instead, he listed what could be swallowed without suspicion: a Lizardman Champion, a pack of Werebats, a cadre of goblins. Enough to impress, not enough to provoke inquiry.

He included party-based kills, sparse tactical notes, and a small comment on field adaptability. All of it true. Just trimmed.

When he finished, he placed the quill back across the paper, slid the required coin into the tray with a soft metallic clink, and waited. The woman picked up the tray and entered the room first.

Minutes passed before the door behind him creaked open again.

“This way,” came the same voice from earlier, this time calm, deliberate, and unmistakably male.

The door led into a broad stone chamber, cool and lit by high, barred windows that allowed beams of sunlight to slant down like prison light through dust. Along the walls, racks of weapons stood in tidy order: spears with polished hafts, sabers and scimitars in matched pairs, clubs lined up by weight. Target dummies sat in a row along the far edge of the room, battered and patched.

Standing in the center, framed by that same windowlight, was a man Ludwig estimated to be in his mid-forties, dressed not in the armor of war but in the trim, sharp finery of a duelist. His vest was dark velvet, tightened across a broad chest. His boots were high and gleaming. A rapier, narrow and elegant, rested with casual poise in one gloved hand. His hair was drawn into a well-kept manbun at the nape of his neck, and a thin mustache lent his features a touch of arrogance sharpened by symmetry.

Ludwig could tell immediately, this wasn’t a fencer who’d grown lazy behind a desk. The man’s frame bore no softness. His stance, though relaxed, was precise. His eyes, calm and measured, didn’t look at Ludwig’s face. They had already scanned his legs, his arms, his shoulders. Judging.

“I see you’ve had some experience hunting with a party before,” the man said, his tone more statement than question.

“I do,” Ludwig replied simply, standing a few paces from the threshold.

There was a pause as the man pulled his gloves tighter, each movement exact. His voice came again, almost conversational.

“What do you seek from becoming an adventurer, Davon?”

Ludwig didn’t answer immediately. His mind turned the question over once, slowly. Not for truth, but for the framing of it. His eyes met the man’s. Unwavering.

“Purpose,” he said.

The word hung in the room longer than expected.

The instructor blinked once, then gave a faint breath of amusement, less a laugh, more an exhale of recognition.

“Ah,” he said. “I expected something else…”

Ludwig tilted his head slightly. “Such as?”

“Looking at your clothing, those boots, that cloak, the cut of that shirt, you’re clearly not here for money. Those garments cost more than this entire building, and you wear them like they’ve seen blood already. So You’re definitely not here because you’re broke. Given your age, I would’ve wagered thrill. Glory, perhaps. A youth’s chase.”

He paused, voice lowering.

“But words mean nothing. Only action does. En Guard!”

With a sudden flick, the rapier came to rest level with Ludwig’s throat.

“You want to fight. Here?” Ludwig asked, eyebrow arched, tone unreadable.

The instructor gave a faint shrug of one shoulder, though the blade did not waver.

“It is the only way to verify a candidate’s aptitude,” he said evenly. “And based on the… assertive report you turned in, I suspect paper alone does not do you justice. Many try and inflate their skill level and end up dead if given a higher adventurer rank than they deserve. Draw.”

“I fear I may destroy yours if I use mine,” Ludwig said after a brief silence. “The training weapons here are too light for me. Not built for someone of my weight class.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. “I do not enjoy being underestimated by rookies. Many can speak, but few can do what they talk about.” The man flicked his weapon a couple times, and it whirred in after images. Enough an endication for Ludwig to not take this too lightly.

Ludwig’s eyes narrowed, not insulted, only resigned. “Very well,” he said softly, and reached toward his ring.

In a breath, the runes inscribed along the ring’s edge shimmered with a dull iron light, and with a low thrum like distant stone cracking, Oathcarver, the man sized weapon materialized into his waiting hand. The weight was immediate, the sensation familiar. Its edge wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t meant to be. This was not a weapon of finesse. It was a slab of brutal promise, iron made doctrine.

The instructor’s eyes widened slightly as the weapon settled into Ludwig’s grip. He adjusted his stance, blade tip dipping a degree lower in anticipation.

“Let us begin, then.”