Deus Necros

Somewhere in the Empire, deep underground, where purple letters and carvings of words that felt foreign to the world itself were painted along stone, a large table waited. It hosted a gathering of silhouettes, the light low and the air heavy with intent. The room smelled faintly of old incense and iron. When they leaned forward, the carvings seemed to drink the sound of their voices.

Though most of the figures were human in outline, others wore shapes that betrayed varied origins, beasts with extra limbs, forms too tall or too wide. Some were furry and feral, but all sat with the sort of patience that comes from long conspiracies. The treacherous fanged werewolf was first to break the silence. He slammed his fist on the table, making the other faces turn.

“YOU SHOULD HAVE COME WITH US!” he howled.

His fury was animal and precise. The words were not only complaint but accusation, heavy and loud in the subterranean hush. The slamming echoed down the chamber.

“Calm down, Fanged one… we didn’t know it would be that much resistance…”

A cooler voice soothed, the kind that speaks in plans rather than passions. There were many excuses and explanations, but the body language in the room showed a single growing worry.

“The whole ordeal in Tulmud is now biting us in the ass. If only you did as asked and brought two more apostles, we wouldn’t have had this much trouble. We even lost the Damned Wrathful Death! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!”

His shout rang sharp. The loss of Wrathful Death could be a turning point; the room felt the weight of that assertion. No one in those circles used exaggerated tones without consequence.

“You’re more worried about the Death of the Wrathful Death than the suspicious disappearance of Lich Ur-Khan?”

The counterpoint came from another corner of the table, cold and analytical. Priorities jostled in the low light. One loss did not make another less pressing; each gap in power needs reconciliation.

“The lich’s phylactery was nowhere to be found… we searched everywhere in Tulmud. We can only assume it was destroyed.”

The news itself was a tremor. A destroyed phylactery suggests finality. The implications threaded through the silhouettes like a chill.

“No one can destroy a lantern of Necros,” the werewolf said, disbelief and anger coiled in his voice.

“Then it is lost, and if he is still alive he’ll show up. Still, we need to discuss more concerning matters, the boy is growing far too strong and too dangerous,” another silhouette said.

Their conversation shifted with the casual horror of those who measure threats. A boy becoming a variable of power is a problem that invites action. Names like Crucendo and Shrike surfaced, voices matching the contours of the room.

Turning to another, “Crucendo, you fought him, what do you think?”

“He is wicked, but too strong headed. He’ll never join us, especially after having killed the Wrathful Death. His purpose will now be confirmed…”

The exchange was practical; they were not debating morality but endgames. The child’s ascent altered plans.

“Doesn’t it worry you?” a shrill, familiar voice asked. “That this kid was able to kill something none of us could even harm?”

“Yes,” said another. “We don’t know what tricks he used. It must be grandiose, since not even our full power can contend with a Usurper.” The obese man’s voice carried the lazy menace of someone used to being obeyed. “We need to contact the Gluttonous one.” He turned his attention to the werewolf. “You have ties with it. Shouldn’t you visit Tibari again? Warn it, or even egg it on to eat the kid?”

“That’s too much to ask. Gluttonous is far too unpredictable. Unless it’s absolutely necessary, I don’t even want to meet him.”

Fear of the Gluttonous entity was practical. Some patrons devoured plans as well as bodies.

“I have an idea,” one of the smaller silhouettes said, a voice that had the light of a child and the cruelty of a schemer. This content belongs to novelFir.net

“Speak. We need anything we can grasp.”

“The Tower of Trials rose last year, yet not many attempted it. Don’t you think it would be a good spot to get rid of him?”

The suggestion rippled. The Tower which usually rose every hundred or so years, was now back in full action, right at the heart of the empire. But the suggestion had too many risks to take in for a simple plan.

“How?” the werewolf asked. “Won’t the tower only make him stronger?”

“Not if we give him the ability to go to the eleventh floor,” the young voice said, smiling. “You want to pit him against Pride?”

“You risk giving him another chance at beating another Usurper,” someone cautioned.

“Hah, now that would be interesting if it were to happen. Between us, who among all the Usurpers would you least likely want to fight?”

“Pride,” they answered, many voices in one accord.

“Exactly. I already have the key. Let’s send it as a gift he cannot refuse, and once he accepts it he can’t evade.”

The plan closed like a hand. In the subterranean light the silhouettes leaned in to seal an answer that would nudge the world toward the next move.

***

“So… what do you want?”

“The Dean wants nothing, just making sure you’re still alive and kicking, which to me feels like both… come back to the tower, we need you here. Things have changed…”

“That was my plan in the first place, I need to recalibrate myself…” Ludwig said.

“I sense powerful energy coming from your heart…”

“We have strangers with us,” Ludwig said, hinting that the party around him wasn’t privy to his former undead nature.

“Then come back first, we’ll need to study that thing that you’re harboring, it looks interesting…”

However, Ludwig’s eyes weren’t focused on the crystal’s projection, but in the horizon. “Seems like returning won’t be as easy as I would like it to…”

“Why? What is going on?” the Dean asked.

“Looks like we have company, not the good kind…”