Deus Necros

“Can I join?” the veteran champion asked first.

The question came quicker than Ludwig expected, and it wasn’t asked with bravado.

The lizardman’s voice carried that dry steadiness of someone who had lived long enough to understand that safety was never free. The Champion stood with his shoulders squared despite the lingering sickness in his tribe, chest mark visible now like a new layer of skin that didn’t belong. His eyes kept flicking between Ludwig and the west as if the horizon itself was a threat.

“Oh, I thought you’d rest since you got a skip.”

“I’d rather work hard now to rest later,” he replied.

“Good, yes, you can, who else wants to go?” Ludwig asked.

He raised his voice only enough to carry across the gathered lizardmen and orcs, cutting through the low hum of post-battle cleanup, ropes tightening, broken weapons being piled, someone dragging a shattered shield away from a doorway.

Ludwig’s mind was already moving ahead of his body. Yellow Mountain. Red Tusks. A day’s march. A scouting run wasn’t a stroll. It was a gamble with information as the prize.

“Grath wants to go!” Grath spoke.

Ludwig looked at him, up and down, “Your form doesn’t really scream subtle, Grath. You stay here and listen to Kaiser. While I’m gone, his word is law.”

Grath was still smeared in drying mud and blood, greataxe propped like an idol beside him, and even standing still, he radiated the kind of presence that made stealth impossible.

If Grath tried to “scout,” every creature within a mile radius would know. Ludwig needed eyes, not a war drum.

Grath’s small, pointed ears drooped like a puppy denied a snack.

“Yes, chieftain.”

“Good, anyone else?”

Three more lizardmen had the courage to stand up.”

They moved with cautious eagerness, the kind born from fear of battle and the hope that scouting meant fewer axes aimed at their necks.

Ludwig watched their posture: slim builds, longer legs, quick hands. Good. Not champions. Champions were pride with muscles. Ludwig needed bodies that could move quietly and return alive. But still needed the veteran because he knew the way, and knew the sword.

“Good, that means the six of us will go,” Ludwig turned to Gale, he didn’t even need to ask his permission, Ludwig felt that Gale would have probably demanded to go regardless if Ludwig wanted or no.

Gale’s orc form stood like an armored statue, Oathcarver resting as if it weighed nothing and everything at once. Even reduced by the Tower’s rules, Gale carried an aura of inevitability. Ludwig didn’t love bringing that kind of presence on a scouting run, but Gale wasn’t optional. Gale was the insurance policy when scouting stopped being scouting.

“We’ll head out right now, Kaiser. Can I count on you when it comes to rebuilding this place?” Ludwig asked.

Kaiser’s hooded silhouette tilted slightly, staff grounded beside him. The lich’s eyes were calm, almost bored, like this was all an administrative nuisance. Behind him, the enslaved lizardmen stood in lines, chest marks catching the morning light in sick clarity.

“Don’t worry about it, you’ll find it in a better shape than you left,” Kaiser replied.

“Good, let’s depart now.”

“By the way, chieftain,” Grath spoke, seeing how serious he looked, something must have happened.

“Yes, Grath, what is it?”

“When do we… eat?”

Ludwig frowned, “Whenever you want? Why are you asking me that?”

“Because chieftain, ever since we met you, you haven’t eaten or drunk not even once…”

The question landed heavier than it should have. Ludwig had been running on habit, undead habit, where hunger was a forgotten concept, and thirst was an insult you ignored. But this body wasn’t undead, no matter who wore it.

The Tower had pressed them into living flesh, and living flesh demanded payment.

“Ah…” Ludwig didn’t need Grath to mention that; he was already feeling that ’strange’ feeling in his stomach since earlier.

Hunger.

It wasn’t a pain exactly. It was a hollow tug under the ribs, a low, constant insistence that grew sharper whenever the wind carried the smell of cooked corpse meat from the ruined settlement.

Ludwig had spent years without this. Years where the only urges that mattered were tactical. Now he had a biological demand clawing for attention, and he hated how quickly it could become distracting.

That was a strange notion for Ludwig; after all, he didn’t need such a foreign factor. Not needing to sleep, rest, or worry as an Undead made you forget those factors. But now he was an Orc.

“Go and hunt, you lived in this region before, so I’m sure you know how to fetch your own food. As for us, we’ll manage,” Ludwig said and turned to leave.

He didn’t linger on the discomfort. If he lingered, it would become a problem. Hunger was manageable.

Distraction wasn’t. He stepped away before Grath could start offering something enthusiastic and terrible like raw meat as tribute.

The Lizardmen and Gale followed Ludwig to their destination, toward the west. To where could they find the Yellow Mountain tribe.

They moved out of the settlement’s ruins and into the open land beyond, leaving behind smoke, ropes, and the uneasy silence of conquered bodies.

The river ran alongside them, bright in places where sunlight struck it, dark in others where overhanging branches shaded the surface. Ludwig kept the group in a loose column, Gale near the front, Ludwig slightly ahead of the lizardmen scouts, the champion veteran close enough to speak when needed.

The three additional lizardmen moved like runners, quiet and quick, heads turning often, noses tasting the air the way amphibious creatures did.

“So, this is hunger… I can’t say I miss it,” Gale muttered as he walked next to Ludwig.

Gale’s voice had that faint edge of annoyance that came from unfamiliar weakness. It wasn’t fear. Gale didn’t feel fear. It was irritation at being forced into a body that demanded things. The irony wasn’t lost on Ludwig. A dead king is now complaining about living discomfort.

“It’s annoying, isn’t it?” Ludwig replied as the two walked ahead of the lizardmen group.

The lizardmen behind them were quieter than earlier. Their bodies still hadn’t fully recovered from sickness, and sunlight didn’t help.

They moved with that slight stiffness of dehydration, throats working more than they should, tongues flicking more. Ludwig kept them near the river for a reason.

The latter looked a bit too… unfit to walk during the day.

“They’re dehydrating fast.”

“That’s why I wanted us to go alongside the river. We can refresh fast…” Ludwig turned to the champion and asked.

He didn’t slow his stride, just angled his head slightly so the champion Lizardman could hear. The pace mattered. Yellow Mountain was a day’s march, and a day’s march became longer when you stopped too often.

“What’s your name?”

“Akro,” the champion replied.

“Good, Akro, how far down west do we need to go?”

“It’ll take a bit longer if we follow the river, but we’ll eventually get there before the sun sets. Though I was wondering, you really have been moving for a long time, have you truly not eaten anything yet?” he asked.

The curiosity was careful, almost respectful.

Akro wasn’t mocking him. He was trying to understand what kind of leader refused food even when it was available.

Ludwig heard the subtext: Is this strength, or is this madness?