Open Chronicles A Corpse City for a Corpse King

[Méchanteau]

Méchanteau had believed since forever that necromancers were the most selfish and nihilistic of all creatures. Having heard of the Eternum, and the coven's attempt at an undead nation, he was proven wrong. Not all of his ilk were territorial eccentrics, some were just stupid and very successful. Now he somewhat regretted having ignored the Eternum's beckon, but not the spectacle with which he tried to return their envoys, molten into fine bars of soap and carried in the cruel talons of a majestic emperor vulture. The beast was quickly broken by the arctic winds and the soap fell down to the sea, but the silence was certain to have stirred the Eternum regardless. They were necromancers afterall, and every bit as paranoid as Méchanteau himself! Certainly they feared a fate crueler than the captain was devising.

Outnumbered as he was, he needed to prepare. His waves of man and critter corpses were a force to be reckoned with, but he hungered for more. This need felt more real than he cared for, it indeed bloomed into renewed zealotry. Was he not the chosen of Tabin-Ur? The god of greed was owed the most powerful wizard of all, a title Méchanteau had long coveted but only now felt manifest as this gnawing emptiness in his core, urging to be filled by the most terrible and arcane secrets. There were secrets just about everywhere in Arethil, perhaps even some of them would be of interest to the lich, but only one place drew the skeleton's fulminating gaze with enough of a pull to have him war against any nation...

Eiero Yrim-qafh. Lesser men may sully the necropolis' good name by calling it the Forbidden City, but to Méchanteau it would always be... Oox-meqtwl? He could not rightly recall just what name did his people give it, or who exactly were his people, or if he had ever belonged to any people at all. Although it didn't concern him terribly he nevertheless refused to call the city forbidden, as he was Méchanteau and no glorified crumbling heap of limestone would be out of his reach.

Thousands of men, beasts and beings made from both cut a black, rotten swath through the desert. They travelled day and night, unrelenting, uncaring, pulling and tugging great charred ships through dunes, oases and ruins. Some paid tribute to their passing, in the form of useless gilded baubles and pottery, but the greatest gift of all came in the form of resistance. Those too stubborn, too brave, or too proud to avoid the dead army soon became part of it. Nothing remained of Arratesh and Tarhab, save for their soldiers and peoples, still too fresh to be unmistakably dead. Yet Méchanteau hungered for more.

The sun rose to its highest when the skeletal lich chanced upon the Forbi- Maout-laxlx axa Exi-qon. The sight of the Moondial, the Serpent's Teeth, brought him no closure. Had the sensation of a beating heart been of enough importance for him to remember he would have said that his body and soul felt racked by squelchy, moist, meaty palpitations. Still, he ought to be careful, the dangers Eiero Yrim-qafh presented to the living could be tenfold to the dead.

Tiptoeing at the very tip of The Homewrecker’s bowsprit, giddier than any undead had any right to be, Méchanteau pointed one bony finger at the ruins. Answering the command legions of swarms came from their burrows, falling upon the dead city like a cloud of gunpowder. As the critters did what they did best, multiply and fester, the lich commanded his carrion flock to take to skies and survey. Subtlety was far from being a concern, but he much preferred to not be caught unawares.

 

[White Swallow]

The light cavalry pursued this...intriguing lot for days if not weeks. They were a small unit, perhaps not all that untrained in subtle kinds of movement, for their only goal, for now, was merely to observe and track.
Who in their bright mind would come to haul a ship across such treacherous land? Through the sands and the dunes. At least there was no corrosion of barnacles and weeds to corrupt the wooden flesh of the vessel.
Perhaps some inhumane warlord would have come to such a task to put the living through this? It wasn't all that apparent to the black-whiskered man that those beneath, those being observed were merely walking corpses. From such a distance all was but a blur.

Schihim who stood beneath a black banner with a rearing red horse, averted his gaze from the mass and turned to face his little troop. They have to return and report, see what this odd lot truly is up to, and where they even aim to go.
They wouldn't be hard to track later.



A day or so later the riders were quite an assembly to behold, but most rode behind their two leaders who were parallel to each other at all times. All the men were under banners of black with either red steeds or birds of white.
Schihim and the White Swallow exchanged glances as they spotted the group at the very edge of their sight.
This is it? Was this it?
A ruin and from it rose a mass of black like the densest flock of fliers ever to be seen.
This odd occurrence might've just turned far more interesting that thought at first.

 

[Gerra]

The Forbidden City.

Again.

Grozkalla grimaced, beady eyes narrowing as he approached the ruins’ outskirts. The blue orc drew to a stop, his large frame backlit by the yellow sea of dunes stretching out behind him.

Before him lay a sight that sent a shudder through him and made him reach for the heavy zhanmadao blade on his back.

The dead swarmed the ruins, moving like a colony of ants.

Archlector Snaaib had said he felt a disturbance but this was.... this was...

Gerra is not paying me enough for this.

Medja Gaheris

 

[Méchanteau]

Rather than awaken some all-belief-defying guardian, or even the corpse of a god who should have been left dead, Méchanteau caught wind of two hosts ogling his ships at a distance. Not that he needed his gulls, vultures and crows to tell him that, he could almost smell the sweat-dribbling hides of these living - with their oiling scalps and saliva-drenched belchholes. Alas, he had no time to waste with mere morsels, not when he stood to gain power beyond his long-dreamt nightmares.

As his hand seized the City in the form of pests and corpses, the necromancer was struck with the vaguest sense of... recursion. He pinned it on the city itself, which he wished to see, touch, and prance around as many before had wished to see, touch, and prance around in. Would he too in time become one with these ruins, with nothing to his name but a sandworn visage twisted in a sneer of cold command?

Preposterous!

Méchanteau's reaching hand became a fist. Undead flooded into the tombs and temples and forts, in each of them burning the overpowering greed of the lich.

 

[White Swallow]

The sunshine did shine, making the soldiers look more like a pile of coin guzzling off the dunes in the distance. And all did not seem fine, at least from their perspective.

The White Swallow of Narra pondered, Schihim scratched his chin, another soldier right behind yawned.
Are they, trying to claim a worthless piece of land in the middle of nowhere? Are they...searching for some long-forgotten artefact...if any still remain that is? The forgotten city was a popular scavenger trap, though it usually seemed excavators left more treasure behind by perishing in some unfortunate occurrence than finding it.

An entire army might be too threatening as a meetup, and the White Swallow couldn't shake it off if they were noticed or not, considering the preoccupation with the wasted ruin.

He split off a small unit and Schihim stayed behind, rolling eyes. Some fourteen men came with him at first glance and rode out with a relaxed place to meet with these odd people, whom upon closer inspection, yes...were walking corpses.

 

[Medja]

Dealing with Gerra's loose ends in some gods-forsaken corner of the desert was hardly something that Medja herself could be bothered with. Handling the infrastructure of a nation was time consuming, and after all, what was the point of having a network of spies, assassins, and enforcers if one couldn't make use of them from time to time? To that end, Medja had dispatched Settra and a squad of Onyx Hands to aid Gerra's own favored mercenary, Grozkalla. They totalled only six in number, but that was often more than enough to accomplish their assignments.

Today, however, it seemed that two opposing armies were converging on the Forbidden City. Perhaps the Emerald Hands or even the Immortals would've been better suited to this task...

"Do we have a plan of action here, Grozkalla?" Settra asked flatly, gripping his knives.

 

[Gerra]

The large ogre shifted uncomfortably as he watched the amassing numbers. He did not appear to share Settra's confidence in the sufficiency of their numbers. Enormous charred ships pulled by hundreds of figures cut through the sand with a slow grind. Kalla pointed at them.

"The source of the power. We... should see who beats the bush from where the birds fly."

But he did not look happy about it.

 

[Méchanteau]

Méchanteau paced to and fro and from ship to ship, in great bounds leaping over ammassing piles of treasures; demonic idols with gnarled bestial faces and statues of making as heroic as their figures got him to wonder after their names, with each scatter of apostrophes and hieroglyphs slowly realizing he knew more tongues than those he cared to remember... Was this omen the work of a guardian spirit, perhaps an old self urging against further desecration of the city? Challenged so openly, Méchanteau could only riposte in kind. He smashed all statues and scratched all faces depicted, even in the deepest of tombs where only some wights of his bereaved. More interesting finds accompanied the statues: mummies, embalmed in linen or hemp as their dynasties customs demanded. Ground up, they were said to cure any malady, but the lich coveted only their cloth and skin... As a hunter wears the pelts of his kills, he would take up the mantle of rulers past! How poetic!

On the matter of kills, the warm-bodies remained at some distance, leaving Méchanteau to wonder just what was their purpose. Could they be hires from the neighboring Locii, perhaps even the Eternum? Unlikely, as the Locii would never hire trotters and the Eternum just plain stinked - they had this smell of rot and self-conceit about them that he did not pick up as bad from these... fleshies -, they were more likely to be admirers, here to stand witness to the dawn of a new era!

Méchanteau waved at where the gathering of living was at its thickest, "WOULD YOU LIKE A COMPASS!?" he shouted over the many miles of swooping and rising dune between them, reaching into his breastpocket and from it producing a compass - one made of gnome bone, no less! A heartfelt gift, to be shared by all.

 

[White Swallow]

He did not wish to shout.
The horsemen darted into a brisky gallop to close the distance, lastly they stopped some respectable measure from the massive hulk of stranded charr.
Their eyes moved from it to the lot of bleached dead. Indeed curious.

»Thank you, praise be to the merciful creator, but we see for the stars to move. More importantly, however, it is quite a few good leagues from shore to be with a ship. Quite curious,« the White swallow talked loudly, but in a relaxed manner.
The White Swallow saw worse. From the swarm to the ancient dead, one time allies another time enemies. Another group of the dead in the middle of the desert was just another drop in the sea.
At least these could speak.

 

[Na’ill]

Na’ill stopped on a sizable sand dune’s crest Henry landing beside him, the large bird dancing uncomfortably atop the hot sand. Accompanying Na’ill were 5 undead warriors his choice few of course. Their blood bind holding tight. Na’ill looks downward upon the army of the undead as a shiver runs up his spine. The power of this fellow necromancer was unbelievable to Na’ill who struggled to control 50 servants comfortably but an army of this size was unprecedented. Let alone the fact that an army of this size could not be bound by blood and was only controlled through sheer power. This must be reported to The Eternum. A necromancer of this skill could pose a serious threat to anyone who they saw as rivalry.

 

[Tera Lynx]

The Forbidden City didn't lay quietly while the undead horde intruded on its cursed grounds. The undead armies of the skeleton pirate were scouring the ruins of all its secrets, its guardians, the Monsters that made the massive ruins their home.
But so far unreachable, untouched, undiscovered by the dead, miles and miles down into the underdark itself only reached via the fatal maze of sewers, tunnels and holes made by monsters unnamed, another denizen of the Forbidden City awoke. The sounds carried by a massive network of sensory tentacles, roots, and feelers reached the uncountable collective ears of billions...

Minkk, Queen of the Aether, opened her golden eyes, slit pupils focused and cut through the total darkness. A stretch and a yawn later and she was walking on her tiptoes across the warm undulating floor of her chamber.
She cast her mind along her nerve network to the surface. The essenceless, or so her mother called them, were moving about in great force, looting and desecrating, but what was more, she could sense a mind controlling them all, guiding them. Such power indeed.

Her mother hated the undead, called them abominations, blasphemous, against nature. The undead couldn't infect the Swarm, but her mother claimed that they had no essence and we're therefore useless to the Swarm, only good for being slaughtered. Minkk was not convinced, many of them had biomass and could therefore be host to parasites or infesters... But was her mother right? Could they truly not assimilate any traits from them?
Minkk was willing to try...

With a thought millions of egg clusters hidden in the warrens near the surface suddenly burst forth with fully formed monsters of the Swarm of the Damned. In an instant these monsters began pouring out of the tunnels and bursting up through the streets.
There was no focus, they burst forth simultaneously all over the city and immediately began attacking any undead in sight with overwhelming numbers, even for the undead hordes. Any dead, both swarm and broken undead, were swiftly recovered by worker drones and dragged back into the depths.

While this attack was executed, Minkk gathered her Swarm and rode her burrower drones. It would take time, but they will reach the surface soon.

 

[Gerra]

Grozkalla did not particularly want a compass. In fact, he was not even sure what a compass was, though he had heard sailors speak of it. Some kind of waterborn witchcraft, surely.

Ignoring the seething hordes of undead and insectoid screeches coming from inside the city, the big orc shambled forward. He passed a group of horsemen, but ignored them too. They were too busy shouting up at what seemed to be the necromancer.

Grozkalla shook his head, approached the ship, and with the alacrity of a mountain orc began to ascend the side of the ship. He hopped over the railing and was immediately surrounded by skeletons, he looked past them to the pirate king.

“I would like a compass.”

But he really would rather not.

 

[Medja]

Settra looked on in utter confusion at the events unfolding in front of him. No longer were the assembled forces simply undead and horsemen of the Shtakmat State, now there were insectoid creatures crawling about. It was getting increasingly difficult to determine where the head of the proverbial snake was, or even how many heads needed severing.

If that wasn't enough, Grozkalla had apparently developed a sudden death wish. The orc just...marched into the center of the chaos and addressed the lich personally. Medja was known as a woman who hired only the most competent rather than the Emperor, but surely Gerra would have known better than to hire a lunatic...right?

Regardless Settra and his men did not follow. They maintained their distance and position, waiting for the opportune time to strike if the chance ever did present itself.

 

[Méchanteau]

"What did you say!? I can't hear you!" lied the lich, teetering with the amusement at the fright of these holy men. The upstart some leagues further away was also quite chucklesome. Méchanteau could not quite pick up on the smell of rot and self-conceit, but something told him he was not your duneshifting variety of common grave-turner... Was it the black robes, perhaps? He waved at him with malice, cackling to himself until a low grumble took away his attention. In front of him was an ogre who looked Sereti, had muscles in all the right places, and the wits to have come straight for the lich. Interesting!

"Ah, good to see that at least one of you has the stones. How many do you people have again, three, four? You alone must have five." the compass opened by itself, revealing no needle or direction but interweaving circles of runes "See? Five." the compass shut. "Snazzy, don't you think? Five. Five. Fivefivefivefivefiv-" the constant clicking stopped as Méchanteau was assaulted by a sense of... hrmm, like itching but all over his marrow. He forced the compass on Grozkalla's hands, and looked him in eyes as he said "Go in peace, my son. Take this compass, take your people, and leave this sorry pile of bones to make good on an old promise... Know that, short as our time may have been, I will let you keep this compass just for yourself... No need to share. No need to return it. Carry your stones as I would have carried mine. Now go!" ropes tied around the ogre's ankles, lively as snakes as they whipped him up in the air and chucked him offboard "GO!" he shouted, unsheathing Alhazrit before disappearing.

Truth is, his attention was a bit scattered. In thousands of bodies, dead and dying, a sliver of Méchanteau took hold. Cartilage, bone, flesh, all were like clay in the hands of a master. Men would die and rise again and again and again, their meat would weave and tear apart to take shape in great and terrible figures of capricious almost-childlike making, or just plain oozing mounds of acid, gums and teeth, devouring through hallways, tunnels, bursting through the streets like a deluge of pus-yellow flesh. The chaos allowed for some flair. Ghosts wailed in homicidal bereavement, mummies of pharaohs marched alongside their guardians, skeletons dressed as pirates hacked madly at the swarm, great and impossible beasts came down in galloping tireless stampedes. Over and over Méchanteau would mash his forces, keep them fighting over the bodies of the enemies, piling the chitin high and let the hemolymph soak the sands. He had a plan, somewhat.

"COME! TRY ME!" he shouted, skull wreathed by the green flames blazing from his eyes, standing atop the highest statue in sight "MY HARDTACK HAS FIERCER ROACHES THAN YOU! THINK YOU CAN KEEP YOURSELF FORBIDDEN TO ME!? HA!!" he 'spat' at the City "I WILL LEARN YOUR SECRETS! I WILL RAZE YOUR TEMPLES! I WILL BRING DOWN THE MOONDIAL AND FILL UP THE HOWLING STAIRCASE WITH SAND! AND THEN, YOU GLORIFIED BONE ORCHARD OF A CITY OF A THOUSAND DAMN BARBED PRICKS, I WILL FORGET YOU!"