We are predators, consummate, bound to the meat that gives us our strength.
In comparison, the entire world is a conduit for the Necrotechs to draw from. Necromancy is loss and withering. To throw ourselves against them and to routinely threaten their most avaricious members means that we gain nothing, as their society is already built on a top-down basis of backstabbing, betrayal, and usurpation. They have more entrenched oligarchies than we do.
Why, my fellow Elders, do we think that we will be able to unravel them from within when they are already so factionalized, more so than us? They don't even have a unified civilizational project; they have a unified faith, but nothing more.
Please, please, please, I beg of you, understand the problems we face. I beg.
They embarrassed us in the last war, not because they are naturally superior to us, but because we refuse to understand the shape of our adversary. We refuse to adapt. We think that with a little bit more cruelty, a little bit more intimidation, a little bit more crude subterfuge, we will be able to just kick the already rotten structure of their society down.
But what still stands is the central pillar, and right now we have no means of influencing it, because the Necrotechs, though they are willing to betray their own, remain Necrotechs, and they do not die. They are desperate to stay alive, and any time they try to actually kill one of their own permanently, the reprisal is civilizational, cultural: everyone in their society casts them down! They are not like us! I repeat again: They are not like us! They are not like us! They are not like us! They are not vampires! They are liches! Anti-moralists!
And right now, we have no means of actually threatening the bulk of their elite because they are mostly made from vessels. We don't have enough Animancers, we don't have the right kind of budget, and we don't have enough influence over their territory to deliver permanent deaths.
Must I fall to my knees and elbows and prostrate myself for you all to understand?
What allowed us to drive the Dragon-Knights back and send our former slaves and their mongrel spider-sow into hiding is not going to work on the Necrotechs. Our notions of decadence, loss, and depravity have no sway over the Legions because they are so fundamentally severed from the mortal experience that they have long since forgotten and outright rejected the sensations of the flesh. And they won't let us pull them apart, because ultimately they still have to deal with each other. They can't even reliably kill each other; betray each other, certainly, but you're asking them to destroy their collective faith on a whim, something they can't even be assured of.
The little bits of corruption have fooled us. We thought they would fall like Compact, but we were wrong. So, so wrong, because we fundamentally misunderstood the national idea—the unifying cultural monument to being a Necrotech:
“We will be here today, tomorrow, and all the days thereafter. Though we might not like each other, though we might not even be alike to each other, we are unified in the fight against that one true enemy above all other enemies, that Great Enemy whose name is Death.”
I see you now, glaring upon me. Wipe that look away. This is no longer about politics. This is about national survival. We will not be able to beat the Necrotechs as we are. We can either try to avoid them, or we can adapt. We must learn to understand them, because they more than understand us.
—Hero-Elder Silence Gehenna on the Necrotech Legions after the first War of the Five
VIII-35
Hard Coffee
Amelie Smalldoor felt the world collapse down on her.
It wasn't just the fear, the crushing dread crashing against her heart from all sides like a person out at sea being battered by waves.
She'd left him behind them. She had thought Valor Thann a problem handled. What foolishness. Unless he was truly dead, there was no over for Valor Thann.
He would always come back, and Udraal would always be a liar. She should have been wiser, but then again, if Amelie could admit to any deficiency, it was her self-assuredness, for she was always an optimist, even to her detriment. And it was indeed to her detriment on this day, for the moment she abandoned her vessel within the council chamber, she woke in a single body, not twenty-five other ones, a single body, the only one left. Her soul recomposed itself as all her scattered skills were assembled into a single entity of flesh.
It was her socialite body, the one she used to experience the pleasures of sensation: the taste of food, warm embraces, and more lascivious things. Her other bodies had been destroyed. The after-feeling of their destruction—how they shattered from within, each one detonating like bombs going off within cages of glass—poured into her mind a second thereafter; an intrusive, unwelcoming recollection arriving only in retrospect.
Her socialite body had been making pastries within her most private mansion, a task usually left to servants, but a hobby on her part. It was in preparation for a grand gala: invitation only—hats and silken attire essential. This was meant for the elite, the talk of the town. It would inspire so much envy amongst those who thought themselves second-rung after being ignored that they would come to her, strike deals with her, give her anything she wanted, if only they would be recognized by her through invitation. When the opportunity came, everyone wanted to matter to someone, and everyone wanted to matter in the eyes of Amelie Smalldoor.
Well, almost everyone.
Her personal guard numbered two hundred. Not one of them was less than a High Hero, and three of them were Low Legends—immensely capable Undying, they would be able to match just about any other Pathbearer, and at least capable of holding off the other monsters who strode across Integrated Earth. Their vessels too lay in broken pieces, and her manor was scoured and withered from within the walls, wilting away as the pale white paper dissolved and furled, giving rise to flecks of decay which rained down upon her, spreading cracks of rust and fissuring rot that spider-webbed across the floor, sliding beneath her sandals and causing doors, ceilings, and structural beams to collapse. From the gaping wounds that revealed them, the Necromantic infestation crawled even further outside. The dimension was bathed by a radiant dawn, the closest thing to a true star one of the Abyss could exist beneath without suffering from the Curse.
All around her, waves crashed and receded with gentle susurrations of sound, falling upon the shores of her personally shaped island, a black sand beach designed in mimicry of that of the Acheron Sea bordering the Necrotech territory. A kilometer away from the shore, a gateway one hundred meters tall loomed in the shape of a heart locket. It was the only way in or out of this dimension, and it was supposed to be secure, impossible to break in through—or so Legend-Wardmaster Honesty Hellos claimed.
But in the end, what worth were promises before He Who Stills Eternity?
She noticed his presence as if breaking away from a fever dream. One moment, she was standing alone in her decaying kitchen. The next, she found him almost within arm's reach, raising one of her recently finished desserts to his mouth. The sound of his teeth gliding through the soft and creamy material filled her ears, caressing her senses, as her ocular organs had been magically enhanced to turn all sound into massage-like sensations.
Amelie froze in mind, flesh, and soul. She was a still point in the world; prey trapped by a predator like no other. The ten-meter-long mirthwood table she did her preparations upon collapsed inwards at that moment, cracking along its midst and causing her unfinished ingredients to splatter and smear down two broad and rapidly withering planks of luxurious wood.
“Your father would be disappointed.” The first words Valor spoke to her were calm and steady, bereft of malice or anger. Yet she could feel that aura radiating from him, that impending doom which rippled from his person. He carried death on his shoulders, in his wake, upon the imprint of his shadow, and he greeted her with a gaze that conveyed a feeling of hopeless inevitability. Amelie was 423 years old, to be exact. She was young for a Legend, a true talent in many ways, but a martial talent she was not.
Even if she were, it would make no difference. Valor Thann was here, and thus the equation of her survival would be decided by his choice rather than her skill.
He stood before her in that formalistic guise, bearing the visage of death that every Necrotech Undying learned to inhabit with their first completed ritual. He glared upon her, speaking nothing, yet telling her everything, pouring every drop of his disappointment and her impending death into her. It took scant seconds before Amelie's quavering little heart found itself on the brink of bursting.
She wanted to fall to her knees and beg, but something told her that any sudden movements, any act of pathetic pleading, would send him into action and cast her from this world. Something also told her that she needed to listen now, to wait, and to let him judge first if she had any chance of surviving.
The suffocating quietude dragged, and Valor seemed to count the seconds. His patience gave long before hers. As he turned his attention away from her, a traitorous impulse took hold, one that screamed for her to strike him and run, to flee, to use all her magics to delay and get help. But what help was there? The present vessels of her guard lay in pieces, their bodies bare fragments upon the ground, little more than debris to be swept away.
“I commend you for being wiser than Daedarshi and calmer than Yeesherab,” Valor said. “They did not acquit themselves well.”
Amelie's insides plunged even further into that deep, cold abyss. “How… When…”
“A few seconds before I arrived to speak with you. Daedarshi tried to fight. Yeesherab tried to bribe. Two bad choices. But I suspect you will make the right one. After all, that is rooted in your nature. You are a great communicator, are you not, Amelie? A forger of relations, a broker of favors, a traitor and savior in equal measure.”
A tremor crept along Amelie's kinetic chain. It started at the tips of her toes, traveling up along her legs until her entire body was rattling in place. Her throat went bone-dry, and the ache she felt was the greatest agony she'd ever known. Her tongue became a serpent beyond her own control. It moved, and she choked. She sputtered. Every bit of saliva along its length threatened to send her deeper into a coughing fit. She no longer had mastery over anything. Not herself, and least of all, the situation. Her mind reeled and spun as she tried to think of a way out, a way to influence Valor. A way to convey that she didn't intend to betray him. That she was a victim in all this. That she feared his son and was intimidated into serving his interests rather than being a willing participant in the overthrowing of Valor while he stood at the head of the former First Coven.
But that would be a lie. Her parents, her grandfather, and her ancestors before had all been deep allies of Valor Thann, had made arrangements and smoothed over any acts of indiscretion he committed, for he was a national hero, an icon of their people. Amelie did not see him the same way. Not until now. Now she understood. Now she realized the worth of possessing a living nightmare at your disposal, but only when he stood within her presence, against her continued existence.
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” The words didn't sound like Amelie at all. They were small, mouse-like, not nearly bold enough, no flourish, no prose. Amelie was the heart of every party. Amelie was beloved by all who had the good sense and ability to love. Amelie wasn't here. Once more, Amelie fled like the coward she was, the character she portrayed peeling away and leaving only the person behind.
“No, no.” Valor shook his head. Far too slowly. “You feel bad, but you are not sorry. Apologies are demonstrated through action. A conviction of one's own apology usually comes with a change of character, a deliberate decision to make things right. Atonement and redemption are repeated acts demonstrating a transformation and evolution of one's character.”
Valor paused and looked upon her. “You are scared. In this moment, you are willing to evolve, but I suspect that when I leave your presence, you will once again return to the person you were, the ever-optimist, as your father dubbed you to be.” Valor drew in a breath that didn't go anywhere. He lacked the lungs, yet he had the scorn. “Is he alive still? Is anyone in your household?”
Amelie rapidly nodded. “Yes, yes, they're alive! They are just in exile! I would never destroy my own family.
“But you would betray them. You would strike them down and assume their position, and then you would startle them away from their home and keep them in prison for years and years so that you can be the sole power of your household and sit on a throne you had no right to inhabit. Am I accurate in this assessment?”
Valor's words jabbed her like a stiletto sliding in and out of her ribs. Amelie nodded even harder, and had her body possessed the ability to cry, she would have been weeping. Instead, she had her tear ducts connected to her mouth instead. It was for added lubrication and to hide any possible moment of emotional weakness.
“What about the others?” Valor asked when she gave no answer. “The rest of my Coven, not yours. Are they still here? Daedarshi's former master, Mourning Gold. Apology. Sorrow. Are they still among the Undying?”
Silence didn't fall. Silence burrowed through Amelie, filling her heavy sinew, killing her tongue, her breath, her moving eyes, until she was less than a statue.
But that stillness spoke loud enough.
Valor lowered his head, and she recognized his expression: genuine sadness, even if it was performed by an animated skeleton. "I see," Valor said, his voice low, heavy with lament. It felt like the weight of a guillotine coming down, an execution much deserved yet come far, far too soon. Amelie was not ready to die, and she would make any arrangement, strike any bargain, to keep herself alive.
“Legend Valor, your son—”
“My son would not kill another Undying. He is cruel and calculated, but he despises and fears death unlike anyone else. He would not destroy a person if he had a better choice. He would do so without regret if he were left with no option, but no. He cares little for the political capital and rulership of our meager empire. He has moved on to grander things, schemes far beyond even I.”
Valor's eyes fell upon her once more, and this time the Necromancy within burned with purpose, with true and awakened malice. “Was it you, Daedarshi, or Yeesherab that killed them? Was it you, Daedarshi, or Yeesherab that committed the Unforgivable Sin? Which one of you? Or all of you? Honesty, now. Give me honesty, and I will give you what I can. I will give you more than what your fellows have earned.”
“I can tell you where your final piece is!” Amelie choked. “I can atone for this. I will do anything to atone for this! Legend Valor, please—”
But Valor just looked upon her as if she were simple. There was pity in his flickering eyes. “I already know where the final piece is, and I will not be the one who claims it. I know the trap in waiting. I have already sent another in my stead to claim what is mine, to dispel what has entrapped that final fragment of my soul and body. You have nothing for me, Amelie. You have nothing that I want aside from a final admission of truth. Truth and memory.”
“Memory?” Amelie whispered.
“I want to know what happened the night I was betrayed. I want you to give me the whole of things, from your perspective, before I reclaim that final piece of myself. I want you to tell me what my son offered you, why you were so willing to betray your own. Afterwards, I will decide what becomes of you. Are you afraid of what might follow, Amelie?”
“Yes, yes!” she gasped, forcing the obvious admission out of her like someone tearing arrowheads from their flesh. “Yes, please…”
“It is alright, girl, it is alright.” Valor's words were soothing but carried no warmth. “Let us begin then. Did I beg you the same way the night I was destroyed?”
“No, no, you didn't beg—not me!”
“My son, then.”
“Yes, y-you begged him.” Amelie nodded with vigor. Every word she spoke felt like a stone forced up through the narrow channel of her throat.
Valor sagged slightly, as if fully swallowing his bitterness for the first time. He'd been holding it back before. Her Psychology Awareness Skill Fusion lent great credence to her efforts when manipulating people, but now there was nothing to manipulate. It was simply calcified despair turned into acceptance, and acceptance was the worst virtue one could possess if you sought to make them your slave. “With honesty,” Valor whispered, “I didn't even remember I was ever among the First Coven before I arrived here. There were memories I had been holding back. So many memories, so many unwanted recollections. I'm afraid too, Amelie. I'm afraid of discovering who I was, of what I did to deserve this. Did I do something to deserve this, in your opinion?”
This question descended upon her like an owl in the dark. She was plucked from her branch of fragile terror into a realm of utter disbelief. “Did you… deserve…” How was she possibly supposed to judge such a thing?
Deserve never had anything to do with what she did to others.
“I don't—” Amelie stopped herself. Valor didn't want to hear about what she didn't or didn't feel. He wanted the honest truth. So far, the only thing that kept her alive was her absolute dread, as well as her obedience. “Not to me. I didn't have a reason. Perhaps your son did, but if so, he did not explain himself to me. Nor did he have to.”
Valor let out a flat hum of dissatisfaction, but it was not directed at her. “Honesty… It is such a caustic thing, isn't it, girl?”
“It's why I endeavored to avoid it all my life,” Amelie admitted, with what scant flicker of humor she could muster. Valor laughed—honestly laughed. Her heart rose for a beat, and then he fixed her with another glare as the conversation continued—and in a cauldron of caustic truth, both of them suffered the same burn.
***
“You look tense, Muvark,” Shiv said with a wild and near-predatory smile.
“C-can you fault me for that? Deathless, please, can we do this through the proper—”
“Nah. I’m already here, and Adam…” Shiv saw the palm-shaped anchor drifting closer a few hundred meters away. “He’ll be here soon enough. I’m a big fan of expedited processes. And I can see that you're a busy guy, Muvark. I can see that you've got a lot of things to worry about, but I also got news for you. By the time this conversation is over… Well, I don't know how much you'd like the other members of the First Coven, but you're probably going to get some new colleagues.”
Shiv sensed relief, apprehension, and also a feeling of paranoia commingled within the Undying. It was apparent that Muvark didn't like his colleagues that much, but relief? That hinted at something that went a little bit beyond a dislike.
A calm steam rose between him and the Legend-Accountant, ascending from a gleaming cup of hyper-heated coffee. They shared a space at the edge of a pleasant little patio. Drapes of billowing emerald leaves fell over them, whispering and wavering in the wind. The table between them was aged with an aesthetic quality, deliberately nicked and carved to present age and ruggedness.
The rest of the cafe was abandoned and lifeless, stripped bare of mana and activity. The closest guards assigned to protect Muvark were a kilometer away. All of them were Rangers and specialized dimensionals meant to pin and seal people before any collateral damage could overflow.
Shiv looked to his left, peering past a curtain of shrubbery and out at the city. His Trespasser Shaped of Dread and Null ensured that the horizon was coated with patches of spreading black for the population. Instead of coating everything evenly, Shiv painted the road behind him, staining the environment and cityscape around him in rough blots. Muvark's fear rose like an open vein, pouring forth unceasingly, incessantly, in unimaginable quantities. Shiv felt the collective terror of an entire city infuse him with new strength, but he wasn't here to abuse and horrify the Necrotechs. That was simply an added benefit.
No, he was here to request access to Valor's final piece, because the Necrotech Legions did not need to be an enemy. They could be made into an ally, a subdued, reluctant ally, but still one of extreme use nonetheless. And to survive what was to come, they needed more propulsion behind them, rather than crushing headwinds, baiting them into an unwilling halt.
Muvark was an effigy of nervousness. His broad fingers tapped together insistently and incessantly. His right leg shivered like it had a life of its own, as if it was trying to break free from his body, and the coins inside his vault jingled and rattled. It was a cacophony of noise, near unbearable for anyone else, but Shiv was enjoying the sounds. People were willing to do almost anything to escape from discomfort, and judging from how Muvark was no Martial at all, discomfort was a stranger to him.
The Harbinger chuckled with amusement. “We are going to eat this one alive.”
Nihilist: It helps that we’re uniquely suited to threaten the Necrotechs. We’re basically a talking bomb to them. No easy way out of this mess; everything their lore of loss can do to someone else just sets us off even harder. And there's that zeitgeist in the air. Can you feel it? It's more than individualistic fear. I sense a collective civilizational risk aversion. Everyone here wants to be immortal, truly immortal, and you present something that they yearn for. How does it feel to be both an apocalyptic calamity and also the incarnation of their ultimate hope, Shiv?
“Weird, isn’t it?” Shiv answered his skill aloud.
“What is?” Muvark asked, confused.
“Lots of things. How things work out. How someone can threaten us one moment and be the instrument of our salvation the next. Applies for all of us. Integration is a funny place, and it kicks us along until we collide in funny and funnier ways. The System's a bastard sometimes, but it's got a killer sense of humor.”
Muvark briefly looked at him as if he was mad. “I suppose… Ah. Legend Deathless, I understand that He Who Stills Eternity has told you things about us—”
“He actually hasn’t told me much. He didn’t want to, and I didn’t pry.” Shiv sniffled as he looked around the Necrotech skyline. It wasn't so much a condensed cityscape of skyscrapers and bridges like Weave, but there was an age that was unmatched here—like this place has been here and would be here for an eternity longer. It spoke from the mishmash of different styles in the architecture, buildings that had been built and rebuilt time and time again, fixed and damaged in so many ways, yet held on still. It was defined by the incongruity, the asymmetry of this place. Some buildings were tall, some were flat. Communal residences were stacked one along another and then interrupted by a sudden, needle-thin tower that was dedicated to a certain Undying, before its next most adjacent plot of land was occupied by an orphanage.
Shiv hummed. “And before we get started on any business, I gotta say, Muvark, I quite like the Mausoleum. This faith you carry is basically a way to unify that individualistic need to avoid death at all costs. But everything else is ‘anything goes,’ huh?”
“We pride ourselves on our autonomy,” Muvark replied curtly.
Shiv nodded. “So I’ve heard. Not from Valor, but this guy.” The Harbinger lifted a hand and called something he'd cast into the future from hours past, and an animated set of rat bones appeared atop his palm.
Muvark reared back in his seat, which groaned and screamed, barely able to carry his immense weight. When he realized that Shiv had summoned someone rather than performed a temporal attack, he paused and half-relaxed while Bowden spun to face Shiv.
The rat-shaped Nightstalker shook his little head and eyed Shiv with a glow of joy. “Whoa, that was a rough ride! But hey, you were true to your word, chief! Got me back home in a blink, just like you said.”
“Nightstalker Bowden,” Shiv introduced, meeting Muvark’s eyes and gesturing at the rat.
Muvark’s confusion lasted for a half-second before he understood Shiv’s words. “A Nightstalker?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bowden said, eyeing Muvark. “Real secretive-like. On assignment from the top—wait, who in the Great One’s ass-folds are you?”
“Legend-Accountant Muvark of the First Coven,” Muvark answered, confused.
“First—ah, shit, a big shot! Listen, I was sent upstairs by Yeesherab to collect information. Got stuck in the Republic capital for a long-ass while because of the Inquisition, and then got into ugly business with some Fae. Long, dogshit story—needs an official debrief.”
“Might take a bit, Bowden,” Shiv noted. “Valor went to visit your old boss.”
Bowden winced. “Shit. Does this mean I’m unemployed?”
“I think that’s a conversation we need to have with Muvark here. We can discuss that, along with when he’s going to give us access to the Grand Reliquary, and how he’s going to help us with the impending invasion.”
“These… this will require the convergence of all Covens—” Muvark nearly exploded out of his bones when Shiv reached over to grip his wrist reassuringly.
“Muvark, buddy, pal, friend. You are all the Covens. You're the First Coven. You are the Second Coven. You are everything down to the Tenth Coven. The rest of the High Undying have abandoned their posts, and a good chunk won't be taking their posts ever again. By merit of your responsibility, you’re the only one left, and so the sole decider. The only guy to make the calls.”
Muvark looked like he wanted to hurl. “You know, Deathless, I never wanted to be a legend.”
“Huh?” Shiv asked, thrown off by the sudden revelation. “Why not?”
“Things like this, really. Unreasonable people forcing me into dangerous and unreasonable situations.”
Shiv winced. For the first time, he felt a bit bad for this Muvark guy. Valor had said something about how he wished to speak with everyone on the First Coven except for him. Muvark was a later conversation, as the Legend-Accountant’s predecessors had already been dealt with, and Muvark came after the ugliness of Valor's shattering.
There might still be any number of reasons Muvark deserved to die, but then again, the same applied to Shiv as well.
“Sorry,” Shiv breathed. “We came in a little rough and hard, didn’t we?”
Muvark went still, trying to gauge if Shiv was being genuine—but his words were interrupted as an incandescent radiance cleaved across the rooftop toward them.
“So!” Adam’s voice boomed from overhead. “Are you going to take this one’s face, or have you claimed his heart already?”
“Face?” Muvark whimpered.
“Heart!” Shiv shouted in reply, taking pity on Muvark. “His face can stay his.” Once more, he reached over to pat Muvark—and frowned as Bowden shoved his head into Shiv's coffee without permission. “Don’t worry, Muvark. I’m not like all the other monsters. I’m more than reasonable; I would even call myself downright whimsical. Don’t see this as a hostile invasion, just think of this as an… an awkward beginning to a wonderful new friendship.”
Muvark stared blankly at Shiv, his coin eyes shining with doubt. “How much do you like numbers, Deathless?”
Shiv had never asked himself that question once in his entire life. “I’m open to learning more about them. Mainly to hit people from further away, but I think that still counts.”
That caused Muvark to look askance. “Eh. Well. If it was good enough for my… Wait, odd question, but you don’t have a… a sex golem, do you?”
“A what?”
“A sex golem. Made from math textbooks.”
“…No.”
“Oh, good. You’re not one of her bastards. Yes. Friendship. This is acceptable. Yes.”
Shiv blinked.
Muvark blinked.
Bowden slurped.
Nihilism Be My Hearth, My Banquet 389 > 391
Suffer the Implacable Dialectic 183 > 187
Trespasser Shaped of Dread and Null 314 > 318