[Open] Dead Rising

[Laveriel]

Dead Rising

48th of Ash, Year 122 of the Age of Steel

People spoke of the destruction of Zaichaer, how the thriving city had been practically reduced to a wasteland, but none could quite prepare her for the view that stood before her. After arriving just outside of the city a few days earlier, both Valron and her had decided they would try to scout and get a feel of the place. It proved to be painfully difficult in a city where most of its citizens were traumatized by a mysterious explosion and there was no real way to navigate through the city.

With her impatience getting the better of her, Iselya had made the one-sided decision that they might as well enter the city blind and figure out their plan as they find what little civilization was left inside.

“What do you think caused this?” her golden-eyed companion mused, his entire mannerism alert and tense ever since they walked what should have been the city limits.

“Nothing mortal,” Iselya replied as her gaze lingered on what must have been an inn or a restaurant or some sort. The second floor had fallen in on itself, barely recognizable beds peeking out of the rubble.

She walked through a destroyed city before, but this was unlike anything she had ever seen. Mortal weapons and resources did not cause this. Even though she was no sembler, she could almost feel the aetheric power that left a scar through the city. No wonder the skies reaped open and welcomed dread mists into the world.

Iselya could hardly tell what part of the city they were entering - there were hardly any structures left to identify - but it did not seem entirely abandoned. A few individuals with lowered heads and ash-ridden cloaks hurried past them every once in a while. As far as she could tell, they were all heading in the same direction.

“We should follow them,” Valron said as he spotted another figure heading towards the northwest. “They must have some sort of refugee camp.”

That seemed like a sound decision so Iselya let the pathfinder lead their way. Unfortunately, after a few minutes of walking, a scream pierced through the air. Then another and another and another. The pair immediately broke out running, following the commotion that was getting louder and louder. After back tracking from a couple of deadends and wrong turns, they saw exactly what had happened.

A legion of the dead. Iselya felt her heart drop at the familiar sight. It had been nearly a century since she had last seen so many of the dead gathered in one location. There were dozens of the undead who had reached what must have been a makeshift camp. People had started running, yet some still desperately clawing at what little belongings they had. Some of the citizens had started wielding their various weapons, struggling to hold the horde back. They hacked and slashed at the dead, but their opponent couldn’t feel pain and it barely hindered them.

Iselya turned to meet Valron’s gaze and they both nodded in understanding. She first joined the Dawnmartyrs to help people from the graveplague, the undead. There was no world in which she would leave them to their fates. They were back in Karnor anyway, so she figured revealing her magic was a risk she could take.

The female elf wasn’t even wearing any armor - they had wanted to blend in with the crowd, after all - but still, she tossed the pack she was carrying through the doorway of one of the abandoned houses. Hopefully, it would still be there by the time they were done. The markings on her body flared to life, extending to every part of her and glowing in silvery light. Aether hummed under her skin as she called upon her pacts, two swords seemingly growing right out of her empty palms. Soon another pair of swords hovered above her head.

As she closed the distance between her and the horde, her four blades lit up, swathed in silvery flames that were unmissable even in the daylight. Just as three of the undead heard her approach and turned to face her, Iselya swung Iratallin at the creature closest to her. And just like that, the first of the dead burst into dawnfire.

[Imogen]

It would be just about standard for Imogen Ward if she had not noticed the ongoing invasion of the Dead in Zaichaer, but it had been pointed out to her shortly after her arrival. Her first instinct, of course, had been to go out and start cutting them down indiscriminately; but she had been quickly persuaded that the more important objective was discerning why the dead were rising anew in the streets. Though the young Sunsinger seemed an unlikely sleuth, she had one major advantage.

Skelegen Ward walked the streets again, wearing loose-fitting clothes (stolen borrowed from Carina's closet, as her own were simply too large for the frame), and entirely devoid of either flesh or organs. The six-foot skeleton stalked the streets, largely ignored by the risen dead, looking for specimens with sufficient exposed bone to hear her silent inquiries.

Where are you coming from?

Who sent you?

Why are you doing this?

Sadly, the corpses had proven fairly incapable of giving any satisfactory answers. Thus, by the time the walking skeleton heard the panicked screams and sounds of distant battle, she was more than ready to give up on investigation and just start murdering the damn things. Well, re-murdering. Un-murdering? Perhaps there was a vocabulary for this, but it had been lost with the fall of Ailos.

Imogen's skeletal feet clacked against the ground as she ran towards the noises, and she took special note of the sudden flashes of argent light against the ruined buildings. That could only be one thing; other Sunsingers. No elementalist's fire had that hue, and she fancied she could almost feel the echoes of the sunsong in the sudden flares. A chance to rendezvous with other members of her coven and communicate her frustration to the legions of undeath? It was too perfect to pass upon.

Tragically, running was not a skeleton's forte; the lack of musculature was no major issue, but the street was slippery and her purchase was poor. She avoided falling by virtue of her long practice as a janitor, but her pace was not ideal. By the time she rounded the ruined tower separating her from the melee, it was well underway.

Ahead, Imogen saw a tattered refugee camp, its inhabitants poorly arrayed against a veritable army of the dead; dozens of walking corpses silently clawing at their living cousins, insensible to the blows being rained down on them.

But not insensible to incineration.

On the other side of the army of death--well, maybe not an army, but surely a regiment of death--was a Siltori woman of indeterminable age wielding four swords, all alight with mystic flame. That clinched it, nobody in Zaichaer but the Sunsingers had swords like that. Although Imogen didn't recognize the woman, that was scant evidence to the contrary. Imogen didn't recognize a lot of people she'd met before.

It occurred to the Ork as she reached the battle that her present skeletal form might engender some confusion, but she decided that this was an issue best handled after the murder (un-murder??) was concluded. To that end, Imogen extended one skeletal arm and called forth her zweihander in a flash of silvery light. The nova-fire engulfed the blade immediately, shining like a bonfire, and Imogen set upon the nearest zombie, cleaving halfway through the thing with a single blow. The spellbreaker fire flared again, and the body slid motionlessly from her sword, the necromatic energies animating it burned away in an instant.

That done, Imogen invoked the power of her other rune, allowing the spirit of the cat to swell up inside her skeletal form until it felt like her bones might spontaneously grow fur. She dropped to a crouch, allowing her huge sword to hover in the air next to her for a moment, then leapt. Her light mass of cloth and bones sailed twenty feet towards one of the overwhelmed villagers, sword following closely behind until she grabbed it in midair, landing on the pallid corpse and knocking it to the ground before driving her blade in, killing its magic too.

The injured man she had rescued, rather than thanking the magic skeleton which had just saved his life, decided to turn and run, screaming.