Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Deep in the barren valleys of Buhm'Fek-Neywere, there lay one deceivingly uninteresting mountain amidst its many identical siblings. Its one defining feature — easily missed under lazy clouds and snow — was a cranny, shaped like a shrivelled bug. Were one stupid enough to squeeze themselves inside, they would find themselves in a dank hollow, rife with danger. Besides the possibility of getting stuck, suffocated or plummeting down an unseen hole to oblivion, one would also have to contend with the wildlife; Rock drakes, stone-fanged Gibrilrickers and Greyworms could be found in every corner of these dark caves. None were foolish enough to venture into such places. Well… None except a certain elf.

“Stupid, talentless Lehelit hack! Who does that gangly freak think he is? How DARE he call me a fool. Ohohoh… I’ll show him who's the REAL idiot.”

Mithlas continued to mutter profanities as he wriggled through the wet, narrow crags. If it were not for his naturally lithe and flexible frame that all Beohil elves were known for, he would have surely have gotten stuck and starved to death. Just another mossy corpse, like the desperate Wormeaters that — most irritably — blocked few of the passages. Squeezing himself through these slimy tunnels like a worm was too degrading for an elf of his breed. He was tired, grimy and he smelled like the rotten blood and bile of cave-dwelling animals that he had slain along his journey.

"Once this is over, I'm marching straight to the finest bathhouse and indulging in all of its debaucherous pleasures. And because of my greatness, they shan't dare charge me a single coin. Ever."

The thought was comforting. He had suffered months longing for a unicorn milk bath, then massaged in rose oil by tender hands. By those same hands, fed the finest delicacies of the region. And the best part…? Ah~ To be worshipped by beautiful people for days. Weeks. Years, even. After what he had been through, he deserved a treat.

But first, he needed to achieve the power that would make him great. No limitation of his tongue, nor deficiency of height would hold him back any longer from defeating the gods' greatest unfairness. The limitless power he so desired resided right here, buried deep. Though he had been following a vague footnote in a ragged old tome of children's tales, something in his gut told him that this was the best lead he had.

“This had better be the place,” his grumbles trailed off, each grunt echoing deeper.

As he slid further down the small tunnel, he felt the cold wet of the cave slime squelch against his clothes and seep all the way into his skin. He cringed and let out an uncomfortable whine.

“Gods damn it! It just HAD to be in a gods-forsaken cave. Why couldn't these people have chosen a less difficult place to settle?”

Of course, he knew exactly why. He hadn't been that stupid. Just purely frustrated. According to Mally Mallard's Faerie Tales and the few remaining tablet fragments that had survived the great fires of yore, the Cult of Pithelel had always preferred the drab and difficult mountains. Not because they had been driven out by close-minded types — far from it.

Pithelel — Messenger of the Gods, Answerer of Prayers, Faerie God of Wishes — had been a popular member of Grova'Duin, the Heavenly Grove of Almighty Duingrad… so on and so forth. In fact, it was because of Pithelel's popularity that their followers chose to house their temples in the remotest and most desolate places.

Mithlas concluded that the forgotten god's followers were the irritating sort: the monks forced pilgrims to reflect before making their wishes known. A god’s followers often reflected the god, and Mithlas was in no mood to deal with an insufferably moral being. He felt pathetic for even relying upon a god for the assistance — he had rejected the Grova'Duin long ago, and yet here he was, praying from one god to another like some simpering fool.

Because, for all his pig-headedness, the truth was too glaring to ignore, like the mole that 'ruined' his face: he could not cast a single necromantic spell. By some deficiency of his vocal cords, he could not reproduce the Forbidden Tones or reach the Dark Pitch. His theories were sound (to him, at least), but how could he hope to defeat death alone if he could not even rouse a recently-deceased rat to unlife?

No exercise or potion could correct his flaw. Pithelel was his only hope.

But gods, was this taking far too long! He crawled and wriggled, faster and further, invigorated by mania. Bit by bit, the space around him grew, and so too did his confidence. Even more so the moment he made out what looked like an exit out of the tunnel.

Too confident; none the wiser, he headed towards death. The moment he wriggled free from the hole, he tumbled down with a scream. Warbling with panic, he quickly sang the Feather-Fall:

"Feelin' up on high,

(The ground won't take my life)

Like a feather fallin' from the sky

(Death, I defy!)

IcouldFLYyYYyyYYyyyyy....!"

His descent slowed; the spell kept him afloat enough to find the nearest moss-covered ledge and grasp it with desperate grip.

Shallow breaths steadied and his mind returned to its usual state. Instead of cursing himself for his own foolishness, he had set about cursing out these caves. After his tirade had calmed, he finally did the sensible thing and cast a spell of illumination. Had he let himself fall he would have certainly become the elven equivalent of a ripe tomato, ruptured and messy, with its red juices coating the spiked stalactites and ruins below.

“Ruins?!” his voice echoed throughout.

The mountain replied with a warning rumble —a reminder to keep his voice low, else he irritate the mountain enough to crush him under rocks or send all manner of beasts his way. Mountains were very funny like that.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Could it be?”

Mithlas' smile widened into a fanged grin. Illuminated by his falling light were the many winding steps of a towering building. Above, he could make out the dead remains of the great temple oak; chopped cleanly at the trunk, a headless king. A few more spells of light danced off of his excited tongue and lo and behold, he saw the pillars, the statues, the dusted mosaics and carvings interwoven and dedicated to Pithelel. The ruins eerily matched all description and pictures found in that silly children's book, except that they had now been coated in a thick layer of cave soil and dust.

Mithlas could hardly contain his excitement. With the spell of slow fall still in effect, he wanted to launch himself straight into the ruins below. Reason —thankfully— made him reconsider; the ruins of the temple had been situated upon platforms. Part of the foundation that held the ruins up had crumbled away to reveal abyssal holes that must have went as deep as the rot-soaked domain of the Slyth’taynt and perhaps even deeper.

Mithlas shimmied across the face of the rock wall until he was directly above a sturdier place to land. Once again, he sang the spell of slow-fall and slipped off the rock-face. With a gentle clack, his feet finally met solid ground.

He stretched out all of the aches that had plagued his body, then after a few clicks of his neck and spine, he squeamishly rubbed off the slime and cave moss from his clothes… to little success. He grumbled a bit but that did not last too long; one could not complain over soiled clothes when they were standing on a treasure trove.

The remains of the temple had already been quite impressive for something built in a very impractical place, but standing in the midst of it like many had done in the past was truly something. It felt like stepping into another realm. Another time.

Lehelit-sized statues of an old elven race were carved seamlessly into blackened Mirrorstone. They beheld, with great splendour, dust-caked jars. Curious, Mithlas peered into one of the vessels, finding coins and jewellery made of pure gold — enough to buy him two kingdoms. Naturally, he dove right in and helped himself to a handful of the loot. Disappointment replaced his joy: instead of gold, he held ugly lumps of Mirrorstone in his palm.

Peering closely into the stone, he saw the illusory shimmer of gold reflected off of the stone’s surface. Images of riches were marred by a trickle of deep red, as if the gold had become stained with regret for the terrible power it held. The other jars contained more of the same.

One statue held a child in their jar that grew and matured into something rather beastly. Another contained a lover returned from a violent death, only to devour the flesh of the living. A great many held crowns, all chains still bound to tyranny's many victims. Every single statue shared Mithlas expression.

Had an adventurer or archaeologist stumbled upon this place, they would have understood the mysterious beauty of the preserved remains of the Temple of Pithelel. Unfortunately, it had instead been Mithlas that stumbled upon this sacred place. He tossed the useless stone aside with a humph.

“Useless rocks. This god better not be a fraud like these statues are suggesting.”

It had not been long before he found a few of the monks that once tended to the temple. He found them all in a grand room shaped like a pentagon. Worn, dulled rags that had once been a brilliant blue hung upon the desiccated elves. The corpses lay peacefully ever-sleeping in varying positions of comfort.

“Now this is an odd way to go out. Sleeping themselves to death on the job? Serves these lazy monks right.”

Since they knew this place better than he did, he had the idea to wake at least one of them back up again. A burst of confidence overcame him; if he had enough good fortune to bring him this far, then maybe…! Just maybe he had enough left to cast one basic spell. Mithlas took a long gulp from a Waterskin Mushroom, cleared his pipes, stretched himself out and took deep breaths— then did his warmups. It was a long, but important process for every mage. Then:

“Do-sol-faa— ree—,

do-fa-do-sii—!"

The spell stirred the monk. Their eyes crumbled open, a groan escaped dried lips. Mithlas held his breath: he had only achieved this once, but the still-warm rat never went past opening their eyes. It croaked something that almost sounded like an archaic insult before falling back to slumber's sweet caress. The elf fumed.

“Useless!” his shout echoed throughout the temple.

He kicked the monks’ head and it bounced off of his foot, filling the air with dust like a Sporepuff mushroom. He cried out in shock; honestly, what did he expect? After failing to dust off the corpse dust stuck to his slimy robes, he turned his attention to the doors surrounding him: each door, uniquely engraved and painted (though, the colours had faded and painted peeled so much, one could scarcely tell what was originally illustrated on each door).

Mithlas chose the door on the furthest end then ventured deeper into the temple, letting his little starlights illuminate each room on his side. As such, he followed the ones that grew brighter, for his lights had a good eye for seeking out points of interest. It had been a neat little trick he learned from one Dwine adventurer over a drinking game. Aside from a few old coins and Waterskin Mushrooms, he had not found much of value in this untouched temple.

“For a cult that worshipped a god of wishes, one would think the temple would be filled with riches! This place is duller than a Dwine peasant’s purse!”

Yet, he still pressed on. The true prize lay further into the temple — or at least, that is what common logic led him to believe. Elven temples placed dedicated shrines at the furthest end of the structure, where a beautiful sanctum housed the ethereal idols of the Grova'Duin. Of course, the old race of elves did things quite differently and Mithlas only came to learn this upon reaching a dilapidated storeroom.

“Where on Dana is this blasted shrine? This place is a damned maze!”

Mithlas kicked over one of the cracked pots with such force that it caused the pot to immediately shatter and turn into a cloud of dust. He hacked and coughed up puffs, feeling the heat of frustration rising inside him. Amidst his tantrums, he tripped upon a loose tile and fell upon a wall. His body smeared across it, wiping away the cave dust and moss that covered its faded mosaic. It was with greatly appreciated convenience that he revealed a map of the temple; it was shaped like a star with five points, and each point tiled to show what each section was used for

He had travelled from one leg of the star to the other end. Where he was, there were pictures of monks carrying tribute and storing them. Mithlas wondered what became of that tribute, but without any clues to their whereabouts, he concluded that they were plundered by very skilled theives long ago. Each of the other arms contained places of worship, living quarters and lastly, the sanctum that housed the god of honour.

On that arm, there were pictures of different peoples — some long gone and others that familiar in appearance — all moving toward a wondrous sanctum that defied logic. It appeared as a garden, ever changing with the sky in its ceiling. Housed inside it was a beautiful figure - yet not as pretty as Mithlas (or so he’d like to think).

Pithelel appeared androgynous and kindly, adorned with many butterfly wings on their back and upon the backs of their hands and feet. Praying before him was a man with tears in his eyes as the pale woman in his arms stirred from the sleep of death. The very thing Mithlas desired lay in that arm of the temple. Feeling giddy, he made hurried steps towards the sanctum.

The hallway was decorated with more of those statues and writings in an ancient language that he could not care enough to comprehend. Had he stopped to consider them, he would have seen that they were written in the very tongue that all magic is sung in. At the end of this arm were two large doors, partially opened.

Sleeping before it was another monk, curled up peacefully in rest though part of his body was now wedged under a door. Mithlas was thankful that the door stopper had propped one of the doors open, for he gave the other door a push to make his opening wider and more dramatic but it would not budge under the minute force of his svelte frame. With a huff, he slipped through the thin opening and with a slight wiggle he found himself on the other side.

Chapter Text

It was pitiful! Instead of a beautiful indoor field with an ever changing sky, there was only a crumbling room of grey mirrorstone, dull as the mountain innards that the temple was housed in. It was utterly abysmal that the sanctum, the star of any temple, was worse off than the rest of the place. The statue depicting Pithelel was just as pathetic. What stood in the centre of the room was a crude lump of rock.

Despite his disappointment, Mithlas had come too far already to give up and he was not looking forward to leaving this mountain empty-handed. He prostrated himself before the rock.

“O’ Pithelel! Hear me!

I pray—

I wish—

Hear me out, I beg you, PLEASE!

I'm at the end of my tether and there's no one better,

All I

need most,

Is a wish-granter,

(Oh wish granter)

Come, lend an ear, grant my wish,

(Please say yes, yes, YES!)

And I shall serve you, till the end of my days!”

There was a change in the room. A slight breeze blew through Mithlas’ hair. The air began to smell less musty and almost… sweet? Then came a sudden quake. Mithlas panicked, thinking that the room was beginning to collapse from an unexpected earthquake. He should have ran out or cowered, but against his better nature, he looked up and saw something peculiar.

A face had appeared from the lump of stone. Around it were many eyes… or at least, impressions that resembled eyes. The stone spoke, sounding like someone who had awoke too early after a night of heavy drink.

“What?” Mithlas was so entranced by the sight before him that he had not really heard what it said.

“I said,” the stone groaned as it continued to take shape, “how long has it been?”

“Since someone came here? Gods know.”

“Yet, I do not,” The stone said, sounding annoyed. Its head turned, its crudely carved humanoid face cracked with disdain. “Too long, clearly."

The stone looked at its own form and did its best to reshape itself to its former glory, but only a craggy lump of a winged being emerged. Pithelel sighed — irritated, not resigned.

“Look at what my own followers did to me. Disgraceful! After everything I did for them, they made me disappear into obscurity. If I could make wishes of my own then I would have punished them.”

The rough-hewn god turned their attention to Mithlas. Pithelel managed a hideous looking excuse for a smile.

“Fortunately, they failed to completely get rid of me,” Pithelel laughed, “Who do I owe the pleasure of awakening me from oblivion?”

“Mithlas,” the Beolhil stammered pathetically for a moment before coming to his senses. He straightened himself up and flicked his hair back, “I am Mithlas of house Arbethion. Scholar of the Great College of Ban’Morthen, …”

These titles of course were meaningless to the god of wishes, but Pithelel looked genuinely pleased to hear them. That alone was encouraging enough for Mithlas, and so he continued describing himself and his accolades.

“... And so on and so forth. I was a rising star in the academic world. A true talent like none other!”

“You seem to have everything going for you,” Pithelel smirked, “So tell me, what would someone of your talents need my services for?”

“I was disgraced,” Mithlas said with an edge of bitterness, “The college refused to see my brilliance. They thought my ideas were dangerous and stupid. Pah! I’ll show them. And I’ll show that backward necromancer cult that said I was not cut out for their little club.”

“Oooh. An unacknowledged genius. I do enjoy one of those. So, what is it you desire? Glory? Power?”

There was a manic look about Mithas’ smirk, “Something much greater than that.”

“Do tell.”

Mithlas beamed, “I’m glad you asked…”

Mithlas cleared his throat. He threw back his cloak, letting it flutter along the breeze inside the room. His desires began to materialise, getting stronger. The room began to shift. The old cragged stone turned to soil. The sky shifted to a starlit night.

“I want the power to defeat Death itself.”

The corners of Pithelel’s crumbling mouth lifted into a smile.

“Power over Death? Hmm, not the first time I’ve granted such a wish. Let me guess. You’ve lost someone dear to you.”

“No no no. Nothing juvenile like that, pfft... I simply want to do what no one else has. Not even the greatest necromancers of our time have been able to do that.”

“Not even the Great Lich?” Pithelel looked at the silly little man before them, though they appeared even more interested.

“Not even he achieved that kind of greatness. All he did was become a living sack of bones and even he was thwarted by a bunch of do-gooders. No, I want to eliminate Death entirely.”

“Because?”

“What’s it to you?” Mithlas’s raised his voice, “Are you going to grant my wish or not?”

Pithelel chuckled, “Fine. I’ll give you what you desire.”

“Well, hurry it up already. I want to get out of this awful place as soon as possible.”

The God of Wishes bowed low — how unbecoming of a god to act like a servant.

“As you wish.”

The atmosphere began to shift once more. Mithlas felt the very ground shift underfoot. A strange feeling overwhelmed him, somewhat pleasant and uncomfortable but nonetheless painful all at once. His sight stretched and blurred and the room span quickly around him at a dizzying rate. He could feel the whole world warp around him. So many staring eyes. Desperately, he wanted to scream and throw up, but he felt all contents bounce around in his throat and boomerang back into his stomach, sending him through a sickening loop.

Then, back he was, standing before Pithelel. Only then, the god's stone form had smoothed out: an androgynous beauty with exaggerated, piercing eyes — though, Mithlas still thought that was nothing compared to his own looks.

“Your wish is granted. Now, my request is a simple one: make my name known throughout the world. Fail this and—”

“Now wait just a minute!"

Mithlas articulated a few notes. At first sounded a little... off. His throat was still recovering from all the sick and bile that jostled around inside him. The croakiness subsided after a point but he still sounded strange at his highest pitch.

"I don’t feel powerful, or all that different."

“Oh, trust me. You will soon enough,” Pithelel snickered.

He certainly did; not a moment sooner, Mithlas lurched, too hot and unbearably cold all at once, gut snarling threateningly.

“Come to think of it, I feel… rather ill. Gods… this is awful…”

Mithlas' legs felt as though they were weighed down by huge sacks of manure. An unbearable smell wafted around him (it was inconceivable that such a stench could ever come from him!) and brought back distressing memories of his time as a crypt-cleaner at the Sect. Though nauseous, hunger quickly replaced all desire to purge. He rubbed off the sweat that made his brow itch.

“Gah! What is this disgusting sticky stuff on my hand?!”

He froze in place. His hand was completely slick in goo, but that was not the worst thing about it. His hands were soft and well manicured. Even though he was dirtied by his spelunking, his skin should have retained its glowing pearlescent tone.

No. These graspers that he was looking at now could not have possibly been his. They were green, swollen, clumsy things. Mottled and bumpy, with rubbery fingers that stuck a little when they pressed together. They were even missing a finger each!

Mithlas was lost for words. The only sound he made was an awful mix between a gurgle and a high pitched whine. The sound only worsened as his eyes traced the rest of his body. His clothes, once loose and flowing, now fit snugly over his bloated torso. The buttons of his undershirt and coat had popped off, exposing the dead-moss coloured flesh underneath. His clothes were discoloured by slime, which he now secreted by the bucket loads.

It was much later that he realised that he stood in clear, luminescent water. A refreshing spring filled the previously bone-dry pool surrounding Pithelel, only marred by thin clouds of noxious brown-green goop that floated off from Mithlas. He started to see an image form in the clearer parts of the water.

“Erhem…" Pithelel witheld their laughter, "Perhaps try out your powers instead?”

But Mithlas did not listen.

In the water, there was a sagging head peering out from a bloated neck that expanded with every word he spoke and every noise he made with his voice. From the sides of its wide, lipless mouth, there were two appendages that reached around its face frantically. Now acutely aware of them, he could feel the feelers prodding at his own face. They looked like two sickly earthworms, probing fat cheeks that sagged into several flaps. Lips parted: inside the thing's maw were rows upon rows of small teeth and a rasping tongue. Its eyes were evil, beady things, darkened till the gold of his eyes were dulled into piss-coloured orbs. His flowing platinum locks had completely vanished, leaving his slime-covered head completely exposed.

"Now, I know this looks bad—"

It would be an understatement to call the sound that came after a scream. It was an unholy wail that made the mountains of Buhm'Fek-Neywere quake. Distilled agony caused landslides and avalanches throughout the valley. The world trembled.

And, for a small moment, all the dead of Tiron-Mord shivered from their graves.

Chapter Text

“What have you done?!”

It had taken the better part of two Verses and one Chorus of the Day before Mithlas finished screaming, and double that time to recover the air in his lungs. His voice was terribly raw.

“I gave you what you asked,” Pithelel sighed, dusting off a few flecks of rubble from the nape of his neck. “So much for gratitude.”

“Gratitude? What do I have to be GRATEFUL for?! You've ruined me! Undo this right this instant…!” the monster rasped, only to be cut off by phlegmy coughs.

“I cannot.”

“You…” Mithlas stammered — it took him a moment to find his voice. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T?!”

“As a rule, I do not take back wishes. It complicates matters.”

“WHAT?! What do you mean you can’t undo this? I didn’t even ask to be turned into a FREAK! You tricked me!”

“You dare suggest,” Pithelel leaned forward, eyes wide with malicious intent, “that I’m a fraud?"

Pinned down by the god's gaze, Mithlas could only shrink. He dared not say anything more.

"What? You thought an elf, a child of light, would be capable of truly comprehending death? Why do you think the Lich King couldn’t defeat death? An elf could never become a great necromancer. There's only one other being fully equipped with that kind of knowledge.”

“A Slyth’taynt…”

“Well done. I guess you're not as stupid as I thought you were.”

It was nonetheless a hard pill to swallow, and Mithlas was in no position to accept what had befallen him.

“Take it back!” He sobbed, shaking his squishy fists as he fell to his… knees? Well… They did bend. “Take back this stupid wish! I don't want this at all!”

“I retract that statement,” Pithelel sighed, pinching the space between antenna-thin brows, “What part of ‘I cannot’ do you not understand?”

“Then at least grant me another wish! Give me back my looks! I don’t want to be this hideous slug!”

“Hmm… Nope. I cannot do that either. That would interfere too much with your wish.”

“What…?! You… You know what?” Mithlas said through burbles of snot, “For a oh-so-powerful god, you're utterly useless! No wonder you fell into obscurity. Who in their right mind would worship a useless lump that answers prayers wrong?!”

Pithelel’s stone face began to crack along his eyes and brow.

“Watch your tongue, ungrateful worm. Remember, it was you who grovelled to me when you could have chosen any other god to pray to. Ah, I see,” the statue slapped his forehead with a clunk and laughed, “You came to me out of desperation, isn’t that right? No god would have ever accepted your request… Except for me. And this is the thanks I get?”

Though Mithlas trembled fearfully, the god's words inflamed within him a most grievous defiance, “Why should I thank you when you didn’t hold your end of the bargain! I was supposed to be powerful… glorious. Not this thing."

His obstinance grew, as a fire does when fanned. In boldness, the slug stepped forth to shove one finger into the idol's chest.

"The deal's off! You and your name can sink back into Rotterend for all I care!”

At this, Pithelel’s form stretched and widened, pulling the very stone that formed the temple and mountain into himself. The false sun behind him turned blood red. The idol eclipsed the light, casting a great shadow over the newly-made Slyth’taynt. Pithelel's face, the cracked beauty it was, twisted malevolently with deep grooves of anger. Hollowed out eyes and wingspots pierced into Mithlas’ being. His confidence vanished — a candle flame stood no chance against a tempest.

Pithelel laughed again, hollow as an echo from the bottom of a cave, “You should know better not to break a deal with a god, even a weakened one.”

Mithlas could not answer beyond a whimper.

“And you want to know what happens to people who don’t pay up on their end? Why, there’s a special realm that I prepare for all renegers. Would you like to have a peek at yours?”

The Slyth'taynt did not answer — not that Pithelel would have cared for one. The room around them shifted once more, consumed by gloom-grey. There were no stars, no clouds nor a moon in the black sky. Stinging water flooded the pool, transforming it into an horizonless sea. Mithlas scrambled to the sanctuary of land, which was made of cold, hard mirrorstone that hurt his feet.

In the water, Mithlas could see every regret and terrible memory flow by the shore. A boy neglected. A fool rejected. A monster, alone and hyperventilating on an island of mirrorstone pebbles. Here was a lonely place, where the wind sang of all his failures and in the darkest shadows, whispers of every broken dream. Utterly miserable. There was naught else but an omnidirectional mirror, stood at the centre of the island.

The moment Mithlas laid eyes upon his reflection, he took a stone and smashed it into the glass, only for the mirror to reform before his very eyes. Pithelel appeared above the monument, sitting cross-legged and head resting on one hand.

"Having fun yet, worm?"

Mithlas fell to his knees and grovelled, “NO! Please, anything but this! I’ll do anything! What is it that you want?!”

“I want what was promised. Don't you remember? You vowed to worship me. To serve me for all your days~!” Pithelel said, their voice a perfect impression of Mithlas’ own down to the imperfections. "And yet you had the audacity to refuse me that."

He descended, gliding gracefully with his many fluttering wings, “But because I’m a merciful god, I will forgive you on this occasion."

With a gentler voice and a motherly expression, Pithelel leaned in, rubbing a slimy tear from Mithlas' cheek, "I do not ask much of my followers. For you, my only desire is that you spread word about me throughout all of Dana. May my name be known by all who grovel at your feet."

Closer, lashes aflutter, "You can do that, can't you? It’s only fair that we share our followers when you rule.”

“Rule?” Mithlas’ tone changed.

“Yes, my sweet slug. Had you actually paid heed my words, you would have noticed that you have greater power inside of you than ever before.”

With the snap of Pithelel’s stony fingers, the lonely island shifted back into the starlit Sanctum of Pithelel’s temple. Mithlas found himself on his hands and knees before the crushed remains of the door stopper monk.

“Well, pet? That monk isn’t going to wake up by himself.”

Mithlas gulped and tried wiping the snot and tears from his face until he realised that there was no point to it. He was covered in muck anyway.

“Do—Urghh…” Mithlas cleared the croakiness from his throat.

“Do-sol-faa— ree—,

do-fa-do-sii—!"

He did not have to put much effort. The Forbidden Tones and Dark Pitches came as naturally to him as breathing. Great magic surged from his core, out of his wide maw; a gushing river overflowing its banks. The song engulfed the dried-out shell, wrenched the soul sleeping within. Violently, shaken till waked.

The corpse’s dried eyes cracked open. A hoarse moan escaped its ancient lips. Without needing another command, the monk rose to his feet. Despite being enthralled, the monk's bones shuddered in Pithelel's presence. His lower jaw trembled, struggling to close.

"I'm right here, y'know!"

With great dread, the monk faced the fool who stole him from the sanctuary of oblivion. All that hard work and peaceful dreamless existence, shattered by one loathsome Slyth'taynt. And worst, the youth had no idea what terrible mistake he had unleashed upon the world. Worser yet, the monk could not tell him in spite of trying.

“What is your command, master?” wheezed the monk, unable to speak his heart — quickly, that dusty old thing had filled with curses most profane.

“Excuse me? Did you just call me, master?” Mithlas said, voice high with uncontainable excitement.

“What’s mine is yours,” said Pithelel, “Besides, it would please me most to see my traitorous followers get their just deserts.”

Mithlas let out an involuntary squeal of excitement. It took him a moment before he could recover himself.

“Erhem… Bow before me, worm.”

And the corpse obeyed. Mithlas had never been so happy.

“It worked,” he coughed, hoping Pithelel had not heard him. The god raised an eyebrow, “I mean… of course it worked.”

“Is this your first time raising a corpse?” Pithelel smirked, “No wonder you were so desperate for my help.”

“First time? Pfft. Please. I’ve raised hundreds of corpses before.”

“Oh sure,” Pithelel rolled his eyes, “Guess you’ve never had a corpse this compliant before. So compliant, you do not have to sing it to action; a spoken command will do. Give it a try.”

“Ohoho… That I shall.”

Mithlas pointed at the hapless corpse, and sang, “Open these doors, worm. Give me an entrance fit for your new king.”

The corpse crawled towards the great doors. With bony arms, he pathetically scratched, then pulled. It strained and groaned until its arms popped out of their sockets in a poof of corpse dust. The monk fell flat on his face then proceeded to wriggle towards the door, bumping his head against the hardwood. Mithlas turned to Pithelel, mouth agape. The god of wishes merely shrugged.

“What?! What is it doing? Why is it doing that? Is it stupid?”

“A servant’s actions are only as stupid as their master’s command.”

“What was that?! You dare insult me?”

“Yes,” Pithelel said, still grinning, a warning glare in his polished eyes.

Mithlas considered his next words carefully, “Erm… Then how do I get this useless monk to do what I want it to do? It’s better as a door wedge than a door opener.”

“Well, it is doing what you told it to. Word for word. And those doors are heavy. Come on, use that brilliant brain of yours and think.”

Word for word. Mithlas had slapped his forehead when he realised what he meant.

“Gods… Do I have to be very specific with what I want all the time? Your servants are just about as useful as y- I mean as a Yitterine demon.”

“Right you are.”

Mithlas turned his attention back to the pathetic corpse.

“You! Door Wedge! Put your arms back on.”

The corpse struggled but eventually its arms popped back into their sockets all with help from his teeth. He remained on his hands and knees.

“By the Lich King… Get up, dust for brains!”

The corpse complied.

“Good, now fetch me the rest of your lazy bretheren and place them outside the door. Get on with it!” Mithlas clapped.

The risen corpse shambled away and slipped through the thin gap between the doors. Mithlas and Pithelel spent a good while waiting in anticipation. Choruses passed. Their obedient servant was agonisingly slow in retrieving his fellow monks. Mithlas' eyelids drooped, until he fell into uneasy dreams where he stood; punishment, for all those days spent without sleep. A sharp nudge to his side jerked him awake.

“Ack! What is it?!”

“Your servants are ready,” Pithelel answered.

Mithlas heard a rhythmic knock from the other side of the door. Yawning, he trudged over to the door. Only then, he realised that his boots were missing. He hated how his new 'feet' squelched. He wondered if it was a mercy or a curse that he could not see them anymore. From the crack, he saw the huge pile of desiccated dead. Door Wedge stood there gormlessly, waiting for his next command.

Pleased, the Slyth'taynt wasted no time casting his spell once more. Excitement, palpable —enough so that his words echoed all across the hallway. That ancient tongue reached into the very bowels of the underworld and returned all of those souls back to their wretched bodies. A collective groan filled that single arm of the temple.

“Worms! Open these doors. Give me an entrance worthy of a king! No… A great king!”

Chapter Text

Twenty five corpses all crawled out from their pile and shambled over to the door. Their collective strength brought both doors open wide. Five and five each stood opposite each other and bowed toward Mithlas, singing his praises. Then all five and five fell upon the ground, forming a rolling carpet leading out of the sanctum. The rest gathered behind the Slyth’taynt and twisted their bodies into a throne of bones.

Mithlas hesitated; maybe it was the boniness of the seat or the uncomfortable groaning that emanated from the monks… The flickering agony in the lights of hollow eyes. Looking at the monk's miserable faces was like looking into a mirror.

"This is your moment," Pithelel said sweetly, "Take your rightful place."

This was his moment. For years, he was treated like a stray cur and lived as such. After all he endured, did he not deserve to finally be treated like a king? This time, he would not be the one to be sat on. Mithlas sank into his strange throne, bones creaking under his weight. It was surprisingly comfortable. Right.

“Ah~ This is sooo much better than I expected.”

“It’s an old custom. Long ago, these monks renounced the great kings of their age to avoid doing this. Look at them now. Serves them right for making the world forget me,” Pithelel laughed.

“I'll make better use of them. They are my servants now, for the record.”

“Of course,” Pithelel chuckled. “What’s mine is yours."

Music to his ears. His thoughts raced with all the possibilities. His dream of defeating death felt ever so close. But… Who would cheer him on when he looked like a pile of Mireling turd?

"Do you see now?" Pithelel leaned all the way into his ear, "This is only an infinitesimal fraction of your potential. Would you like to find out what else you can do?"

“Yes... But first, is there an exit out of this blasted mountain?”

“There was. Once.” Pithelel flecked a stray pebble from their chiselled curls, “But my followers sealed it away and wished it forgotten by all outside my temples.”

“Oh, of course. Why does the world have to make everything so needlessly difficult!”

"Fret not, your liege. You need only ask your servants. They'll know what to do."

Mithlas blinked, "It's that simple?"

"Of course. They remember how."

"Hmmph… If it's that easy then why couldn't you do anything about it?"

Pithelel answered with dead silence. It was enough to make Mithlas shrink back anxiously.

"There are some things we gods can and cannot do. I, for one, solely live to answer the prayers of my followers. No one prayed for my sake."

Despite their laughter, the Faerie God sounded… sad. Mithlas' heart stirred. Just a little.

“This is where we part," Pithelel said, "Go forth, but forget not our pact. If you dare go back on your end, I will know.”

Mithlas gulped, “Of course! Never! What do you take me for?”

“Farewell, Mithlas, O’ great Worm King.”

Mithlas was giddy. Worm King. It had a lovely ring to it.

“Show me the exit to this mountain!”

The undead throne scuttled forth, albeit slowly. Their bodies strained beneath him, barely moving beyond a few inches.

“Gods to oblivion! You’re all so useless. You," he pointed downward, "Yes. You, you, and you lying there. Come up here and reinforce this throne. You too, Baldy. Except you, Flappy. You can stay. Can’t have a grand exit without a carpet. Keep rolling.”

All (but the undead with the most loose skin) merged with the throne. Though it still creaked under their master's heft, the walking throne finally hastened. Quickly. So quick that Mithlas found himself grasping at the edge of his seat.

“W-woah! Slow down you idiots!”

And so they did. Too slow.

“Ugh… Speed up a little bit. But not too fast!”

This went on for a while until the throne reached a leisurely pace, just right for their new king.

“Ahhh~ That's more like it. But why does it feel like there’s something missing?”

He was right. It was too quiet for a grand exit.

“If only there were an adoring crowd to cheer me on. Where’s the cheers? Where’s the fanfare?"

The monks all grumbled and groaned. They may have been the necromancer’s thralls but they retained enough will to express their displeasure. To Mithlas, it sounded like they tried to cheer them on only to utterly fail in doing so.

“Oh, shut up, the lot of you,” he groaned, “I appreciate the effort but you’re making this sound depressing.” Mithlas sighed bitterly, feeling around his face, "Gods damn it… Maybe you're right. Who in their right mind would cheer on a Slyth'taynt?"

The Worm King quieted as throne and carpet passed through parts of the temple left unexplored. Much of the place still lay in ruin, only this time every lantern glowed with pinkish light, dimly illuminating every part of the temple.

Roots from the Sacred Oak hugged the walls, filling the cracks with vivid green sap. Water flowed through the indoor fountains, spraying a sweet mist that soothed Mithlas' slimy skin. Glowing butterflies awoke from stone cocoons above, descended, then danced around the procession like a shower of flower petals and paper blessings. It was not quite what Mithlas wanted, but it raised his spirits somewhat.

Outside the back entrance, they passed grand statues depicting Pithelel in his many aspects, all renewed. All watching. Messenger. Benefactor. Fair Faerie King. All the while, the smallest butterfly followed them along, unseen.

There were other buildings here. Besides small sheds and storehouses, there were mansions, markets and the crumbling remains of structures of unknown purpose. There had been a great city around the temple. Now, all else but the few bones were left. All memory of its former glory had vanished from history.

The monks came to a stop at the road — a dead end where an exit should be. It’s as if it had never exited in the first place. Mithlas wondered if the monks had wished the passage away. Surely, Pithelel would never have agreed to such a thing. The god was too clever for that, so too were their monks to have thwarted the god of vexatiously specific wording.

He looked closely: the mountain had been sealed by separate stones, carefully carved and packed together with a special type of mortar, appearing as though there were no such mouth in the mountain. No divine intervention, just good old elven ingenuity. A plot concieved all right under Pithelel's nose.

Importantly, something built by hand like this could be destroyed. Had he searched the base of the mountain more thoroughly, Mithlas would have saved himself the humiliation of wriggling around those tight spaces in the mountain.

“Open up the exit. And careful now. If any one of you dare cause a cave-in, I’m going to leave you under a boulder for the rest of your un-life.”

The undead all disassembled from their throne form, gently leaving Mithlas sitting on a rock to watch them work. Stone by stone, the monks undid all of their efforts to keep this place secret. The longer Mithlas sat there, the more he grew bored. He became increasingly aware of how hungry and weary he was.

He had not slept since he first climbed the mountain and his rations had been lost during his run in with Gribrilrickers. Though he delighted in getting his bloody revenge on the draconic critters, no amount of dragon blood spilled would ever bring back those delicious travel morsels. Gods, did he smell too. Food aside, he so desperately wanted a bath. Would a bath rid him of this foul stench? The thought made him anxious the more he thought about it.

“I don’t have all day. Hurry up, lazybones!”

Mithlas glared at them, arms crossed — it did not make them work any faster. The monks carefully considered every movement of rock; being shouted at was more preferable than being stuck under a rock for gods-know-how-long their king wishes.

A Verse passed and one of the undead moved a stone. After so many eons, dusk-orange light finally poured into the mountain. Mithlas shambled into the rays of the light, letting it touch his skin. Its warmth was welcome, but the light gave him a clearer look at the rest of his body.

Mithlas' eyes watered. This is not what he wanted at all. He did not like how his skin glistened with slime all over, nor did he like how bloated and bumpy his body had become. He looked up, seeing his undead watch him. Were they pitying him or laughing at him? They must be judging him.

“What are you all gawking at? Hurry up and finish the job!”

So they did. And when thy did, the mountain opened up into a grassy field turned golden from the evening light of the sun. This was the very place where Mithlas had started his ascent into the mountain. All those days ago, the Beohil would have never had guessed how much he'd change. If he knew, would he have still climbed the mountain?

Fresh air flooded in, just as tangible as what Pithelel had conjured in his sanctum. With it, came confidence. Mithlas remembered the power coursing through his body. He could not wait to show the world what he was capable of. Mithlas took it all in, ready to leave this cursed mountain and finally find a way to conquer death. He called upon his undead to reassemble into his walking throne.

“Alright, worms. Onward! To Dar’Gehon!”

The walking throne began moving into the grassy fields. It had been long since these monks had felt grassy blades on skin, soil underfoot and the sun and wind on their faces. Their groans were louder from the shock of it all.

“For Duingrad's sake, would you stop that? I’d rather have silence than spend the entire journey listening to you all moan.”

They set off, the mountain growing smaller with every step the Worm King’s throne took. Even as the valleys of Buhm'Fek-Neywere disappeared into the horizon, Mithlas kept looking behind him. Pithelel’s words echoed in his mind. He would not forget. He could not afford to.

“Forget not our pact. If you dare go back on your end, I will know.”

Chapter Text

It was moonlight by the time the Throne of the Dead reached the Ironwood forests of Rinn’Caile. So thick was the forest, the stars and moon god’s light were blotted out by the canopies. The way was lit by a dim little wisp; it was all Mithlas could manage. His stomach growled incessantly and the hunger pains that gnawed from within was too unbearable to ignore. Boredom only worsened the sensations.

Sleep was his only salvation but each time he let himself pass into false-death, their only light source would quickly fizzle out, and he'd be rudely awoken after the throne blindly crashed into yet another tree. Despite the initial annoyance, all Mithlas had to do was sing his spells for the monks to continue on their way. The wonderful thing about the undead was that they never got tired or hungry. Unlike Slyth'taynt.

“Gaaaah… I’m starving! Hurry up, godsdamnit!” Mithlas complained for the hundredth time. “I should have had dinner AGES ago! Do you want your king to waste away?! Do you want me to STARVE?!”

Deep down the monks did. Oh, how they desired it! All of them prayed that their master would keep misdirecting them for long enough until he starved to death. But the question hung in their heads. Could a Slyth’taynt die from starvation? Even in their long existence, they had never seen one before Mithlas came along. Surely, these slugs could die, right?

They were too far from where they were meant to be. Dar’Gehon was miles away beyond the thick of the forest. Beyond the hills, the plains, and just a little over the boglands. Mithlas did not recognise this neck of the woods. To make matters worse, he could not find the trail anymore.

"Did we make a wrong turn? Where in Dana are we? Stop, you fools. Let me think."

Hunger and sleep deprivation made it so hard to think. He was so tempted to sleep right there and then, but he did not want to wake up half-eaten by Iron Wolves. It would not do to keep pressing on. They needed to retrace their steps.

"Onwards— No. Damn it, back. Backwards! Follow your steps."

The throne did just that, stepping perfectly back into their footsteps, rocking from side to side so comfortably. A few moments to rest his eyes wouldn't hurt.

The light flickered and died, leaving the Worm King and his followers blind again. One of the monks snagged his leg on a large branch. More legs followed. A scream, then a thud and crash of leaves. Mithlas landed face-down on wet humus and leaves. Some of it entered his mouth. He sat up, trying his hardest to spit out nature’s filth from his mouth. Most of it was gone, but some of the leaves stayed stuck to his lips.

There was still the faint taste of dirt in his tongue… and it was appetising.

No. That couldn’t be right.

He spat out as best he could to rid himself of the taste. In the midst of doing so he heard his stomach rumble loudly. It was then that he realised that he was no longer sitting on his throne; he was in the dark, on the ground like a sad toad.

“Worms?! Where the hell are you? Get over here!”

He heard groaning close to him, followed by the crunching steps of bare, bony feet. Then he heard another thud and a pathetic moan. At this rate, they'd certainly be snacks for the wolves.

“Gods damn it… Must I do EVERYTHING myself?!”

Furiously, he sang his spell:

"Star light, star bright,

Shine my way this darkest night…"

A tiny light glowed into being, hovering over him. Mithlas began waving his arms around, lumbering in search of the throne. He could hardly see a centimetre beyond the light, but it was enough to catch the throne's attention.

“Get over here, imbeciles.”

He heard the scuttling get closer. The familiar outline of his throne crawled forward into the light and lowered itself. Mithlas collapsed onto his seat.

“I swear, if you do that one more time I will—,” his tirade was cut short by the violent growl of his stomach.

The pain of hunger had grown so much, he could scoop up chunks of the forest floor and eat it all if he wanted to. Not that he wanted to. At least, that’s what he would have liked to believe.

Not long after they had resumed their walk, Mithlas faintly scented something… delicious. It reminded him of Dragon Forge Eggs, (not the real thing; the ones he ate were duck eggs fermented in a traditional spiced brine and smoked with not-so-traditional ironwood). Maybe a trading caravan transporting the good stuff had gotten lost.

“Forget Dar’Gehon. Follow that scent!”

The undead sniffed around, only to follow scents completely unrelated to the one he smelled.

“Not that way, you idiots! We’re getting further away. Can’t you smell that? Oh, how I missed you sweet delicacies… No, you're going the wrong— Forget it, just follow my light!”

Guided by their master's senses, the throne wove through the trees as fast as their old bones would let them. The scent strengthened, overpowering, strong enough for the monks to regain their sense of smell. They regretted ever getting it back now that they could not cover their own nose-holes.

As for their Worm King, his mouth watered and he was short on patience. Just as he opened his mouth to complain, the throne slowed to a halt, shuddering from the sheer stench. The tiny light hovered in one spot, illuminating a hind leg, covered in dark, matted fur.

“Let me down,” Mithlas stammered.

The Slyth’taynt slid off. He wondered if this was some kind of fresh kill left behind in the forest. He had no seasoning nor the strength to cook anything. At this point he was so starved that he could eat the thing raw. But, fresh kill never smelled this exotic (let alone eggy). Mithlas commanded the light to move closer to the dead thing.

His throne followed, preferring the stench over the dark. In full view, there lay the bloated corpse of an Iron Wolf. The iron plating of its skull and spiked spine peeled off, revealing numerous maggots that wriggled around inside the exposed flesh. The sight should have disgusted him. But…

“No… No no no no. There’s no way I’m going to eat that!”

It had no right to smell so delicious. All reason and sensibility abandoned the once-elf. Closer and closer, he edged forward till his gaping mouth was only millimetres away from the taut, round flesh of the dead wolf. In that moment, he learned something important about Slyth’taynt. They needed dead, rotting things. They thrived on it. Craved it. Despite all his willpower, his pride and ego, he drooled. For all his insistence that he was still a noble Beohil elf, he could not deny his hunger.

The monks all shuddered at what they were forced to witness, cursed to feel sick yet but unable to retch. Of everything they had seen in their previous lives, this was amongst some of the most traumatic and disturbing things they had ever witnessed. Nothing, except for marrowless iron bones and armour plating, was left of the wolf.

Mithlas slumped over sobbing, belched, then sobbed some more.

☽༺ ⛧⃝ ༻☾

The rest of the journey was spent in dead silence. Their king was dead tired. After his ordeal, he could hardly sleep a wink. The monks could hardly blame him; they would have fared similarly if they were alive. Finally, they arrived at the end of the forest path. Dark blues of the early dawn's sky poked out between the leaves of the canopy, tinting the land in sombre hues. They crossed into an overgrown valley, covered by thick rolling fog.

The moist cold air felt pleasant to Mithlas' skin and lungs. The fog, a welcoming, cloudy blanket to forget his worries. His light was fading again and he was too tired to conjure another one. Despite the horrors, Mithlas could not ignore his tiredness any longer. He commanded the Throne of Dead to find a suitable spot to camp. They wandered, stopping and going every so often.

Their king still had energy to complain — either a spot was too open, too dry, or too wet. Eventually they settled upon a hill, overgrown with wild hedge-growths, long dewey grasses and sparse trees. The priests let their load roll off of them. By their king's mercy, they were allowed to disassemble into comfortable positions. They were to stand guard over their king, armed with branches.

Mithlas crawled into a large hole in the hill. Inside, there was enough space for the Slyth’taynt to fit, save for his small tail — it was only when he felt it twitch in the breeze that he realised that he had one. It was hardly any different from most places he stayed in ever since his exile: filthy and of substandard comfort. It smelt of mildew and the musky-sweet scent of earth and fallen leaves. All that was missing was fine wine and the company of beautiful people. At least he did not have to pay for it.

He shivered again, not because he was cold. No, his body loved the cold. That was the problem. There was nothing else he feared more right now than getting used to this horrid body. Anxious thoughts drained the last bit of his energy until he could no longer bear it. Finally, he collapsed into sleep.

In his dreams, he trudged through the starless night. The air around him deathly cold but now it felt as pleasant to him as a Summer's day. He did not know where he was going, he just wanted to escape the lonely dark. Soon enough, he found a light in the distance. Smoke. A fire.

Closer: little figures danced around a hill. A roaring bonfire kept the shadows out and the festivities in. Mithlas continued lumbering forward, until he could better see them. They were elves, only, they wore the ugly patchwork of leathers and cloth that the Dwine and Kligane wear. They looked so happy with all their dancing, drinking and sharing tongues. Mithlas wanted to be part of that too.

He stepped into the warmth. A bothersome heat that made him sweat more slime from his pores. One woman pointed at him, shrieking. The dancers stopped and stared in utter horror. They pinched their noses and squealed. Some staggered backward. Some came forward, waving torches at him and screaming what sounded like profanities in a primitive tongue. The light stung.

Mithlas's eyes shot open. His tail end sizzled out in the sun. He pulled it inward into the damp and tried smearing some slime on his poor tail to soothe it. Though it stung a little and his tail was discoloured, the slime worked wonders on the burn.

He trembled weakly, peering outside — the warmth of the sun covered the valleys of Rinn'Caile completely, leaving barely a shadow or shade for him to take shelter under. It was not even that hot, his skin simply could not handle being under the sun for too long. Thankfully, he remembered that he had a group of undead waiting outside for him.

“Worms! Shield me from the sun! I need you all right NOW!”

The monks gathered close and wrapped their bodies together in an attempt to build a shelter. Unfortunately, there were too few of them. All but Flappy were too thin and did not have enough loose skin to create enough shade.

“Great. Just great. What am I going to do now?”

He slammed one foot against the soil wall of his little room and felt something sharp jab him.

“Owww! What in Rotterend—?!”

Manoeuvring his body around with great effort, he got a good look at the thing and scraped the dirt around it. Protruding from the soil was a white, glowing bone. It looked polished, despite being surrounded by soil. Oddly enough, roots had sprouted from the joints. This was none other than an elvish bone.

"Could this have something to do with that odd dream? Huh. Then that would mean…" Mithlas lit up in excitement, "I was sleeping in a Cot-Hill this entire time?!"

Despite the innocuous name, such a term was used by necromancers for old burial mounds built in the old days when the elves started settling in small villages. This place was practically a treasure trove for any self-respecting necromancer, for generations of dead would be buried here. There must have been a considerable amount of dead buried in here, untouched for centuries, left to age like a fine wine. In this case, they were left to sprout into sacred trees and foliage.

A smile grew on Mithlas’ thin lips. He sang the words to raise the dead.

The skies darkened as he cast his spell. For a moment, he saw his magic form into a dark, spectral claw. It reached up into Festyend, then snatched the resting souls from the clouds of paradise. The shrieking souls were shoved back into their glowing remains, buried deep within the hill.

It took a great amount of power and audacity to steal a handful of souls from the heavens. The rush of it made Mithlas as giddy as a thief that gets away scott-free with all his plunder. Giggles turned to howls of laughter.

But the vision did not last. He faded back down to earth, feeling a great quaking all around. Soil shifted, filling the space, burying him alive.

“Get… me… out!” he cried before the soil fully enveloped him.

Some soil entered his maw. He made the mistake of trying to spit it out, only for more to flood in. Between choking to death and ingesting the soil, his body chose to swallow it down. To his dismay, the taste started to grow on him. It almost reminded him of wild radish soup — the first thing he ever cooked when he was exiled.

He shifted around in his grave, breaths shallow, hoping that his thralls had heard him earlier. It was not the first time he'd been buried alive, but that did not mean he hated it any less. Just another addition to his list of things that have gone poorly for him. Still, that was not enough to entirely ruin his day, not after summoning ancient undead so easily.

Not a Chorus longer, the earth above him began to shift. The darkness crumbled into light and his face was exposed to cool shade. Blinking the remnants of soil away, he found himself staring up at tall skeletons, all sprouting roots and small trees from their heads and backs; the elves of this very Cot-Hill! Grabbing him by hands, robes and feelers, they yanked him out of the soil. Mithlas coughed and wheezed, too happy to complain about their rough handling.

Reviving the desiccated monks of an ancient god was one thing, but to revive the 'seeds' of sacred trees was a feat only achieved by the Lich King and his generals. These bones were holy — it should have been enough to ward against all kinds of dark magic. Now, they were desecrated. The skeletons creaked and twitched as if trying to fight against their stillness. Like the monks surrounding them, they could only wait for the Worm King's next command.

“What excellent thinking on my part! Bone-Ents, welcome! I want you to provide me with shade at all times during the morning,” He pointed out a bunch of them at random, “...you, you and you, assemble my throne this instant. From this day forth, you lucky souls shall become a useful addition to my throne.”

Chapter Text

The Throne of the Dead had expanded into a large chariot, assembled by bone and desiccated flesh and trees and bushes. It appeared like a moving portion of forest, crawling with its many arms and legs. Free hands tended to Mithlas’ every need, massaging his sore spots sustained during his journey. They entertained him by retelling old folklore through the gestures and manipulations of their hands. It made an otherwise drole journey made all the more bearable.

The unbound Bone-Ents were a formidable bunch. For all of their lack of musculature and all of their heft, they followed the throne with surprising speed and flexibility. With them on his side, his numbers bolstered from twenty five useless monks to a troop of fifty undead. Now, he had the beginnings of an undead army. Still, he had a long way to go before he had a force to truly rival the Lich King's own. But, most pressingly, resurrecting the Bone-Ents had taken so much effort that he sorely needed breakfast. And no, he was not going to feast on another disgusting thing! Ever!

The undead continued their march briskly across the hills. All the while, Mithlas kept an eye out for any houses to raid. Not simple peasant hovels. No, he needed a mansion and he would not settle for any less. There was bound to be a Holly-Daying estate in this neck of nowhere. With its scenic views and consecrated land isolated from most luxuries, Rinn'Caile was humble enough of a place for the richest of Dwine to meditate in. The Throne of the Dead passed the hills and into a smaller wood.

“Gods, not another forest. This better lead somewhere.”

They followed the tracks, and lo and behold their search was not in vain. The tracks led to a path of leaf-shaped stones leading to a great clearing. In that space was a large mansion, walled off by trimmed rose hedges. Behind the hedges were young oaks, evenly spaced from each other.

The mansion itself was made of tortoise-limestone for its walls, and climbing vines clung along its sides like a green coat of leaves. Had the estate been less tidy and more humble in bearing, it would have blended in well with the forest. A Dwine's poor attempt to match the magnificence of elven architecture.

"Eugh… How gaudy. Well, I guess it will have to do,” Mithlas licked his lips. “Let's march!”

The undead carried him straight through the front gate. No guards were there to stop them. One Bone Tree knocked. Well, actually they swung their club-like arms and smashed the enchanted gate. It took two hits from her holy fists to break the enchantment, and one to shatter the gate to splinters.

Two guards drunkenly staggered out of the building in good spirits, and immediately sobered up at the sight of the undead at their doorstep. The young man froze up. The older one, a round, red-faced woman, reached out for her sword with a unsteady hand until finally finding its hilt and unsheathing it. She pointed it toward Mithlas, finding a solid stance.

“Halt!” she hiccuped, “Stop right where you are!”

Mithlas gave her a questioning look. Then, noticing the emblem on her armour, he laughed hysterically, “You can’t be serious. This is supposed the Holly Order's best and brightest? How the mighty have fallen.”

“Have you any idea whose property you’re trespassing on? Be off with you before you get yourself into serious trouble!”

Mithlas yawned, “Who? Honestly, I could care less about some rich old Dwine. You short-lived types couldn’t begin to comprehend even a fraction of a Beohil’s wealth.”

“I won’t ask again, slug.”

Mithlas’ eye twitched at the word.

“I am no slug!” he sat up straight, “and you’d best get that through your thick, underdeveloped skull, Dwine. Or else I'll have you shovelling muck for the rest of your undead life.”

The older guard gave her partner a grin, “You wanted to be a Paladin, right boy? Well, get ready, because this is your first real fight.”

“B-but there’s so many of them, ma’am.”

“Phshhhft… This is enough. It’s minuscule compared to the Lich King’s armies.”

“Minuscule? MINUSCULE?!” Mithlas blubbered, “My army is greater than that so-called Lich King’s forces! Be honoured, soon you'll be part of it! "

“Do-sol-faa—…"

"Be silent!" then, the older knight sang over him with one sustained note.

Her holy song wrapped around his neck, suffocating his spell till he lost most of his voice. Mithlas' yellow orbs bulged in a mix of fear and fury. How dare she embarrass him like that!

"Worms…" he croaked, coughing, "Kill them!”

All of a sudden, Mithlas felt his seat give way. The Throne of the Dead disassembled at once and Mithlas let out a hoarse scream, falling on his squishy tail. Monks and Bone-Ents charged towards their targets. The older knight stood her ground.

Her squire, meanwhile, fumbled with his sword, stuttering out a prayer. Undead monks pounced on him, jaws wide and clawed fingers swiping wildly. The squire unsheathed his blade, unleashing a sweeping slash upon the mob. Several monks fell in pieces, the rest were shoved back.

The squire stood in astonishment — he should not have celebrated too soon. Several Bone-Ents charged at him from behind, his arm raised to crush the youth like a beetle. The older guard ran after it and chanted:

"My blade most blest,

Grant them thine eternal rest."

Blinding light swept over the Bone-Ents, freezing them moments before they could kill the squire.

"Praise be yours and thy branch-kin,

O'Duingrad, Lord of the Grova'Duin."

Then, there came a creaking sound. The top halves of their bodies toppled backwards.

“Timber!” the knight hiccuped.

Mithlas yelped when he saw the first of his precious Bone-Ents fall. He had sorely underestimated his opponents, or rather, the single knight. Her sword glowed with light and it seemed that there was a constant spotlight or a halo around her; she was not just any bodyguard or a regular old knight, but a Paladin — a champion of the gods!

“Godsdamnit! I just raised you from the dead! Pick yourselves up and kill that drunk old frump!”

He tested his voice: it recovered just enough for him to cast spells again. So, he put his academy knowledge of healing into practice, chanted a spell typically used for repairing broken bones:

"Bone and marrow,

Shards and pieces,

Wood and sap,

Mend the cracks."

And to the Paladin's surprise, the dead obeyed. From dust and shattered bones, the undead picked themselves back up and whole. Her attacks should have smited them. Freed them! Only the vilest of magics could keep the dead from paradise. With unshaken resolve, the Paladin raised sword and voice against the undead. Her squire followed, heartened by his mentor's courage.

The younger guard struck a monk right between their ribs, but his sword got stuck, tangled with the string of the monk’s robes and jewellery. Again, he did not anticipate the loose-skinned monk crawling up toward his legs with gnashing teeth.

The older guard saw her partner struggling and pushed off the skeletons and monks stuck on her sword. Without touching the undead, she swung her blade. A radiant slash flew through the stuck monk and the incoming skeleton, turning them into bonedust.

“Stop playing around, boy! This isn’t sword practice!”

The younger guard straightened up and did his best to concentrate. With each wave, both Paladin and squire felled them all. But no matter how much they sung to the gods and crushed their enemies to dust, the Worm King's army never stayed dead.

The Paladin set her bloodthirsty sights upon Mithlas as he sang. His song trailed off into shrieks, just as her blade of holy light came forth to slice his neck. A Bone-Ent rose up to take the blow.

‘She’s insane! I need to deal with her fast.’

He focused all his efforts on fixing up his army as rapidly as he could once more. In precious few seconds, skeletons and desiccated corpses reassembled. They clawed and punched and struck out at the woman. She parried and sidestepped their attacks, continuing her charge. She chanted as she cleared through another wave of undead, sending another assault of holy slashes his way.

One skeleton bumped her off-balance. The cutting wave barely touched the top of his head, causing Mithlas to shriek. Furious now, Mithlas sped up his chanting, feeding the Paladin's bloodlust and frustration.

"Mistress! Look out!"

The groans of undead and her loud war-hymns drowned out the squire's cries. The Paladin was too busy tearing several Bone-Ents to kindling, she did not see Door Wedge crawl in front of her legs. Bony arms wrapped around her legs, knocking her completely off kilter.

That was the opportunity all the undead needed. She did her best to defend against their attacks, but pinned to the ground, one could only do so much. One blow to her abdomen by a once sacred club was too much for her old body to handle. Like a ragdoll, she flew far. Before the undead could descend upon her, the younger guard tried to fight off the few monks.

“Run Colin! Get out of here!” she urged weakly.

The boy froze, “But what about you and the mansion…?”

“Don’t be stupid, boy. Go. Now!”

Seeing the many undead rush toward him, he froze again, until he heard his mentor mutter one final chant. Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming sense of cowardice overcame him. His legs sprang against his will and sped off, running faster than any steed into the forest. With him out of the way, all the undead focused on the Paladin. She shut her eyes.

"Gwaine, I see you now…"

The undead all descended upon her. It was all over before she could finish her coda.

Mithlas smiled smugly as he looked over her body. Fresh dead were easier to revive, but the real challenge came from her holy status as a Paladin of Festimay. Her soul was protected. She was guaranteed a spot in Festyend. But, that did not deter the Worm King from trying.

“Dosolfaa re—,

do-fa-do-sii—"

Her eyes opened, dead as the day she lost her friend and all passion. Sacred songs, holy hymns, corrupted by blackened tongue. No longer a Paladin, but a Revenant.

Mithlas laughed madly. It would take hundreds of years to master the Forbidden Tones to turn a holy knight. Yet, here he was, on the same level as— no, far beyond the power of the Lich King's generals. Perhaps more powerful than the Lich King himself.

“Welcome to my army, Revenant,” Mithlas laughed. “Now, what to call you…?"

“Dame… Gnatta…”

“Hmm… Fine. I’ll let you keep your name. Well then, Dame Gnat, show me to the pantry. Your king is famished.”

Chapter Text

The doors of the mansion flew open. Throne and troop marched upon a long oak-leaf patterned carpet (and for many of the undead, the soft warmth was a welcome sensation). Mithlas was greeted by the sight of the most garish piece of Dwine interior design he had ever seen. At the center of the hall was a marble statue of a Paladin. The armour-clad figure stood proudly, holding high the shield of his patron god: Melva, Lady of Charity. In his other hand, he held a sword flaked with gold leaf, pinning down a lich.

‘How shoddy!’ Mithlas thought. He was right to think so; if this was of Beohil make, the statue would have been carved from gold-veined ivorywood, bold and armourless as the gods intended.

Most striking of all was his helm which was shaped like a snarling hound with bared teeth and cropped ears. This was none other than one of the Paladins famed for ending the Lich King's reign many years ago: Ser Cu of Gol’Stanta.

“So this little holiday cabin belongs to the Dog Knight? Surprising, coming from the so-called champion of charity."

Mithlas' snickers were cut short by hunger pangs. His stomach let out a ravenous growl, as if possessed by the wolf he… nevermind. Why was he thinking about that again? He desperately needed some real food and a barrel-load of wine. Anything to forget what happened that dreadful night.

“Hurry," he urged his worms, "I require sustenance… Ughhh… Find me some food. Fresh food. Quickly now!”

Dame Gnatta led the way. After passing through long, winding halls they eventually found the kitchen at the end of one hallway. It had been left in a dreadful state; if there were maids here they had certainly gotten lazy — lazy maids and drunken guards meant that the master of the house was not around.

On the table were four cups emptied of wine, four plates covered in grease and cake crumbs, and an unwrapped gift box containing an ugly dress (hand-stitched by a novice's hand). One corner window opposite the kitchen counter had been left open, providing wide view of the the battle-damaged front yard.

Dame Gnatta trembled desperately. She willed her body to move. When that failed, she prayed. And when that failed, her soul raged. Her new loyalty to the Slyth’Taynt proved stronger than her own faith. Even so, she rejected that fact. She could not afford to give in. Not at this moment.

“Looks like you and your friends were having a party here, Dame Gnat. Be a dear and show my servants where you keep the food and fine wine.”

The Revenant moved against her own will, a puppet dancing on dark strings. Silently, she cursed herself as she moved closer and closer to the stairs leading down into the pantry, praying that the girls had hid somewhere else. Anywhere but the pantry. Her hands gripped the pantry door's handle. She could scarcely hear frightened breathing from the other side. Gods… no.

The pantry door opened with a loud creak; a sound that most definitely made Mithlas cringe — they could not even be bothered to keep all the door hinges oiled to prevent such an assault on his poor ear holes?!

From the other worms’ perspectives, there was nothing out of the ordinary inside of the well-stocked room. Mithlas was far too hungry to notice anything besides the great selection of fine foods and drinks on display. Immediately he ordered his undead to prepare him a feast; nothing that needed to be cooked — he was far too hungry to wait.

Mithlas’ throne plonked itself down beside the table, which was quickly cleaned and dressed with tablecloth and the finest of plates and cutlery. As each of the undead cut and prepared the dried meats, hard cheeses, fresh fruits and sweet breads, Gnatta kept a sideways glance towards the pantry. Somewhere amongst the barrels and sacks, there was something there, biding, praying, listening.

“Gods, just bring it here already. I'm wasting away!”

The undead were interrupted from their preparations. On a normal day, Mithlas would not have taken a bite if the food had not been to his standards, however he did eat dead wolf the other night and he was starving, so standards had flown straight out of the window. He snatched up a fresh golden pear like a man possessed.

The moment he took a bite of its crisp, juicy flesh, a look of utter disgust crossed his face. There was nothing wrong with the fruit; the texture was right and the taste was sweetly tart. It should have been the best pear he had ever tasted. But it was so repugnant to him, he spat it right out on the floor.

“A-Are you trying to poison me?!”

The dried up monk holding the bowl of fruits shook his head creakily. He staggered back as the slug snatched the bowl and tossed it away.

“Stupid bag of bones… Bring me something else!”

One by one, the undead presented Mithlas with all the finest things from that pantry. Every sweet, savoury, perfectly seasoned thing was spat out and thrown aside by the slug. In desperation, he tried to force himself to swallow these delicious morsels, but he could hardly keep any of it in his mouth for even a second. And when he did manage to swallow, he came close to gagging, but by some strange process of his body nothing ever did come back up, only succeeding at making his stomach ache.

He sweated profusely, gasping, emotions amix with disgust and stomach-churning fear. The pantry was growing emptier and with it, Dame Gnatta’s worry was growing. After a failed attempt at trying to eat one more piece of a sweet pastry, Mithlas grasped at the edges of the table.

“This isn't fair,” he sniffled, “The food must be poisoned… Those damned servants must have done it.”

In truth, there had been nothing wrong with the food at all. He suspected this but he refused to accept it as truth, because doing so meant accepting that he could eat nothing else but the dead and decaying. It was easier to blame his folly on the ill-prepared servants of the mansion. The undead were then forced to stop, just to hear the Mithlas’ whining and complaining.

Whatever was hiding in that pantry noticed that the undead stopped coming in for food. Still retaining her hawkish perception into undeath, Gnatta saw two faces peering out from one heavily shadowed corner pantry. If her heart could still beat, it would have burst from her chest. By Lady Charity, her soul screamed for those two to flee.

Every moment they hesitated, rocking in and out of view, opportunity fleeting — Melva could only grant so much to her beggars. It took one to finally rush out quietly, followed by the second, more frightful one. Before they could make it to the door, Mithlas had recovered from his outburst — their hesitation had cost them dearly and Gnatta could only let out a groan of disappointment.

“Looks like we have two rats sneaking around."

The two servant girls made a break for the door but by Mithlas’ command, they were caught by two monks. They kicked and screamed before being promptly sat down on the opposite side of the table from Mithlas, all in front of Gnatta. The young women continued to struggle, as rodents caught in a trap would do.

“Ah ah ah,” Mithlas said, wagging his finger at them, “I’ll have none of that attitude from either of you. Doorwedge, Waddle, shut them up.”

The two moved and placed their hands over their mouths. When the girls saw Gnatta, they broke.

“Now—” Mithlas was interrupted by his stomach’s protests. With reluctance in his voice, he finally relented, “Ugh… Cachiad, bring me the overripe items…”

The undead priest quickly brought him a bunch of almost-past-gone food from the pantry; it was all that was left. Mithlas took the food and ate it all up feeling immense regret for savouring the lightly rot-touched flavours.

“Now, what shall I do with you two?” he said, munching into a slightly brown-sagged apple.

The servants looked at Mithlas in disgust, unable to handle his appearance or scent even though their mouths and noses were shielded by long-desiccated undead.

“What’s with that look? Fix your faces before I add you to my army. I have every right to after you stampcrabs tried to poison me!”

Without a moment's hesitation, the maids put on forced smiles.

“You can do better than that. Smile, you're in the presence of a king!”

The maids put a bit more effort into looking like they were genuinely happy to behold the glorious sight before them. They pictured their ideal lovers: one pretended to see a fellow with hair a’flowin’, jaw of stone and chisell'd torso like any man sung of by the Bards of Passion. The other saw the squire who abandoned them to the whims of the slug from Rotterend. She still clung to the hope that her beloved Colin would come to save her.

“That's better. See? I am a merciful and forgiving king. If you want me to spare the likes of you wretches, you’d best do what I say. Now what to do with you…?"

Mithlas looked them up and down. For two Dwine peasants, they put a lot of effort into looking their best. Their faces were painted immaculately and their dresses, though of humble make, were well-fashioned. Clearly, they had taken lessons from Asengrel aestheticians (though Mithlas and most other elves would not admit it, the Asengrel elves were the true pioneers of beauty — they could make a toad handsome).

"Aha! I have just the task for you.”

The girls braced themselves for whatever horrid acts the Slyth’taynt had intended for them. Their heads swam with whatever cruel and disturbing things such an evil, filthy monster would intend with two helpless servants. No matter how much they prayed or fantasied, no hero or god was coming to save them.

Chapter Text

“I want you to make me beautiful.’

The girls looked at each other, one muddle-faced and the other trying to stifle a laugh, both relieved all the same. And yet, how were they going to make this sagging pile of slug-toad faeces look even slightly appealing?

"Well? Can you do it? Or will you be useful to me as these bozos?" he said, pointing his thumb squarely at one groaning monk.

"Umm… We—"

The braver maid cut her friend off, "We accept you challenge, Milord."

"Splendid~!" Mithlas chirped. "I want it done right away. Worms, follow them. If they run, squash them."

They led him up to the master bedroom without incident. Carried by his Throne of the Dead, Mithlas was spared from scaling the long staircase ('Damn the gods, thank his cleverness.') The slow, laborious movements of his throne, coupled with his full stomach made him very sleepy.

By the time he awoke from his nap, he found himself in the master bedroom. The maids had already prepared everything for him and looked as if they were waiting for him for some time, too afraid to awaken, let alone touch the Slyth'taynt — they did not just fear his wrath, but the diseases his filth must have carried.

Mithlas let out a big yawn, then gestured for the two girls to begin. The servant girls did not really know what to start; in all their experience they had never beautified a canvas so putrid before. So, they started with the basics. They applied a generous amount of lotions and powders to his face. The pats of cotton-sponge and the steady strokes of each brush elicited a satisfied sigh from the Slyth’taynt. It was wondrous how a face could be transformed, even with lesser quality Dwine cosmetics.

Mithlas loathed waiting, but he made an exception for this occasion. The feeling of having one’s body painted and features enhanced by the magic of makeup was a joy that nearly every elf indulged in. And for a former elf that had not had his makeup done in quite some time, this was bliss. Besides that, he knew that real art could not be rushed, so he let them take their time…. with the occasional snack break.

The skies were a darker, colder blue by the time the girls were done. If the dead had the freedom to express themselves, some of them would have laughed at the result. Others not so much, instead, scared for their sake. Dame Gnatta fluctuated between the two out of disdain for her murderer and fear for the girls.

The maids themselves were beginning to sweat. They exchanged small glances, one urging the other to speak first. After a long back and forth, one gulped down their fear and pursed their lips open.

“We're finished, er…” the one paused, considering her next word carefully, “Milord.”

“We'll see about that. Show me.”

The girls pulled over the large standing mirror. His whole head had been painted pale, warmed at the cheeks, makeup caked on so much that each bump and pore had been smoothed put. Contours were painted over his bloated cheeks, button nose and lips painted on, eyes and brows shaped by intricate lines.

“No no no! This won't do!”

That's it. They were doomed to spend all eternity as rotten ghouls—

“Where's my hair? Fetch me a wig at once.”

The maids breathed a sigh of relief. They had no wigs in the mansion — their masters had been blessed (or cursed) with strong, ever-growing hair. Fortunately, both were educated under the same school of aesthetics. With resourcefulness and wit, beauty could be found anywhere.

“Right away, Milord. (Velima, wait here.)”

The brave one rushed out of the room, which would have gotten her crushed on the spot had Mithlas not been so preoccupied with his visage. No one could tell if he hated their work or not. The other servant girl bit her lip as she waited for her companion to return.

Her companion returned with all of the hairs gathered up from the Cu family and their guests — all of the hairs were hastily bound together by twine and glue to form a copper-brown ‘wig’. Their hair tended to grow out and quite fast in nearly every place of their body. Particularly in the rear end; most believed that Ser Cu had a tail for he was too proud to trim himself down.

Mithlas looked up to see the wig in question. He grimaced.

“That colour? Is that all you have?”

“Yes, Milord. Our lord and lady prefer to wear the hair of their heritage.”

He raised a painted brow, “They both have the same coloured hair?”

“Yes, Milord.”

Putting that peculiar detail aside, he continued his rant, “Well… Couldn't they have at least been adventurous enough to try something else? Why not platinum or honey wine? Lich's breath, I’d even settle for corn stalk.”

She sucked her lips in and made a horizontal line with her mouth, unsure if she should answer or not.

“Ugh, ginger… Fine. Put it on.”

The nervous one applied a gel that felt pleasantly cool to his slimy scalp and fitted the wig upon his head. Doing her best to style it, she carefully brushed it with various combs. She did not think it would suit him, but her life depended on making it work.

The maids held their breaths again as the Worm King inspected his visage. He did not look the slightest bit pleased. The girls gulped at the same time when they saw his expression shift into a scowl. They prayed quietly for the gods to spare them from becoming stinking corpses. No one answered. This was it. They were done for—

“Hmm… I never thought I’d say this, but this colour does suit my current complexion. It will have to do. For now.”

Oh.

The girls and Gnatta felt the held air escape their lungs.

“Now, I am a merciful king,” Mithlas said, running a painted hand through his hair, “I’ll spare you for not making an absolute meal of my face.”

“But—” the girls straightened right up at the word, “You must do one thing for me.”

“Spread word of me, your new glorious Worm King, Mithlas! Make it known that I and, er…”

Pithelel’s warning repeated in his mind. A butterfly watched him from a window.

“…and the all-powerful god Pithelel will someday liberate all from death!,” he said, words laced with cautious sarcasm.

“Yes, Sire,” both maids said in unison.

One tugged at the other's skirt, prompting her to curtsey along with her companion.

A wise choice. Mithlas puffed up, grinning. Finally, he was being treated with some respect. Nothing would please him more than being treated the same way by the Lich King's foolish fanatics.

No. He would not be satisfied until the entire world grovelled to him. Loved him.

As good as it would have been to add the servants to his army, the last thing he needed was two scrawny Dwine. They had been so nice to him, they deserved their freedom. Besides, he could find better makeup artists elsewhere.

"You may go. Or stay. Do whatever your heart wants."

"Thank you, Milord!"

They bowed several times, then hurried out of the room. Gnatta heaved out a quiet sigh.

With a full belly, a brand new look and decent new addition to his undead army, Mithlas left the comforts of the Cu mansion for his original destination. As much as he would have preferred to stay and rest in wonderful silks, he had some more important matters to attend to. Excitement overrode his need for comfort… Until it didn’t. It had not even been a whole Song when he felt the pull of the Dream Goddess and an overwhelming sense of self-loathing.

All of his energy disappeared, and without it, he looked as if he were melting into himself. His eyes felt dangerously wet, chest achingly tight. He fought his hardest to keep himself from bursting into snot and ugly tears.

“Throne… Take me back. I require rest.”

Inwardly, his servants were shocked by his lack of enthusiasm. As they carried him back, they heard him sniffling and muttering out apologies.

‘What have I done…? I’m a monster…’

They laid him on the bed. Carefully, of course; none dared ruin the servant’s handiwork. He was propped up in an upright seated position, silken cushions piled up to keep him from tossing and turning in his sleep. As much as he wanted to lie down fully, he did not want to risk messing up his wig.

The only thing stopping him from a decent rest were his undead. It was disconcerting, them being there, looming over him as they waited for a command.

“Hnng… Go away! Take a break or… something. Just let me rest in peace.”

As if a spell had broken upon them, all of his undead gasped in relief. Finally, they could move in accordance to their will. Only, they could not disturb their master, and no matter how much they tried, they could not leave the premises. At the very least, they try to re-experience the pleasures of life within the Cu manor. Wine tasted like nothing, and the Bone-Ents struggled to get into certain rooms, but they were free. For now.

Dame Gnatta searched for the maids, basket of whatever untouched food and supplies she could find on the premises. When she found them, they froze in terror — that, she expected. Hands raised, she calmly placed the basket and two blades at their feet.

She spoke, voice shaky but hers, “Hide here. Wait for Colin. Tell Ser Cu and the others I’m… I’m sorry.”

The girls could hardly process what they witnessed. They burst into tears, embraced her. Their Paladin wanted to cry too but she had no tears left to shed. She had lost them long ago, long before the she died.

Meanwhile, Mithlas yawned. How long had it been since he had last slept in a real bed?

‘I suppose another little nap wouldn’t do me any harm. Dar'Gehon can wait.’

Gods to oblivion… How he missed the smooth sensation of silk on his skin! Sure, it was not as good as his bed back home, but after sleeping in lice-covered straw-mats, stony crevices that made his bones ache, maggot-filled coffins and a literal dirt hole with moss, it was a welcome change. At least his new body did not mind the silk. Thank himself, he would not have to sleep in dirt for eternity.

Mithals closed his eyes, smiling a little as he drifted off to sleep. He could not wait to see that Lehelit fool brought to his knees. For now, he did his best to savour those happy thoughts in his dreams. Anything to get his mind off the bad thoughts.

☽༺ ⛧⃝ ༻☾

Desperate breaths and hurried footsteps echoed through the forest. Creatures scampered away from a young squire sprinting madly. Colin’s mind raced with the images of that morning. His legs ached, but nothing could compare to the pain in his chest.

“Damn me to Rotterend! Why am I like this?!”

He was supposed to be a squire. A good squire would have held his ground and cut through those undead bastards. A good squire would have defended Ser Cu's sacred home. A good squire would have saved the innocent maidens inside! Where had Dame Gnatta's teachings gone?

When she ordered him to run, he felt… relieved. And he hated himself all the more for it. Did she not trust him? Of course. She sensed his weakness. His cowardice.

The others were right. Gnatta made a mistake that day when she picked him out from all the other children in his village. How could he ever hope to be a Paladin of the Grova'Duin if he abandoned the meek to save his own skin?

Tears streamed down his cheeks. A hoarse scream of frustration sent the birds and small mammals into flight — the boy certainly had a set of lungs on him. Perhaps he was better suited as a choir boy for the church and groves.

There was a monastery nearby — ‘nearby’ meaning approximately two villages and a day-long cart ride away. He prayed to the gods for a horse, but only a Ney passed him by — a kind of horse, but one the size and paws of an average-sized dog. The gods must have had deemed him unworthy of a horse. Completely exhausted, his pace slowed until he was a walking, gasping mess.

It was going to be a long journey for the poor squire.

Chapter Text

Mithlas arose from sweetened dreams. He blinked away the crusted slime from his eyes, careful not to ruin his makeup. His face and hands felt uncomfortably dry (the powders did a great job of stopping his pores from oozing); nonetheless, he was willing to put up with discomfort if it meant having some semblance of dignity.

At the very least, he had the mind to keep his insides moisturised; he ordered one of his monks to fetch him a jug of spring water, then drank it all in one gulp, thankful that he could drink something that pure without feeling sick.

The room had darkened to a cooler palette, lit dimly by green alchemical candles. Beyond the windows, the sky had darkened with thick, muddy clouds, rusted by the sun’s fall. Creaking bones, hollow breaths, and the ticking of the metronome clock were the only sounds in that room. He had slept for a good twenty-two Songs. Wait— did he read that right? He checked the clock again.

No, he definitely overslept. In his hazy memories, he recalled waking much earlier feeling in a terribly gloomy mood, so he fell asleep again. No matter — one could not complain when they were so well rested. With an impressive yawn and a long stretch, he sank back into the silks, just to savour the softness. Gods to oblivion… When was the last time the Dream Goddess blessed him so?

But he could not lounge in silks and luxury for long. His heart grew restless again with thoughts of maggot-filled coffins and sneering Lehelits.

Dar’Gehon!

Three decades ago, he went to that last true stronghold of the Lich King's followers, bright-eyed and full of hope at the blossoming age of 98. He expected a haven for black sheep, where apostates and ne'er-do-wells could sing their heresies. Home, for sinners like him. Instead, he found just another church, another academy — yet another a choir of sanctimonious hypocrites and pretentious shits.

Now he was 128, still young, ever ambitious, but most importantly, free. But nothing would have prepared him for a change this drastic. What would they think when they saw him now? Would anyone even recognise him?

He could picture them in his mind's eye. That hack Delwynn… The brainless beanpole and his band of Cleric school dropouts and second-rate sorcerers laughed at him as they always did, spitting words like venom. 'Maggot-Arse', 'Turd-Pile', 'Rot-Breath'… The insults were never particularly clever; it was the torture and isolation that came with it that set Mithlas aflame with rage.

These thoughts alone were the spark he needed to get up and stay awake for days on end. Dark magic coursed through him like a full bladder waiting for release. He wondered, if he felt this strong on sacred ground, then how strong would his magic be in the late Lich King's domain, where the borders between the realms of life and death were weaker?

His body trembled picturing those same stupid faces.

'Let them laugh. Let's see how long they keep it up when I show them my power! Now, where's my throne…?'

He clapped his hands. “Throne! Stop fooling around with your Knoblets and get over here.”

The Throne of the Dead let out a collective groan. They tossed the ebony Knoblet (a warrior piece) to the side and scuttled forward, abandoning the Gwyddbwyl board that they and the unbound monks found in the bedroom to pass the time. Poor Doorwedge hid his own frustration; all of that planning and preparation to pull off a brilliant play had gone to the dumps — much like everything that happened in his life and unlife.

They reassembled; suffice to say, they were not looking forward to being sat on again. They braced themselves as Mithlas crawled over the edge of the bed. He made a little “Umph!” and a loud “Skkkrkkk!” until he settled, comfortable. A few of the monks were sure that they broke a bone.

Their king seemed more distracted than usual. His hands flicked across his hair and straightened out his clothes tentatively, fearful that his slimy hands would stick to his wig and clothes if he touched them too much. They did. Just a little. He smudged the makeup that faintly hid his mole.

Exhaling sharply, he said to Doorwedge and the other walking monks, “Bring me a mirror. I must look my best for my grand return.”

They obeyed, pushing an ornate standing mirror over to him. The sight that greeted him did not please him one bit. He had tolerated it the evening before — he had been too tired to see sense — but now, he could scrutinise every flaw.

Missing were the less-than perfect contours of his face. Gone were the stray hairs he laboured to pin back throughout the day. The uneven shape of one eyebrow that he kept concealed under his hair. Only the single black spot under his eye remained — the same one that marred his complexion his entire life, a damned birthmark that no amount of powder or magic could conceal. Even a god could not get rid of it.

All of those tiny imperfections were nothing now that everything about him was horrendous. He felt like a pile of dung that had been painted with low-quality makeup and dressed up in an ugly wig.

No, the facts were crystal clear: he was an ugly pile of dung. That admission alone was far worse now than anything Delwynn and his cronies could come up with. It was not his fault; he would not have had to go this far to make such terrible sacrifices if the last scholars of necromancy had only listened to him. Taught him. Instead, he went to Dar’Gehon and was told he was hopeless. He lacked the talent for necromancy. Talentless! Ha! Oh, how he’d show them.

“I’ll show them all!”

His sudden outrage shook deep within the bones of all the undead under his control. Even the ancient Bone-Ents standing guard outside the manor felt his anger.

“Worms! I’ve had enough rest. We march for Dar’Gehon now!”

And away they went. Sleep worked wonders for the Slyth'taynt, and his renewed vigour was felt by all the undead under his spell. Each and every one of them could feel strong magic forcing their every move. They felt as strong as they were at the peak of their life. Perhaps even stronger. A shame they could not enjoy their strength with autonomy.

Mithlas forgot all about the two maids he spared. They both hid in one of the rooms, preparing their packs and muttering thanks to the Goddess of Dreams for her mercy. From their window, they watched the undead carry the Slyth’taynt away. Of the dead, they saw Dame Gnatta, looking up at them with dead eyes as she marched on.

It broke their hearts to see their Paladin this way. It was only yesterday that they were celebrating one of the girls’ birthdays. With the lord and lady away, the four of them enjoyed those idle days. Now, their hero —their friend— was nothing more than a puppet of evil magic. Making a sign of the Grova'Duin, the maids turned from the window, embracing themselves in mourning.

☽༺ ⛧⃝ ༻☾

Though it had not rained that day, all of Dar'Gehon was damp with dewdrops glistening in the night. Worms, slugs, and all the other little servants of decay grew excitable, gathering and feasting wherever rot dwelt. A deathly chill spread through the acrid air. As forecasted, the clouds peeled back, revealing a clear night sky. Shining with its ghostly blue-green pallor, a great skull-marked orb grinned from above: a Wraith Moon.

A group of hooded figures emerged from the overgrown catacombs of Dar’Gehon. As they passed, all that crept and slithered formed a path for them. Black robes and their silver trimmings drifted across the grass without disturbing the droplets and flies that hung from them. One stood out from the rest; the tallest of them wore a silver-engraved skull-half mask that covered the bottom half of his face.

A wisp illuminated their way as they moved towards an open spot in the burial grounds, marked by the statue of Lich King, Meredrydd of clan Neidredd. Buried deep was one of his many tombs, and within that was his last phylactery, but none had succeeded in entering its resting place.

“Prepare the array,” commanded the masked leader, his voice deep and hollow.

The necromancers obeyed, enchanting the ground with shapes painted in rodent’s blood — any ordinary paint would have sufficed, but it was scarcely available in a place like this and no one was willing to risk death or undeath to trade with necromancers. Several common offerings of silver, gemstones and their king’s favourite foodstuffs were placed within circles around the edge of the array.

All of the Undying Scion’s best underlings were happily hard at work. Not one questioned their leader. All believed today would be the day they restored Dar'Gehon to its former glory. Save for one.

Balandra’s only permitted task was to conduct the spell once the array was completed. So she waited, watching the Deathmasters with arched eyebrow. The offerings were correct. The array itself however —much like previous attempts— was of questionable shape and quality. The real problem, however, was the location of their ritual. A shame — a Wraith Moon was perfect for drawing in the dead from both 'Ends.

“The Lich King is close at hand,” Delwynn said. “I can feel him rousing from beyond the grave.”

Balandra knew his words were Trog dung. Whatever enchantments were placed upon these grounds by her father could not be unlocked by a poorly thought-out ritual. But it was futile trying to persuade anyone to pursue any alternative theories. Especially her father's so-called Scion.

“Are you sure this will work?” She cut in, every ‘s’ accentuated like a wet hiss — a feature inherited from the Lich King, hence their family name, Neidredd.

“Of course it will work, Bal. You dare question my intelligence?” Delwynn snapped.

She dipped her head low to hide the disgust in her eyes — how dare he, “No, your darkness.”

“Good. Then keep your lips…” He made a pinching motion towards her lisp, “... shut. Not another word from you until the array is complete.”

That was the 13th time that week Balandra bit her tongue. The spell of Walking Necrosis stayed trapped in her throat. Humming it would have been enough to cover him in stinging sores, but she was not allowed even that. Her father's council made careful arrangements to ensure his 'successor's' protection. Balandra's marriage was the final ritual, one that legitimised her husband's status as Undying Scion and ensured that the Lich King's line lived on.

Unfortunately, the bond of matrimony prevented her from melting him down to the bone. A clever decision — it prevented pointless bloodshed at the time — but one the old fools all came to regret. Delwynn was neither worthy or easy to control, and yet they made him untouchable. Any follower that pledged allegiance to him — generals included — could not harm him lest they be cursed with Walking Necrosis. Balandra was forced to marry, but she never stooped so low to make that pledge.

In the end, Balandra was relegated to being his left-hand woman. Second best. A mere wife, with wasted brilliance — again, another wonderful decision from one of her father’s chosen councilmen. How could a woman possibly be useful? ('Curs! I fought by my father's side when you all fled!') She was wasted here, and she knew it well, but she alone could not break the spells that kept her bound. From under her long cloak sleeve, she wrung out the platinum band on her left hand.

‘This damnable hex of matrimony!’

It was all nonsense to her. By blood, soul, and will, she had every right to be the one to succeed her father and bring about his return. Oh, but that was not enough for the council. The Undying Scion had to be a man. If the bar was not low enough, he had to be a pure-blooded Lehelit and he had to at the 'most' summon five undead on his own. Criteria so arbitrary, so close to the Temple culture they rejected long ago.

The Lich King would have never approved, especially if he were presented with a spoilt snot like Delwynn. Now, thanks to the council, the Sect of the Lich King was now as flaccid as their—

“Bal. If you would, please.”

She snapped out of her thoughts. The array was finished, and all waited for her lead.

“My deepest apologies, your Deathlessness.”

Taking a sharp breath from her nostrils, she stepped forth into one corner of the array, lifting high her wooden wand. She led the chant, directing all of her followers, and their voices came together into a beautifully dark refrain:

"Domissolsssi sifassolsssi mimiredo la simimi,

Fasolmifa dossol fami missi — dosoldofa la solssifafa,

Domissolsssi — la lare relarefa mimisssire,

Misolssolmi misolsssila mido dossol mimiredo la simimi…"

Each word empowered the blood-drawn lines. Overlapping whispers from Festyend and Rotterend bled out, coalescing with their voices. Rodent blood glowed, first bright crimson before erupting into a ghostly green. Spirits were wrenched from both realms, swirling all around as a dead squall, none quite reaching the center of the array — the keyhole to the Lich King's phylactery. Any that dared touch his offerings were quickly turned into ectoplasm, further fuelling the spell.

Then, the Undying Scion harmonised with the rest, his voice roaring over the others. From under his mask, his eyes were half moons of pure glee. The array began to turn like the mechanism of a lock. Earth and stone trembled from under their feet, reality forming cracks, then fangs, ready to snap open.

Chapter Text

Wraiths continued to dance, forced to twist to the song of the Howling Key. The last of the Lich King's faithful redoubled their efforts, hitting every dark note, straining every chord, every breath and movement serving one purpose, one song.

The world answered with a rumble. Cracks in the veil grinned; the door to his Dark Majesty's tomb appeared sated enough to spring open. The phylactery was so close, Delwynn was already fantasizing holding it in his palms. But no more did it open, no matter how much they strained their voices.

The song continued until the Wraith Moon disappeared behind thick clouds, but their king did not come; Balandra did not bother to hide her lack of surprise in the slightest. Their unhallowed choir died with a whimper, leaving the Deathmasters slumping and drained. They could not bear to look at their Scion — most were too terrified, but Balandra simply did not want to burst out laughing.

“Godsdamnit! What was that?!”

“What's wrong, lord?” One cultist asked.

Everyone looked at the poor fool: a newly made Deathmaster, excited to serve. He had meant nothing but wellness in asking. Once the Undying Scion snapped around to meet his gaze, he regretted ever being born with a mouth.

“Are you brain-dead? Does it look like we succeeded in reviving the Lich King?!”

“No…”

The cultist threw himself down, prostrating low enough to kiss the fertile soil.

“Forgive me, your Deathlessness!”

Delwynn chanted under his breath, a spiteful spell. The cultist’s face instantly twisted in discomfort, feeling his bones rattle uncontrollably. He cried out as sharp pains overwhelmed his spasming body. Bones pushed against skin, tearing away from tendons and flesh; a skeleton struggling to burst free from its meat cocoon.

The Deathmaster continued to beg incoherently, but his Scion still sang. He turned his bleeding, pleading eyes to his peers, but they merely looked away and took a few steps back. Typical.

“Erhem.”

Balandra's voice threw the Scion off. "What now?!"

Freed from further torment, the Deathmaster fell flat on his face, letting out weak moans of pain before passing out completely. Balandra rubbed the furrow of her brow. A sharp breath passed her lips, almost a hiss.

“My Scion, please, reconsider your decision to de-bone our fellow man. We cannot afford to lose any more followers,” she said. Her tone turned sweet. “Just a suggestion, my love.”

“Precious followers?” he scoffed. “They’d be more useful to me as shambling corpses. They're all just as brainless anyway!”

“Brainless indeed,” she said, “but wouldn’t it be inconvenient if you had to complete these rituals by yourself?”

With a “tsk”, Delwynn turned away from the downed man. “You make an excellent point, dearest. Deathmasters, get him out of my sight.”

Several followers picked up their fallen brother and carried him back to the main catacombs. Flesh sagged from his trembling bones. It would take the healers many songs to mend bone and tissue.

The other followers were left, standing awkwardly and looking at their feet like children in the act of mischief. Meanwhile, their Undying Scion paced back and forth, searching for faults in the array — they were glaringly obvious to some followers but none were brave enough to tell the Undying Scion that his design was the issue.

"Idiots! Look at what you've made me do. Why must you make my life so hard?"

‘Oh woe is me!’ Balandra rolled her eyes.

Delwynn turned sharply to his followers, booming, “Don't just stand there. Figure out what you did wrong!”

As amusing as it was to watch Delwynn fumble everything, it frustrated Balandra to no end. They should be out there, searching for the true location of whatever remained of the Lich King’s soul instead of wasting precious time on the same fruitless rituals. Her father would not hide something that important in a stupidly obvious place. Cleverness and paranoia inspired him to create fake phylacteries to fool his enemies: Paladins who'd smite him to oblivion and Apostates seeking to absorb his power.

The Lich King poured extensive research into the Leylines, where the magics of life and death were strongest, where the veil between realms was so thin that one could accidentally fall into Rotterend, and likely where he achieved his Lichdom. If his real phylactery were to be found anywhere, it would lie somewhere in the Leylines.

But for the moment, the only lines Balandra would trace were the ones drawn for the failed ritual. She noted the shape of the array, examined the offerings. All the while, she formulated an acceptable excuse for the ritual's failure. A Verse passed, and Delwynn sent the others away, then strode straight over to her.

“Oh, dearest. What went wrong? Tell me,” he asked, voice sweetly soft, enough to make his wife cringe.

“You want my opinion?”

“I don’t want your opinion. I want an answer," he said, still soft. "Things were going perfectly. I’ve seen nothing wrong with the array. The offerings were correct. Not a single cloud got in the way. So what else could have gone wrong but the composition?”

'Ah. Of course. So the fault is mine or the Deathmasters.’

He did not want the truth. Delwynn's truth was always the correct one, after all. The fault could not possibly be his.

“There are too few of us, my love,” ('Eugh…') “Forgive our loyal faithful. It's not their fault that we were weakened by the Schism.”

“Oh yes, the Schism…” he snarled, “Who did those fools think they were to question my leadership?”

'Yes and no,' Balandra remembered what her little Spying-Wisps said of the other apostate sects.

There were many who survived beasts and patrolling knights, thriving in spite of it all. They sought refuge in swamps, underground ruins and curse-stricken lands. New sects formed under her father's generals, only to split into smaller cults, squabbling for dominance. Other traitors left necromancy behind entirely, starting afresh as unsanctioned healers or dung-shovellers. With everyone scattered like vermin, reviving the Lich King seemed as likely as finding a spotted Unicorn. But Balandra could not see them regretting their decision one bit. They had too much pride for that. She could hardly blame them either; the one chosen to unite them was an utter twat.

“I’m sure they regret ever leaving your glorious domain, darkness. They were so wrong for leaving you.”

“I should have had all of them all buried up to their heads in maggots instead of sparing their pitiful souls. Pah! I don't need them. I have enough loyal followers.”

He was oozing with denial. Having all of those members leave at once certainly left a bruise on his ego. There was no getting around their lack of numbers either, and these days necromancers were rarer than unicorns.

“Certainly, your darkness.”

“Enough of them…” he waved her off. “Get the others to clean this up. We’ll have to wait for the… What was it again?”

“The Blood Aurora,” she sighed. Yet again, they would have to wait for next springtide. Not that it mattered. It was time wasted just waiting for another failed attempt; it was all a maddening loop of disappointment.

“Ah, yes~ The Blood Aurora. Next time, I expect you to make sure that the next ritual goes as planned.”

“But, your darkness,” her smile faltered, “we can't possibly conduct that ritual. Do you know how many blood sacrifices—?”

He shrugged, “You’re clever enough. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Her lips parted slightly, teeth under them clenched so tightly that she tasted blood. Everything she had said went in through one ear and out the other. They'd have no living followers left by the end of that bloody spring.

“Gods… Don’t tell me I have to think for you too, Bal. Must I waste my precious brain on something so trivial?”

How long would she go on with this? This madness had to end at some point.

She let out a laugh. “This is pointless!”

He blinked, speechless for a Chorus. “What?”

"Every year. EVERY ritual. And we're still no closer to reviving the Lich King. Do you really think slaughtering the last of our faithful will change anything?”

“That’s because you’re the problem,” that elicited another giggle from her. “You think this is funny? I have worked so hard to make sure things were immaculate! I wonder if all of these failures are on purpose. No, it must be that lisp of yours.”

“Oh, pleassse. I inherited my serpent's tongue from the Lich King. He didn’t need a gaggle of idiots to sing his spells for him. Neither do I.”

"You dare call me an idiot?"

"Did I?"

“Alright, fine. If you know so much, then what exactly is the problem, hmm?”

“His true phylactery isn’t buried here. The Lich King would have hidden it where no Paladin would ever guess. We should trace the leylines—”

“Pah… This again? Why would you waste my time, whipping your tongue at me for some harebrained theory? I thought we were over this, Bal.”

“It’s not a theory. I was there when he perished!” Her eyes narrowed. “A true scion knows their king. We should be searching the world for his traces. Send me alone if you must.”

He scoffed, “For the last time, no. You know you can’t go where I don’t want to. Even death cannot part us.”

He lifted one hand from his sleeve, showing his wedding band; that accursed copy of her own ring.

“Even if you could leave my side, what would you do without me? Out there, the world will tear you apart. I’d never dream of letting my fragile rose go gallivanting off to chase dangerous ideas.”

She would have laughed if she were not so insulted. “I’d take my chances. If you’re truly worthy of your title, then break our bond. Banish me.”

Delwynn hesitated, words dying in his throat. Balandra could almost hear his true voice break, a grating mewl. He placed a hand on her cheek, and when she tried to slap it away, he held her firmly by the jaw. He leaned close for a kiss, but his mask got in the way. His every breath profaned her skin; each poor attempt at intimacy, unwanted.

“Now why must you hurt me like this? Don’t you trust your father’s Scion?”

A disgusted look crossed Balandra’s face. She could not harm him, not directly. But there were other ways to administer venom.

"I'd rather trust the wisdom of a toad over your idiocy. Undying Scion… At this rate, you'll have us all pass away from old age, never to revive the Lich King."

"Don't say such things, my love—"

"Or what? You'll strip the flesh from my bones. Make me your thrall?" she cackled in his face. "Go on. Break me."

Delwynn hesitated again, his whole frame trembling with rage and pain. His grip on her tightened painfully, yet Balandra flashed a fanged grin.

"You can't do it, can you? Too afraid for your own bones, too stupid to realise you could break the bond and punish me as you please. Or are corpses not to your liking?” she wheezed, “What did I expect from a coward who hides under a stolen mask?"

"Stop this at once!"

"Make me."

Just as he began singing his tune, Balandra bit her tongue hard. Delwynn cried out, dropped her, and staggered. Balandra stood straight, savouring the taste of blood on her forked tongue. All those times she spent biting her tongue made her numb to the pain.

"You sthick bitthhh!" Delwynn roared, words growing more unintelligible as his tongue swelled.

"A Spell of Sleep? You disgust me." Balandra laughed mirthlessly. "You think me conquered? I'd rather be married to a slug than someone as pathetic as—"

She froze, ears twitching slightly.

“What?” He smirked under his mask, though his smugness was hindered by his shuddering tone. “Too scared to tell me what you really think about your husband?”

“Shh! What was that?”

Balandra's keen elven ears picked up the distant crunching of leaves: They were not the footfalls of beasts. They were heavier. Uniform.

“Don’t you shush me, woman! You will treat me with respect—”

“Shut up, Delwynn. Look there, in the trees.”

They both squinted their eyes. In the darkness of the surrounding forest, vague shadow shapes swayed back and forth. Closer and closer those shapes drew:

Tall figures. Small ones too. An indistinct blob at their center. Friend or foe? Necromancers always assumed the latter.

Chapter Text

“Knights of Holly,” the Undying Scion’s resonant voice broke.

“No. The knights would have set off the glyphs.”

The Undying Scion narrowed his eyes.

“It's those traitors, isn't it? They think they can just come back crawling back after the stint they pulled? Pah! We’ll see about that.”

Unlikely. The shadows moved with purpose. An army? That was plausible; after all, the intruders crossed the corrosive glyphs and spirit traps without setting them off, a feat only achievable by someone who was Soul-Sworn to the Lich King. Had her spies in the other sects missed something?

It seemed plausible that one of her father's generals found success in breaking their soul-bound oath to the Undying Scion. If so, then they could slay Delwynn and take his place, something Balandra was part-hoping and part-dreading — again, they'd only steal what rightfully belongs to her.

“Deathmasters! Boneslaves! To arms!”

At Delwynn’s command, all his followers summoned their undead servants, then surrounded him at once. They prepared themselves for the approaching creatures, singing forth more undead from their shallow graves. One cultist fetched him a broken shaft; it was all that was left of the Lich King’s wand, Withered Rose. He wielded it like a cudgel.

Though its magic had waned, some fragment of the soul powering it remained; its whispers gave Delwynn control over the wraiths sleeping in the crypt. It should have been hers; Balandra readied her own wand, whilst her Deathmasters awaited her direction.

The intruders stopped a few feet out of range of the Deathmasters' ranged spells. Incessant, incomprehensible complaining echoed through the graveyard. Everyone squinted hard: there was a small troop, some figures indiscernible from the trees, but at the center was a large blob with many legs: the source of the angry voice.

“Are they arguing?” one cultist murmured.

Delwynn smirked from under his mask, “Idiots. Boneslaves! Get them!”

The Deathmasters sang, and all of their undead rushed into the forest wielding rusted swords, spears, and farming equipment. The figures clashed in the dark, the intruders receding into the deep dark, pushed back — or at least, that's what it looked like. In a few Verses and Choruses, the sounds of shouts and bone on steel abated.

Delwynn snickered, "Alright, Deathmasters. Call them back."

Balandra wanted to protest. She suspected there was something wrong with the sudden silence, but she guided the choir's song as instructed. Few of their own undead returned. In Delwynn's eyes, that was fine. They just needed to soften their enemy before their next attack.

“Bal,” he looked over to her. “You know what to do.”

She was way ahead of him. Her voice led the dark choir. All of the glyphs under their enemy began to flare up. With their final word, necrotic flames engulfed the shadow figures and the remaining Boneslaves. One who always sang an octave too strong collapsed to one knee, the faintest wrinkles forming on their gaunt face. The sight took Balandra aback.

“Yes!” Delwynn cackled like mad, “Serves you fools right! Bal, I want their skulls brought to me. They shall make fine candleholders for our crypts.”

Snapping back into reality, she answered, “Yes, your darkness.”

They waited for the flesh-eating smoke to dissipate; it usually took several excruciating Songs to melt a mortal to the bone. But then, something peculiar happened. Wraith-light soaked the lands below once more. Looking up, the entire sect found a perfectly shaped hole in the clouds, the Wraith Moon peering out of it. A dark hymn faintly echoed through the burial grounds:

"… re domi sirerela dore…"

Out of the necrotic fog, the rest of the Deathmasters' Boneslaves came rushing back. The necromancers tried to sing them to order, but they continued rushing forth, flailing erratically with the wrath of centuries in their rattling bones. Not even Delwynn nor Balandra could sing them back to order. The Boneslaves' anger had been unleashed, but this time, compelled by someone else’s tune. But who?!

"What's happening?! Get them under control, Deathmasters!"

They really did try. And when that failed, the Deathmasters began to rout. Too late: one of the faster undead chopped off their master’s hand. Before it could strike the cultist down, an acid spell engulfed the skeleton, quickly melting them down to their waist with a bubbling hiss.

“Fall back!” Delwynn’s voice broke.

Balandra hissed out another spell. Five more undead rose from between her and the encroaching undead to buy her time. More of their own undead came back to turn on them. This was definitely the work of an elite group of necromancers. Perhaps even a lich? Balandra hoped not.

She ducked, holding that thought.

In one huge sweep, several cultists and their undead servants flew into the air. Several tall skeletons fused to sacred trees advanced and pounded away at all in their way. Among their number, fought several ancient-looking thralls armed with branches, rusted blades, and even silken ribbons. Just as she raised her wand, a dark slash sliced it in half, narrowly missing her fingers.

She froze in place.

Standing before her was a Paladin. The heraldry was different, and her face was worn by the ages, but Balandra could never forget the face of her father's usurpers: Dame Gnatta of the Serf Oaks. Only now, the old paladin had the milky eyes of an undead thrall: A Knight Revenant.

“How… How is this possible?!” Balandra hissed hoarsely.

The Dwine knight before her was aged and corrupted, but still fought like the Champion of Charity that slew many necromancers. Still, Balandra whipped her tongue, venom in her song, revenge on her mind. If the Knights had not smote the Lich King, she would not be in this position!

Balandra moved first, spitting acid and calling wraiths to her side. The Revenant dodged the blasts, then called upon the protection of not the gods but of something dark and rotten. Hissing poisons slid off her flesh and armour. Her blade no longer put spirits to rest, and instead drained them into her blade, powering her next strikes. From her own dead tongue spilled prayers, not to the gods but to a ‘Worm King’.

"O' Worm King, O’ Worm King,

Grant my blade, my bones, my voice, your sweet blessing—

May your enemies feel my sting,

May they be yours, undying—"

Her dark miracle came too fast. Wraithly fire spewed from her blade, Balandra within its reach, burning through her wards. Too late to flee. She should have fled. One of the Deathmaster leapt forward, shoving her out of the way. When Balandra came to, she found her saviour's back scorched and steaming. She heaved, not dead yet.

"My lady… Get to safety…" she croaked.

Quickly, Balandra carried the thin Deathmaster in her arms and rushed away. Before the Revenant could attack again, Balandra summoned several undead to block her way.

‘Oblivion take me! Where’s Delwynn?!’

Wherever she looked, the Undying Scion was nowhere to be seen amidst all the chaos. 'Nevermind him,' she thought. The safety of her father's faithful were paramount. Just as she opened her mouth to rally the Deathmasters, a hideous laugh reverberated through the graveyard air.

“HAHAHAHAHA! GUESS WHO, BITCHES?!”

Out from the mist, it emerged. A large creature that scuttled upon many limbs. Its gleeful cackling rang out loud and proud through the battlefield, sending shivers down the Deathmasters' spines.

‘Who in Rotterend—?’

Knocked down, Balandra dropped the dying Deathmaster and fell at the feet of the beast. Looking up, she noticed that the monster was not one creature, but two. A many-legged throne of undead heaved — Balandra could not help but look at the thing in wonder; it was a beautifully horrific work of necromancy. Peering down from its grand seat was the orchestrator of the terrible invasion.

A Slyth’Taynt; those disgusting agents of spiritual and physical decay from Rotterend rarely came to the surface, but here one was. It leaned forward, eyeing her with its amphibious, yellow orbs. Its fetid stench smacked her senses, sending her gagging on her knees. Since youth, Balandra had lived around death and decay, but no corpse had smelled that foul.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” The creature chuckled wetly. “Throne, apprehend her.”

Several bony hands descended. Before she could utter a spell, they clamped her mouth shut.

“Hello again, Lady Balandra. Did you miss me?”

Chapter Text

“Now, Throne. Is that any way to treat royalty? What’s the worst she can do to me? Acid spells? Necrotic gas?”

For all his gloating, Balandra's glyph attack had given him a nasty shock; he did not know that his Slyth'taynt form was entirely resistant to corrosion and decay. His embarrassing screams were drowned by the dark choir and the blasts of glyphs. So scared was Mithlas that he made yet another horrifying discovery about his anatomy (so terrible that even the barest description would induce uncontrollable retching, and thus has been omitted for the reader’s sake).

But gloating was enough to deter his captive. Disbelief was clear on Balandra's features; this impossible thing before her had survived her strongest spells. Fear betrayed those defiant serpentine orbs, a look unbefitting the true Undying Scion.

“Wasn't I clear?! Unhand her, now. I want to hear what Lich King’s heir has to say.”

She was dropped; too roughly than Mithlas intended. Before he could admonish the throne, Balandra made her disgust known (not out of mockery — she simply could not handle his presence). Her next intake of air came with a series of gagging coughs and the greenening of her pallid face.

Those first breaths were enough to make one regret having a nose. She had dealt with many a foul corpse her whole life, but that was nothing compared to a Slyth’Taynt's foulness. At last, she caught her breath, desensitised to the stench.

“Who in Rotterend are you?”

Mithlas recoiled at first, even more offended than before. Sure, he looked different, but he had expected someone of her skill to recognise his soul at the very least.

“Lost your touch, Balandra? I’m one of your own. At least look at my robes.”

She arched an eyebrow. Confusion grew ever more on her face, squinting for every detail. He had the robes of an acolyte, indeed, but beyond flesh he was a rot-slug through and through.

“We’ve never had a Slyth’Taynt in our ranks.”

His stomach dropped. Surely, his soul had not been changed too, had it? That stupid god’s words echoed faintly in his mind, a whispered reminder of his horrid state.

‘No no. Her soul-sight has dimmed. Yes, that has to be the reason.’

If she was to blind to see him for who he was, then perhaps she needed a reminder. He had kicked up quite a fuss before he left. She’d remember that. Surely.

"Oh but of course, you wouldn't recognise me as I am now. I was the Beohil who left your moronic cult, vowing that I'd attain powers beyond what the Lich King could ever promise. I even left a strongly worded note."

'That certainly narrows it down.' Balandra mentally rolled her eyes.

"This place was supposed to be a haven for the likes of me. I expected you necromancers to be more free-thinking than those academy dullards. I sang your damned songs and did your pointless chores. All I wanted to do was share my life’s work. A way to defeat death without Lichdom! And yet you all didn't bother reading my treatises. Instead I was laughed at! Just because I couldn't resurrect a dead rat!"

‘Oh, you precious fool.'

That was true when the Lich King reigned. There were no ridiculous rules or requirements in those days. Even those who lacked the talent for singing spells had a place in the sect. Dar'Gehon was once a beacon for 'heretics' and 'madmen' like their founder. That's what they were supposed to be. Now, the sect had devolved into a Grove Temple. Her father: their absent god.

Mithlas continued, "I thought you of all people would have understood. Out of everyone in the sect, you were the only one who cared. Or so I thought. You said you'd listen to my ideas, but did you come back? No."

In fairness, she had been too busy to hear any of her followers' ideas. So busy, she did not bear witness to his tantrum as he left. Busy, pouring her time into researching the whereabouts of the Lich King’s soul fragments. Her fervent search occupied so much of her time, she did not anticipate the council's plan to marry her off. It was Delwynn’s responsibility to take care of the acolytes in her absence.

"Does that jog your memory yet?"

“No.”

He wanted to scream— Oh, right. He had not even given her his name. Surely, that would jog her memory.

“Mithlas Orm'Arbethion. Mithlas the Beohil?” His voice quivered with desperation, "Delwynn trapped me in a coffin full of maggots. And you… You saved me."

She shook her head earnestly, completely without a clue. Small moments where she did acknowledge any of her subjects' existences were too insignificant to keep. Why, an acolyte was equal to the many blow flies around the crypts — precious, useful, and worth protecting, but easily forgotten amidst her own troubles. And how full of himself he was! Quiet was her laughter.

The Slyth’taynt's painted face sloughed into dolor, then creased. She forgot. She actually forgot about him. He leaned forward, his breath foul and cold.

“But now, I go by Worm King. You'd do well to remember that.”

He leaned back into his seat, looking rather pleased with himself.

“And,” he added. “You will pledge your allegiance to me.”

“I bow to no slug,” Balandra hissed.

“Oh, I don’t like that. Cover her mouth, Throne.”

“Release me at once you contemptuous lump of-”

Her mouth was covered once more.

“Throne, a seat for the Scion, if you would please.”

She squirmed against their uncomfortable grip, held in place for a time until they reformed themselves to make a conjoined throne. Once they had finished, they seated her awkwardly next to Mithlas.

“You should be grateful, Balandra. You get to sit next to a king.” Snickering, he took a long look at the carnage around him, “Hmm. It seems like much hasn’t changed since I left.”

His eyes looked to the centrepiece of his surroundings. The Lich King’s image was immortalised in stone. His tall, skeletal form was proud yet grim, armour draped in snakeskin robes, his Withered Rose raised high.

A soundless song drew out undead, all their bony hands reaching out towards him. From within their hollowed out eyes were their souls carved from crystal, fearfully fervent. Mithlas could only imagine what the Lich King's unholy song sounded like (his sounded better). Balandra felt it in her soul, as clear as life.

The way the Lich looked down at Mithlas never sat right with him when he first arrived at the Sect. Even now, in his triumphant return, those eyes were boring down on him. The Worm King met his gaze with defiance.

“Eridyu, diy pidin-coc—!”

Venom sprang from his ditty of nature magic, forming cracks in the black marble. Balandra let out a muffled cry of rage as she saw her father’s image erode to rubble, leaving nothing intact but his sizable pidin-coc upon the damaged base. At least he had no interest in what was buried underneath.

“I never liked that statue,” he smirked, admiring the wreck some moments before turning his attention to Balandra. “Look at how powerful I am, Lady Balandra. Now will you bow to me?”

Balandra answered with a dagger-pointed glare. It was perhaps wise that he had kept her mouth sealed shut, for was tempted to unleash a saltwater spell upon him. Such ferocity from someone clearly outclassed.

“Perhaps you’ll reconsider with this. Gnat, bring me one of the prisoners.”

Balandra twisted around, her eyes widening at the sight of the Serf Oak Paladin bowing before the slug. Her toxin-green gaze followed Dame Gnatta until her head could turn no more.

‘How did he…? This isn’t possible…’

But it was. The dead eyes and the captive soul within confirmed that. Even Lich would have trouble enthralling a Paladin. After their terrible crusade against her father, the Grova'Duin granted many more blessings to protect their champions.

“Yes, that one. That will do.”

The ease of control this creature had over his many thralls utterly fascinated her. He did not have to keep singing his commands, and his thralls fought with a persistent ferocity matched only by the undead armies of the Sect's glory days. Balandra's spine tingled cold at the thought of what else he was capable of. The rest of her seethed with rage. To think that the last bastion of the Lich King’s pride would come undone, not at the hands of Paladins, but at the hands of some slug. Damn the gods, it disgusted her.

Revenant Gnatta dragged one of the tenderised Deathmasters over, dropping him right at the throne’s feet. Mithlas’ eyes narrowed gleefully when he recognised the man right away. A Beohil, but no fellow of his. He part of Delwynn's cronies who mocked and tormented Mithlas. A mediocre spellcaster by comparison — the only difference being that he could make a dead man do a back flip, whereas then — no matter what Mithlas did — he could not get a single corpse to even crawl. Perhaps he did it to fit in, to avoid the same treatment from his own peers. Perhaps he liked it. Whatever the excuse, Mithlas did not care.

The man groaned, barely heaving a single pleading, “... spare… me…”

“Garaith? Ohoho~ This is too good. Do that again. Grovel to me.”

Garaith pressed himself closer to the soil, prostrating with his arms spread wide. He continued to croakily beg over and over. As amusing as it was, it still was not enough for Mithlas.

“Where’s Delwynn and the rest of his lackeys?”

“I- I don’t know… the Undying Scion… he ran away…”

Typical Delwynn. Balandra shook her head. The Lich King must be rolling in his phylactery. The slug, however, found it amusing.

“Your ears must be swollen. I know where the Undying Scion is. I have her right here, see? Now stop wasting my time and tell me where Delwynn is.”

“C…Catacombs…” he murmured, much of his next words were unclear until he finally said, “Delwynn… is the Undying Scion…”

“You know, you almost sound like you believe it. But I know better than to trust a cowardly rat like you.”

Garaith whined, “…p-please… I speak the truth…”

“We’ll see about that. Gnat, kick him.”

Gnatta had no choice but to obey. She kicked him in the stomach as hard as Mithlas’ voice had conveyed. The noise he made her soul sink a bit. Sure, he was a heathen grave-defiler, but even they were worthy of pity.

“Now bring him here.”

An idea popped into Mithlas' head. If he was so powerful, then surely he too had the Soul-Sight, Looking deep into Garaith's eyes, he repeated his question. The answer was the same and the soul rarely lied.

“Seriously? Delwynn? He’s the Undying Scion?!”

Mithlas glanced over at Balandra. The moment he looked a bit deeper past flesh and bone, he noticed something, or rather a bit of someone’s soul wound around her own like tight string. He followed the accursed bond to a pretty gaudy-looking ring. Mouth agape, his expression was one that asked, “How did you let that happen?!”

She could not answer, but the shame and anger told him everything he needed to know: "Do you think I chose this willingly?!"

“So much for the great Sect of the Lich King, eh?” Mithlas giggled, mirth edging towards mania.

Garaith continued to plead incoherently. A pitiful sight, even for someone that liked to gossip about others. He had no business being amongst the Deathmasters with his lack of discipline.

Mithlas on the other hand was only getting started.

“Now what shall I do with you?”

“…spare…m—“

“Spare you? After what you did to me? Oh great, you don’t remember either, do you?”

He did not know. Too scared to answer. So, Mithlas answered for him.

“Wyneb Cu O’Cluidin. Remember now?”

Roughly translated: he had a dog’s nipple on his face. That would have been bad enough on its own, but Garaith had built upon the lie. Eventually, all in the cult thought that Mithlas was the product of his New Grove upbringing; his many adulterous mothers bedded a Fomorian in a horrific orgy ritual. And from that little lie, all sorts of wildly unpleasant stories sprang up like a plague. From that day forth, none of the acolytes wanted anything to do with Mithlas. Even higher ranked members gave him strange looks. The odd comment slipped from uncaring lips.

And that was mild compared to all the other torments inflicted upon him by Delwynn’s merry group.

Confusion then recognition passed Garaith’s swollen face once he noticed the subtle dark spot under that hateful amphibian eye.

“… I… I didn’t mean… I was only following Delwynn…!” Panic forced those words too loud for his body to handle that he erupted into fitful coughs.

“All the more reason to punish you. Sucking up to that Lehelit scrote. Where’s your damned pride?”

That last part seemed to hit a nerve with Garaith. His face was pinched into what looked like a disdainful glare. Coughing, he muttered something unintelligible. Mithlas could not quite tell what was exactly said, but he assumed it was an insult — it did not matter that the man was actually begging for his life.

Mithlas finally made up his mind, “And for that I’ll enthral you for one simple purpose. You are to acquaint yourself with every nest of all stinging insects you wander across. Intimately. And when I call you back, you’ll have a face that only a Fomorian could love!”

Chapter Text

A loud sob and a burbling plea escaped Mithlas' tormentor. Garaith could not convince the Worm King, so he looked to Balandra for mercy. Something came over her, looking at this pathetic wreck in front of her. She should not have felt an ounce of pity for the man. After all of her years, she thought herself resistant to such nonsense. He was one of her husband’s undisciplined lackeys after all. Perhaps it was those stupid puppy-like eyes from the smaller, now-lumpier elf.

"Do midolasi do domifami,

do redosolsol do domifare…"

Balandra felt the power in the slug's song. How they gripped the other necromancer into silence. Partway through, she found her mouth working on its own. She sang an urgent spell that pried dead hands from her lips.

“Wait!”

The spell of enthralment lost its grip on Garaith. The man wheezed as his heart began to beat again. Colour returned to his face, air flooded his lungs in quick bursts. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

“How did you—? Useless worms! How dare you ruin this moment for me!”

Before the throne could cover her mouth again, Balandra sang. A few small bones obeyed, keeping their hands pried open.

She cleared her throat, her tone less biting, “Wait! It would be a waste to kill a Deathmaster.”

“What use do I have for this useless worm beyond entertainment? I can summon as many dead as I please without needing a duet.”

"It will be bothersome work, commanding all your armies and workers by yourself. You'll hardly have any time to focus on your own machinations. Why inconvenience yourself when you could have loyal followers at your side to do it for you?"

It sounded positively tantilizing, having doting followers serving him at his beck and call at all times. Competent, living ones. And not only that, it would satisfy Pithelel's own need for followers too. Willing, living ones. Turning all of his enemies into will-less undead would certainly upset them. Because, how could anyone worship them or pray to them if they were unwilling thralls?

Mithlas could feel their butterfly-gaze upon him. The Faerie God was always somewhere, watching, judging, as all gods do.

And yet, there were still other Deathmasters. What was one less? There still was little point in keeping deceitful little Garaith alive. He'd just go yapping more rumours to destroy his king's reputation.

“You are right. I need loyal followers. Not liars that will stab me in the back any chance they can get.”

He had a point and she was running out of arguments. Balandra was even questioning herself; why was she so compelled to keep this dead-weight alive? Then she remembered what her father had once said.

“There are many ways to tame an unruly dog. You’ve succeeded in doing just that. Take a look at his soul for yourself.”

“Very well,” Mithlas huffed.

Mithlas took a look at the man again. Lo and behold, his soul was wracked with fear. The object of that fear: none other than the Worm King. He whispered a spell, tugging slightly at his fear like a leash.

“Well well, looks like you were right, Scion.”

“It comes with experience.”

“Hmmph. Why, of course. That’s why I’m keeping you around,” he turned back to the unconscious heap at his feet, “Gnat, put this one with the rest of the prisoners.”

The Revenant slung the elf over one shoulder. Balandra watched as he was dragged over to a cage made of the bones of Dar'Gehon's undead. All of the Deathmasters were bound, barely alive or freshly dead.

“You’ve convinced me, Balandra. I’ll spare your people, but Delwynn is mine to do as I please.”

She paused. They may have shared a common enemy, but he never had to endure years marriage with Delwynn.

“What’s it to you?”

“It means everything to me. That bastard made every waking moment of my stay in Dar’Gehon a nightmare. He stuffed me in a coffin full of maggots! Buried me six feet under shit! THRICE! I vowed that one day, I would finally ruin him. Today is that day,” he said, breaking into manic giggles.

Alright. So she did not have to endure anything that bad. She would have showered herself in acid if Delwynn ever tried that. And yet, after the indignity of being stripped of her inheritance, her power, and her very freedom, she had every right to make her husband suffer by her own hand.

“You must want to ruin him too, don’t you?”

Balandra went quiet. Did she really want to ruin him? Yes. 100%. However did she really want to work with this Slyth’taynt that called himself king?

“Yes,” she answered, “But I can do it myself.”

Mithlas noticed her rubbing at her hand. The glint of her wedding band caught his eye again. The spirit in it seemed to claw into her soul — a small fragment of the man they both hated.

“Can you, Lady Balandra? Because it seems to me like you're bound to his every whim. I don't believe for one Chorus that you'd willingly follow that moron's every order. Look, I can arrange your divorce and help you take back what is rightfully yours. Why, we can take turns in torturing him afterwards. How does that sound?”

She scowled once more, hiding her hand inside her sleeve. “What makes you think you can break this curse?”

“How bold of you to question my abilities." He gestured to the pile of rubble where the Lich King once stood. "I could wipe out this pathetic remnant of your father’s glory with a short ditty. You think a stupid marriage spell is beyond me?”

Balandra remained half-skeptical, but a potent drop of hope slithered into her heart. He was powerful, no doubt about that, but even her father had limits. Most importantly, however, why was he offering to help her?

“What’s the catch?”

“Don’t worry. I have no interest in becoming the Undying Scion. In return, you must recognise me as the rightful king of this Sect and Pithelel as our Patron god.”

“Bow to you and some unknown god? What makes you think I’d accept that?” Balandra hissed.

“Because, my dear, the other option is an eternity of undeath with your beloved. Now that would be a terrible waste, wouldn’t it? You are, after all, quite competent. I could use someone who commands a subtle kind of authority.”

“It will take more than threats and flattery to convince me, Slyth’Taynt. You ask for too much.”

“Hells, aren’t you stubborn? I’m giving you the offer of a lifetime. A chance for greatness! Under my rule, we can bring about a new era. Free from all of those nonsensical rules and restrictions that hold us back. Free from death itself!”

“Your rule?”

“Would you prefer anyone else?”

‘The gall of this slug! Myself, of course!’

Balandra considered his words for a moment. A wrong answer would likely mean a fate worse than marriage. Even she had to agree that the Sect would benefit greatly from such radical changes. If she stayed in the slug-toad's good graces, she could find her way around him. She would still regain her rightful place as Undying Scion — that would give her the power she needed to wrench back control over the Sect. Having some power was better than no power at all.

As for the slug, he was a clever idiot. A powerful one, at that. She knew her way around those. A useful ally, indeed.

“Very well, Mithlas. I accept your offer.”

“You swear it?”

She exhaled, “I swear.”

A large grin crept across his face, voice giddy, “Then pledge your allegiance to your king.”

She made a small bow, wearing a practised expression of sincerity, “I pledge my allegiance to you.”

“Ah ah. That's not good enough. Say that you, the Undying Scion, pledge yourself and your entire cult to me…”

He was about to finish right there, but suddenly he felt like he was being watched again. A butterfly fluttered past him, then perched on a gravestone.

“Erhem, and Pithelel, God of Wishes and so forth.”

“I, Balandra Dóm’Neidredd, pledge-”

“Put a little more spirit into it.”

‘You cocky piece of pig dung. Push me, slug. I swear to all the gods, I’ll flush you down oblivion! No no… calm yourself Balandra. Deep breaths.’

Uncoiling the stress from her limbs, she calmly spoke, “I, Balandra Dóm’Neidredd, pledge myself and my followers to you, O’ King of Worms and to your god, Pithelel.”

A satisfied smile spread wide across Mithlas’ face.

“Splendid! Now let’s get your mask back, Undying Scion.”

Mithlas commanded his throne to loosen its hold. Balandra shifted, humming sharply until her seat had shaped itself to her liking. She could not quite shake the mixed feelings she had towards the Slyth'taynt. She found him utterly infuriating, but he was oddly respectful. Mostly. At least he addressed her correctly.

“Worms, set the prisoners free.”

Those that lived lumbered out of the cage. Those that were left had long died. Balandra shook her head. Amongst the unmoving were Deathmasters who had the potential to be worthy of their title. So competent and skilled. Now they were dead. Even her saviour. What a waste…

Sensing her disdain, Mithlas cleared his throat and revived their dead followers and had them stand side by side their compatriots. Not that it made things any better. Balandra fumed inwardly.

“It seems to me that the Lich King’s Sect is in need of a change in leadership!” Mithlas began, “For too long, you have been led by incompetents playing at Lich King. And now that you’re under threat, your leader has abandoned you!”

The Deathmasters, both dead and alive, looked dejected. Even former friends of Delwynn were verily demoralised by the whole ordeal.

“But worry not. From this day forward, you shall answer to the real Undying Scion,” Mithlas gestured to the woman beside him, “Balandra Dóm’Neidredd, True Heir of the Lich King, Dread Conductor of the Deathless Choir, .”

Balandra bowed her head slightly. She did not know whether she should have felt flattered or embarrassed by the added titles.

“As for me,” Mithlas continued, “I, Mithlas, King of the Worms, shall be the new head of your Sect.”

There was a low murmuring and a whole lot of unsure glances exchanged amongst the necromancers. Some looked at Balandra as if betrayed. Others — mostly friends of Delwynn — looked at her in disgust. She returned their looks with a fanged grimace. They should have been thankful that she saved them from thraldom.

“And those that object to this are free to lay down and die. We’ll find a use for you yet.”

That sure shut them up.

“Now, bow to your saviours.” Then he addressed the Dead Trees and the turned thralls, “Worms, finish off anyone that refuses to bow.”

Without delay, the Deathmasters prostrated themselves before their King and Scion. Something stirred in Mithlas — a truly wonderful feeling. Finally, he was getting some respect. He wanted more. Despite the circumstances, Balandra found herself feeling the same kind of satisfaction. It had been a long time coming before anyone had recognised them. The feeling passed quickly. They still had yet to take the entire cult for themselves.

“Deathmasters. Worms. Come forth! Let’s remove the False Scion from his throne!”

All rose to their feet and began marching towards the Catacombs. The place was originally a gravesite dedicated to the Neidredd family, but Meredrydd Orm’Neidredd founded his Sect and reshaped it into his own glorious design. From what Mithlas remembered, the place was an underground palace, extended to accommodate many dead and living during the glory days.

When Mithlas arrived, he was a century too late; the Sect had already fallen from grace, with the dead mostly outnumbering the living, and all the sarcophagi of the Sentinels, Greater Wraiths, and Revenants of the Neidredd family were empty.

Coming back to desecrated ground made Mithlas feel rather nostalgic. It was mostly the same if not little more run down than he remembered — a testament to the cult’s stagnation under bad leadership. The destruction he wrought gave it a little more… flair.

“What a cesspit.”

Balandra quietly agreed with him on that. Dar'Gehon was already crumbling apart before the Worm King came with his army of undead. It made her sick to acknowledge the sorry state of her home.

They all surrounded the main entrance to the Catacombs. Ebony marble framed the doorways and walls of the small building, but its center was a thick wall of enchanted iron. Two great doors of the same metal stood before them, firmly sealed by magic. Several viewing ports opened into faint black slits.

"Your Deathmasters and undead are mine! Submit your leader to me and you may join my glorious ranks. Or, stay loyal to that cowardly nitwit. Fight us or flee if you wish. You'll join me either way."

Silence.

“DELWYNN! COME ON OUT AND FACE ME, YOU COWARD!”

Deep, muffled laughter echoed from the other side of the door.

“I know you’re in there False Scion!” Mithlas said. “Let me in. ”

“False Scion?!” an intimidating voice roared out with an unmistakably grating intonation, “Pah! You just try getting in! Oh wait, that’s right! You can’t. Not without the password!”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t remember it. Erhem…"

"Ithu aluther u’shuldno—”

“No, we changed that one years ago.” Balandra cleared her throat:

“Hatuath hy-hy’opes thoralithin—”

“Aha! That’s where you’re all completely wrong! I changed the password whilst you were distracted, nitwits! You’ll never figure it out.”

With a frustrated screech, Mithlas commanded his undead, “Twiggles, Oaky. Smash down that door!”

The Bone-Ents bashed their gnarled clubs-for-arms against the iron doors. After several swings, the sounds of their knocks grew less booming, their movements more arthritic. Both King and Scion squinted: sacred wood bound to bone had blackened with rot.

"You idiots! Stop!"

The pair looked relieved to hear his command. Gloomily, they lumbered back in defeat, stiffer than usual. Delwynn's pitched-down laughter followed them.

"Give up yet? A slug like you can't possibly get in."

"He's right," Balandra whispered, "The Lich King enchanted these doors with powerful magic. We should starve them out until they get desperate—"

Mithlas shrieked in frustration, belting out spell after spell. Stone and metal refusted to crack. Corrosive acid slid off the surface (but caught one particularly unfortunate necromancer who kept the viewing port open). The enchanted seal mocked him at every turn with a little jingle of failure. Unfortunately, becoming a great necromancer did not grant him the ability to open all doors.

Delwynn continued to cackle from the other side of the door, and Mithlas' tantrum began to abate. The Worm King heaved. Each failure sapped his confidence, threatening to drain him completely until only helplessness remained. Balandra's brows furrowed at his deflating form.

"Give it up, Maggot-Man. You'll never breach my gates!"

Oh, he was right. There was nothing more dangerous to Mithlas than believing those words. Maybe he had made a mistake returning here—

'Wait. That's it! I can't break these doors. But what of the rest of these unhallowed grounds?'

A spark of brilliance flickered in Mithlas' brain and from it, a wildfire of possibilities blazed. It left him cackling, wild and unhinged, drawing uneasy glances from the Scion and her ranks. Sure, let Delwynn savour his little victory — it would make his ruin all the sweeter.

'He's gone completely mad…' Balandra thought.

"Worm King? Is everything going according to plan?"

“Scion Balandra, you know every inch of these grounds and Catacombs by heart, right?”

“Of course. Dar’Gehon has belonged to my family for many ages.”

“I knew you’d be useful,” he didn’t notice her rolling her eyes at that, “I have a plan…”

He whispered into her ear. Her lips curled into a serpentine smile.

“What?” Delwynn called out. “What are you whispering about? Did you finally accept defeat?”

From his little viewing port, the False Scion saw his invaders turn tail. He watched with glee as the army of dead receded from view.

“HAHA! Another victory for the Undying Scion!”

Meanwhile, Balandra drove the Worm King's army from grave to grave. Once they had gathered enough dead to their ranks, Mithlas had the army split into three — Deathmasters and Worms alike all armed with spades.

One group waited in ambush behind the Catacomb's entrance. Another took position and readied their spades at the foot of a burial mound, close to an outer passage. The Worm King and Undying Scion stood ready at an inconspicuous spot, hemmed in by untended garden plots and the empty graves of their keepers.

“These three points. Is that right?” Mithlas asked her.

“Yes, your darkness,” she hissed, both in annoyance and excitement.

“Oh please. ‘My liege’ will suffice.”

“Of course, my liege.”

“And you’re sure they won’t get away?”

She shook her head firmly, "They won’t see us coming at all.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

With a giddy cackle he raised his arms.

“Alright then! Worms. Loyal Deathmasters. Start digging.”

Chapter Text

The False Scion grinned ear to ear from under his skull-mask. His enemy, the Worm King, had fled. Beyond the Catacombs, the last bastion of the Lich King's realm still smoldered, but it stood. He let the satisfaction settle too quickly, already convinced he was Dar'Gehon's saviour — worthy of the Lich King himself.

But his followers knew better. They felt like they were no better than rats… No, worse — earthworms, hiding underground from a threat greater than their Scion. It would have been a mercy to gouge their eyes out to be blind like worms. Their Scion was no better than they were: a coward amongst cowards. At least they were not as deluded to believe they had won the fight.

"Did you see how they ran? These defenses are impenetrable, we've practically won the siege!"

"But, your darkness," stammered one of the acolytes. "They could be planning something. What if they're waiting for us to come out before they strike? And they have Lady Balandra. What if they harm her to harm you?"

Now there was a thought that Delwynn did not like. As much as he wanted to cast it out of his mind, the suspicion had already taken root and festered into full blown paranoia. And the loss of Balandra was the greatest blow to him. Not just because of the risk on his life, but because his beloved wife was stolen! He hated it so much that he tore the teeth out of the poor sod. The others recoiled, hearing their brother's screams.

“Er… Is it safe to come out, Scion?” asked one of the more inexperienced members.

“You’re asking me that? Ninny! Of course not. That vile slug is still creeping around our grounds with my wife as hostage!”

Delwynn's mind started working. If the siege would not last a night, then perhaps the slug would grow exhausted in a week — of course, no siege had ever lasted beyond a week. All the Scion and his followers had to do was relax and wait for the slimy beast and his army of traitors to grow tired enough. It was a fool-proof plan.

"We'll remain here and party endlessly until the Slyth'taynt weakens. Then we strike and rescue my wife. That should take a week at most."

“But, your darkness…” one of the surviving Deathmasters cut herself off.

“What is it? Speak up.”

“We only have enough supplies to last us two days.”

“TWO DAYS?!”

All of the faithful flinched. The bearer of this bad news took a tentative step back, fearing for her bones. He did not want to be torn out of his body like what almost happened to Ulrin, nor did he want to lose teeth like Lithan. Without Balandra to step in, she was sure she'd be punished terribly. But the Scion did not sing.

Combing back his sunset-gold hair into his hood, Delwynn laughed off the revelation.

“Pah! Two days is more than enough. Did any of you see them bring any food or wine? I’m sure that corpulent slug will succumb to hunger and boredom before the next morn.”

His gaze fell upon them all, expecting to see hope and jubilation alight their expressions. Instead, they gave him half-arsed cheers and awkward smiles that made effort at hiding their fear. Prior to the Worm King's arrival, they had only known Slyth'taynt from tales whispered in candlelit rooms. Those vile things from Rotterend were not only capable of melting flesh, they were capable of disintegrating souls! Or so the tales say. They were so rare that not a single being on Tiron-Mord knew the full extent of their powers.

“What’s that look for?” Delwynn's voice sliced through the hallways, “You ungrateful wretches! I save you and this is the thanks I get?”

“No, your darkness,” the Deathmaster squeaked, “We are merely— Ehrm…! Dead tired, is all.”

“Then un-tire yourselves. Or must I kill and raise you myself?”

“No, Scion!” all his acolytes said over each other. Their smiles stretched wide, trembling. "Thank you for saving us!"

“Good,” Delwynn stretched. His gut gnawed restlessly. “Let's celebrate our victory, shall we?”

It was not a suggestion. Many of his followers went along willingly anyway; if this were to be their last night alive and free, then they would spend it in revelry.

The great feasting hall lay deep within the chest of the Catacombs. Its ebony corridors, lit by floating candle-lit skulls, flickered with a cold blue. The walls were lined with coffins — most empty, though few still held servants and acolytes who failed their training in the most permanent way possible. Just as the Scion and his followers reached the thick lacquered doors, a deep rumbling growl echoed through the passageways.

"Must be Farris' stomach," one Deathmaster snickered.

"No it's not—"

BANG!

The sound had come from one end of the darkened passage.

“What on Tiron-Mord-?”

The second BANG made the brave Scion jump. The third came too close for comfort, snuffing out all of the lights to the right of them. The fourth dislodged coffins from their walls. Desperate songs turned to screams deep in the darkened passages. Another hymn overpowered theirs, followed by the cracking of rising bones.

“What are you doing just standing there?!” Delwynn floundered, “Summon the Boneslaves!”

The acolytes chanted their desperate chorale. The dead answered — they fell out of their coffins like dusty old farts nudged by a draft. Delwynn slipped behind them, backed up, bum pressed tight against the black doors. With no conductor to guide them, the acolytes drowned one another in discordance, their Boneslaves dancing like drunken fools.

“We’re going to die! All is lost!” someone wailed.

“Shut up, all of you!” Delwynn snapped, voice cracked. “Or I’ll kill you myself!”

The commotion ahead of them died like a song stopped cold. Only creaking bones and panicked breaths filled the silence. Delwynn's heart drummed so loudly against his ribs, it could have led the next chorus. Had they actually won?

Then, footsteps. Uneven, staggering taps against stone tiles echoed — Click… Clack… each louder than the last. Clickity-clack! All heads swung to the leftmost passage.

"Kill it! Turn it!" Delwynn shrieked.

They sicked their thralls upon the unknown. Its screams could barely be heard under the songs of the acolytes. When their Boneslaves stilled and were called back, they did not drag a corpse nor a traitor to add to their ranks. Instead, they brought back one of their own, battered and close to death. She was tossed before the feet of her silenced peers.

“They’re… in… inside…”

With one last rattling gasp, she finally lay dead. But not for long. One Deathmaster sang her to undeath. They hardly had the luxury to waste any body. She would have been more useful if she had told them where the slug's forces were coming from, but none amongst the surviving cultists could make the dead speak. Not even the Scion.

“What’s happening? How did they get in?!”

Delwynn sweated, breathing raggedly, face aghast. Were it not for his mask and hood concealing his features, his faithful would have scattered in disarray. But the sound of his followers' doom-singing grated on his nerves. Fear turned to irritation, then rage.

“Stop your simpering, you imbeciles!” he snapped, “Seal off those wings! Now!”

Acolytes and undead rushed towards every passage, collapsing the tunnels with hammer and song. As they worked, Delwynn sunk to his knees, completely at a lost. It was utterly inconceivable that they could have gotten in. Every entrance had been enchanted with wards. Had he been betrayed? Had one of his faithful let the slug in? Or did Balandra… No. Impossible.

His mind wandered to the secret exits. That slug could not have known where they were, even if he were a former acolyte as he ludicrously claimed. There was only one that knew every inch of this place besides himself. Balandra would not have willingly served a loathsome Slyth'taynt, even if she were tortured. Even if she were enthralled! Surely…

As the last hall collapsed with dirt and stone, an unsettling thought grew in the Scion's mind. Doubt, most dangerous kind of venom, sunk into his nerves. He had witnessed first-hand how the slug obliterated his best Deathmasters, their thralls and their traps. If they could get into their impenetrable catacombs, what chance did these weedy fledglings and useless wounded have with their simple servants? And now that he had blocked off all chances of entry or escape, his domain had been reduced to a banqueting hall.

‘Damn! If only I had more capable followers!’

They all fled into the great hall and the large doors shut behind them with a resounding boom. Tables and undead barricaded the doors, and for good measure, wards were erected with ingenious password combinations. At least they still had food and entertainment. With less mouths to feed, their days of survival had increased dramatically. That little hope (or denial) was enough to keep Delwynn from crumbling. After a week of partying, the foul creature would finally slither away.

All of Delwynn’s followers collapsed into their chairs, voices too hoarse to make a dead rat dance.

“Well, I think this calls for a celebration,” the Undying Scion laughed in manic relief. “Come! Let us drink to our victory.”

They all needed a drink, so they did not hesitate to bring out the barrels and delight in their contents. Desperate to wet their tongues and numb themselves, they did not bother to read the signs. What they drank was no common table wine, but the finest of aged port meant to be enjoyed in sparse sips, for it was far stronger than they could possibly have expected.

What started out as fake revelry devolved into pure, unadulterated bliss. So good was their numbing that they could not hear the sound of their wards breaking and their reinforcements crumbling. The world spun with the wine’s music.

…bang…!

Bang!

BANG! The great black doors were smashed to splinters by the invading undead. Yet, not even that sobered them up. Delwynn continued to dance in his hallucinogenic haze. He did not realise that his remaining followers had been nabbed by cold, bony hands, rounded up into bone cages. He giggled when those same hands grasped him.

One hand pinched at that uncomfortable spot upon the end of his spine, only then did he snap out of his drunken haze. Before he could utter a song in defense, undead descended upon him. He let out a muffled shriek, covered completely in suffocating darkness.

The Undying Scion did not live up to his name. Worst of all, he would not even be granted a particularly memorable death; proud, glorious and with last words that will be quoted for eons. Instead, he’d die whimpering and pissing himself to some damned slug.