Daughter of Death - A Necromantic LitRPG

The flesh-thing in front of her didn’t offer a response. Furainé’s beauty had not been tarnished - rather, it was more like every fragment of beauty had been ripped from her features, and all that remained was the husk of a defeated woman exhumed of her senses.

Drayya’s implements of torture had no rhyme or reason to their placement, but every single one had been put to use. From carving knives to pliers to melting wax, she had followed through on her promise to introduce Furainé to a level of suffering she never knew existed. A number of alchemical concoctions had been used to preserve the nun’s wellbeing in spite of the excruciating pain she was no doubt experiencing.

As Lieze took a step forward, Furainé shivered. Her sensitivities had peaked in the absence of sight or sound, honed to such an extent that even a single footstep against the wooden floor was enough to rouse her.

“D-Drayya…” She could barely get a word out. Every syllable was pure agony, “You don’t know… what you’re doing…”

“She thinks I’m Drayya?” Lieze thought, “Well, I suppose that’s only natural. It’s not like she can see or hear me anymore.”

“Mercuria…” The term left her skinned mouth like a curse, “The end… Lieze will…”

She knew everything about the Scions. Or, certainly more than Lieze knew, at the very least. But it was obvious that Drayya’s torture hadn’t extracted anything worthwhile from Furainé.

“That only makes the truth more tantalising.” Lieze sighed, “Something else is going on. Beneath this tiresome conflict between the living and the dead, an unknown force pulls our strings from the far beyond. Furainé and Alistair are the only ones who know anything about it…”

Lieze circled around to the back of the chair and untied Furainé’s wrists, eliciting groans of teeth-clenching pain from the nun. She no longer had the strength to move her body, slumping down like a boneless fish without anything to anchor her.

Grabbing her wrist, Lieze examined Furainé’s right hand.

“Sure enough, there it is…” She muttered.

A brilliant amethyst was clinging to what remained of the woman’s muscle tissue. Breaking it off would be as simple as snapping the leaf from a twig. It was only when she grabbed the gem between her thumb and index finger that Furainé spoke once more.

“It’s you…” She paused, “Lieze…”

There was nothing to say in response. In that way, Lieze was the one who was truly powerless, unable to utter even a single word. Furainé knew that the gem was of use only to her, and why she had appeared to claim it.

“The Mercuria…”

“What? What do you know about the Mercuria?” Lieze demanded, “Who are the Scions? What purpose do we serve?”

Meaningless. But a shred of Lieze’s ferocity carried into the tightness of her grip, and Furainé remained keen enough to pick up on such a small detail. Her lipless, toothy maw was no longer capable of expression, but Lieze knew that she was more than likely grinning internally.

“Do you want to live the rest of your life like this!?” Lieze yelled, “Tell me everything you know, and I’ll end your pitiful life right this second!”

She was desperate for any information. With Sokalar’s return at hand, it was only a matter of time before her authority was snuffed out. She would fade back into the mist - into a blood war of mindless proportions having never seized the opportunity to hold the entire world in her hands.

Yes. That’s what she wanted. The scale’s power had simmered within her, and its limitless potential had inspired a longing for delectable dominion. She wanted more power - more power than she could possibly know what to do with. She knew that Furainé was one of her only links to the last secrets of the Scions.

“...Chains…”

“...What?” Lieze furrowed her brow, shaking the nun’s limp wrist to coax another reaction out of her.

“The Light…” Furainé forced the words out as if afraid of being struck down by the very Gods for uttering them, “The Light in Chains…”

New Quest Received!

"Answer" - Discover the origin of the Scions

Reward - 22,000xp

Drayya lowered her head in respect - a gesture of servitude that didn’t suit her in the slightest.

“It’s been a while, Master Sokalar.” She greeted.

“You have done as I asked, Drayya. Truthfully, I thought it impossible for you to succeed, but this hardship seems to have strengthened your resolve.” The Lich replied, “Your efforts shall not go unrewarded, but do not allow a single victory to distract you from further conquests. Our work is not yet complete.”

“Of course not.” She agreed.

Electricity ran down Marché’s spine as Sokalar’s undying eyes fell upon him. Meeting the Lich face-to-face had been a dream of his since he had first developed an interest in necromancy.

“Your name.” Sokalar commanded.

“M-Marché Hopper…” He answered.

“You have done well to resist the living world’s temptations, but a passing interest in the art of necromancy does not qualify you for a position in the Order.” Sokalar continued, “A true practitioner of the art learns through rigorous study the intrinsic evil of life. He strives to tear down all who would perpetuate this cycle of suffering. He does not bow to ethics, or morals, for he understands that true salvation can only be attained once we are free of our cursed flesh.”

Marché was not an evil man, he thought. Necromancy was diabolical, but that single-minded perspective only blinded the people of the world to their hypocrisy. Helmach’s madness as a child had convinced him that the only true evil in the universe came as a result of bodily and spiritual limitations.

“Your eyes betray the conflict in your soul.” Sokalar accused, “This, too, is the result of a cursed upbringing. You do not have the ferocity of character needed to deliver this world from its ills.”

“That’s not true…” Marché replied, “Conflicted or not, haven’t my actions spoken for me? I’m willing to make any sacrifice for the Order.”

“That is your weakness. Willingness.” The Lich said, “Mere ‘will’ does not invite strength. Your ideals are like those of a soldier. You strive for heroism even in the abandonment of your humanity. There is no bravery or worthiness in that attitude - not within the fold of wicked minds I have spent decades cultivating.”

“Is this one no good, Master Sokalar?” Drayya asked.

Being referred to like some sort of object only battered home the inadequacy surging in Marché’s chest.

“He is young, but he may yet be transformed into something greater.” Sokalar said, “That said, he is your responsibility, Drayya. If you cannot mould his mind, then your time will only be wasted. There are more pressing matters to address than the education of a fledgling necromancer.”

“Of course.” Drayya bowed again, “Your word is my command.”

“Tell me of Lieze.” He continued, “The source of her power is esoteric. I understand that she has been your equal for a number of weeks.”

“That’s correct…” She began, “We’ve managed to establish a foothold in the city, and-”

“Her power, Drayya.” Sokalar interrupted, “The source of the necromantic energy pulsing through her body. What is it?”

Drayya knew the answer. She had seen the scale. The gemstone in Helmach’s corpse. Lieze had confided in her - and Marché - about the true nature of the Gildwyrm’s strength. Sokalar could perceive the incredible surge in power his daughter had experienced, but he could not determine its source.

The girl’s wellbeing didn’t concern her. Lieze was another necromancer - another member of the Order. She existed to be undermined and manipulated into benefitting Drayya’s needs. Sokalar wouldn’t hesitate to imprison Lieze and experiment on her body to discover the source of her powers. It was precisely the kind of opportunity Drayya would have been drooling at the chance to exploit a few months ago.

“That’s…”

-But she couldn’t.

Why? She was Margoh Drayya. She was the last in a bloodline of esteemed necromancers who would have happily stabbed their lifelong allies in the back to gain an upper hand. The tapestry of her life, from babe to young lady, had been soaked in the blood of her peers.

But, at that moment, she was weak.

“I… I don’t know.” She lied without conviction and without expectation of forgiveness. She lied to Sokalar - a man to whom she had sworn undying fealty. It was not her first betrayal, but it was the most difficult, both to Sokalar and to herself.

The Lich’s gaze pierced into her soul. She was foolish enough to harbour a spot of hope that he would direct the conversation elsewhere, but one did not simply rise to the pinnacle of the Order’s violent hierarchy without developing an intolerance for secrecy.

“You lie.” He stated, “Whether from a place of pity or concern, you have set yourself above me in authority, and deigned to withhold a critical piece of information. You know that the punishment for such insubordination is death, and yet you chose to lie regardless.”

Drayya didn’t answer. She knew that adding anything to the point would only make things worse.

“Yes… you are a cunning sort, Drayya. Cunning like your father was.” Sokalar paused, “Your contributions to this conquest have earned you a single lie. Is that what you believe? Your contribution to the Order’s strength is not insignificant, but that does not disqualify you from punishment. Graeme will be more than pleased to discipline your quick tongue.”

Marché flinched as the Lich’s gaze turned to him, “Hopper… take this lesson to heart. The pedigree of one’s blood does not not bestow invulnerability to punishment. The nail that sticks out is hammered in.”

Sokalar didn’t wait for a response. His levitating form disappeared into the horde of thralls engorging the city streets, which parted like a sea of rotten flesh to make way for their master. Drayya and Marché were left considering his ominous words in silence.

“...He isn’t always like that, is he?” Marché asked, afraid that he already knew the answer.

“Much worse.” Drayya frowned, “Today must be a good day.”

“Why didn’t you tell him about-”

“Be quiet.” She sighed, “I don’t know.”

“I think you do know.” He replied, “Lieze is your friend. You don’t want her to become a tool for her father’s wishes. But that isn’t how you’re supposed to act, is it? There’s no such thing as a ‘friend’ to necromancers.”

“Keep talking like that and I really will kill you.” Drayya spat.

“Do you know what? I don’t care.” Marché replied, “You’re the sort of person who doles out punishment without thinking about it. There’s no fear-mongering like with Sokalar. I thought he would be a brilliant man, but all I see now is a leader trying desperately to stay in control of his subordinates.”

“Okay, I’m not kidding - he really will kill you if he hears something like that.” She warned, “...I don’t know. I don’t know why I didn’t tell him.”

“Lieze is a good leader.”

“She’s… she’s not much better than I am.” Drayya blinked, “But, I am a very good leader.”

“That’s some endorsement coming from you.”

“...It doesn’t matter, really.” She replied, “Like I said, this is just the way it was always going to be.”

“Is that really something a necromancer would say?” He wondered, “I thought the Order was all about ambition?”

“There’s ‘ambition’, and then there’s ‘suicidal bull-headedness’.” Drayya said.

“You’re telling me what we’ve been doing up to this point wasn’t suicidal bull-headedness?”

“Hm. That’s true.” She smirked, “Yes… that’s very true, isn’t it?”