[IC] The City of the Dead - Post Apocalyptic Medieval Fantasy

[Drakey]

Slowly, ever so slowly, the corpse’s eyes opened. A thin trickle of water flowed over the man’s face. Sunken skin drank up the water, a rotten smell permeating from it. Thankfully, the man couldn’t smell the stench, his nose having rotten away long before. Though, that wouldn’t last for much longer.

Shifting his submerged form, mud squelched. Freeing his arm from the clinging mud, the man pushed against the water-clogged ground. His bony hand sunk slightly as his chest rolled over. Pushing up from his other arm, submerged in the shit filled mud beneath him, the man’s body rose slowly. Weak muscles strained to hold him up as ash began to fall from his form. It floated around him as he gained purchase on legs little more than bones. A gaping hole in his skull filled with the ash, alighting his body with the semblance of life.

Gasping, the man took in breath once more. Then he sniffed the air, wondering what serene smells he would experience. Shit. That was all he could smell. SHit, shit, and more shit. Sighing to himself, his chest once sunken and cracked now filled with flesh, heaved from the recent exertions. His legs began to fill the loose material that made up his breeches. The ash that had swirled up to meet him settled against his body, becoming one with it, and filling it.

Looking out, the sight was one he couldn’t remember. His body had been left in the bed of a small stream. Great oaks towered up around him as he stood to his full height. Being 6’4” would have it’s advantages, that much he was sure. Looking down at his body, the last bits of dust filling in some grooves, the man blinked. His chest was bare, whatever wisps of cloth having fallen off as he stood, though a thin set of breeches covered his legs down to his knees. At least Fate had the mind to keep him decent.

Looking back up at the trees, he could see a light that sat in the middle of a great root. One that stretched the span of the creek. Farther in the background stood the remains of a crumbling castle. Its name reverberated within the man’s mind: Veldrick.

[Flightless_Soul]

@Drakey

m.youtube.com/watch?v=oIuDuz26tOY

A M E M O R Y

It was something you wanted to cherish, to keep sacred in the confines of your very mind, but alas, everything feels...clouded. In the days of yore, you had a purpose, a goal set in mind. What was that, you wonder. You try to seek that goal again, but sadly, it is gone from you. Like the flickering wings of a moth, you try to catch it, but it always eludes you. The path forward now is ripe with uncertainty, as you find yourself face down in the muck and mire of a fate most unfortunate to have befallen you.

Now you must ask yourself, newly dead, dost thou tarry forth to reclaim that which you once knew?

[BespeckledCeph]

Theme

R i s e C o m r a d e s

I lie, unmoving in the chamber, I don't know how long I've been here, but I must leave. A voice reverberates in my head. "Rise if you would comrades...For that is our duty" The Old Wolf of Farron has summoned me. I rise from the ground, swords in hands, my behemoth on my back. I wear a medium type armor on me. Light, but protective, and my ever looming thrall hood adorned. As I approach the exit of the chamber, I am met with yet another voice. "Come undead, join Veldrick, and help restore our fallen world." The land of Irythill is as chilly as ever, but I continue, ever approaching the dark, looming building in the distance.

Does thou have thine eternal power to restore thou'st hope once lost to time. Perhaps, but one fact still lies true.
Us undead, can't even die right.

Gives me

C o n n i p t i o n s

[Drakey]

Climbing up the side of one of the roots, Rhoth was able to pull himself out from the grave he had found himself in. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten their, nor could he remember anything other than his name. Whenever his sight fell upon the towers of Veldrick, an insationable anger welled up within his gut. Finding purchase for his hands, weak from time but getting stronger with every passing moment, Rhoth hauled his nearly naked body up the side of the root. Gasping for air, he rolled over the grass that covered the top of the ledge that had loomed over him just minutes before. Brushing off the dust that gathered on his body, the undead man found his feet. Standing up, awkward from a time not done, Rhoth peered out to which the light had shone from. In the middle of the great root that spanned the chasm, the man could see the limp form of a corpse. A sword was stuck into the wood that ran next to it, the light hung from the hilt.

The Dead Knight and Armor

Finding sturdy purchase for his feet, Rhoth stepped out over the chasm. Its presence sending a trickle of fear into the undead’s still heart. While he got the feeling that he wouldn’t die, Rhoth would still not prefer to experience it. Moving slowly, he advanced on the limp corpse, its features becoming clearer with every step. The body, now rotten, had worn a strong set of armor. A green coat, covered in a metal breastplate and scaled chain, hung from its waist. Boots, made by a master blacksmith adorned its shrivelled feet.

Something about the corpse struck Rhoth as odd. It was shrivelled, dried up, with no signs of true decomposition. His brows, furrowed in confusion, watched the body carefully. As Rhoth’s hand closed upon the hilt of the dead man’s sword, the lantern went out. Falling from the hilt, the glass lantern smashed against the root of the great tree. As if it was some signal, the corpse began to rise. In fearful hurry, Rhoth ripped the sword from its wooden sheath just as the long-dead knight reached out for its ancient weapon.

Taking a few steps back, Rhoth watched as the undead grasped at the air, seemingly confused. Then, in a lunging motion, the knight jumped at Rhoth, trying to obtain its sword. Falling short onto the oak root, Rhoth lunged forward as well. Bringing the point of the knight’s blade down upon the back of the corpse’s neck, the point of the sword bit into the root underneath. With a wind that had not existed moments before, the old knight’s body fell apart into dust. A whirlwind, laced with the disintegrated body that once stood, fell upon Rhoth. Screams, laughter, and tears flowed into the man as he felt fragments of human souls enter him.

Breathing heavily, Rhoth donned the rusted armor that had been left behind. Holding the hand-and-a-half sword tightly, the undead began the long treck towards Veldrick. A small, silver ring, one that would be worn be a woman, hung from his neck.

[Flightless_Soul]

@Drakey@BespeckledCeph

m.youtube.com/watch?v=T_mJUwgwhgQ

R E S P I T E

How did it feel the moment you died? Could you even remember it?
Was it a release from the bonds of this mortal coil? A shelter from the tumultuous storm that ravaged your soul for so long? But now...when death no longer exists, how can your soul ever find that peace? Will it drive you to the very depths of depravity, knowing you are caught in the endless circle of undeath, never to feel the sweet embrace....of endless shadow...except in mere dreams?

Thou who art undead, thou art cursed, but thou art not the only one... O where will your weary soul lay to rest?

All around the city, the dead stirred. Corpses, long forgotten and long picked upon by carrion birds, shambled to life, groaning in misery. Their foul stench of rot carried upon the chilling winds wailing like banshees in the dead of night, and their mournful cries echoed in the far reaches of ancient Veldrick.

There, a light, dim and flickering, shined in the darkness of a keep. She waited there beside the tiny flame, quietly poking at it with her birch twig...

[Illiren]

A series of bubbles popped along the surface of the water. That may not seem important, particularly in a area like this one, gases escaping from the ground or something like that, But that is not what those bubbles are. Those Bubbles were actually a scream, and not just a scream but one of those soul wrenching screams the kind you would hear during a VERY violent death. Well you would hear it if it wasn't for the 4-6 liters of water that almost immediately filled the perpetrators lungs.
Realizing that the content of his lungs was not air our little Banshee lifted his torso out of his watery coffin to breath in the air. The process was hindered by the fact that there was still liquid in his lungs but that problem was solved soon enough.
Now that the air deficiency problem was dealt with that left one immediate problem. It is cold. The water is the probable cause of that and leaving it will help substantially. This is not that easy of a task as it sounds for three reasons. One well not deep the pool was exceptionally wide, Two his armor was soaked and was weighted down by the water, and three the ground around were he stood up was not flat but had many small mound-like forms under the clouded water.
Collapsing on the waters bank taking a moment to rest our Banshee stared up at the large branches overhead, Some light passing through, and asked "How am I alive?".

[BespeckledCeph]

J o u r n e y

Weeks have past since Saegar has done anything more than walk. Forest, Jungle, Swamp, "City", and even cathedrals. He has fought through it all. It was all worth it in the end. The castle is in the distance, closer than ever. As he strolls through the empty streets of the town, he hears the voice again. "Good, you made it. Take a seat in my chambers, wait for the others, then we can talk." There was others, he was not the only one. It made him feel cool, and good.

He strode into the main chambers, rows of chairs lining the inside, with an empty area in the center. Saegar took a seat in one of the middle seats, and waiting, pondering on why he did this in the first place.

The Jailer is the key, kill him and you will be free.
Art though ready undead? Take what is yours, and free what has been locked and lost.

Gives me

C o n n i p t i o n s