[IC] Heroes of Might and Magic: Defying the Gravekeep

After the fourth Eclipse peace reigned on Ashan the world was different. The change in era might lead one to believe that a peace of sorts of acheieved, but it was only a different kind of violence. Skeins of fate are tugged threatening to unravel the whole loom. A great burden falls upon the shoulders of a young nobleman fallen long before his due, his new life within death given purpose by both his fractured memories and a strange, spectral advisor. But neither of these truly let the boy know of the great fiend he must slay for the sake of all Ashan; luckily for the peoples of the world, the universe will force him down this path regardless.

[Andreyich]

Breathing. The sense of breathing would be the first thing to return to young Brandon, and soon all the senses related to it. The air was humid, or on second thought smokey would be a better description; clearly something was burning. As the sense of smell returned the nobleman would get the feeling that much of what was in the air was incense, but many fouler smells yet indistinguishable would also fill his nostrils. The lad was lying on some sort of steps, the cold and somewhat wet stone digging into his skin. A ghastly susurration would fill his ears and upon opening his eyes it would seem to be coming from the smoke about him. Coils of it would form shapes that in the first moments of consciousness would easily be mistaken for faces or skulls both proper and mutilated, malformed. It was a crypt of some sort, a great many steps leading to a rectangular block of stone that may have been a platform for embalming, or perhaps a coffin, or maybe an altar of some sort. Regardless of what it was, a trail of sickly black blood along the steps leading to the Unicorn would be simply evidence that he had fallen and rolled off of it.

Through a strange green lens Brandon now had it would be easy to see the room was poorly lit by the few candles in it, the globs of filthy wax appearing to only accent the darkness rather than provide light. The thing that really allowed him to see was a flame spreading across many books and corpses in the building, the fire yet too small to reach the banners across the walls. It was slow, the occasional fiery bursts of corpses' gases or fats not doing enough to counteract the cold and wetness of rot and blood. The stench was terrible, worse than anything the Lordling would have previously dealt with and yet somehow bearable. If he chose to stand up rather than rest the many pains he would sense across his body, it would be clear that all witnessed to this moment was more or less the full extent of the building. The only new thing revealed would be the exit, a very long thing from which some helping light both natural and not would come. If he paid attention, the noble would hear voices and the clank of plate armour coming from there (albeit getting further and further away).

Though the fire was spreading slowly - almost leisurely in fact - there was an ever so slight sense of urgency given by a rumble from below. It didn't signal that the structure was going to collapse soon, but rather that there would soon be bigger rumbles that would signal this. As the lad would now have to choose what he would do next, memories would start to flutter into his mind.

[Typical]

---

Brandon Unicorn

---

Brandon awoke with a breath, followed by a larger one as his eyes opened. The aspects of his surroundings hit him all at once, and he coughed, bringing an arm up in attempt to shield his nostrils from the acrid scent of smoke and rot around him. Moving made him realize his precarious position upon the steps, and he righted himself, shifting so that his feet could keep him steady on the stairs. The movement stabbed into him, his body aching as he took in his surroundings, which were laden with green hues and smoke, the latter billowing lazily into half-formed skulls and faces, leering and screaming in silence at him before collapsing back into themselves. Weariness drove away the notion of fear, only leaving room for confusion and unease as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

He was in a crypt, he realized, finally aligning the candles, corpses, and central alter atop the stairs into a word he knew. The dull ache in his head ebbed as he tried to tap into his memories. He was Brandon Unicorn, a son of the mighty Unicorn Duchy, and he’d yet to become a knight. The last thing he remembered was being on patrol, which was usually a tedious and uneventful affair, and after that…

Another ache cut his thoughts short, and he gave up the attempt for now, rising from where he sat. Though his body protested best it could, his nerves alighting with sharp and sour pains that spanned wherever and whatever he moved, he was distracted by the light he saw. The exit, down a long and winding path ahead, tempted him from afar, and he registered the soft yet familiar sound of clanking steel echoing from its general direction. Knights. His patrol, perhaps?

Attempting to open his mouth made him aware of how parched he was, and he barely managed a croak, ending with a cough as he stumbled down the rest of the stairs towards the light. The walls of the narrow path were a welcome support as he walked, the muted pains building upon themselves as he progressed towards the light.

“Help,” he finally managed as he neared the light. The word had come out as a mixture of a rasp and a croak, barely intelligible even to his own ears, so he tried again. “Help me.”

[Andreyich]

As Brandon rose crying out for help, it seemed that the spectral faces coalesced into one miasma before dissipating into regular old smoke — it was as if the supernatural experience the Lordling just had was all a momentary hallucination. Faces in the smoke? Preposterous! The plea was unheeded by whatever men were making the noises of clanking steel, at least not properly. The sounds of movement stopped momentarily as if some men stopped to listen to make sure if they actually heard something, but yet another soft rumble got them moving once again; shadows of legs and bodies would now be visible from dancing shadows born from what was probably torches, but they were clearly leaving with no desire to return.

The Unicorn was left to fend for himself, or perhaps not. Plink. A droplet of blood fell from the young noble into a puddle of more of the same. It was black, looking more as if it belonged in an inkwell. It had come from Brandon himself that much was certain, and it would certainly explain why he was now so pale.

Suddenly the blood on the ground started bubbling much like if it was boiling, stopping only after about half a minute or so. Rather than reflecting what was in the room, a beckoning image was there. It would be of a bald androgynous figure, pale and motioning with a finger to come forth. The puddle of blood was no bigger than a teacup plate and at the youth's feet, but still it would seem as if the beckoning person was close enough that the boy could reach out and touch. The entity smiled, and began to open its mouth as if to speak. Its eyes glowed with a golden sheen reminiscent of what Brandon may have seen from Priests and Inquisitors using the power of Elrath. But several things would jump to catch Brandon's attention in a sequence: a bit of marble broke off the ceiling with some dust falling at the Lordling's side. A swarm of different critters from spiders to maggots crawled out of one of the bodies present, their unison movement ever audible, and one of the banners on the walls caught fire with a whoosh.

A helmet started then started to roll down from near the zenith of the mausoleum, bouncing slightly with a metallic tonk noise each time it struck a step. It was a helmet reminiscent of Imperial Squires, albeit far more ornate. With its descent it seemed that the lower it got the more it adjusted the direction of its roll towards Brandon, but all the while the androgyne figure was beckoning in a manner that was supernaturally enticing.

[Typical]

---

Brandon Unicorn

---

The sound of silence gave Brandon hope. The knights had heard him, and he would have help soon. But his relief left as easily as it came; the sound of clanking armor, faster and louder than before, echoed at him as his vision wavered, and shadows danced on the walls, taunting him. No. They were shadows of people—men, moving away from him, their pace faster and more determined than his.

Urging his aching body along, Brandon half ran, half stumbled down the next stretch of the tunnel, managing until he couldn’t. His body screamed in pained protest, and he fell against the wall beside him, propped up by an arm and an unwillingness to touch the rot-littered ground.

A dripping sound came to his attention, and he located it after a beat, realizing that it’d come from directly below him. He was standing over a puddle, which couldn’t have all been his blood, but he was jolted from his thoughts by the puddle when it started bubbling. Stumbling back, Brandon watched from two steps away as the writhing black pool slowly calmed, then fell still. The renewed silence encouraged him to step forward again, peering at the pool, and he froze. A figure, bald, pale, and smiling, stared back at him, gesturing for him to approach. What held Brandon still, though, was the figure’s eyes, which glowed gold, as if touched by Elrath’s light. It was clearly dark magic, a demonic ploy of some sort, but at the moment Brandon was desperate for help, and a foolish hope rekindled in his mind as he stared at the figure in the black.

A crack from above him prompted his attention, and he glanced up in time to see a layer of fine marble miss him, pattering onto the floor beside him. As if summoned by the sound, a writhing mass of insects extracted itself from a nearby corpse, skittering and squelching in protest, the sounds fading out as a banner lit up in flames, casting the room into a bright brown. A metallic thud called his attention then, and he looked behind him to the top of the stairs to see a helmet rolling down the steps, hitting each step with renewed vigor as it picked up momentum, coming at Brandon. An alarmed glance down showed that the figure was still there, smiling, watching, their eyes a haunting, sickening gold, beckoning him closer as the sound of burning cloth and writhing masses and clanking metal grew louder and louder and—

It was all too much for Brandon. His weariness gave way to fear, and he heaved a breath, pulling himself against the wall and stumbling, walking, running forward best he could. Each step sent a shock of pain through his body, the clattering of his armor threatening to trip him over at any second, but still he ran towards the light, devils, ghosts, and darkness on his heels. Bravery was the last thought on his mind as he reached for the light ahead, panic in his veins.

[Andreyich]

There were two opposing forces within the structure vying for the attention of the lad, but neither had accounted for the fact it was a teenager they were trying to entreat and both were very angered by the fact they were ignored. As Brandon ran off a blood curdling screech would emanate from the face in the blood puddle, whilst a more groan-like noise would come from the empty helmet, the noise not getting quieter as Brandon made it further and further down the tunnel to the outside.

Leaving the structure there would be a breath of fresh air brought by a cool breeze, but somehow it wouldn't be so invigorating as one might expect. There were clearly Knights in the locale but alas Brandon was too late to hail them; they were riding off with their own chatter and hoofbeats compounded with distance making any calls out to them unheard, giving a further sense of abandonment.

Out of the tunnel the very same helmet from before pursued the lad, and as rolling onwards it came to a stop by the boy's feet, tapping them gently. With no warning the tunnel and the mausoleum it contained collapsed. Turning around only a glimpse of the gothic structure could be taken in before its implosion, but when it was gone it returned to a rather suspicious state; it became a mound of dirt as if there was not just a place of death there moments ago. A low gust of wind blew, the noise from it deep and punctuated by leaves and other debris that it caught.

“Put it on.”; What a strange noise for the howl of wind to make!

[Typical]

---

Brandon Unicorn

---

The inhuman screech echoing from behind Brandon only drove him to stumble forward faster. The noise, however, followed him, staying as loud in his ears as his heartbeat. Still, the light ahead gave him a clear purpose, and he didn’t stop until he emerged from the tomb, the empty, moonlit plains greeting him with silence. In the distance were the knights he’d heard, their shadows continuing to move farther and farther away from him, and any words he might have forced out were swallowed by the fit coughs he’d summoned.

Making his way over to the closest tree and falling back against it, he finally allowed himself to relax, the cool breeze on his cheek bringing a muted sense of relief. The scream had quieted, and now he was left with only his heartbeat and…

He looked up at the tunnels, eyes wide and imploring as he stared into the darkness. Whether he was imagining the clanking sound became clear as he made out movement in the shadows, and panic filled his chest. Scrambling to his feet, he managed to right himself in front of the tree just as the darkness revealed itself. Out rolled a helmet—the helmet. The one from the top of the stairs, which had fallen down the steps, followed him out the tunnel and kept rolling. Even now it was rolling towards him, but a mixture of weariness and resignation kept his feet planted. So, flattening himself against the tree behind him, he prepared for the worst.

Toward him the helmet came, the sound of iron clattering against stray stones as foreboding as the inexplicable force that drove it into existence. Over and over it rolled, propelled by some inhuman power, and Brandon barely resisted the urge to flinch as it came to a rolling halt beside him, tapping gently against his foot. He was not, however, able to resist a flinch when the world roared to life with the mausoleum’s collapse. Then, all at once, it was quiet again, and all that was left of the demons, rot, and fire was a fast-fading memory and mound of dirt only mildly more displaced than the rest of the landscape.

Another breeze grazed his cheek, but this one, to Brandon’s alarm, had a voice. Put it on, it seemed to say, and before Brandon could finish his thought, the helmet at his feet tapped against him again. A stream of familiar thoughts—demons, spirits, unholy ghosts—came to mind, then left, leaving him alone with wind and moonlight. Demons and spirits, he reminded himself, and after another beat, he picked up the helmet, turning it in his hands. Nothing caught his eye except scratches and stray dust, which he attempted to clear with a broad wipe before deciding the effort futile. Demons and spirits, he reminded himself, and with a final breath, he raised the helmet and slid it over his head, his eyes closing instinctively.

[Andreyich]

The helmet was a rather hefty thing, though much effort was put into decoration it was clearly just as functional as it was beautiful. It was of a time long past, words within the item having their Us writ as Vs. The moment the steel of the helmet touched the gorget of his plate his vision changed. When a helmet is on one usually has restricted vision, but in the case of Brandon it seemed his sight was unimpeded. That would hardly be noticeable though, with the much more bothersome fact he was now in a different place entirely. A bridge was before him, leading to a ring housing great energies.

No more fear.

No more pain.

Your father calls you.

The voice was not quite a hiss and not quite a rasp, but it was calming. Not in the sense of soothing the boy's emotions, but rather it was as if it squeezed them out before forcing him to walk along the bridge; no longer was Brandon in control of his body, his legs moving him across the bridge and through the ring.

You've stumbled through life as headless poultry.

No more.

A blinding white light, and then another change of scenery. A circle of stone surrounded by nothingness, pure dark with a nonexistent light source illuminating the stone and a very, very tall man — he could well be mistaken for a young cyclops if not for the wondrous armour upon him, along with blade and shield glowing a light blue.

The great tabard the fellow had obscured a line of sight to the legs of the man, but there was nevertheless a feeling he was floating in the air.

BRANDON UNICORN, I PRESUME?

Somehow there was a sense that after booming this question the Knight was raising an eyebrow... all despite the visor of his helm obscuring any vision. For himself Brandon would have his vision no longer given a green lens, and the helmet he had donned to come here was gone. His wounds had heal, and he felt as if he once more had energy even if aches remained.

[Typical]

---

Brandon Unicorn

---

The helmet slipped on smoothly, its weight guiding it down until it settled snugly on his armor. When he opened his eyes, though, all thoughts of the helmet were replaced by the sight in front of him. In place of the barren plains, he saw a stone bridge, which stretched towards a ring of light in the distance. Confusion as to how he got there was interrupted by a voice emanating towards him, which was neither familiar nor comforting. Still, he felt his worries drop away as his legs carried him towards the light, moving without reason. When he tried to pause his step, he found himself unable, but the calm in his mind was not interrupted. The sense that something was wrong failed to worry him, and instead he waited as he walked closer to the light, the voice continuing to speak to him.

The world turned white, then faded into color again, revealing a stone circle in the darkness. Illuminated at the center was a man taller than anyone Brandon had seen before, who wore armor that glowed with a godly blue. Brandon’s mind reached to the titans of myth, who were said to be strong enough to seize lightning bolts and use them as weapons, then on the angels, who were known to be earthly incarnations of Elrath. While the man’s feet were obscured by his tabard, Brandon got a strong sense that he was floating, yet he lacked wings.

The man spoke then, his voice echoing in the darkness. Despite the man’s helmet, Brandon felt as if he could tell the man’s expression, his raised brow, and he realized then that his own helmet had disappeared. When he reached up to confirm this, his arm moved easily and without pain, and it hit him that his aches hadn’t bothered him since before he arrived here. Was he dead, then? Awaiting judgment before he passed into the afterlife? It certainly felt that way. The man had said his name, phrased as a question or not, and there was clearly something unhuman at work here.

That said, there was nowhere to run here and no option but to answer, not that Brandon would’ve run anyway. He was calm now, but the aches and pain that had wracked his body earlier were still fresh in his mind, whether or not they had gone now. This man, whoever or whatever he was, seemed to be helping him, and Brandon had neither a place to run to nor another to turn to.

“Yes, I am Brandon Unicorn.” His voice was steadier than his mind, the calm inside him helping, no doubt. “May I ask who you are, and why you have brought me here?”

[Andreyich]

NO, YOU MAY NOT. I WILL TELL YOU MYSELF IF IT COMES TO BE PERTINENT.

The figure went lower to the ground and craned itself to come face to face with the young Lordling, the darkness of its helmet visor staring into Brandon's eyes despite having nothing in particular to actually be staring with.

I crawl through your every vein and nerve.

I see the valence of your soul.

The figure straightened out, making a noise reminiscent of one clearing their throat save for being far raspier, and with a metallic quality to itself. Again the being spoke, its voice not quite so overwhelming if still very loud.

Believe it or not, but you are dead child. You were cut open in far more places than is necessary to cease your breathing for the doers of the bladework sought to pull out your innards. Unfortunately for them those who I presume to be your heroic comrades interrupted their work. Unfortunately for you however, they were far too late to stop them ending your life. You are the victim of the Followers of Marcel Brunnerstadt. That name is in truth far longer, though you only need know it as I spoke't.

He is a powerful Necromancer long dead in the corporeal realm, but not having faced the final death his vile soul is still roaming the world with many evils in mind. They reanimated your body, imbuing it with a great many fel magics. But they did not banish your soul from it, and thus you are alive... except not quite. You understand, child.

The figure waved a hand, and in the darkness a slit opened revealing the same sight as that which was there through the visor of the helmet Brandon had put on his head earlier.

"Though some of the followers of the fallen Necromancer have been foiled, he has many more that will try once more very soon. Given you are one of the few who are aware of this predicament, you will go forth and bring an end to his villainy once and for all. Question? There better be none, for time is wasting and we must strike out upon the road as soon as possible."

[Typical]

---

Brandon Unicorn

---

The figure responded, spurning his questions, which Brandon was not completely surprised at. Though he’d asked, he had not expected answers, if only because that would’ve been too easy. Still, as the figure went on, Brandon noticed that their voice changed briefly, but was distracted by the content of their words as they continued. He was dead. Was he surprised? The thought had crossed his mind, given the pain constantly hounding him, and he hadn’t thought it too impossible that he was now in some strange purgatory. He’d seen too many oddities since he woke, and he’d woken in a tomb, no less.

As the figure continued, though, Brandon felt a pool of alarm well in his gut, and nausea scratched at his insides. He’d been taken by Necromancers. Killed and reanimated by Necromancers. The thoughts dissipated his nausea, leaving him only an empty feeling. He had his soul, but what of it? His body was dead, and he would no doubt follow suit when his fel-fueled shell crumbled away. In his current state, there was no telling where his soul would go after its container gave way, but he doubted there would be peace for him in the afterlife.

The figure waved a landscape from the darkness then, and Brandon looked over, recognizing the bridge and ring from earlier. Marcel Brunnerstadt—the name was unfamiliar to him, but it seemed like the figure was offering him a quest, a chance at redemption and at making a mark before he left the world entirely. He was the youngest Unicorn, the only one who lacked achievements to his name. Whoever this figure was, he was the only one who’d stopped to speak to him, and as naive as it felt to trust them at their word, Brandon felt he should anyway.

“I’ll ask them on the road,” he said, straightening as he felt he should. “I, Brandon Unicorn, will see to it that these followers of Marcel Brunnerstadt understand that there are consequences to their actions.”

[Andreyich]

"Do not get ahead of yourself boy. Confidence is good, but there is a fair chance your death will be quiet, dishonorable, nobody there to tell your tale and all your beloved thinking you ran away as a little brat."

The words weren't particularly encouraging, but they were true. The grand figure swept his hand, and the gaze and body of the boy were forced upon the small slit of vision projected as if a painting, and slowly that and his own vision merged into one and the same. It seemed the green haze had cleared, but the boy's body would still feel as if not truly his own. Without being ordered Brandon's hands and lips would move, esoteric words and gestures made with paradoxically cold white flame erupting upon his fingertips. The soil rustled, and then hands come from beneath it. Some rotten, some fresh, some skeletal, but all of the dead given life unliving.

It was a motley crew of creatures some with bows, some with crossbows, some with swords and shields while a few had great mauls and some were naked in entirety. In total there were slightly less than a hundred skeletal men, ten skeletal horses and about the same for hounds; a few other assorted animals arose but immediately crumbled afterwards.

"This is your future and present. There are great powers stored within you by the Necromancers and their allies. Combined with new ones you shall gain in near time the followers of the corpse-Lord will be undone by their own creation!"

Momentarily the voice of the warrior within the young Unicorn's head hummed with uncertainty before continuing, sounding now much less impressive compared to his prior speech.

"Err... you wouldn't happen to know where we are? They would need you unconscious and they wouldn't take you far from where you were kidnapped. We need to find something to slay such that this arsenal you see before yourself may grow stronger. I do hope you won't be overwhelmed with all this and take the helmet off in an attempt to free yourself. Oh, drat!"

[Typical]

---

Brandon Unicorn

---

The figure’s words hit a deeper part of Brandon—one that wanted to appease his family and live up to his name. Being assumed dead was much better than being assumed a coward, and he could still correct that misconception. He could seek out his father and explain his circumstances, prove that misfortune had befallen him.

The more sensible part of him, though, knew that wouldn’t be an option if he wanted to find the people who’d done this to him. If he were to identify himself now, he’d stain his family name. A Unicorn being killed and reanimated? It was unthinkable, and his family would be better off thinking he ran away. Plus, identifying himself would put a target on his back. A Unicorn being reanimated was bad enough, but a Unicorn who wanted to go on living despite being reanimated? He may as well declare himself a necromancer at that point.

The figure waved their hand, and Brandon’s vision shook. As he was trying to comprehend what was affecting his vision, he was confused to find that his body was moving by itself, and he realized with surprise that the figure must have joined him in his body. His hands moved and his lips whispered words unfamiliar to him, and he was horrified to see the ground shifting under his feet as corpses came alive, sockets and joints wisping unholy green. Some had weapons, some had pieces of armor, and some had parts of flesh that sloughed off as they rose, falling to the ground like unnecessary decorations cast aside in favor of hard, white-cast ivory.

As his stomach churned, the voice in his head spoke again, stating what was already apparent. He wasn’t just some reanimated corpse, he was a necromancer. Full and proper, and quite a strong one too, if being able to raise a throng of corpses meant anything. The sight of all the bodies he’d pulled from the grave drew forth a wave of shame and disgust, but the voice in his head was right. Brunnerstadt’s followers would regret doing what they had to him. He’d see to that much.

A shade of uncertainty in the voice in Brandon’s head took him by surprise, and he paused, realizing that he’d regained autonomy over his body. Clenching and unclenching his gloved hands, he listened to the voice, heartbeat quickening when the voice revealed their weakness. Taking off the helmet, he could do it–free himself right now of the responsibility the voice was trying to have him take up, run home and try to explain his circumstance and position. His chances of avenging himself were as low as his chances of being able to rejoin his family, and it was clear which one would be easier.

Breathing in, then out, he approached a skeletal horse, reaching to touch the creature’s skull, which shone white below the smudges of dirt covering it. On its back was what remained of a saddle, and there was no sign of a bridle or reins as it pawed the ground with one hoof, head bobbing as it nudged its skull into his hand. It lacked mane and tail hairs as much as it lacked skin and eyes, but Brandon could imagine the spirit it might have had at one point in time.

As he stared at it, wondering how best to go about mounting it, it moved, kneeling before him. A look around had him realize that none of the skeletons had moved from where they’d risen, not even to look at him, and at this thought, a horde of skulls turned to look at him, the grinding of bone on bone sending chills down his spine.

He stared at the undead around him for another second, struggling to come to terms with what’d happened thus far. Then, swallowing, he turned back to the horse, his mouth drier than what must’ve been comfortable if his body had still been alive.

“I won’t take off the helmet, but in return you’ll continue helping me.” He grasped the skeletal horse's shoulder blade, finding a foothold on the skeleton’s leg that allowed him to step onto one stirrup and swing his leg over and into the other. The horse rose as soon as he felt comfortable enough for it to do so, raising him so he could look over the army around him. “Guide me and answer my questions, and I’ll heed your words.”

His words came firmer than he felt, and his hand on the spine peeking out over the pommel of the saddle trembled still, however detached to it he felt. The only troops he’d ever led were the patrols of men he’d been sent out with, but here he was with an army, emulating the confidence he saw in his father and brothers.

“We set out,” he said, his voice raised enough to carry through the empty plains around him, and though he felt like he was talking to nothing, the army heeded his words, starting forwards into the night. The moon and stars gave him direction in the desolation, and if the voice was correct, he was likely to the west of the Unicorn border. The way to go, then, was west still. They’d head towards the rocky foothills there, where an orc tribe was said to have set up camp, and he’d grow his army like the fel-wielding Asha-worshipers he’d only heard stories of until now, wield their powers and join their ranks like he already had.

“Can you hear my thoughts?” Brandon asked after another moment of silence on the road, his army slow but steady by his side. “And what should I call you?”

Thinking about the voice as just a voice was inaccurate, but at present that was precisely what the figure had become—merely a voice in his head, or helmet, rather. He could free himself of it if he should tire of it, and free himself of allowing it to read his thoughts as well, if it could. But that was a bluff, just as his words before had been, and he figured the voice knew as much. He needed all the help he could get right now. He could direct his army with a thought, but he had no idea how to maintain or increase it, or even wield it, for that matter. Would they fight as soon as he thought it, just like they’d start and stop when he did? He’d find out soon enough, he figured, and he swallowed again, uncomfortably aware of the hollow weight in his stomach.

The sight of a smoke trail in the sky, lit up by the moon and clear against the cloudless sky, showed him where to go, and his army changed trajectory for it easily and almost imperceptibly. Almost, because he was aware they had, both because he’d willed it to happen and because he could see where they were headed now. He’d been raised on stories about Unicorns triumphing over demons, orcs, and sorcerors, and he retained a healthy fear of all of them, but he’d always feared necromancers more. Now, though, orcs seemed such a trivial fear. In comparison to the half-decayed bodies around him, goblins and centaurs didn’t seem so bad. Maybe he’d still tremble before a wyvern or cyclopes when he saw one, and maybe the shock was still affecting his thoughts, but he felt like nothing could faze him anymore. He was dead and dying, his breaths as false as his life, and if he could go down doing a little more good than bad, maybe it’d have been worth it accepting his fate as the doomed Unicorn.

[Andreyich]

Look! Gaze upon how he crawls through the body that used to be yours....

He sees.

He knows.

He lies....

It would now come to be clear that the two voices going through the boy's head were entirely different ones, the one of the strange Knight seemingly unaware of the whispered one.

As Brandon replied to the mystical man he laughed. Even though he was in the mind of the Lordling he somehow managed to very acutely get across the texture and timbre of the sound of a great amount of phlegm in the laughing throat — a throat that wasn't actually there.

"A threat! No not quite, not blackmail either but close to both. Its not for me I hope. If you don't listen to me you'll only make things harder for the world boy, not to speak of for yourself. What are you going to do dripping in your own blood and the complexion of a snowman? Politely tell dad that you're the same boy he loved and it'll all be okay? But no, I lie. I would hate to be stuck in this helmet for decades more until the right bugger walks by and hefts it on."

A noise emanated from the depths of the boy's consciousness that sounded like a hacking cough.

"I'll answer your questions while we ride, and if there's nothing more urgent to discuss. Better not try to ask me the meaning of life or what is love, though, or so help me I will use all the energies of this body for bale fire to roast your arsecheeks until you're a cinder or a puddle of goop, depending on your humours."

As the boy maanged to properly control the horse and the undead minions there was a sense of approval, almost as if there was a nod at Brandon neatly fitting into new abilities.

"No, I cannot hear your thoughts. Not quite yet, anyway. I can feel you thinking, I see the juices wriggling through your brain though it no longer needs them. I am still learning this body, and once I know its every pore and artery I will be able to see your thoughts. If it so happens you need to speak to me while keeping quiet you may simply mouth your words; I will fill in the sound for myself."

Then came a pause of several minutes as the being contemplated the answer to the young Unicorn's latest question. Indeed Brandon might speak in the intermediate time before the response came but would hear nothing until the fellow was ready.

"You may call me Lord. If that is too much for your sensibilities you may call me Sir Dietrich. Now then, where are we going exactly?"

[Typical]

---

Brandon Unicorn

---

The presence of another voice in his head was alarming, to say the least. This one came quieter than the first, its words hissed and trailing into each other. That the first voice he’d been talking to didn’t respond to the newer one struck Brandon as strange until he realized that the first one couldn’t hear the new voice. Should he tell the first voice? Honesty begot honesty, and as far as he knew, the first voice hadn’t lied to him. Still, the cards were not all on the table, and so Brandon swallowed, deciding not to bring up the second voice until he determined whether he believed the accuser over the informer.

His strongly-worded request was met by a strange sound that he managed, after a few seconds, to identify as a laugh. While it was good that the first voice registered that it wasn’t a direct threat, the voice’s return hit harder than Brandon would’ve liked to admit. Indeed, he would be making things harder if he didn’t listen to the voice providing him guidance in a world he was now lost in. The voice’s gibe about his father only dug the knife in deeper because it’d guessed his thoughts perfectly. Though he’d ultimately chosen not to pursue foolishness, he’d considered it, and that was enough to bring about a wave of shame. He was green and everyone knew it, in life and in death, and he supposed he deserved the harsh sense the voice was speaking.

When the voice admitted weakness, Brandon paused, surprised. Given how the voice had responded to his questions back when they were inside the vision, with the ring of light and endless dark, he hadn’t been expecting much in terms of answers or admissions, but its words just now were… humanizing. No longer did the voice seem like that of a titan or seraph—it was that of a man. A being, perhaps, if the voice had transcended humanity, but nonetheless one with flaws and desires. It was not omniscient or omnipotent, and it wanted not to lie dormant, which made Brandon believe in it that much more. Its statement about igniting his body had him crack a small smile. Since its goals aligned with his for the foreseeable future, there was room for trust.

The mental nod he felt as he commanded the army was a reassuring one, and it inspired continued confidence as he rode on. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a skeletal horse trotting alongside a spear-wielding soldier, and he was struck with an idea. Looking at around at the skeletons surrounding the bone horses, he willed them to mount the horses, and they did, interpreting his command as he’d meant them to. One soldier mounted each horse, rising and trotting to keep pace behind him. Suddenly, his battalion had a cavalry, and a look back had his mind call up the stories of the grim riders of old, who were said to be core to many undead armies. Would he really be able to command such creatures one day?

“Commanding the dead,” Brandon said, realization dawning on him, “I’m doing that through magic, aren’t I?” That was the only explanation he could think of aside from being mentally linked to the skeletons, which was both more and less unsettling depending on how he thought of it.

Hearing that the voice didn’t have access to his thoughts was a relief, though the inclusion of “yet” in the voice’s words left room for doubt. After all, if it had access to his thoughts, it had no reason to inform him of it. However, given that the voice seemed to have limits, like not being able to hear the second voice accusing it, Brandon figured it to still be telling the truth. His mind was his own, then, he had until the time the voice was able to read his thoughts from the workings of his brain to decide whether he truly trusted the voice, which seemed far enough away for there not to be any rush.

The pause that came after his request for a name was concerning, if only because identity was key to a lot of things. Brandon, for example, was a Unicorn—a son of a respected Duchy family in the Holy Griffin Empire. Mentioning his name alone could open doors, and he figured it no different for necromancers, of whom there were the infamous and not. Of course, he was assuming the voice belonged to a necromancer, but he saw no reason why it would not. All the signs were there, from being trapped in a tomb artifact to directly performing magic with his body, and given the circumstances, he preferred a necromancer.

When the voice claimed himself a lord, Brandon paused. There was a difference between being a lord and a knight, and that difference lay with whether or not one was granted land and titles. But that was within the Holy Griffin Empire; outside it, lord titles were won through conquest, self-claimed with blood and steel, and the implications that came with a necromancer claiming a lord title were… many, to say the least.

Exhaling, Brandon nodded. “Lord Dietrich.” Calling a lord a sir was selling the lord’s accomplishments short in the best case, and insulting them in the worst, so he’d call a spade a spade. “I believe we are currently in the western outskirts of the Unicorn Duchy, and we are headed towards the foothills, where I’ve heard reports of an orc encampment.” Unfortunately, he had little more information to offer than that. He’d been neither important enough to hear nor driven enough to seek out further information about the encampment, and the rest of what he knew were simple rumors—fear- and humor-driven accounts passed through the ranks of soldiers frequenting the border. “Travelers usually avoid the foothills, so the fire ahead should be that of the encampment, or of a group split off from it. From what I’ve heard, it doesn’t seem like a war party. A scouting party, perhaps, or just a nomadic group passing through.”

What he’d just said was a combination of basic geography and a conservative estimate of the encampment that any patrolling soldier could offer, but such was the extent of Brandon Unicorn’s responsibilities. He led patrols alongside experienced knights twice his age and attended ceremonies to smile and wave at crowds. With his academy days behind him, his recent education had been limited to war theory and jousting tournaments, to knowing what troop formations worked best against each other and which ladies tended to fill the spectating stands. How to fight orcs with an infantry? Prioritize ranged troops and distance and whittle away at the barbarians until they closed the distance. Magic made all the difference against them, and successfully fending off the initial onslaught usually meant winning the battle.

But that was for empire troops equipped with steel and years of training. A knight at their helm was enough to galvanize them, and priests and sisters in the back helped widen the difference between a good offense and a better defense. With the dead, however, Brandon was lost. The textbooks had covered their weaknesses and strengths, but with a focus on how they matched up against human armies, not how they compared to other ones. All that came to mind about skeletons were how they were the fodder for necromancers, disposable and as easily reanimated as they were dispatched. Their numbers were what made them threatening, but he was in the process of building a legion, not wielding it.

Nervousness had begun to pool in Brandon’s gut, but he focused on the next steps. “Are there any strategies I should keep in mind against orcs? Against their goblins, warriors, and centaurs?” He did his best to sound confident, but even he could hear the falseness of it in his voice.

---

Thinking that he’d be able to sneak up on the camp had been too ambitious, it seemed, but perhaps it was for the better. A small pack of goblins noticed them just as they reached the edge of the foothills, and they scampered over, the sound of their shrieks and yelps pitchy and wild enough to raise the hairs on the back of Brandon’s neck as they scampered over. A few deeper-toned calls supported the higher-pitched ones, making Brandon aware of a few leaders in their midst, and his hand clenched down on the skeletal vertebrae he’d been holding onto.

“Goblins led by some orcs.” He looked to the army at his sides, heart racing. This was it. His first battle, and alone, if having a seasoned necromancer in his head could be called being alone. “They’re probably a scouting party, or a patrolling one.” Goblins and warriors—what was the strategy against those? “Archers, to the back!”

The skull faces grinned at him as they moved, their bone surfaces gleaming white under the moonlight. His riders were already at his side, and the footmen were scattered around them, the hounds at their feet. Looking at them, at their unwavering stillness and utter lack of life, Brandon wondered whether directing them like human infantry would be enough.

[Andreyich]

"No, they're doing that because you're so charming. What do you think you bloody fool?"

The short retort was followed by something recognizable as the muttering of the elderly when confronted by the lack of experience found in youth. Perhaps it was just a momentary annoyance, but it seemed that at least for now the voice had a very poor tolerance for words of rhetoric or self-evident observations it deemed unnecessary.

However, whatever rapport the boy might have lost by annoying the spectral man was quickly regained when his immaterial ego was stroked by the usage of the higher honorific of the two offered. Some excitement entered Lord Dietrich as Brandon described the presence of orcish barbarians, the man eager to taking the fight to them, albeit with a hint of anger.

"Orcs? Bloody youths, I thought they would be exterminated by now! 'Course, it would help to know when exactly now is but it bloody well seemed long enough to give you time to clear some savage throngs."

The voice grumbled, pausing for a moment when asked about what one best do if against Orcs and their allies.

"The groin's the most important bit. If its a goblin you're against then protect your own, if its an orc you fight then go for their's, but if the opportunity - or perhaps need - presents itself you should be ready to follow the advice against one race when fighting the other."

....

"The literal lesson of that is very important, but I hope you can take the metaphorical one to heart too."

Time passed on the march, and Lord Dietrich subsided his previously incessant complaints at least for now, the seriousness of the situation at least temporarily neutering his flippant edge. This would not last for very long however, for as the battlefield was finally approached the ethereal man felt his old self once more.

"Pipe down, pipe down, you don't have to say it to them they know what you want. Some of the zombies might sound like they still talk but that's just gasses escaping and the occasional spasm of a vocal chord, nothing more. Don't throw everything at them at once, either let them do that first or let them show their ambushers if they got them.... Oh, and challenge their leader to single combat."