The dagger cut across the throat with little violence until the corpse slid to the ground. The blade’s surface was simple, and clean, despite the action of its owner. With a sharp edge, it sliced easily until it ended life. The length of its tang held at slightly longer than a hand and lacked any curve from its center. Sturdy and double-edged, it first served as a military weapon. Hands passed it one to another through common purpose. A dagger which delivered finality. A dagger molded from steel and power. A dagger held to task throughout time.
Segrus the Necromancer held his dagger aloft in one hand while the other let slip the corpse down into the dust by its arm. His reanimation fulfilled its purpose, just as the dagger had in ending the undead’s brief existence.
For a moment, he gazed at the sword driven into his other attacker. The new corpse, punctured through the gut so breath and soul drained out, needed burying also. They had no armor and only simple clothes for traveling. Although he could not see it, Segrus guessed they had left a small camp nearby to remain close to here. It was fortunate they fell on him than another who traveled less prepared.
The oaken woods here would not be unaccustomed to bandits or harrassers, although the heightened tensions in the kingdom of Dorn had discouraged illegal activity in the cities. Gentle wind on the wide path brushed up leaves and the square, black mantle Segrus wore. Such a small motion settled him back down.
Their two forms were distracting to Segrus. They interrupted his focus from following the monster of Haelhorn, who had escaped him twice now. Simple, terrible murders were left behind, such that its existence disgusted Segrus. Something decidedly maleficent lurked within a man capable of the grotesque displays now burned into his mind. This base indecency for humanity was unfathomable.
He needed to find the culprit of these crimes, and Segrus followed the great drive which built up within his gut to pursue evil. The deep-seated throne of his conscious held the scepter of sorcerous power over raising the dead, yet what crowned him weighed heavy with primal desire for life.
Segrus carefully removed the plain sword in his attacker and spent the afternoon to dig graves. He left all their belongings intact, the scant few there seemed to be. The thought came unbidden how they acted desperate before the fight broke, but Segrus forced himself to dismiss the notion. They were waiting for a traveler in this grove, came armed and advanced on him. He gave them due what was owed in death.
With a short prayer, he left them and sought out the road to Chrin City.
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The city of Chrin was not large for a city, but was expansive enough to be known for its market in alchemy. It sat tucked into a valley along the Pelleniel mountain range, which was a defining geological feature of the kingdom of Dorn for its purported ancient age and scenery. The range was composed of rounded peaks, tall enough to loom over adjacent hillsides and to deter common traffic, yet a small enough hurdle for the budding adventurer. This led to the formation of two major trade routes through Chrin from the south and the east while a minor wagon trail weaved into the hills towards the west.
These routes which fed into cobbled streets, framed by intricately-formed buildings. The homes and businesses in Chrin were cut from the same mountains which protected its northern boundary. Light grey stone blocks formed every face, created from smooth, palm-sized rocks using the magical concoctions invented at the city’s inception. Complex structures were fabricated from the techniques honed by the masters and then sold as a service to the surrounding areas.
Segrus contemplated this as he stood with his back to the wall of a storefront. He followed a man who created chaos in his wake. The victims seemed no more than people in the way, random targets thrown together by fate and happenstance. However, the deaths themselves touched many more. In every case a vulnerable person had been left behind with a burden they could not bear. The slain begat more victims in the turmoil and loss which stemmed from the acts of murder. It was a trail of broken people, and when Segrus found them he feared what might come next for them.
Two riders on horses in line passed him, and as he watched them he began to frown. They were headed for the outskirts of town, where Segrus had recently been examined by city guards. His hood still pulled down from then, he called to the riders.
“Good sirs, whereabouts do you ride? They call for curfew even now, I have heard.”
The lead rider pulled at the bit and paused his horse towards Segrus’ side of the street. “Curfew for the weak, I say,” he replied curtly, and then did not dally any longer with Segrus.
He watched them leave without taking offense to the words. The rider still told Segrus something he needed to know. It was tense and alert to the potential of danger. Officials must know the same information about the murders and responded with increased protection of the city’s citizens. In a short time it leaked into the public consciousness the significance of those actions. The life of trade continued in the face of danger, with added caution.
“Perhaps,” Segrus said to himself, “this time will be the last and he has trapped himself unknowingly. Hopefully somebody will catch him in the act.”
As the sun completed its course, Segrus wandered the streets to absorb all he could. He gave every passerby a glance and spied briefly on a few from afar. With hundreds of people in Chrin, he had no hope to meet the killer by chance. His only plan was to imagine how the killer knew their targets, whether they were truly random or stalked for days.
Three women and two men had been stolen of their life to this point. Nobody had seen the killer’s face or caught him in the act. Segrus needed to rely on his memory of the deceased and what made them vulnerable.
When night fell, Segrus retired to a small tavern away from the center of activity in Chrin. They had fresh bread and a small room he could afford, which he retreated to when rowdier members made themselves known. It was then that Segrus concentrated his effort on the spirits of the dead.
For each victim at the site of their death, Segrus used his skill to summon up the empty vessels of the dead and became a witness to those last moments. He recalled each one in his mind’s eye.
The ghosts had hung in the air with an aura Segrus imaged was perpetual sadness. They held no motion, and despite his impression of their look, no real emotion; the spirits were less than the mirror reflection of an old moment in time frozen forever to a place or an object or a body. All of them were missing limbs, which Segrus assumed depended on passing away partially through their torment. A sudden surge of grief ripped him out of his concentration.
Segrus looked around the small room. A wooden bed with stiff bedding would be his comfort tonight. This space was fit only for that bed and a cracked chair to set his belongings on. Sounds of loose merriment drifted up the stairs to his second floor room. Delivered on the same path were the smells of cooked, salted pork from a fireplace in the tavern’s main room. It was heady and inviting to him.
After he took deep breaths to steady his thoughts, Segrus dove mentally back to the visions. Jumen had been a carpenter—strong and steady—and his ghost had clung to a mallet found near the body. Sarah and Lauren were mutilated more, scratched all over, bodies and souls. The last two were worse, with more of the same marks and even further burned. They had each disappeared at different times of day and night. None of them shared family or knew of each other, at least as far as Segrus found. The bodies were not robbed of their possessions or money.
Segrus could not recall any marks on them aside from the deep scratches. Nothing at all gave him the impression of occult or magical intentions. The scratches did not have the look of an animal however. It was what gave Segrus pause at the first murder.
In time, he grew exhausted from concentrating and needed to sleep. Troubled dreams followed him into the next few days. The tavern and its patrons did not bother their new stranger, with his odd comings and goings, for they were contented with local problems. He did not bother them, nor did he cause trouble. Segrus always went at dawn into the streets until he felt he had memorized their layout. Deep into dusk, he returned to find his room called to him.
It was then Segrus was attacked.
A disturbed man found Segrus in the tavern’s main room in the midst of the usual ruckus. There were no words exchanged between them, though Segrus immediately recognized him as the surviving husband of Sarah.
The man acted as a lunatic, and due to his wild thrashing it took multiple of the other patrons to hold him down. He began to babble nonsensically about heaven and hell, with enough vigor so the tavern owner was convinced Segrus had not provoked it.
They dismissed the scratches on his face as a portion of lunacy. They disregarded the broken jar used to slug Segrus. Segrus saw them though, and saw the alchemic symbol on a broken piece.
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Segrus entered the home of Graus Trog, the apothecary and alchemist, slowly through its main entryway. The interior was dark, and nothing stirred as he pushed open the oaken door. He had taken the better part of a day to find the correct store since being attacked, and the assistant there informed him where to find Graus. The assistant, Kaleb, mentioned Graus had only recently returned from a long trip to deliver orders for stone.
There were no signs of struggle. The hallway was narrow—not much larger than the stout door—and from the entry point contained very little besides a table and a mirror. He saw three doorways from his vantage point and only one was open, though slightly.
Segrus slipped his dagger from the loop in his belt, and waited at the door for any sounds. He observed the wooden floor and made an assumption it would be safe to walk on. Graus being an alchemist in Chrin would make it more probable a trap would come from the direction of the stone supporting walls. The dagger and whatever strength he could muster had to be enough to save him, Segrus thought.
Holding the dagger close to his chest, Segrus fully entered the hallway and stepped towards the first door cautiously. When he was close enough, he pressed the tip of his dagger against the door. It did not budge, and Segrus did not attempt to open it further. The second door was likewise firmly closed.
He left them to force any attacker to open it and reveal their location first. The third door, still ajar at the back of the hall, could certainly be a trap for Segrus. He had been meticulously quiet, but he would now have to risk making the first move. At first he peered through the available crack to see a study, but the first waft of a smell broke his plan.
Rotting meat was nearby. Quickly, Segrus burst into the room.
What remained of the corpse in the study was barely more than a puddle of gelatinous organs. Segrus unintentionally imagined a man turned inside out through magic would be more recognizable than the ballooned pustules in blood before him. The wooden floor was soaked in fluids around it, and he expected it would never be cleaned. Sickly yellow pus thinly coated several of the round, human-like bulbs whose pungent smell and sight forced Segrus to gag.
Segrus forced himself to look at the vision before him. He needed to pierce through the violent act and discern its purpose. Each previous act appeared calculated and exact. An unsuspecting person chosen and lured to their death methodically. They were torn to pieces and the corpse displayed as a future horror. The bodies were still intact, however.
This had none of the despicable finesse from before. The sloppy waste was rude and heretical even to itself. Furthermore, it lacked any gain from Segrus’ perspective—none who would find the disaster, and become devastated, and no spectacle. He did not understand.
A noise from behind him alerted him to another person’s entry into the home. Down the hallway, the front door had been pushed fully open until it bounced against the wall with a sharp noise. The assistant from the shop stood still at the sight of Segrus.
Segrus held the dagger out at him, and demanded, “Was this your doing? What have you done?”
The look of surprise and hesitant fear which crossed the assistant’s face did not go unnoticed, but Segrus bolted for the man nonetheless. He backed away and then tried to run, with Segrus on his heels until he was caught.
“I-I-I don’t know what’s go’in on mister!” the young man babbled loudly.
Segrus did not respond as he dragged the assistant back into the house by the shirt. When they reached the study together, Segrus pointed firmly at the remains on the floor.
“I don’t know what that is I don’t know what’s going on—please, I’m sorry, don’t—don’t…” the young man begged, now fully fearful of Segrus.
Segrus finally let go. He shifted his weight to block the way out, but he slowly lowered his dagger to appear less threatening. “Is this not your master?” he asked directly.
“No I don’t—...I don’t know what’s going on! Please let me go, please, please…”
“If this is not your master, then where are they?” Segrus asked with a leveled voice. He had shaken the assistant too far due to his own raw emotion.
The assistant mouthed the word ‘please’ over and over through tears, and held his hands up defensively. Segrus could not let down his guard yet this could not continue. He repeated his last question again, and slowly the assistant pointed behind Segrus.
Without looking backwards, Segrus used his knife to feel behind him. When it grated against stone he glanced backwards rapidly before he returned his attention to the assistant.
As he took a back-step and gave the assistant more room, he said, “Show me.”
The assistant visibly shook under Segrus’ gaze, and gradually eased into the space Segrus had given him in the hallway. When the assistant pressed against the opposite wall, something changed. An opening emerged from where a hidden door blended in perfectly. Segrus did not understand the mechanism that allowed only one of them to find it even while he watched it happen. With the hidden door open, the assistant backed away into the study again.
Satisfied with his willingness to help despite being afraid, Segrus stepped into the study far enough to no longer block the exit. “Leave now,” he commanded of the young man. Segrus knew there would be guards before nightfall, and he had a strong urge to make haste lest they found him without an explanation. The assistant fled rapidly. Segrus waited until he heard the front door shut noisily.
He stared at the darkness within the opening while he contemplated what it went to. There were houses on either side of this one, close and separate. It was impossible this was a passageway which linked to another building. The hidden nature led him to believe it also did not connect to one of the still closed rooms.
Near utter blackness waited for Segrus in the void behind the hidden door, not unlike the depths of a cave.
“I understand now,” Segrus said with growing unease.
An alchemist might have need of somewhere to experiment on his potions. A hollow in the rock of the earth where secrets were kept from the eyes of the world. A city known for its manipulation of rock would be ideal for creating subterranean caverns. A killer, adept in their own craft, made this space their home to operate from.
A monster lurked in the deep-down dark for its next prey. Segrus had little to combat such a foe. He silently prayed the killer kept intact trophies, something Segrus could use as a weapon.
Dagger ready in hand, Segrus stepped into the concealed landing. He knew time was against him to silence what waited for him. His eyes adjusted slowly with the help from the minimal light of the hallway, and he trusted his senses to give him clues to his surroundings. Under his hand, the wall was still stone, and he guessed this was the same all the way down. The air was suddenly heavy and much warmer than outside. A slight hint of sulfur was obvious to his nose.
With one foot, he reached out to find the lip of the staircase he expected to exist. Segrus felt rising dread within, and he forced the feeling out of mind. He descended the stairs by using his unarmed hand to orient himself. He was careful not to drag his cloak or hand against the wall in case it made a telltale sound. After many stairs another landing almost caused him to stumble. The smallest glow of light to his right hinted at a nearby chamber. Then he heard it.
“What took you?” a voice growled in challenge. It was deeper than any Segrus had heard before, and its inflection signaled to him a profound malice.
A wet slap rebounded off the stone walls around Segrus from the floor. It was identical to the sound of washed fabric beaten against a surface to get the water out. In the darkness, he could not properly see what was at his feet, but how the yellow light reflected off dark fluid there told him enough.
Segrus slowly turned the corned and looked into the chamber of his enemy. It was coiled into loops to fit its large form comfortably into the alchemist’s lab. Smashed wood littered the ground. A censer from the tall ceiling held a flame close to extinguished. It rocked slightly to throw terrifying shadows all about.
His monster was as much a dragon as Segrus had ever heard of from stories. Densely layered scales covered its form. A hideously gaping mouth revealed spikes he hardly called teeth. It had the body not unlike a gigantic snake, and wings were partially folded up to protect them.
However it was also a devil from a nightmare. Six limbs sprang crudely from its body not far from the head. Each were clawed dangerously, and the dragon scraped them mindlessly on the floor and walls now that Segrus had arrived.
“I have been sent for you, Necromancer. The Fires call your name and the desecrated thirst for your insides,” the dragon spat out vilely.
It twisted its body and threw part of its large mass to crush Segrus. He lunged to one side and rolled out of the way, dagger still in hand. He had no time to construct a plan to fight such a large foe. His mind raced to respond, and he stabbed his blade towards the nearest part of the dragon.
The blade sunk into the dragon with little resistance, and its whole body jerked in response. Segrus was thrown against a wall and he heard a metallic sound clang close to him. He did not understand what happened with his dagger, it happened too quickly. All he knew was his strike did harm.
As fast as he dispelled his shock from being thrown, the dragon recovered also to strike again. It lashed out with two of its legs while the other four held its body pressed against the wall furthest from Segrus. It had no space to protect itself if Segrus regained a weapon, and attempted to catch him unprepared for multiple directions of attack.
Segrus dodged one limb by ducking, and tried to leap from his haunches to evade the other. The second struck him in the leg and lanced it, but in the tumble was able to grab the dagger. When it saw Segrus carried a weapon again, the dragon shrieked loudly enough it caused his ears to ring.
In his hand, the dagger squirmed unnaturally. It writhed under his hand, and the metal shimmered as the light danced off its moving surface. It acted as a living entity, and Segrus blanched in horror. The dagger was his one steadfast companion and tool, forever reliable when he ended the dark undead he reanimated. Yet it reacted to the presence of the dragon with something beyond the power and command he willed on it.
A laugh bellowed out from the dragon at Segrus’ dilemma. It no longer waited and rolled its whole body across the chamber—the tomb—to crush him.
The man stood paralyzed. He was locked in place as certain death bore down on him. The dragon would win. It was planned for the man to follow the clues to Chrin, to the home of Graus Trog, and to this crypt underground. It was birthed from hell through its human cocoon, the result of prolonged possession, and would soon wreck havoc to the city.
Too late the dragon realized the man was not paralyzed; he waited with anticipation. The Necromancer calculated what could be done and how the dragon would act. He saw the limbs as they shoved against the wall to barrel the body onto him. He watched the head of the dragon for where it ended up.
Segrus the Necromancer ran towards the stairwell’s archway to his right at the last moment, and the opening provided him cover. The dragon’s head was only a little bigger than Segrus’ upper body, which provided him a large target. He stabbed again and again, both hands on the hilt, at the head of the dragon. He focused his willpower into each motion to destroy the demonic force which sought to slay him, and he felt the dagger respond in concert to his innate command. His vision blurred and his muscle memory took over his increasingly wild swings.
When the monster moved no more, Segrus slumped to the ground in anguish. In one hand he held his dagger—a normal dagger—his normal dagger—and by his hand it had silenced the now perished dragon.
He realized the only source of light for the large chamber, the hanging censer, had been knocked down and snuffed out. In the small alcove by the stairs, his eyes adjusted enough to see the silhouette of the dragon. With flame or in darkness, the menacing grin haunted Segrus, and the eyes held its fury through death. Its corpse would be trapped to rot here as a final insult to the humanity it had desecrated.
Segrus would share this darkness with the evil which knew him and sought him out. He knew there was more of this terrible evil, as there had been in stories past and time immemorial. There would be more demons, more possessions, and more victims. If hell was fighting, he would use the tools given to him to defend life. If hell had risen, Segrus the Necromancer would rise to meet it.