Corpses in the fields, toiling away
Corpses in the streets, marching all day
Corpses surround us, all on display
But it's the Senate, sitting in array
That fills my poor heart with so much dismay
-The Everlasting Senate
The stone is rough beneath your hands as you fall, scraping the skin and letting thin blood trickle out between your fingers to join the muck. The stench, the putrid remains of food and waste, sting at your eyes and nose from where they flow in the languid stream beside you. It takes everything you have left not to fall over, to keep from collapsing into the sewage and drowning in it.
There is so little remaining of you now. You have wandered this sewer for what seems your entire life, starving and dehydrated. Your mind barely even recognizes itself, the needs of the body overwhelming even the pit of grief waiting ever on the wings to engulf you within its bitter depths. Instinctively you flee from self-awareness, from acknowledgement of who you are and all your myriad failures, and take refuge in animal instinct to avoid having to live with the agony of being human. The sorrow is still too fresh, and if you linger upon it then you might willingly throw yourself into that nearby river of filth to escape the pain.
With effort you push yourself up, almost falling again as your waterlogged shoes slip on fetid mud. They are coming apart around your feet, as ragged as the rest of your clothing. In the dark, the fumes of human excrement and chemical runoff tear at your eyes to leave you doubly blind. Everything hurts, your joints screaming at you to stop. As always you ignore this sensation, continuing as you have for longer than you are able to conceive, listening to the sound of water dripping and the lapping of liquid garbage against raised stone.
It is meditative, those rhythmic notes, but dangerous. Even here, so far underground, it is too open. Baring your teeth, bleeding palms slapping against the walls, you seek entrances into deeper tunnels with nothing but the dulling awareness of your injured hands. You will go down into the earth, into cleaner gloom, and shelter within its depths.
They might still be searching for me, comes the whisper of a mind wishing only for its own silence.
Need to run. Need to hide.
People are hunting you. Even the haze brought on by the gaping pit where your stomach used to be cannot fully smother this truth from beastly perception. If they catch you then you will suffer a fate worse than death, though could not the same be said for your current existence?
You shake your head, fleeing from the notion before it can take root and rush into a side passage. Your legs ache, and the burn in your hands grows worse as the sludge that coats everything down here beneath the earth slowly worms its way into your body from your open wounds. But it is a welcome distraction. Physical suffering blocks out mental anguish, chasing after you as surely as the pursuers you know seek to take you before cold eyes and even colder souls.
Finally, after a small eternity, you collapse again. The demands of your body will no longer be denied, forcing you to stop no matter how much you want to keep running. Even your breathing is slowing, its pace coming down along with your heart as manic energy dies and you are left with only weariness so complete it is but a few steps from death.
There is movement nearby, the skittering of tiny claws on stone. It approaches in fits and starts, waiting for long moments at a time before continuing its advance. Something wet pushes itself against your face, and you slowly open a single eye to see a whiskered snout exploring your unmoving form.
You catch the rat with fingers that are far too thin, desperation giving you strength and swiftness beyond what the chains of exhaustion have taken from your flesh. The poor rodent squeals as you sink your teeth into its back, ripping open the spine and killing the animal before it has a chance to suffer. The sigh that escapes your lips as the blood fills your mouth with its metallic tang is like that of a man finally coming up for air, hunger and thirst abating such that thoughts begin to emerge.
But with thought comes memory, and with memory comes suffering.
"Oh god," you moan, red spilling between your lips to dribble onto your chest. "Oh god, Kendra. I'm so sorry."
Now come the tears, hot and fresh, even as you continue to devour the rat. No matter how total your misery you cannot stop yourself from eating, taking in raw flesh and drinking crimson life in order to extend your own.
Who's there?
The voice echoes strangely in this tunnel, which you now notice is built differently from others you have wandered in your half-maddened state. There are etchings on the walls, worn down through water and time, showing a woman with long hair and her hands outstretched. Beneath those hands are two stone discs turning against each other, pushed by bodies neatly cut and bandaged in obvious display of their preparation after death.
The rest of the walls show similar scenes. People working with each other, a grand collaboration toward the building of this engine. Hands are joined, everyone coming together to create something greater than the sum of its parts. On display is the dream for a better world, of fields worked through the power of corpse labor and houses built using the same. A world of plenty, where none need concern themselves with the necessities of survival and instead pursue their aspirations as equals.
Laughter rips its way out of your throat, spilling more blood and sending you into a coughing fit. You almost drop the rat, but panic once again grants you ability beyond your current limitations and you maintain your grip on your meal. Your mirth dies as you once more bury your face into organ and muscle, drinking deep fresh blood that is swiftly running out. There isn't much left of the rat at this point, and you can already feel your stomach turning as this unclean feast makes its way through a body so ravaged that sustenance of any kind has become unnatural.
Why do you laugh? the voice calls out again, drawing your eyes to the door at the end of the tunnel. The metal has rusted, dirty brown melding with the stone to create mortar only long years could produce.
Please, tell me about the world above. I want to know what has become of my work, of everything I hoped to create. Has the grand experiment born fruit?
The crunch of bone and meat between your teeth, you take what meager power you can to stretch out the rat's bones into a solid bar. Another effort of will gives it a tapered edge, and you pry it into the door.
"Whoever you are," you whisper hoarsely, throat already drying now that the blood has stopped flowing. You don't so much push as lean your body on the bar, slowly forcing the door open. "Whatever your desires… I doubt they've come true."
o\O/o
You awake with a start, almost falling from the corner booth in this shabby cafe you've hidden away in. The ceiling fans turn slowly overhead, doing little to disperse the cigarette smoke wafting from the other patrons, and fill the air with a constant squeak that underlies the scratchy radio playing music over the counter where a bored looking woman waits at the register. Flies circle around the half-eaten sandwich on the plate before you, and you wave a skeletal hand to disperse them.
"Showing me visions of the past, Ellowyn?" you ask the air, reaching for what remains of the glass of water that came with your food. "I don't need reminders."
I've done nothing of the sort, comes a voice only you can hear as you drink. My voice, ephemeral as my presence but hinting at something vast settled just behind you.
Your dreams are your own, Randall. Our agreement makes sure of that.
"Sometimes I wonder…"
Your eyes fall down to the knife by your sandwich, dull and barely suitable for spreading butter. Idly, you wonder if it might be sharp enough for you to slit your throat. It would take some effort, but with enough force you might be able to puncture your windpipe and choke to death.
Commotion by the door thankfully draws your thoughts away from suicide. A portly man stumbles through the entrance to the cafe, holding up a handkerchief to his mouth in a vain attempt to spare himself from the smoke. His brown jacket is worn at the sleeves, and his pants wrinkled, but his clothes are still too nice for this place. Worst are his shoes, which shine in the dull light. Those aren't the shoes of someone down on his luck, polished as they are, which makes up most of the people gracing this establishment.
He tutters about, looking this way and that, before his eyes finally settle on you. He knows to look for the figure in the corner, covered in a raincoat. Why he's wasting so much time with this display is beyond you, but eventually he makes his way in your direction and everyone else in the cafe returns to their business.
"Randall?" the man asks quietly, trying to peer under the hood of your cloak. "Randall Dunstan? Is that you?"
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak my name out loud, Harold," you reply, picking up your sandwich and taking a bite. It's gone cold by now, but corned beef holds an appeal even if it isn't warm. "Considering my grandfather is still looking for me."
"Good lord," Harold says, staring at your hand with wide eyes. His horror is understandable. There isn't much in the way of muscle left on you, after all. You're mostly just pale skin tightly wrapped around bone, a dull gray bracelet embedded so deep as to latch on to even that. "What's happened to you?"
"That's not what we're here to discuss," you reply. Another bite, and the paltry meal is finished. "And there's no time for pleasantries. The longer we speak the more danger we put ourselves in, so I suggest we get to the point."
Harold flinches, and a pang of sympathy blossoms in your chest. It is hot and sharp, digging at the remnants of you and scraping against the bones of your ribs like a claw. But it does not draw blood, no matter that your heart skips a beat. What remains of your soul is too tough, too scarred over for anything other than self-loathing or grief.
Might you be kinder, gentler? Once upon a time you loved this man, shared his embrace on cool evenings upon the hills as the sun set. He is taking just as much of a risk as you in meeting here. If you had any other choice you'd not hazard leaning on old friendships, old romances, but the trail has gone cold and there isn't much time left.
The mission must be completed within the year. Any longer and there won't be enough left of you to go on, crumbled to dust and blown away on the wind. Such is the price you have paid for power.
"Yes," Harold says, composing himself. "I suppose we should get to it, then."
He pulls an envelope from his jacket and slides it over to you. You take it with both hands, eliciting another flinch from Harold as he seems your other arm is equally emaciated and bedecked in that same jewelry that appears to have merged with the very sinew of your limbs.
You pull out a map, notes written on the margins, detailing a mountain range. It's mostly barren, just forest and rock. Only a few villages eke out a living upon those slopes, barely any roads connecting them to the rest of the country. But right there, in Harold's own hand, where the mountains border one of the great rivers that feed into the capital, he's circled one peak in particular.
"This took some time to figure out," Harold says, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his brow. You remember him having more hair, but you suppose age takes its toll on everyone in its own ways. "All the signs are in the records, of course. Little things like money transfers and building contracts. They were spread out over years, hidden within projects to help the rural communities nearby, but the picture comes together if you know what to look for."
"This is good," you say, looking up at the other man as he preens. You smile, and the harsh edges of your face soften. "You've not lost your skill at accounting, Harold. With this I should be able to keep moving."
"Yes, well…" Harold begins, a faint blush coming over his face as he scratches his nose. After a moment he takes a deep breath, reaching out a hand to rest on your own. "Randall… Yes, I know you told me not to say your name. Just… I want you to know I'm sorry about what happened with Kendra. It wasn't supposed to be this way."
Your good cheer vanishes in an instant, and you pull your hand away.
"No, it wasn't. My grandfather wanted to have me instead, but made do with her."
"That's not what I meant!" Harold says, putting his hands on the table. He looks about to lean forward, but at the last moment settles back down. "Look, I know you're upset with the senate, but it's not as if you were targeted specifically. The law applies to everyone, and the preservation of institutional knowledge makes sure the country runs smoothly. Besides, it's just a temporary measure."
"A lie," you growl, folding the map and standing up. "My grandfather hated when we were together, you know. Hated it just as much as when I married Fatima. You'll never be acceptable in his eyes, Harold. You'll never be acceptable to any of them."
You turn to leave, map safely tucked away in your coat pocket. Harold grabs you before you can walk away, his fingers touching as they close entirely over your atrophied wrist despite the bracelet. He stares at it, then up at you with horror writ on his face. You match his gaze coldly, eyes like a blade that cuts into the other man.
"I heard," he begins, pausing just long enough to regain some moisture in his mouth. "I heard about the death of that senator up north last year. The perpetrator hasn't been caught, and Lord Edmund Sable is here to oversee the improvements to the local Kordian satellite…"
"Are you asking me if I pulled a monster out of that poor boy?" you ask, pulling away. "That old ghoul was possessing a child, his own flesh and blood. Yes, Harold, I killed that senator. I ate his god damned soul."
You leave Harold staring at your back, mouth agape, as you make your way through the smoke and exit the cafe. The air outside is hardly cleaner, the stench of factories pumping smog into the air by the lake. It's difficult to see more than a few streets down, your every step kicking up dirty mist that breaks apart and reforms in the drizzle falling from the sky. The wind that blows over the water should be cool and refreshing, but instead washes over you with an acidic heat unusual for autumn.
It doesn't bother you much, nor does it seem to inconvenience the residents of this town. They are dressed in their own raincoats, cloth masks over their faces. The factory, refining ore from the mountains into steel, is the beating heart of this community. The wealth it brings is evident in all the new buildings coming up. The sound of construction reverberates up and down, men and women in overalls hard at work setting up lodges and other places of business.
And yet despite this there are many on the street holding out their hands. Men, women, and children all in clothes tattered from long walking. They've the look of farmers, tanned skin growing as pallid as yours from malnutrition. Men and women who worked the fields before new laws from the Everlasting Senate set up unliving labor to ensure food production at costs no living person could ever hope to match.
There was no respite in the cities, for there is no work to be found for those lacking in specialized skills. The factories are manned by the dead and their handlers, while the construction unions can only support so many within their ranks. So they settle here, hoping in the goodwill of their fellows to see them through their trials.
Hope misplaced, as down the street comes a policeman in a black uniform. Four hulking revenants walk behind him with spikes the same dull gray as the jewelry around your wrists jammed into their heads. They are armored all over, thick metal plates that would tire out anyone with a pulse of little impediment to muscles necromantically empowered. Almost they resemble the knights of old, but they lack helms with proud plumage or heraldry. All they have are masks covering the lower half of their faces to hide mouths that have been sewn shut.
"All right, off with you!" the police officer says, brandishing his club menacingly. The corpses behind him, dead eyes unseeing over their masks, raise their own. All it would take is the officer's command and they will march forward, laying into the huddled beggars with mechanical brutality. "You know you can't be making a nuisance of yourself on the main street, so move along or I'll
make you move. This is your only warning."
You turn away as one of the men tries to reason with the officer, not wanting to witness the beatings likely to ensue as people with nowhere else to go are forced to stay out of sight. Others walking the street, from the construction workers to those in finer clothes holding up umbrellas against the rain, do much the same.
But there is a difference between them and yourself. They cannot change what is happening, while you can. You could reach out, force your will past the todstein spikes set into the revenant's heads and have them beat the officer to death. The wards inscribed wouldn't stop you, would be cut as easily as a knife through cloth.
Instead you continue walking, ignoring the cries of the desperate behind you as they flee. You have a mission to accomplish here, and it will be difficult enough without drawing attention to yourself in meaningless gestures. Or so you tell yourself, at any rate.
Your target will be near the metalworks, an unassuming block of concrete with little in the way of decoration. It's easier to defend, which is all that is important for the Kordian satellite. It's but one node in the grand necromantic web that covers the nation, and without it…
"…but the military assures us conflicts at the border colonies are nothing to worry about, and that with fresh bodies our brave necromancers at the front will see the empire victorious despite these setbacks," comes a voice from a radio set above the door of a shop selling such things. Wonders of vacuum tubes and electromagnetism bringing close voices from far away.
"And now, a statement from the prime minister."
You stop dead in your tracks, turning toward the radio with wide eyes. Others on the street move around you, cursing you for a layabout, but you do not hear them. Your attention is focused wholly on the voice that comes out from the speakers.
"My fellow citizens," it begins, sibilant and almost musical in tone. It is a singer's voice, projecting powerfully and with confidence.
"Many of you might believe your concerns beneath my notice, but rest assured nothing could be further from the truth. I come before you to say that all is well, and that preparations are coming apace for celebrating the Great Winter Festival."
It is your daughter's voice, but not her words. Kendra would never talk like this, sentences twisting like smoke. They are your grandfather's words, Aidric Dunstan's words, forced through her lips to assault your ears.
"There are some who have said we should take caution, encourage people to stay home and celebrate in a more private manner. To these cowards I demand silence!"
"Kendra…" you whisper, the tears coming as you slowly raise your hands to your face to block out the world, to block everything. It is little use. You take a shuddering breath, barely able to bring the air through a throat clenched so tight the skin threatens to break, and fall to your knees in an alleyway just off the street. "I'm so sorry."
"Our great nation faces threats from within and without, but we shall stand strong in the face of this adversity. Alba is without peer, our traditions and ingenuity allowing us to overcome any terroristic threat. The security within the capital and beyond will be managed by our fine men in uniform and bolstered with necromantic power. So please, my fellow citizens, rest assured the guiding hand of the Everlasting Senate has everything under control."
"I failed you… It should have been me."
Randall, comes my voice in your ear, the gentle presence over your shoulders like a warm breeze.
You have to stand. There's still a chance to save her. There's still a chance to save your daughter.
"I shouldn't be alive. I shouldn't…"
Never say that! I shout, and my presence firms from wind to something more substantial. It pulls you to your feet, envelops you like a blanket, and the pressure lessens its terrible grip just enough to let you breathe.
She needs you, Randall. Your daughter needs you. Stand, and I will stand with you. You don't have to do this alone.
With a gasp you lean against the wall, your heart pounding in your ears. It is a welcome reprieve, finally blocking out the sound of rain and people and most of all the radio as it moves on to reports of some sports game. Seconds turn into minutes, your grasp of time loose as you focus entirely on taking one breath, and then another.
When you finally come back to yourself the rain has stopped. The shadows have grown longer, the sun beginning to set, with lamplighter revenants going about their programmed duties to prepare the town for the night to come. With effort, your joints protesting after so much time locked in place, you push away from the wall and back out into the street.
"Thank you, Ellowyn."
You are always welcome.
Your destination, gray and drab in the coming darkness, looms before you in the distance. Inside is your target, an old soul forced into one who shared their blood in life. They will have knowledge, and with knowledge will come memory. Even more, it will create chaos. Confusion among our enemies can only benefit us, especially now there is so little time left.
The only question is how you will proceed.
[] With overwhelming force. Every moment counts, and you will not be delayed any longer.
[] With stealth. You can afford yourself this small luxury, to move into the best position before you strike.
