Every fiber of their being screamed in pain as they forced themselves to move. Legs pushed Saga forward even as they felt blood cave their shins from the gauge across their thigh. Their body a broken maps of fresh scars and cuts, their bones creaking from the strain. But they moved, they forced themself to move. One step, into another. A sprint, a dash of mad, fervent desire to end it. To destroy this thing that was a mockery of both life and death.

The creature felt Sagas approach and it tried to yank its free arm free. But it was too late, the tall, lanky terror of undead flesh was beset upon by the berserker who didn't simply strike at it.

No. Saga launched itself with all the power they could muster and clung to its back. They discarded their sword and instead grabbed the dead brigands ax in both hands, yanking and tearing it free best they could. Their “Use anything” skill gives them the most baseline knowledge of how to wield such a weapon. The creature flailed and tried to bellow out a scream. But Saga roared one of their own, canceling the effect right as it left the creature's throat and mouth. All it did was help agitate the wound the Berserker was desperately pushing the ax deeper within.

“Die!” They snarled and the creature felt a strange sensation. Fear. It felt terror, as the Deathsworn on its back pushed the ax far enough to sever part of its spine. This creature, this living, breathing sack of pathetic, unconsumed flesh, was killing it. It yanked its good arm free but it was too late, they could not reach the berserker as they laned towards the side of the limp, useless arm, almost toppling the undead being when Saga tugged at the ax again.

Another ax lodged itself into a knee joint and tore. The creature snarled but could not hit the axedancer as Sasha danced away, out of reach. The creature fell to the ground as the ax bit deeper still, the force of the landing helping the Berserker dislodge the ax, and with it, a large chunk of the creature spun. The creature lost control of its lower body as it stared hatefully up at Saga. Then, the ax came down to separate the head from the body.

Elsewhere, deep within the tunnels, Heldan blinked in confusion as his gorgeous masterpiece died. He looked about himself, anger rapidly building up within his very soul. How dare they do such a thing. How dare they destroy his hard work. But he knew they were badly wounded, so he could still finish the job. But before he could move out of his sanctum, a voice startled him.

His Master’s voice.

The old necromancer sat by his table as his ink and feather busily inscribed more sigils onto parchment. His name was Zephiadia and he was one of the north's most dangerous men. Not that most would think that if they looked at him. To most, he appeared perfectly normal, if obsessively clean and ordered individual. His life work was not some grand army of the undead, but rather his research into the suppression of his nature. He could pass by Death Sworn and Priests of Lady Death herself without raising suspicion, such was his control. Not a shred of fabric on his person was without suppressing and masking sigils of his design.

His other grand scheme was his myriad undead, now countless in number and slaved to his will. They were his eyes and ears, his teeth and his claws. Alone, an undead rat or gutter lizard was little else but a nasty pest. But for each of the undead added to their ranks, he could feel their collective intelligence grow. By now, the thing was fully sentient if simple in its desires and goals. It was a mass of consumption, an unfeeling, intelligent maw that he could direct wherever he needed it to go. It was years of slow and methodical gathering, of amassing and breeding various forms of vermin underneath not one but several different cities in The North.

People had no idea of the sheer terror that skittered just underneath their floorboards every day. He could listen in on generals, jarls, and high priests. He could infiltrate every house in every capital city on the continent as long as they lacked the magical wards to keep his brand of necromancy at bay. The spymasters and lowlife kingpins he employed as a cover could sell his information at a premium, making him not only powerful but also incredibly wealthy.

“It is a shame,” He said as he felt a swathe of his undead servants burn up in a conflagration of flame and death-attuned magic. It appeared that his enemy was moving more actively. And his protege had been so very promising as well, an artist of flesh warping and bone craft. The touched a large, perfectly smooth swear of dark crystal as it lit up from his touch. The strange sphere seemed to fill up with energy and a mirage of stars swirled within as he focused his intent on the young Necromancer. The stars began to swirl about as chaotic energies weaved together and manifested into an image within the sphere. The visage of a young man was soon apparent. It was that of his protogè, Heldan. A Northling he had found scrambling for survival as an outcast. A brilliant artistic mind who saw the truth of life and death. And who railed against it jus like Zephidia did in his youth.

“Heldan.” He said and the shape seemed to startle and stare about for something. Helden, as was his Necromancers given name, had never been contacted in such a manner before and his bewilderment would have been amusing if time wasn’t of the essence. Instead each second wasted was bringing them both closer to death.

“You can gape in wonderment later, child.” His voice rang out, cold and assertive. The young man froze immediately at that and shifted from a look of confusion to that of immediate concern.

“Master? How.” The necromancer began to speak but stopped himself. Instead, he looked to a spot out of view of the sphere. His face contorted briefly in anger. No doubt, he has some problems of his already brewing. “Never mind. What is going on Master.”

“PLans have changed. The servants of Death have begun to move.” The older necromancer spoke as he felt another swathe of his undead minions burn and rot away. But he could feel the life force of one of the attackers get zapped from one of his hidden traps. Not enough to kill the servant of death. But it helped slow them down. He briefly considered letting his entire swarm move to intercept the three. But that would jeopardize their true purpose.

“I know Master. I am killing two of them right now.” The voice of Heldan brought Zephidias back to reality and he looked to the sphere as he contemplated what to do next. First, he needed to cut his ties and move on. But he owed it to his young charge to at least give him a fighting chance.

“Not the whelps.” He clarified, referring to the two newly sworn servants of death. They were future problems, seeds that could grow bothersome. But his concerns were more immediate.

“What do you mean? There are others. Have been discovered.” The younger necromancer asked, his eyes flickering towards a spot outside of the sphere's vision yet again.

“My sanctuary will soon be breached. And when it does, our link will be severed. To protect us both.” Zehpidias spoke, his tone clipped as he felt his adversaries approach quicker than anticipated.

“You are abandoning me?” There was panic and anger in the boy's voice. He sighed.

“I am setting you free. When we meet next, should we both live, it will be as peers.” He said, keeping his voice level. Trying to reason with him. Trying to keep the young necromancer from doing something that would inconvenience him.

The boy was silent.

“Halvdan.” He spoke softly.

“Yes, Master.” The voice was quiet. Tense. Barely restrained madness lurked underneath it.

“The Cold hand can never reach us.” He said and his apprentice responded in kind, his voice a little less cold.

“For we reject it, as is our truth,” Heldan said.

“I believe in you.” Zephaniah lied. The young man would die in those catacombs, he was fairly certain of this.

“Stay safe master”

With that, he cut the connection and sighed. The sphere had cost him two years of his life to arrange. But now it was but a massive liability and he could not let anything disrupt his plans. He put a hand on the sphere and infused it with a truly frightening amount of power as it cracked and shattered. Just then, he felt the first of his undead hulks engage three living individuals shrouded in death. They had carved through his sea of rats in such little time. But they were no doubt hurt and tired, regardless of their strength. The Hulks would not stop them, but they would slow the three hunters down enough for him to leave in an orderly manner.

He began to collect his things, stuffing all the sigils of important into leather tomes and folders that he placed in a crystal chest. He twitched as one of his inner defenses exploded on the other side of his sanctum, severely wounding a fourth, previously unknown assailant. The enemy must have known of him for longer than he had anticipated, to coordinate such an attack. No matter. His defenses were still holding them at bay for now. He got his things in order and sat down on a chair next to the Chest. He could just leave now, but doing so was reckless. He needed to make sure they got as little as possible. So instead he began to wave his hands in the air as green corpse fire ignited across his fingers and palms. He was loathed to see so much work go up in literal flames, but he was nothing if not thorough.

So it came as a shock when an arrow burst through the large oak door opposite where he stood. A fifth hunter, who managed to slip past all his defenses. The arrow was laced with magic and poison but exploded upon a shield of necrotic energy.

“The Goddess is angry I take it.” He spoke in an even tone as he stared down a young man with catlike eyes.

“You messed up,” Gothwald spoke, his voice low as he nocked another arrow. “Your transgressions will not go unpunished necromancer.” Another arrow, this one infused with the life-giving energy of nature, smashed into his shields that shuddered.

“It seems I did.” The necromancer smiled as he stepped into the large sigil carved into the center of his chamber. “But I can rebuild. I have time.” He snapped his fingers as the sigil began to fill up with massive magical energy. He relished in the surprise in Gothwalds eyes. The young hunter had not expected to see a magical array such as the transport sigil. Before his eyes, it converted necrotic energy into that of pure arcane power. Gothwald knocked arrow after arrow, trying to deplete the shield, but to his terror, a wave of rabid undead vermin came pouring into the room from hidden compartments.

While some of them veered towards him to bite and claw at the living flesh before them, the vast majority piled into the space within the shield, rotting into nothingness as soon as they touched the sigil.

“Maybe one day, you’ll see the light as I have.”The old necromancer spoke with a sordid, wicked smile before the sigil was completed. A large pulse of arcane energy rippled outward, flinging the hunter back, causing him to bounce against a large bookcase that was already alight with corpse fire. As he got free from the burning debris as quickly as he possibly could, he found the chambers mostly empty. Not just empty of Necromancers. But every single rat seemed to have gone with him. How that was even possible, he had no idea.

He was soon joined by his companions. A young elf, adorned in fire bolstering silken robes that clung to them like a second skin peaked through the door first. Their hair was a cold, almost pale white and their skin had the blue, light sheen of a frost elf. He knew the elf was called Eildôrn, and that they were a Frostelf from the elven kingdom to the east. They had been sent west to help root out the necromancer who had servants even within the Ice Palace wall. They had a slender build, that belied a lack of might. Behind them came Katla, who looked worn and tired from fighting hordes of undead vermin. The two Deathsworn were both caked in ash and blood and their eyes belied the same sense of confused dread as his own.

Behind them limped a tall half-orc that did not share their confused look. He was taller than all of them and built much the same way as Katla. That is to say, he was all muscle and hard edges. But he seemed to have fared better than the dwarven lady as he sported none of the injuries and fresh cuts. His entire body was covered in intricate runes, some of which glowed with magic, while others seemed depleted. He let his lone, red-eye wander the room. as his left eye was gray and blind from an old injury.

“He got away.” The orc stated. His tone belied very litle, even as his companions gritted their teeth and bit back curses.

“He did,” Gothwald confirmed. He had been transported here at great cost, having utilized a rare artifact specifically so they could get the drop on the necromancers and his many little spies. To have lost him like this was a catastrophe.

“What about the merc?” The half-orc, who was named Greinhan asked, glancing towards the door.

“I am fine” Came a voice that sounded anything but fine. A hobgoblin dragged himself into the room, using a short spear like a cane. His armor was in tatters and he had wounds all across his left side.

“Rex,” Katla said, eyebrow raised. “You are anything but fine.”

“I will live, Lady Oathsworn,” Rex answered. “The question we need to ask ourselves now however is if we can figure out where the bastard went.”