“Ward of Silent Vigil?” Korvan’s voice was a practiced mumble, a bewildered furrow deepening his brow. He gestured vaguely towards a worn, unassuming flagstone near his foot. “Oh, that. I just… tripped, I guess. Must be a loose one. Always getting my feet tangled.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feigning sheepishness, though his peripheral vision tracked Nestra Korvath’s unblinking stare. Her gaze lingered on the supposedly innocent stone for a moment, then flicked back to him, cold and assessing. The mark bound to his ribs burned with frost, an ache reminding him of the agony promised for breaking cover. The corner of her lips twitched, a barely perceptible tightening. It wasn't belief, but rather the dismissal of a minor irritation. She simply didn't have proof. Jorvel, however, looked genuinely confused. “You tripped into a D-rank ward before, but this is a Master-level Cloister’s Ward, Korvan. It’s meant to detect even a whisper of Dirge-use. You just… stumbled past it?”
Nestra’s eyes, like chips of obsidian, slid from Korvan to Jorvel, then back. “It seems your friend has a unique talent for defying wards, Tyros. Perhaps he simply has the innate grace of a collapsing bridge.” Her voice was laced with an understated sarcasm that didn’t quite reach her icy eyes. “Or perhaps,” she continued, her tone dropping low, “there are more secrets to a D-rank rogue than meets the eye.”
A loud, echoing cough from the grand entrance of the cathedral cut through the morning mist, drawing all eyes. The proctor, a gaunt veteran with iron-gray stubble, stood silhouetted against the pale light filtering from the nave. “Initiates! Form ranks! The morning’s delve awaits.”
The assembled initiates stirred in a chorus of shifting leather. Pellam Ystmar, who had been leaning against a weathered buttress, preening for a trio of acolytes, swaggered past, deliberately bumping Korvan’s shoulder. “Try not to trip in the catacombs, Scavenger. It might be less forgiving than a mere ward.” He flashed a sneering grin before moving to stand near Nestra, a possessive glint in his eyes. Korvan merely offered a vacant, obliging nod, allowing the mask of compliant weakness to remain firmly in place. The stolen signet ring felt like a cool stone in his pocket, a silent promise.
[Dirge-Weaver’s Loom: Virtue of Deception – 10 points awarded. Maintain the façade.]
The descent into the catacombs was a journey into a different world. The air grew heavy, damp with the smell of wet stone and ancient earth. The chill murmur of the Dirge, once distant, now seemed to press in from the winding tunnels. Torches flickered on the damp walls, casting dancing shadows that swallowed light as quickly as it appeared. The Morven Lodge’s underbelly was a labyrinth of shifting corridors, constantly reshaped by unseen forces, making every delve a fresh challenge.
Jorvel walked beside Korvan, his usual jovial expression muted by the oppressive atmosphere. He coughed, a dry, rattling sound that he quickly tried to stifle. “This sector… I heard the Lodge-Bound Husks they use for training have been acting up.” His voice was low, laced with genuine concern. “Be careful, Korvan.”
“Always,” Korvan murmured, though his mind was already mapping escape routes and potential ambush points. His senses, honed by a lifetime of survival, prickled at the subtle shift in air currents, the distant echo of a groan that wasn't human. Pellam, meanwhile, was loudly praising the silver-filigree balance of his newly acquired ‘Fang of the Crypt-Lord’ to anyone within earshot, oblivious to the growing tension.
The group eventually spilled into a vast, circular chamber, its ceiling lost in shadow. In the center, chained to a massive iron pillar, shambled a Lodge-Bound Husk – a desiccated figure, its limbs bound by thick, enchanted ropes, its empty eye sockets glowing with a faint, malevolent green light. It was a common training enemy, usually docile, its Miasma-infused movements predictable. But something was wrong.
As the proctor began his briefing, the Husk suddenly thrashed, its chains groaning under an unexpected surge of strength. Its head snapped up, those green lights blazing with renewed fury. A nearby novice named Rell screamed as the Husk lunged, its rotted claw snapping one of its restraints and reaching for his throat.
“Hold formation!” the instructor bellowed, drawing his own broadsword, but he was too far. The Husk was upon Rell in an instant, its claw already closing. Korvan acted without thought. A flicker, barely a ripple in the ambient shadow, erupted from his extended hand, a shard of pure void-darkness. It pierced the Husk’s exposed neck, not with a sound, but with a silent, consuming pressure. The creature froze, its green lights sputtering, then dimmed completely, its remaining chains clanking as it slumped back against the pillar, inert.
The entire sequence took less than a second. Pellam, who had just drawn his 'Fang of the Crypt-Lord' with an unnecessary flourish, rushed forward. Seeing the inert Husk, he plunged his blade into its chest with a theatrical roar. “Die, abominable beast! The Morven Lodge will not suffer your insolence!” He twisted the blade for good measure, then pulled it free, splattering a fine mist of necrotic dust onto his pristine armor. He turned to the stunned novices, beaming. “Another wraith brought low by the might of House Ystmar!”
[Dirge-Weaver’s Loom: Virtue of Subtlety – 15 points awarded. The weak rogue is stronger than they know.]
Korvan’s lips curled in a brief, internal sneer. *Let him have his moment. The resources are what matter.* While the proctor praised Pellam’s ‘quick thinking’ and inspected the ruptured link, Korvan slipped into the deeper gloom of an offshoot tunnel. His goal was a hidden supply cache, rumored to contain potent Dirge-elixirs, one he remembered from his previous life.
The tunnel narrowed, spiraling down toward an older, frost-bitten sector untouched by the mason guilds. The air here was still, thick with a scent that was not Miasma, but something else entirely – something ancient and metallic. He rounded a bend, the flickering light of his single, shielded lantern barely penetrating the gloom, and stopped short.
Before him, sprawled against a crumbling wall, was a corpse, parched down to parchment skin and sunken marrow. The body was impossibly desiccated, like a husk itself, but intact. No wounds, no obvious signs of struggle, yet it was utterly devoid of any moisture, any life. A senior Hunter, judging by the tattered remnants of a high-tier cloak, drained to a dry husk. And in the precise center of its chest, where the heart would have been, was a single, intricate symbol etched into the bone, glowing with a faint, crimson light.
This wasn’t a Charnel-Wraith kill. This was something else. Something that consumed Dirge magic itself. As Korvan instinctively reached for the shadow-blade that now bound itself to his soul, the shadows around the corpse began to stir. They didn't just deepen; they coalesced, solidifying into jagged, obsidian tendrils that snaked out, weaving into an impossibly strong cage around him, trapping him against the cold, damp stone. His lantern clattered to the ground, plunging the hall into near-total darkness, save for the corpse’s crimson glow. From the far end of the corridor, heavy, rhythmic footsteps began to echo, growing louder with each passing second.
[Dirge-Weaver’s Loom: Warning – Proximity to Dirge-Leech. Danger: Imminent.]