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My name is Varroqi la Croix, adopted into the Wedi Anghofio la Croix in a year that no longer makes sense even if I write it. The Exiles changed the calendar after they were done slaughtering the inlanders.
We were a truly vast family spanning much of the known globe, with a long and storied history of necromancy - I wouldn’t be surprised to find we invented it. We’ve done a lot of bad shit in the past, and a lot of good shit. The days of the tomb kings and the lichdoms are behind us. Now, we have rules, and ethics. A la Croix serves her community. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to call us priests, though there’s still others who fill that specific role.
While a lot of it, as with any similar family or institution, comes down to vibes we do have four core rules - or aphorisms, I suppose.
Serve, not rule. We are here to serve the community, not lead it. We are not nobles, generals, or tyrants. Not anymore. Our place is among the common people, to shelter and protect them, and to remind ourselves of all the ways in which we are alike. Our power makes us different, not better.
They, too, are victims of life. Nobody chooses to be brought into this world. We do not know the struggles others have gone through, just as they do not know ours. All are condemned to live and die, even if sometimes different terms are used, and even the worst deserve your compassion when moved to strike them down for the greater good. Bury your enemies and give them their last rites as if they were family.
Life is for the living, death is for the dead. No one chooses to be born, and very few choose to die. Respect these truths. Take life when you must, but not cruelly, and never for personal gain. Remember that you, too, are alive, and deserve the chance to enjoy that life as all people do. There will come a time when you pass through to the Sunless Lands, but that adventure has not yet arrived.
Your name is Somebody. If there is a call for help, you will answer. When you hear “somebody do something”, “somebody help me”, you are Somebody, child of Anyone. If you can’t help directly, do everything you can anyway. Nobody deserves to be alone.
Over the course of my life, I think I may have broken all of these. Some I fully intend to break again.
There is a great enemy of mine. In life, he was Akhenaten, Deva Legionnaire, winged warrior second in command to Meritites. When the Exiles returned to make their war on existence, to proclaim themselves gods and each one commit their own genocide as a sacrifice for their power. Akhenaten changed his name to Melchiah, tore his wings off, and transformed himself into a monstrosity in a bid to do the same in the North, my little corner of existence. He granted his power to an army, hundreds strong, and set about burning and pillaging the entire province - if one person did not bend a knee, the entire settlement was drained and burned as a warning.
I know longer remember if there was some deeper reasoning behind Melchiah the Butcher’s actions, but I can be sure that he did them. He became the number one cause of death of heartbreak in the region, and we are not a kind region. I could not allow this to stand, and so I broke a rule in service to others.
I became a warlord. A general, a ruler, a figurehead leading a resistance against him and those that swore before him. I had always been a keen demonologist. It was my main field of expertise as a mage, as a whaerlock bound in innumerable pacts. I called on my bindings, my favours, on everything I had, and I built a fortress city on the cliffs by the sea - but that wasn’t enough.
For a long time, his power was only rumoured, but it was terrifying. He could heal blows from siege weapons in mere seconds, he could mesmerise those unused to mystical powers, he could summon beasts and change into vermin or clouds of mist. Not even an army can stand against such a thing, let alone a hundred of them. If we were to have a chance of survival, we needed to level the playing field.
Life is for the living, and death is for the dead I didn’t break this one, yet, despite the sounds. Our family has long blurred what people think are the lines between the two. Lichdom is a long-standing and accepted path, long since perfected. It allows one to live through harsh times and continue to serve the community long after you would otherwise fall. No, my next actions didn’t break that one. It, like lichdom, simply made it a lot easier to break all the rules.
I had powerful contacts, among the demonic. I do not remember the process I went through, only that it involved succubi in some way. At some point, it would be safe to assume I stepped a lot closer to the faint line between life and death. This is not unusual. We are a family of necromancers, after all, such a position is where we do our best work.
I turned myself into something like him. I don’t know how much of my skillset was shared with him, but I was mighty indeed. I was swift with my blade, strong, but most such things were still well within the normal bounds of human capability. No, my true powers were resilience and raw power - I could withstand a brutal amount of damage, hell many things couldn’t even break my skin anymore! I could heal wounds in seconds. I tested it once, while I was storming a recently taken castle - three ballista bolts. Thats what it took to give me a scratch that lasted more than six seconds (it wicked away on the seventh). I even took what should have been a killing blow, once. It turned me into a fine mist, suspended in the air. I re-formed within the hour, and after another minute with open wounds, I was fully healed once more.
It didn’t come without his downsides, of course. I found by accident that I couldn’t enter homes uninvited - its as if there’s a solid wall where the door should be. Being polite solves that issue, in most cases. Running water can be a tough one. I used to enjoy bathing in streams while I travelled, but now that burned like fire - and not in the metaphorical sense. For all intents and purposes, I was one of the undead, with all the disadvantages that are familiar - most magic could not heal me, many holy sites were warded to burn me on approach, and magic called from divine sources would intensify when turned on me. Worse still, such things would prevent me from regenerating for a short time. Worst of all was sunlight.
It burned intensely, merely to exist in it. It prevented my regeneration. I am sure that it would kill me in a mere minute.
Presumably, Melchiah shares these flaws.
It was after finding these things that I truly broke my rules. I became obsessed with destroying Melchiah and his armies, for all that he has done. I’d seen the pyres, now. There were children on them.
There’s one other flaw I didn’t mention earlier, as it is also a boon depending on the circumstance. We require blood to live, specifically that of the sentient - I don’t recall why.our bite was tremendously powerful, moreso even than my fists or weaponry. It kills the weak in an instant, destroying their soul just as I take on their vitality. Worse still, those slain by the bite would rise the next night as mindless monsters - spawn, we called. Nowhere near as powerful as a vampire, though still not something to take on for a vintenar. A conroi could reliably take them on, at least - though even that would sometimes lead to burning the corpse of one of their own to prevent the situation occurring a second time.
It wasn’t unheard of for spawn we encountered to have yet to see their tenth summer.
They never would again.
I threw myself into my battle, into ensuring that such a thing would not happen again. That was when I finally fell to breaking all the rules there were. I lost track of myself, practically becoming a machine when not on the battlefield - biding my time and keeping things running, coming to the point only enjoyed myself when I was in the thick of the slaughter, for that was what it became. I was a monster, then, truly.
I think I managed to claw my way back, at some point. I hope I did, at least. My biggest memory after this was the worst one: when I finally failed for good.
They attacked in the twilight, I think. The human guards were flagging, and I was still getting ready to face the night. The first I knew was when the screaming began. They were burning the citizens in their homes. Melchiah was there, I think - or at least his warriors were. I could not fight them in my current state. I could feel my demons perishing, those I’d set as guards - entire sections of the city going dark to my senses in moments. The final straw was the when the orphanage was lost to my sight.
I hid myself in the catacombs below the keep. They are vast, and ancient. I would not be found there. I closed my eyes in a coffin, the lid sealed from within. I would return, even in my failure. Melchiah would burn for what he had done.
I woke up on a beach, only barely able to remember the events of that night. Nothing before it. I was lying in the blazing sun, my hair long, my clothes mere tattered rags. I should have been a shrivelled, burned corpse. I was not.
A demonspawn found me. He took me to castle, a mansion, what he called an orphanage.
This one was still standing. The children were happy. They watched over by another demonspawn - a kingslayer, I would come to learn. A wounded one. He may have succeeded where I failed, but I am used to helping the injured. There are few without such scars, where I’m from.
A week passed, but I felt no thirst. I still had fangs - I saw them in the mirror (glass over silver!), my ears were still pointed, my eyes a vibrant purple. I could eat meat again. I favoured it, of course, taking it bloody - no need to risk myself, and I certainly wasn’t going to risk biting someone else. Even if my powers have changed, theres no guarantee that it won’t kill. Make more monsters, and it seems such things are no longer present.
I tried to find out where I was, once. The waters have rose since my time. The continent is no more, now we are islands - my home, I think, is likely beneath the waves.
My pacts do not answer my call, save for a similarly lost Nightmare. Tim’o’thea is a serviceable mount, but has lost time and ability, and barely acts like the demon he is - surely, he is abrasive and insulting to others, but strangely cooperative. He has not even attempted to destroy easy targets. Hells, we live in an orphanage, and I left him in the stables unattended and he simply… spoke to the other horses.
My demons do not answer my calls, the very magic seems to wick away when I try. As if I did not have the capacity to cast it.
But I have new powers. I can call the light and life into myself, transfer it to others, convert it into flame and fury and hold it until needed. It is not too dissimilar to my previous ways of working magic, though I seem to have more options. They’re much weaker than I am accustomed to.
The orphanage was attacked, one evening. It seems that this is not entirely uncommon. The lord granted me armour and weaponry, a shield with his symbol upon it, after I slew three of the attackers with a knife from the kitchen.
I should have been able to kill more.
They answer to who I discovered is one of the Exiles, now known as a god in truth. They take children in the night, force them to fight against terrors.
It seems this is still a time of monsters.
Melchiah is king, now, in the north.
My work is not yet done, though I refuse to lose myself to it once more.