Chapter 17: Necro Fascists (Patreon)

The last thing Terry expected from the stoic undead with too many teeth was for them to start singing. The sound started low, mingling with the stagnant air like the soft moan of wind through a cave formation. A minute passed and the singing grew louder, a deep bass echoing up from their throats that sent a shiver tracing up his spine.

Then the lich at his side joined in, as well as the rest of his caste. It was less a song and more like the hissing of a pit of vipers. But the effect of the ghoul and the lich voices intermingling created a haunting dirge that echoed through the cavern.

That was when Terry felt the aura manipulation begin. It started as a charged feeling in the air, the hairs on his arms standing tall, a thick sensation of emotion crowding around him. But it wasn’t the hopelessness of the draugr or the indifference of the patches that he’d come to associate with overwhelming aura control. Rather, a tableau seemed to form in his mind. He envisioned a farmer sinking into his chair after all day in the fields, a hot cup of tea and a simple meal made extravagant by the aching hunger of a famished body.

It was a feeling of satisfaction after the demands of a challenging day; accomplishment followed by a period of rest. He couldn’t tell if the images he were seeing in his mind were his own fabrication or an idea translated by the heavy use of aura, but he felt that he understood something inherently in the message being broadcast.

Enjoy your rest now, brothers. And prepare to be reborn to fight for the clan in the future.

Crunch shifted at the other end of the canoe, reaching down to lift the ghoul corpse. The others did the same, until all seven bodies were held by their brothers in a child’s carry. The singing began to intensify, matched by the aura shifting up a degree all around him. His senses felt raw, the feeling in the air pricking his thoughts, almost infecting him with the emotions cast about by the undead.

When the singing crescendoed, the ghouls shifted their burdens into the bubbling pit, drawing their voice and aura down a notch with each body deposited in the black. The roiling surface settled, as if accepting its meal, and the intensity in the air ratcheted down once more to match that now placid surface.

Terry settled back with a shaky breath, finally wrestling back control of his senses and emotions. He had felt like a ship in a storm, forced to ride the towering waves with no agency or control, clinging to the mast with white knuckles.

Despite the powerless nature of the aura storm, he hadn’t hated it. It was scary and overwhelming. But he could also see how it could be beautiful and freeing.

If he could just let go.

They were halfway back to the black pebble beach when he came to.

“That was…not what I expected,” he whispered.

The lich at his side turned his shadowed hood toward Terry.

“That was the Song of Well-Earned Rest, though the translation leaves much unsaid.”

Terry nodded, though he wasn’t sure he truly understood what he had been feeling.

“I saw images in my mind. But they weren’t undead. Was that…?” He left the question hanging, not sure how much prying into their process they would appreciate.

“Aura, as you humans call it, is coupled to emotions,” the lich hissed. “The Songs of our people express our sincerity, hope, and promise.”

“Promise?”

The canoe shuddered, pulling up against the beach with a jolt. Terry flinched in surprise, lost in the lich’s words.

“Promise of return,” the lich said simply.

Before he could probe deeper, the ghouls on the beach and in the canoes began pulling them further onto the black pebbles. Terry hurried to disembark, feeling slightly out of place again now that the ritual was finished. The undead didn’t mill about or chat idly as humans might have after a funeral procession. Instead, without a word between them, they separated, each heading for the exit on their own.

Crunch held out a helping hand as Terry hopped off the canoe, and the lich followed closely behind him. He wanted to ask more questions, but everyone was leaving with such purpose that he didn’t want to hold this particular lich back.

As if sensing his curiosity, the lich paused.

“Should my prince ever wish to learn more of our people, he may lean upon me.”

Terry’s eyebrows rose in surprise, then his lips turned up in a smile.

“That’s awes—” He coughed into his fist. “I mean, thank you, honorable lich.” A thought occurred to him and he quickly added, “I’m sorry to say this, but…I don’t know your name. How will I find you?”

The lich indicated Crunch at his side. “Your bonded servant knows. But I will give you my imprint—for after your Awakening.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, then cleared as he felt the lich project its aura like a wave of impressions.

A frozen tundra. A single hill. Perched atop lies a lonely tree, dying but clinging to life.

The vision went and Terry reared back. The image had been so vivid, so particular. It reminded him of the draugr’s aura, but without the malice and anger.

He swallowed past a dry throat.

“Is it normal to…see things?” he asked. “From someone’s aura?”

“I’m surprised,” the lich replied. “Most humans only experience the emotions before their Awakening. For us undead, our aura awareness is much higher, even from the spawning pit.” The lich hesitated, then leaned in. Its voice had a hint of curiosity to it. “What did you see, my prince?”

“A lone tree on a hill. It was dying but still felt…” He shook his head at the absurdity of what he was about to say. “It felt…hopeful.”

A slight hissing breath left the hood and Terry cringed, afraid he had made some faux pas.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No need to apologize, my prince. Your aura sense is maturing quite nicely. Among the Awakened humans of the Emperor’s court, some have called me Hoping Tree.”

“Hoping Tree…” Terry repeated, a smile splitting his face. “That’s a nice name. Though it doesn’t seem to capture the emotions I was feeling.”

The lich nodded. “Yes, the human tongue is limited. But Hoping Tree is enough.”

“Nice to meet you, Hoping Tree. Terry.” He held out his hand. “Since you greeted me in the undead way, I figured we could also do the human way.”

The lich turned its hood down to stare at Terry’s hand. Heat rushed to his face as he realized how ridiculous it was to try to shake a lich’s hand. He started to pull it back in embarrassment, when the lich shifted.

A skeletal hand covered in exposed sinew slipped from the edge of the robe, wrapping around Terry’s delicately. The bone and tendon were cold to the touch, but not painfully so.

“Nice to meet you…Terry.”

***

The second week after his mother’s death seemed to pass much faster than the first. He continued to study aura control with Crunch, though he never felt it as powerfully as he had inside the Evolution Chamber. He continued to monitor the war between his family’s army and Topeka, who was putting up a desperate, if doomed, defense against the forces of Wichita, led by the Scourge, who somehow had fled back to his city ahead of the Emperor.

Word began to circulate on the net that the Council—the super group that held sway over Kansas City—were approaching Topeka from the east. Whether that was to lend aid to the Scourge’s defense or to make sure the violence didn’t spill over into the nearby city, the reporters in the field were unsure. But it dialed up Terry’s anxiety, imagining the Council striking at his father and grandfather.

Despite his anger toward the two, he didn’t want to see them injured or killed. Plus, his friend and teacher was at the frontline, and losing Whipvine would be like losing Crunch.

He managed to keep his thoughts distracted with his aura study, painting his figurines that had survived his father’s rampage, and had even started back up his sessions with Mesmer about the System and the different super types. But the intrusive thoughts always wormed their way back into his brain.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he resisted the urge to search for updates on the war between Wichita and Topeka, when one of his open tabs bounced in an attempt to grab his attention. Swapping over, he saw that he had a notification from Necrotalk Forums. He had forgotten all about the message he had sent to IBelieve asking to chat. But there was the notification right there on his screen.

User IBelieve has requested to chat. Accept?

Yes/No

His heart began to pound as he hastily clicked the Yes button. A new window sprang up with a chat session between his alias RoseBud and IBelieve. He immediately started typing out a response.

[RoseBud]: Hey, thanks for getting back to—

He stopped typing as IBelieve sent a message first.

[IBelieve]: What you want

Chewing his lip, he wondered at the curt tone of the message. He didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot before he’d even asked the questions he had.

[RoseBud]: Sorry to bother you. Just thought you had some interesting ideas about what happened to the White Rose.

IBelieve is typing…

Terry tried not to hold his breath as he waited for IBelieve to respond.

[IBelieve]: You a mole?

Am I a mole…? He started to respond, then stopped. Quickly pulling open a new tab, he typed in:

What is a mole

Predictably, the search engine returned entry after entry on the literal definition of moles. He rolled his eyes and amended the search.

Mole conspiracy theories

As he read the results, a flurry of emotions kaleidoscoped through his mind. Confusion, at first, then surprise. Then, a deep hunger. Moles implied there was something to infiltrate, knowledge to be gathered. Was IBelieve saying that they had theories grounded enough to make them a target?

[RoseBud]: I’m not a mole. I didn’t even know what that word meant until I just searched it. Why would a mole message you though?

IBelieve is typing…

Excitement filled him as he waited, only to deflate as the typing indicator disappeared. His fingers went back to the keyboard to say something else—maybe insist he wasn’t a mole or try to convince the unknown user in some way.

But then the indicator flashed again and he held back. It came and went a few more times and he wondered if IBelieve was weighing how much to say. Or maybe they were writing out a long explanation? Or even better, diving right into their takes on his mother’s death.

Instead, the message was short…and borderline hostile.

[IBelieve]: Don’t believe you. You one of those necro fascists?

Necro fascist? What did that even mean?

[RoseBud]: No, I’m not a necro fascist. I’m just a kid trying to figure out what happened to the White Rose.

He hesitated revealing anything about himself, but IBelieve was obviously a paranoid person. Which made sense, considering Necrotalk Forums was a place for conspiracy and fringe theories. They were probably suspect of any stranger reaching out for a chat.

[IBelieve]: A kid? And I’m a ghoul in a tutu. Necroing this chat in 3 secs unless you say something convincing.

Terry’s eyes went wide and he bit his lip. What can I say to convince them?

[IBelieve]: 3…

There was nothing—nothing short of sending them a selfie right now. And every instinct confirmed that sending your picture to borderline paranoids on the net was a no-no.

[IBelieve]: 2…

He wracked his brain for the answer. Open up his net access so they could see his location? No, dummy, that would only confirm you were in the palace. A…necro fascist, as they called it.

Then what?

[IBelieve]: 1…

In a desperate rush, he typed the only thing he could think of to keep IBelieve on the chat.

[RoseBud]: The White Rose was my mother!

He immediately regretted sending it as soon as he hit enter.

“Oh, God, what did I do?” he muttered. “Crap, crap, crap—”

[IBelieve]: interesting…now you have my attention.

“I…I do?”

IBelieve is typing…

[IBelieve]: can’t take your word for it though. Need to meet in person.