Chainlink #5: The Dead Who Did Not Die

 When is a skeleton not a skeleton?

When you go dungeon delving it is an unavoidable fact of life that you are going to encounter dead bodies. Dungeons are often tombs, yes, and so you will find many remains of folk who died centuries ago and were laid to rest, their bodies now moldering as the weight of time presses them into dust. However given the danger of these places, you will also often find the bodies of those delvers less fortunate and skilled than you, who plunged too deep without an escape plan, and who fell upon the blade or claw or other suitably lethal implement of whatever lurks within this desolate tomb. You may find those who starved to death or who died of thirst, lost in the dark without food or drink, doomed to spend their days in agonizing hunger. The dungeon promises death, that promise can be granted in any number of ways, with the only certain fact being that you will die, one way or another. 

You will also often encounter those dead souls who have grown restless, who sleep walk through their death on rotting soles with a knock kneed gait. They may be filled with the semblance of life by any number of things. As you dive further into the earth, the distance to the underworld diminishes significantly, and the boundary between life and death grows weary and thin, such that wayward and restless souls may find their way back into the world, back into a body that may not be their own, back into a world that has long since left them behind. Sometimes the opposite may occur, in the darkness of the dungeon, a dead soul may become trapped within their body, unable to free themself and complete their journey downwards. They will wander, searching for a way out, lashing out at the living, whose faces and warmth they have long forgotten. Other things, fouler, stranger things, may pluck dead bodies from the ground and wear them for a time, putting on a mocking, spitting performance of sacred life. Through all of these means and more, the dead may yet walk before you in the dungeon. Typically disposing of these creatures when possible is both noble and sensible, but to deal with undead is to do more than to simply kill them and be done with it. Burying bodies is important, a buried body will rise far less frequently than one left to lie in the open. Burying any fallen humanoid friend or foe might save someone's life, if one has the time, it is a procedure which should always be performed. 

Almost always.

They're a rare thing, rare enough that most delvers only hear about them as a rumor, but they are very much real, and as you delve deeper into the dungeon, you will be more and more likely to find them: the dead things which never drew breath to begin with.

You are deep within the earth, sunlight is something you left behind days ago in pursuit of a different glow, the glorious sight of torchlight reflected back at you, shining off of so much treasure. You round a corner, and before you in a small, square room, you see a skeleton lying in the hall, unusually pristine. Skeletons this deep are usually more ragged, covered in bite marks, sporting numerous broken bones, all the telltale signs of predation, scavenging, the life cycle of the dungeon. This one though, this is something else. Bleach white, smooth, glossy sheen, it almost looks like ceramic or fine china the way it catches the light of your torch. You and your group move forward, inspecting it, wondering what could've caused this. In a hushed voice, someone supposes it might've been left behind by one of those weird jelly cubes, or stripped bare by some other acidic creature. It seems reasonable enough, but the floors here are filthy, not characteristic of these monsters. You move forward, searching the skeleton visually for any signs of damage you might've missed, any personal belongings, but it seems alone, strangely solitary. You look to the side of the room and notice the mangled body of one of the monstrous rodents of this dungeon. It looks as though it's been twisted to death, you think to yourself, pitying it only a little bit, before turning back to the skeleton. Small specks of blood dot its hands, which, now that you look at them, look more like claws, with fingers like fishhooks. You've never seen a skeleton like that before. Dread fills your stomach, you back up slightly, searching for more irregularities. Bones in its legs and pelvis seem fused together unnaturally, in a way that would indicate an inability to stand from its current position, even in life. It's teeth aren't quite right either, a bit too sharp, a bit too predatory. It has two extra sets of ribs. It's...it's smiling at you, not like that rictus grin you've seen on skeletons in the past, but a real, genuine smile. You feel compelled to turn behind you, and you do, just in time to see an impossibly tall ivory skeleton lumbering out of the darkness, bowing its head as to not scrape the ceiling, its eight fingered hands wrapping around one of your compatriots, pulling him like taffy. He screams in agony just as you you yell in surprise. You begin drawing your sword, and are slammed to the ground by the first skeleton; its legs are not capable of walking, but evidently it can leap, as now it is perched over you, mouth open, saliva dripping from its osseous cavity, claws digging into you like razors. You turn and see more creatures emerging from the darkness, wrong things, skeletons appearing as though they were sculpted without care or reference or understanding for human anatomy, gnashing their teeth and whipping their long dark tongues across their nonexistent lips. Now you're all screaming, living and dead alike.

Can you think of anything more frightening?

Surviving the Dead

Do not approach them. Do not touch them. Certainly never try to bury them. Don't treat them like dead bodies. They find the customs with which we treat our dead particularly odious, so under no means should you try and honor them as you would a fallen comrade or stranger. You can identify them by their uncanny perfection, and their even more uncanny flaws. They look like perfect model skeletons to someone who hasn't seen very many skeletons, basically. Spells that target dead bodies are a no go. No raising, no speaking with, and absolutely no resurrection. They have never been alive, this is for good reason. Just don't try it. 

They're tenacious, more so than normal undead. Skeletons are fragile, these guys are not. They can take quite a beating before they become nonfunctional, and they don't feel pain, nor do they fear any sort of end you could bring to them. Each one is unique in some way, sometimes in small ways, sometimes in particularly massive ones. Keep an eye on the weird looking ones, they tend to be the proverbial alphas of their crypts. They're all quite fast when they want to be, never take your eyes off of them. When you look back, they'll be somewhere else. Finally, remember they travel in packs. Very rarely will you only find one all on its own; there are definitely more around, you just can't see them yet. 

Chainlink #4: 1d4 Weird Martial Orders

#1: Disciples of the Grandmaster

They practice a style of swordsmanship known as the way of the ape, the only way to truly learn it is to observe the style of swordsmanship that the kobolds have developed, and to internalize its brutality. They fight with a frantic, acrobatic energy, favoring arboreal environments so that they may jump from tree to tree, outmaneuvering their opponents in a three dimensional space. Each practitioner is scarred many times over, from sparring matches with kobolds and each other. When kobolds fight amongst one another, the loser will often come away with a wound that sets into a scar, serving as a reminder of their place within the pack's hierarchy. To the mortal swordsmen who emulate the kobolds, these scars are the lessons dolled out by their feral teachers that they never forget; every warrior can tell you exactly how he earned each of his scars from head to toe. Scars dispensed by the Grandmaster himself are especially grisly and especially treasured. Each swordsman who learns the way of the ape hopes to one day duel with the Grandmaster himself, to see their skill utterly dwarfed by the instinct and form of the wild beast, and one day, to achieve the same sort of uninhibited perfection.

They are not a formal order and have no aspirations to be one, for their teachers are the wild beasts of Kei Laori. A disciple will recognize another of their order by their scars and the subtle differences in their postures. Friendly, acrobatic duels are common, usually resulting in a new scar for one of the participants, followed by a lot of laughter and alcohol. Their swords tend to be simple and slightly curved to match the kobold's Laorian blades. These swordsmen take great pride in their blades, preserving them for as long as possible. When a sword has passed the point of repair, it is common for its wielder to perform a "sword funeral," an emergent practice developed by the first warriors to study the kobolds. Sword funerals involve some delicate scarification of the forearm with the blade, to remember its' legacy, followed by its burial and copious consumption of alcohol.

#2:Order of the River

A mystery cult dedicated to the goddess Sathi. They were once a monastic order as feared as they were respected, now only the fear remains. They practice bloodletting, cultivating leeches to extract weak blood from the body to increase their strength. Upon initiation, their warriors are given a longsword of middling quality. The longsword will be the only weapon they are allowed to use. As they spar it will chip and break, wearing down over months and years of careful use. By the time a warrior ends their training, the sword will be gone, and useless to them, for the warriors of the River cut men with their open hands. It has been called a sort of spell, blunt and simple, mastered over years of meditation on severance, division. The words to the spell are in their breath, in their hands, in their posture, so great and forceful, so terribly plain and brutal, that when they speak their intent, the universe would not dare to do anything but obey, and so when a Disciple of the River wishes for something to be cut, it is cut clean and true.

Those of the Order do not have a common uniform for they practice in secret, though small runic tattoos at certain points along their body (wrists, ankles, base of the skull) are common. The tattoos represent vital energy and killing intent, such sigils are often found on weapons of Athic cultures. The marking of one's body with said symbols clearly delineates oneself as a weapon. These warriors are often used as assassins due to their detachment from public life and skill in dealing death, they just as often become mercenaries, and on rare occasions bodyguards. A large number eventually head south into the Gray Frost on Death Pilgrimages, determined to fight against the demonic hordes until their inevitable death/awakening.

#3: The Tortoise Riders

There is a rare species of tortoise (or terrapin, as the internet tells me I should call them, since they are semi-aquatic) within the far reaches of the Tengan Empire, which can grow to be exceptionally large, nearly the size of a horse. They live their lives in rivers, slowly migrating with the flow of the current, laying their eggs in low lying wetlands and ponds, never traveling far from the water. They live and age slowly, it is said some can live for nearly three or four centuries. They are often associated with an order of monks referred to as Tortoise Riders, who live their lives tending to their flocks of giant tortoises in quiet isolation. The tortoises tolerate the monks, who, true to their name, tend to ride along their backs as they migrate. They are tolerated because they are generally quiet, they ward off predators, and they assist their small herd in finding food, on occasion. The life of a Tortoise Rider is, of course, very, very, slow. They spend most of their time growing semi-aquatic gardens of moss and algae on the shells of their flock, which are pruned to form beautiful patterns which will fade over time as the moss regrows, or is washed away by the currents of the river. They write poetry and philosophical treatises, chart the stars in their area, observe the wildlife around them for years and years in near solitude. A Tortoise Rider will likely be one of the single most knowledgeable people you can find regarding their local area.

Every three years during springtime, mating season begins, correlating with most of the tortoises' arrival in a swamp known as the Great Basin. Here, their slow, plodding nature is shed, and their lifeblood quickens. They grow aggressive, eager to prove themselves worthy of a mate, sparring amongst one another with fervor and zeal. So too are the riders spurred to action, their herds grow weary of their presence in such a state, and so they congregate with other riders, trading knowledge and conversation. Every breeding season there is a great tournament amongst the monks, who battle one another with the gently curved spears they use to help herd their flocks and cut through thick vegetation. Their quiet and meditative nature is pushed aside for a season, as they battle one another with the fury of mortal enemies, then get drunk and laugh about their battle later that night. They're a jovial bunch, during the tournament, and outsiders are welcome to watch the proceedings, and especially encouraged to buy or trade with the monks. Monks uninterested in or incapable of the combat of their brethren spend their time administering this trade, and carving the tortoise shells of fallen flock members into memorial pieces, which are hung together from a great tree at the center of the basin. Surrounding the memorial tree is a monastery, where those unable to participate in the nomadic lifestyle preserve the knowledge of their order in their old age. When the wind blows through the basin, the monastery is filled with the dull hollow knocking of the tortoise shells in the breeze, a solemn sort of windchime.

#4: Lich Knights of Queen Catharine

A knightly order in service to Lich Queen Catharine of Uraza, Saint of the Dead, sworn to protect Uraza and its interests in Kithe. They are recruited exclusively from the noble families of the city's Great Houses, typically they are the second or third born, ineligible to inherit a role at the head of their house. Lich Knights receive equal training in the ways of magic, hand to hand combat, and war. In conquests they are the ones who command Uraza's skeletal armies, leading their unbreaking hordes of the dead in the name of their glorious queen. Undead soldiers are capable of brutal tactics not accessible to living soldiers, and they know no fear. Their sole weakness lies in their commanding mage, who, should they be killed or incapacitated, would be unable to command their otherwise tactless soldiers. When fighting against Uraza, this is far easier said than done; most warriors are a bit surprised to realize the necromancer they must eliminate is not a pallid man with a sunken face and frail body, but a knight in steel plate swinging a broadsword around like it's a yo-yo. Lich Knights receive a fair amount of training in anti-undead warfare, of course, as skirmishes between outlying houses and rebellious sects of necromancers are not unheard of. They have the frightening ability to commandeer undead, asserting their will over that of their enemy. When such tactics fail, their next best plan is to create an opening with their skeletons so that they might charge into the fray and deal with the enemy necromancer themselves.

As members of the noble families of Uraza, Lich Knights are entitled to most of the corpses they have lawfully killed, though some are owed to the crown as tribute (After a war or conquest of some sort, it is customary that a knight share some of their hard earned grave-treasure with their Queen, disregarding this tradition is an absolute no-go). Amongst the knights, when tensions arise, duels are commonplace, in the event of a death, the winner of the duel is typically allowed to command their foe's corpse for a handful of years, before returning it to their enemy's family. Intentionally destroying a noble's corpse is a grave crime, and loss or destruction of the body typically incurs a heavy fine; restitution is taken very seriously in these cases. Eventually most knights retire, so to speak, finding themselves a plot of land where they can build a nice house and raise a family. Their skeletons may be donated to a niece or nephew who intends to take up the cleaving-blade for their Queen, but just as often, they are stripped of their spears and armor, and put to work farming cabbages.