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[The Distinguished Mr. Rose] Chapter 75: Night of the Living Dead
🕑 Added 2025-06-25 00:00:08 +0000 UTC———
Nameless Paladin
The time is currently twenty-three hundred hours, fifth day of Arboursmonth, 1324 A.D of the Imperial Calendar. We have made great progress into the lands untamed. Sir Renaud the Peer of Stratagem has ordered us to make encampment here for the night, right on the border of Sleepy Hollow. I and the others of my regiment obey, but I must admit there is an unease that chills my spine, growing colder the longer we stay.
This land is both somber, and haunting. To witness personally the graveyard of my fellows gives me no joy; and yet there is a certain beauty I cannot fully explain. The endless field of shattered blade and armor, the gentle stillness where once battle raged to deafening heights, and the two suns casting all in a sanctified violet hue… I am not a poetic man, but how can a paladin of Francia abstain from feeling such emotion rise within them when met with proof of our seniors’ honorable sacrifice?
I was not yet of maturity when his late Holiness, Pepin the Depraved Sunderer of Heaven and Earth, left for the Woods of Alberon to seek aid from the Beast Lord. Man and Creature have warred against each other since time unknowable; however, when faced against the rising demonic tide, even our bestial neighbors found themselves waning in territory. The emperor was strong, but even he felt his limits then. His solution to ending our plight was to form an alliance with the primordial hunter.
I remember how our people hesitated at his proposal, for how could we be certain that such an ancient thing would turn friend, rather than foe? I doubt there exists a soul in our nation who hasn’t heard the old fairy tales. ‘Beware that which lurks unseen, the scourge, the bringer of night’ the nannies would sing to us. ‘The ancient one is always watching. It snatches those who misbehave, and devours naughty little children with a snicker-snack of its teeth and maw. Good kids listen to their parents. Otherwise… you just might find yourself spirited away to the Beast Lord’s domain.’
Even as a full-grown man well into his twenties, I still shudder at those stories. The Beast Lord is a being unfathomable to us of the Lord’s children. Yet, his late Holiness was undeterred. He commanded that my seniors accompany him and spoke confidently of his inevitable success. I was but a young trainee. I didn’t dare to question nor pry deeper into the motivations of those above me, but I couldn’t help but feel something was amiss. It was as if someone had lulled him into undertaking this dubious quest.
How curious, then, that I would now retrace the steps of my departed fellows. I was not forced into joining Expedition Argo. Quite the contrary, I volunteered despite the uncertainty of our mission. Why? I am not sure myself. Whether the Beast Lord even exists at all cannot be known for certain. I do not care to encounter it, nor am I naive enough to believe that a solution to slaying the demons for good will somehow be found in the elder woods. The other paladins among my troupe share the same sentiment. And yet we march, and fight, nonetheless.
We come from all sorts of backgrounds. Some belong to Sir Ganelon’s faction and were ordered to assist his nephew, while others are like me, led on by a momentary lapse in judgement. Or perhaps it is curiosity? To see the wider world, to explore that which lies beyond our borders.
Regardless, we are here now, and so all that is left to do is survive and see that which the morrow brings.
My duties for today are simple. I am to set up the campfire, and so I jump onto the supply carriage and bring out the logs already stripped of ridges. Normally I would also need to assemble a pit, but those curious otherworlders summoned by our Lord have already constructed a number of our facilities. It is a strange thing to watch their magics. They do not need to chant or pray, nor do they rely on the crystals from which we draw power. Instead they merely conjure objects from thin air. It is very convenient, and so, only a few minutes pass before I am left with no other responsibilities besides watching the fire.
The heroes have even crafted a chair for me. If one were to tell my past self that I would experience such comfort whilst out in the wilderness, I would have called them mad. The Holy Order has spared no effort in training us to endure the ruggedness of nature. Now that training is obsolete, and I am given rest to partake in comfort and leisure, as well as sip on refreshing beverages handed out by that stylish gentleman they call Sir Lucius. It once bothered me that one unknowing in our ways would be given the title of captain, but I have come to know him as a good man. He and the other heroes as well.
It is toward the end of the night, when all have begun to take up their blankets, that Sir Lucius approaches me and the campfire while holding a wrapped bouquet soaked in oil. He claims them to be flowers of the wetlands, and that their scent contains relaxing properties that shall help ease our slumber. I remember seeing a few growing from the marshes. Who am I to refuse such a considerate gesture? And so I watch as he throws the bouquet into the fire and fans the resulting smoke until it wafts all throughout our camp.
Indeed, it is as he says. No sooner do I take a breath that my muscles loosen, and the aches and sores I have endured all throughout the day quickly disappear, replaced by a numbing feeling of bliss. My body grows heavy, and I utter a small yawn.
The gentleman nods his head in satisfaction, saying, “Now doesn’t feel better? Sweet dreams, my friend” before bidding me farewell and leaving.
I head toward the barracks, where soft beds and pillows await, courtesy of the otherworlders’ generosity. They are a kind bunch. The other paladins have warned me to stay clear of them, but I see no reason why we must act with such caution. They will not remain in this land after the Demon King’s fall, anyways.
Thus, with our destination soon upon us, I close my eyes and finally drift to sleep.
It is not long before I jump up, covered in a cold sweat.
Something is… wrong. I do not know why. The others are still asleep, unaware, but I can feel the creeping encroach of dread. What is it? What has alerted me, so?
I drop to the floor like a man obsessed and slam my ear into the dirt. I can hear it: a sound. Scratching. It is faint, hardly noticeable, but the longer I listen the louder, and more frantic, it becomes. It claws from underneath, yearning to be set free.
My face pales and I leap back in terror. It is coming. Something is coming. My head swerves towards my comrades, but they do not react. Can they not hear that sound? Clawing, burrowing, digging into my brain. I grasp my throat and try to breathe, to calm down, but it is no use. My blood boils like a river of flame.
My instincts scream at me to move, and so I don my armor and hold tight the handle of my spear. Whatever lurks beneath, I will be ready. They will not catch me unaware.
I try to wake the others. I push and pull, even slap the side of their cheeks, but still they have yet to utter a single word. What has become of them? Should I rush to find help? I consider rushing out of the room; however, what if my fellows are attacked whilst I’m gone? The scratching is getting louder. I can hardly think without its incessant hiss plaguing my every moment.
It is when I can endure the sound no longer… that it disappears. Gone without a trace, as if it never existed to begin with. I let out a sigh of relief and collapse onto my knees. Perhaps it was just a trick of the mind - my stress reaching its extent.
I close my trembling fist and stand back up. Some fresh air would do me some good, and I turn around to leave the room.
But something stops me in my place. How odd, why does my ankle feel wet? It feels dirty, and grimy, as if a piece of wet sludge has crept onto my skin.
I look down, only to discover a rotting hand rising up from the ground.
My hands move faster than I can reach, and I stab at the thing with my spear, repeatedly, again and again with every bit of my strength. But my efforts accomplish naught but frustration. I see my weapon pierce its brown abscess-covered scabs, and yet it merely passes through without any resistance.
I jerk back and manage to wretch free. The scratching won’t stop. Itching, itching. The hand turns toward me, and it ascends, revealing a flayed arm, a shoulder, and then a head. Or would it be more accurate to call it a skull? I cannot tell, for exposed pieces of bone jut out from beneath a dripping mold of meat, which hangs sloppily from thin strands of sinew. It is more horrid than anything I have ever witnessed before. And yet what frightens me the most is not this abomination of meat, but the attire it wears. The emblems on its rusted armor.
It is the banner of Francia. These things are the living corpses of our countrymen.
If I am to brave these horrors, I refuse to do it alone. I tackle the corpse, sending it crashing down, and I rush to my sleeping peers and yell at the top of my lungs.
But when I reach out to shake them, it is not their faces I see. But the corpses. More of the corpses.
I am surrounded by the dead, and there is no escape. No other place to run from their shambling, moaning groans. All I can do is take up arms and charge forward. These things will not take me. Even if I am to fall today, I shall bring as many down as I can.
I beseech you, my God, o’ heavenly Mother… give me the strength to tear down these bygone wraiths. For so long as the paladins’ spirit dwells inside me, I shall triumph over any foe.
Fear not, my comrades. I will protect you all.
———
To Lucius’s surprise, the Belikorn Flower turned out to be much more potent than he expected. The gentleman stood at the camp’s edge and watched on as a scenery of carnage unfolded before him. Paladins and priests alike screamed out, delirious, raving mad, and they wrought destruction everywhere they went, setting the camp ablaze in flame. They rambled endlessly about wraiths and ghosts and living corpses. This land was a graveyard, after all, so it was to be expected that such an environment would influence their hallucinations: conjured by their own minds. Seen through the lens of only themselves.
Theirs was a fruitless struggle, fighting an enemy that didn’t exist.
>[Sinister Dimensional Bureaucrat lets out a dark chuckle and applauds your devious scheme, before donating 200 coins]<
>[Virtual Goddess of the Wired tilts their head, confused by this odd situation. They don’t see any demons or possible enemies, so what has caused the Franks to suddenly become so enraged?]<
>[Clown Around Town says that they’re here as Number 1 Rated Salesman 1997’s proxy since the Star is currently banned. They wish to let you know that the Salesman is very entertained by your actions and donates 200 coins]<
The players, on the other hand, weren’t faring quite so harshly. Perhaps it was the result of already experiencing the Demon of Eyes’s bewitchment, for though they stumbled at first, a majority managed to recover themselves. Marco used his fiery gauntlet to singe his thigh. Mili ran an electric shock through her body. And Harper, well, wasn’t affected to begin with thanks to her composure skill.
“Aw crud, did another one of those Great Evils or whatever the heck they’re called show up?” the musician said, wincing at the chaos around her.
Marco looked around and squinted his eyes. “No, can’t be. I don’t see any demons around.”
“Must be this place itself, then,” Harper grunted. “Makes sense why there aren't any beasts nearby. I’ve seen it in some of the pups we used to help out with disasters: they can sense when something’s off before we see it.”
Now that was an interesting theory. Lucius would have been inclined to believe it… well, if he didn’t already know who was responsible. Guilty as charged!
The gentleman met up with his fellows and put forth a very convincing act of appearing confused. “Whatever has happened here?” he said with a dramatic gasp. “Dear, oh dear… perhaps we should seek help from the Peers. Surely they will know what to do about this situation.”
Mayhem, anarchy, disarray. This and all quickly spread through the camp as the Franks soon turned against each other, fighting and hurling spells without relent. If this continued, it was only a matter of time before some would breathe their last.
It was toward the far end of the camp that Lucius spotted a familiar face staggering out of a tent. Sir Renaud clutched his heart and gasped, thumping it with his trembling hands; and he would continue to do so as Lucius quickly rushed after to lend aid.
“Oh? Thank goodness you are of sound mind,” Lucius said, surprised by the good man’s sobriety. He had not the physical nor magical ability of the other Franks, so how was it that he managed to endure the flower’s hallucinations?
The answer: he didn’t.
“Lucius?” he muttered, his eyes cast in a hazy mist, and suddenly gripped onto Lucius’s arm. “This feeling… yes, you are real. You have substance unlike the phantoms of my mind.”
“So you’ve been cursed as well?” Lucius asked, emphasizing the ‘cursed’ part. He might as well start shifting the blame. This was a world of magic, after all — who was to say that curses didn’t actually exist?
“Yes,” Renaud replied, none the wiser to Lucius’s involvement. “Even now, my vision fills with naught but rotting corpses. They bite and screech as if alive, but it is of no concern. I know they are not real; therefore, they can do no real harm to me.”
Ohoh, that was interesting. The Peer hadn’t escaped the hallucinations at all. His mental fortitude was simply strong enough to ignore it.
“Are the otherworlders sane?”
“Well, mostly.” Lucius glanced behind, where the good Mister Crowley was currently struggling to prevent Mister Pierre from whacking people with his pan. “I daresay the curse afflicts those with Frankish affiliation the worst. Perhaps the grudges of all who’ve fallen here have manifested as what we see now.”
“Mm, I suppose I have heard of similar happenings in the scriptures…”
Lucius smiled innocently.
“... Regardless of the cause, we must act quickly. What of Maugris? I doubt one of his capabilities would succumb to this hex.”
“Why, he is right over there!”
Lucius pointed to the middle where Sir Maugris, the man of the hour himself, was busy prying himself free from the frenzied masses. He seemed to be looking for something. Something important.
His sceptre. It was gone.
“Lucius!” he cried, hesitantly knocking out one of his fellow paladins with a clean hook to the jaw. “Praise be for your appearance. I am afraid we will see no aid from the other Franks here. How is Renaud?”
“He is hale and hearty as can be,” Lucius shouted back. “Might you have any solutions to resolving this mess, my good sir? The players are at your beck and call if needed.”
The man cursed under his breath and dodged a rogue spell. “Subdue all those you can for now. It may be difficult, but please avoid harming them too egregiously. They are not beyond saving! If only I could just… just find my sceptre…”
“Your sceptre? Whatever do you mean?” he said, hiding back a sly grin.
“I do not know why, but it has disappeared from my dwelling. Without it I cannot cast any spells.”
The situation was looking grim for Maugris. He was by no means a man weak in physical confrontation, but a warrior’s role he was not. Ten of the delirious paladins surrounded him now, their eyes bloodshot red, and he would have suffered great many a would… were it not for Lucius’s timely assistance. The gentleman slipped between the paladins and struck the back of their necks. It did not take long before they crumbled over, unconscious.
“Impressive, you put even our greatest to shame,” Maugris said, before coughing into his hand. “Forgive my inadequacy. I wish I could be of greater help, but…”
Lucius tutted and wagged his finger. “Nonsense, surely we can think of something. What if you were to take the staff of another priest?”
The gentleman already knew the answer to that thanks to his talks with the young Karolus, but if feigning ignorance here helped pull back suspicion, then by all means he’d play the fool.
“It is not the sceptre itself I must wield,” Maugris said, “but the jewel affixed to the top. It was specially carved to match with my greater affinity for the holy arts. If I were to use another, the force would either cause the gem to shatter or even explode.”
“I see… that is a conundrum indeed.” The jewel chosath the man, rather than the other way around. It was why Sir Ogier’s blade, the Cortain, still remained locked up in the castle treasury. None else could use its properties the way he did. The same principle held true for the Balisarda which Ruggiero wielded. “So you are unable to cast any spells whatsoever?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
Lucius raised his brow, and laughed.
“Are you certain about that?”
The man paled, and he took a step back, shaking his head. “No, I… I asked you to never speak of that night again, Sir Lucius.”
“But I must, my friend. Is spellcraft without prayer truly that great of a taboo?”
“Not necessarily. Rather, it is the implication…”
“Then what of the people of the Moors? The Saracens? They do not believe in the same god, and yet they utilize the gems’ just fine.”
“That is because the gems still contain the traces of the Lord. Even without prayer, one can draw out the power nested within. Such has already been explained in the scriptures.”
“Well… if that is what you believe, then who am I to say otherwise? But regardless of the reason, this situation will only worsen the longer we hesitate. The solution is in your hands, my friend. There is no one here to judge or cast eyes upon you. Whatever happens this day shall pass by them unaware.”
Maugris clenched his fists. “Even so…”
The man was so close. His oath had imprisoned him, smothered the potential that laid within, but with enough prodding that lock had finally begun to loosen. All this effort, the hysteria, the chaos — Lucius had caused it all for the sake of this precise moment.
The moment when Maugris would step beyond that fickle thing he called faith.
“The way I see it, you have two choices,” Lucius said. “What is more important to you: the lives of your countrymen, or your servitude to scripture?”
Maugris did not reply, at first. He merely set his gaze upon the surrounding, at the bloodthirsty beasts that were once his fellows, at the players risking arm and leg to safely restrain them, and the smoky remains of what once was their camp.
Maugris closed his eyes, and whispered, “Forgive me. Forgive me.” Then, without reciting one word of prayer, he raised his hand and began to gather the powers of the world. It flocked to him without pause, growing, accumulating in size with a gluttony finally satiated after years and years of reluctance. Maugris wielded this spell now, and with a final surge, transformed it into a long golden braid of chains.
“My Lord, oh God the Almighty, ignore not my trespasses — the heresy which I now bear to protect your children. Forgive me, for I have greatly sinned. Forgive me…”
The chains broke into smaller fragments and flew forward, wrapping around each of the frenzied Franks until their limbs were tightly bound. This spell was different from the ones Lucius had seen before. Rather than outward, this one seemed to originate from within. This was a spell cast solely by man’s will.
“Well, would you look at that!” Lucius said, patting Maugris’s back for a job well done. “It seems we do not need to worry any longer, right my priestly friend.”
“... Right.” Maugris looked up to the sky, to that sea of Stars so plentiful above. All this time he had yearned to reach those unreachable heights. Now, his dreams, once thought of as no more than childish naivety, were starting to look different. They were no mere dreams anymore, but a possibility.
A realm he might one day cross.
And yet, despite it all, there was still one last truth he had yet to uncover.
“I will… go search for my sceptre,” he mumbled, lurching away with a haggard expression. “The others will find it suspicious if I do not cast without it.”
“Do you still care about how others view you?”
The man momentarily stopped, and turned his head. “Of course I do. I am still… still a priest. Even now, the Lord is with me. They have not abandoned me. I must fulfill my duties as Their child and as an officer of the faith, or else—”
He couldn’t finish that thought, or perhaps it was more that he didn’t want to.
“Very well,” Lucius said, bidding him a cheery wave. “Why don’t you check the grounds near the outpost? Perhaps you’ll find what you seek there.”
Maugris nodded and soon left. Oh dear… whatever should Lucius do with him? The man had done it. He had crossed the point of no return. But whether he would accept the truth or choose to deny it was still yet to be seen.
Well, regardless, Lucius was satisfied by this outcome. Now all he had to do was wait, and Maugris would surely bloom in due time. Who knows? It might be just around the corner.
