Lords of RPG

The ancient catacombs beneath the city of Garmon ran for miles beneath the city.  Twisting and turning, the stone tunnels wound from one large and impressive chamber to another.  Every wall was stacked with bone.  Much of it sorted by type. 

The walls in one tunnel were stacked floor to ceiling with thigh bones, and the next tunnel was completely lined by loosely stacked pelvic bones.  Most of the large chambers featured fanciful sculptures formed from bones...or massive piles of skulls...or a floor carefully paved in a herringbone pattern made of human ribs.

Normally, these Catacombes de Finalité were as silent as a grave.  Other than a few memorial days throughout the year, the only visitors were rats and those who did not wish to be found by the law.

But, this night was different.  The sound of multiple pairs of footsteps could be heard echoing among the bones.  Listening closely, one could hear one visitor stepped heavily and awkwardly.  Other visitor took a strong step, followed by foot he dragged behind.  Some of the footsteps were halting and uncertain.  Others were accompanied by the sound of something scraping on the floor underfoot.

A dark shadow of a man came into view.  He held one arm out perpetually in front of him, while the other swung limply at his side.  From another tunnel, a pale figure, naked and dirty walked stiffly, without bending her knees.  A closer inspection would reveal that all the visitors on this night, were undead.  In various states of decomposition, and some more intact than others.

The smell of rotting flesh and grave mold filled the Catacombes de Finalité, as these soulless bastards ploded forward, converging on the Hall of Lords.  A large domeshaped chamber, there were 25 ornate chairs arranged in a circle around the room.  They once held the corpses of the city's elite.  But nothing now remained of these great men except piles of bone and rotten clothing scattered about the floor.

It was into this chamber that the stumbling dead gathered.  At first, they wandered, bumping into one another, issuing a growl or breathy moan, and then limped on randomly around the room.  But then some small changed happened.  One of the undead seemed to straighten up, throwing his shoulders back, and raising his head to look straight ahead.  This singular undead walked to the nearest chair in the circle, sat down gently, and crossed his legs.  His eyes became wet, and clear, and alive.  "Sit down gentlemen, let's get on with it."

The eyes of one of the other wandering dead came alive, looking about.  Then the eyes of two more.  And then then rest.  All of them dead men with living eyes, and new-found purpose.  

Each of them made their way to a chair in the circle, sat down, and made themselves comfortable in a way that the undead never do.  Twenty-five dead, sitting in council, their living eyes looking one to another.

A skeletal figure, more bone than flesh spoke in a raspy voice.  "Are we sure this newcomer fits the bill?  We only get one chance at this.  I need assurances."

A naked rotting female smiled, and then spoke in a dry whisper, "I do find this whole plan to be utterly delicious.  Succeed or fail, just the poetry of it makes it worth it."

The first undead to have taken his seat spoke up again.  "We shall not fail.  And let me assure you that he is perfect.  Absolutely perfect.  A simple-minded zeolot.  He's desperate for a friend...a mentor who shares his love of Rukin and death.  And I have taken on that role.  I've planted the seed, and I believe with proper motivation, he will do our bidding.  The bolt is loaded, and I must simply pull the trigger.  Even now, he believes that Februus Morrigan does the bidding of the hedge-necromancers."  A wry laugh issued from his rotten mouth, and the room erupted in unnatural choking laughter.

A bloated corpse, more liquid than flesh gurgled out, "How brilliant.  Convincing the little man, that killing our rival will stop us.  And all the while, he's working directly for his enemies.  This was your idea, was it not Germain?  Here, here man!  Well done!"

A grave corpse, covered in mud and fungus, with bright glistening eyes nodded.  "It was my idea.  And when this pays off, and our master is among the Six where he belongs -- as reward for my efforts, I reserve the right to kill this Sympos myself.  None other may take this pleasure from me."

A chorus of "Here, here," rose up from the twenty-four other corpses.

The first corpse to sit down raised a rotten hand to quiet the crowd.  "Our move is imminent.  We will not fail.  This meeting is dismissed."

And like a candle had been snuffed, the life faded from the eyes of all the undead in the room.  After a moment of utter silence, first one, and then another, climbed laboriously from their chair, and shambled off randomly into the darkness.