Eldritch Guidance-Chapter 140- Necromancers In A Graveyard

Deep within the heart of an ancient, mist-shrouded forest lay a vast and forgotten graveyard, its existence erased from the memory of the living. Thick, ghostly fog curled between crumbling headstones and rusted iron fences, their once-proud structures now twisted and broken by decades of neglect. No mourners came to this place—no candles were lit, no prayers whispered. It was a realm of silence, decay, and the restless dead.

Yet tonight, the graveyard was not empty.

Perched atop a weathered tombstone, his tattered black robes fluttering faintly in the damp breeze, sat Vrax—a necromancer of peculiar habits. His fingers drummed idly against the cold stone as he swung one leg back and forth, his feet scuffing against the moss-covered surface. From his lips came a cheerful, lilting whistle, a jaunty tune that clashed grotesquely with the horrors unfolding just beneath him.

Three reanimated corpses—their flesh pallid and peeling, their eyes hollow voids of hunger—crouched in the dirt, their twisted forms hunched over the mutilated remains of Vrax’s latest victim. Unlike most necromancers, who relied on rot slime to strip flesh from bone, Vrax preferred a far more visceral method. His undead servants were not just mere puppets; they were ravenous beasts, and he saw no reason to deny the undead nature he had imbued them with.

With wet, tearing sounds, the creatures feasted, their jagged teeth sinking into muscle and sinew, their bony fingers clawing at the meat as if starved for centuries. Blood and gore smeared their lipless mouths, their grotesque chewing filling the air with a nauseating chorus of crunches and slurps. They ate with frantic, unnatural hunger, as though some lingering shred of mortal gluttony still tormented their cursed existence.

Vrax watched with mild amusement, his crimson eyes gleaming in the gloom.

Vrax: "Efficient, isn't it?" he mused aloud, though none of his mindless creations could answer. "No waiting for slime to do its work. No wasted effort. Just... natural decomposition." He chuckled, the sound as dry as the bones scattered around him.

Somewhere in the distance, a lone crow cawed, as if in protest. Vrax ignored it.

The woman’s voice cut through the damp, heavy air of the graveyard—a fragile, trembling sound, teetering between terror and despair.

Woman: "Pleaseeee..."

Not far from where Vrax lounged upon his gravestone perch, a young woman struggled against her grim restraints. Her fair skin was smeared with dirt and sweat, her chestnut hair tangled and damp with mist. The simple homespun fabric of her dress was torn in places, evidence of a futile struggle. But what truly held her captive was far more horrifying than mere rope or chain.

Coiled around her torso and limbs—wrapped tight enough to bruise—were the interlinked spinal cords of the long-dead, fused together into a sinuous, bonelike serpent. The unnatural bindings pulsed faintly with corruptive energy, their vertebrae shifting and tightening like the constricting grip of some skeletal python. One end of the grisly chain wound around the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak, while the other curled possessively around her throat, not quite choking her—yet—but leaving no doubt that escape was impossible.

Woman: "I-I beg you," she gasped, her voice breaking. "Let me go. Please! I swear, I won’t tell anyone about you—about any of this!" Her wide, bloodshot eyes darted between Vrax and the feasting undead, her breath coming in short, panicked hitches. "I have a family! A little brother and sister! They—they need me! Please, just—"

Vrax’s whistling continued, uninterrupted. The cheerful melody danced over the wet sounds of tearing flesh and the woman’s ragged sobs, as if her pleas were nothing more than the distant buzzing of an insect.

Was he deaf to her suffering? Lost in thought? Or simply indifferent?

It was impossible to say.

The necromancer’s gaze flicked toward her for the briefest of moments—a glance so casual it was almost insulting—before he resumed his idling. The undead feasted. The woman wept. And Vrax?

He just kept whistling.

The graveyard had fallen into an eerie rhythm—the wet, crunching sounds of the undead feasting, the woman’s desperate whimpers, and Vrax’s cheerful whistling weaving together into a symphony of the macabre. Then, after another ten minutes of this grim harmony, something shifted.

A footstep.

Then another.

The crunch of dead leaves underfoot.

Vrax’s whistling stopped mid-note, his lips curling into a wide, knowing grin.

Vince: "Ah, good. You're already here."

Emerging from the thick mist like a shadow given form was Vince—Vrax’s partner in crime, a fellow artist. Clad in the same tattered black robes, he moved with an unsettling grace, his presence as cold as the grave itself. His face was unremarkable—black hair, sharp features—but one detail stood out: a sleek black eyepatch now covered his left eye, a new addition since their last meeting.

Woman: "Is someone there? Please, help me!" the woman cried, her voice raw with desperation.

From where she was, bound and trembling, she couldn’t see Vince—only hear his voice. And in her terror, she latched onto it like a lifeline, unaware that the man she was pleading with was far more monstrous than the one who had captured her. If she had seen him—if she had known who he was, the things he had done—her blood would have run colder than the grave dirt beneath her.

Vince turned toward Vrax, his remaining eye glinting with intrigue.

Vince: "I didn’t know you were bringing someone?"

Vrax blinked, then let out a short, careless laugh, as if he’d just remembered a trivial errand.

Vrax: "Oh! I completely forgot about that."

With a theatrical flourish, he hopped down from the gravestone and sauntered over to the woman. A flick of his wrist, and the serpentine spine binding her slithered away, its vertebrae clicking as it retreated into the earth. She collapsed onto her knees, gasping, her body trembling from exhaustion and terror.

Vrax bent down, bringing his face level with hers. His smile stretched unnaturally wide, his crimson eyes burning with something between amusement and madness.

Vrax: "You’re free to go," he purred. "I suggest you leave before I change my mind. Now."

The woman didn’t hesitate. She scrambled to her feet, her breath coming in ragged bursts, and then—she ran. Her figure disappeared into the mist, swallowed by the forest’s oppressive gloom.

Vince watched her go, then turned to Vrax, one eyebrow arched in silent question.

Vince: "You just let her go?" his tone was flat, but the curiosity beneath was unmistakable.

Before another word could be spoken, a bloodcurdling scream tore through the mist—the woman's voice, shrill with fresh terror.

Woman: "AHHHH!" It was followed by the wet, guttural moans of more undead, their hungry echoes slithering through the fog.

Vrax didn't even turn his head. He simply smiled, slow and satisfied, before glancing at Vince.

Vrax: "I was in the neighborhood, looking for the bones of a maiden given false hope."

Vince let out a low chuckle, the sound rich with dark amusement.

Vince: "Ooooh. I see." His remaining eye gleamed with approval. It was a cruel punchline to a joke only they understood.

His gaze then drifted toward the undead still feasting nearby, their skeletal fingers clawing at sinew, their jaws working methodically through flesh.

Vince: "I see you're still using the undead to clean the bones instead of rot slime."

Vrax: "It’s faster," he said with a shrug.

Vince: "Also wasteful," he countered, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "The undead always crack the bones trying to get at the marrow. Half of them end up useless."

Vrax waved a dismissive hand.

Vrax: "Ah, but you see—with skill, you can direct them to strip the flesh without damaging the bones." He smirked. "It’s all in the control."

Vince let out a dry, rasping laugh.

Vince: "Hmm. Sounds like too much work. You’re the only necromancer I know who does it this way."

Vrax: "Then perhaps I’ll show you one day," he replied, his grin widening. "You might even come to appreciate my method. It’s much faster than waiting for slime to do the work."

Vince shook his head, folding his arms with the air of a master sculptor regarding a child splashing in clay.

Vince: "You youngsters are always rushing things rather than taking your time," he chided, his voice dripping with condescension. "Savor the process, Vrax. Let the artistry breathe."

Vrax rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "

Vrax: “Spoken like someone who takes days to kill somebody."

Vince's lips curled into a thin, knowing smile.

Vince: "Of course it takes me a while. The essence of art is suffering. If you kill your subject too quickly, they can’t properly marinate in their despair. And what is art without depth? Without texture?"

Vrax: "Oh, here we go," he groaned, rubbing his temples as if warding off an oncoming headache.

Undeterred, Vince pressed on, gesturing dramatically with one hand.

Vince: "Don’t you agree that we must capture the essence of true artistry in our works? The bones I use must come from those who have suffered exquisitely. The art should reflect the agony of its creation—both the subject and the artist must endure!"

Vrax exhaled sharply through his nose.

Vrax: "Sure, suffering has its place. But there's more to art than just torment, my friend. What about spontaneity? Chaos? The raw, unpredictable beauty of the moment?"

Vince: "Bah!" he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Your surprises are amusing, I’ll grant you that. But spectacle alone is not substance. Art requires discipline. Intentionality."

Vrax threw up his hands in mock surrender.

Vrax: "Spontaneity can be intentional. But fine, whatever. I’m not having this debate with you again. Unlike some of us, I actually have duties to attend to—not to mention preparations for the next exhibition."

Vince let out a dry chuckle, his fingers tapping idly against the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

Vince: "Sounds like Wil Valworx has you running around with your head chopped off."

Vrax sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Vrax: "He does keep me busy."

Vince: "Ugh," he groaned, rolling his remaining eye. "How did you go from being a student of Ardien to that condescending bastard’s errand boy?"

Vrax: "You might not like him," he countered, "but his artistic vision is revolutionary. Besides—" He waved a hand, cutting off the inevitable retort. "—we’ve gotten off track. About that eye… is that the result of your task?"

Vince: "This?" He tapped the black leather eyepatch. "This was payment for the Fateweavers."

Vrax: "Oh? So they asked for an eye in exchange for explaining why the bone readings are off?"

Vince: "Not exactly."

With a flicker of sickly yellow energy, Vince reached into the shadowy folds of his storage space and withdrew a lantern—its glass murky, its glow an ominous, pulsating gold. Inside, a faint silhouette writhed, its form twisting against the confines of its prison.

Vince: "Here," he said, handing it over. "The soul of one of their head matrons. She can explain what’s going on better than I can."

Vrax took the lantern, his fingers brushing against the warm metal. The trapped soul inside recoiled at his touch.

Vrax: "I see you got into a fight with them," he mused.

Vince: "No," he corrected, his tone almost offended. "It’s payment. They had one of a kind bones. Ones I just had to have. So, they can’t say I never suffer for my art."

Vrax arched a brow.

Vrax: "Still sounds like you killed them and took their bones to me."

Vince: "Well, yes," he admitted with a shrug. "But I couldn’t make them suffer properly before I collected them. Time was short." He sighed wistfully. "Still, I think they’ll work for my next piece. They’re bones were particularly…unique."

Vrax leaned in with a mischievous glint in his eye, his fingers drumming against the soul lantern's warm surface. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

Vrax: "Oooh, come on—can't you give me just a little hint about what you're working on?"

Vince folded his arms, his lips curling into a smirk.

Vince: "You'll have to wait until the exhibition. Besides, I thought you were the artist who always preached that true art should be a surprise. Why would I spoil it now?"

Vrax: "Hmph. I suppose you got me there," he conceded, though his grin didn't fade. "Fine, keep your secrets. But at least let me help with that eye. I’m excellent at necromantic transplants—could get you a fresh one from some unwilling donor, make it look and function good as new."

Vince let out a dry chuckle, touching his eyepatch almost fondly.

Vince: "Vrax, you really should learn to listen. I said I intend to suffer for my art, and suffer I shall. If I wanted a replacement, I could’ve done it myself. But this wound… the pain is exhilarating. It’s fueling me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Every throb is a spark for my next masterpiece."

Vrax rolled his eyes again but didn’t press further.

Vrax: "Very well, martyr. If you won’t give me a hint about your next piece or help out with that eye, at least tell me what you learned from her." He shook the lantern slightly, making the trapped soul inside flicker in agitation.

Vince waved a dismissive hand.

Vince: "Eh, nothing too interesting. Just some cosmic nonsense. The old End Time prophecy shifted, and now all forms of divination are completely unreliable. That’s why bone readings, star charts, and visions are useless now."

Vrax: "Ohhh," he murmured, snapping his fingers. "That explains why the Seers of Argon haven’t been seen. I thought they’d just finally died of boredom."

Vince: "Exactly. And, the closer we get to whatever new apocalypse is brewing, the more divination fails. The bones aren’t lying—they just can’t see anymore."

Vrax: "So… what are the changes?"

Vince shrugged.

Vince: "That’s the kicker—no one knows. Not even the Fateweavers. The future isn’t just unclear; it’s unwritten. This new prophecy is still forming, and from what I gathered, it’s going to be… open-ended. No set path. No predetermined ending. Just pure, delicious chaos."

For a moment, Vrax went completely still.

Then, his entire body began to tremble—not with fear, but with rapture.

Vrax: "You're telling me… the future is completely unknown now?" he breathed, his voice trembling with barely contained glee.

Vince’s smirk widened.

Vince: "Yup. Even the gods are blind."

A beat of silence.

Then—

Vrax: "HAHAHAHA!"

Vrax threw his head back and howled with laughter, the sound echoing through the graveyard like a mad chorus. The undead nearby twitched at the noise, as if disturbed by the sheer joy in his mania.

Vrax: "That means we can shock and awe even the gods with our art now!" he crowed, clutching his stomach as if he might burst from excitement. "No fate! No rules! Just us—and whatever creations we choose to unleash!"

Vince couldn’t help but chuckle.

Vince: “I thought you might like that.”

Vrax: "Oh, this is beautiful," he gasped, wiping a tears of joy from his eye. "The canvas is blank. The audience is clueless. And the show?" He spread his arms wide, his grin feral. "It’s going to be legendary."

Vince: "Anyways," he said with a dismissive wave, "you said you were busy, so I’ll leave you to it." He turned to leave, his robes whispering against the damp earth as he prepared to return to his latest grotesque masterpiece.

But Vrax, still riding the high of manic revelation, managed to reel himself in just enough to call out.

Vrax: "Wait! Vince—there’s something else."

Vince paused. Then, slowly, he turned back—and for the first time since their conversation began, his expression darkened into something dangerous. A scowl twisted his features, his remaining eye burning with cold fury.

Vince: "I’m not Wil’s dog," he spat. "You can tell him to fuck off. When I dethrone him at the next exhibition, I’ll collect that bastard’s bones and turn them into a toilet."

Vrax held up his hands in mock surrender.

Vrax: "Come now, Vince, my friend—"

Vince: "No," Vince cut in, his voice a blade of ice. "I only tolerated that last order from Wil because you asked me—and because you were a student of my dear friend Ardien. Otherwise, I would’ve added your bones to my collection the moment you opened your mouth to deliver that bastard's orders. So don’t. Push. It."

Vrax didn’t flinch. Instead, his grin only widened.

Vrax: "Please, friend, calm down. This isn’t Wil’s request. It’s mine. And think of it less as a favor… and more as a reward."

Vince exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching as if already itching to wrap around a throat.

Vince: "...What is it?"

Vrax: "There’s someone I need you to kill," he said smoothly. "And I want his bones."

Vince scoffed.

Vince: "If you want someone dead, do it yourself."

Vrax: "Normally, I would. But, I have pressing business in the Sloan Republic. Time-sensitive, unfortunately."

Vince: "Still not my problem," he muttered, turning away again.

Vrax: "Ah, but you might find it interesting who I want dead."

With a theatrical flourish, he reached into the folds of his robes and produced a sealed envelope, thick with documents. He held it out, letting the weight of its contents dangle between them like bait.

Vince hesitated. Then, with a sigh that was more growl than breath, he stalked back and snatched the envelope from Vrax’s grasp. He tore it open with impatient fingers, his eye scanning the pages with quick, hungry movements.

As he read, his annoyed scowl faltered. Then twisted. Then—

Vince: "Oh."

A slow, wicked smile spread across his face, the kind that promised suffering in its purest form.

Vince: "I see why you called this a reward. You should’ve led with this."

Vrax’s grin matched his.

Vrax: "So, do we have a deal?"

Vince didn't answer immediately. The graveyard's mist curled between them like a living thing as he carefully folded the documents, the parchment whispering against his skeletal fingers. When he finally tucked them into the shadowed depths of his robes, the movement was deliberate—final. His remaining eye locked onto Vrax's with a gaze so cold it could have frozen the blood in a lesser man's veins.

Vince: "Unfortunately," he murmured, his voice like gravel dragged over ice, "I want that bastard's bones as well."

Vrax tilted his head, considering. The lantern's sickly glow painted his sharp features in jaundiced light as the trapped soul within twisted in silent agony.

Vrax: "I only need the head for my art piece," he countered, tapping one finger against his temple. "The rest is... negotiable."

A slow, predatory grin spread across Vince's face—the kind of smile a spider might give a fly caught in its web.

Vince: "Tell you what," he said, stepping closer until the scent of grave dirt and old blood clung to the space between them. "You clean the flesh from that bastard's bones for me... properly, not that rushed butchery you call a technique... and you can have the head. The rest of him?" A shrug, casual as a death sentence. "Is mine."

Vrax extended a hand, his grin mirroring Vince's in its vicious delight.

Vrax: "Deal."

Their hands clasped—a pact sealed in something far heavier than blood. Somewhere far beyond the mist, someone still walked, still breathed, still believed themselves safe.

The artists were coming.

And they would never leave their canvases unfinished.