Deus Necros

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?”

The hunter rounded on Ludwig, his face a mask of fury and horror. Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. “We could have saved them! Helped them!”

Ludwig didn’t flinch. He simply turned his head, directing the hunter’s attention to where the flames had burned away the concealing vines. Dozens of mummified forms became visible in the flickering light—some still standing, held upright by the roots that had grown through them; others collapsed in poses of eternal agony. Their eye sockets bloomed with the same sickly roses, their mouths frozen open in silent screams.

“Yeah.” Ludwig’s voice was flat. “Do you truly believe that?”

The hunter’s face went slack. His sword arm dropped, the tip of his falchion digging into the earth as his knees threatened to buckle. “Shit,” he breathed. Then, louder: “Shit! Shit!” His head snapped up, eyes wild. “You said you’d seen this before. I’m—” A shudder ran through him. “I’m listening. Any ideas.”

For the first time, something almost like amusement flickered across Ludwig’s features. Pride and arrogance always crumbled so quickly when death came calling. “Well,” he said, surveying the nightmare around them, “since it’s just you and me…” He nodded toward the deeper forest. “How about we go farther in?”

The hunter barked a laugh that edged on hysterical. “Not a chance in hell. We’re getting to that rowboat and—”

The air whistled. Something massive and dark hurtled out of the trees, slamming into the trunk beside them with enough force to shower them in splinters. The hunter screamed—a high, undignified sound—as the wreckage of their rowboat collapsed at their feet, along with what remained of the sailor. The man’s body had been… rearranged, his limbs bent at impossible angles, his torso caved in as if by some tremendous force. His face, remarkably intact, was frozen in an expression of pure terror.

Ludwig didn’t so much as flinch. He simply looked from the wreckage to the hunter, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Do I even need to comment?”

The hunter’s breathing was ragged, his face slick with sweat. He closed his eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “Deeper into the island it is.”

Ludwig led the way, Durandal flashing in precise arcs to clear the path. Everywhere he looked, the forest watched back. The leaves trembled without wind. The flowers turned to follow their progress. Even the shadows seemed to twist in ways that defied the torchlight. It was all alive. And all of it was dead. A mockery of nature, beautiful and grotesque in equal measure.

The hunter stumbled along behind him, his breathing growing more labored with each step. “You… you hear that?” he panted, dragging his sleeve across his sweat-slick forehead.

Ludwig paused, head tilting slightly. “No. What is it?”

“It’s…” The hunter’s eyes had gone distant, his pupils dilated. “Familiar. Like a… like a lullaby.” His lips curved in a dreamy smile utterly at odds with their surroundings.

Ludwig’s hand shot out, gripping the man’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Oi. Wake up.” He gave the hunter a sharp shake. “Do you think this is a place for lullabies?” His voice dropped lower. “You’re being bewitched. Stay focused.”

The hunter blinked rapidly, some clarity returning to his gaze. “R-right,” he stammered, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Ludwig released him, his attention already shifting forward. As an undead, such petty illusions couldn’t touch him—which meant whatever the hunter heard was close. Very close. He pushed aside a curtain of hanging roots, and there, in the clearing beyond…

It knelt in the damp earth, its elongated fingers cradling nothing. The remains of a healer’s robe clung to its frame, the fabric fused to flesh in places, stained pink and brown with old blood and newer blooms. For a heartbeat, it didn’t react to their presence. Then it hummed.

The sound vibrated through Ludwig’s bones, wet and wrong—not a voice, but the scrape of thorns on bone. His grip tightened on Durandal as the thing’s chest split open with a sound like tearing parchment. Not in attack. In offering.

From the hollow within, rosebuds swelled, their petals glistening with something thicker than dew. The air grew heavy with the cloying scent of rotting lilies and fresh copper.

Slowly, deliberately, it stood. Its legs unfolded like a mantis rising, joints bending at all the wrong angles. Where a face should have been, only a seam of thorns remained, parting slightly to drip nectar. The eye sockets bloomed with tiny white roses, their roots threading through bone like veins.

Then it sang.

The sound slithered into Ludwig’s skull, not through his ears but through his very bones. He felt it like roots pushing between his thoughts, whispering in a language of damp soil and unfolding petals. His eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as he activated his power.

[Inspect]

Vassilisa’s Perturbant

Level: 85

Danger Level: 💀

HP: 85,000/85,000

Damage: 120-650

Tier: Elite Cursed

Status Effect:

[Thorn-Womb Blessing] – Regenerates 1.5% HP per second while standing on cursed soil. All attacks inflict [Bloomrot].

[Bloomrot] Reduces target’s healing received by 15% per stack (max 3 stacks).

Skills:

[Lullaby of the Flesh-Surgeon] (Aura, Passive)

All enemies within 15m suffer +30% curse progression speed if infected.

Allies under [Bloomrot] suffer -20% Mental Resistance, occasionally seeing the Perturbant as an ally.

[Surgical Communion] (Active, 12s Cooldown) On hit, implants a Rosebud in the target.

After 30 seconds, the Rosebud detonates for 15% Max HP damage.

[Womb of a Thousand Roots] Roots in a massive area all targets trapped in this skill, and applies [Bloomrot] [Bleed] [Root] and [Proliferation]

[Grafted Resilience]

At <30% HP, consumes a nearby corpse to heal 40% HP instantly.

Lore:

“The Vassilisa’s Perturbant were never born—they were made. Once healers, now heralds of the Thorn-Wombed Queen, their hands weave roses into flesh like surgeons stitching wounds. Their lullabies coax the cursed toward rebirth. Their scalpels are thorns, their sutures are roots, and every operation ends the same way: another child for the Mother.”

Do not mistake their silence for mercy. They do not hate you. They love you—enough to remake you.

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