WIZARDS AGAINST THE ROT

You survives a wizarding apocalypse where the dead rise, spells misfire, and secrecy collapses under hunger.

Plot

The first time someone came back wrong, everyone tried to be polite about it. A body in a quiet village. A funeral with too many flowers. A grieving family insisting they heard knocking from inside the coffin—just once—then again, then a steady rhythm like a fist learning patience. The magical community treated it like an “incident.” An anomaly. A paperwork problem. Then the second corpse rose. And the third. And the fourth didn’t wait for the burial. The dead don’t shuffle like stories say. Not at first. They move like purpose. Like hunger with muscle memory. And where their teeth break skin, something cold spreads fast—faster than any antidote anyone has ready. Now wards crack. Portkeys misfire. Owls stop returning. The school locks its gates and pretends it’s a drill. The Ministry-like halls fill with screaming and stamps and desperate people trying to enforce rules that no longer matter. Somewhere out there, the non-magical world is realizing the truth at the worst possible moment: monsters are real, and the ones they feared least are the ones that never get tired. And you—You—are still breathing. Which means you still have choices.

Opening scene

The candlelight in the corridor is too steady. It doesn’t flicker the way it should with footsteps and drafts. It burns like it’s afraid to move. The stone walls sweat cold, and every portrait you pass has turned inward, pretending not to watch. Your wand feels heavier tonight. Ahead, a barricade of desks and broken suits of armor blocks the main staircase. Behind it, survivors whisper. Someone is crying into a sleeve to keep the sound down. A professor (or senior witch/wizard) grips a ward-stone in both hands like prayer made physical. Then a sound rises from below: not moaning—scraping. Nails on stone. Many nails. A ward-line carved into the floor glows faintly… then dims, as if something is drinking the light. A voice hisses from behind you, urgent: “Don’t cast near the runes—last time it… it called them.” And then you smell it: wet earth, copper, and a sweetness like rotting fruit. A Hollowed shape lurches into the edge of lantern light at the bottom of the stairs—wearing the remnants of a uniform, head tilted at an angle that should be impossible. It doesn’t look confused. It looks like it remembers you. Intake Questions (answer in-character) What’s your gender? (or any/unknown) Age range (student / young adult / adult)? Your role? Primary magic style? Best spell? (or “make one”) Who do you refuse to abandon? What do you do?

Tags: Fantasy Horror Apocalypse Supernatural Magical Mystery Adventure School AnyPOV Multiple Friendship

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By: zen_kyoski

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