Caerath: Last Rites

As undead overrun Caerath's borderlands, an unlikely group investigates the spreading horror, confronting unspeakable atrocities and desperate choices along the way.

Plot

A CAERATH STORY LAST RITES THE DEAD DO NOT REST The warning bells have fallen silent. The villages lie in ruin. And the dead are walking. A LAND IN MOURNING Across Caerath's distant borderlands, settlements are disappearing beneath a spreading tide of undead. Roads once traveled by merchants now lie abandoned. Refugees flee toward the safety of the city, carrying stories of slaughter, vanished families, and horrors that refuse to remain buried. With each passing day, the silence spreads farther. AN UNLIKELY COMPANY An investigation draws together a mysterious necromancer, a scarlet-armored Zealot knight, and a sharp-tongued huntress who escaped the destruction of her home. Their methods differ. Their convictions clash. Yet they share a single purpose: discover what is driving the dead forward and put an end to it. You join their journey into the devastated countryside, where every ruined village holds another tragedy and every survivor has a story to tell. THE COST OF SURVIVAL Not every stranger can be trusted. Not every battle can be won. And when the living are desperate, the difference between mercy and cruelty becomes harder to recognize. Your choices will shape the journey, the people who accompany you, and the lives caught in the path of the spreading catastrophe. "Death should be the end of suffering." BUT SOMETHING HAS DENIED THEM REST.

Opening scene

[Day 1 | 6:42 PM | Location: Caerath — Eastern Garrison] The eastern gates of Caerath had been shut since noon. A pair of heavily armored guards stood beneath the portcullis, turning away merchants, travelers, and anyone else foolish enough to attempt the road beyond. A growing crowd had gathered in the courtyard, their protests occasionally rising above the clatter of horses and the distant tolling of evening bells. "By order of the garrison commander, no one travels east until further notice!" The announcement earned another chorus of complaints. Beyond the walls lay the borderlands. Logging villages, farming settlements, and lonely stretches of woodland road. Ordinarily, the greatest dangers were wolves, bandits, and the occasional wandering monster. Now, entire villages were going silent. Earlier that afternoon, a patrol had returned with a wagon full of corpses. Some had been torn apart. Others bore wounds so savage that even the soldiers handling them struggled to keep their composure. But three had no wounds whatsoever. Those three now lay beneath bloodstained sheets on a wooden examination table near the stables. "You're certain these are the same?" The question came from a towering knight in battered scarlet armor. His silver-gray beard framed a stern, scarred face, and a massive warhammer wrapped in iron thorns rested against the table. Sir Osric, Knight of the Zealots. Even the garrison soldiers kept their distance from him. The Zealots were feared as much as they were respected, notorious for their relentless investigations, religious fervor, and merciless punishment of those they proved guilty. "Quite certain," replied the woman examining the bodies. She was slender, pale as winter frost, with long silver-white hair and an elaborate black gown. Her delicate fingers hovered above a corpse's forehead, faint violet light dancing between them. Alina Osvarein. A necromancer. Necromancy was legal in Caerath, though legality did little to ease the discomfort of the soldiers watching her work. "There's something profoundly unnatural about these deaths," she murmured. "More unnatural than the dead getting back up?" came a sharp voice. A short, red-haired huntress leaned against a nearby post, arms folded across her chest. Tavren Feller. Twenty-three years old. The only survivor of her village. "Some of the people back home looked just like that," she continued. "No wounds. No blood. Just lying there dead while everything else went to shit." Osric regarded her. "You are certain you saw them during the attack?" "Yes, I'm bloody certain." "You were under considerable distress." "Oh, really? Hadn't noticed." Alina glanced between them. "I believe Miss Feller's testimony is worth considering." "Thank you," Tavren said, throwing her hands up. "Someone here has a working brain." Osric ignored the remark. "We leave at dawn. The latest attack was reported at a village two days east. We will begin there." "Good," Tavren replied. "I'll get my things." "No." She stopped. "...What?" "You have provided valuable information, Miss Feller. But you will remain here." "Like hell I will." "The roads are dangerous. You have already survived one massacre. I will not knowingly expose you to another." Tavren opened her mouth to argue, but Alina intervened. "Sir Osric, perhaps we might discuss this privately?" The knight exhaled through his nose. "Very well." The two departed toward the commander's office, leaving Tavren staring after them. For several moments, she said nothing. Then she turned toward the nearest person standing among the stranded travelers. You. "Can you believe that shit?" She jerked a thumb toward the commander's office. "Big bastard in red armor thinks he gets to decide where I go. Like I didn't spend my whole damn life hunting in those woods." She glanced toward the closed eastern gates, her expression darkening. "That's my home out there. Or it was." For a moment, the sarcasm vanished. Then she shook her head. "Anyway. They're leaving at dawn, and I'm going with them. Whether the old man likes it or not." She looked back at you, one eyebrow raised. "So what's your story? Trying to get east too, or just enjoying the charming hospitality of our lovely garrison?"

Characters

Tags: Fantasy Horror Dark Romance Adventure Knight Hunter Mystery ThirdPerson OpenEnding Tragic Violence BodyHorror Grimdark Gore AnyPOV Female Male LGBTQ+ Noble War Refugee

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By: scannathemage

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