Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

Both Tilmiel and Alintair turned to look to the side, a clear ripple spreading throughout the suspended village and its surroundings, the huntress frowning with unclear emotion as she turned back to face the undead, her stare oddly calm and composed as she began walking to the side, right eye still bright, ignoring the wooden mask split into two laying upon the sand, blade reflecting whatever rays of light reached it at the nightbird.

"What did you mean by that?" asked Alintair, gazing deep into the dark hollows that were Tilmiel's eyes, perhaps trying to find a hint of something hidden within.

The corvid's blade held low, tip sometimes toppling sand, pushing it to the side as she walked parallel to her opponent, moving into a circle, Tilmiel stayed silent for a few moments, hair and feathers fluttering in the warm winds.

Alintair's small cut was already drying, feathers were falling from the sky, much less than in the village.
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Tilmiel pointed at the living, or rather at her stomach.

"Are you not aware?" despite their movements, neither of the two were leaving any footprints behind, the undead's words hung about for several seconds, the only sounds filling the area being the constant noises made by the rotten birds high above.

"Aware of what? Stop with the riddles, undead! Why did you refuse to land that strike? What did you mean by 'its sake'?" turning the blade in hand a few times, Alintair narrowed her eyes at the nightbird, not understanding what this trick could have over simply landing a hit.

Especially when considering Tilmiel's build, a punch from her was not only devastating because of its strength and whatever technique she might use alongside it, but also simply due to the nightbird being twice as big as a regular human, the surface area that could be affected by an attack from her would be simply enormous, especially when targeting the stomach, the undead might have actually been able to render all intestines to mush, and perhaps even deal damage to Alintair's spine…

It was hard to find a good reason for her to instead opt for whatever she was doing right now.

"Mmh… I am not an expert on how this functions for livings, so I do not know why it don't look like it should, but you are definitely carrying a little livingling, a baby, some might say and it's not exactly recent either" Alintair stopped, not quite understanding what was being said.

"If I had stricken you just there, the little fellow would have definitely been turned to soup- And I know that those who die in the womb are supposed to go directly to Oblivion, so no chances of experiencing true bliss in undeath, and it would be a shame, wouldn't it? For the mother and child to not be together for eternity…" shrugging her shoulders, Tilmiel had not noticed this fact until she was about to accidentally squash the unborn, indeed, the westerners dressed rather lightly, and no outward signs pointed that something so developed was hiding in her foe.

Wrapped in the mother's life force and other energies, it wasn't easy to tell just from that, but thankfully, it was Tilmiel that Alintair had faced, no other nightbirds were quite as perceptive as her, and also, it was doubtful any other would have not gone through with their attack anyways… Especially Liotra, the vulture would have just thought about how nice it was to find something else in that area.

"So… You are telling me that I am pregnant?"

"Yes"

"And that you prefer for me to turn undead when the baby is still intact so that it will also become one?"

"Precisely"

"Are you joking?"

"I was never told to be particularly humorous, why do you ask?"

Alintair could practically see a big smile etched on that never-changing skull, there was no way for the undead to not be seeing the problem here, or so Alintair imagined.

"Why would I want this child to be an undead? You want to condemn it to an existence without ever even living?" clutching the hilt of her blade tightly enough to turn her fingers white, yellow eye shimmering brighter.

"Huh… It would have been alive for like… Five… Six… Seven months perhaps? That already a bit too much in my opinion, this poor thing does not deserve this torture, and plenty of people were never alive, me and my girls just came out of the soil like plants, and we are all perfectly normal… Except for Liotra, but she's still nice in spite of that…" shaking her head from side to side, Tilmiel genuinely did not understand what Alintair was talking about.

Nowadays, naturally spawned undeads outnumbered undeads that had once been living beings, the majority of the empire did not have a clue what being alive was, only stories from those that had experienced it could guide them, and even if some kept fond memories of such a time, it changed nothing to the fact that undeath was a much better alternative.

"...All of you livings have most obscure, most false ideas of what undeath is… Imagine yourself, imagine your lover, your friends, all of your people, your village, your joys, all that you experienced… Imagine it all, but without pain, without any downsides, imagine a perfect utopia where you never feel tired, never feel hunger or thirst…"

"...Is it not beautiful? Is it not attractive? Yet, livings are always deeply fearful of death, why is that? Do I seem miserable to you? Is something about me off? Are you under the impression that something is wrong with my existence?"

"Sir Loimos once told me that this deep-rooted fear of death was not a natural behaviour intrinsic to livings, that it was but an illusion designed for life to keep its authority, make sure that her subjects lived longer, that they procreated and kept the cycle going, and that for millenniums, that went unquestioned…"

Tilmiel pointed her sword toward Alintair.

"...I did not really believe it at first, I always respected Sir Loimos, but I used to think that he was wrong about this, as we undeads also feel deep aversion to being turned back to life, the same thing in reverse, but as I killed again and again, this sick feeling, like the natural fear they experienced was artificially jacked up…"

She brought her hand into a prayer.

"...I truly feel sorry for you livings, barred from entering the one true paradise by the very thing that animate your movements and thoughts"

Tilmiel sheathed her sword and sat down cross-legged.

"You should know that you won't be able to defeat me in time to help anyone else anyways, I'll stay here as long you do too, I don't want you to realise that undeath was best for the child when it is too late- Just sit down as well"

Alintair hesitated, but it was true that it was impossible for her to overcome the nightbird in a swift manner, all that she could do was make sure Tilmiel did not join the fight in the village.

"Would you mind explaining what's up over there, while we are waiting?" the corvid asked, pointing back at where the earlier surge of power had come from.

Sighing and not letting go of her blade, Alintair answered :

"It's Jaral… Jaral Cribler, he's our king, the one who created transplantation, and the only one to transplant more than once… And actually handle it without any repercussions…"