Excerpt from the Combined Texts Of Preternatural Ailments, Fourth Edition:

 ‘…Undeath, while often spoken of as if it were a substance within the body, is believed by scholars to be an affliction of the soul. It is a corruption of the life force that resides in a space above the physical body. This is why there is no possible cure for Undeath. One can have their flesh torn from bone, their blood drained from their veins, their skin melted or charred, and they will never lose a single drop of their vigour. All that will befall them is the reallocation of their bodily tissues to repair the wound. Some sources have said that the afflicted becomes visibly shorter after they have healed, but this claim is without sufficient evidence…

…This condition is exceedingly rare, and its causes are entirely unpredictable. However, the immortality that it lends is both feared and sought after by many…’

~Professor Thuo, Researcher of Deity-Related afflictions

…

Jolka, since he was young, had been part of the king’s guard, renowned and feared for his seemingly insurmountable strength of will. He made a title for himself in life, for he would accept every challenge, and in the face of terrible odds would still draw his blade and fight if he believed it to be the will of the monarchs. His unrivalled sense of duty saw him enter the personal protection of the monarchy, yet still, he would not hesitate to fight and toil with his fellow soldier if it served the bloodline. A man of unceasing will, a man of incredible strength, a man of many things, but a man nonetheless - and man is fallible. He was betrayed by another who sought to take his place, one who envied his position and was jealous of his recognition. His betrayer pushed him into a hideous writhing pit of vampiric serpents, the terrible creatures feeding on the very soul of the man. 

Yet, Jolka lived. Some have said that in the single moment in which his physical body was completely dead, but his soul had yet to escape, the lord of the underworld saw Jolka, and feared him so much that he cursed him to forever exist in the land of the living. His body reanimated, crawling from the roiling serpentine pit, reborn. Drained of their lively vigour, the greyed and wrinkled husks of the serpents falling off one by one. In the end, all that remained was Jolka, his body pristine and without scars or scratches, without bite marks or bruises, and brimming with Undeath. 

He returned to the capital anew, to attain vengeance upon the one who betrayed him. Yet, his betrayer was nowhere to be found, the news of Jolka’s survival having spread so far and wide that the coward was able to escape in time for his arrival. The king himself saw Jolka’s potency, and knighted him, bestowing upon him the title ‘The Undead Knight’. A steel rod was driven through his sternum, branded with the insignia of the king, a physical reminder of his duty, and a symbol of his strength of will. An Elven short sword was smithed and imbued with a cutting edge that would never grow dull, a blade that captured his essence so that all who were met with it would know the beast they were facing. Across the blade, was etched the blade’s name - Sjolkasa Myf Tiefka, Blade of the Serpentine Knight. 

…

Jolka braced his foot against the arachnid’s black carapace, grasping Tiefka’s leather-wrapped handle firmly. The spider’s exoskeleton crackled and tore, until the sword was wrenched free, drenched in invertebrate viscera. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his offhand, and looked down the road. The castle was certainly not far now. He took a deep breath of the lovely summer air, feeling the gentle winds blow against him. Copses of purple tulip trees encompassed him, and bright blue skies filled with puffy clouds loomed above. If he looked far enough, he could see the end of the gravel road. Whistling a tune from years ago, he continued onward to the castle. The tune had a lovely jaunty sound, and he vividly remembered it being sung by a lively group of dwarves at a tavern he had once visited. The lyrics were a long description of the process of producing Dwarven ale, which the knight himself was quite fond of. 

            He was out on the road to Kiftyn Castle, as it had been reportedly seized by a legion of nasty individuals. The kings cousin’s aunt’s daughter needed saving - or something like that. He wasn’t quite sure of the details, since it was always the same regardless - break into the castle, slay a few monsters, save the royalty. He’d done it more times than he could count. 

He rested his blade on his shoulder, and took a long swig from the flask of wood alcohol at his hip - normal alcohol simply didn’t cut it anymore, and alcohol poisoning was of little concern to the immortal. He kicked at the gravel path, watching the rocks skitter about. He continued whistling, and marched on. 

As he approached the castle, he saw inexplicable black clouds encompass the castle, shrouding it in shadow. The rest of the sky remained completely normal outside of this. A common superstition rumored that strange clouds signified the presence of a curse. Nevertheless, he continued, approaching the castle gate. The barge stretched high above, and the castle sat in a winding valley. It was built of massive stone, and the sun side was covered by Hegemone’s Ivy, which was poisonous to the touch. There was no town surrounding it to speak of. 

The wooden gate had a massive depression in it, and in the centre, a gaping hole filled with splintered, charred wood, the mark of a flaming battering ram, often employed by trolls. Jolka twirled his blade, and firmly kicked the gate, causing its already damaged hinges to completely break off, and fall to the ground. 

Behind the falling door, Jolka heard a high pitched scream, which was cut off by a loud thud. Jolka resumed his whistling and proceeded into the castle nonchalantly. He walked atop the broken door, which was slanted slightly up atop who or whatever was so unfortunate as to be crushed by it.

The interior of the castle seemed as if it were normally quite lovely. However, the unfortunate events that had befallen the place had left it much worse for wear. The red carpet, patterned with gold intricacies, was scuffed and twisted. Candelabras were bent, dripping hot wax onto the ground. Corpses of guards, orcs, goblins, and trolls were all strewn about the wooden floor, casualties of a battle. Brick walls were damaged, and portraits of royal lineage were torn. Jolka continued forth, humming a new tune, this time a ballad about the beautiful love between a dwarf and his war hammer. He stepped over the body of an extraordinarily ugly orc, and following the path of the damage, he was led down the west wing of the castle. 

The entrance to the west wing was mostly a long hallway. At the far end of it, was a mean-looking troll staring Jolka down. Beady, empty black eyes resided in the hollows of its massive skull, along with visibly appalling oral health, and a body was so massive that Jolka considered it a miracle he even fit in the hallway. Greyish, sickly skin, and patchy leather covered the behemoth. The beast cracked his massive calloused knuckles, and from behind his back, drew a massive axe, dull and chipped from years of use, stained red with blood. 

Locking eyes with the troll, Jolka spontaneously broke into a sprint, charging towards the towering monolith. The monster swung his axe, but Jolka was quick. With one hand, he plunged his blade up to the hilt into the hulking monster’s distended gut, spraying the beast’s sickening brown essence upon Jolka’s arm. The force of the knight’s impact toppled the beast, crashing into the ground with a resounding crunch that shook the very foundations of the castle. Jolka wrenched his blade out from the behemoth’s stomach, keeping it raised above his head, ready to stab the troll again and again until the altercation had ended. Yet, to his surprise, the hulking mass had already perished, black eyes rolling into its skull, arms collapsing to the ground. 

The knight let out a deep sigh, getting up off his knees. He shook his head, before breaking into a laughing fit. “Man, you had me worried!” He shouted between shallow laughing breaths at the corpse, “I thought this would be tough! I mean, look at you!” With his unoccupied arm, he pointed at the troll’s massive muscles. He stopped laughing. 

His unoccupied arm in question, was missing. More specifically, his entire forearm was gone. In its place, a bloodied stump. He glanced at the freshly coated axe that was in the troll’s now limp hand. Next to it lie Jolka’s own severed arm. 

The knight groaned. Focusing a bit of his mind, he felt a shivering sensation combined with the feeling of needles poking the skin. Skin crawled, tendons shortened, bones reduced. His body rearranged itself, producing material from throughout to create a new arm. His surroundings grew taller around him. Moving around his mass had lost him around a quarter of a cubit of his height, in exchange for a brand new arm. He clenched his fist, getting used to the feeling of the new limb. Of course, the first thing he did was practice as many rude gestures as he could remember; this was absolutely integral to the healing process.

He proceeded further down the hall, walking around the beast. As he continued down the maze-like corridors of the castle, various other creatures approached him, ranging in size and ugliness, yet he cut them down all the same. Of course, they got a good few cuts in on him. One happened to take an ear, another a few fingers. One in particular managed to sever his shoulder from his neck. However, each time, the Undeath in his body simply reallocated mass until he was equipped to fight again. The altercation lost him a half cubit of height by the end. 

He entered a second chamber. There were bodies here too, but far fewer than there were at the main gate. The knight guessed that they had run out of defences by this point in the siege, and this was all that they could muster for a second chokepoint. Jolka grimaced at an unfortunate soldier who had been pinned to the stone wall by a crude spear. Another soldier looked as if he had been drained by a vampire, his skin grey and wrinkled like a raisin. A gash stretched across his forearm, which was blackened with a strange growth, and was inexplicably still bleeding. 

Continuing to follow the path of destruction, Jolka was led down yet another hallway. At the end of the hallway was another goblin, lying against the wall, evidently dead. As he got closer, however, it suddenly sprang up.

“He’s here! Now!” The creature shrilled. Behind him, Jolka heard a door slam open, jagged wood scraping against the stone floor. Before he could even glance, he felt an incredible force strike him squarely in the back of his spine. The metal rod, which had been in his chest for longer than he could remember, shot out of his ribcage like a cannonball, leaving a gaping hole in his sternum. The rod shot across the room, and with a loud thunk, bounced off the forehead of the conniving goblin, knocking it to the ground. Jolka grabbed the blunt rod out of the air, and spinning on his heel, he saw the orc that had been hiding in the room behind him, covering his mouth in a mixture of shock and embarrassment. The rod struck his temple, sending him tumbling to the ground like a bag of very ugly rocks. Jolka chuckled at the rod, and let it clamber to the floor. He lost another quarter cubit of height to heal the wound in his chest. 

The knight arrived in the throne room. The tall doors were wide open, with no splintering or warped wood to indicate that the gate had been forced open. The ceiling was incredibly high. Massive stained glass windows stretched up the walls, huge red curtains to either side. A massive pair of thrones sat in the centre of the room. Beside the entryway were numerous rows of pews. At the far end, flanking the thrones were a pair of doors leading to the personal chambers of the royals. Near the leftmost door, was a grey-haired man, clothed in scavenged, patchwork royal cloths. He seemed to be shouting about something into the door.

“If you will not give me your blessing,” he declared angrily, “then you will rot!” Jolka recognized the voice as someone from his past, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, until it clicked. He holstered his blade.

“Molrig!” Jolka exclaimed, raising his arms in greeting “oh my deities, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

Molrig spun around, surprised. “J-Jolka!” He stammered, “It has been a while! Oh, when was the last time we met, goodness, it must have been-“ 

“When you pushed me into a pit of snakes.” Jolka interrupted him. 

“Yes, when I pushed you into a pit of snakes.” 

Jolka grinned. “Don’t worry, Molrig, my friend. It’s been a very long time, and I’m not interested in holding a grudge anymore.” The knight approached his old betrayer, and stuck out his hand. “Besides, it would be cruel of me to fight an old man like yourself.” 

Molrig stretched out his hand. His spindly fingers were pale with age, unkempt nails tipped with yellowing. His cold hand gripped Jolka’s. In a surprisingly rapid movement for a man his age, he drew a blade from behind him, with a cutting edge that winded and curved like a river to a fine point. Thick black smoke poured from the cutting edge, leaving a shadowy trail as it was forcibly driven into the knight’s stomach. 

Jolka looked down at the blade, embedded in his abdomen. The hilt was made of coal-like bundled roots, with bits of ancient dirt clinging to it. The wound bled and bled like nothing he had seen before, and the area around the stab was turning black, with twisted roots burrowing into his skin. He sighed. “Man, I gave you a chance…” he panted in pained breaths, reeling in agony, hand against the hilt. He staggered backwards, struggling to find his footing. 

His fingers twitched with pain, spasming and tensing as they wrapped around his own sword. Bloodied fingertips rattled against the grip of Tiefka, tapping at the elven steel hilt. The dagger in his stomach was a pain beyond anything he had experienced since he had been afflicted with Undeath. It was strange, and reminded him of the sensation of the vampiric snakes on that fateful night many years ago. 

“Aha!” Molrig cackled, “Do you feel it? The life draining power of the Cursed Rootblade?” 

Jolka gasped for breath. His wound refused to heal, and he could not draw the strength to remove it. His essence simply poured out, and all that the Undeath within him could do was convert his body into blood to replace what was lost. 

“I have done it, Jolka! I am taking what I am owed!” He bellowed, “I am stealing what I should have been given when I killed you, when you should have stayed dead! But you didn’t, so by the gods if I have to kill you a thousand times over, I will! Now witness the strength of the terrible mists of the Cursed Rootblade-“

Jolka swung his blade with every last bit of might he could muster. His muscles were weak, having been partially converted to blood to feed the insatiable gouge in his torso. The Rootblade’s wound screamed in his mind from the movement, but he followed through nonetheless. He gritted his bloodied teeth, and forced himself through the movement. Tiefka’s tip flew through the air, until it met Molrig’s neck. 

The blade cleanly tore through, slitting the coward’s throat, interrupting his mockery. Blood ran down the wound, and he crumpled to the floor, spasming in his death throes. 

Jolka drew in a struggling breath through his gritted teeth. His blade clattered to the ground. With his now freed hand, he shot out the middle finger at Molrig’s corpse. He limped towards the door that Molrig had been yelling at, the key still in the door. The knight squinted, trying to regain enough motor control to twist the lock. 

The world around him grew taller as his body’s mass was converted to blood and promptly poured out of his body from the Rootblade’s gash. Finally twisting the key, Jolka, who was resting his dwindling weight against the door, promptly fell into the doorway, collapsing to the ground face-first.

Across the room, he heard a woman’s voice. “I don’t care how many times you beg for my blessing, you blathering idiot, I’m not going to - HOLY SHIT!”

Feet pattered towards Jolka. Arms gripped his torso, flipping him on his back. The woman’s features above him were mottled, but he could see vague blotches of fair skin and fiery red hair. She quickly pulled the Rootblade from his stomach, causing him to seize up in pain. The wound pulsed, and it felt like the black roots of the blade were crawling within him, sickeningly writhing. It continued to bleed, surging with his red essence. She left his field of view, Jolka feeling the vibrations of her feet coming down to the ground as she ran to the other side of the room. He heard the thudding of books striking the floor, and tense mutterings from the mystery woman. Her footfalls felt more powerful with each passing moment as Jolka lost more of his body.

THE GOODIES

Soonafter, the woman returned, cold hands placed on the wound. He felt a freezing sensation that soothed his ache, and the movements within his body ceased. His eyes cracked open as they would after a long rest, and he was shocked to find the ceiling much farther than it had been before. Around him was a thick pool of his own blood, but his gash had healed. A monolithic hand came into view. It gripped him, wrapping around his entire body. He was lifted up until he saw the face of the woman. She had large, green eyes, and was concernedly inspecting him. Her skin was fair, and her visage dotted with freckles. Curly red locks drifted down past her shoulders. Her fingers cradled his figure, pressing against his skin. Noticing this, he came to the realization that he was completely nude, his leather armor having not dwindled with him. 

Her inspection became less and less concerned, seeing that he was fine, if only a bit short. She let out a sigh of relief. Jolka watched her face cycle through a thousand emotions upon getting the chance to think through the situation. He held up a hand in front of his face, gesturing for her to stop. “This is fucked, I know. I have a lot of questions too, but please put me down first.” He spoke sternly. She immediately went to the bed on the far side of the room, Jolka in hand. She set him down on it, and sat herself cross-legged next to her. The knight noticed she was only wearing a silk bra and panties, with nothing else. He decided against inquiring about it, since there were far more pressing matters at hand to be taken care of first. “Alright, begin.” He said. 

“That absolute whackjob seized the castle with some group of uglies,” she spoke so rapidly that Jolka struggled to keep up mentally, “and he locked me in here because he wanted me to make him the new royal bloodline, but I didn’t listen because I didn’t think I was in danger. Gods, if I knew that madman had the Rootblade, I would have taken him so much more seriously! Thank the heavens that you’re Undead, or I’d be so beyond screwed-“

          “Why the underworld did he think you could make him the royal bloodline?” Jolka interrupted. “You aren’t royalty.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m Tilania, demigoddess of the bloodline. I’d imagine that an Undead would know that. Especially an Undead of the king’s guard.”

Jolka shrugged. “I’m pretty new to the whole ‘immortality’ thing.” He paused. “Hey, aren’t demigods supposed to be huge? Like, normal huge, not my… current definition of huge.”

“Yeah, they’re supposed to be. All my sisters are proper demigod size, but for some reason the gods of fate decided to screw me over.” Tilania let out a long breath. “It looks so fun, too. Getting to play with all those little people…” she trailed off.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Yknow, I saved your life. You are aware of what it means to be saved by a deity, right?” Her face lit up with a wide smile. “It means you owe me your life. Indentured servitude, little guy!” 

“That’s hardly fair!” He argued, “I was saving you!” He tried to combat her claim, yet he felt the compulsion of the ensnared, like a string tugging at his soul, connecting him to the demigod. This was the deal, crafted by the god of justice. “I can’t even die! How can I owe you my life if I can’t lose it?!”

“It seems, according to the divine order, that shrinking into nothing is close enough to dying.”

“Tuh- the f… dammit! Why aren’t you wearing clothes!?” Jolka frustratedly tried to change the subject. 

She pointed off to the far corner, where a mud-stained white dress was crumpled. “Uglies got it dirty.” She paused for a moment, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk, naked as the day you were born.” 

He frustratedly stuttered a few half-words before Tilania pressed a finger against his lips. “Hush.” She said. “I tire of your pitiful, incessant nonsense.”

“I know you don’t talk like that.”

“I said hush. Now, let’s see if this is as fun as my sisters make it look.” 

Tilania untucked a bare foot from beneath her cross-legged stance, and without warning, planted it firmly on the ensnared knight, knocking the wind out of him. She shifted the weight of her foot around, trying to get comfortable with him beneath her arch. “Smells worse than an orc!” Jolka groaned. 

“Hmm. Not huge on this one.” The demigod muttered. 

“Yeah, neither am I” he gasped, trying to lift the massive foot off his chest. 

“Kiss it and I’ll take it off.” 

Demeaning as it was, Jolka placed a quick peck on the arch of her foot. He’d done worse things to get out of bad situations but this was definitely up there on the list. 

He waited for her reaction. Because of his size, she seemed to have not felt it. The weight on his chest worsened. While he didn’t need air strictly speaking, he still felt like he needed it, and it was a feeling he would avoid when possible. He forcefully pressed his lips into her skin, hoping it would be adequate. 

“Not feeling anything down there. It’s like you want me to keep my foot on you!”

He furiously peppered her with kisses, his ribs feeling like they were going to pop. The foot lifted off of him, Jolka taking deep lungfuls of slightly foot-scented air. 

Above, the demigod snickered. “I’m kidding, I felt the first one, just seeing if it would grow on me.” She got up off the bed and did a quick stretch. “What else would a goddess such as myself do to a servant?” She asked, placing a hand on her chin.

“Treat them kindly and leave them alone?” Jolka sighed. 

“Pfft, nice try. Oh! There’s this one!” She said, scooping him up with a cupped hand. She reoriented her fingers around him to get a better grip. With a shove, she pushed the knight between her breasts, her well-endowed chest holding him firmly. “Aha! This must be completely humiliating for you!” She sneered.

Her bust was exceedingly soft, warm, and had a pleasant scent, reminiscent of vanilla. He relaxed, allowing her mammaries to cradle him. “Um, yeah. Completely humiliating, yup. Very ashamed right now” he lied.

She walked toward the end of the room, where Jolka’s crumpled clothes lied. Her steps caused her breasts to jiggle a bit, which Jolka found felt quite comforting. He snapped back to attention when he noticed that Tilania was inspecting his blade. “H-hey! Quit that!” He demanded, feeling a sense of ownership over the weapon.

“Sjolkasa Myf Tiefka,” she read the etching aloud, “Elvish, very nice. Good craftsmanship, too. It’s enchanted, isn’t it? Did you know they use flog bladders as the base for most of their imbues?”

“What?! That’s disgusting!” He shouted, picturing his sword being made with the disgusting, porous, slimy organ. “That can’t be right…” 

“Sorry, dude, you’ve got a frog sword on your hands.”

Jolka cursed under his breath. 

Tilania moved over to a chair in the corner, picking up one of the fallen books on the way. Resting her head on her fist, she opened the book, briefly looking at a few pages. She let out a drawn out bored sigh. 

“What are we doing right now?” Jolka pulled himself out from between her breasts a bit, having slid slightly deeper during the walk across the room. 

“Waiting for your peeps. They’ll come, eventually.” 

“How long do you reckon that’ll take?” 

She shrugged. “Weeks?”

            Jolka, needless to say, was not wholly fond of the idea of being the demigoddess’ slave for weeks on end, especially at his current size. If he was well-fed, he could regain mass and return to his normal stature, but seeing as Tilania likely already knew this, he reckoned she would try to keep him at this height as long as she could. 

The demigoddess tossed the book aside, and reclined in the chair, pushing her red locks over the back of the chair. “Regale me with a tale, my consort.” 

Sensing that she was withholding an ‘or’ statement, likely something involving an unpleasant part of her body, he tried to recall a good story. “Umm, there’s the time I killed the lizard-king of Collevia.”

“That’ll work. Go ahead.” 

“Alright, so there’s this real prick, an ingrown toenail of a beast…”

…

“… it took actual hours of back-and-forth bullshittery, but eventually I managed to get a good grip on its head,” Jolka demonstrated how he had straddled the beast from his position on the chair side table. “And I plunged Tiefka into its head. It let out a dying screech,” he imitated the noise it had made, a high-pitched terrible shrill. “It collapsed to the ground with a crash, boom!” He mimicked how it fell to the ground, “the last of its magma breath dribbled out of its mouth, along with its final breaths. At long last, the battle was won.”

Tilania gave him a little applause, allowing Jolka to respond with a performer’s bow. 

He exhaled, wiping the sweat off his forehead from his intense performance. “How was that?”

“It was great! I think it would’ve been better if you had clothes on, but I liked it!” She teased.

“Well, it would seem the wardrobe department couldn’t get anything in my size.” He rebuked. 

Tilania chuckled.

“So, what’s next?” 

“How about a game?” 

“What’d you have in mind?” The knight excitedly asked.