The origin of IMS (a fictional story)

[EwulSpif]

Chapter VII: The Blind Corner.

The Screaming Mace did not stop humming. The vibration traveled up Sszar’s arm, a constant, greasy pulse that kept his scales on edge.
The IMS moved deeper into the sub-basement. The floor here wasn't even stone anymore; it was packed earth, black and slick with centuries of seepage from the graveyard above. The tunnels were so low that Sszar had to duck his head, his shoulder plates scraping lines into the dirt ceiling.
“Quiet,” Krazz muttered from the front.
He didn't even finish the word.
The corner they were rounding didn't just have a guard—it was an ambush. Three Dark Ghouls and a twitching, skeletal knight burst from the shadow of a recessed alcove. No warning. No distance.
Holy fuck, this just went completely sideways.
⸻
The impact was chaos. The skeletal knight’s rusted broadsword slammed into Sszar’s chest before he could raise his mace, the force throwing him back into Voksh. The narrow corridor turned into a claustrophobic meat grinder in a heartbeat.
A dark ghoul lunged over the fallen Sszar, its black, rotting claws reaching straight for Voksh’s throat.
The Necromancer didn't have room to cast. The spell words choked in his throat as the creature’s weight pinned him against the wet earth.
“Get off him!” Gorg roared.
The lizard didn't have space to swing his massive axe in the tight tunnel. He used the weapon like a crowbar, jamming the shaft into the ghoul's jaw and wrenching its head back with enough force to snap the spine. But as he did, a second ghoul buried its teeth deep into Gorg’s shoulder blade.
Blood—thick, cold, and dark—spattered the tunnel walls.
⸻
They were breaking. The line was gone.
Then Jingles went to work.
The Bard didn't pick a traditional melody. He threw his back against the dirt wall, his bloody fingers tearing across the silver dwarf-wire of his lute, providing a raw, rhythmic undertone. Then, through split lips, he let out a piercing, shrill whistle that cut clean through the wet air.
Jonthan’s Whistling Warsong.
The combination of the vibrating lute and the manic, rhythmic whistling wasn't a song; it was a physical force. It bounced off the mud ceiling and hit the IMS like a shot of pure adrenaline, forcing Sszar’s heart to slam against his ribs and burning away the dark haze of the ambush.
From the floor, Sszar reached up and grabbed the ankle of the skeletal knight standing over him. He didn't use a spell—he used brute, desperate force, twisting the bone until the joint splintered.
The knight stumbled, and Krazz filled the gap instantly.
The Monk dived through the darkness, his linen-wrapped elbows striking like piston rods. Crack. Crack. He didn't look for style; he just hammered his fists into the skeletal knight’s ribs until the ancient ribcage collapsed into a pile of dry gray powder, freeing Sszar.
⸻
Sszar scrambled to his feet, his vision blurring red.
The third ghoul was still tearing at Gorg’s shoulder. Sszar didn't aim. He just swung the Screaming Mace in a short, brutal arc through the cramped space.
The mace let out a deafening, psychotic shriek as it hit the ghoul’s temple, perfectly clashing with the high-pitched whistle still echoing from Jingles. The vibration didn't just crush the skull—it sent a shockwave of violet energy through the creature's body, ripping its remaining life force out and feeding it straight into Sszar’s charred veins.
Gorg dropped to one knee, breathing heavily, his claws clamping down on his bleeding shoulder. Fluffy stood over him, the drake's throat sizzling with a protective, low hiss.
Voksh blinked black dirt from his eyes, his fingers trembling as he adjusted his bloodstained tunic.
“Too close,” the Necromancer rasped.
Sszar looked at the bloody mess on the floor, then down at the mace, which was now vibrating with a low, hungry growl. His amber eyes were entirely gone, replaced by a cold, permanent violet fire.
“They know we’re down here now,” Sszar said, his voice scraping like flint. “Good. Let them come.”