The origin of IMS (a fictional story)

[EwulSpif]

Hello everyone and welcome to the story of IMS (Iksar murder squad).
Creative feedback are optional and appreciated., so let’s dive in to it.

The Scale and the String.

Chapter I: The Gathering of the Dregs

The sun beat down on the Courtyard of Cabilis, reflecting off the stagnant green moats. Five young Iksars stood in a line, their scales dry and lacking the luster of the elite guards. They wore tattered cloth and carried rusted daggers. They were the bottom of the brood, called together by Elder Vyzh, a scarred veteran whose tail had been docked in a hundred battles.
"The Empire does not grow by sitting in the mud," Vyzh hissed, his golden eyes scanning their unproven faces. "You five... you are nothing. But you will travel to the lands of the soft-skins. Establish our reach. Or die trying. Do not return until the name of the Scale is whispered in fear."
Among them stood Sszar. He wasn't a leader yet, just a Shadowknight initiate with a rusted khukuri and a heart full of resentment. He looked at the others: Krazz, a Monk whose hands were still soft and unscarred; Voksh, a Necromancer who could barely call a flickering spark of undeath to his fingertips; and Gorg, a Beastlord with a mangy, toothless hatchling he called Fluffy.
"I’m not dying in this swamp," Sszar rasped, looking at his companions. "If the Elder wants a name, we give him one. Follow me, or get out of the way."

The Road to the North.

The journey across the ocean to Faydwer was a brutal lesson in survival. They weren't heroes; they were scavengers. In the damp tunnels of the Butcherblock Mountains, they fought off giant bats and scurrying rats just to keep their bellies full.
It was during a desperate fight against a group of Orc pawns that the change began. Krazz, backed into a corner, felt a strange rhythm in his blood. Instead of a clumsy jab, he spun his entire body, his leg snapping out in a perfect, practiced arc—a blow that shattered an Orc’s skull with the sound of a dry branch snapping. He looked at his foot, surprised by the sudden, violent clarity of the strike.
Voksh, meanwhile, stood over a dying Orc, whispering ancient, forbidden words. He caught the creature's dying breath in a small obsidian vial. As the soul passed, his withered hand glowed with a sickly green light, and he felt a sudden surge of stolen vitality pulse through his veins, mending his own bruised skin.
They were no longer whelps. They were hardening.

The Acquisition of the Instrument.

They reached Crushbone not as conquerors, but as opportunistic predators. They avoided the main gates, picking through the slave pens near the entrance. In a cramped, lightless cell, they found him. A Wood Elf, skeletal and covered in Orc-spit.
"Please," the Elf whimpered as Sszar kicked the cell door open. "Don't eat me."
Voksh looked at the Elf, then at a battered, three-stringed lute lying in the straw. A dark thought crossed the Necromancer's mind. "We need a catalyst," Voksh said. "A pulse to keep our blood moving."
Sszar hauled the Elf out by his tattered tunic. "What’s your name, monkey?"
"I... I am Lelyen," the Elf stammered.
"No," Sszar said, looking at the way the Elf’s knees knocked together, making a faint, rhythmic clicking in the silence. "You sound like coins in a pouch. You’re Jingles now."
Voksh handed the Elf the broken lute. "Play, Jingles. Make it hurt."
The Elf took the instrument with trembling hands. He began to pluck the strings, but his fear and the damaged wood produced something horrific. It was a dissonant, screeching wail—a twisted version of a battle chant. It should have been a song of courage, but through Jingles’ terror, it sounded like metal grinding on bone.
To the Iksars, however, it was perfect. The screeching notes acted as a focal point for their aggression, a jagged rhythm to strike to. As the first Orc Centurion charged them, the Squad moved in unison for the first time. They weren't a unit yet, but as the Elf’s agonizing music filled the corridor, they felt the first spark of what they were destined to become.
"Keep playing," Sszar commanded, his rusted blade dripping with Orc blood. "If the music stops, so does your life."

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