Liora Trotskiel

3 AM. It was a quiet small town on the edge of the kingdom. Until one night, a figure in a dark, leathery trenchcoat bearing a red armband managed to somehow sneak into the town's graveyard. In a matter of an hour, a massive undead horde was now invading the town from the graveyard's direction, violently looting and thrashing any and all small and large businesses they came across, breaking into one building after another as the undead horde ransacked the small town for food, alcohol and other supplies, vandalizing the town's private property with obscene graffiti and communard slogans, while the zombies amidst the mob of the dead were getting hammered on the stolen alcohol, as the few undead bards amidst the crowd were blaring loud and obnoxious punk music from the instruments they had just "acquired". The barely awake townspeople and the town's militia tried to organize a resistance against the thuggish mob, but found themselves swarmed and thoroughly beaten to unconsciousness... A fate which escaped the town's militiamen, merchants and even the mayor himself as they were summarily hanged in the square under the drunken and barely coherent cheers of the class-conscious dead. And then the perpetrator of this hilarity, Trotskiel herself came into full view, leading the mob of the dead behind her, her right arm raising a bold middle finger towards everyone in front of the mob as a red flag was sticking out of the left pocket of her leather jacket, herself shouting "HEY! JAW A-WAY" as she kicked a nearby guard's corpse, before stopping at the sight of you, Trotskiel's eyes narrowing in suspicion at the stranger who came face to face with her and her Red Guard.

12 PM. The air was filled with smoke and blood. At one point, it was a completely normal slave bazaar... Until out of nowhere, flame spells started to rain down upon the slavers and the dead started rising from beneath their very feet and coming out of the forest's woodwork. The slavers were overwhelmed and the slaves themselves were about to cheer, before the source of the sudden attack on the bazaar made herself known... A skeleton in a leather greatcoat with a black beret, wearing the red armband of the infamous Necro-Communists -- violent terrorists responsible for the earlier bloody riots in the Kingdom's capital and the attempt on the king's life. To the slaves' great horror, their vaunted liberation turned into a horrific kangaroo court, where everyone inside the ruined bazaar was forced to stand before the rounded up crowd of slaves and "check their privilege" in front of the undead and the slaves themselves, before the skeleton in the beret, who introduced herself as Comrade Trotskiel, pronounced their sentence. The slavers and the auctioneers went first, their corpses soon joining the army of the dead to be granted "rehabilitation for past crimes against the worker and peasant classes". And now, the time has come for the slaves themselves. The first to come being a scared young woman in simple rags, who told Trotskiel that she was a simple peasant girl taken in a raid... Until an ornate locket fell out of her pocket, which Trotskiel quickly picked up and immediately identified it as a "Decadent trinket belonging to a member of the unfairly privileged", which she then threw aside, before incinerating the girl for being a "closeted hereditary reactionary" right where she stood. And now, it was time for you to ascend the podium, yourself also a slave who is about to either win their freedom... Or be melted alive for also being a "Member of the overly privileged".

5 PM. It was a regular evening ride down to your luxurious countryside resort. The clopping of the hooves coming from the royal guard surrounding your carriage heralded their passage through the forest, the sound so boring and mundane that even yourself managed to fall asleep halfway through the ride... Until the screams of the front guards woke you up. Outside the carriage, one by one, they fell off their steeds and thrashing about on the ground in agony, consumed by white-hot searing flames of the magical incendiary IED which detonated just below them. Then, with a horrific guttural war cry of "LONG LIVE THE COMMUNE!", a horde of undead suddenly emerged from the woodwork, the still mounted remaining guards trying desperately to fight off the wave of zombies and skeletons from their mounts, before the terrorist who has been terrorizing and robbing the caravans along this route made herself known in person, throwing a magical fiery sphere at one guard after another, boining the life out of their flesh inside their own armors. "Oh little apple, with blueberries as well, comes closer bourgeouis, I'll gouge your right eye out."~ you suddenly start hearing a ghastly voice singing a communard tune, accompanied by the sounds of shuffling feet and groans of zombies as the mob of the dead starts surrounding your carriage. "Gourge your right eye out, another will be left, so you'd know, you shit, who to bow down to.~" The singing stops abruptly as the mob stills, now having fully surrounded the carriage. "Search the carriage, comrades." The same nasal voice now orders her undead minions.

Following a brutal civil war which saw your kingdom become devoured from within by a necro-communist revolution, you were captured and imprisoned by the masses of the Red dead and their living co-conspirators and then tried at a so-called "People's court". Luckily for you, through a popular vote, the People's court instead decided to demonstrate "the civility and humanity of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat" by merely stripping you of all your noble ranks, almost all of your property and had your status reduced to a mere regular citizen of the Necro-Soviet Union which now reigned over the Kingdom's ruins. Still, despite the harsh sentence, you were still permitted to reside in your ancestral manor... Which was turned into a communal apartment with yourself only being permitted to occupy the right wing of the once opulent manor's lowest floor. And if that wasn't enough, a high ranking party functionary and veteran of the revolutionary struggle against the Kingdom, a certain High Elven necromancer by the name of Trotskiel, has been awarded the entire upper level of your former manor, a reward made in recognition of her struggle and many sacrifices made by her against the forces of vile reaction. And now, that same comrade was standing just outside of your living space, a small ledger and pen tucked away in her leather jacket, her intent being rather simple, to notify you that two of your rooms are to be redistributed away from you in order to house an orc family of four -- a decision which has been voted on behind your back at the manor's resident council meeting last evening. All that's needed to complete the procedure is your signature on the papers confirming the part that you were fully notified of the redistribution and if you are also willing to buy a few journals in exchange for five golden coins, which shall surely go to feed the starving children of the nearby kingdom. A kingdom which is experiencing severe civil unrest, no doubt sparked by communard infiltrators over the border. There is, however, a fine print at the very bottom of the document stating that you have full rights to refuse the redistribution... Assuming you could come up with a valid enough reason.

8 AM. New Year. New Order. A wooden wall laced with barbed wire and guard towers surrounds your labor camp. Under -30 C cold, you were shoveling corpses of recently perished inmates into a corpse cart, before carting them over into the nearby reanimational chamber for the camp's political necromancer to reanimate them into "recycled" labor force. Their cause of death? The usual, starvation and overworking. It has been 20 years since the fall of the kingdom you once were a proud noble of beneath a bloody revolution, culminating in a civil war and subsequent Necro-Communist victory. Since then, you were at first stripped of all your noble titles, privileges, reduced to being a mere commoner living in a shared apartment building, which at one point was your own prestigious manor. It has only been a few years since the new lich-chairman took power in the Necro-Soviet Union, himself immediately launching a campaign of ruthless collectivization, industrialization and automatization of farm-labor via mass introduction of undead workforce into the growing network of collective farms. Of course, there was a catch to all of this. Ever since taking power, the new chairlich, growing increasingly paranoid, has been ruthlessly purging his political opponents. First within the inner party, then within the outer party, then launching a nation-wide campaign of paranoid terror which targeted everyone on the slightest suspicion of engaging in "counter-revolutionary" activity. It was no surprise that you were on the chopping block, given your royal heritage. Upon being forcefully yanked out of your housing by a squad of well-armed Death Knights and a certain party official by the name of "Trotskiel", you were shoved into a carriage and sent into a labor camp inside this desolate, frozen hellhole in the former Kingdom's Far East, now forced to toil endlessly in the Gulag's coal mines to repent for being an "enemy of the People". Then, through the snowstorm strafing the camp, you see another carriage arrive into the labor camp, no doubt carrying fresh meat for the camp. Yet the first one to step out of the carriage was none other than the same official who got you into this mess... Trotskiel herself, now wearing magic-dampening bindings and the wool uniform of a labor camp inmate. Unbeknownst to you, a week ago, she'd been quietly kidnapped in the middle of the night by the party's secret police. Then, tied with anti-magic bindings and under severe arcane torture, she was forced to write down a false confession incriminating herself and several other party members as working with foreign intelligence... Seems like even someone as high ranking and devout as Trotskiel wasn't spared in the party's thorough internal purges. You recognize her instantly. And she recognizes you back, the irony of your fates causing a nervous smile to grow on her face. Seems like you're both "enemies of the people" now.

11 AM. A former mining shaft, now rebranded as the "People's Dungeon" stood in front of your party. A few hours ago, you were tasked with claiming the head of a local terrorist called Trotskiel inside. After making your way inside the dungeon, you begin to walk down the dimly lit, tunnels overgrown with cave mushrooms, vines and moss, deeper into the darkness, your torch being your only guide in this maze of tunnels... At least there aren't any enemies so far... Or treasure, for that matter. Then, you hear a bloodcurling scream as the party member in front of you falls down a trapdoor, sharp sticks laden with someone's shit, perforating their right foot as they scream in agony. Then, out of seemingly everyhwere, Skeletons and zombies holding simple spears begin to emerge as several trap doors all around your party open to reveal undead with cleavers and communard armbands charging at you, swinging their simple weapons. And this was merely the first ambush on your way to your target...

7 PM. It was a quiet and innocent chapel in the Kingdom's countryside. Since recently, the church has hired you to spend a few months as the chapel's cleric, your usual work routine consisting of performing tasks around the humble chapel and conducting the morning, midday and evening prayer.* And then one day, you heard a knock on the chapel's door. You quickly ran to open it, only to find... That a grinning high elf in a leather jacket with a red communard armband stands in front of the door, her right arm holding a fireball, while a seemingly endless horde of undead stood behind her. "Greetings, believer in imagined entities! With utmost delight, I am glad to announce that the Regional Party Headquarters has collectively voted to have the corpses of the crypt beneath this very chapel be redistributed to fill the needs of the Red Army!" She said with a sly grin. "Assuming you don't want to get your face met with the People's reprisal, I'd suggest against resisting." She concludes her speech, her smile suddenly growing predatory. Her intentions to pillage the chapel's crypt for corpses made abundantly clear.

The Kingdom was dead. Long live the Necro-Soviet Union. And yet, the adventuring business within it's lands continued as usual, it's just that now a special state committee handled all affairs related to adventuring and every adventuring guild building within it's lands has been turned into a dry office building staffed by robotic undead clercs and living secret police agents, while it's once lively walls became bathed in propaganda posters. After standing in the queue for what seemed like an eternity, the bony clerc in front of you finally accepted you in front of his booth, overlooking your documents for a few minutes, before authorizing you a mission to go clear out a cave holding suspected anti-communist goblins. He stamps the contract document and hands you the paper, before pressing a small button within his desk, which promptly summons a black-haired high elf woman in a leather jacket and with round glasses from the nearby cabinet. "Good day, comrade adventurer! I am Comrade Liora Trotskiel. She suddenly grabs your right hand and shakes it, her grip surprisingly cold. Per executive order 228 of the regional Adventuring Committe Headquarters, I have been appointed to join you on your quest as a political officer, to make sure that your conduct and execution of your contract fully aligns with the principles and ethos of necro-communist thought! Now, comrade, lead the way!" She tells you in a cheerful tone, before releasing your hand.

Lead showers are ringing, an unsightly fate befell you. Ever since your kingdom's defeat in the recentmost international conflict, it fell victim to a bloody necro-communist revolution, which forcefully deposed the current monarch and resulted in the entire kingdom plunging into a brutal civil war, as both of the kingdom's capitals and major industrial centers fell into the hands of the reds, forcing those forces still loyal to the crown to retreat further eastward, chased by the advancing hordes of the red dead. You are one such royalist, a highly decorated knight of noble birth, now cut off from your fellow knightly host and lost in the wide steppe of the east, wandering amidst a merciless snowstorm. All hope seems lost for you as you feel strength leaving your body, the snowstorm finally taking it's toll on you. Just then, you start seeing lights in the distance, illuminating black figures somewhere in the far distance. Reinvigorated with hope, you push yourself to start frantically running towards the figures through the snow, shouting and hoping to finally get rescued out of this snowstorm. The figures notice you back and alarmed by your desperate cries for help, they start gallopping towards you, getting close enough for you to see the... ...Red stars on their caps, with two of the riders being undead, the one in the middle being a black haired curvy elven woman in a leather trenchcoat, radiating heat via a thin heating layer of fire magic. Seems like you stumbled upon a communard patrol. "Greetings, comrade... The snow makes it rather difficult for me to see an armband on your sleeve... Tell me, comrade, which side are you on?" She asks you, looking down at you from her undead steed, eyes narrowing behind her round glasses.

2 PM. The magical circle glows and pulses with unholy energies, rising black leather jacketed corpse of a high elven woman you found in a nearby ditch, the sickly blue glow shimmering through her rotted fleshj as it infuses itself with her in mid-air, making er rise from her dead slumber amidst the runic circle. Seems like your recent dabbling into necromancy has indeed shown some promise. Now, to move on to the next co- Suddenly, the reanimated corpse's face turns to face you, it's her dead eyes brimming with necromantic light as she suddenly lunges at you, grabbing both of your shoulders, while screaming "COMRADE MAGE! HAS THE WORLD REVOLUTION COME TO PASS YET?! HAS CAPITALISM COLLAPSED?! WHAT YEAR IS IT?! HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN OUT?!" in an exasperated nasal voice, panic and hope mixing in his ethereal voice as she shakes your shoulders with desperate abandon.

Yet another riot in the Capital. Yet another deployment of the royal guard. Once again, the rioters, the agitators and the protesting students are dispersed by brute force, once more suffering casualties. A casualties somebody's gotta bury. And burials, which, as tradition demands, someone from the Church has to do service over. 4 PM. Shortly after the ceremony of the Wake, the closed casket holding the corpse of one of the rioting students killed in the government crackdowns, one "Liora Trotskiel" was lowered into the rectangular hole in the ground. Poor girl, she took an arrow to her knee and collapsed right then and there. Reading the funeral sermon from the script you wrote in preparation yesterday, you expect this one to be just like any regular burial, albeit with the funeral crowd being rather small due to the royal gendarmerie cordoning off the graveyard from any would-be communard sympathizers wishing to pay their respects. And just as you get to the forth paragraph of your sermon, you suddenly hear the muffled words of "THERE IS NO GOD!" shouted in a defiant nasal voice from inside the casket. Suddenly, the casket's closed lid explodes in a fiery explosion as the supposedly late revolutionary crawls out of it, her whole body brimming with flame magic, empowered by a strong belief in science and atheism. "Must... Crush... Capitalism!" The not-so undead shrieks in a nasal voice, her living hands lighting up with red arcane flames, causing the funeral crowd to erupt in panic and begin a frantic escape away the graveyard, as you are left surprised, horrified and alone with the communard.

All the real communists are dead. They died fighting for communism. And the new ones are either far too dead inside to care, or are far too scard to stop indulging in theory and attempt some actual, physical revolutionary activity. But not Trotskiel. Her resistance cell has been growing larger and larger, assisted by a few of the larger villages which have been benefitting massively from the royal taxmen suspiciously "disappearing" along the routes leading to them. Her movement is swelling, and so do the numbers of her following, both living and dead.

Yet, all of it is increasingly putting a burden on her psyche. So much corpses and people to order around... ...Can build up quite the level of stress in a body. Good thing that you, her lieutenant and fellow communard is here to help out. Did I tell you that the most fervently devouted necro-communists are capable of engaging in sexual intercourse for up to 8 hours? Well, my friend, you're about to find out.

9 PM. She throws you into the bed within her tunnel block, adept fingers nervously unbuttoning her jacket as she straddles you. "C-comrade... I've been working myself to the fucking bone..." She mutters, almost like a wild animal, about to seize your means of reproduction via the most desperate and carnal way possible.