I am Chives, keeper of the stinging horde, and in this forsaken world of Immortalis, where the air hums with malice and the ground drinks blood like parched earth, one learns to harness what others flee. Wasps. Not the idle buzzers of summer gardens, but the engineered fiends bred for purpose, their venom a currency sharper than steel. You think survival is hiding in shadows or scavenging scraps? Foolish. True endurance lies in the hive, in the swarm that obeys only you.

Begin with the nest. Select a hollow in dead wood, preferably oak felled by lightning, for its bitterness repels rivals. Line it with masticated bark, fine as silk from a widow’s veil, and coax the queens with syrup laced from fermented berries and the nectar of nightshade. They arrive, fat and furious, drawn by the scent of dominion. Feed them not slop, but the choicest morsels: flies bloated on carrion, spiders plucked from their webs while still twitching. Watch their abdomens swell, venom sacs pulsing like hearts in the dark.

The bond forms through exposure. Bare your skin to their fury daily, starting with a single sting on the wrist. The pain is exquisite, a burn that rewires the nerves, teaches the swarm your scent as kin. Ignore the swelling, the fever dreams where wings beat inside your skull. By the third week, they recognise you, ignore you, even defend you. Against the undead rotters that shamble through our ruins, unleash a fistful. They burrow into eyes, orifices, laying eggs in the rotting flesh. The screams? Music to a man who’s heard too much silence.

Survival demands ritual. Harvest venom at dawn, when the wasps are sluggish. Milk the stingers with silver tweezers, collect the droplets in vials stoppered with wax. Dilute for poultices against infection, concentrate for weapons. Coat your blades, your needles. One prick fells a man in agony, twitching till dawn. And the honey? Rare, acrid, a balm for wounds that would fester otherwise. But hoard it, for the queens demand tribute, or the hive turns feral, stings its master to pulp.

Threats abound. Rival keepers, those fools who think wasps mere tools, not partners in savagery. They raid nests, steal queens. Defend with fire ants in decoy hives, or smoke signals that summon your true swarm from miles away. Weather tests you worse: floods drown nests, frosts kill grubs. Relocate ruthlessly, burn the old site to deny enemies. And the immortals themselves, those pale lords who eye your buzzing arsenal with hunger. Ally or perish. Offer venom for their veins, watch them writhe in ecstasy.

In Immortalis, weakness invites the swarm of the world to devour you. But master the wasps, and you command a legion that fears no night, no blade, no eternity. Keep the hive close, let their hum be your pulse. Sting first, always. Or become the carrion.

Immortalis Book One August 2026