The Dead World

A Struggle

It began, like most of these battles, as the sun set. Sir Hardwin of Mort Lake had been trekking hard all day, heading for a town he knew to exist just over the next hill. Or maybe the one after that.
Another thing that he knew was that it was a bad idea to be out, alone, at night, and so he quickened his pace, looking around him for any trace of the undead that would begin to stalk the earth one the sun had sunk. As the last crimson rays seared the horizon, he quickly strapped on his greaves, arm-guards, and shoulder plates, removing them carefully from the bag slung across his back. Lastly, he strapped his shield onto his left arm, and placed his helmet on his head, keeping the visor up for now. Even though he hoped it would be unnecessary, he knew never to travel at all at night unarmoured. That was just asking to be attacked.

He kept his left hand resting on the pommel of the longsword slung at his waist, scanning the horizon for any kind of movement. A rustle in the bushes behind him and to his left made him draw quickly, pull down his visor, and face the source of the noise.

If there was something there, and it was hiding, Ave it was night, that meant that the were two possibilities: either it was some small critter, also hiding from the nightly horror, or it was a part of the nightly horror itself, waiting to pounce.

As he heard a shriek erupt from the woodland behind him, he considered that it might also be a distraction. Hardwin reflected, as he realised that what he'd thought were just rocks were actually stumps of headstones, that he should've seen this coming.

Skeletons aren't particularly dangerous foes, the bones of the dead reanimated by dark magic: it doesn't even require the works of some twisted wizard, just an area of particularly high background magic, and a bunch of dead people. This is why, usually, they didn't scare sir Hardwin; unless they had further enchantments, to make them burn, or cast spells, or have four arms, they were just bones with their burial weapons. There were two strange things about this particular band - that they could think hard enough to set a trap, and that they could, apparently, speak. Well, scream.

A huge swing of his longsword sent shards of bone flying as the decoy skeleton was quickly dispatched, and he span to face the rest of the band. Brandishing ancient weapons and ripped off bits of coffin as shields, they didn't seem terrible foes, but, rather than the traditional "attack him one at a time" tactic, these particular dead spread out, surrounding him without making any move to attack. When they did, they lunged as one, from all sides, and it was all Hardwin could do to duck the most dangerous blows, feel the rest clatter off his upper armour, and slice a hole in the ring surrounding him, to get outside it. A furious melee began, each individual skeleton posing no threat, but the group kept trying to get behind him, and he felt many blows beating against his back, shoulders, and head, one slice even cutting into his unprotected calf! Even so, he broke them all unceremoniously ending their ambush in rout and dry white scraps.

As he continued on his way, much more cautiously now, disturbed by the intelligence of his most recent enemies, he reflected that he really, really needed someone else on his side. To have his back.