Journey to the Darkest Dungeon

Tomb

His companions too were bracing for combat. Unsure of the state of his wounded ally, the crusader had taken a stand before her, left foot back, right foot forward, anchored and stalwart. The sword before him, held tightly and high, was ready for whatever else may emerge from the swirling blackness before him. The approaching danger, the mounting fear of demise and injury only reinforced the knight's sturdy stance. Blood pumping through his veins, muscles tense and wary. Had it been a hundred enemies approaching, he would have held his ground all the same. Had it been a thousand, armies, it mattered not. This is where he belonged, the front lines of righteous conflict.

Junia behind him drew closer to the wounded Paracelsus and attempted in vain to assess the situation in the dark. Her hands felt only cloth and blood, the yelps of pain below rang futile into the consuming shade around. She felt her pulse pound within her skull, but this was not the time to give in. Her allies relied on her to do her part. "We need new light" she muttered to the struck doctor and the wailing grunts subsided shortly. There was a shuffling sound and moments later, a shaky hand guided hers to the spot on the floor were the remaining torches had spilled from Paracelsus' satchel. Quickly the Vestal grabbed one of them and ignited the beacon with the faint embers of its predecessor. Once more, orange pulsing light flooded the room and made visible what had been hidden before. 

Looking around, her anxious gaze first found her patient before her. The wound on her shoulder was notably more gruesome than she had anticipated. The plague doctor was writhing in ceaseless agony from a serrated old spear that had shot her shoulder through. The cloth was torn revealing the horridly festering wound. The shattered shoulderblade beneath afforded the doctor no further mobility. Blood oozed endlessly, drenching her coat, filling the inconspicuous gray with large dark stains. Before them both stood Reynauld and before him finally, the attackers. Instinctively a muttered prayer escaped her lips as she perceived that which was assaulting them in this forlorn tomb. It could not be. It should not be. But despite her convictions the scene met her eyes all the same. It were the bones of the dead. Skeletons.

For a moment the knight too doubted his judgement as he beheld the approaching assailants in the freshly lit glow. Though their missions stated aim was to dispatch the supposed "Necromancer", up to this point he had not thought such things possible, all explained away by some dark magic trickery and vile illusion. This he found much harder to doubt. Reanimated skeletal remains approached, at least eight bone-made soldiers before him, holding on to whatever shield, sword and dagger they were able to scrounge from the fallen. And though their lack of facial features allowed for neither countenance nor grin, he swore he could see it still. Such malicious, hearty glee at the adventurer's misfortune. Such malignant revelry.

The fear in the crusaders heart was only outmatched by his zealous fury. Thanking the light for his strength and ferocity, he finally met their approach with his own and advanced, unshaken and vicious, into the encroaching horde. From the back, one of the undead launched another projectile. The knights plated right forearm diverted the thrown dagger and swiftly followed up the motion with a punch to the soldier in front of him. With a crunching sound the gauntlet on his left broke through the assailants skull and the animated remains fell to pieces. Anticipating a blow from his flank he stepped to the side, ready to counter the skeletal assault, but watched in surprise as the horde simply shuffled past him. They were not even looking his way. Horror trickled down his spine as he understood their intended target.

Behind him the vestal had begun a healing prayer. Quickly lost in her ritualistic mutterings, her eyes were closed and her shimmering fingertips softly ran over the doctor's wound. The flesh was knit, the blood returned, alas her dire labor made her only an easier target. The weakness of the blood, the compassion within, had been effortlessly exploited by those who suffered not such dependencies. As the horde of bones began to shamble past him, Reynauld saw within them only one unerring pursuit. One purpose to their twisted half-existence. To end life. Where they stood and where they walked, nothing could breathe, nothing could feel. Their empty eyes searched restlessly for more bones to strip of their skin and blood, to free of their failing, feeling, exploitable shell, to make them join their allegiance. A conglomerate of the undying, restlessly extinguishing those along their path, ever moving, ever expanding.