[h3][center] ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Olivaster Wrathmont ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ [/center][/h3]

[b][center]MARCHING ORDERS ; ROAD TO NUBINA - 15TH DAY, 8TH HOUR[/center][/b]
[b]”What a waste…”[/b] Olivaster scoffed underneath his exasperated exhale.[b] “Silent for so long. Brooding in their thoughts. They want to talk. They would have talked.”[/b] 

The forces had begun to move again, but Olivaster stood waiting. He stood gazing down at the littering of bones at his feet. Ankles twitched on the ends of broken legs, their tendons trying to find a firm foothold. Fingers stretched out on their hands slowly trudging through the sludge of deadly field. Ashen skulls smudged with dirt and worn by time gawked with black sockets some empty others illuminated with a dulcet blue light. Slack jaws hung open motionless, though to someone attuned to the undead could see that they longed to move - to tell their story. 

[b]“Niyin ilhar xuat ul'nusst whol tau. Pahntar dosst da'rex lueth sjaal dosst dalharen wun oloth. Voen'llyl nind sarn. mylthar thier zhaunil. Lueth sslig'ne nind hwuen nind phu' ulu ku'lam h'uena sohna lueth plynn rath vel'bol zhah nind.”[/b] 

Drawing his staff close, Olivaster placed the fingers of an open hand to his forehead, often a symbol of communing with Enathrae. He spoke his words in a determined whisper with eyes closed. He meant those words. He felt that those around him were being foolish. He felt that because of their fear they were failing to identify the potential wealth of information. Information that could be potentially save lives. Close minded imbeciles. Olivaster knew what they had to offer because he had enlisted their help in the past. However, how could he even go about explaining that to these simpletons?

Olivaster began to saunter through the dead until a glint caught his eye. It brought him to an abrupt halt. The Duchess literally upon her high horse, the most unworthy member of this entire force. A liar she was for the woman would never be caught dead in the fields of the dead other than to lead this band of knights, conscripts, boys still wet behind the ears. Her and those she employed so crude to believe that their gods maintained dominion over these fallen foes. But Olivaster believed his goddess to be true, the Weeping Mother - a goddess long forgotten since the inception of this new pantheon that better identified with the needs of society. But he knew that Enathrae’s time would soon be upon them. 

[b]”Weeping mother, ease my stride and stay my hand. Swallow these fallen and tally them for the duchess’ soul.”[/b]

Shaking his head with disdain Olivaster carried on trudging onward through the fallen. He turned away from the Duchess and watched as so many souls brave only in numbers marched passed him. He took up position near the back of the crusade. Little desire did Olivaster have to spend the next few hours hidden behind guile. 
[h3][center] * * * * * * * * [/center][/h3]
[b][center]MARCHING ORDERS ; ROAD TO NUBINA - 15TH DAY, 9TH  HOUR[/center][/b]
[b]“Tfrl kitc.”[/b] A whisper carried on the wind. 

While many may not have heard it, those who were fairly attuned to the art of necromancy would have picked it up even if only a shiver down their spine. Olivaster tilted his head, contemplating what he had heard. Turn back?

[b]Tmy flvhulq lyjyr rywz.tfrl kitc.[/b] This time the whispers came a bit louder. 

Olivaster began to look around as the words became more invasive. The language was not commonly taught in local schools. In fact, it really was not spoken off outside the academies where magic was taught. Sometimes the language was not even spoken about there. This language common amongst the undead and undying, it was beginning to get difficult to translate without parchment. Never rest? 

[b]Wy sudd oyiwz feal zmy dujulq.[/b] The voices shouted in a tone so unsettling that is stopped Olivaster in his tracks. 

A shiver carried across Olivaster’s spine. It rattled his bones. Even those unfamiliar with the art of necromancy or magic in general would be influenced by this cry.Olivaster’s body felt overcome by some feeling of pure dread. It was a feeling that he had not felt since the first time he had called upon Enathrae without the help of another more experienced member of his clergy. He had not felt this feeling since he was first graced by the power Enathrae granted upon his oath. 

[b]“Tfrl kitc.”[/b] A whisper carried on the wind. 
[h3][center] * * * * * * * * [/center][/h3]
[b][center]MARCHING ORDERS ;  CAMP - 17TH DAY , 20TH HOUR[/center][/b]
The border of the campsite flickered in the breeze that took command of the large fires that warmed the night’s cool air. Their tents centered around each other never allowing their backs to be exposed towards the wilderness. Every inch of the camp was called to be illuminated by fire or torchlight. Even the guards who were set to patrol the perimeters found themselves trudging dangerously close to the tents as if the reinforcement on the light would keep the forces that were growing in mass around them at bay. 

For beyond the fires that outline the massive encampment there were quite dastardly forces. It could be felt as they tried to rest amongst the stagnant air that carried the scent of the dead upon it. Something was out there. It could have been living. But everyone knew it was at least the undead. They feared that it could have been a much greater threat, the undying. 

Olivaster was found around one typical fire with a number of individuals that may or may not have been particularly important. But they were there chattering amongst themselves, divulging worthless information and wasting time in an attempt to settle their nerves while they tried to stomach what little bit of staunch trail rations they could muster up on this particular night. 

[b]“Enathrae mrimm ussta rahi, honglath nindol elghkhel.”[/b] Olivaster whispered after shaking his hands and casting them forward in between his feet. 

Olivaster had been rattling a collection of bones in his hands. These were not fresh bones but bleached bones from skeletons he had long since encountered. He had tossed them to the ground below in contemplation of the future. While there had been little knowledge of whether or not the bone telling of Enathrae was anything more than a parlor trick Olivaster had to believe that any time he called upon his goddess she would answer him, otherwise what was the point of the oath. 

[b]Could this mean…”[/b] Olivaster thought contemplating the puzzling results of the scattered bones, [b]“No… this soon into the crusade…”[/b]

Olivaster looked into the face around his campfire. Perhaps they had not noticed that they were being examined. But he could see that there were many determined faces but even that determination could not hide the fear that cursed them. Even at the feet of their precious Duchess the masses were still little more than fearful conscripts failing to heed the warning at the call of their knights. What could be done? 
[h3][center] * * * * * * * * [/center][/h3]
[b][center]MARCHING ORDERS ; ROAD TO NUBINA - 19TH DAY, DUSK[/center][/b]
[b]“Enathrae sslig'ne lueth knan!”[/b] Olivaster shouted drawing a single hand palm up as if clutching an invisible orb. 

The arm which glowed with an incandescent blue light up to his elbow seemed to pulsate as he chanted the words once, twice, thrice. The light grew to dance as if flames were caught about his forearm. Olivaster extended his arm, inverting his hand. The motion brought a blue flame to be cast along the ground in an arc before him. As he drew his hand up the powers that be at his command through divine intervention and a terrible oath that plagued him regularly, the bones of both the fallen and the undead that had been clawing about nearby were pulled toward the flame. As the flame rose so did the collection of bones forming a four foot tall wall that writhed and struggled to break free, the arms of the undead and the undying tussling with themselves to pull free from the necromancer’s power. 

[b]“Quickly now!”[/b] He shouted to those who had gathered with him to face these undead and undying forces. 

Olivaster was busy readying another spell. He had hoped that the masses would defend him as the dead were swarming from every direction. Attempting to regain his composure after the last spell a number of dead had managed to stumble their way towards him. One lunged, catching the mage off guard. He barely managed to evade the skeletal claw grasping at his robes before hitting the ground. The next being was swept to the ground with his staff before the creature’s head was shattered, the staff smashing into the ground. Luckily enough for Olivaster the third had been dispatched by a swift sword strike from another. The same had gone for the first fallen that had been smashed by a quickly placed boot. He returned to casting another spell. 

[b]”Enathrea, plynn elakar illing harventh ulu in'loilfrey. Tiu seke zotreth harl nacta.[/b]

Olivaster clutched the glowing orb atop his staff. He drew his open palm away once again viewing as though he was grasping an invisible orb. As he move his hand, a powerful energy sparked to life connecting both his flesh to the head of the staff of the weeping mother. It cackled with black flickerings of lighting that danced near its center. For mere seconds he held the power before directing staff towards the undead that were massing at the wall and slowly making their way around. 

With every motion of the step a thick, tendril lashed out slashing at the undead and the undying that were beginning to clamour over the wall. With each pass of his staff that Olivaster now wielded in two hands, the tendril lashed about smashing and slashing at any creature that drew near. He chanted as quickly as he could, the same line over and over again. With each finished line another tendril sprouted slowly growing with each passing line. Once, twice, and thrice he chanted until three tendrils lashed about at full length slaughtering the forms that came near him. 

Sweat began to bead along his forehead. Blood dribbled from his nose, collecting on the chest of his robes. His chest heaved. He could feel his lungs beginning to tighten. The exasperation should on his face. The exhaustion was beginning to set in. 

[b]”Hurry!”[/b] Olivaster coughed trying to maintain enough concentration to carry on, [b]”hold them back he cried.”[/b]

[h3][center] ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ [/center][/h3]