“Brandy.” Roth considered it a moment. He was dehydrated, but spirits weren’t going to do much to help with that. There was also something about the corpses pinned up on the wall that put off his thirst. Not to mention all the ones he’d stepped over on the way in. “Afraid I’ll have to pass, thanks.”

What a dupe.

Rothelion wasn’t sure what he’d believed when he’d seen the posters requesting would-be ‘heroes’ to join some Grand Wizard in a quest that would somehow set things right and pull the world out of this fetid, rotten hell. Initially he’d dismissed the posters but they reappeared so often, so fervently, and word spread so fast and so ubiquitously that eventually, Roth couldn’t ignore the call.

It was either ride to meet this Grand Wizard, if only to hear him out, or do nothing and watch the world be consumed by madness. He was a capable elf, so if this journey of Mulad’s showed any merit at all, he was certain he could be an asset. But in all likelihood it was some naive, half-cocked plan spun up by a madman who had burned half his mind after a lifetime of magic use.

And for the most part, he was right on that. What Rothelion hadn’t expected was the company.

A gaggle of humans, a young elf—neither Lebethron or Andrann by the look of him, a unique looking woman that didn’t appear quite human, and a gnoll. A gnoll had answered the call, which insinuated that it at some point in its life had first learned to read. But, Rothelion remembered, it shared the same shattered world with everyone else. Suppose he shouldn’t be completely blown over.

What should surprise him was that Rothelion himself had shown up for this embarrassing amalgam of fools. Gods, he knew he had been more than wayward for the past couple of decades, but to think he had sunk this low to find himself in this sad little lot of suicidal adventurers… and the make things worse, a fellow elf was here to witness Rothelion finally hitting rock bottom.

That was it. Roth was leaving.

“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you all.” He stood up from his reclined position near a table. “Especially the well spoken gnoll, though I can’t say I’ve ever labored under the misconception that they like hot water. But I think I’ve made a mistake. I’m going to head on before I choke on all this ins...pir...a…”

Rothelion felt the pit of his stomach tighten. The weight of dark magic was pressing in on his skin, suddenly robbing him of breath. What’s more, the bodies in the tavern had begun twitching. The staff came off Roth’s shoulder and spun as he gradually turned himself around, assessing his space and surroundings.

“Aye,” he agreed with the other Mul elf who’d arrived. A fluid motion, and the wooden skull mask settled back over his face. “Or someone led them straight to us.” Just as he thought. Traveling with this haphazard assembly of future-cadavers was just begging for death.

A swift swing of his bladed staff neatly removed the head of an animating corpse on the wall nearby, but still more were rising. If Roth was going to defend himself, he was going to need space to properly use his weapon.

Bracing himself with one hand against a glassless window, Rothelion deftly hopped backwards out of the tavern into the grass outside. The thought occurred to him that he could run, but the more this party scattered, they more they were in danger of being picked off one by one. Although he had no desire to join the Grand Wizard’s little gang, he couldn’t simply leave them to die.

The fellow elf passed nearby, battling his way past reanimated corpses as he made toward the source of the dark magic: cultists, why not. The mindless, shuffling undead were only puppets after all, there had to be someone holding their strings. It wasn’t going to be more priestesses.

Roth sighed, jogging after his kin as seemed most right to do. He hopped between the fallen corpses in his wake, pausing only once to stab one through the neck that still seemed to be moving, despite being cleaved in twain. A flick of the curved blade put an end to that.

“You’re dressed like you know how to handle yourself in a fight,” Rothelion called to his elven brother, edging toward him lend aid but still far enough away that he could swing his staff at full length. Still, the centrifuge of Eovaine’s blades dotted Rothelion’s skull mask with bits of viscera. The impact of it had compelled a noise of vomitous disgust from the elder elf. “For the love of… but you rush in like someone who can’t wait for his funeral. The cultists are the source of this. Aid me in attacking them.”

As they made their way through the ruined town, Andin's ears twitched. His head was on a swivel and his ears twitched at every little sound. When he heard the Purifier's heavy methodical footfalls, his hand was quick to retrieve a small pouch and keep it palmed as the golden juggernaut approached them. "You're both late, Mulad is in the ruined tavern," it spat as it began to move to another, off in the distance. Despite his rudeness, the halfling waved and shouted after him, "Thanks!"

They were late? They were? Disgusting. Even a golden wrapping can't make a bug a man. As the town fell, was the wizard not late? As cultists crawled through and razed this landmark to the ground, was the wizard not late? As man, woman, and child burnt and bled, screaming in anguish, was the wizard not late? His call had condemned Six Corners and only a fool would have not seen the executioners blade poised to strike and Andin did not think Mulad a fool. As the armored footfalls of a pompous man receded into the distance, a white-knuckled fist deposited the pouch back into its pocket. "We should hurry; the suspense must be killing our magic friend," said the halfling with a morbid edge, his bare feet crunching on ash.



At the tavern, the scene hadn't changed much. The carnage outside had followed them inside as Andin grimaced at the sight of the bodies impaled on the wall. At the very least, he felt welcomed when a grey giant of a man saluted him with a deep bow. The halfling gave a flourish of his hands as he bowed deeply in turn. As the others gave him no particular notice, preferred to size up the more physically imposing, Andin cursed his height and pulled himself onto a human chair before hefting his bag up onto a table with a thud.

With soft steps, he walked over to the bar and climbed into a bar stool. He pulled a shot toward himself. Looking around and eyeing the priestess, he pulled a second shot toward himself. He was sure clergy didn't drink with witnesses. After careful deliberation, a third shot was strategically placed in front of him, there was still plenty left for the others. The first shot was down the hatch as he eyed the fourth and took a whiff of the second. This was good brandy. Smokey. Rich flavor. With the second shot gone, he poured the third into a small flask that miraculously appeared in his hand. With his belly warming up, the halfling skulked off with his topped off flask.

He made his way back to the table and placed the fourth shot in front of him. As the wizard began to address them all, Andin paid close attention. Certain choices of words made the halfling's ears twitch. He had a feeling in his gut and it wasn't the brandy. He'd have the address it later, he'd heard some things about the Grand Wizard Mulad, mostly about his renowned chess skills but he was not expecting what was in front of them. The cogs in this cog's head turned and turned until the wizard cut off his words. The hairs on Andin's neck and arms stood on end as a certain pressure swept through the tavern. He couldn't place it but he suddenly felt on edge, his stomach slowly twisting into a knot. His heart jumped when he felt his table twitch under him. When Mulad began to brief them, Andin snapped back into reality. His table wobbled as he dropped from his chair and came face to face with the corpse trying to tear him apart. It was male, with a thick blood-soaked beard and its jaw hung by one side of the face, the other side had been cleaves gruesomely by a blade. While not mindless, these creatures were far from clever at first. This one was attempting to reach him while essentially hugging the table's column. Andin drew his own dagger, a thin and sharp instrument for a thin and sharp Good Folk. While avoiding the creature's grasping hands, he swung around and planted the weapon in the creatures neck before giving it a twist. With a sickening pop, the creature slumped to the ground. It continued to moan at Andin, its tongue lashing around and its eyes rolling in its head, but it's limbs had lost whatever life had been brought into them. With surgical precision, Andin sliced with the dagger across the intact side of the creature and severed the jaw muscle, robbing the corpse of its ability to bite or move its jaw. As the creature's blue and bloodshot eyes stared at Andin with hunger, the halfling, sheathed the weapon and dug around in his coat. "Strange day for just brandy, yeah? Ah, there you are." he mumbled as he pulled out a pair of pliers.

Reappearing from under the table, he could see that others had already began to spring to action. He had heard some charge out of the tavern but had been a bit too engrossed to try to keep track. Coagulated blood covered his gloves, as he looked at who was left inside. Seemed as though all of the heavily armed had already left, luckily the old grey mountain had the sense to stay near by. The scout started to head up, arrows clicking in their quivers. Andin's eyes glinted as an idea began to form.

Jumping to his chair, the halfling retrieved his bag and that fourth shot before running over to the bar, dragging a chair with him. Jumping to chair, then barstool on nimble feet, he pushed away the empty shot glasses and cleared a workspace. Whipping his bag onto the next stool, he retrieved a small wooden carrying case. Flipping it open, one could see a series of labelled vials, liquids of various colors within. The halfling laid out four on the table before retrieving another box, slightly larger. This one revealed several small bowls and dishes, a pestle and mortar, and various tools.

He turned to the others left in the room and motioned to the vials he had laid out on the table, two of each color. "In case of fire, throw the blue ones, if you get hurt, drink the purple, and if you get scared, drink the brandy," he shouted, "Also, if anybody has any Angel's Feather, bring it here!" It was a rather common ingredient among herbalists and other folk in the wilderness, its primary use being as a good soothing agent against many common rashes, but for his work, it was normally easily substituted with more common substance. Just not in this case. Andin turned sat on the stool as he retrieved and began to pour a clear, yellow-tinted liquid into one of the bowls. Digging in a pocket, he retrieved several freshly harvested zombie teeth and placed them into the bowl. They sizzled within the acid and slowly began to disappear in the frothing liquid. Shouldn't be too long. Depending on the amount of Angel's Feather, he may be able to get to the scout in time before he runs out of arrows. Andin turned around, he had positioned himself so he could see his bowing friend through the doorway, he seemed to be holding his own for now but he may be needing a pick me up soon. The others were too far out to account for. For now, he needed to focus on what he could help with, if something new came up, the course of action would change accordingly. The alchemist sniffed at the sizzling brew before picking up his third shot and pouring it in, stirring gently with a rod as the brew started to thicken. It was almost time for the Angel's Feather.

Nimue listened patiently to the words of the wizard Mulad. She was late, a golden knight had shown the way to the ruined tavern, where the ill fated party of heroes were gathered. Their world was in grave danger, the dark forces of the Mad King grew stronger every day. This quest to find a mystical rod in the canyon of the Gods was their only hope, a flickering light to banish the shadows. The odds seemed impossible, but Nimue believed the world could still be saved. The young woman kept her eyes glued to the visage of the wizard, as everywhere else she looked bodies lay strewn about or were pinned to the walls, pierced by spears and other weapons. It was a gruesome sight, especially for one used to solitude and the peaceful tranquility of stone temples. Nimue had seen her fair share of wounds, severed limbs and oddly placed joints. She wasn't a stranger to gore, sometimes even death when someone was beyond healing. Yet in all her time at the Sisterhood she had never experienced death and destruction on this scale.

The wizard Mulad believed each of them had a part to play. Nimue let her gaze wander past each face, some made her raise her eyebrows in surprise, others awakened her curiosity. There were two elves, one much harder to distinguish than the other, who was decisively more elven looking. She briefly wondered about that difference before she moved on to perhaps the most frightening member of the party. He was easily twice her size, looking more beast than man. Nimue was grateful he was on their side. There was a woman of shorter statue, at first Nimue thought her to be of dwarven descent, but the features didn't quite match. A tall and aged knight who inspired her sense of wonder, he was different to any other knights she'd seen, but she couldn't tell why exactly. There was something about his grey untamed hair and hawk like gaze that spoke of a life before the armor.

Standing a little farther away were a young man and woman who both looked closer in age to her. Before she had time to study the remainder of the party and wonder about their origins she felt the air grow heavy. It took her a moment to recognize what was happening, the pressing force of dark magic weighing down on her. The corpses around them began to twist and turn, groaning painfully. They were being pulled back to the land of the living in a cruel and unforgiving way. The wizard instructed the party how to defend themselves. One of the risen wasted no time to usher in their destruction, coming towards her, grasping at the air. Nimue struggled to remain focused, still overwhelmed by the sensation of the magic that caused this mass resurrection. The stone inside her circlet began to glow faintly, but she couldn't manage a spell fast enough. She stepped back out of the way when a sudden blast of light obliterated the head of the undead, Nimue nodded gratefully to the wizard Mulad.

"Thank you.."

The party scattered, some followed the knight outside, others took up a vantage point for long distance attacks. The inn was still crawling with the undead, but if every corpse had truly been reawakened then it would be no better outside. The lack of space was working against the ones who remained inside. Nimue evaded a couple of aimless swings by stepping out of the way, letting the undead be defeated by their own clumsiness. That tactic however did not last for long. They were getting smarter, grabbing the legs of broken chairs, the remains of a glass bottle, just about anything they could find to bolster their attacks.

Nimue felt trapped. The inn was chaotic and there was little room to move without being faced with the undead, whom by now had all managed to stand up and walk around with purpose. This was not looking good. They had to fight back somehow. Her mind was racing and her heart was beating fast, she struggled to remain calm. She lowered her hood and quickly looked at her surroundings. There were no doors she could slam shut to keep them out, most of the undead just rose up from the floor. The bar area was relatively clear, something the halfling man was making good use of.

She allowed a quick glance in his direction, spotting the potions he was preparing. He was probably some kind of alchemist, Nimue didn't recognize most of the ingredients he used, but then again she wasn't paying close attention. The undead were getting closer when she heard him ask for the Angel's feather herb. She had some in her bag, but there was no time to search and take it out. Nimue slung the bag over her head and tossed it at the potion maker.

"There is some in there!" She called out to him.

Nimue focused her attention on the undead who was closest to the bar and stretched out her arm towards it holding her right hand up like a claw. The stone in her circlet started to glow brightly and the undead began to convulse as strands of a white shimmering fog started to seep out of its body. The life energy she was absorbing was gathering in her other hand, palm outstretched. A sphere of energy was quickly taking shape. She breathed in and out slowly, feeling she was going beyond the limits of the spell, but right now she needed as much energy as she could. When the undead fell the the floor, it barely managed to crawl under a table, as opposed to the others who were swinging wildly at the remainder of the group.

Nimue let the sphere float in front of her, spreading out her arms which caused it to split into multiple small spheres. They floated in the air like fairy lights, before launching themselves at the undead with a blinding speed. Whenever they made contact with the head of the undead, they simply turned into dust. The spell had managed to take out the closest ones, taking care of any immediate threat her and the potion maker. Soon however they would be replaced.

"You defilers!" Irrak roared loudly as he charged, even as molten balls of fire and lightning flew towards him. "Have you no damn respect even for the dead of your own kin?!" he roared yet again, growing ever more irritated as he closed in on his intended target, he felt his mane rise up on his neck as his levels of anger grew more and more. "I will end all your lives, right now!" he roared, finally dropping his defense upon reaching right next to the mage he wanted to kill.

The scared man pitifully attempted to run away from Irrak, in hopes that he might get away from him, the fact that he even thought that he would be able to outrun him annoyed Irrak all the more as he simply ran in front of the mage to cut away his hope of getting away from him. The cultist quickly raised his hand was halfway through casting a spell before the angered gnoll simply smashed the spiked steel shield in the cultist at full force, knocking him back several feet away and causing quite a few wounds, both externally and internally. Just from that hit alone, the cultist mage was halfway dead, but Irrak would not allow him such a clean and mostly painless death.

He walked over to where the cultist was attempting to get up, howling in pain from the wounds the shield bash had caused. Irrak grabbed him by the neck and raised the cultists head close to his own so he could stare him in the eyes. The cultist was beyond terrified, mostly because he knew that he was about to die, though he did not know how he was about to die.

"May the spirits of all these people you have raised torment you in the afterlife fiend and tell them that Irrak will avenge their deaths!" he roared at the cultist in his hand. As soon as he uttered those words, Irrak placed his other hand on the top of the cultists head and grabbed as hard as he could. The man in his grasp opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but the time to talk was over, with a powerful yank of his hand he ripped off the head of the cultist mage, ending both his life and any chance that he might be troublesome even as an undead.

As soon as he was done, he could see a pillar of fire erupting from what he could see was a fairly large skull. For about three seconds the pillar of fire glowed brightly before turning into a large mass of smoke. Was this some attempt from the cultist mages to blind him, or to maybe allow them to flee, however, before he could ponder any further, he heard the mage, Mulad shout a warning towards him.

"Run, Irrak!" the voice of the mage rang out through the battlefield, however those words only served to anger Irrak even more, a gnoll fought and died for his own pack, he would not be a coward and flee from the battle like that, however as the smoke began to clear, he could see why the mage would advise him to run away, however, this served only steel Irrak's resolve, if he ran away from this, he would leave the rest of his companions open to attack and they were already barely holding on against the undead, the attack of the hell beast that was the minotaur would mean the death of some, if not all of his companions.

But before he could do anything else, the minotaur bull rushed him, knocking him into a building. This hit was the first serious attack that he had received in a very long while, causing the large gnoll to cough some blood out, likely from an internal wound, however, perhaps surprising to everyone else, the gnolls expression changed to large grin. He would finally face a very powerful opponent, one that allowed him to push himself to an absolute maximum.

He rose up from the building he was knocked into with a mad grin on his face. No other being would consider to attack something so large after it had just knocked in a building with such ease, but Irrak was a gnoll and a gnol always sought to prove his own prowess in combat and for him, this minotaur was the perfect way to prove to his new companions of his skill.

The first thing he did as he exited, was to remove his shield. However, he did not toss it away, instead, he grabbed it from one of it's edges and tossed it full force towards the minotaur's skull. He knew that that alone would not win the battle, but it would at least distract the massive minotaur for a few moments as the thick steel shield would ram itself into the skull of the beast.

And a few moments were all he needed, gnolls were very renowned for their speed, despite their size and for these few moments while the beast was dazed, he could do quite a bit of damage. So, Irrak quickly observed the body of the beast and decided to go for it's legs, after all, even in its form, the minotaur still needed muscles to be able to walk and if he would be able to sever those muscles, then it would be all the easier for him to take it down later. So before it would get its bearings together, Irrak charged at the beasts left leg and slashed at it's ankle as hard as he could before backing off at a respectable distance so that he would not get hit again.

And as he backed off to a safe distance, he observed if he had been able to deal any damage to the minotaur. Even if he had caused a significant wound or not, he observed the minotaur and tried to discern any of it's weaknesses so that he may better be able to wound it and eventually even defeat it.

He hadn’t expected to be late. Horses—horses were what the Earthborn called them, yes? Horses were supposed to be swift creatures. He recalled stories of many Earthborn warriors riding into battle on gallant steeds—war horses just as worthy as the legends and tales described. For the past hour, Balthair had established that the dusty, black, equine he rode was not a war horse. What he rode was nothing like the stories! The creature swayed as it walked, head bobbing as though its neck were broken or too weak to hold it still. It smelled and its tail swatted flies that partied about its ass. It had been the most uncomfortable creature he had ever experienced. The saddle ground into his loins, causing him to hunch over in discomfort and grip the saddlehorn with two hands as though he would fall off any moment. He had borrowed the creature from a stable in a small village called “Bramble Ridge.” The villagers had been evacuating, heading to the Castle Estrel, and for being a lowly and filthy Earthborn man, the stablemaster had been kind enough to give him a horse. The man hadn’t asked the winged warrior why he didn’t fly to where he needed to go, but the awkward and ugly stare he had given him had said it all. There were houses emptied of most of the people’s belongings. There hadn’t even been a bread crumb left behind in some of them. The Arial had been lucky to find a dust-covered black blanket on the floor of one of the houses. Whirling the blanket over his shoulders, Balthair fashioned it into a makeshift cloak whose pointy ends he had tucked within the collar of his armor. His white glow was draped in black, and as simple as that, he had become an Earthborn.

Beneath his hood, within the shadows of his cowl, Balthair’s teeth were grit from the aches in his hips, thighs, and back. Sitting upward, he tried to go back to the position he had been in some time ago, swinging one leg over the saddle to join the other. He sat sideways in the seat like a dignified lady, his shoulders swaying side to side as the horse walked along. His lips sealed into a long frown, he closed his eyes, and his silver brows crashed together as he tried to salvage what remaining patience he had for the animal.

“I should have known,” the White Knight muttered to himself. “If it’s Earthborn, then it’s absolutely useless. The amount of shit you’ve dumped along this path is more legendary than what the tales read.”

Balthair fell silent as he took in his surroundings. The land was dreadful. Was there really any part worth saving? Had all the Earthborn already gone to the castle? No; he apparently still had that one mission to help the magical one. The Arial arched his upper lip and uttered a, Psh!

“I had to volunteer for this cuckoo nest.”

A breeze passed by, rippling his cloak and wafting beneath his nose the rank of death. Eggs and spoiled meat—even Arials were familiar with such a putrid smell. His nose wrinkled as he gazed in the direction of the wind, his dark pupils reflecting the outskirts of the ruin. If it had been more than a ruin once, Balthair hadn’t been familiar with the place. It was a mile down the road (1.6 km). Dark figures were shambling about the ruin in a manner that was unnatural: undead.

“Hardly the party…” Balthair grumbled. He felt gypped. This couldn’t have been the place. The ruin was a congregation for Dark Ones and their undead thralls. He saw figments of lights that resembled fire streaking through the air. Blinking his eyes to adjust his focus, Balthair mused what could the Dark Ones be attacking? Were there survivors in such a ramshackle place? Really?

“Lucky, Sods…Can we get there today?” Balthair asked his horse. He grasped the reins and gave them two strong tugs. “Filthy Beast, run! Do something but walk and shit!”

The horse rumbled and stopped. The sudden halt made Balthair’s eyes widen curiously. Had the animal finally understood him? The horse stepped about nervously, its nostrils flared with a fearful breath and the whites of the creature’s eyes became visible. It was clearly agitated.

There was an explosion of fire, rising in a fifteen-foot pillar above the ruin. The abrupt blast made the horse rear with a startled whinny. Balthair gasped and immediately threw himself across its back, curling his fingers into the beast’s thick mane. The horse continued to scream, staggering backwards and twisting left and right as though it were trying to shake the Arial off.

“St-stop!” the White Knight panicked before his dove-white wings slightly extended from beneath his cloak, and in one flap, he leaped into the air and safely dropped to one knee on the ground.

Once the creature was free of its rider, it bolted away faster than what Balthair would have ever given the creature credit for. The Arial stood, his mouth hanging agape in shock for a brief moment before his angelic features contorted with anger.

“You…cowardly…sarding…shit-covered…” he didn’t get to finish his train of curses as a giant emerged from the black, dissipating smoke. A glower was still wrinkled on the White Knight’s face as he took in the sight of the giant…“It’s a sarding cow…a demon cow…a demon man cow…a demon Earthborn man cow…”

The sight would have given most creatures nightmares but Balthair was too fascinated and confused to feel fear. He had never seen anything like it, and how spontaneous it had been summoned made him snicker. The furious wrinkles on his face smoothed as his features illuminated with laughter. The Arial tipped his head back, laughing into the sky. His shoulders shook from the magnitude of his amusement. His teeth came together in a large grin as he wiped away a tear with the tip of his finger.

“Ugh, I’ve seen everything now. I think I might actually like it down here. It’s hardly a bore.”

Balthair crossed his arms and grasped the hilts of his two short swords. With one smooth draw, the blades hissed free of their sheaths, glinting with their own electrical light as threads of electricity danced down the length of their edges. His arms uncrossed as he twirled the blades, rotating his wrists briefly to warm them up. An excited smirk cocked irresistibly on his face. He no longer regretted volunteering for the mission. It wasn’t every day that he got to see some action. He couldn’t imagine why the Dark Ones would summon a demonic cow against survivors. As ridiculous as it seemed, had it really been necessary? Had the survivors been giving them that much trouble?




The White Knight ceased twirling his swords and swung his left foot forward, leaning all his weight upon it. His leg bent slightly at the knee, his shoulders rocking forward into a sprinter’s stance. His wings billowed beneath his cloak, cupping the air like hands before he propelled himself forward on a strong flap. Balthair raised his right sword, Squall, horizontally before him. Cloud was at his waist just above his hip with its tip pointed in the direction of his travel. His cloak flagged wildly in the breeze of his charge, his wings carrying him like a sparrow across the earth, his armored feet inches off the ground. In battle, the White Knight’s face became near devoid of emotion. He was focused; conditioned. He transformed into a warrior.

At 200 meters, the Arial abruptly changed his direction. His wings slapped a gust at the ground, launching the cloaked warrior skyward. The White Knight piked and straight-somersaulted into the air, arching over the heads of the remaining mages, cultists, and summoner. Balthair’s armored feet connected with the back of the Minotaur, his wings spreading to grant himself a momentary pause as he brought his short swords clashing together with a thunderous thoom! The cone of sound blasted in the direction of the Dark Ones with the intent to have their eardrums ringing so hard to send their minds into disorientation. As for the Minotaur, Balthair hoped the creature might have felt something perched on its back and would become distracted with wanting to remove it.

Sirgala

The party was, for the most part, moving outside. Sirgala was staying – after all, someone should protect the healers, right? She smacks another zombie in the head as it moves, curious, towards a table leg on the ground, and then moves for another one that was “sneaking” up behind her. She swings, and nearly hyperextends her arm as the mace sweeps through only dust. This then happens to every other zombie in the tavern.

Nimue, looking a tad bemused, was controlling the orbs causing this. And had killed the zombies.

All of them.

well shit Sirgala thinks, pointing at the priestess. “you can clearly protect yourself, at least against those things. I imagine I am needed elsewhere. Protect the Halfling… and maybe pick up a few fingernails or pieces of hair from the zombies, if you have time. They could be of use to me later.” lots of magic users here…don’t imagine any of them will be opposed to enchantments…and to detect magic…you need something that has been touched by it… she thinks as she re-focuses to hear the halfling asking her to stop for a moment, and "Swab this on the inside of your cheeks. Do NOT swallow until the taste begins to pass, and see me after this kerfluffle is over." Sirgala looks at it. Weirdass brown paste. She looks back at him, squinting suspiciously. She looks back at the paste, shrugs, and does so what's the worst that could happen, she reasons, then almost doubles over gagging at the flavor as she moves outside.

She almost immediately re-focuses on battle, and two scenes – the girl on the horse, and the two elves. There was also the gnoll and apparently a fucking angel fighting a minotaur in a circle of flame but she didn't even want to worry about that right now. While both were precariously perched, the elves could clearly handle themselves. The girl…

The girl clearly was not prepared for what she was getting into, and Gala dearly hoped someone would give her a talking to when this was all over and done. Separation from the group was idiotic in the least, but doing so with what appeared to be no plan at all? nothing short of suicide. She sighed “oh, child…” but deigned to move to help the elves. They were so close to the cultists. Take them out, the threat stops – hopefully in time.

She runs towards them, bashing at a zombie with her shield as it reaches out to her, then vaulting her mace into the head of another. Approaching the duo, she yelles to them “press onwards,” as she pauses to crush another zombie – mace to torso, another hit to the legs, smash the edge of the shield into the neck. “rush the summoner. He can’t control them and fight us!”

Sirgala then transfers her mace into the gauntlet of her right hand, and draws a javelin, hurling it at the summoner, then moves her mace back to her left hand and presses onward through the sea of corpses, clearing the path as quickly as she can.

'Breathe in,'

Her heartbeat pounded like a fist against an old, wooden door, begging to escape its ribbed prison. Her eyes darted about at each incoming threat every couple moments, nothing more than a quick glance before focusing on her own route.

'breathe out,'

Her senses caught wind of her newfound troubles, attackers on all sides. Her mind ticked like clockwork, plan a to plan b, old route to new. A passing graze just barely caught the back of Gregory's leg, and her sword averted an incoming strike from the front, undead trampled underfoot by her horse.

'breathe in,'

A line of armed warriors pulled her to a sharp and sudden, temporary stop. Sword clashed with pitchfork as her blade knocked the zombie farmhand's tool aside, her blade piercing his skull. A kick to the ribs was the signal he needed, and, with a new direction, the two raced down a new road: One of the major roads leading into Six Corners. Thankfully, now with the housing in the way, she was no longer in direct sight of the cultists and the summoner.

'Breathe out.'

She let her intense concentration drop, and her breathing became erratic and quickened in pace, though she could tell now she was in a better place than where she was before. Steadily she calmed, and brought their pace to be slower than before, quickly cutting into a side-road which would bring her northbound. The side-streets of Six Corners connected each of the main roads, and so navigating through them wasn't awfully difficult, as she could trail the sounds of spells being cast to the cultists. She saw a building crumble closer towards the fighting, however she was already heading toward the next major road before she could identify what that was a result of.

Gregory was a fine steed, but like all things, she knew, he couldn't be made to wear himself out so quickly. That little burst of adrenaline had the two of them frightened, and Kestrel couldn't help but echo the pessimist in her mind:

'What am I doing here...? Why am I not running?'

This wasn't her problem. She could run, and it likely wouldn't make much of a difference. At this rate it was in her best interest, seeing as Gregory had been wounded, no matter how slight, and would need to rest from the fighting done already. He had stamina, true, but he'd already spent much of the morning running no less than an hour earlier! And they were fighting mages! Practiced killers, at that; a combination which Kestrel felt she was deeply inadequate in understanding. Robin knew about mages. She knew about magic and some of the basic spells. Kestrel just knew not to fight them.

And yet, she was fighting them.

She was too focused to see the streets fly by as she and Gregory flew down street after street, soon to be upon the road in which the cultists had likely come from. The sounds of battle came one ear and out the other; she didn't even know if she was being followed by any undead! Colours of the bazaar went by like the harsh breeze, cool against her face, sweat dripping and reigns shaking under-hand. Her sword glinted a dull crimson, much unlike the refined silver it had just a couple minutes earlier, a testament to the blood she had managed to spill. Thankfully it was blood of those already dead. If she decided to attack the cultists, however...

She pushed that thought aside. They were close now. Very. She took a look behind her, to see if anything had followed the two of them. Unlikely, seeing as the summoner's attention would now be on those in the main group. Perhaps her distraction could've bought them a better chance to advance? Regardless, after entering an alley, the two halted to a stop, and Kestrel dismounted. The walls were warm from the recent fire, ash dispersed over the ground like a dirty blanket. The dead around her didn't stir, however out of caution she removed the heads of the unfortunate young man and woman who were buried beneath the rubble, before immediately regretting her decision. Though she objected to the notion on her morality, the issue of safety was more important.

They were dead. It was safer for her to remove their heads, just in case. Even if their bodies were buried beneath rubble.

Gregory didn't make much of a sound, save his loud panting, an effort to remove the carbon dioxide from his lungs. Nothing that was louder than the nearby battle, however, so their position wouldn't have been given away by him. Unless someone was tracking her the whole way around behind the cultists, then they likely didn't know she was there. If she was lucky, they would assume she had fled. Naturally, she was going to be cautious about it.

Her eyes peaked around the alleyway. She could see the tavern across from her position, and the cultists closer, though still over a hundred meters away. Corpses lined the streets, and the large mob in front of the cultists still remained a threat. However, she was curious to know whether any behind them were stirring. Between the barrel and the food stall in front of the building she was behind, she had a decent amount of cover against those that might look back. An overturned cart beside a particularly destroyed building some 50 meters ahead across the road would prove decent cover if she chose to advance.

Kestrel kept behind the building with the stall for the time being. She was going to see if it were safe to advance before doing anything... dangerous.

Things went to shit real fast.

He was surrounded by the undead and just then noticed the small wound on his right shoulder when the older elf spoke behind him; Eovaine momentarily turned to grin at him before pressing the corpses. "Clearly underestimated these bastards," he said above the clamour of fighting and groaning. He was going to say more when barrage of sorcery was flung towards him, suddenly being deflected moments from hitting him.

Cursing, he shifted course and started cutting his way towards the cultists, briefly noting the way the gnoll smashed into them which in some small amount broke the summoner's connection with the undead. It was enough. His swords carved a path through them and just when he was about to break clear, a massive pillar of fire erupted. And from its billowing smoke emerged a monstrosity which immediately charged the gnoll and lifted him off his feet into a nearby building.

He was thinking of flanking around the beast, going through its potential blindspot to reach the cultists when an Ariel suddenly perched on top of its shoulders and caused some sort of acoustic blast from its swords towards the cultists. With the monstrosity distracted and the cultists potentially disoriented, Eovaine broke through the line of corpses and charged one of the remaining cultists, his swords seeking to cut off one of the legs followed by disembowling his opponent.

A call of "There is some in there!" was all the warning Andin had before the priestess' backpack hurtled toward him. With a surprised yelp he caught the pack two-handed, swinging around and clubbing a corpse with the pack in one opportunistic motion. The body stumbled back and tripped backward over a bottle. With a hard thud it hit the floor, slowly getting back up. Andin turned back around and opened the bag, caring not for what was inside aside from his goal. The brew on the bar started to sizzle and pop with greater aggression as he rummage through Nimue's pack, sniffing with a trained nose until he found a small pouch. He pushed the pack to the side as he retrieved a small pinch of the bright green herb and threw it into the bowl. With a loud crackling, the herb disintegrated and brought the brew to greater life.

Andin focused intently on the bowl, watching the salve congeal. Turning from an sulfurous yellow, slowly, to a rather pale grey as the liquid solidified to sort of paste like consistency, Andin was focused with all of his senses on making sure that despite the chaos around them, this brew would come out as cleanly as it would in a calm lab. Or rather, as close as it could be. The Angel's Feather, as good of a catalyst as it was in this case, would likely lead to some intensified side effects if not counteracted in the aftermath of their fight. Andin took a second to turn and see how much space he had from the undead. Just in time to see the heads of all of their undead tavern-goers reduced to dust. The halfling's eyes widened.

"Maybe I should've been a priest." he thought as he whipped around and dropped a sprinkle of white powder into the bowl. The grey paste settled immediately as he stirred it in. As Andin went to grab the small bowl, the tavern shook with a tremendous roar as a fireball struck the building, aimed for their archer above. The wood creaked and moaned as if in pain, this building wasn't meant to take such an assault. Andin quickly packed up his supplies. His movements were mechanical and precise, honed by discipline and training more familiar to a soldier in the field than an alchemist in his lab, and in no time his and Nimue's bags were packed and ready to go. With a bowl in one hand, the priestess' pack in the other, and his own backpack on his back, he jumped off the stool and over a corpse before handing Nimue her pack back.

With a quick movement, he dipped his free hand's thumb into the paste and inserted it into his mouth, swabbing it on the inside of his cheeks. The halfling grimaced. The taste was, kindly put, horrendous. Like a mix of bad breath, grape, and black pepper, the taste stabbed at the tongue and sinuses for several agonizing moments before it became muted, slowly being absorbed through the thin lining of the cheeks. Andin's mind wandered back to the time he tested this type of brew and how he had been left dry heaving for nearly a week, first drafts were always full of stories. With another swipe of his thumb, he offered a dab of the paste to Sirgala and pointed the bowl toward the priestess, "Swab this on the inside of your cheeks. Do NOT swallow until the taste begins to pass, and see me after this kerfluffle is over," he shouted as he looked outside at the wizard and knight beating back the undead horde, "Are you hurt? We've gotta move!"

---

Nimue held a hand to her chest, to steady her raging heart. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins and the glow on her circlet slowly faded. The spell had done its purpose and the magic was fading from the room. All that remained as evidence were the corpses, now headless spread about in strange positions across the inn. Some in mid action, their weapons released from their lifeless grip, others had returned to the floor from where they'd risen. She stepped around the bodies carefully, while making her way over to the potion maker Andin. The young woman was about to speak up when he handed her back her traveling bag. She swung it carefully across her shoulders, leaving it to hang on her side. The sounds of battle going on outside were unsettling. She looked through the broken windows, but couldn't clearly make out the position of the others after their departure.

Nimue wasn't sure if there was anyone left inside, she didn't want to leave anyone behind before venturing outside. This was a dangerous fight, they would have the best chance at survival by staying together. The halfling man offered her a bowl filled with a substance she again did not recognize, though that wasn't a complete surprise. She knew a fair bit about herbs but she was not an alchemist by any means. She followed his intructions without objection, though her taste buds fiercly objected to the taste of the muddy paste. It made her eyes water, she drew in a sharp breath and tried to hold back the sensation of having to throw up.

"Are you sure there isn't anyone left inside?" Nimue asked sounding concerned. The vile taste was fading, but it still made her mouth twist. She looked at Andin and the wizard Mulad. Nimue knew, as dangerous and scary as it might be, that she was most useful outside. She could keep the company safe and ward against the undead army. Eventually however they needed to find the source of this dark magic.

"I think one of us needs to go outside and aid Sir Gerhard and the others" She offered calmly.

---

Andin let out a hearty laugh as the priestess' face puckered up in disgust. "You're right! The guide is still upstairs," he said as he followed her gaze to the meat grinder outside. "I'll get the guide and meet you outside. Take this and if they can't swab it into their mouths, just rub it onto exposed skin, the thinner the better for a quicker effect," he shouted over the growing thunder of groaning undead, handing over the bowl of brownish-grey sludge. With a quick motion he drew a small thimble from a pocket on his chest and took some of the paste to go as he started to run up the stairs, cursing the undead, and human architecture alike as he ascended the many stairs.

---

Nimue rushed outside, clutching the bowl with the foul tasting potion close to her chest. Her eyes darted around the trading post, trying to locate the knight and his comrades. They were in the midst of battle beating back the relentless army of undead. Everywhere she looked the dead were rising, beating down anyone who opposed with their magic infused strength. It would be impossible to close the distance between her current position at the inn to Sir Gerhard and the others without being seen. She decided to make a run for it, running as fast as she could without tripping over the bottom of her robes. As the priestess was running to rejoin her allies one of the undead singled her out. When she rushed past, too closely, it suddenly went after her in a frenzy, trying to grab onto her cloak, arms swinging wildly.

It caught her and knocked her to the ground forcefully, making her drop the bowl the potion maker gave to her. She was just in time to keep herself from falling face first into the earth by pushing her hands down. It was trying to keep her down by grabbing onto her limbs and Nimue struggled to break free. Her heart started to beat faster and her breathing came in short panicked gasps. She forced her mind to stay calm and think of a way out. With a grunt she managed to twist around on the ground, now face to face with the undead. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural glow, its ruined face held a manic expression which made her whole body tingle with fear. It was too strong to overpower, without the element of surprise. The young woman let out an involuntary whimper as it held her wrists, forcing them to the ground.

---

While he was no tracker, it did not take too long to find the guide as all it took was to follow the burning aftermath of a fireball that had missed its mark. The halfling shouted in alarm at the spreading flame and was quick to draw a vial of blue liquid, identical to the ones he had carelessly left downstairs. "Hopefully I won't be needing anymore." he thought as he threw the vial in the burning rubble. With a loud hiss, the vial shattered and exploded into a light blue foam, coating the wood and smothering the encroaching flame. The fire was spreading but at least the shortest path was blocked. "We gotta get outta here, guide!" Andin shouted as he approached the young man, "Also put this in your mouth and don't swallow until the taste is gone!" Placing the thimble of sludge near the young man, Andin took a piece of rubble in hand and cleared the windowsill of any remnants of jagged glass. Looking out, he visibly paled at the sight of the hell-touched Minotaur. He did not have anything in his bag for that.

---

The undead did not have a chance to go for her throat, it was too occupied by keeping her pinned down, Nimue was literally fighting for her life. Her resistance was getting less fierce and her strength was starting to fade. Subconsciously her magic awakened to protect her. Threads of white shimmering fog started to form a link between Nimue and the undead. A magical cord which tied them together. She could feel its grip getting loser and it started to let go of her bruised wrists. At the same time she felt herself getting stronger, her strength was returning rapidly.

The stone in the center of her circlet glowed intensely until she could push the near lifeless body of the undead away from her. It ceased to move its once grasping limbs, now only able to blink at the dark sky. Nimue however was standing strong, restored to her full strength, bruises on her wrists completely faded away, the cuts in her face healed over. She bent down next to the undead, to retrieve what was left of the potion. With a troubled last look at her attacker she turned away to join her comrades.

---

Andin hurried as he snaked a rope out of his bag and out the window. While it didn't reach the ground, it left a manageable six foot jump, though bad luck or a sloppy landing could easily cause a twisted ankle. Retrieving a small clay container from a pouch on his belt, the halfling smashed it on the rope on the windowsill. A thick goo oozed across the rope and wood before quickly hardening, anchoring the line. "C'mon! The corpses shouldn't pay you any mind while you find another place to shoot!" shouted the halfling with a wave as he went through the window and quickly rappelled down to the bottom of the rope. Letting go, he let out a yelp as he landed on his feet and then onto his bum, his pack dragging him to the ground. He took a quick mental note "Get longer rope", before he got up, brushed off the dirt and ash, and ran over to rejoin the others.

---

Shrouded by the foul tasting potion Nimue was able to reach Sir Gerard and the wizard Mulad.
"Grand wizard, Sir Gerard!" She called out to the two men. The knight was beating back the undead with steel, the wizard shielded them with magic. She held up the bowl to them, relaying the instructions Andin had given her.
"It is a potion, you have to swab it on the inside of your cheeks but you must not swallow it. Unfortunately, there is only enough for one of you" She added, sounding regretful. It was her fault much of the potion had been wasted.

Andin joined them, pointing out the minotaur in the distance. With a bit of a crack in his voice he yelled, "I don't have Minotaur repellant!"

The sight of the creature made Nimue quake where she stood, but she tried to remain composed. The Gnoll was struggling back to his feet, partially buried by the remnants of a small building. A winged warrior was perched on top of the back of the enormous beast. It was a lot to take in for the young priestess. She didn't know where to go or what to do. A battle of this scale was completely unfamiliar to her. She usually dealt with the aftermath of these battles, taking care of the survivors and guiding the souls of the departed. Right now she was in the fray herself.

The halfling stood nearby, a wild look in his eyes as he tried to account for all the things available to them. Something of a plan was forming in his head but the moaning of the undead made it quite hard to concentrate. He didn't know much about the hell-touched minotaur as a species but perhaps that same hellish corruption which gave it strength could be its downfall.

"Mulad, would holy water weaken that thing?!"

Mardion caught a glimpse of one of the culists crumbling from his shot.

But that satisfaction was quickly replaced with the horror as he ducked into cover and found himself catching aflame anyway. He beat the sleeve down before he could actually be burned, but it was a stark reminder that good cover from an arrow wasn't good cover from a fireball. The thrill of the kill only lasted a moment before the horror happened, shaking the limbs a bit, but not enough to make him useless.

The terror was something else; they threw fire. He had paltry arrows. He could distract, he could even kill one in ambush, but there was no toe to toe fight for Mardion in this environment. He was a good hunter, but no warrior for the mass clash of arms. He didn't dare go back to the old position just to be scorched to ashes by an angry mage. Instinct dictated flight here. He was already shifting his position, though it was to another firing position.

So the halfling was met halfway with Mardion already falling back. Not a suicider, and not armored, he wasn't about to fight a battle that couldn't be won.

Handed something by a stranger, he did something that would be absolutely idiotic in a normal situation and just put the stuff in his mouth and kept it there, however distasteful. That was overshadowed by the sight of the minotaur. There was rope and a way out a window, but as he was hauling him up on the ground by the halfling he asked, "If that thing was summoned, would killing the summoner stop the beast? What would happen?" He had to spit to avoid swallowing. (no jokes)

He didn't know a thing of magic, but it was a valid sort of question. He had a sense of which one summoned it, but he needed to find a clear shot. There was plenty of rubble around, and he plotted the movement to avoid the undead so he could focus on killing the living. There was a low-grade headache behind his eyes already, and a constant buzz in his ears, but he could focus on the task and that had to do for the moment.