Veniset Town Square: 7:26 pm
The southern barricade is holding under the press of undead. Along its length the Company of the Manticore fight bravely shoulder to shoulder with the local men to repulse this second attack. They ignore a hurtling gust of wind and the sheet of snow that it drives across them, even though it narrows vision and deafens ears.
Clambering down the icy pitch of one sod roof Terrence easily hops across the narrow gap between the two houses and scurries up the far side. Above him, standing at the foot of a hastily devised bridge built from long poles, thick pine planks, iron nails and rope, stand two of the city guardsman, their backs to the village square. A skirl of snow whips about them, tossing their cloaks and stirring their shaggy hair. They are the northernmost set of eyes for the defenders.
Scrambling up the frozen sod and onto the heavy central beam of the roof, Terrence clears his throat to speak to the two men. His intentions were to pass quickly by, cross the bridge and scale down the building next to the road. He is drawn short however by the site of blood running freely from one of the guard’s hands, falling in crimson plops to the snow.
Slowly the two men turn.
Their faces are pale and slack. Their eyes milky, and unfocused. Terrence swallows hard. Oh, shit.
Drawing himself up, Talton extends his holy symbol and in a voice filled with fervour and power he bellows:
The night is momentarily lifted around the priest as a flash of silver light issues from his holy symbol. The divine rays sear the undead before him filling them with a powerful glow that seems to burst from within. Their mortified flesh cracks as the light consumes them, burning away the taint of undeath like a silent inferno. One by one they crumble to the ground, their remains nothing more than ash and bits of bone, as though they had been cremated.
For a moment, filled with the power of Pelor and the favour of Saint Lucius, Talton seems younger. The creases of his face and ruddy patches on his unshaven cheeks blend away. A look of stern calm fills him.
Undeterred by the closing undead, Alma had been unable to resist a quip.
You know if you were mortal warriors you’d be scared right now… lucky for me your too stupid to be scared!!
Turning to lash at the two stumbling figures to his flank, Alma witnesses the silver light and watches, almost disappointed as they crumble to the ground. Whirling back to the wight with a cocky grin he watches as she shudders, the light burning through her crumbling skin, chasing the darkness from her soul.
Rough couple days huh…. my mother has a skin care regime that could work wonders for you!
Or not, he thinks as she disintegrates into a pile of ash and is instantly scattered by the wind.
Looking down the road, Alma spots two more wights taking cover further down the street. They were apparently unhurt by the priests spell.
Smiling to himself, Alma spins his sword and briefly considers a course of action.
Having loaded his crossbow, T’alen was preparing to pick a fresh target when Talton used his turning to vanquish all of their opponents threatening the barricade. Resisting the urge to pump his fist in the air, T’alen instead whirls about at a startled shout from across the village square.
The men manning the western and north-western barricades are swinging their weapons at opponents emerging from the thick smoke and swarming towards them. Even worse, however, is a crashing sound as the front door of the small house standing between the two barricades is smashed open and a pair of wights, their eyes blazing with hatred, leap into the village square.
The two wights who were beyond the reach of Talton’s silver light fix their baleful eyes on Alma. Neither of the pair seem willing to move much closer, however. They cast furtive glances towards the barricade and the hated Lucidian priest that stands atop it.
To the north and west, however, the attack is fully in progress. Pouring from the blinding smoke and swirling snow, the undead flood towards the barricades. They leap towards the defenders, stunning them with the speed and ferocity of their attack.
As the undead crumbled before him, Lornaal turned to gape once more at Father Talton. The power of the shaman always amazed him. As the men on the barricade raised their voices in cheer, Lornaal added his deep, guttural roar to the mix. When the cries rose from the other barricades, the northman turned, his blood boiling with the need to smash something.
Turning and drawing lifting her polished oaken cudgel, Kaberllee begins mumbling a string of ancient, flowing words. She sets her eyes on the wights within the square.
The village milita
The villagers hurl themselves at this new threat, using bow, axe, spear and sword to harry the assaulting enemy. Captain Gregor leaps from the southern barricade and rushes across the square, his axe held high.
Silent and unmoving, Cora watches as the flames continue for several heartbeats to burn away at the wights face. Once the alchemical concoction has finally extinguished, the undead continues to stalk through the snow, its fury reaching manic proportions.
WHERE ARE YOU, YOU LITTLE BITCH!
It screeches from charred lips. Much of the left side of its face has been burnt away, leaving only charred skull and bits of hair. Even the creature’s left eye has melted away, the fluid running down the remains of its cheek like milky tears. Its remaining eye burns with a frantic and merciless hatred.