Veniset: Town Square
Scrambling up the ladder and onto the rickety bridge spanning between the church and the building flanking it, Matrim shuddered as the cold wind tore through his clothing, drawing out goose pimples across his flesh. Gaining the top of the bridge the ranger turned to look in the high-set windows that were spaced evenly along the sides of the church. The coloured glass beamed brightly in the growing gloom, displaying images of the great rebellion fomented by Saint Lucius that toppled the Myvolin Empire and paved the way for a new world. Truly, they were beautiful works, undoubtedly brought to this far northern town at great cost, but at that moment they hindered site into the interior of the building, leaving Matrim with nothing but the impression of movement beyond.
In the square below a cluster of men crowded about the heavy doors of the church, desperate to have them open. Four large Ulnoran men strained in vain against the barred portal, but neither pulling nor pushing caused the doors to budge. In mounting frustration Captain Gregor called for axes.
Veniset: The Church
Inside the church the crowd of women and children pressed forward, desperate to be away from the deadly assailant. The wight lashed out once more at the guard slumped pitifully on his knees. The man let loose one final, withering cry as he collapsed to the floor, still now.
Three guards, each with short swords, lunged forward at the terrible wight, hacking at it with purpose. The undead creature was powerful, however, and turned all of the attacks aside without any apparent injury. It’s menacing eyes burned fervently and with a vigour that had grown more potent from consuming the dead villager’s life.
Two more guards, shouting and pushing their way through the crowd of women managed to make the stairs, rushing to aid their brethren and turn the odds against the horrible undead. Terrence, seeking to assist threw himself into the throng, making his way as quickly as he was able.
The Lumber Camp
From his knees Ulof turned his head to see the arrival of the deadly assailants. The master of the camp’s wound was mortal and his lifeblood poured freely into the snow around him. Raising his voice, he shouted to the gathered men who stood action-less nearby.
Get away you fools! Them bastards weren’t lyin’. The dead have come to claim you!
His chest heaving in short breaths as his swarthy cheeks drained to a pale white, Ulof choked down his death rattle.
I SAID BEGONE, YOU FUCKIN’ BASTARDS!
The roar of their master’s voice snapped the men into action. As the dead shambled closer six men ran to help Alma free the horses. Others checked the fallen, to see if any could be saved. Four others took up their axes and moved to help Lornaal hold the approaching undead at bay.
Inside the dark and smokey building Alma fumbled with the ropes holding the stables shut. Pulling the gates of the stall open, he leapt into the pen, startling six heavily-muscled draft horses that were sheltering within. Shrieking in terror, the beasts galloped to the doors, just as the men beyond were muscling them open.
Catching the horses by their manes, the men began pulling themselves onto their broad backs.
In the snowy clearing beyond the buildings, Lornaal paused for a moment as he waited for the line of undead to get within range. He studied his opponents carefully, noting that a few seemed to possess a skulking demeanour while most of the others shambled forward with little sense of presence. Deciding that the malicious grin on one of the undead’s face was particularly offensive, Lornaal roared a beastial challenge before flinging his spear at the wight.
The spear sunk deep in the chest of the approaching undead, driving it to its knees. The menacing look in its eyes grew only more ferocious, however, as it struggled to its feet and began to surge forward.