“Quit your lagging and hitch those blasted wagons!” Othtar yelled across the camp. His admonishments seemed unnecessary, as each and every dwarf in the caravan was industriously scurrying backwards and forwards with something between their arms.
Over the tumultuous din of the camp, the still distant yet gradually approaching moans of the undead filled both the air and the minds of each and every dwarf in the camp.
“Can’t we fight them off?!” Kubluk yelled over to Othtar, even as he dumped yet another load onto a wagon.
“If they fought, we might have a chance,” came the reply. “But deadites don’t stop to swing a sword. They’ll wash over us like a wave on the beach.” He motioned an arm towards the distant sound. “Listen to them, there must be well over a hundred of them. We leave now, and we leave fast! If we hit the ground running we might just make it!”
Othtar looked around him. The work on loading the wagons had begun to slow as the dwarves began to pay more attention to the approaching noise from the darkness. Several of the dwarves were standing motionless, staring into the darkness.
“Don’t you blasted dwarves understand, if you don’t load it, it gets left behind, and I’m not drinking plump helmet brew for the rest of the trip! Get to work!” He yelled.
Deep inside the fog, the legion marched on. They walked slowly, legs dragging every step as if reluctant to continue, but still they came. Both clothing and flesh hung from their bodies like rags, occasionally dispensing a fragment to the ground as they stepped onwards. Their voices were individually quiet, little more than a sigh as air slid out from their useless lungs, but together filled the air with a sound of soulful regret and hunger. In the distance, the sounds of the camp acted as a magnet to the horde, pulling them inexorably closer.
At their head, a lone figure walked, concealed beneath a monks habit. His gait was still unsteady, but clearly under more control than the shambling horde that followed him. Beneath a raised hood, his eyes burned with a fierce hunger and fury.
In the corner of the camp, Labs, whilst leaning over to lift a barrel, cursed as a bolt of pain shot through his arm. He stood up slowly, and cautiously rolled up his sleeve. Upon his outstretched limb lay a set of vicious looking teeth marks, surrounded by an unpleasant amount of ooze. Looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed, he wrapped the wound with a scrap of cloth before concealing it once again under his shirt.
“Labs, there’ll be time for rest later, grab that barrel and get to work!”
“Aye, I’m coming.”
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Topic: The Captain's Log- Spiritwood (Read 61709 times)