Chapter 2: Chapter 2- Preparations and Problems

Chapter 2- Preparations and Problems

“Death is to be avoided, but it is altogether inevitable. Those who ignore that simple truth will face ugly consequences. After all, there are far far worse things than Death.” - from the sermons of Priestess Sidonia of Kainua

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After finishing cleaning up the blood, Cole gently placed the skull at the end of the bed. He then prepared for his mission by stripping down his pack to the necessities so he would have room for the supplies he had yet to buy. Serving a God is never easy, especially one as enigmatic as Master Time. He did not get angelic messengers, portents of the divine, or anything as bombastic as a lightning strike. Just as Time and Entropy are subtle and all-pervasive; so are his God’s signs. Today it manifested as a slight chill tracing his spine. An unsettled feeling of unnatural cold and hollowness. Telling him he was in the right place for what his God required.

He would need to gather more information for his exploration of the surrounding wilds. Perhaps Natalie could point him in the right direction? She seemed a decent and knowledgeable sort. Musing on this, Cole grabbed his leather cuirass and cloak. He put on the cuirass; the light leather armor was of little use to him other than preventing inconvenient injuries. Hoisting his bag on one shoulder and draping his cloak over his other, he headed downstairs.

Natalie was nowhere to be seen in the Tavern and only a few stray customers hung around the benches and stools. Outwardly Cole presented his polite smile and gentle aloofness, but internally was kicking himself. He should have put his cloak on before he left the room. The scars that covered his face were visible to all. It was not out of vanity or embarrassment that Cole hid his wounds, but out of convenience. Questions were inevitable and he hated lying. You can only deflect and answer vaguely so many times before you come off as rude.

A lean man with a kind face and gentle demeanor stood behind the bar counter, he turned, pulled from a conversation by Cole’s appearance. Shock and discomfort crossed the barkeep’s face, but he hid it quickly. Summoning up the friendly smile of someone long practiced in hospitality, the man addressed Cole.

“Ah, so you must be Cole? I’m Wilhelm Striga, owner of this Inn. My daughter Nattie said you were up before she left. I’m afraid lunch is finished., but I will be starting to serve dinner in only a few hours.”

Well, at least the first questions were easy enough to answer, mused Cole.

“Yes, yes I am. No problem, my apologies that it took me so long to rise. The journey was a difficult one and it seems to have taxed me more than I thought.”

Wilhelm waived off his apologies and continued. “Not a concern, you paid for the room, it's yours to use, within reason. Speaking of, was the bed big enough? Nattie was not kidding when she said you were tall.”

So Natalie had not told her father she’d found him unconscious, half sprawled out on the floor, interesting; thought Cole.

“No problems, I don’t know how long I will be in town but I would like to reserve the room for at least a week. What will that cost me?”

Now it was Wilhelms's time to assess the stranger. He was more than just passing through Glockmire. If he really was a pilgrim like Nattie thought, then that raised some interesting and concerning questions.

“Ten silver for the week, that will include a single meal each day. Is that acceptable to you Mr….?”

Ah now came the more difficult inquiries. In some places, not having a last name was still normal, but not here in the Blood Duchies. The Vampires like keeping track of their livestock, and that's hard to do without proper names.

“Just Cole, And yes that sounds perfectly fine to me. Also a question. Where could I buy supplies in town? Nothing major, just gear for traversing the nearby wilderness.”

An awkward silence filled the tavern as Cole fished out the silver coins causing him to miss the startled looks on the patrons' faces in response to his last statement. . At first Cole thought he was the cause of the silence but by the time he looked up, he saw that Wilhelm and the other patrons were looking at a wiry old man sitting at the bar. After another moment of staring the old man swore and threw up his hands and muttered,

“Can’t an old man drink in peace!” He turned and looked Cole up and down, “ Okay fine, I will take this big lump over to my store and get him what he needs. If he can pay that is. I don’t sell junk and set prices that represent that. Is that going to be an issue for Mr. Giantling here?”

Wilhelm put a hand on his head and shook it with closed eyes for a second before speaking. “You have to excuse Barnabas here. He will have the supplies you need, and as he says it will be good quality. Just ignore his goading, he thrives on irritating people.”

In truth, Cole found it refreshing. People usually reacted to him with fear or anger. This Barnabas character seemed to be mildly hostile to everyone. If this was the Merchants' normal treatment of customers then Cole had no complaints.

Barnabas got up from his stool and motioned for Cole to follow him. “I’ve tarried here too long anyway. Knowing my luck Jan will have burned down the store in my absence.”

Cole followed the old man, listening with amusement to him grumbling his complaints. How the weather hurt his joints, how his Clerk was borderline incompetent, listing the goods that had become too expensive for no reason and a myriad of other grievances. Eventually, the strange duo left the busy main street the Silly Goat sat on. Taking a shortcut towards Barnabas’s shop, according to the merchant.

Once they were alone on the side street, Barnabas stopped walking, turned to Cole, and studied the scarred pilgrim with an appraising eye. Taking a moment to absorb the details of his would-be-customer before speaking.

“Alright, we are away from nosy eyes and ears. What the hells happened to you? I’ve seen a lot in my seventy-two years but you are something particularly abnormal. As a rule, I wouldn’t give a rat’s arse but you are staying with Wilhelm and Natalie. I can’t have whatever trouble you bring, hurting them.”

Ah, now it was time for the uncomfortable questions, thought Cole. He should have guessed the painfully blunt old man would be the source of them.

“My history has no bearing here. It would be better for everyone involved if you assume I am a pilgrim set on a strange errand to prove his faith. Just a minor oddity that will leave your town in a few days and fade into memory.” was Cole’s answer.

Barnabas opened his mouth for a moment, mulling over his words before he spoke. “That seems fair. Just don’t bring your trouble to our doorsteps. I’ve survived enough catastrophe and crisis to get a sense for this. You smell of disaster and I will not have it hurt people I love. This town has suffered enough, it does not need whatever dark secrets accompany you.”

Cole only smiled sadly, he decided he liked Barnabas. He could see the truth of things or at least part of it. A valuable talent, especially when coupled with brutal honesty.

“You are wise Mr. Barnabas and your words are heard. Now, shall we continue onward? The faster I get the supplies I need, the faster I leave Glockmire.” said Cole.

Barnabas shrugged in agreement and started walking again. Soon they arrived at Barnabas’s store. It was an unassuming if big structure. A large storefront attached to a storage building the size of a barn. At its entrance hung a sign, marked with the symbols for a general goods store and the words “B&N Trading House.” Barnabas threw open the door and was already yelling before he even entered his place of business.

“Jan! Get your lazy arse up and help me. We have a customer whose coin I’d like to have.”

A short, portly man shuffled out from behind the nearby counter and adjusted his thick spectacles. In a monotone voice, he addressed his employer with the indifference of someone used to Barnaba’s antics. “Yes Master Barnabas, what can we get for our esteemed customer?”

If Jan noticed Cole’s unusual appearance he did not show it. The man seemed incapable of making a facial expression aside from bored disinterest. Picking up a stylus and scrap of paper, Jan prepared to start a list.

Cole collected his thoughts then started explaining what he needed. “I am looking for something in the nearby wilds. I’d prefer to minimize the number of trips back to town. So equipment to survive the mountains and travel quickly would be needed. Rations, climbing equipment, local maps, that sort of thing. I have funds but wish to travel reasonably light. Is that enough to work with or do you need more detail?”

Jan stopped scratching the stylus on paper to consider for a moment. “Yes, I believe so. Master Barnabas do you think the trinket from Vudrird Hold would be a good option? We’ve not had any luck selling it, and it seems perfect for your purposes Master…?”

Before Cole could introduce himself Barnabas interrupted him. “The Spark-Stone? Yes, that would be perfect. I’ll grab that from the safe, off with you Jan, go get the rest.”

Cole didn’t have time to ask what they meant by Spark-Stone before Barnabas and Jan disappeared into the bowels of the store. Gathering the requested equipment in a startlingly small amount of time. Soon Cole was looking at a pile of pitons, rope, wax sealed rations, a water-proofed map and a myriad of other necessities for survival. As Jan added up the costs with the practiced ease of a shopkeep, Barnabas showed Cole a strange polished black stone. It was a little smaller than a man’s palm, oval-shaped, with rounded edges. In the center of the stone was carved a familiar symbol.

“Fire,” whispered Cole. It was the Dwarven rune for fire. As he said it, the character cut into the stone glowed slightly, the Magic bound into the Spark-Stone reacting to its purpose.

Barnabas rolled the now slightly warm stone between boney fingers and said “Ah so you read Dwerick, the language of the Below Folk. Yes, this little beauty was gifted to me by a Dwarven merchant I did a favor for maybe ten years ago. It’s a very basic fire enchantment, focus on the stone and it will produce flame. Not much, even if you pour your full intent into it, but more than enough to start a fire in even the dampest conditions.”

Cole was interested; such minor Magical items were not common in this region. It would be a boon and it might save him more cold nights when flint and tinder were not enough. Still, he had to ask the obvious questions. “What will it cost me and why was such a useful item not bought long ago? This town has Shepards and Hunters, correct? You would think they would find it useful.”

Barnabas didn’t even blink “You would think, wouldn't you? A local superstition has made the usual customers wary of it. They think taking enchantments out into the mountains is bad luck. I wouldn’t put much stock in it, every old goat botherer tells a different version of the superstition anyway. Some say it scares goats, others it attracts wolves, I knew one fellow who just didn’t trust anything Dwarven made. No matter, the Spark-Stone, and the other gear will cost you one gold and five silver altogether.”

Jan showed the first emotion Cole had seen, a single cocked eyebrow. It was a response to the fifteen percent discount Barnabas was giving Cole. The old merchant was not being his usual miserly self. An attempt to get Cole what he needed and out of Glockmire as soon as possible. Cole knew some sort of unspoken exchange was happening between the shop owner and shopkeeper but decided to ignore it.

“I will take it and the other equipment.” was Cole’s only response. He fished out the coins and paid old Barnabas. He then gathered up the supplies and loaded them into his pack, leaving the store with what he would need to continue his mission. He set out towards the north gate of Glockmire, the same one he had entered through last night. The vague coldness in Cole’s gut tugged at him, pointing him east, deeper into the Dragon-tail Mountains. Whatever the reason his God had brought him here for would be there.

First, he would stop by the Silly Goat , make some last adjustments to his equipment, and tell the Innkeeper not to expect him that night. Cole wanted to orient himself so he would at least get a vague idea of where he was headed and that might take hours. Better to stay out in the wild than waste precious time traveling back to town. Cole didn’t fear what might be stalking the shadows out beyond Glockmire’s walls. In truth, if some of those horrors found him, it would save Cole the trouble of finding them.

Back at the Silly Goat , Cole told Wilhelm his plans. The Innkeeper was surprised and skeptical but promised he would wait at least a week before cleaning out Cole’s rented room. At Wilhelms insistence, Cole grabbed a bit of food. Some bread and cheese that would not be missed by the tavern’s dinner customers. Back in his room, after making some final preparations Cole moved to leave. He briefly considered bringing the Skull but decided against it. She would be safer hidden in his rented room. A minor concealment enchantment would help keep the Skull hidden.

Magic, a fickle and powerful tool, one Cole used when needed but not his preferred option. The scholars say anyone can learn to wield the raw power of The Beyond, altering the world through willpower, focus and secret knowledge. That is true but just as true as the sentiment that anyone can paint. Most beings can indeed put pigment to paper but very few can make a masterpiece. Similarly, basic spells could be learned by virtually anyone with access to training or talent. Truly powerful Magic, however, requires something special to cast. Cole could manage a number of spells, but nothing too impressive. Lacking much in the way of talent, Cole made up for it with an unlikely source of power. Something that did not come without a cost, but one he was willing to pay in order to keep the Skull safe.

Finally leaving the Silly Goat , Cole turned to head towards the north gate and nearly ran into Natalie. The young woman looked startled to see him and let her mouth open slightly in surprise. Recovering quickly Natalie spoke. “I wanted to apologize for earlier, it was incredibly rude of me to enter your room like that.”

Cole gave his gentle smile, the nicest expression his heavily scarred face could manage. “All is forgiven, Thank you for waking me when you did. I had slept more than enough and I can understand why it might have worried you.”

Natalie returned his smile with a genuine one of her own. Then she gestured at Cole’s pack and asked. “Are you leaving already? My father said you paid for the week already.”

Cole shook his head no. “I should be staying at least a few days more but my task takes me into the wilds tonight. I doubt I will return until tomorrow.”

Natalie’s amber eyes widened in a mixture of shock and fear. “You cannot be serious? It's one thing to camp on the road, another thing to try to do so out in the wilds! Mister Cole, you don’t know the area, what dangers are out there. The Hunter and Shepards foolish enough to try what you are attempting, travel in groups, and have years of experience.”

A shrug from the big man dismissed her concerns and Cole touched the strange axe buckled to his hip. “I have dealt with many things in my life. Master Time, and my weapon will keep me safe. Your concern is appreciated though.”

Natalie felt the first hints of anger boil up. It infuriated her that this man would dismiss what she said so easily. Was he really that naive? The Gods helped those who helped themselves, only the most pathetic of the lunatic faithful relied on the idea of divine protection. Those truly blessed by the Gods knew well to not test that blessing or take it for granted. Chewing her lip in frustration, Natalie snapped up at the scared behemoth of a pilgrim. “Fine! If the Varcolac eats you alive don’t blame me!”

With those spiteful words she stormed past him and into the Silly Goat . Without a word to her father Natalie set off to work on chores, fuming the entire time. Her internal monologue was ramping up towards a full tirade. She didn’t know if she would ever see the strange pilgrim again and that frustrated her. Not so much out of affection for him, but of curiosity and spite. She wanted to learn more about such a strange figure. Not much happens in Glockmire and Natalie often found herself easily bored. Cole was an interesting mystery that should not be wasted by leaping into the jaws of a monster. Especially the monster that killed her mother.

That was the spite, she did not want the accursed thing to claim another victim. Unbidden memories of that terrible night three years ago came flooding back. Natalie, her mother and her father had all been fleeing to the Temple. Seeking sanctuary on consecrated soil. Trying to escape the army of nightmares that had breached the gate. The plague that had ravaged Glockmire did more than kill. Every miserable death it caused polluted the Aether. The currents of untamed Magic that flow through everything.

The Aether reflects and reacts to the world. A miasma of death and despair provided fertile ground for Undeath. Plague victims rose as shambling corpses. Wraiths of grief and suffering flew about in great clouds of concentrated misery. Yet that was not the worst of it; those lesser Undead merely weakened the town's defenses. Distracting the Lord’s soldiers and vassals while the real threat arrived.

Countless monsters feed on death and suffering. The stink of which was ripe on the Aether, calling out like a wounded lamb to dark things deep within the mountains. Natalie never learned what battered down Glockmire’s south gate. A few people claimed it was an Ogre or Troll possessed by a powerful Ghost. It did not matter in the end, only that whatever did it was uneffected by the silver and strong enough to rip through solid oak.

With the gates broken open, a myriad of the Undead and Accursed monsters flowed into the town. When both Castle and Temple bells started ringing, the sign to evacuate to places of safety, the Striga Family of Nat, Iona and Wilhelm heeded the warning. Rushing through the streets, praying to the Gods, and hoping to make it to safety. Iona was in the lead, holding up a lantern to guide the way, with Natalie and Wilhelm close behind her. Through the dark they ran together, ignoring the horrible screams and horrid roars that pierced the night.

They were so close, the high spire of the Temple was visible and the bells blotted out virtually all other sounds. Iona rounded a tight alley corner, her lantern bobbing in the dark. Wilhelm and Natalie were right behind her. Arriving just as Iona’s scream erupted.

Of what happened next Natalie remembered the smell best. Rotting meat and wet dog, mixed together and pungent enough to physically hurt. Iona’s lantern was on the ground, still intact, and somehow still burning. Casting light upon the horrible scene. Horrible clawed hands gripped Iona, holding her up and squeezing life from her. Iona had tried to turn around and run when she realized what was ahead of her, but it still grabbed her. So she faced her husband and daughter as death came. Natalie saw it in her mother's eyes, the terror, and horrible knowledge that the end was here.

It did not take long, the monster lunged its ragged head down at its prey. Huge fangs sinking into Iona’s flesh. Ripping her in half with a single brutal bite. Dropping what was left of Natalie’s mother, the monster turned to her and her father. It stood at least three meters tall, its form a terrible fusion of man and wolf. One eye glowed yellow, the other was milky white. Matted fur covered it, with patches missing. Skin and exposed muscle peeked through black fur and yellowed bone was visible where the mouth should be. The flesh there long ago rotted or was torn away, revealing a skeletal maw.

Only later did Natalie learn what to call the monster. Varcolac, the corpse wolf. A Werewolf lost utterly to its inner beast and long since died. The corpse of an already horrible monster risen in Undeath. In that moment all it was to Natalie was evil, what killed her mother and what was about to kill her as well. The start of a scream, of both grief and terror-filled Natalie’s throat. She never got to complete it as a rough voice boomed out through the alley. “Mortals run! I will handle this.”

A flash of movement and the sound of steel clashing with bone broke Wilhelm from his shock. He had wanted to break down sobbing and we would later. For now, he could not lose his daughter too. The Innkeeper grabbed his teenage daughter with the strength born of fear. Half carrying, half pulling her away from the battle in front of them.

They ran, taking another route towards the Temple. Natalie only catching glimpses of their savior. A knight in blood-red armor wielding a Greatsword at least two meters tall. Who moved with such speed that she could only catch glimpses of the warrior. The last thing Natalie saw before they rounded a corner was the greatsword come flashing down and lopping off one of the Varcolac’s hands. The horrible mixture of a death-rattle and howl it had made haunted her nightmares even now.

Natalie and her father made it to the Temple and huddled with hundreds of others. Listening to the Priests murmured prayers and the soft weeping of all those who lost loved ones, themselves included. No one slept that night. The refugee’s only leaving the Temple when the local High Priest declared it safe an hour after sunrise. Corpses filled the streets. Some were fresh and recognizable, others little more than skeletons. Lord Glockmire and his soldiers had driven the monsters off and cut through the throngs of walking dead. It would take a week of burning for all the bodies to be purified and destroyed. The smell of death and ash would take months to fully wash away. Scars, both emotional and physical, would never fade.

Natalie was soon back in the present, the memories fading away, her mind fighting to keep all those terrible sights and smells locked away. It came easier now, time heals all wounds they say. Natalie’s mind went to Cole, his tapestry of scars and his chosen God. Maybe time does not actually heal, maybe it just adds another layer of pain so the old becomes less distinct?

The pilgrim had left on this suicidal errand of his, it would be a good opportunity to clean his room. Making it presentable for his return or, more likely, the next customer. Natalie made her way up the staircase and into the room. The curtains were drawn, keeping the room in shadow even in the afternoon. Another annoyance for Natalie, fresh air and sunlight does have the job of cleaning for her.

Pulling open the curtains, Natalie got to work. Making the bed, swapping out the washcloths, and generally making the room presentable. After maybe five minutes of basic work, Natalie suddenly felt ill. A deep hollow coldness pressed out from her innards. Like she’d swallowed a chunk of ice that now fought to be free. Staggering a little, she propped herself up on a wall. Gathering her wits, Natalie moved over towards the bed. She felt like she was about to pass out. A crushing alien coldness bore down on her soul, threatening to drown her in its presence.

This was like what she had experienced earlier, except so much more intense. During the lunch shift, it had been the momentary glance of something beyond words. Now she had its attention. A God or something close to it spared her a moment of infinity. Natalie forced herself to take deep rattling breaths. It was not easy, her body struggled to even breathe, she fought to keep natural processes going. The pressing weight of her own mortality brought to the forefront of Natalie’s mind, it threatened to swallow her up like a candle in the ocean. Darkness encroached on the edge of her vision and Natalie’s knees buckled. She fell to the ground, limp and barely conscious.

Then just as quickly as the horrible feeling struck her, it passed. Sucking in a breath and blinking the shadows away, Natalie tried to pull herself up. She was still too weak, it took nearly everything she had left to simply roll over to her side. Natalie gathered her strength, hoping to reach an arm up the bed and use it to pull herself up. It was then when she noticed something underneath the bed. Hidden just out of sight was a small draw-string bag.

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Not thinking clearly, Natalie reached out with a shaking hand to grab the bag. Wrapping uncertain fingers about its strings she pulled it towards her. Was this something she’d missed when cleaning the room? No, Natalie knew better than to doubt her thoroughness, this was something of Cole’s. Reeling from spiritual shock Natalie focused on the bag and was struck with the unquenchable need to see what was inside.

It took her three tries but she undid the strings and opened up the bag. Natalie had a suspicion of what was inside but still seeing it shocked her. A human skull looked at her from the bag’s opening. Its pale bone polished to an alabaster smoothness, empty sockets promising of sight not meant for the living. Gasping slightly, Natalie reached out to poke the skull. Maybe it was fake? A piece of carved stone or metal, meant to act as a symbol of death. Such hopes were quickly dispatched as her fingers touched the hollow below the eye socket and next to the nose cavity. It was real bone, so well maintained it seemed just recently cleaned of flesh.

Was this some strange relic of Cole’s faith? That made sense to Natalie. While usually Master Time was represented by the Hourglass, the Skull could also be his sigil. A thought crossed Natalie’s mind as her faculties regrouped from the earlier shock. Was this why Cole was here? Was his pilgrimage a task to deliver this skull to its proper resting place? That made sense, it would explain why he had come to Glockmire. It also raised new questions. Whose skull was it? And why had Cole not taken it with him? Did he not know where he was supposed to inter the skull?

That chain of thought was quickly interrupted when Natalie pulled at the bag’s lip and saw the skull’s mouth. It had fangs, she had not noticed them earlier. Long snake-like fangs that extended a few centimeters past its normal-looking kin. Natalie knew those fangs, every person living in the Blood Duchies knew those fangs. This was a Vampire skull.

Frantically Natalie shut the bag's draw-strings and pushed it farther back under the bed. Fear flooded her veins and she pushed herself up off the ground. The terrible draining fatigue of earlier replaced with the jittery nerves of terror. Quickly, Natalie got to her feet and bolted from the room. Thinking just clear enough to shut and lock the door behind her. No one could learn what she had just discovered.

This was bad, very very bad. When a Vampire dies, truly dies, all that is left is bones and ash. Both materials are potent in dark Magic. Capable of fueling truly foul rituals of Necromancy and Blood Magic. That was not what scared Natalie. The only beings who can possess a Vampire’s remains is another Vampire. That was the law, one enforced with a level of iron-hard cruelty that made Felix’s fate seem merciful.

Natalie did not know why that was the law. Her overactive, panicking mind had a few ideas though. Maybe the Nocturnal Nobility hated reminders they could truly die? It could be Magic, could a Bloodline be targeted by a spell using a member's remains? Was it simply what it represented? A mortal being holding tangible proof that the Aristocrats were not invincible. It really did not matter, Natalie was just trying to distract herself from the terrible knowledge.

If Lord Glockmire learned of this he would have Cole killed, that was certain. He might also send Natalie and her father to the Larder. Just to be certain the message was sent and understood by the people. Natalie wracked her brain as she slipped into her room and locked herself inside. Could she turn Cole in? Would that even protect her family? Even if she did, and the Silly Goat came away unharmed by the ordeal, it would raise another question. Would Natalie be able to live with herself?

She didn’t think so, the idea of surrendering anyone to a monster’s hunger was anathema to Natalie. Even a stranger of uncertain purpose and character like Cole did not deserve that. Again painful images of her mothers death flashed before her. The sounds of tearing flesh and cracking bone entered her mind unbidden. The Lord and his Vassals were better monsters than the Varcolac, but not by far. They just had the intelligence and skill to hide their ugly nature.

Quickly Natalie came to her decision. She would keep this knowledge to herself. Cole was a pilgrim; he would not spend more than a week in Glockmire. Natalie just had to let time pass and then he would leave. It was far from a perfect plan but she could not think of a better one. At least one with a better chance of surviving with body, mind, and soul intact. Now all she had to do was avoid Cole and mind her own business. She would not clean his room and find excuses to be where he was not. Silently, Natalie prayed, hoping the Gods were listening.

 

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Cole walked down the gravel road leading from the north gate. A different guard from last night had given him some trouble, but nothing a little copper couldn’t fix. Now he was on the road and continuing his task. Cole was maybe five kilometers from Glockmire when he left the road. Following the slight cold tugging in his core. Trusting the little aid his God ordained him worthy of.

This close to Glockmire the wilderness was not too difficult to trek through. Alpine forest and meadows fed by mountain streams, nestled between time-worn peaks. It was close to four in the afternoon judging by the Sun’s place in the sky. Pale beams of light filtered through mighty clouds and provided some warmth to the forest around Cole. The storm of the previous night had passed by, and the rain invigorated the trees and bushes around him. A final hurrah for leaf and stem before they sleep for the winter.

Looking around him, Cole pulled down his cloak’s cowl and drank in the sight. It was beautiful, a wild place untrammeled by the peoples of the world. The Dragon-tail mountains coiled around the Blood Duchies like a great serpentine length and kept the lands relatively isolated. The mountains themselves were old, worn down by time and calamity. Still high enough to block easy passage but not the mighty jagged peaks of ages long past. You could walk for hours in any direction, following the gentle slope that transitioned from forest to field, and finally into craggy mountain.

Cole should have felt at peace, the unspoiled wilds a balm to all but the most bitter soul. It was beautiful and he allowed himself to drink it in. He could not drop his guard or truly relax though. For good reason, the forest in its seeming idyllic state was missing something. It was quiet, far too quiet even for early Autumn. Birds delaying migration should have been singing. Squirrels and their kin did not leap between branches, hoping to gather the last few nuts for the winter. Ever-present insects made no clicks or dared flight. Something was wrong in the forest and it set Cole on edge.

Continuing onwards, Cole brushed his hand against the axe buckled to his hip. It would take him less than a second to unsheathe it, but that second might mean everything in a fight. Pulling it free, Cole took a moment to examine his weapon. It was not much bigger than a large hatchet, with an oversized blade that flared out from the shaft, and met with the long metal spike protruding from the weapon's top. On the reversed side of the blade was a sharp hooked point, like something a miner might use to break rock.

The shaft itself was not very long, only maybe twenty centimeters from where the front blade started to its very end, where a small spiked pommel capped it. To any skilled armsmen the weapon looked mildly ridiculous. The bastard of a Handaxe, Warpick, and spear, lacking the strengths of any of them. The wise among them would reassess that opinion on a closer look. Seeing the small but perfectly engraved runes that covered the metal shaft.

Feeling the familiar weight of the weapon in his hand, Cole continued his journey deeper into the wilds. He walked for maybe two more hours, the Sun just starting to creep towards the mountain tops. The Shadows lengthened and the forest's earlier beauty faded. Few places invoke such primal dread as the wilderness at night. For good reason too, the ancestors of humanity had learned to fear the dark long before Magic came to the world. In those ancient days wolves, bears, and rival tribes filled the night with terror. Now with Magic infused into everything, and the inhabitants of distant worlds and dimensions come with it, much much worse things lived in the dark.

Sanity, reason and sense demanded that any person out in the wilds as night fell should seek shelter. Cole was guided by motives far more powerful and dangerous than logic. Faith, conviction, and most powerful of all, love, motivated the scarred man. This was not the first haunted forest he had marched through in the dark. A task was set before him and it would be completed.

The sun finally set behind the nearest peak, flooding the forest with darkness. As shadows fell Cole finally caught the scent he had been looking for. The sickly smell of rotting meat carried on the air. It was faint, but its pungent scent was unmistakable. Cole’s nose was better than most people's, that combined with experience and training let him track the smell. So with axe in hand and death on the wind, he crept deeper into the forest.

It did not take him long to find the source. Ahead of him was a small cliff, maybe fifteen meters of worn stone sticking up from the forest floor. A piece of the mountain exposed by centuries of erosion. A deep fissure cut down the cliff-face, a crack that reached from its very top to down where stone and forest soil met. The smell was coming from the crevice, thick and pungent.

Cole grimaced slightly, an easy expression for his scared face. Approaching the crevice slowly, he got his first sight of the smell's origin. Halfway into the crevice and splayed on the ground was the mutilated body of a goat. It had been ripped apart, its innards devoured and two of its legs bent at a strange angle. Glancing around him, Cole didn’t see any signs of danger. Getting closer to the carcass he examined it. The blood was long dried and the flesh showed signs of both putrefaction and strangely mummification. Its extremities rotted normally, while its body was withered and stringy.

Taking the spiked head of his axe, Cole pushed open dried skin and exposed bone. Looking at the main cavity of the goat. It was completely empty, stripped clean of flesh and organs. The ribs were split open and a few had been dislodged. One lay maybe half a meter away from the carcass. Gingerly reaching out with a gloved hand, Cole picked it up. Taking a moment to examine the clear bite marks on the rib. Something had used this bone as leverage to split open the goat and broke the rib loose in the process. The bite marks looked human, or at least close to it.

Dropping the rib, Cole continued his examination. This was easily the least pleasant part of his duties. Death is never pretty, especially when the type of beings he dealt with were involved. The intact nature of the goat and the lack of carrion insects added to the strangeness. Creatures that normally would feast upon such an easy meal had avoided it. The natural process of rot itself seemed interrupted, decay not setting in properly where the goat's body had been fed upon.

Glancing up at the cliff, Cole studied its structure and how the crevice narrowed towards the top. He doubted something had actually killed the goat. Most likely it was a victim to the recent weather and poor luck. Slipping into the crevice, thanks to rain or a distraction. Maybe it died on impact or its broken limbs prevented it from moving. Either way, it had attracted an unnatural scavenger. One that had feasted on the organs and then left the rest of the body intact and tainted.

Taking in a steadying breath, Cole now knew what he was dealing with. This was a Vryko-Ghoul, a type of hungry corpse. Ghouls are perhaps the most common type of undead, requiring only suffering and an unconsecrated corpse to exist. The Magic that flows through the world mirrors what it witnesses. Great suffering and anguish can contaminate raw Magic, turning it into the fell energies of undeath. Energies that will seek a home, such as an unprotected corpse.

Ghouls universally hunger for flesh and will go to great lengths to acquire it. Lesser Ghouls are little more than shambling corpses, lacking wits or instinct. Easily dispatched by any able-bodied person with even an improvised weapon. Dangerous only in their persistence and ability to multiply quickly. A ghoul’s bite is rarely fatal if treated, but will spread the curse of undeath if the victim does die. Raising them up as another ghoul, in the hellish state of undying hunger.

If he was correct, then the thing that had eaten the goat was not a normal Ghoul. The fact it had eaten dead flesh and then stopped from fully devouring the goat, informed Cole of this. Most likely this was a Vryko-Ghoul, the product of someone dying from exposure and starvation. Doomed to wander the wilds trying to fill a hunger that could never be sated. Vrykos only consume internal organs and are not picky about the source. Leaving behind ripped open bodies that thankfully do not rise as undead but are still poisoned with necromantic Magic.

Cole had put down a Vryko-Ghoul before, it had not been easy. While they lack intelligence like a normal ghoul, they possess strength and durability that more than compensates. Traits that only grow with every successful feeding. Something to be concerned about, especially since a newly risen Vryko can rip a full-grown person in half. Cole hoped this Vryko was still young. It would make sense if it was still scavenging out in the wilds. The more a ghoul ate, the hungrier it got, enduring a hellish false-existence that Cole was tasked with ending. If this Vryko had not attacked Glockmire or the shepherds who wandered these hills then it was still relatively weak.

Looking around him at the forest, Cole mused on why his God had sent him here. This was the perfect environment for a Vryko-Ghoul to grow quickly. Scavenging on local wildlife until it could catch an unlucky goat or its shepherd. Growing stronger and hungrier with every meal it would strip the forest and fields of animals before moving towards Glockmire. The town's defenses would probably be strong enough to stop the horror, but it would still reap a bloody toll. Never stopping in its pursuit of food, healing from any injury that didn’t outright kill it, and eventually growing strong enough to rival even an ancient vampire in raw physical power. The Vryko-Ghoul needed to be put down, and quickly.

Sighing to himself, Cole went over to the rib he had examined earlier and picked it up. Looking at the teeth marks, he knew what he had to do. He would need to get close to the horror, and this carcass was at least a few days old. Cole was not a bad tracker but with the recent rain he had no chance of following a trail if it existed. So he needed to turn to less mundane methods. Placing the rib back on the ground, Cole pulled up one of his sleeves and set the needle-like point on his axe’s pommel to his skin. Letting it pierce through the layers of scars produced by this same action. A few drops of bright crimson welled up and Cole turned his forearm. Letting them fall onto the rib, right where the teeth marks were.

“Blood falls upon Bone, help me find my quarry across Mud and Stone,” he whispered. It was a primitive tracking spell, one any decent Mage would be able to ward against. Hells, any person with an inkling of Magical talent would be safe from it; if they thought intently about being hidden. A Vryko-Ghoul would have no such protection and would be easily tracked by the spell.

The blood spilt on the rib moved, slithering along the yellowing bone like some gory serpent. Eventually wrapping around the rib, coiling its entire length in a thin line of blood. Cole reached down and picked up the rib. Holding it out before him, he started to slowly spin in a circle. He came to a stop when a slight sense of resistance came from the bone like he was pushing it through water instead of air. Now Cole had a direction to travel. Literally following the path of least resistance towards his quarry.

The darkness became more and more oppressive as the Sun set farther behind the mountains. Cole stopped in his journey, to eat some rations and light a make-shift torch. He did not want to put away his weapon and the long, almost spear-like point of the axe could serve many purposes. Wrapping a length of oily fabric around the spiked top of his axe, Cole ignited it with the Spark-Stone bought from Barnabas. The little trinket would come in handy. Spilling a drop of blood every time he wanted fire was terribly inconvenient.

Cole’s use of Blood Magic on something as simple as his tracking spell would earn him the wrath of any skilled Mage, even more so if he used it for a bit of fire-calling. The various types of Spellweavers manipulate the Magic that flows through the world. Relying on countless different techniques to safely and efficiently harness the power of Magic.

Magi study the intricacies of Magic and enforce their will upon the Aether through practice and knowledge. Priest's act as living channels for a God’s might, invoking miracles in their name. Shaman’s call upon the wild spirits of the Aether, bonding with them and enacting their will. Cultivators from the far-east draw Magic into their very flesh, refining themselves into living weapons. Savants are blessed with a strong natural affinity for a type of Magic they wield almost instinctively. Collectively called Mage’s or Spellweavers, these manipulators of the arcane wield incredible power.

Magic is power that must be earned and mastered through focus, study, training, and effort. Except when Blood Magic is used. Nobody knows for sure why the Aether reacts so much to sacrificed blood. Other rituals of sacrifice buy power from the darker things in the Beyond. Not the offering of Blood though, the Aether itself absorbs it and reacts to the offeror's intent. By the standards of true Mage's Blood Magic is a crude, hamfisted, and disturbingly potent alternative method of wielding magic. A method that Cole excelled at, having long ago mastered the craft of spilling his blood to further his goals.

The tracking spell did its work, leading Cole deeper into the wilds. Moon and stars were obscured by clouds and forest canopy, true darkness had fallen, and the only light was the flickering torch. He knew he was getting close when another familiar smell reached his nostrils. It was similar to the rot he’d scented earlier from the goat, but with an additional sulphuric twinge. It was the smell of rotten and burst organs, the scent of the Vryko-Ghoul.

Looking around at the dark forest, and how the shadows of every tree danced in his torchlight. Cole decided he needed to make a few preparations. His eyes could pierce through the dark better than most people's but fighting in pitch black would be incredibly foolish. The Vryko was nearby and would probably find him before he found it. Drawn to warm flesh by magical hunger that cursed all Ghouls. The scent was faint so he had some time, hopefully, it would be enough.

Cole found a slight clearing, an uneven oval of meadow surrounding a large jagged piece of stone. This would be his arena, now he had to prepare it. The first step would be gathering up dry brush and stray kindling. Light would be crucial and the top of the sunken boulder in the clearing’s center would be a good place to start a fire. Even with the recent rain Cole found what he needed and soon had a crackling fire atop the stone. The flames could not have come a moment sooner, a tangible chill fell over the forest as the Sun truly set. It was part instinct, part magic, the knowledge that the light was gone for the day, and now was the time for dark things to roam.

The scent of ruptured guts and death was getting stronger, the Vryko-Ghoul was getting closer. It had sensed Cole and was coming. Even with rotten senses, a Ghoul could track prey. The magic that animates and mutates a corpse into a Ghoul guides the shambling husk towards flesh. A crude form of tracking magic that made Cole’s spell look like the visions of some Seer in comparison. Cole made no effort to hide, this was his duty, his purpose, ending the horror of undead monsters like the Vryko-Ghoul.

Two more acts would finish Cole’s preparations. Grabbing a small leather pouch from his pack, Cole went to where the sunken boulder met the soil. Gingerly he started to pour the contents of the bag onto the ground. Forming an unbroken ring of white powder around the rock. This was something of Cole’s own invention, one part silver dust, nineteen parts salt. A crude but effective barrier against unholy magics. It would not be enough to stop a determined undead or anything with any measure of power. It however would make crossing the ring painful for anything unclean, and sap the power of any fell magic passing over it. The rock with its bonfire and blessed line of silver and salt would be Cole’s shield.

Now it was time for him to unsheathe his weapon. Dropping the tracking rib onto the stone, Cole gripped his axe in one hand. Holding it out horizontal, so its tip and pommel hung in parallel. Gritting his teeth, Cole took his free hand and drove it onto the spiked pommel. Impaling his palm on the sharp needle there. He had made his offering, now it was time to proclaim his intent.

“Blood begets blood. Iron begets iron. A piece of my life for the power to bring death.” Then slowly Cole drew his stabbed hand away from the pommel, but the pommel came with it. The axe’s shaft grew in length, like some conjurer's trick it stretched out to over two meters. Finally, Cole pulled his hand free of the spiked pommel and let the haft of his weapon fall to the ground. It was not a strange axe like a casual observer might think. Cole only had it take that form for convenience sake. It was a Halberd, with blood-hungry runes etched into its metal. An adaptable weapon that could change with every feeding. Perfect in its symbolism for hunting the Undead, who hunger and thirst for life.

Feeling the familiar weight of the halberd in his hands, Cole moved it through the air with an experimental thrust. He’d tried out many weapons in his life but found the Halberd perfect for what he required. Dealing with the Undead is by extension dealing with the foulness of death. Even without dark magic effecting it a Corpse is host to myriad toxic and foul substances. The long reach provided by a halberd kept such dangers at a distance. The axe-head, spear point, and hook of the halberd let Cole deal with different threats effectively. A weapon designed to fight an armored knight on horseback or clash in lines of infantry works well facing down any threat large or small.

Taking a seat by the fire, Cole quickly wrapped up his wounded hand. Idly Cole wondered at the sheer number of bandages he had used over the years. That was a cost to Blood Magic that did not make it into the great Arcane Tomes of the Ivory Towers he bet. Taking a few deep breaths, smelling the growing stink on the air, Cole prepared to fight and if need be, die. If he failed and the Vryko-Ghoul survived to continue its growth, then innocents would be devoured. Their lives cut short from what Master Time allotted them. And the soul trapped in the Vryko would continue its unliving hell. Cole would not stand for that, it was within his power to prevent such tragedies, he could suffer where others could not. With his Halberd and a prayer to his God, he would die fighting the darkness as many times as he needed to.

It did not take long for the Vryko to come, the smell growing so thick that Cole could practically feel the miasma upon his skin. Lumbering shuffling steps were Cole’s first warning. Slowly turning to face the noise, it sounded like a lame horse dragging a dead one. At the edge of the clearing, illuminated by the flickers of the fire was the monster. It stood as tall as Cole, but was far broader. With flushed swollen skin the myriad colors of gangrene and infection.

Swollen was perhaps the best word to describe the Vryko-Ghoul. Appearing like a days-old corpse that had been stuffed full of flesh, resembling a rancid sausage. Puffy and elephantine, its legs were barely enough to prop the Vryko’s body up. Oversized arms and hands dangled from its sides, while its gut seemed ready to tear open like an overfilled sack of grain. The head was bald and slimy, nose, ears and other features rotted away. With a distended mouth, its cheeks ripped open and blackened teeth shining in the firelight. A pair of beady eyes were nestled in the ruin of a face. A palpable sense of hunger, despair, and misery poured from those sunken windows.

Cole readied his halberd, standing with the head towards the ground, axe-blade pointed up. A good guard position to keep his distance from the Vryko-Ghoul. It was much bigger than he had expected. This was an older well-fed corpse eater, maybe a few years undead, not freshly risen as he expected. This would be more difficult than Cole had hoped but he was confident he would succeed. Gripping his halberd tightly, Cole stepped towards the boulder's edge. Never letting his eyes leave the Vryko’s face. Cole felt the pain of this horror, its existence needed to be ended for its sake and everyone else's.

In a gentle tone, like the type used to soothe a scared child Cole addressed the Vryko-Ghoul, speaking to any flicker of awareness trapped inside. “I am a servant of Master Time. I will free you from this false-life, it is my duty that you should not suffer so.

The Vryko did not respond, simply shuffling forward, reaching the very edge of the clearing. One meaty hand reached out and grabbed a nearby tree, a linden whose trunk equaled a man’s waist in thickness. With disturbing ease, the Vryko ghoul squeezed the tree and a resounding crack echoed through the dark forest. The trunk fractured into a storm of kindling that exploded out in every direction. Instinctually Cole pulled his cloak around him, the heavy cloth stopping the shower of splinters.

If the Vryko-Ghoul got its hands on Cole, it would easily pop him like a grape. The extra range of the halberd would be crucial here; this would be a duel of deciding blows. Anything less than a crippling or killing blow would not stop the Vryko. Its flesh could knit together or ignore most damage. Striking its head clear from its shoulders would be the quickest way to end this fight. While the undead being’s soul would still be trapped it would not be able to resist being consecrated and freed.

Slowly, uncaring of the splinter and wooden shards sticking from its side, the Vryko-Ghoul shuffled towards Cole. Tar-like blood dripped down its side, reflecting the fire’s light. Cole leveled the halberd at the horror, slipping his free hand around the polearm’s pommel, letting the needle-spike slip between his middle and ring finger. He’d practiced this stance often and hoped to strike true. Stepping off the rocks and onto the meadow, Cole approached the Vryko cautiously. Severing the spine would cut this corpse’s puppet strings and let him release the trapped soul.

The undead horror continued forward, uncaring of the sharp blade aiming for its neck. Cole let out a furious roar and drove the halberd forward, thrusting with his palm gripped on the hilt. Shooting the spear-point forward with incredible force. It struck, and the blade shot deep into the Vryko’s throat. Cole felt the tear of flesh but not the crack of bone, the tip had missed its target, ripping open a throat and veins long unused. Rotten blood sprayed out, like the discharge of a squeezed cyst. The halberd’s spike had missed the spine, inflicting what would be a mortal wound on any living creature, but doing little to stop the Vryko-Ghoul.

Quickly, Cole stepped back, pulling his weapon free, bringing a trail of ichor with it. The Vryko swung one of its huge arms in a wild haymaker. Cole pulled himself out of reach and dropped his halberd’s head. He needed to keep space between himself and the Vryko. As the savage haymaker finished its arc, Cole charged forward. Fast for a man of his size Cole he could take advantage of the laborious speed of the Vryko. Speed that hid bone-crushing strength, one good blow would be all it took to kill the scarred warrior. Sweeping the halberd low, Cole drove its axe head into the Vryko’s leg. Hacking at the bulging muscle and fat, and connecting with the knee joint. Bone cracked and ligaments snapped like over taught string.

The Vryko let out a gurgling noise from its ruined throat. It might be able to heal from a destroyed knee, but that would take time, and time was on Cole’s side. Like some rotted tree caught in a windstorm the Vryko’s leg buckled. Overstressed by the bloated undead’s weight and now cleaved by a sharp blade, the leg snapped. The Vryko fell, waving its engorged hands in the air, reaching for Cole even as it collapsed. Hitting the ground with a resounding boom, the Vryko fell onto its side and flailed grotesque arms.

Seeing an opportunity Cole swung the halberd’s axe-blade down, aiming for a clean decapitation. The strike was misjudged and sunk into the Vryko’s shoulder, the horror having pulled its arm close to protect its neck. Cole tried to yank the axe-blade free, rigor mortis toughened muscle and rotten fat trapped the halberd. Swearing under his breath Cole gave the trapped weapon another hard tug, ripping it free in a shower of black blood. It could not have come a moment sooner, the Vryko swung its other arm up like it was swatting an annoying insect. The tree-trunk sized limb missed Cole but smacked into the retreating halberd head. It took all of Cole’s strength to hold onto his weapon as a huge amount of force slammed into the polearm.

Instantly his forearms went numb as the halberd vibrated with the impact, its enchanted nature the only reason the weapon was not simply destroyed. Grimacing, Cole realized he needed to change his tactics. The Vryko was already hauling itself up, dragging its huge body with an arm and leg, reaching out for Cole with the other arm. Cole had expected a lesser Vryko-Ghoul, not one of this size and strength. Backing away the scarred warrior extended the halberd out before him, ready to respond to any sudden movements.

As he did this Cole jabbed the pommel’s needle into his already injured hand. Those who refuse to change do not survive, so Cole adapted. Muttering a quick incantation, he freed his stabbed hand and focused on the halberd. Its shaft lengthened another thirty centimeters and the axe blade grew. The added reach and weight made the polearm look more like a headsman's axe, which is exactly the purpose Cole had for it.

The Vryko-Ghoul dragged itself forward, its hands sinking into the dirt and hauling the horror’s bloated form towards Cole. He let the hungry corpse get close, its oversized fingers clawing at the ground near his boots. Quickly, he leaped to the side and swung his halberd down. Putting all his strength and weight into a mighty chop. A gurgling groan escaped the Vryko-Ghoul’s torn mouth as its hand was lopped off at the wrist. Cole grimaced, he preferred to end these matters quickly and cleanly. He did not know how aware the soul trapped inside the corpse was, but he feared it could still experience any pain he inflicted on its fleshy-prison.

The sheer size and weight of the Vryko-Ghoul hindered the regeneration of its ruined knee. It would require almost complete repair for the undead brute to put its weight on. Reattaching a severed limb required more intelligence than the Vryko possessed and regrowing the hand would take days. Cole had successfully maimed a walking corpse, now he would take its head.

Lifting its freshly crippeled limb up, the Vryko-Ghoul swung its stump like a bludgeon. Again Cole dodged, backing up towards the half-sunken boulder and its surrounding sacred line. Being able to quickly move behind that defense would be useful. Splayed out on its belly and flailing its arms madly, the Vryko-Ghoul made a bizarre sight. One that would almost be comical except for the undead’s grotesqueness. Like some bloated toddler having a temper tantrum.

Cole only felt sadness and pity. All undead are tragic things, Vryko-Ghouls especially. To die alone out in the wilderness and be trapped inside your own corpse, hungering eternally for offal. Denied Rebirth or Anointment, as promised by the Gods in the Covenant. Truly, a terrible fate for any to befall. Softly, Cole started to pray. A slow chant of mourning and departure. Wishing a quick journey through the Halls of Master Time and a better life after Rebirth. Death is the end of oneself, but not one’s soul. Rebirth awaits all those under the God’s protection, as promised in the Covenant.

The Vryko-Ghoul reached out with its still intact hand, crossing the line of salt and silver. Instantly white flames erupted on mottled flesh. Pulling back, the undead let out a pitiful gurgle, as the cleansing fire ate at its fingers. Cole saw his opportunity, using the boulder’s elevation to his advantage, he lept down, swinging his halberd in a great arc. It struck true, hitting where skull and spine meet. The Vryko-Ghoul fell limp, the magical energies animating it denied control over unliving nerves.

Panting slightly, Cole pulled the Halberd free and stared down at the corpse at his feet. By their very nature, the Undead defy the laws of the living. Persisting with broken mutilated bodies, animated by magic woven into a perverse parody of life. A soul trapped inside its own dead flesh, tricking the Aether into bestowing a false existence. Yet despite this strange perversion of all that is natural, Undead still fall to certain blows. Destroying the Brain or the Heart might not free the trapped soul but it would cut the corpse-puppet’s strings or at the very least stun them. Nobody except the Gods knows for sure why. Maybe at that point, the Aether can’t be fooled? Life becomes so impossible that Undeath fails to take hold.

No matter why the Vryko-Ghoul was broken. It would not heal from this wound and lacked any ability to do true harm. All that was left was to free the trapped soul. The Soul does not want to part with its body, its existence is tied to the flesh it inhabits. It must be forced from its home and into the Beyond. Every culture that worships righteous Gods has a method to do this. Some bury the dead in ground blessed by faith, others burn the corpse, some even leave the body for Carrion, relying on wild spirits to free the soul. Cole would use fire; few things match it in mundane and magical power. It is creation, destruction, and transformation all in one, the perfect symbol for magic and its myriad forms.

Cole let himself relax a bit, the hard part was over. Now he just had to gather material for a pyre. Maybe the tree the Vryko-Ghoul had destroyed would be useful in that regard? The crack of a snapping branch grabbed Cole’s attention and he whirled towards the surrounding forest. He’d been focused on his religious duties and failed to notice he was not alone. Three hulking shapes stood at the clearing’s edge, each an image of bloated decay. Three more Vryko-Ghouls, one of similar size to the one he had slain, the other two slightly smaller.

Even through decay and degradation Cole saw similarities in the Vryko’s faces. The same heavy brow and deep-set eyes. Cole felt his blood run cold as realization filled him. The tragedy and threat of these undead were greater than he’d imagined. A family, lost in the wilderness, had perished together and risen together. Maybe they were caught in a blizzard or trapped by an avalanche? It did not matter, by some fell circumstance four Vryko-Ghouls had arisen and posed a far more serious threat. This also raised other questions. Why hadn’t the family of undead attacked Glockmire or at least killed some of its citizens? Judging by their size they were feeding well and that would be difficult to do with four of them.

Gritting his teeth, Cole leveled his halberd at the three approaching horror’s and prepared to fight. His adrenaline had already started to fade and the polearm felt heavy in Cole’s hands. This was not going to be pleasant, he might even die in this fight. Idly Cole wondered how long it would be before his personal effects were thrown away by Natalie or her father.

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