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	Thick fog gripped the dead forest in unrelenting shrouds of mist. Concealing the stumbling roots and sinking mud from the eyes of men. Entering such a fateful, gloomy woodland would be considered suicide by most, and harrowing by all others. The desolate forest conceded no exceptions to the duo that traversed it abandoned paths and forgotten trails even now. These two clutched drawn swords, their eyes never once remaining still, their ears never once failing to listen to even the slightest of sounds, and their breaths coming ragged and restrained, betraying their desperate fear. The first man was a scout and guide who took the name Nimson. He held bundled under his free arm a collection of unlit torches, held up safe and dry from the mud that clung to their boots, armor, and trousers. Strapped to his back was a large mason jar, plugged by a cork and filled with some liquid that sloshed and slushed with his every step. It resembled a giant furry tumor suspended and wrapped in animal skins as it was. He stood bent under its immense weight, and sank deeper into the mud because of it. Trailing him was the seeker he’d been charged with. A tall man by the name of Corbric. He too carried a full mason jug upon his back, but he bore the burden with diligence, standing straight and tall and using the haft of his bardiche as a walking staff.

	Exhaustion weighed heavy upon them and the birds of carrion, the only living things that still resided in the darkened woodlands, circled overhead, as if knowing their weakness and awaiting their eventual collapse, so they might feast upon their flesh. Corbric looked upon these fowl as ominous omens, cursing their presence in his mind. Anyone, or anything could see the deathbirds from a distance and know weakened, dying fools crept on beneath their beady black eyes. He had noticed their presence a day before, the same day he noticed his armor and weaponry rusting in the dampness. Nimson and Corbric had been tracing the realm of decay for the better part of three days, creeping like thieves through the ceaseless miles of extinct wilderness. They had rendezvoused on the outskirts of Umbred Town, of the Scarred Lands and spoke of messages and hope and light. Alas now, starved of rations and water and hopelessly lost Corbric found himself forced to entrust his life to Nimson, and luck. Nimson was a young man, no older than seventeen years and admittedly new to scouting. Even now as they trudged on in silence Corbric began to suspect he wasn’t the only one lost.

	“Just another mile onward [i]Sucher[/i], and we shall find the path once more.” The youth insisted, his eyes puffy and red from lack of sleep. Corbric remained unconvinced, having lost trust in Nimson’s predictions after the tenth time they proved untrue. They spoke together in Latin, a language they found interceded their cultural differences, Nimson being Nordic born, and Corbric hailing from Switzerland. There had been difficulty at first in understanding each other, however due to the importance of near total silence the two companions kept their chatter to a minimum, and with this mutual understanding a raw simplicity formed in their conversations. That being, they were few and far between.

	Today it seemed that Nimson was exceptionally chatty as he froze in place, turning to face the seeker. Except something wasn’t right. The young man shivered as if cold, and his face paled and his hands shook to the point where a few torches tumbled from the bundle thudding softly into the mud. “[i]Sucher, Sucher[/i].” He moaned, his brown eyes rolling upward as a horse’s might when it becomes spooked. “[i]Sucher[/i],” he repeated again, terror raising his voice an octave above where it should have been. He sobbed, unable to contain himself any longer. “I hath led us astray. The fog and trees block the stars and sun. And now I hear them approaching, we shall die.”

	Planting his bardiche in the earth Corbric smothered Nimson’s mouth with gauntleted hand, stilling the boy’s cries. The lad’s fear was contagious, and it spread to Corbric whose heartbeat doubled in pace, sounding as loud as a drum in the still forest. He too could hear the crunching of dead branches, the squelch of mud, and the rustle of decadent clothing, all heralded by scent of death and rot that polluted the air.

	“Swiftly, the oil son.” Sheathing their swords Corbric and Nimson pulled the jugs from their backs using their teeth and nails to remove the corks. Selecting the sturdiest tree the two men began emptying the jugs upon the mud and soil around it, forming a thick line that spanned six paces in diameter and encircled the entire tree. Placing their near empty jugs at the base of the tree the two men crouched low, taking unlit torches and flint and swords in hand, at the ready.

	For what seemed an eternity they waited, remaining frozen to the best of their ability, shivering in the chill and counting the seconds on bated breaths. Every creek of the trees, whistle of the wind, and moan of the forest was a decayed, every movement a horde, and every shape in the fog a terror.

	“Hath they gone?” Nimson breathed, large tears welling in his eyes, and yet he refused to move in order to wipe them away.

	“Perhaps tis not our day to die.” Corbric mused, his breath rising in an encouraging plume. He still breathed, his heart still beat, and his feet still throbbed, indeed he still lived. “Shush and be still. Wait a moment more.” Then, like a black shadow a crow descended from the sky, alighting upon the ring of oil. For a moment it stared at them, twisting its head this way and that as if confused to whether their motionlessness was from death or choice. Corbric hissed at it, jerking his fingers ever so slightly to scare it away. Angrily the bird rose into the air cawing and croaking its displeasure. Then from the shadows of the trees, alerted by the bird rose a creature that might once have been human. Standing emaciated, scarred and clothed in shredded rags it stumbled towards them, its jaws rotted away leaving the boney teeth locked in a permanent, sinister grin. A single, soulless eye stared at them from its sunken position on the thing’s face, and it moaned something unintelligible to any known tongue as it stumbled towards Nimson. Arms outstretched it reached with fingers made of bone. Strips of muscle, and flesh hung by threads from its joints which creaked with every nerve shattering step. Nimson sat in abject horror, unable to move to save himself despite his terror. Rising in a rush of power fueled by fear of death and anger Corbric smote the person of decay a terrible blow with his sword, striking deep into the bloodless throat. Wrenching his blade free Corbric cast it to the ground and smashed its skull under his heavy boot, splattering the remains of its rotted brains across the ground.

	Then they arose from everywhere. A score of them at the least, they came from all sides possible, moaning in their unspeakable language, enveloping the hapless persons in their trap. “NIMSON, LIGHT THE OIL!” Corbric screeched in German, slashing open the chest of the nearest decayed and kicking it back. Though the panic stricken words meant nothing to Nimson, the barest form of basic understanding broke through the language barrier. Prostrating himself in the mud before the black line of oil Nimson struck the edge of his blade with the flint, scattering sparks across the forest floor. In a flash a tall flame rose like a burning ghost, encircling the two men and several of the decayed. Many more were caught by the fire and flailed in agony while the remainder on the outside stalled their advance, some primal instinct keeping them from striding through the dangerous blaze.

	Retrieving his bardiche Corbric used the heavy axe to fell what few remained inside the ring with them, pushing their corpses into the sphere of fire to add to its brilliance. His breaths coming in ragged gasps the forsworn guardsman pulled Nimson to his feet and set both their backs to the tree, watching the waiting decayed warily.

	“More approach,” the shaking Nimson warned, pointing towards the gloom where his young eyes could make out the forms of many more wrathful decayed approaching the beacon of fire. “I warned thee this tactic was foolhardy. It calls them, and when the flames die they shall swarm us in countless numbers.”

	“Silence fool!” Corbric screamed back, furious that the scout was right, and that death was fast approaching. No man wanted to die, not even again, and again, not like this. Torn apart at the hands of mindless creatures. “We will have died just as well without the fire, as with it. Unless thy useless tongue hath some brilliant plan to save us then still it, and let me think!”



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