In the corner of the dungeon, the other men clung to the corners of the stone walls, whispering and eyeing Cyrdic as if he was a Daemon. Cyrdic did not know if they were right. He could smell the hint of presperation on their skin, and the heightened heartbeats within their breasts pounded against his body in light waves. It was unremitting, and yet he could not remember being without such sensations.  

The only inmate that gave no exception to him was an elderly man, lanky of limb and gaunt from age. Both eyes had been taken from him, as had many of his teeth. He muttered so silently that even Cyrdic had a difficult time deciphering his words. He twitched and giggled, spouting strings or Brettonian litanies when he was not catatonic or asleep. Cyrdic was not convinced he wasn't an hallucination in his own head. 

As the sun rose in the east, Cyrdic blinked as he felt a tingle in his sinuses. Something tugged at him, be it within his physical senses or something more etheral, but he knew something was occurring that tore at him like hunger in a starving body. Suddenly the elder awoke from his stupor, and laughed. He laughed madly and uproariously, so loud that his thin chest looked as if it would throw his back out and burst. Even through such insanity, Cyrdic heard the din of battle in the distance. He had been in too many battles to mistake the sounds. 

His manacles were suddenly broken. Had he broken them? Yes, he had. The tingling in his wrists had shown him. But now the cell was open, and the stairways leading out of the dungeon were flying past his vision as he moved with a swift, loping gait that carried him past the guardsmen in a flurry of muscle and power, sending him headlong out the door and past the screaming Lord D'Elbiq to where Ulric demanded his presence... 

[hr] 

Renard was a beacon amid the mist, his body glowing like a lantern of divine might. No undead seemed to stand against him, skeletons and ghouls being cloven in two by his cross-hilted arming sword of bluish energy. But even his light was blotted out as the horde of abberations smashed into the lines of Camilla's makeshift strike force. Men and zombies hit one another like water rushing through the opening of a floodgate.

The soft, wet grass beneath them was now even slicker with blood and marrow as the battle commenced. In the distance, a horse whinnied in fright. Camilla's elvish sword rang like a lullaby, inspiring the men around her almost as brightly as Renard's glowing form. The broken monastary they fought around was fully engulfed in the battle. One squire-sergeant held a dozen men of similar equipment and rank within the crumbling stonework as yeomen fired from behind their shields with fiery arrows drenched in oil.  

Camilla was nearly run down by a confused group of Knights, thinking every thing that was in their path was undead, so thick was the enemy horde. One of the knights was torn from his horse by a billhook wielded by an armored wight. Camilla hacked and cleaved, pivoting like a dancer amid the chaos while men fought and died around her. In the distance, she heard a howl in the din of battle. 

A howl... 
[@Penny]