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The untimely death of king William the Conqueror just so happened to coincide with the rise of the living dead. Where a king fell, legions of dead rose to terrorize the countryside. The reports were incidental at first, of no concern to the quickly shifting balance of power in the court of London who instead focused their attention on the coronation of the unconventional queen Isabella. Her sudden appearance following the untimely and suspect death of king William I had been the source of much speculation, including rumours that she had been behind the succesful attack on the kings life -- rumours that were quickly snuffed by her adept staff of courtiers and perhaps some thinly veiled threats by her personal guard, a knight of no renown and no particular importance that appeared just as sudden as she had on the political scene of London.

However, the vague reports of a sudden onset of undead setting out in the night to ravage and wreak havoc across the countryside spread became more widespread. It started in the North, though it came crashing down like a wave on the country. Every morning, riders from nearby appeared in London to report that the devastation was coming closer and that the previous reports of undead were true. What had started as a vague, perhaps slightly too religious report of walking dead now became an actual threat, not only to the kingdom of England, nor to the city of London, but also to the queen and her plans for the future. 

Merely weeks after her coronation entire villages had disappeared, leaving behind burning husks that had been burned by orders of the queens bodyguard, who had by her orders taken on the role of the master at arms of overseeing this new enemy. The enemy was, thus far, unknown to them. They attacked only in the night and seemed to disappear in the morrow. Discovering any new information was hard -- there were few men willing to risk their lives to scout ahead into the wilds, and there were fewer that returned alive. Usually those that had returned had little to show for their adventure, offering little to no information other than a list of village names that had been wiped out or abandoned. 

There was a new threat in England, and for once, it was not the scheming of lower lords, nor the swiftly changing allegiances of dukes and counts, nor was it the foreign threat of Norwegians and Danish conquerors to which king William I owed his ferocious Norman blood, nor was it the tribes in the Pictish hills to the great North. The threat was internal, and it would send a great reckoning to those who were unprepared.

The castle gates opened, it's wooden door cracking heavily under its own weight, though it was overshadowed by the heavy gallop of a troop of horses arriving. Seven men rode in formation, six of them side by side led by a singular man with a helmet on. He rode confidently, a sword at his side and a kite shield hanging from his saddle. In his right hand was a lance with a small triangular flag bearing the coat of arms of queen Isabella. The troop rode to the royal stables, dismounted and stabled their horses, though it was only the leading knight that would enter the great hall, passing his lance to one of the other riders.

The heavy tread of his boots, masked in chainmail, betrayed his presence as he approached the throne of the queen and reached up with both his hands, clasping them around the helmet and slowly raising it off of his head, before taking it under his right arm and kneeling deeply, lowering his eyes from her and looking at the ground. The regulars at the court would recognize him as Gregar of Longvillers-Levart, a lower noble house of the dynasty Longvillers. All in all their titles in Normandie had become defunct as the unusual succesion of king William the Conqueror had separated the titles of Normandie from the kingdom of England entirely. As such, Longvillers-Levart was now a noble house of incredibly little importance, though Gregar would see to change that.

"My queen," he spoke, and slowly the entire court quieted down to hear him, "I bring grave news from the North. During my errand to York we were forced to turn back at Stanford, for the villages had been burned for a days ride and we wished not endanger the task your highness had sent us on. We received report from locals when we took shelter in a fortified abbey, where they had sought refuge, and they spoke of York as the only remaining bastion of the English crown in the north. Small settlements and churches remain -- Bamburgh and Lindisfarne had sent word to the abbey we sheltered in to seek aid from the crown -- but north of York there remains no town or city intact."

He looked up at the queen then, his face showing the seriousness of the situation as his eyes betrayed not a hint of emotion behind his words -- he was Norman, not Saxon, and so had no tangible relation to these lands or its people beyond their loyalty to the queen -- and yet it was clear as day that the situation was grave. "Worse yet, the Welsh lands have also been overran, and what little remains of their people has been holed up in the various castle-keeps. Were these better times, I'd suggest we take their lands to be a rightful part of the English crown, but the armies of your highness would need to cut through a swath of unholy and undead creatures that resemble men."

His words fell still then and he looked at his queen, awaiting her command. "What are your orders, my queen?"