[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/zQXUPoA.png[/img]
[sub][@VitaVitaAR][@Rune_Alchemist][/sub][/center]
And lo behold, the Mausoleum of House Cazt, bedecked with the Eight-Pointed Star, the Eight Legacies of the besmirched family. Sealed by stone, the stench of undeath that dwelled within did not pervade outwards, but the interlacing of fortunes and circumstance, of knowledge and anticipation, nevertheless rendered the tomb a den of dishonor and disease, one wholly separate from the noble bones that had once been laid to rest within.

Serenity herself, rendered anonymous in borrowed arms and armor, stood before the tomb, beside her Knight-Captain. There had been no need to plunder her own family’s graves for such an incident, nor need to rely on the relics entombed by another family for the sake of the purging of undeath. Indeed, it had always been an era of sorcery and [i]steel[/i]. Steel, heated and hammered. Steel, formed and quenched. Steel, the truest distillation of civilization. Against a cabal of grave-crawling pests, that was all that was needed. That was all that they deserved.

And regardless, even if those villains did think to coop themselves up under a rock, it was foolish, after the battle against the Bandit King, to allow the Knight-Captain to be by her lonesome once more. Even if the amount of incompetence thusly displayed by their faceless foes made them out as even greater fools than Jeremiah, the Knights themselves would simply be ever-greater foes if Fanilly were attacked while some were absent.

So Serenity remained. Listened to her Captain repeat banal statements. Measured her breath, felt the weight of her weapons. How the straps and handles dug into her flesh. How weight shifted as she twisted. The condition of her body, the juxtaposition of sensations of fine silk underclothes against the roughness of padded cloth and leather. She felt too, the weight of the stone doors, giving way to her might as she pulled them open and allowed the magenta light of sacrilege to spill out upon moon-stained graves.

Nameless soldiers, wrestled from their deserved slumber, shambled to meet them, and the young Knight-Captain’s sword gave them the example as to how such corpses ought to be treated. Fleuri’s charge was Fanilly’s refrain, a second sword swinging wide, but as for the third to act...there now needed to be order and cooperation.

The bascinet was indeed a good decision. Serenity’s gaze was uninterrupted, and the illumination of the undeads’ own ghastly countenance illuminated their immediate destination. What was appropriate then, except for a charge? And if there were to be a charge, then it came to measure.

[b]“Dame Cecilia, a bolt of wind to scatter them!”[/b]

Archers to lock down their movements.

[b]“Sir Steffen, Sir Gerard, we’ll trample them underfoot!”[/b]

Cavalry to break their formation.

[b]“And Sir Vier, Lein, reap what remains!”[/b]

Infantry to clear out what remained in their wake.

And always, always, moving forwards.

Shield raised up front, mace resting upon her shoulder, the lion felt the ground beneath her boots, dug her toes into her soles, and waited for the storm that would herald the lightning.