"Oh!! I'll ask their cooties to please play nicely with mine, then. Thank you!"

She has already managed to painstakingly sandwich herself between two bodies by the time that big, gorgeous woman's warning makes it to her. Admittedly, health and sanitation hadn't been on her mind whatsoever; these had been yet more things she simply hadn't felt applied to her. Now that she's firmly crammed into her hiding place, she decides she's made her peace with catching whatever the dead have to give over taking her chances in the open with whatever's made that awful noise. She wonders if this means she is not a very brave person. It might've occurred to her that this sort of defect is one imperative to work on, given the circumstances, if thinking of herself as defective didn't force a sudden guffaw out. Absolutely not. This body, maybe, but that's hardly her so it doesn't count.

She breathes deep and only through her mouth in anticipation of the corpsestink--though, admittedly, it's difficult to think of these bodies as corpses now. Being up so close after pawing at them had only cemented her belief that they're something that will open, a room that nobody can keep her out of (mushrooms, maggots, me; the dead want something to live in them, don't they?), but given time to think on it has her stumped as to why that is. How can you live in an empty house? How do you read off of a blank page? She knows with certainty that she could close the distance between herself and the people that she's met. Somehow. She knows, too, that she feels the same about these bodies. So they must be the same. So, yes. Or no. One is the answer; she doesn't know the question. They're not breathing. And many are visibly damaged. And they are not alive, and yet... 

Maybe she just doesn't know what a dead body really is or maybe these bodies aren't really dead ones or maybe it's some other, third thing. Regardless, her thoughtspiral ends with an impact that shakes the sky. Only by twisting to squint past the matted back of a body's head can she make out the massive shape of some thing come to hunt them. And, evidently, to leak monster-milk all over them. From this angle she can see it drizzle down and sprout ghostly feathers from corpse(?)flesh in its wake. How pretty. I'll bet I shouldn't touch it. She hooks her arms beneath the underarms of the body atop her to try and haul it higher over herself so tht it might shield her from the downpour. Her puff of exertion here is what draws in a fat lungful of something so noxious that she almost forgets to have a positive outlook on this damned situation.

Hck!

Having something to weigh her down (foul as it is) had been near-comforting before the coughing fit. Now she feels smothered, unable to suck a good breath in. She still refuses to breathe through her nose—there's no telling if this is making it any better or worse, but this is how she'll stay. She turns her head and yanks her shirt up over the bridge of her nose, airway smothered by cotton-blend and her own clammy palm. Turning takes her eyes off of what little she can see of her brave new friends out there, but she decides this might be for the best. She is deliberately opting to be of no help to any of them right now. Watching what happens next might make that decision harder to stand by.

Fascinating.

Even before the beast broke through the clouds, its presence coiled through my senses like a needle threading some ancient, forgotten memory. Three eyes—each a fulcrum of knowing. Each blink, a verdict. As if it saw through the very bones of us.

And then—impact. The shaman's barrier shuddered beneath the weight of the thing. Magnificent. Whatever woven lattice she conjured, it held—for now. But the real intrigue wasn’t in its strength. No, it was in the *cracks*.

The hiss of vaporizing ichor struck me next. That *smell*—how exquisitely wrong. It clung to the back of my throat like old mercury and burned like sulfurous ash. A thousand alchemical reactions clamored for recognition, but none were sufficient. Not one among my archives could name this concoction. Not exactly.

But the reaction…

My gaze dropped to the corpses. Charred skin twitching. Plumes of feathers where flesh once was. Not just rot or necrotic revival—this was transmutation, no—reconfiguration. Their forms twisting as if being rewritten by a script long forbidden.

And the droplet that began it all? A catalyst.

“A solvent of death repurposing the remnants. The creature secretes a living agent—likely parasitic, possibly semi-divine, perhaps both.”

My thoughts became quicksilver, pouring into every crevice of possibility. The implications raced through me like lightning through a copper spine.

Could it be harvested?

Refined?

If the agent acts upon the dead… would it *hesitate* with the nearly dead? Could it be tamed, bound into solution, injected into constructs?

Godblood in the vapor... reanimating not by soul, but by biological design. No rituals. No glyphs. Only the scent and a touch of ichor.

I needed a sample.

I turned quickly, eyes scanning the remnants of scattered gear from the fallen. Shattered helms, dented armor, a broken canteen—no. Too porous. Then, beside a blackened corpse, half-buried in soot and bone, I saw it: a battered steel flask. Crude, dented, but sealed with a rusted screw-top.

Good enough.

I slid it free, careful not to disturb the corpse—gods know what twitch of that feather-laced flesh might stir next. With a swift gesture, I uncorked the flask and stepped toward one of the stones slick with the creature’s dripping secretion.

The substance writhed faintly, resisting cohesion, as though aware it was about to be captured.

“No, no,” I whispered, coaxing it with a slow tilt of the flask, “you’ve already performed your miracle… now let me see what else you can do.”

The droplet slipped inside with a faint hiss, and the flask grew warm in my hand.

I sealed it tight.

Whatever this was… I would unravel it. Or it would unravel me.

Though she’d resolved to remain firmly within the safety of her chosen hiding place – at least until after the current crisis resolved itself – the moment the creature crashed into the barrier above and her legs began to sting with a foul, acrid odour despite the layers of cloth she’d buried herself within, a morbid curiosity began to well up within the spider. Even as her rational mind dictated that there was almost certainly nothing she would be able to do to improve the current situation and that should simply try to wait out the attack, the rising panic inside her urged her towards action, a mixture of terror and curiosity pushing her to find out what was happening.

After what felt like an age to the spider but which in actuality was not even a minute from when the monster had crashed into the shaman’s barrier, the spider gave in to her need to know what was going on, and ever so slowly extricated herself from the depths of her cover, carefully creeping out until her eyes were just barely exposed enough to peer at the sky above her.

She was a wolf spider, and while it might be argued that this gave her excellent visual acuity for a spider, such an assessment only really applied when comparing her to other types of spider; compared to a human it could be said that her vision was actually quite poor. Even so, great visual acuity wasn’t something she of all creatures needed to identify a bird when saw one, doubly so when the bird in question was so monstrously large and so terrifyingly close.

As the spider observed the attacking creature, she took note that the bird monster’s focus, while predictably seeming to be aimed towards the amnesiacs and survivors sheltering beneath the wind barrier, was not evenly distributed amongst said individuals, but rather seemed to be concentrated upon a select few areas – or more likely, a select few individuals.

That one such area the bird’s long neck craned to observe was seemingly in the vicinity of the spider’s chosen hiding place was certainly a terrifying realisation – and she couldn’t help but once again wonder if she’d made a truly awful mistake in choosing to hide there – but the thing that really caught her attention was that her simulacrum was also clearly a target of the monster’s attention… She had no clue why this might be the case, but could she somehow use the fact to her advantage?

The idea occurred to her that she might use her creation to try and distract the bird somehow – maybe luring it away, or at the very least occupying its attention for long enough for someone more capable to do something useful – and her ideals went to war with her own self-interests as the terrified arachnid mulled the idea over in her mind.

On the one hand, she really didn’t want to expose herself to any avoidable questions or undue risks if she didn’t strictly have to and the idea that she might somehow end up embarrassing or alienating herself filled her with dread, but at the same time, even if it would take her a while to recoup the energy she’d spent to create it, wasn’t her illusory construct ultimately expendable? Not to mention that for all the monstrous bird was probably magical it was still rather unlikely it would be able to damage the intangible simulacrum in the first place…

When she thought about it in those terms, the spider felt somewhat guilty for hesitating at all.

With just a few seconds of further procrastination, the spider steeled her resolve and settled upon a plan. She promptly had the simulacrum turn to face the rest of the group, waving its arms above its head a couple of times to – hopefully – gain the attention of both the bird and with any luck, someone actually capable of hurting the creature, before raising its voice to convey her plan. At least she’d intended for the simulacrum to raise its voice at the end; perhaps her spell was a little too good at interpreting the spider's intentions and feelings because instead the construct’s voice more or less immediately trailed off as it stuttered out something barely comprehensible about creating a distraction.

The spider didn’t bother to have her simulacrum make a second attempt at communicating, instead channelling her terror and shame both into having the construct spin back around and sprint away, its clothes whipping wildly around it in the wind as the illusion passed unhindered through the barrier’s boundary.

As the simulacrum’s movement sped up, and the spider’s awareness of its immediate surroundings became increasingly shoddy, a particularly perceptive observer might have started to notice the interactions between the illusion and its environment starting to fray at the edges; dust particles and tiny fragments of debris kicked up by the wind refusing to cling to the illusory woman in favour of passing straight thorough, and though it occasionally stumbled upon hazards unseen to its creator, it never did so for more than a fraction of a second before its directives superseded physics and its body instead passed through the immovable obstacles unabated.

Lacking a good view of her spell and wanting to leave some leeway as to her simulacrum’s range, the spider directed the construct to start sprinting back and forth just a few meters beyond the reach of the shaman’s winds, trying her hardest to have it draw in the bird’s attention while readying herself to have the illusion bolt should the bird actually make a dive for it.

Within the small cursed guide’s head, upon speaking to the aberration, they would be answered with—something they would both understand, while simultaneously losing slivers of their sanity in the forced translation of thoughts between.

“E҉҉r҉҉r҉҉o҉҉r҉҉e҉҉m҉ ҉d҉҉e҉҉l҉҉e҉..”

The scene descended further into chaos with each passing moment—embers rained from the sky, and debris and dust swirled through the air on searing gusts of wind. The shaman stood resolute within the maelstrom, her focus unshaken as she held the barrier, sweat beading and trickling down her brow. The creature could not perceive “matter” instead only being able to see black fog, and the residual energy of those receptive to it.

“Drop the barrier!”

A beast unknown to him burst onto the scene, charging straight at the feathered aberration. The sight jolted the black-scaled spearman, urgency rising like a fire in his chest. And with that fire flaring in his chest, the black smoke curling from Meko’s nostrils and between his teeth ignited into flame. Heat crackled upon his lips and bit the sides of his face as in that moment the area around the horned soldier became a hellish inferno.

The creature floated above the battlefield, impossibly vast and silent, like a fragment of the moon torn loose and given wings. Its alabaster form shimmered faintly, untouched by the chaos below. Soon, the aberration’s gaze fell upon the simulacrum—a radiant anomaly in its murky world, burning like a solitary torch in the dark. The beast pries itself from the barrier and—dashes away from the massive dome of pressurized wind just to be caught by the assault of many who waited for an opening. Tooth and nail ripped through feather and scale, layer by layer, until glowing blood poured from the aberration’s torn flesh. The massive feline would notice that the moment this massive avian’s blood touched their tongue, it would instantly vaporize to form a foul tasting vapor that burned the inside of the predator’s mouth.

Blindingly radiant energy erupted from the angelic figure, striking the aberration—but it didn’t flinch. Its focus remained fixed on the spider’s conjured manifestation. Wounded, but not close to death—marching on as the creature finally reached the ashen soil below it would crawl clumsily and rapidly towards the font of mana. The third eye centered upon the aberration’s head would blink before glowing a faint golden hue.. and then flash so bright that anything in its direction would be blinded as a small solar flash emitted from the ocular. In that direction a vacuum of force so strong would occur that the earth itself would be drawn towards the creature , absorbing every ounce of energy that the eye was cast upon.

“Now! Go for the eyes!” Baldr shouted as he, along with Meko with their spears on hand charged for the abberation’s head aiming to skewer the beast’s vision.

The heat that radiated from the scaled spearman would cease as his spear began to glow a white-hot glow within his hands, sizzling from beginning to end as he drove the jagged edge forward towards the right eye. While Baldr would simply use some form of “magic” to enhance his motor functions as black vapor whipped around his arms and legs to increase his speed, surging him up several feet above the aberration before crashing down onto the beast’s head. Strangely, the white blood oozing from the beast’s wounds didn’t vaporize on contact—instead, it sparked into tiny flashes of light whenever it touched the spearman’s weapons.

“I’ll prepare the Rite.” The shaman would calmly speak out loud.

But just then?..

Blackened flesh splits apart with wet cracks, and from the gaping wounds, immaculate white feathers erupt like some perverse rebirth. Hollow eye sockets burn with a haunting golden glow as the corpses begin to stir—shambling, broken things dragging themselves free from the mound of the dead. One of these would be just beside the shaven head woman who seemed to be floating between despair and delusion, looking to them for a moment before ignoring the woman and making their way towards the individuals fighting the aberration that gave the corpse new life.

“By the earthly saints— it’s a Malachim?” Meko groaned out in annoyance.

He coughed. He laughed. He breathed.

"Sure it ain't chicken?"

The world continued to unfold its myriad mysteries. The lady he thought was a princess turned to be something far more divine, while the swordsman who he had called out to decided that he neither wanted to use his swords, nor wanted to give others his swords. Greedy fellow, wasn't he? Not that it mattered overmuch when a great striped beast leapt out from who-knows-where and tried to feast upon monstrous prey. He stared at it for a moment, wondering whose pet that was. Better be careful of that guy, for sure.

As for the byproducts of that cursed creature's rampage though?

Fists or timber.

Corpses sprouted feathers, and he kicked up a hefty branch from nearby, taking a step to the side as if covering the girl's retreat. It had a nice weight. It was an excellent weapon. A few experimental swings, and he got the hang of it pretty quickly, rolling the branch over his wrists and arms as he expelled the last bit of that strange addiction of his with some physical activity. A quick run up, a two-handed swing, and...

The branch smashed against the head of the first feather-being, knocking it over. He almost followed through with a stomp to the head, then decided that he didn't know when he'd get a new pair of shoes, so settled for a downwards swing with the branch a second time, the grisly impact felt deep in both hands. More were lumbering forth, pulling themselves out of the piles of corpses and he glanced around him, wondering if there were any else who would participate in the relatively safe fun.

No?

Oh well.

A wordless tune left his lips as he continued to swing away, forming a new pile of corpses just a few meters away from the previous one. If he picked up the pace further, he could even start whacking their heads right as they worm their way out of the pile! Now that would be a proper game.

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｉｎｖａｓｉｏｎ　ｏｆ　ｂｅａｓｔ　ａｎｄ　ｃｏｒｐｓｅ

She could only suppose that she could stand to help the others. While the witch's domain was of healing and nobody was harmed enough to merit such an action, the boredom of idling in relative safety seemed to poison her mind. Or more accurately, it would be called a sense of duty to not do nothing as others acted. Especially as that awful stench filled the air. It was a smell that even the witch cared not to breath, her hand covering her face and mouth.

Or perhaps it was a vague inspiration from the noble sacrifice of a strange person who intended on being bait. Though, she would never admit that--even to herself.

A new guest had appeared. A beast of fang and claw. One entirely unfamiliar to the witch--though she could not recollect any sort of beast beyond an abstract understanding of what one possessed. Judging by the beast avoiding the easier targets, it seemed that the one with orange fur was an ally. Or perhaps it was merely saving them for a later snack judging how the beast fearlessly chomped at the toxic vicissitude of the aberrant. Not to mention the flare of light from the beast. Her eyes were not attuned to such bright lights. She was a creature of the night. Or, at least, a creature of beneath shade.

They could handle the beast. For what use was a doctor on the frontlines? One wayward swing and the entire line would be irreversibly damaged. Instead, the witch moved towards the corpse mounds. Rotting flesh was still flesh, after all. The bald oddfellow probably needed help. The witch moved towards her, corpses beginning to rise from the pile.

"I would suggest you leave the pile," she said as she placed her hand on a rising corpse. The decayed muscled condensed, contractions beginning to radiate from where the witch touched. The corpse stopped rising. Instead, it twisted and contracted into itself. Sounds filled the witch's ears. The snapping of sinew and tendon. The crunching of bone. Muscle turning on itself. It was slow and calculated. A violent usage of flesh-shaping.

Of course, the thought crossed her mind to simply fuse all of the corpses together. Though, seeing the dead rise didn't inspire confidence in that plan. She didn't quite like the possibility of turning many small problems into one very large one.

The flask pulsed against my palm like a living heart.

I stared at it, weighing the possibilities. A weapon. A cure. A damnation. I could leave it corked, let wiser—or more foolish—hands decide its fate. I could bury it beneath stone and ash, pretend I had never touched it.

But the thought lingered like a thorn in my mind: What secrets would I forfeit? What evolution would pass me by?

My breath slowed. Rationality and caution circled, gnashing their teeth in vain. They could not outmatch the ancient hunger that had always driven me: the hunger to know.

I uncorked the flask.

The fumes hit me like a hammer to the chest. My muscles spasmed. I staggered backward, dropping to one knee as the ichor splattered across my skin. It burned. It burned in ways no flame, no acid, no concoction of mortal alchemy ever had.

A thousand invisible knives tore through my flesh. I gasped, fingers clawing at my arms, my chest—anywhere I could still feel myself—but the skin was shifting under my touch.

Long, thin scales burst from beneath the surface, sharp as daggers, glinting in the sickly light like blades wrought from obsidian and bone. They grew in clusters, overlapping, weaving a false plumage across my form. It was horrifying. It was magnificent.

Through the blinding pain, a second assault began—not of the body, but of the mind.

A presence, cold and patient, slithered against the walls of my thoughts, seeking purchase. A will not my own, whispering alien promises. I grit my teeth, feeling it pry against the citadel of my mind. Memories flashed—visions of an endless black sky, wings spanning across eternity.

For a moment, I thought I would be devoured.

And then, inexplicably, it receded.

As though... respecting me.
Or fearing me.

I remained kneeling, trembling, but aware. Whole.

The scales shimmered along my arms, my shoulders, even my jawline. They were not dead matter—no, they thrummed with energy. Fire coiled within them, a crackling force that responded to the faintest flicker of intent.

I rose to my feet, breathing hard, the corrupted air tasting suddenly sweeter on my tongue.

The monstrous bird shrieked above, its three terrible eyes burning into the gathered survivors. Its wings beat down, scattering ash and debris like a living storm.

I narrowed my gaze. This is what you gave me... now watch what I make of it.

I raised an arm, feeling the scales shift, parting like the petals of some barbed flower. With a sharp motion, I launched several of the feathered scales towards the beast.

As they cut through the air, they ignited—flaring into streaks of searing flame.

The bird screeched, twisting midair as the incendiary daggers buried themselves into its flesh. Plumes of black smoke erupted from the wounds, and the creature faltered, struggling to maintain its flight.

A savage, grim smile curved my lips.

The boundary had been crossed.
There would be no turning back now.

First, a giant monster bird and now these feather ridden risen. Malachim, another term he does not know, but he can guess what it means. Perhaps something to do about what this monster did to those corpses. A gruesome thought as the corpses grew feathers and started to rise up. Only to be met by one of the group's members, the one with the flaming skull. At least someone found a good piece of wood, he thought, wanting a piece of good wood for his own.

So again, he looked for a piece of wood and only to find again nothing. Adding to his frustration. Fists it is, he thought as he readied himself and out of the two targets. The bird or the corpses.

Seeing how the rest were dealing with the bird, it seemly going well. With the last attack, showering the bird with crimson fire, its damage showed.

He decided to deal with the corpses and went to make sure they would not be a problem for the others. He got close to one, and as it tried to get out of the pile. He delivered a quick left and right hook. Causing the corpse to drop to the ground, following the example of the flaming skull one. He stomped the corpse's head several times, and once he was sure that it was dead. Can these corpses die a second death? But at least it stopped moving. He moved on to the next and joined up with the flaming skull man in dealing with the feathered corpses. He really wished he could use his swords right now.

It's a shame how much she misses by turning her face. She can hear it all just fine: the shouting, the fighting, the beast above and the friends below. With eyes shut and breath pushed in tight, shallow pulls, it's almost something to meditate to. Not calming in the least, of course, but there's a little trance in everything. Just lean in. She's got her face pressed to the figurative glass of the thing she needs to make sense (and maybe even a bit of use) of herself, but there's no reaching over to the other side like this. Not even this wretch can trick herself into a nap under these circumstances.

Especially when the circumstances begin to writhe around her.

She watches what she had been almost sure was a dead body pry itself up, rancid meat splitting open over yet more lovely plumage. The...thing, rises, and it maybe looks at her before shambling off to become somebody else's problem. And there's this ugly stab of something (jealousy?) in her gut, because as pretty as this thing is—these things are, whatever-it-is/whatever-they-are have achieved what she had wanted only for herself. Something has seeped into those bodies and made them beautiful and then taken them.

Thief.

Such a bitter reaction should be beneath her but right now she just can't help it. She'd marvel at that novelty were there not bigger matters at hand. The bald woman kicks and twists dramatically, awkwardly working to offload her rotten meatshield before it, too, sprouts feathers and becomes an issue. It's the nearby voice of one of her newest, bestest, interestingest friends, the tall woman with all the hair, that has her redoubling the effort to properly uproot herself. With a roll as graceless as the whole process before it had been (and a shocked retch when she finally, mistakenly, huffs in through her nose; that combined hit of cadaver funk and more bird fumes is no joke), she's out of the pile and onto the ground.

The witch gets a wide, excited grin after this bald woman's done with her dry-heaving. It's just so nice to know that nothing nefarious has oozed into her, no part of her has been ripped wide by feathers as the bodies had been. That means there's still room inside of her. That appears to go for all the rest of her newest, bestest, interestingest friends—many of whom are being so heartwrenchingly brave that she wishes she had some sort of reward for them. Treats of some kind...oh, she'll figure it out, but right now she's too taken by the witch's flesh-shaping to plan anything. She'd been unluckily incapacitated before; this is her first proper eyeful of this, erm. This—

"Wooow." She'd pity it if she hadn't still been so upset about the theft. Strange-eyes had given the things a name (or maybe he'd just been cussing about them). Malachim. It's not a word that means anything to her besides being what these stolen bodies are called. In no mood to wobble back up to her feet, she slinks across the ground to paw at what the witch has made of the body. Dead, changed, taken, changed again. How exciting. "Did you wring it out? Is it still in there? Can you get it out?" What are the left-and-right limits of what she's done to the thing? Pale eyes flit to the Battle of Big Bird (Is! That! A! Kitty! Oh she will have to investigate this once it's not so busy ripping and tearing) and then back. Questions pile upon questions, but the answers might not be so satisfying when there's imminent danger that lurks. The bird, the bodies. "If I put my ear to it, could I hear the ocean?" A silly one to start, then. She rocks her weight back, kneeling, cupping her hands around her mouth to stage-whisper: "Are you any good in a fight? Because I'm certainly not. But if you shape them all into something sweet then we won't need to be. It could...be...a puppydog, if you close one eye. And squint the other."

She does just that and...well, admittedy it still just looks like so much brutalized meat, but that's no fun. Since when is what one sees with their own eyes any truer than what they decide to believe, anyhow? It's a puppydog if she thinks it to be so.

"They must be gentle things, really. Whatever they are. I bet they're cozier in a shape that can't be anything but. It's such a kind thing you've done! Maybe, instead of the ocean, you would hear a thank you. Do you want to check?"

---

---

Their light had nary an effect on the flying beast. They frowned at it, almost pouting when it remained unfazed. The black-striped orange beast clung onto it with its claws and teeth, and the two spearmen felled the creature in the end. However, it had managed something strange before it was killed. A bright beam shot from its eye, blinding all in its wake. Yet, that wasn’t all. The force was so strong, it tore off chunks of earth, and pulled them towards it.

“Hey!” Futile, their hand extended towards it. A person had been right there, in the beam. Were they…dead now? Wide-eyed, their arm slowly dropped. Humans were such fragile creatures. Yet, even they, in all their past glory, had been unable to do a single thing of real consequences. Hadn’t been able to help, for there was no helping the natural cycle. Death came for all mortals, sooner or later. They had no memories, yet these impressions lingered, ingrained into their soul.

The bird was slain then, but it was too late for one person.

A death for a death. Maybe it was fair? They weren’t sure.

Even as one fell, more arose. As they had suspected, the corpses were being brought back to a false life. Their light had not worked on the bird, but perhaps the corpses were different?

There was only one way to find out.

Specks of light blinked into existence around them, not unlike a group of fireflies. By their thought alone, it gathered, and swarmed the nearest dead-walker.

In case this did not work, they began to search for a weapon. “Mister – those swords! Mind using them? Or lend one to me?” They called out to the blind man. Maybe it was a principle of his not to draw a weapon…? If both magic and borrowing was futile, then in this instance, they would take advice from the flame-headed man. Not to grab a spear, but there were still pieces of debris around.

One of the so-called Malachim took advantage of their distraction, and attempted to tackle them. With a, “Hwua-h?” they spun around, tripped it by pure chance, and sent an instinctive blast of light straight into its face.

Did…it work?

Despite being busy fighting these risen walkers with his fists. A task that was doing somewhat decent, as these risen are not strong or fast. But slow and fragile. He did notice the group's fight with the bird creature. It seemingly was slain, but was it really dead? Considering it could give these corpses some unnatural life, and he knows nothing of this world. He will let the others they have meet, Baldr, Meko, and the shaman, to confirm if this beast is truly dead.

Still, the risen are a problem, even if the bird beast is dead. They still are around and rising up. So he focused his efforts on killing the last of these risen.

But when the woman who unintentionally summoned the bird beast to them asked him about his blades. He remembers how Meko said about using fists or timber, and his swords are neither. But, they said that about the bird beast, and maybe he can use his swords on the risen. If not, then he can just simply return to his fists.

He paused a bit to think, and while risen were still coming. He made his choice and brought out his swords. "Fine," He said in a slightly annoyed tone. "I hope that these blades will hurt these risen so I do not have to resort to using fists or timber."

But before he could see for himself if these blades are useful in this instance. He turned to see the same woman trip and fall with a risen tackling them. Not wishing for her to die to a risen. He made his way over to her and saw her launch a bright light at the face of the risen.

Not knowing if it was a killing blow or not, he still made his way over to see if his blades were needed to dispatch this risen that was near her.

---

Mention - @SilverPaw