Jordan slowly opened his eyes and stared at the light blue sky. His entire body was racked with pain and he was more than that he was bleeding. He managed to sit up, albeit with some effort. He looked around. He was surrounded by bodies, both human and undead. So much for the Westerfield Battalion. He thought as slowly stood. It wasn't until then that he felt a burning sensation in his left side. Looking down, he found what looked like a ghoul's claw or part of a crypt fiend's limb jutting out. Jordan grimaced, knowing he'd have to remove it. Why'd I ever leave the farm to begin with? Castrating a bull was safer than this crap. He took the leather strap that once was attached to his shield (which was lost at some point during the battle) and folded it in two. He bit down on it and gripped the object in his side and took a deep breath.
"Bloody damn hell!"
His words echoed throughout the battlefield as he pulled the claw/limb, inch by inch. He dropped to his knees after he pulled it out. Breathing hard and clutching his side, he looked around, realizing he hadn't bothered to check to see whether or not anyone else was still alive. With some effort, Draken managed to undo the straps that held his battle damaged chest plate to his body. It dropped to the ground with a thud, then a clank as metal struck metal. He then removed his tunic and wrapped it around his stomach, creating a makeshift tourniquet. Normally, he would've made his way to the nearest priest for a quick healing. Unfortunatly, the priests were killed and eaten by a group of ghouls last night. There was a memory he could've lived well without. But, in the end, it was their own fault. The commanders had told them to stay behind our own lines where it was safe. Of course, they didn't listen. He had come upon them during the battle, as they were being set upon by several ghouls, then promptly ripped to shreds and devoured. He would've and wanted to vomit right then and there, if he, himself hadn't been attacked by a ghoul.
Jordan knelt down and picked up a flask that was laying beside the mutilated body of what could've once been considered a man. His throat was dry and the water (everyone in the army was ordered to carry atleast one flask of water) was better than a pint of beer at the local tavern in Duneshire. After he took two gulps of water, he looked around again. He still didn't see anyone, besides the corpses. He was glad, seeing as how he would be unable to defend himself, should an undead happen to pop up. His sword was laying somewhere, broken in half during the tailend of the battle, moments before he blacked out. He frowned. He lost many friends last night and he was stranded. There would be no way for him to simply hike to the nearest settlement, even if he knew where one was. He'd either die of hunger (he was sure any food his fellow soldiers were carrying was probably tainted by the undead) or his wound would do him in.
The battle had been brutal, as he remembered it now. After the scourge charged at them, the shocked men of the battalion managed to regain enough of their wits to fall into a defensive formation. The pikemen managed to hold off the ghouls and skeletons for a few moments. Long enough for the archers to begin showering the opposing army with arrows. When they began falling back, Jordan and the others all thought they were winning and foolishly, the commanders ordered a charge of their own. That was the big mistake. If they had just kept the defensive line and slowly advanced, Draken's friends probably would've lived. But, sadly, that did not happen. The undead fooled them. They waited until the majority of the enemy infantry were deep inside their ranks before springing the trap. Draken closed his eyes and shivered as he remembered the howls of the gargoyles as they came out of nowhere and dived and carried away several footmen. Then, the young swordsman watched in horror as a group of mounted knights were frozen in a block of solid ice, as he heard the screams of frost wyrms. Those were just the monsters attacking from the air. On the ground, the battalion of two thousand men were set upon by abominations, with the entire army being supported by necromancers and as he would later observe, a Death Knight. The Abominations were the things that frightened him the most and he took care to try and avoid them. The rumors he had heard about them were apparently true. They really were nothing more than a mass of decaying body parts, all sewn together and brought to life via dark magicks. He had seen one of them rip footmen and knights (along with their horses) apart, alone before it was finally slain.
Jordan was snapped out of his stupor as he was hit by sharp wave of pain, he shouted out as he gripped his side. Looking down and seeing that the entire tunic that he had wrapped over the wound was soaked with blood, he sighed, knowing he would die soon. His vision started to becoming blurry as blackness began to engulf the edges of his vision aswell. He legs turned to liquid and he fell backwards, landing with a thud. The blackness was closing in and he was now breathing with alot of effort on his part. Before he blacked out, for what he thought was the last time, he thought he saw something shaped like a human in the distance. As it got closer and just as he passed out, he thought the figure looked like it was...purple...
"Bloody damn hell!"
His words echoed throughout the battlefield as he pulled the claw/limb, inch by inch. He dropped to his knees after he pulled it out. Breathing hard and clutching his side, he looked around, realizing he hadn't bothered to check to see whether or not anyone else was still alive. With some effort, Draken managed to undo the straps that held his battle damaged chest plate to his body. It dropped to the ground with a thud, then a clank as metal struck metal. He then removed his tunic and wrapped it around his stomach, creating a makeshift tourniquet. Normally, he would've made his way to the nearest priest for a quick healing. Unfortunatly, the priests were killed and eaten by a group of ghouls last night. There was a memory he could've lived well without. But, in the end, it was their own fault. The commanders had told them to stay behind our own lines where it was safe. Of course, they didn't listen. He had come upon them during the battle, as they were being set upon by several ghouls, then promptly ripped to shreds and devoured. He would've and wanted to vomit right then and there, if he, himself hadn't been attacked by a ghoul.
Jordan knelt down and picked up a flask that was laying beside the mutilated body of what could've once been considered a man. His throat was dry and the water (everyone in the army was ordered to carry atleast one flask of water) was better than a pint of beer at the local tavern in Duneshire. After he took two gulps of water, he looked around again. He still didn't see anyone, besides the corpses. He was glad, seeing as how he would be unable to defend himself, should an undead happen to pop up. His sword was laying somewhere, broken in half during the tailend of the battle, moments before he blacked out. He frowned. He lost many friends last night and he was stranded. There would be no way for him to simply hike to the nearest settlement, even if he knew where one was. He'd either die of hunger (he was sure any food his fellow soldiers were carrying was probably tainted by the undead) or his wound would do him in.
The battle had been brutal, as he remembered it now. After the scourge charged at them, the shocked men of the battalion managed to regain enough of their wits to fall into a defensive formation. The pikemen managed to hold off the ghouls and skeletons for a few moments. Long enough for the archers to begin showering the opposing army with arrows. When they began falling back, Jordan and the others all thought they were winning and foolishly, the commanders ordered a charge of their own. That was the big mistake. If they had just kept the defensive line and slowly advanced, Draken's friends probably would've lived. But, sadly, that did not happen. The undead fooled them. They waited until the majority of the enemy infantry were deep inside their ranks before springing the trap. Draken closed his eyes and shivered as he remembered the howls of the gargoyles as they came out of nowhere and dived and carried away several footmen. Then, the young swordsman watched in horror as a group of mounted knights were frozen in a block of solid ice, as he heard the screams of frost wyrms. Those were just the monsters attacking from the air. On the ground, the battalion of two thousand men were set upon by abominations, with the entire army being supported by necromancers and as he would later observe, a Death Knight. The Abominations were the things that frightened him the most and he took care to try and avoid them. The rumors he had heard about them were apparently true. They really were nothing more than a mass of decaying body parts, all sewn together and brought to life via dark magicks. He had seen one of them rip footmen and knights (along with their horses) apart, alone before it was finally slain.
Jordan was snapped out of his stupor as he was hit by sharp wave of pain, he shouted out as he gripped his side. Looking down and seeing that the entire tunic that he had wrapped over the wound was soaked with blood, he sighed, knowing he would die soon. His vision started to becoming blurry as blackness began to engulf the edges of his vision aswell. He legs turned to liquid and he fell backwards, landing with a thud. The blackness was closing in and he was now breathing with alot of effort on his part. Before he blacked out, for what he thought was the last time, he thought he saw something shaped like a human in the distance. As it got closer and just as he passed out, he thought the figure looked like it was...purple...