(Lux - PoV)
I barely notice the jostling of the cart, so lost I am in my head as we travel the road through the marsh.
Why? Why do I keep doing this? I finally, finally, after years, have my dreams come true, and now it is like I am doing my absolute best to ruin them. To drive my literal fairytale hero away. What is wrong with me...
I casually move my left hand over to grasp and hold my trembling right arm, to prevent anyone from noticing my display of weakness. No one seems to be paying me any attention thankfully, the girls in the crowded cart gossiping amongst themselves.
I scream internally, because I know the answer to my question, at least somewhat. I have to be strong. Always. The crows around me at court, at school, at home, especially at the academy...I was different, the loner, the deviant. Without the fear of Brother to keep them in line, if they ever sensed the slightest sign of weakness they would pile on me. The best way to not show weakness is to always attack. Especially when you are weak.
At school, it was a matter of not getting humiliated and abused. At the academy, it was a matter of survival, even for just those few days. Some of those bastards would have been happy to play "stone the witch". And they dare wonder why mages keep turning on them?
Reflex and practice keep the surging magic contained deep within me where it-. Where they say it belongs. The suppression they used at the academy weakened my magic a lot, but it also made it almost impossible to control once released. I miss it...
Hating weakness is about the only thing I did right as far as mother and father are concerned as well. After long enough, it just becomes reflexive.
With Brother, I can finally admit just how weak I am. How vulnerable, how desperately I need him, but...it seems old habits die hard. Why the hell I am trying to take it out on him is another matter entirely, I...don't think I have any real excuse for that. He literally carried me across the land to safety after rescuing me from my personal hell. And I thank him by spending a not-insignificant amount of the said trip harassing him about his nonexistent love-life out of...ah. Right. Greed.
I barely suppress the hysterical giggles. Now is not the time. As much as I hate them, I suppose the academy may have had a point about me being greedy. Maybe. Apparently, it isn't enough to have my own personal army slayer, willing to lay down his life for me, to break the world for me.
No, I need him to be willing to do...more. I have my little girl dreams come true and end up disappointed that my big girl dreams haven't come true as well. That...that can't be why I am taking things out on him right? I can't be that terrible of a person...right?
(Carnos - PoV)
I don't like it. They keep calling me paranoid, but I can feel it, this is going to be bloody. One undead sighting happens now and then, but multiple? Something's coming and we are walking right into the gods damned middle of it. Even many of my own men have forgotten exactly why they used to trust my judgment. People are going to die, and these idiots' damn laxness is going to be the reason.
My scars itch, another bad sign, but there's nothing to be done. We've committed, and we need the money. We always need the money. I got tired of seeing good men die, so have been playing it safe, but damn it hurt the payouts.
This job had been a great deal until this run...our contract is getting re-negotiated after this, mustache or no mustache. Part of the deal was you listened to my damn advice, you creepy bastard. And would it kill you to buy a gods damn razor? Hells I'll front the cash if I have to, be doing the world a favor. Then again I supposed it may need to be some kinda enchanted thrice-blessed artifact razor wielded by the angel herself...
While musing about the abomination attempting to either take over or escape my employer, I walk the caravan on old Thunderhoof, shouting at the occasional lout slacking off. Mean bastard of a mount has been with me since I formed my band. It's always amusing when some newblood or lazy idiot outside the company complains about having to walk while I ride, I am always happy to offer them a turn. Every damn one of them regrets it. Thunder is a prickly son-of-a-bitch.
"JENKINS!" I shout, spotting a particular troublemaker attempting to flirt with a girl on a wagon. Un-suc-cessfully, I might add, judging by her expression. And making absolutely no attempt whatsoever to do his Gods. Damned. Job. of watching his surroundings. "I SWEAR TO THE GODS IF I CATCH YOU SLACKING AGAIN I'M LEAVING YOUR ASS NAKED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SWAMP!"
I don't bother to listen to his reply, I am completely out of patience with his sloppiness. Getting himself killed is one thing, but he is going to get other people killed and that is unacceptable. If he somehow survives this clusterfuck I am discharging him at Dogwood.
I tell these idiots and tell these idiots that we are walking into a literal deathtrap, and not only do they insist on charging right in for a handful of coins, they insist on treating it like a milk run. I'd say they are only going to get what they well deserve, but I raised half these boys myself, they should damn well know better. By all that's holy where did I go wrong?
And if my unit's sloppiness and impending doom weren't bad enough, the caravan isn't carrying its usual cargo of miscellaneous goods. Oh no, today of all days, mustache has to transport a nice, fat load of passengers. Whole cartloads of women and children. Because of fucking course he does.
A look at the sun confirms we are around a third through the journey. Yup, probably shouldn't be too much longer now. I reach into my saddlebags and pull out one of my most prized possessions, a 250-year-old bottle of Ionia's best. Can't even be made anymore. We burned the whole place down, back before I decided to not take orders from crazy fucks.
Apparently now I only listen to stupid fucks instead.
I take a moment to admire the stupidly overwrought bottle. Been holding on to it all this time, planned to sell it to retire. Hah, no sense planning on retirement while being led into the gods' damned slaughterhouse and smelling the blood in the air.
Popping the top, I tilt my head back and down a good swig. Damn, those pansy bastards used to make a good drink. Pity they couldn't fight worth a fuck or maybe they could still make good drinks.
I can't help but scoff. Not like my boys are any better nowadays. Gone too damn soft. I'd say it's better than too damn dead but they are about to wind up that way anyhow. What a fucking waste.
I eye the bottle for a long moment before letting out what has to be one of the most painful sighs of my life and putting it away. Much as I would love to just kick back and indulge, and little difference as it will likely make, I have a gods damned job to do, and too many damned people counting on me to do it.
Who knows, maybe a few of them will even live. That sellsword is a dangerous son of a bitch, though way too cocky. Figure once the mess really gets going he will manage to cut his way out. Might even be able to drag his sister along if he's actually as good as he thinks he is.
Prodding Thunderhoof forward into a trot I eye the wagons. Way too many damned people. I wonder if this was a coincidence or if someone pulled this shit intentionally? If there's a necromancer or some crazy cultist freak behind things this would be quite the haul. Or one of those fucking Zaunite lunatics.
I shake my head as I pass the sellsword, who...ah shit.
"Gods damnit, how fucked are we," I ask.
He shakes his head before answering. "I don't see anything, but it's gotten far too quiet too quickly. Considering animals' senses and recent events, I'd bet a fair bit of gold they can smell the dead coming. Likely from the north."
"Good enough for me." I pull a small horn from my waist and blow.
Aye, that got your attention you dumb fucks.
"WE GOT INCOMING RIGHT GODDAMN NOW JUST LIKE I TOLD YOU STUPID FUCKS! FORM THE FUCK UP, ANTI-UNDEAD MEASURES! BE GLAD YOU GOT A MOMENTS NOTICE YOU PANSY BITCHES MOVE MOVE MOVE!"
I race Thunderhoof up and down the caravan, trying to get the shambling group in some semblance of order. Fuck, I'm almost glad I probably won't survive, this is outright embarrassing. Where the hell is their gods damned discipline? This was a potentially hot job from the start, they should have been ready to get in formation within seconds, not minutes. Hell, some of the civvies react faster, grabbing makeshift spears in their wagons.
"Contact!" a voice yells from one of the scouts. From bow range at least, but we are almost out of time. I turn in the direction of the shot and can see them coming. It's a fucking wall of shambling corpses, packed in tight. We are so fucked. Should have downed the rest of that gods damned bottle while I had the chance.
"Steady! Hold the goddamn line and kick some undead ass or I will shove my boot so far up yours you can taste the horse shit I stepped in this morning!"
Fuckers are advancing faster than normal, must be quite a bit of magic in them. Bet they are gonna be strong as all hell too. Did I piss on the Angel's sacred doodad while drunk recently? This is just unfair at this point.
Naturally, that's when I hear screams from the south as well, turning to see a couple of dozen skellies flanking us.
"Sellsword! Deal with it!" May as well give someone an out from this mess.
Fuck, even ignoring that, my men are near surrounded by the damned wall of charging zombies there are so many. The archers' arrows are doing exactly fuck all against them no matter where they hit. Outnumbered and honestly outclassed, never the position you want to be in.
"Spears ready! Keep them at a distance as long as you can!" All of half a second before they snap it like a fucking toothpick I mean.
"Once they close, hack them apart with your blades!" Or do what little damage you can before they tear your damned limbs off and eat you alive.
"Send these cursed bastards back to hell where they belong!" I'm sorry boys, I kept your asses alive as long as I could, but in the end, the wolf always gets his due.
I can feel the ground fucking shudder as something else goes down behind me, but I can't be bothered to look this time. I don't even care what fresh hell this stupid bastard fucking universe cooked up as a last fuck you, we are dead a dozen times over, stop fucking kicking.
Thunderhoof and I lash forward just before the wave hits our line, spiteful bastard doesn't hesitate for a second, crushing skulls and rib-cages like fruit, magically enhanced durability be damned.
At least I'll get to take a few of the fuckers with me, I console myself as I cut through the second neck. After that I am kept busy cleaving grasping hands, I grunt as one gets a good grip on my leg and starts tugging, but I can't spare my blade for it, there's too many. I can feel my greave deforming, fucking bastards. A figure blurs around Thunderhoof and suddenly we are surrounded by blood spatter and dismantled bodies.
What the fuck just happened?
I look to my men in time to see the line collapse, the zombies grasping my boys and starting to pull them apart. I can't even respond before instead the dead fucks are getting cut apart themselves by a figure in black that I can barely keep my eyes on.
By Kled's balls...
The horde keeps advancing, but the blur becomes a fucking tornado of steel that ruins everything that gets close, spraying a godsdamned shower of gore and limbs around it as my men scramble backward to safety. Being the mindless fucks they are, the zombies obligingly continue to run into the death storm until they eventually, finally, stop fucking swarming.
The murder blender finally stops spinning to reveal...the fucking sellsword?
...Seems for the first time in history a sellsword undersold themselves. The universe thinks it has a sense of fucking humor.
I pull out that bottle. No need to hold back now, if reality is drunk I may as well be too.