The Summer Crisis (PRIV/INV)

    Prologue.   
    Marrid jumped at the sight of the creature, nearly falling off his horse when a rabbit bound from the underbrush on the roadside, across the path and back into the brushes. His horse reared and nearly threw him. Marrid adjusted his linen coif to become straight on his balding head. He regarded his companions an embarrassed glare, his face reddening. His horse settled, snorting its anguish as the two other riders with him guffawed a chorus of laughter.

They were ordered by the King to hunt game for the mages, the magic men who needed food to sustain their ability to cast spells. Marrid always found the mages  odd. They kept to their towers and books, rarely leaving. While everyone else only ate sweets for pleasure the mages needed three square meals a day. It was always a loathsome post, to hunt food they themselves do not need to eat for snobby mages who would never thank them. The other two men had each a deer slung over the rump of their horses, Marrid had more than a dozen rabbit dangling from his saddle.

    “Eh, fug’ off. Laugh it up, lads.” Marrid cursed. “Ain’t gonna be no time for no lavin’ when the dead uns’ come for us. You’ll thank me f’ bein’ on edge then. Mark them words!” he pointed, his voice raising louder than intended.

    His companions seemed to lose their jovial mood to Marrid’s ire. “Oh relax, man.” said Half-Ear, a man with shaggy hair, no shirt and a titular half an ear, “Ain’t no dead guys going to get us. The King gives em’ the shits. Don’t you worry.”

    Rorin, a large man of fair hair and flowing beard, rode a black stallion; he wore leather over mail and a half helm. He chuckled, “Corpses don’t shit.”

    The three came together to ride abreast and continued along the pathway at a slow trot, silently. The trio made upon a clearing only a few steps off the path, and made camp for the evening. Marrid set to erecting the tents while his shirtless companion set a fire. Rorin tied and watered the horses, he also produced three canteens of ale from his saddlebags. The ale was distributed, the fire was lit and crackling an orange hue. The sun dipped long behind all horizons while the moon relieved it of duty. The night rose cold with a biting Autumn wind.

    His two other companions exchanged stories of battle and feminine conquests as the fire died down. The ale had been consumed, and Marrid sorely needed to make water. “I gotta piss.” he said, unfurling himself from his bed roll and making for privacy. His companions quipped about too much information. Marrid found a bush obscured by two trees. He unfastened his trousers and made his business.

    As he finished, the world seemed to stalk him. Leaves rustled and branches snapped. The sound of thumping boots on dirt, a man running, sent Marrid’s heart into a frenzy. A shadow darted across his field of view then gone. Another. A flash of red eyes on his peripheral vision was all the rest it took to send Marrid running. He had barely fastened his trousers when he returned to camp. His companions asked what was wrong, Marrid only dove for his bedroll and from it produced a war axe, grimy wood and rusty steel with a broad blade and a spike for piercing armour.

    “There’s fuckin’ somethin’ out there lads! Fuckin’ glowin’ eyes and shit! He was runnin’ at me! It was wun o' them freaks!” panicked Marrid, sounding out of breath.

    The two other men smiled and stood up. “Right, right. We’ll go see this monster o’ yours.” Half-Ear said. The three set out towards the edge of the camp, Marrid the only one brandishing a weapon. They reached Marrid’s earlier latrine and looked about. There was nothing but the sound of the wind and rustling branches.

“It was here. Just a sec ago.” Marrid explained.

“Ain’t nothin’ here but trees and piss.” announced the half eared one.

"Wait..." Said Rorin, seeming to peer closely at the distance. "I think there's something..."

    Rorin let loose a massive belch. A belch that echoed through the forest with almost the sound of a shock-wave. The sudden sound made Marrid near leap from his skin. Rorin turned and flashed Marrid a big boyish grin. When Marrid settled to see the other two man laughing, he knew it had been intentional. “Fuck you, twats.” Marrid turned away in a huff. He heard rustling and again the sound of men running through the bushes, his companions grew quiet. He was in no mood for another of their practical jokes.

Then Rorin spoke, and began to back towards the camp. “Marrid, I really think there's something out there…”

“Oh fuck off!” Marrid shot back.

    “MARRID!!!!” Half-Ear screamed before his voice vanished to the sound of flesh being rend by a sword. Half-Ear’s voice turned into a gurgle of spitting blood. Marrid spun back round to see Half-Ear decapitated in a heap. Rorin felled to his knees with an arrow sticking from his belly. Then… Marrid saw them.

    They stood as tall as any many, and as large. Their bodies were a gore of hanging flesh, bare bone, sinew and tendons. Loose flesh still clung in a tight film over some areas of bone. The skeletons were clad in all matter of furs and peasant clothing, mail and boiled leather, leather over mail, or simply tattered remains. All were armed with swords or axes, shields or longbows. They shambled in their steps, uneasy and wavering. There seemed to be little cohesion among the skeletal retinue. They stood in a loose circle around Marrid and his companions, watching and waiting. Marrid, fear having long subjugated him, fell to his knees.

    One stood over Rorin, wearing white robes and carrying a pure white longsword. Its body was a similar horror as its brethren. Blue eyes burned behind an antlered mask shaped like a deer. The masked wight raised his blade and brought it harshly upon Rorin's neck. The head landed with a thump. The ghostly warrior scooped up the head by the hair and tossed it to Marrid.