Khr’a, take this damnable haze, Ch’dau cursed to himself as he prowled from the Nicked Shill to its nearby barn, The more it persists, the less I find it reminding me of home. One of the many Hells these monkey-folk have seems more likely, now.

From the Kazari warrior’s perspective, the scene that awaited the party when they entered the barn wasn’t entirely unexpected, though it also wasn’t what he had hoped to find, either. On and around the bottom of the stairs were a trio of crumpled bodies; two are rotted, missing chunks of flesh, and have had their skulls beaten in, and the other was that of Mortimer Greenfield. Ch’dau’s shoulders might have slumped a bit at the sight…

I am sure you fought well, rrow’ka, he thought, moving cautiously toward the bodies, expecting to retrieve Mort’s corpse, I swear your falling will not go unanswered.

…Behind him, Nya finally laid eyes on the bodies strewn at the foot of the stairway and, at the realization that Mort is among them, let out a wailing sob, the sound of which was enough to have roused the fallen innkeep.

“Aye now,” Mort grumbled as he sat up, “what’s all this?”

The kazari let out a chuff of a chuckle and his tail flicked happily as Nya rushed past him and nearly crushed Mort in an embrace fiercer than he might have expected from one her size. “It pleases me that you still live, Mortimer Greenfield,” Ch’dau said as the former mercenary got to his feet with the assistance of (or, perhaps in spite of?) the serving wench’s help.

“Damned walkers came shamblin' up tha stairs,” Mort smirked. “I 'ad 'eight on 'em, bashed their damned 'eads in right proper, but one 'o tha bastards caught me bad knee an' I fell like a sack 'o taters.  Musta clipped me 'head on tha way down,” he added with a sheepish grin. “It looks like ye're all well, then?” Before anyone else could answer, Nya excitedly began to recount the attack on the Inn and lauded the party’s bravery in defending it.

When she had finished, Mort shook his head and turned his gaze to Ch’dau and his companions; “I cannae thank ye lot enough. So much fer me repayin’ me debt, eh?”

“That debt you have more than repaid with your honor, rrow’ka,” the big cat offered with a faint nod and dismissive wave of a furry hand.

Finally off the steps, Mort took a moment to give the party a critical once over, then chuckles; “I expect tha watch will nae object to tha lack o’ peace knots, now. Ye'll be seein' to the trouble, I'd wager?”

“We will,” Ch’dau nodded as Mort struggled to fall in with the rest of the party, his limp extremely pronounced.

Even as Ch’dau’s hand came to rest on the man’s shoulder in hopes of forestalling his joining the fight, Gib rebuked the staggering innkeep; “Nay, sir! You're in no condition to go rushing off to battle.”

“He is right, Kh’ur Mort,” Ch’dau concurred with the battle-priest’s assessment, “Your bravery endures, but your battle is done, here.”

“Perhaps you and the maid would see to disposing of these,” the priest of Therassor motioned with his sword at the twice dead corpses on the floor of the barn, “and the others we've left about your establishment. You would be serving your community and the Battle Lord well in doing so.”

Again, Ch’dau grunted his agreement with Gib. “There are quite a few of them,” he said, a rather savage grin on his feline features, “I recommend setting them to the torch… keep them from coming back a third time, yes?”

Mort grinned and nodded in resignation. “Right, then. Nya and I'll go back inside tha Shill an' 'unker down there. May Shinara watch over the lot 'o ye.”

“Keziri keep you,” the cat replied, offering Mort a salute by placing a closed fist over his heart.

“I'll not turn down the assistance,” Priest Moreno quipped, striding over to rejoin the party. “Shall we return to the business of heroism?”

“Until the last, my friend,” Ch’dau rumbled, stalking for the door.

*******************

The sounds of battle had been easy enough to follow through the sticking mist and, again, when the party reached the scene of the struggle, it was much as the kazari might have expected. A tight knot of what likely remained of Crandel’s watchmen were surrounded by a horde of zombies, numerous enough not to bother counting, and at least two of the giggling monstrosities. Amidst and at the fringes of the frey, there were as many dead uniformed bodies as there were still living to fight and woefully few bodies of the rotted sort.

Rrowl’s blood, he swore, stripping his blades free of their sheaths as an excited rumble built in his chest, we will change that!!!

Much to Ch’dau’s surprise, even as the Silver Cat’s battle-roar tore through the mists, so, too, did the startlingly quick form of the troupe’s Cidal mage…

“Bjartr Isaltri, eldrvari pömnuria fjandi,” the little conjurer shouted as he charged forward, his tiny fingers moving in ways Ch’dau’s mind failed to comprehend.

… “Bak’chu’s balls!” Ch’dau cursed aloud, invoking an ancestor’s name, as flames began to sprout from the Cid’s fingertips. “That little one is either very brave or completely mad!”…

“Battle Lord, I beseech thee,” the sound of Gib calling on his god came from beside him, then, “Send these wretched bodies hence!”

Snarling, the big kazari nodded, his fierce gaze eagerly scouring the battle. “The chittering ones first, Gib, yes?” Ch’dau guessed. Thus far the priest of Therassor had seemed to read this enemy better than the rest and Ch’dau was all but certain that would be Gib’s recommendation. “I will see to the safety of our mad little mage!” With that, and another roar welling in his throat, Ch’dau leaps into battle in Midge’s wake.

The mist is thick and sticky, but the stable is the next structure over from the inn, and the party is able to make their way to it with no trouble. Inside, they spot three bodies crumpled on and at the bottom of the stairs. Two are rotted, missing chunks of flesh - and each have their skulls staved in. The third is that of the big innkeeper, Mort.

Cedric rushes forward to see if Mort is alive and in need of help.

Nya sobs at the sight, whcih causes the prone form to start and sit up. "Aye now, wha's all this?" be grumbles.

But is shocked when he sits up. "Mort, let me check you over to make sure you have no bites or anything."

[OOC: If Mort is ok then Cedric will move out with the rest of the party to help the guards.]

The serving wench rushes up the stair to embrace him as the Innkeper groans and grimaces while trying to take his feet. "Damned walkers came shamblin' up tha stairs," he explains. "I 'ad 'eight on 'em, bashed their damned 'eads in right proper, but one 'o tha bastards caught me bad knee an' I fell like a sack 'o taters. Musta clipped me 'head on tha way down," he adds with a sheepish grin. "It looks like ye're all well, then?"

Nya recounts the attack on the Inn and the bravery of the party, and Mort shakes his head. "I cannae thank ye lot enough. So much fer me repayin' me debt, eh?"

He gives the group a critical once over. "I expect tha watch will nae object to tha lack 'o peace knots now," he states with a chuckle. "Ye'll be seein' to the trouble, I'd wager?" He tries to fall in with the group, but his limp is extremely pronoucned.

OOC: assuming some positive response.

Mort nods. "Right, then. Nya and I'll go back inside tha Shill an' 'unker down there. May Shinara watch over the lot 'o ye."

************************************

The party follows the sounds of the fighting to discover the town watch - or what is left of them - locked in a mortal struggle with multiple zombies, as well as at least two of the gigglers; it is difficult to tell due to the heavy mist.

"I think this party needs so light! Solanis, please grant us some light."

A handful of uniformed, armed men are pulled in tight, desperately fighting as they are surrounded. At least as many lie motionless on the ground. The undead press in from all sides; it is obvious that without intervention, they will all perish.

=======================================================================

Minto rushed forward, breaking rank to get a head of the party. Knowing now how the laughing undead were the darker and more dangerous of the shamblers, the Cidal conjurer moved in to get into striking range. His little hands formed together in a fan shape as the ancient words of arcane power formed in his mind were echoed on his lips. "Bjartr Isaltri, eldrvari pömnuria fjandi!"

Cedric is impressed with the bravery and/or foolishness of the wizard. Cedric moves toward the wizard and asks Solanis to banish these undead atrocities. And grabs staff to defend the wizard.

Upon encountering what remained of the town watch, Kith's eyes flicked back and forth trying to get a glimpse of the two giggling opponents beneath its cover. The men that still remained fighting the undead were weary and beaten. She was surprised they had lasted this long. Even as skilled adventurers, she and her party had had trouble with the undead.

Midge rushed forward and began what seemed like some sort of spell. Gib, too, surged into action and called out: "Battle Lord, I beseech thee! Send these wretched bodies hence!" Following that, he called out to Aranwen. "We must eliminate those laughing creatures before we can properly contend with the zombies."

Kithran agreed. The undead were bad enough, but when their giggling friends joined the fray, the struggle to control the tide of battle grew harder. Ch'dau followed Midge into the battlefield after calling out to the others that he would be keeping an eye on the mage. With her companion moving, she tightened her grip on her blades and moved closer to where Cedric and Gib stood.

((OOC: Kith is gonna hang back a bit, but still stay close to one of the others. More 'hold the line' style fighting than charge and slash))

Moving through the misty streets of Crandel, alongside her companions, Aranwen is watchful and wary. The sounds of battle grow louder as the party discovers a group of town guard surrounded by the walking dead and two or more of the ghoulish laughing creatures.

Midge presses through to the front and runs forward, words of incantation spilling from his lips, hands thrust forward with his fingers spread out as a fan. With a snarling growl, Ch'dau follows the little mage, intent on protecting him from harm.

The battle priest, Gib, calls out his advice, "Aranwen, we must eliminate those laughing creatures before we can properly contend with the zombies." Aranwen nods her agreement, "Agreed. Let's work together to take them down." Stepping forward together, Gib and Aranwen wade into the fray, aiming for the closest giggler, hoping to take them out quickly.

(OOC: Aranwen will fight alongside Gib, taking out one giggler, then moving on to the next. She will fight offensively, adding her Bladesinger bonus to attack.)

Cedric prays for Solanis' favor, and the sun god answers, causing the priest's staff to glow brightly.  The light is cheerful, though it does not seem to penetrate far into the mist...

The town watch fights on, but the look in their eyes shows desperation more than bravery.  These are men fighting to the death not because of choice, but because they have none.  Three scattered men lie dead farther down the road where they were cut down in an attempt to flee, and a fourth lies among the bodies where he fell to his knees and begged for mercy that would not come.  These remaining know that their doom has arrived, but they fight on, refusing to accept D'hurgen's dark embrace. 

The day may come where some question the wisdom of the cidal wizard known as Midge... but not so where his bravery is questioned.  Heedless of the danger, the diminutive caster invokes a fan of flames as he rushes directly at one of the giggling abominations.  The little mage catches the undead off guard, and the flames billow into the giggling creature, setting his rotting clothing afire and causing serious harm to him, while also sizzling the zombies that flank it on either side. 

Naturally, that bold move comes at great risk, as the giggling monster spins and slashes Minto with its corrupted claws for his trouble.  The wizard stumbles back, feeling the icy cold of the grave grip at his heart... but he is able to shrug it off, and reaches for a sling bullet, even as he backpedals from melee.

Ch'dau leaps into the fray, roaring his battle cry.  The giggler advances too far, and the kazari is able to plunge one of his blades deeply into its chest while the second removes its arm just below the elbow.  This one, at least, will giggle no more.

Gib and Cedric call out to their gods, and quite a few of the zombies are turned away - though more approach from the mist.  Still, it offers the watch a brief respite, and a ragged cheer rises from them as they redouble the fight. 

Aranwen advances on the second giggler, moving gracefully, deftly, with purpose.  Her gleaming blade strikes once, twice, opening gaping wounds on the creature, though it somehow remains standing. 

Kithran moves to support Gib and Cedric, and as zombies approach from the flank, she is able to avoid their attacks and plunge her blades into them, causing one to fall. 

The fighting continues.  Another guardsman falls, but multiple zombies soon join him.

In the din and confusion of the battle, Atharis is slow to close the ground.  The mage's head is still fuzzy from the alcohol he has consumed and the sleep from which he was disturbed from.  Screwing his eyes closed, he tries to banish the bleariness from his mind and begins an incantation.  "Ast amroth es garna tu matra..."

From his crouched position in the mist, the figure wearing filthy robes that were once sky blue watches for his opening.  One of the newcomers is isolated, alone as he chants.  Somehow, it manages to refrain from giggling as it pads, silently, behind the man in dark blue vestment. 

As the mage's incantation ends in a choking gurgle, the ghoulish remains of the Lysoran pilgrim gives in to the urge and giggles maniacally.   It withdraws claws from its victim's back as it slides around the motionless form of the wizard, whose eyes are locked open in terror.  The undead abomination grins in fiendish joy as it drives its claws into the belly of the mage, stares deeply into his terror stricken eyes as it leans forward and rips the man's throat open with its fangs.

The mist and the mayhem hide the end of the dream of Atharis the Great as the mage slumps to the ground.  No one bears witness to his final breaths as the monster rips his belly open while the mage lies motionless in the mud.     

Gib is the first to realize that something is wrong.  He spots the undead creature bent over the form of the mage, and calls out a warning.  "Atharis!" 

Ch'dau and Aranwen can do nothing, as they are surrounded by a press of undead foes.  Midge fires a sling bullet into the creature's back, and it spins around and to its feet, with the mage's lifeblood dripping from its mouth and fingers.  Kithran cries out, closes the distance with Cedric right behind her.  She cuts the loathsome creature, but it rakes claws along her arm in response, and her own heart is grasped tightly by the icy grip of the grave.  The rogue cannot move, can only stare in the direction that gives her a clear view of the body of her companion. 

Cedric bashes the creature with his stave, pushing it back and away from Kithran - for the moment.

Soon enough, Gib is freed from the clumsy undead he is fighting, and he is able to step in and run his blade through the hateful creature's chest, felling it in revenge. 

The tide turns in the battle, as sylvari and kazari lay about with ferocity.  Somehow, no more watchmen fall; soon the battle ends as the last of the undead is struck to the ground. 

The guard are incredibly grateful for the aid.  Amazingly, the gate guard is among the half dozen survivors; the man bears a huge gash across his arm, but he lives.  One of the hateful guards from the Inn is present, as well; his companion is also here, but lies among the dead. 

"Gods be praised," the gate guard speaks.  "Ye saved our lives, ye did.  One 'o those laughers cut me at tha gate, I couldn'a move, an' they all came in.  By tha time I could do summat, they were movin' in tha town.  We fought them, but they just kep comin'!  If na fer tha lot 'o ya, tha whole town'd be lost!"

He looks around, confusion evident on his face.  "Cap'n Stran 's dead.  So's Les an' Ben.  Mother protec' us, I don' think tha any o' tha officers are still alive!"

The feral grin spread all the wider over Ch’dau’s savage features as, leaping into the battle, he saw Midge’s brave efforts pay off and one of the gigglers (and the zombies flanking it) burst into flame. The diminutive mana-slinger, stricken by a swipe of the flaming giggler’s claw and preparing his sling-staff, had already begun his retreat but…

“Back from the fray, my brave little friend,” the Kazari snarled as he placed himself between the Cidal and the immolated chitterer, “You have done more than enough from this range!”

…Ch’dau feels more than sees the little mage’s withdrawal as he lays into the giggler with a vengeance and, then, advances on the next nearest threat, cutting down the fire enshrouded zombies before easily finding fresher fare.

Despite the clerics’ effective calls to their respective gods, foes are not difficult to find in the press of stinking flesh. Nevertheless, this is where the big kazari does his best work and, paired with the deft, dancing style of the bladesinger, Aranwen, plus adding the redoubled efforts of what remained of Crandel’s watch, the tide of the battle slowly but surely changed. One more of Crandel’s guardsmen fell in the course of the fight but, with the party’s intervention, more than a fair share of the zombies and their laughing leaders were shuffled off to their respective hells, too. The most truly unfortunate casualty, though, came with the loss of the Mage of the Secret Storm.

In the thick of it, at the time, neither Ch’dau nor Aranwen could do a thing when, simultaneously, Gib’s woeful warning – “ATHARIS!!!” – and Kithran’s vengeful shout went up. Apparently, more than two gigglers had been present and, as fate chose to see it, the monkey-faced mage had been chosen to meet his ancestors. For as much as he can, the man-cat turns his eyes to where the cries draw their attention. He saw the mage gutted… saw Kithran seek vengeance and be frozen (and thankfully not killed) for her response… saw Cedric bravely start to come to the aid of his dear friend… and felt it as Gib freed himself from the melee to lend aid of his own. Once the battle-priest of Therassor moved to engage the heretofore unseen laugher, the Kazari let his rage speak for itself and, alongside the nimble Sylvari and the reinvigorated town watch, laid waste to what remained of the pressing horde in due time. For several battle-lust filled seconds, thereafter, after the last zombie fell, the Kazari paced and chuffed and growled, oblivious of the injuries he had sustained and eagerly seeking out another enemy…

“Gods be praised,” a vaguely familiar voice finally broke through the blood singing in Ch’dau’s ears, “Ye saved our lives, ye did!”

…Still chuffing, and the angry growl still rumbling in his chest and throat, the Silver Cat found his eyes coming to rest on the gate guard who had, earlier in the night, granted the party passage into the town. Ch’dau flicked the blood and gore from his blades and, still chuffing heavily, forced himself to sheath the things when no obvious threats presented themselves…

“One 'o those laughers cut me at tha gate,” the gate guard continued as the cat-man blinked down at him, “I couldn'a move, an' they all came in.  By tha time I could do summat, they were movin' in tha town.  We fought them, but they just kep comin'!  If na fer tha lot 'o ya, tha whole town'd be lost!”

… “Unrrrrngggnnnnh,” came the cat-man’s initial reply, his chest heaving and his battle-hungry eyes still darting about the death-strewn thoroughfare. He offered a very curt nod of acknowledgement, too, before his gaze darted purposefully toward where his fallen companion lay…

The gate guard’s own eyes panned the scene in confused wonder and, after an instant, lifted back to those of the big cat-man. “Cap'n Stran 's dead,” the little man observed, “So's Les an' Ben.  Mother protec' us, I don' think tha any o' tha officers are still alive!”

“That makes you an officer, now, I suppose, rrow’ka,” the Kazari rumbled, clapping the man on the shoulder with a bloody paw, “See to it that you do a better job than they did, yes?” His cat-like eyes flicked away from the man and regarded the spot dominated by the frozen form of Kithran and the lifeless form of Atharis for an instant. “Rouse whatever is left of your men and burn the bodies of all of the fallen,” Ch’dau ordered, giving a gentle shove to punctuate the statement, “but get the gates secured, first. I have my own dead and wounded to attend.”

Without another word to the gate-monkey, the Kazari strode to where Kithran’s frozen form stood vigil over Atharis’ fallen body. His blood-soaked paw brushed delicately over the half-Syl’s cheek, an unspoken request going out to Khr’a for her speedy recovery, before he knelt at the side of the fallen mage. “You were an honorable companion, Atharis the Great,” Ch’dau murmured, dipping his fingers into the blood that soaked the mage’s robes. He streaked the wizard’s blood under his eyes as war-paint might be applied, then; “Your death will not go unanswered. May Rrowl welcome you into his hunt.” Both hands went into the wizard’s blood, then, and streaked bloody paw prints across his chest as Ch’dau threw his head back and roared into the mist-choked night by way of honoring his fallen comrade.

((OOC: Assuming we're not going to leave a fallen party member in the street, Ch'dau will carry Atharis' body to wherever it is to be disposed of/interred after he waits for Kith to roust about and makes sure she's okay. If she needs a ride, as well, I think ol' fuzz-face can probably haul the both of them.  Kitty is out for blood, now.))

Glorious light spreads out from Cedric's staff but much to Gib's disappointment, it is very quickly devoured by the enshrouding mists. The battle priest cannot help but feel grim satisfaction and pride at the watchmen's stand, desperately driven, the melee is certainly worthy of song and the cost already worthy of notice.

Midge's spell is a brilliant and nearly blinding flash of hellishly hot flames fanning from his little, splayed fingers. Flames billow into the giggling creature, setting his rotting clothing afire and causing serious him serious harm while also roasting the zombies that flank it on either side. Moreno's heart leaps with the success of the attack, but there's a cost.  

The giggling monster spins and slashes Minto with its corrupted claws and the wizard stumbles back, reaching for a sling bullet, even as he backpedals from melee. Ch'dau leaps into the fray, roaring his battle cry and calling out, “Back from the fray, my brave little friend,” the Kazari snarled as he placed himself between the Cidal and the immolated chitterer, “You have done more than enough from this range!” The giggler advances too far, and the Kazari plunges one of his blades deep into its chest while the second weapon removes the rotting arm just below the elbow. This one, at least, will giggle no more.

Wrapped up in his holy plea, Gib barely hears Cedric's call to Solanis but he does notice quite a few of the zombies turn from the battle and shamble away, though more approach from the mist. Still, the kindness of the divine offers the watch a brief respite, and a ragged cheer rises from them as they redouble the fight.  

Engaging now with the shuffling dead, sword and shield in hand, the warrior priest uses what small moments he can to keep his allies in sight, changing position, side-stepping the enemy to rearrange his line of sight, using his shield to push the decaying foe away and giving him room to advance.

"Ast amroth es garna tu matra..." Atharis' spidery incantation picks up over the clash of battle and the Priest of Therassor is grateful that the young mage has joined the cause but the wizard's incantation ends in a choking gurgle, followed by the ghoulish maniacal giggle of his killer. Therassor's soldier swings his shield into a creature that's missing his entire left side causing it to stumble and nearly fall to the ground. Turning a wide-eyed gaze towards the ghoulish murderer just as the monster rips Atharis' belly open, the mage motionless at its feet in the mud, Gib can only scream his name.      

"Atharis!"  

Whether it is because of the warpriest's call, or his own battlefield insight, Midge almost immediately fires a sling bullet into the offending creature's back. Spinning around and to its feet, with the fallen mage's lifeblood dripping from its mouth and fingers, the giggling abomination makes to advance upon the Cidal but is met almost immediately by Kithran, who cries out and closes the distance with Cedric right behind her. She cuts the loathsome creature, but it rakes claws along her arm in response, and Moreno is horrified to realize that she has been struck with the same paralysis as both he and Ch'dau have experienced.  

Cedric bashes the creature with his stave, pushing it back and away from Kithran—for the moment—and with a furious cut to the midsection of the animated corpse in front of him, Gib fells the creature allowing him to break free of the fray to rush to his friends' aid. Sliding through the mud, Moreno drops to his right knee placing his thrust just below the wicked undead's swiping, clawed arms. Pressure from his crossguard against the meat between his forefinger and thumb lasts but a small portion of a moment before the well cared for blade pierces the failing flesh and slips between the ribs to erupt from the back into the night. Dangerous clawed hands drop and its arms drape across the priest's shoulder, the full weight of the undead thing resting into Gib's body. Meeting the frightening eyes as the possessed life drains from them, Gib snarls, "May Therassor's Justice be swift."

Rolling the body of the twice dead from his blade and tugging the weapon free of the sucking hold persisting upon it, the warrior priest immediately recognizes the sad truth of his companion's fate. Atharis the Great walks no longer in the Land of the Living. The time for mourning is not now, and the bearded cleric steels his heart while returning to battle. As Sylvari and Kazari lay about with ferocity, Gib picks his position wisely and suggests to Cedric, "Stay near Kith and guard her lest she suffer the same fate as our friend, Atharis." Striding back into the melee, Moreno sets about striking down foe once more, moving to maintain an advantageous flanking location to his deft allies. Somehow, no more watchmen fall; soon the battle ends as the last of the undead are struck to the ground.  

The guard are incredibly grateful for the aid. Amazingly, the gate guard is among the half dozen survivors; the man bears a huge gash across his arm, but he lives. One of the hateful guards from the Inn is present, as well; his companion is also here but lies among the dead.  

Still chuffing, and the angry growl persistently rumbling in his chest and throat, the Silver Cat finds his eyes coming to rest on the gate guard who had earlier in the night granted the party passage into the town. Ch’dau flicks the blood and gore from his blades and forces himself to sheath the things when no obvious threats presented themselves.

“One 'o those laughers cut me at tha gate,” the gate guard continued as the cat-man blinked down at him, “I couldn'a move, an' they all came in. By tha time I could do summat, they were movin' in tha town. We fought them, but they just kep comin'! If na fer tha lot 'o ya, tha whole town'd be lost!”

“Unrrrrngggnnnnh,” comes the cat-man’s initial reply, his chest heaving and his battle-hungry eyes still darting about the death-strewn thoroughfare. He offers a very curt nod of acknowledgment too, before his gaze darts purposefully toward where his fallen companion lies... For his part, Gib surveys the situation in a detached manner, noting the zombies that are still barely visible through the mists as they shuffle deeper into the gloom. These must be contended with...

The gate guard’s own eyes pan the scene in confused wonder and, after an instant, lift back to those of the big cat-man. “Cap'n Stran 's dead,” the little man observes, “So's Les an' Ben. Mother protec' us, I don' think tha any o' tha officers are still alive!”

“That makes you an officer, now, I suppose, rrow’ka,” the Kazari rumbles, clapping the man on the shoulder with a bloody paw, “See to it that you do a better job than they did, yes?” His cat eyes flick away from the man and regard the spot dominated by the frozen form of Kithran and the lifeless form of Atharis for an instant. “Rouse whatever is left of your men and burn the bodies of all of the fallen,” Ch’dau orders, giving a gentle shove to punctuate the statement, “but get the gates secured, first. I have my own dead and wounded to attend.”

"I think that wise advice, sir," Gib states in a low and reverent tone and though he is addressing the guard, he does not look his way. Rolling the hilt of his sword in his hand, the warrior priest adds, "Though I would amend such advice with this: wake the men of this town and have them be about the immediate task of properly disposing of these dead things and your fallen companions. And this, only in the areas that have already been secured against the remaining undead. But do this with only one of your number as the messenger for the gate needs to be closed and secured as well as any other ways in or out of your city."

Looking to Aranwen so that the leader of their band may counter his next statement if she so desires, the bearded cleric finishes with, "We shall hunt down the remaining zombies and clear the threat to your people before the night is through."

(OOC: Assuming further discussion isn't necessary and that Aranwen won't object...)

Striding to where Kithran’s frozen form stands vigil over Atharis’ fallen body, Gib joins his friends as Ch'dau kneels at the side of the fallen mage. “You were an honorable companion, Atharis the Great,” Ch’dau murmurs, dipping his fingers into the blood that soaks the mage’s robes. He streaks the wizard’s blood under his eyes as war-paint might be applied, and then says, “Your death will not go unanswered. May Rrowl welcome you into his hunt.” The Kazari plunges both hands into the wizard’s blood with such finality that Gib shudders. Streaking bloody paw prints across his chest, Ch’dau throws his head back and roars into the mist-choked night to honor his fallen comrade. Such emotional tribute evokes goosebumps all along the warrior priest's flesh and beneath his helmet, his hackles tingle. 

"Come," he says quietly once the Silver Cat's tribute is paid, "Therassor's work is still yet to be completed this night, friends. We will celebrate Atharis' life and mourn his loss once we are finished. There is naught we can do here but make certain that his body isn't used to wreak more havoc and we do not, unfortunately, have the time to prepare his body properly so we will have to provide Atharis with funeral rites sans his mortal vessel."

(OOC: Assuming people are starting to gather the dead...)

Motioning to those gathering up the bodies, Gib reluctantly indicates that Atharis' should be collected as well before turning away from the gruesome scene and summoning the mettle necessary to ward off the feeling of loss threatening to overpower his will to proceed. 

"This way to those shambling dead that still threatens the living," again, he points with his sword and once Aranwen and Ch'dau begin their advance, he joins them in hunting the dead.

Cedric prays for Solanis' favor, and the sun god answers, causing the priest's staff to glow brightly. The light is cheerful, though it does not seem to penetrate far into the mist...

The town watch fights on, but the look in their eyes shows desperation more than bravery. These are men fighting to the death not because of choice, but because they have none. Three scattered men lie dead farther down the road where they were cut down in an attempt to flee, and a fourth lies among the bodies where he fell to his knees and begged for mercy that would not come. These remaining know that their doom has arrived, but they fight on, refusing to accept D'hurgen's dark embrace.

The day may come where some question the wisdom of the cidal wizard known as Midge... but not so where his bravery is questioned. Heedless of the danger, the diminutive caster invokes a fan of flames as he rushes directly at one of the giggling abominations. The little mage catches the undead off guard, and the flames billow into the giggling creature, setting his rotting clothing afire and causing serious harm to him, while also sizzling the zombies that flank it on either side.

Naturally, that bold move comes at great risk, as the giggling monster spins and slashes Minto with its corrupted claws for his trouble. The wizard stumbles back, feeling the icy cold of the grave grip at his heart... but he is able to shrug it off, and reaches for a sling bullet, even as he backpedals from melee.

Ch'dau leaps into the fray, roaring his battle cry. The giggler advances too far, and the kazari is able to plunge one of his blades deeply into its chest while the second removes its arm just below the elbow. This one, at least, will giggle no more.

Gib and Cedric call out to their gods, and quite a few of the zombies are turned away - though more approach from the mist. Still, it offers the watch a brief respite, and a ragged cheer rises from them as they redouble the fight.

Aranwen advances on the second giggler, moving gracefully, deftly, with purpose. His gleaming blade strikes once, twice, opening gaping wounds on the creature, though it somehow remains standing.

Kithran moves to support Gib and Cedric, and as zombies approach from the flank, she is able to avoid their attacks and plunge her blades into them, causing one to fall.

The fighting continues. Another guardsman falls, but multiple zombies soon join him.

In the din and confusion of the battle, Atharis is slow to close the ground. The mage's head is still fuzzy from the alcohol he has consumed and the sleep from which he was disturbed from. Screwing his eyes closed, he tries to banish the bleariness from his mind and begins an incantation. "Ast amroth es garna tu matra..."

From his crouched position in the mist, the figure wearing filthy robes that were once sky blue watches for his opening. One of the newcomers is isolated, alone as he chants. Somehow, it manages to refrain from giggling as it pads, silently, behind the man in dark blue vestment.

As the mage's incantation ends in a choking gurgle, the ghoulish remains of the Lysoran pilgrim gives in to the urge and giggles maniacally. It withdraws claws from its victim's back as it slides around the motionless form of the wizard, whose eyes are locked open in terror. The undead abomination grins in fiendish joy as it drives its claws into the belly of the mage, stares deeply into his terror stricken eyes as it leans forward and rips the man's throat open with its fangs.

The mist and the mayhem hide the end of the dream of Atharis the Great as the mage slumps to the ground. No one bears witness to his final breaths as the monster rips his belly open while the mage lies motionless in the mud.

Gib is the first to realize that something is wrong. He spots the undead creature bent over the form of the mage, and calls out a warning. "Atharis!"

Ch'dau and Aranwen can do nothing, as they are surrounded by a press of undead foes. Midge fires a sling bullet into the creature's back, and it spins around and to its feet, with the mage's lifeblood dripping from its mouth and fingers. Kithran cries out, closes the distance with Cedric right behind her. She cuts the loathsome creature, but it rakes claws along her arm in response, and her own heart is grasped tightly by the icy grip of the grave. The rogue cannot move, can only stare in the direction that gives her a clear view of the body of her companion.

Cedric bashes the creature with his stave, pushing it back and away from Kithran - for the moment.

After chasing away the creature Cedric kneels down to see if there is anything he can do for Atharis. Discovering that he is too late he prays to Solanis to speed his soul to his god.

Soon enough, Gib is freed from the clumsy undead he is fighting, and he is able to step in and run his blade through the hateful creature's chest, felling it in revenge.

The tide turns in the battle, as sylvari and kazari lay about with ferocity. Somehow, no more watchmen fall; soon the battle ends as the last of the undead is struck to the ground.

The guard are incredibly grateful for the aid. Amazingly, the gate guard is among the half dozen survivors; the man bears a huge gash across his arm, but he lives. One of the hateful guards from the Inn is present, as well; his companion is also here, but lies among the dead.

"Gods be praised," the gate guard speaks. "Ye saved our lives, ye did. One 'o those laughers cut me at tha gate, I couldn'a move, an' they all came in. By tha time I could do summat, they were movin' in tha town. We fought them, but they just kep comin'! If na fer tha lot 'o ya, tha whole town'd be lost!"

He looks around, confusion evident on his face. "Cap'n Stran 's dead. So's Les an' Ben. Mother protec' us, I don' think tha any o' tha officers are still alive!"

Cedric looks around to make sure there are no abominations still around. As Ch'dau carries Atharis' body Cedric pokes the dead giggler to make sure he is dead. Then Cedric will follow everyone else into the inn to help with the clean up and tend to any wounded as he is out of heal spells bandages will have to do.

"Where are these creatures coming from? Obviously the gigglers are intelligent and I recognized at least one of them as one of the pilgrims we met on the road."

[OOC] Was the pilgrim giggler one of the ones we left alive or did he die in our battle with the pilgrims and the creatures.

"What is creating these creatures? And I assume the fog is related some how. I think we should finish Atharis' quest to meet his contacts here. Maybe we will learn something."

The battle, for now, is ended. But at great cost. Sheathing his longsword, Aranwen makes her way over to the lifeless body of Atharis, Kithran’s frozen form standing vigil over their fallen companion, and Ch'dau kneeling at the side of the fallen mage. “You were an honorable companion, Atharis the Great,” Ch’dau murmurs, dipping his fingers into the blood that soaks the mage’s robes. He streaks the wizard’s blood under his eyes as war-paint might be applied, and then says, “Your death will not go unanswered. May Rrowl welcome you into his hunt.” The Kazari plunges both hands into the wizard’s blood, streaking bloody paw prints across his chest. The great Silver Cat throws his head back and roars into the night in honor of his fallen comrade. 

Silence reigns complete, as the companions all pay respect to their fallen member. Reluctantly, Gib breaks the silence, "Come," he says quietly, "Therassor's work is still yet to be completed this night, friends. We will celebrate Atharis' life and mourn his loss once we are finished. There is naught we can do here but make certain that his body isn't used to wreak more havoc and we do not, unfortunately, have the time to prepare his body properly so we will have to provide Atharis with funeral rites sans his mortal vessel."

Aranwen remains next to Atharis as Gib motions to those gathering up the bodies, indicating that Atharis' should be collected along with the rest. Frowning, Aranwen turns away from Atharis, anger rising in her...anger towards the unholy creature that did this, anger toward whoever is behind this horde of undead, but mostly anger at herself for letting this fate befall one of his companions. I should have been able to stop this!

Shaking her head to clear such thoughts, Aranwen sees Gib raise his sword, pointing into the mist. The priest says "This way to those shambling dead that still threaten the living," Aranwen draws her blade and advances into the night, "Let us finish this battle."

The gate guard made his pronouncement about the loss of the leadership of the watch. 

"That makes you an officer, now, I suppose, rrow’ka," the Kazari rumbled, clapping the man on the shoulder with a bloody paw, "See to it that you do a better job than they did, yes?" His cat-like eyes flicked away from the man and regarded the spot dominated by the frozen form of Kithran and the lifeless form of Atharis for an instant. "Rouse whatever is left of your men and burn the bodies of all of the fallen," Ch’dau ordered, giving a gentle shove to punctuate the statement, "but get the gates secured, first. I have my own dead and wounded to attend."

The gate guard blinked a few times, looked worried... and then, an expression of resolve came over him.  "Right, then," he bellowed.  "'ollis, get your arse over 'here.  Ye an' Jeb start pullin' these bodies tagether fer burnin'.  Talc, grab yer spear and come wi' me ta tha gate.  Ced, Wilf - ye two go door ta door.  Rouse tha men an' strong lads.  Get them ta grab wha'ere they 'ave - clubs, pitchforks, I don' care.  We need wha'ere numbers we can get."

The one identified as Wilf - a burly, sullen character, and one that stormed out of the Inn earlier - sneered and balked at his orders.  "Wha' gives ye tha right to order enny 'o us aroun' then, Malk?  No damned cat man 'as tha right ta do tha, an' ye don' 'ave the right to tell us wha' ta do.  Stick it up yer arse, I'm goin' 'ome."

The gate guard - now identified as Malk - locked gazes with Wilf as best he could, considering the large man stood a full head taller than him - for a moment before looking down at the ground.  "Ye know, Wilf," he spoke quietly, "ye always were a stubborn fool 'o a louse."  Wilf started to turn away, but as he did, Malk stepped forward and backhanded the large man as hard as he could across the jaw, sending the bigger man sprawling into the muck.

Standing over the fallen man, the de facto leader of the watch roared.  "But I ne'er took ye fer a coward!  Tha' damned cat man an' 'is lads saved all our lives, did ye ferget tha', ye daft bastard?  If no' fer them, tha dead would be killin' our families e'en now!  Ye'll no' be goin' 'ome, ye damned fool, ye'll be rousin' tha men and lads 'o tha town to 'elp make sure tha there's a town still alive on tha morn!"

Rather than look for retaliation, Wilf scrambled to his feet and hung his head.  "Aye, Malk.  I'll rouse tha men." He replied.

Malk glared at the remaining survivors of the watch.  "Does ennyone else 'ave ennything ta add?  Right then!  Ye 'ave yer orders, get yer arses to work!"   The guardsman glanced at the party, gave a little grin, then trotted toward the gate with his companion as the others moved to their own tasks. 

Meanwhile, Atharis' body was searched.  His purse, spellbook, and contents of his pack was distributed for use as Kithran slowly regained use of her body.  While it felt a little disrespectful and unettling to do so, the fact was that it made little sense to burn useful gear when the young mage clearly had no further use for it. 

Once everyone was ready, the party set off after the scattered straggler zombies. 

It took a solid two and a half hours, but eventually, every bit of the town wass patrolled and another fifteen or so undead were cut down by twos and threes.  With Ch'dau and Aranwen at the fore, the slow abominations were no match, and the killing was fairly easy. 

More than once, the party came across a group of determined townsfolk led by a watchman.  Two or three times, the militia had found and eliminated lone zombies all on their own.  Meanwhile, guttering black smoke, along with the smell of burned hair and flesh, ascended to the sky as bodies were burned. 

As dawn's first rays began to lighten the eastern sky, it become apparent that Crandel was now safe - for the time being, at least.

As morning arrives, Cedric finds quiet place and performs his morning ritual to Solanis. Afterward he looks around to see if anyone needs first aid or last rites. Then he goes back to the inn and requests a bath to remove the filth from his body. Also ask if someone can wash his robes. Then afterward he sleep, exhausted.

Cedris will awake in the afternoon and come down to eat before finding the rest of the group to plan the day. If there is time he will visit the guards to boost their spirits.

Cedric wants to contact Aratharis's group here in town and see what they know about all that is happening.

As dawn's first rays begin to lighten the eastern sky, it becomes apparent that Crandel is now safe—for the time being, at least.

Weary to the bone with no more adrenaline coursing through his body to keep him going, Gib tiredly addresses his companions. "I shall now hold services to honor the Work of the Battle Lord that was done this past night. Should any wish to participate, you are welcome. I know not what friend Atharis' order holds as ritual or rites for burial and to honor him, I believe we should wait upon our meeting with said order's representative before deciding such things."

Turning to the Innkeep, the priest asks simply, "Will you mind if I hold services here, at the hearth?"

(OOC: Assuming there is no such complaint...)

"I shall return momentarily," Gib informs his friends and promptly, if somewhat doggedly, makes his way back to his chamber where he has left his gear.

Gathering his remaining possessions, the warrior priest is once again struck at the loss of his young friend. Death is nothing new to the cleric of the god of war, but it has yet to be stingless, especially when it D'hurgen comes for those who are close. Pausing in his repacking, Moreno allows his head to drop back on his neck and closes his eyes to the view of the rafters. "Lord of Battle, give me strength," he mutters, truly feeling the wear on his muscles, bones, and spirit of the past day's events. Holding this position for a time, the bearded Ertainian allows himself these few moments to be human, finally filling his lungs with a slow, cool breath as he returns to his chore. He would leave the gear were circumstances normal, allowing himself to spend some time in respite within Crandel's walls. But, he has now experienced an assault on the party within the supposed safety of the city and feels he must be prepared for anything. So, the heavy equipment is shouldered and the cleric makes his ponderous way to the common room once more.

Dirty and crusted with blood and ichor from the battle, Gib's experience is that Midge and... he sighs again at Atharis' absence... that Midge kindly uses magic to clean them and make their image presentable, so he is not concerning himself with such luxuries as a bath at this time. Instead, he makes his way to the hearth and sets his pack aside while retrieving his prayer book. 

In more civilized circumstances, and were a pack horse something he could afford, the cleric would have more ceremonial accouterments on hand to truly venerate his god. In cases such as this, field protocol for the clergy requires just the prayer book, proper catechisms, and ceremonial recognition of those who have ultimately sacrificed themselves to the work of his god. And so it is that Moreno “Gib” Enderedre opens his services with a rededication of loyal service to Therassor, including any who join him. All in all, his venerations take approximately four finger widths of time, one turn on an hourglass. Upon finishing, he spends a few moments in silent prayer and then rises stiffly from his kneeling position and quietly replacing his prayer book within his pack.

"So," he begins, turning from the hearth as he shoulders his gear, "Are we to be about our business then? Seek out Atharis' order and then—where is Cedric?"

Gazing upon those present, the priest puzzles at his fellow's absence.

(OOC: Any response...)

"Are we then resting before pursuing a meet?" Gib raises his eyebrows. He is tired, of that there is no doubt, but when duty calls a soldier must soldier. 

“…They come at night - the restless ones.  They never stop.  They never tire…”

The words of the bedraggled Lysoran priest are a tinny echo in the Kazari’s mind as, with the night past and the dawn now trying to pierce the mists, Ch’dau’s eyes turn east toward the rising sun. “The night is done,” the Silver Cat chuffed softly to no one in particular, “and they may not have tired but they are stopped…”

His blades were pushed back into their scabbards, then, and his hands came away from the hilts sticky with blood and gore. His eyes closed and he stood, for a moment, letting the morning’s first light warm his face as he sent up silent supplication to Rrowl (to honor the battle they’d just fought) and Keziri (to tend the wounded and the dead). Only when Kithran slinked past him, her fingers whispering briefly through the fur at his back as she went, did the cat-man’s eyes open.

“Come,” she said, tipping her head in the direction of the others who were already trudging wearily back toward the Nicked Shill, “it’s over.”

“…For now,” Ch’dau rumbled quietly, offering a faint nod before falling into step beside the half-Syl thief and joining what remained of their party.

Upon returning to the Shill, as the others set about pursuing their own after-battle rituals, the Kazari warrior padded in silence toward the inn’s kitchen where he poured himself a sizeable tankard of Mort’s reserve ale before reemerging into the common room and finding a seat in which to rest for a while.

“I shall now hold services to honor the Work of the Battle Lord that was done this past night,” Gib was saying as Ch’dau straddled a bench and took a long pull from the ale, “Should any wish to participate, you are welcome. I know not what friend Atharis' order holds as ritual or rites for burial and to honor him, I believe we should wait upon our meeting with said order's representative before deciding such things.”

“Agreed,” the cat-man grunted, wiping ale from his whiskers and offering a short nod.

Therassor’s priest turned to Mort, then, and asked; “Would you mind if I hold services here, at the hearth?”

Ch’dau didn’t actually hear Greenfield’s reply as, following another swallow of ale, the Kazari found himself staring absently at where Atharis’ blood still streaked the fur of his chest. He was sure, given the innkeep’s honorable nature, that Gib’s request would not be denied. His numb fascination by the fallen wizard’s blood was only broken when the battle-cleric excused himself…

“I shall return momentarily,” Gib said, somewhat wearily.

… Blinking as if coming out of a trance, Ch’dau’s eyes lift and find the brave cleric. Lifting his tankard in salute, he nodded his acknowledgement. “We will go nowhere without you, friend,” he rumbled as the man momentarily retreated to his chambers.

In the time it took for Gib to return, the Kazari had finished the first tankard of ale and had begun nursing a second. He watched as the priest deposited his pack by the hearth, retrieved his prayer book, and set about preparing for his services. While he didn’t actually participate, the Silver Cat did move to a seat closer to the hearth and watched and listened in respectful silence as Gib went about his rites and rituals. When the man had finished, Ch’dau offered a nod. Therassor was not his god but, in the time he had spent among the humans of Antaron and, especially, these last months in Gib’s company, Ch’dau had come to see many parallels between ‘The Battle Lord’ and Rrowl, so, to some degree, the ceremonies revering the human deity comforted him.

“So,” Gib said, having stowed his prayer book and, now, shouldering his pack, “Are we to be about our business then? Seek out Atharis’ order and then…”

Ch’dau had already started getting to his feet and draining the remains of the tankard when the priest’s words stopped short.

“…Where is Cedric?”

The Kazari looked about curiously. He hadn’t seen the other cleric slip away but he was certain that the man couldn’t have gone far. “Resting, perhaps,” Ch’dau suggested, setting his tankard aside, now, and offering an uncertain shrug, “It was a long night.”

“Are we then resting before pursuing a meet,” Gib asked, raising his brows.

To answer this, all the Kazari could do was offer another shrug and lift his hands in a way that emoted uncertainty… or exasperation… or both. His eyes turned to the bladesinger, then; “What say you, Aranwen? Would you have me fetch Cedric or do we wait?”

Minto went with Cedric, wanting a bath dearly too, and having no use for the droning on of Gib with his rites and rituals.It's just as likely Shinara's kiss saved us, than any strength in Therassor's arm!

The little mage was glad to find that he was returning to the coomon room just as Gib was concluding his prayers.

“So,” Gib said, having stowed his prayer book and, now, shouldering his pack, “Are we to be about our business then? Seek out Atharis’ order and then…”

“…Where is Cedric?”

“Resting, perhaps,” Ch’dau suggested, offering an uncertain shrug, “It was a long night.”

“Are we then resting before pursuing a meet,” Gib asked, raising his brows.

“What say you, Aranwen?" Ch'dau inquired. "Would you have me fetch Cedric or do we wait?”

"Neither, I say," Midge piped in. "Cedric is indeed resting, sleeping hopefully if the Merciful Mother has any kindness left. And I'd suggest most of us see if we might find a little more of Mort's hospitality. 

"I, however, am going to meet Atharis' contact," the conjurer continued. "I do not imagine needing a full retinue. Aranwen, perhaps."