The field erupted once again as reality was torn by the gold-clad figure. The shimmering rift bellowed a ravenous thunder as hordes of the undead poured into the world. Beings of all sizes and race lumbered out - no lineage so proud as to withstand the wretched curse. Soon hundreds of the fiends would storm the last vestige of this crippled land.
Alone atop the ramparts of the ravaged fortress stood a man, adorned head-to-toe in mis-matched armor. He hunched forward, counting the odds of the mounting crowd of the dead as they closed in on the walls. For all his running, he'd only ended up in this place - a desolate fortress once a proud bastion against some long-forgotten foe.
He was known only as Psyko. It was the title awarded him by a group of friends now long-dead, and bearing a meaning that had equally faded. Everyone he'd known was now dead or presumed dead - all victims of this new rotten enemy. It seemed that he would soon join them if this last-ditch effort wrought no results.
Psyko smiled behind his mask, cursing the gods as he gambled his fate. He sparked up a flame - one of the few spells he’d mastered - and tossed the tiny fireball into the massive beacon beside him. The sigil surged to life as the ancient magic was reignited. A brilliant beam of white pierced the sky, glistening for all to see for miles and miles.
The gold figure below recoiled in revulsion at the divine beacon. He snarled some curse and threw his arm forward, roaring a command in some ancient language. The shambling army of zombies now surged forward in a frenzy, soon slamming into the castle walls. Mindlessly crushing on top of each other, the undead minions quickly began to scale the height of the ramparts.
Psyko hefted his warhammer and prepared himself. The furious grin never left his face as he readied the first swing, accepting whatever outcome this battle would have. If it was to be his end, he knew he'd go out honorably, and with no fewer than a thousand lives exchanged
31-May-2020 00:45:57
