The Dead Men

'The cold wind follows me everywhere I go, it seems.' Georges mused to himself.

The eerie sights and ambiance of the forest flew by as Georges raced into the night. 

Silence.

It was completely silent tonight, it could drive a man insane. Any other, that is. Georges was an inquisitor, tempered by hellfire and redeemed by sacred light. He had driven headfirst into darker shadows.

He didn't have a reason to worry about himself, but he did worry about those rookies.

As he ran, Georges fiddled with the rounded cross dangling freely on his neck. The insignia of the Orthodoxy shone a brilliant scorching golden light, as if alive. In the dark curtain of the starry night, the emblem shone like a bright kindred soul.

"[May the light of His hallowed halls light my way, and reveal the evil lurking within...]" Georges prayed, and his faith made it so. Burning like a flame, an incorporeal concept come to life.

His heart blazed, his instincts pulling him forward, complete trust in himself and his belief.

And like a man possessed, Georges raced further into the murky woods. He was far from the town of Wyrmden by now, yet the threat that demon posed was no less grave.

It took him a handful of minutes before anything notable happened, but he finally came across a clue. Many sets of footprints lay before him, digging into the bloody gravel. Whoever came by here, they were profusely bleeding.

Taking a closer look, Georges found that while most of the footprints were less steps and resembling more mindlessly and ravenously stirred up dirt wet with blood. He found three trails of coherent footprints, all in a straight line deeper in the woods.

A chase, the exorcist deduced.

'By the tainted, most likely.' Indeed, the footsteps matched what Georges knew of the mindless demonspawn.

It seemed the demon had already dug its claws into its prey and reduced them into mere flesh puppets.

Glancing at the direction of the trails, Georges set off immediately. He hoped he wasn't too late, and he hoped that whoever they were, that they could stall them long enough.

And so he ran once more, feeling like he was chasing an afterimage, he had this sinking feeling that he pointlessly trying to change a foregone conclusion, trying to change a memory.

"Your left!... W-we have to go back for them!" 

Thankfully, that wasn't the case. From afar, he could hear the incessant screaming of multiple voices from the distance.

"Pull yourself together!"

He wasn't too late.

- - - - -

"Blake! Your left!" A desperate shout echoed through the woods, as the three young adventurers fought with all they had.

"Charles... Marge! W-we have to go back for them!" Blake hysterically yelled, neglecting the voice's call.

"Ah!" And he almost paid for it too, if the quick judgement of Dana, —the party's most experienced member— didn't block the enemy's wild overhand punch. 

"Blake! Snap out of it! We'll go get help and come back for them, promise!" Dana shook Blake wildly for but a moment, snapping him out of his trance.

But it didn't make the nightmare go away.

"Damnit Blake! Pull yourself together, we're gonna die at this rate!" The harsh voice of Ward, the aspiring knight and the team's swordsman, barked at him.

He was right, Blake knew, but it easier said than done. He had watched Marge, a dear friend, die right in front of him. She died! And Charles stayed behind to stall for time, from that thing!

The worst part, he didn't do anything, because he couldn't, no matter how much he wanted things to change. 

However, he tried. His life and theirs depended on it. He gripped his stave, and jabbed the front end into the eye of one of the mindless soldiers.

"Grah!" It roared unaffected by the pain, clawing desperately at him.

"[Condense and detonate! Magic Missile!]" Mana thrummed silently within his body, responding to his distressed aria.

The magic resonated within the wooden stave, condensing wildly at its tip and detonating with a fierce boom, decimating the feral soldier's head clean off and searing its insides.

This was Blake's pride and joy, the fact that a mere village bumpkin like him has the capacity to wield the very magic that he has come to admire in the stories he grew up hearing from his parents, was simply invigorating.

However, he had no assets, no money nor the the standing to cultivate this talent, which is why he had begun adventuring in the first place, hoping to earn enough to travel to the capital city, where he hoped a practitioner mage could take him under their wing.

But now, that dream seemed ever so far, far beyond his reach.

Taking a position behind Dana, the scout, and Ward, the bulky fighter, they crowded around and created a shoddy but effective formation with their backs against each other.

They were completely surrounded, and they had to get out, they needed to if they wanted to get help... and hopefully, save Charles.

"What are we thinking here? We can't stay here forever!" Ward asked, keeping an eye out for the tainted's movements.

"It's either we kill all of them, die, or find a way out." Dana said with strained eyes, looking out for any movement, as well as any means of escape.

"I don't want to die..." Blake whimpered, pushing his back harder into the formation.

"We'll survive Blake, I promise. Just focus on fighting now okay?" Dana reassured him, yet inwardly she knew the reality was much crueler. 

They were exhausted, physically and mentally, completely demoralized at this point. Dana had been in fights and skirmishes before, but she wasn't a renowned adventurer famed for being a monster hunter.

She was just a girl who grew up in a harsh environment, born with exceptional eyes and a crafty mind.

"Just keep fighting, yeah? You handle the escape part, Dana! Blake! Fight with me!" Ward tried to puff himself up, holding his standard sword ever tighter.

Just like any honorable knight, courage was supposed to be in their veins and pumping through their blood. He just worried about losing too much blood, heh.

"Rah!" Ward lunged forward, cutting off the arms of one tainted that got too close, yet leaving his back open in the process.

Luckily, Blake was in the right headspace, and even a rookie like him could spot the enemy trying at Ward's back.

"[Form! Pierce the enemy! Magic Missile!]" He yelled as his wooden staff pulsed with mysterious energy, the cluster of mana boring into the tainted's back and charring its insides with rampant active energy.

Taking this chance, Ward turned around cleaved its head wide open as Dana covered him.

One down, eleven more to go...

"Hey Blake!" Ward yelled as the aspiring knight blocked the vehement flurry of strikes from the tainted.

"Yeah?" He asked while staying back, trying to conserve energy as he looked for an opportunity.

"Let's do that thing! I'll rally them up for you!"

"Absolutely not! It's too risky, and it won't get all of them anyway!" Dana yelled.

"He's right! But maybe we could take that chance and get awa-!" Blake tried to reason, but was caught off guard when one of the tainted ignored Ward and went straight after him.

Time to slowed to a crawl, Blake saw the bloodied hand of the crazed soldier reach for him.

'Someone! Save me!'

It was at this moment that an extremely loud sound erupted in the battlefield, like a clanging sound of resonating metal travelling at unbelievable speeds.

"Clang!" A sharp object punctured the tainted's pale skin, seeming to be a golden streak of light, and went straight through its head, firmly digging itself into the gravel with a loud quaking clang.

Yet it was only like that for a moment, as a split second after the dead man was pierced, the tainted disintegrated before Blake's eyes, fading into ashen dust and swirling dark mist, before a fierce golden light banished the dark mist into nothing.

Blake looked at the sight in silent shock before looking at the thing that saved him. Ushering a glance, he saw what seemed to be a large golden nail jutting out of the ground.

"Wha-!" Yet before he could even express his shock, something else started happening.

From within the inky woods, fluttering about like fireflies, were what seemed to be strips of paper. They numbered by the dozen, and only dallied for a moment before animatedly rushing towards the three.

Moving like they were carried by tempestuous winds, despite the cold evening breeze, the slips of paper combusted into golden streaks of swirling light, miraculously avoiding the three with extreme precision despite the erratic movements, and heading straight towards the tainted.

"No way..."

"How?" 

The remaining tainted were then effectively what could only be described as, decimated.

What Blake had only realized were talismans had left nothing in their wake, vaporizing the tainted with their light, and grinding them to dust with the imaginary winds they were carried by.

"You were lucky to be found. The Lord has spared your souls, it seems." The three heard a voice behind them, and promptly jumped in surprise.

There stood a man in a black cassock, his yellow eyes gleaming even in the dark, and the insignia on his neck shining as brightly as a raging fire.

"Do not be afraid." He assured with an emotionless voice.