1 Crow's Call

A crow cawed, and the corpse stirred.

The landscape reeked of death, once crimson blood now congealed and darkened, coating nearly every surface, earth, armor, weapons, corpses and even the trees lining the far sides of the scene of carnage. Dark clouds hung above the field, and a vast murder of crows, vultures and other scavengers rotated above the field, lazily descending to feed.

Corpses lay all around the field, tangled limbs and the blades and armaments of the fallen twisted and laid upon one another, making large sections of the muddy and bloody earth beneath them entirely invisible, as well as forming piles as tall as a large man. Rain began to fall now, cold water splattering over flesh and steel, any warmth that may have remained evaporating into low clouds of mist.

As the crows screamed, the corpse stirred with vigor, his pale hand still grasping his broken blade. What would be written off as death throes at a passing glance, quickly strengthened the more he moved. His grip on the blade loosened, and he dropped his ruined weapon to the bloody mud.

Slender fingers dug deep into the mud, searching for traction, eventually finding a plate of steel. With this new, unnatural strength, the corpse pushed against the plate, and began to lift the rest of the body.

His other hand found traction on what could have been a former comrade or enemy's armored leg. No matter what they were, he was thankful for them, as with this extra leverage, the corpse was able to push himself to his knees, lifting his face from the mud.

Now kneeling, the corpse wiped the mud from his face, and blinked several times, the theater of carnage becoming clearer with each blink. Despite the grizzly scene before him, the kneeling corpse was not disturbed by it.

Rather, he was disturbed by his utter failure to remember the events leading to his current situation, as if a heavy haze hung in his mind, permeating all facets of his memory, concealing anything beyond a vague outline of the past.

He did not know where he was, or why he was there. Only that he was a soldier of some kind. Wielding his feeble fingers, he pulled at the leather straps holding the armor to his torso, the weight of which was making it difficult to stay upright.

On his first attempt, the steel buckle proved beyond his capabilities, his fingers simply slipping right off of it due to the buckle being made slick by the rain.

He dropped his hands to his sides, and began to gather his bearings. This time, he managed to hook his fingernails underneath the edge of the buckle. From there, he tugged at it, but rather than loosening it, he simply ripped the entire device from the armor, leather strap and all.

While not his intended goal, he simply reached up and replicated his previous motion on the strap on his other shoulder, and the heavy plates of tarnished steel fell from his chest, clattering against the bladed mud beneath him.

Now unencumbered, the corpse began to stand, unsteady legs barely holding him upright, his body swaying from side to side, though after a few seconds, a sense of balance came to him, and he straightened and held himself still.

With a shaky step forwards, the corpse began to stiffly wander across the former battlefield, his arms and shoulder twitching slightly every few seconds as he shook off the effects of rigor mortis.

The corpse clumsily checked himself for wounds, and though his clothes were torn and ragged, he felt only smooth, cool flesh beneath his fingers. Next, he traced his face, feeling no wounds.

The man's hair was medium length, and he took a tuft in his hand and pulled in before his eyes, to find that his hair was bone white. He stopped walking, and ran his hands through his hair, stopping only upon seeing something standing in the corner of his eye.

As if it was his nature, he spun towards the threat, yanking a short sword from the chest of one of the men next to him. What stood behind him was a horror like a man… at least he hoped it was.

A long, heavy black cloak hung from the man's body, a dark hood pulled over his face, dense shadows rolling from inside like tendrils of smoke.

Despite the increasing downpour of rain, the thing was entirely dry, any water that touched him simply being absorbed into his cloak upon impact, before any kind of visible effect could take place.

The corpse tried to speak, but found no words in his throat, for nothing could address this abomination properly. So instead, all he did was raise his blade, and point it at the monster of a man before him.

"Standing corpse. Do you have a name?" The hooded figure spoke, his voice sharp and raspy, cutting into the corpse's ears like a saw blade. Tense silence hung between the undead and abomination, as the pale fallen searched his mind, looking for anything that could perhaps be a suitable name.

The fog that permeated his mind was thick, unbreachable in places and not others. In regards to a name, the corpse could think of nothing. A vacant symphony of disjointed voices and sounds echoed, providing nothing for the shambler to offer the abomination.

"Nothing suitable." The corpse spoke, his voice weak and empty at its first usage.

"A tragedy. Do you remember anything from your past?" The abomination spoke again, his voice just as cutting as before, but now mixed with something that sounded like genuine sadness.

"Simply that I was, and am, a soldier… and a voice. Someone claims that my head is hollow, though I remember no reason behind this." The corpse responded, his voice now ever so slightly stronger than before, as if the voice had invigorated him in some way.

"Your name shall be Hollow. A revenant such as yourself has much to do, and a name creates a legend. Leave this battlefield, and search out the White Hand and its appendages. Sever them, like any good soldier would." The abomination pointed at the hills of still corpses around him, and they began to shift, tangled limbs snapping and steel giving way as they were dragged apart, creating a semi clear, bloody path, extending for hundreds of feet in mere seconds. Then, he turned and began to vanish, his body seemingly melting into the rain.

"Stranger, who are you?!" Hollow called after the vanishing monster, with far greater strength than before.

"Little more than a simple sinner." With those words, he was gone entirely, heavy rain falling where he'd been a mere second before as if he'd never been there in the first place.

Hollow looked down at the weapon in his hand. The blade was heavily chipped and twisted, the tip was bent upwards, clearly having bent when it made contact with the back of its victim's armor.

He took the blade in his hand, and snapped the top half off, making the short sword little better than a dagger. A quick glance around him confirmed his suspicions. There was no better suited weapon in easy access.

The sinner's words were the only fully tangible thought in his head, and despite his lack of understanding of them, he at least knew how to follow orders. So Hollow turned and walked down the path that had been carved for him.

The crows cawed, and the corpse shambled onwards.