Harrin collected the weapons scattered around the campsite, quietly discarding those he deemed unusable and adding the ones he wanted to the growing stack on his arm.

The campsite had been reduced to a simmering pile of scorched tents and corpses. Without the magus or their leader, the remainder of the mercenaries had still tried to fight back, however badly it’d ended for them. He’d been careful to leave none alive, ignoring how persistently or loudly they begged for mercy. It took a single thought to bring Craikdam to the forefront of his mind, and any concept of grace fled.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and dropped the pike he’d been eyeing, hurrying over.

Senna stirred as she awoke, wincing in pain and putting a tentative hand to her ears. Lightly touching them, she slowly pressed harder, a crease growing on her forehead, before looking up at Harrin.

“What happened?!” She shouted, and then frowned. “CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

Harrin nodded, setting the pile of weapons down. Kneeling next to her, he carefully examined her ears for any damage, turning her head to the side so he could look closer. There was a chance that the blast had blown her eardrums out, but a bit of light healing from a cleric would mend it. Once they found a cleric, that is. Or perhaps if they found a cleric.

Senna stared around the campsite, her face slowly changing to abject dismay and quickly moving to horror. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “It… it looks like Craikdam.”

Harrin put a hand on her shoulder, but she brushed it off, turning to him. “It’s like Craikdam!”

She was shouting again, but he couldn’t tell whether it was because of her hearing or if she was angry. He shook his head in reply, unable to respond with anything except silence.

Senna didn’t take it well. She got to her feet, turning to look at the annihilated campsite with her hands clenched into fists. “I… I didn’t want this! I just--” She threw her hands in their, pacing away.

Harrin stood, unsure of what to do. She wanted vengeance; he’d given it to her. In an extremely thorough way, as well.

Collecting his weapons, he slowly began finding places on himself where he could put them. He slid the long-handled battleax into a leather strap on his recently acquired belt, hanging from his waist. He’d found two rapiers, and while they didn’t match, the blades were similar in length and the balances were good. Those went on his left side, slipped into more leather loops. A shortsword in need of sharpening went on his right side, and the recovered dwarf-made sword was sheathed over his right shoulder.

Decked out in more weapons than he’d ever held at one time, Harrin was more than a little pleased to discover the weight was nearly unnoticable. He spent a few moments ensuring that his range of motion worked, sliding each weapon out of their assigned place and putting them back in. The pair of rapiers had to be put in at the same time; their crossguards inevitably got in the way of each other, and the greatax was a tad finicky to remove.

Regardless, he felt much better with more weapons.

Senna had sat down on a singed log, staring at the wrecked campsite with her back facing him. Harrin approached her, trying to find a gait that would stop the weapons from clanging against each other. At least Senna couldn’t hear any of it.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she twisted to look up at him without standing up. She was crying again, to his mild concern and annoyance. There had to be a limit to how much water she could release, right?

Her voice was hoarse and quiet when she spoke. “Why do I feel this way?”

She turned away from him again, watching over the fires and blood and bodies. “I - I can’t get my-” Senna faltered briefly, swallowing hard. “I can’t get my parents back, but th-this is…”

Harrin still didn’t know what the problem was, but he stood close behind her anyway. She looked back to him, peering into his eyes. She seemed to be looking for something in him, and whatever it was, she didn’t find it.

She sighed, putting her head in her hands. “This… this is my fault.”

He felt alarm then, worried that she was falling back into false guilt, but she continued. “You can’t see it, can you? How wrong this all is.”

He couldn’t, no, but he didn’t feel like that was a bad thing. He still considered himself a knight, despite the shame of being an undead. What did knights do if not avenge the innocent?

Senna was still crying, but her face showed little emotion anymore. She just looked tired.

He stood behind her, awaiting whatever she might say next. He wasn’t ready for what came out of her mouth.

“I think I should die.”

Seizing her shoulder, Harrin spun her around to face him, eyes blazing as he violently shook his head. How badly he wished he could speak, that he could tell her that she couldn’t die, that she wouldn’t die until he found those faces in the back of his mind.

Something clicked then, as he stared into her startled face. He was aware of her chest rapidly rising and falling, aware of the fear creeping into her expression.

He was missing something.

He let go, backing away. Something was wrong. How had he missed it? The mantra of a knight, the call to honor… he couldn’t remember the words, and he heard nothing.

What had undeath done to him?

Senna wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was staring past him, a visible expression of disgust and fear warping her face.

Harrin’s concerns evaporated as he pulled the dwarven sword out, automatically spinning around to place himself between the new threat and Senna.

He faltered when he saw it.

A creature was approaching through the woods. It stood nearly two and a half meters in height, but much of that was borne in its three arms. They were massive, bulky things, with a hand large enough to wrap around Harrin's entire ribcage and serrated bone protruding from the knuckles. Its torso was relatively small, but broad in the shoulders. A pair of avian legs hung from it, wicked claws suspended as it held itself aloft.

But the worse thing about the monstrous creature was the flesh. It was covered in muscle and sinew, an array of asymmetrical and mismatched bones forming a macabre armor on its exterior. It lacked eyes or a nose or ears, but Harrin couldn't help but see its mouth.

The thing's head was a thick, oblong shape, sloping back before sharply dipping down. Its mouth stretched across the entire front of its face, a hideous maw lined with dissimilar teeth from who knew what.

Harrin recognized the grissial immediately, and he gripped his sword a little tighter. There was only one of them present. With his current strength and all of his weapons, they could still stand a chance.

Why hadn't he burned the bodies?! He inwardly berated himself, not moving an inch. Grissials could smell blood from incredible distances - he should have anticipated the possibility.

The grissial opened its mouth, tasting the air as it moved forward. Pausing, it cocked its head… and stared straight at Harrin.

Without any signal or preamble, four misshapen, dissimilar creatures moved from the shadowed forest into the light, and the spark of hope Harrin had been holding onto extinguished. Against one, perhaps he could have succeeded. Against five, he didn't stand a chance.

"Harrin," Senna loudly whispered, putting a hand on his ribs and pulsing a violet strand of magick into his bones. "What are those?"

He was too worried to be annoyed at the fact he couldn't answer if he wanted to. The question raised doubts in his mind, though. Were they not what he thought they were?

The lead grissial gave a sharp bark of command, and its followers began collecting the bodies of the mercenaries, occasionally taking a bite out of one as they did. All doubt in Harrin's mind vanished.

The leader's tread made the ground thrum with every step, its massive hands grabbing at the ground for balance. Keeping its mouth half-open, it slowly moved further in. He could hear its breathing, a ragged hiss sliding across every inhale.

It paused, cast its head about for a moment, and then faced Harrin. It lacked eyes, but he had no doubt it was looking at him.

A low, guttural voice rumbled across the short distance before he could act.

"Your bones are strong."