By: Niran

The neophyte adventurer bravely charges past faded headstones. His long sword is held high and his shield protects him from blows when he strikes down the horde of undead that has risen in this place. He feels accomplished after every zombie falls before him, after the bones of each skeleton clatter to the ground. He is stained with blood and sweat. He doesn’t stop because of his wounds; the pain only encourages him to continue his purge of the threat of the risen dead.

By: Skeas

It was not fear. It was not regret, or pain. It was a listless disinterest that took the young maiden's eyes as she calmly stared down at the simple birch shaft protruding from the bandeau that concealed her nearly nonexistant bosom. She took a very short moment for herself to admire the colorful feathers decorating the back end of the little wooden cylinder.