Distant Whispers

Onwards and forwards, path guided by faith, Orthael strode on. He did not see where his feet fell, he did not know where the end of his journey lay, he did not drive the weapon that tugged him onwards on its lethal dance. The golden light at the tip of the sword traced across hearts and throats and claws. Still the Lesser Dead came, swarming from the trees as if to overwhelm him with the weight of their bodies.

Now and again he murmured prayers of supplication and delivery, words of comfort and delight that kept the darkness within at bay. Then he would shout promises of retribution and redemption to assault the darkness without.

All throughout, the Dead were returned. Scores were flung backwards or even vaporised where they stood by scintillating bolts of flame. Some were swept away by sword and mailed fist. Others yet dissolved where they stood, the Fire's divine presence sufficient to send them on.

This way, tugged the fire in his heart. The night is not yet over.