A thin figure, clad in a dark robe, with a staff of twisted ebon-wood held aloft above its head stands, hands and staff shrouded in an aurora of green and purple energy, constantly circulating and twisting. With a hoarse cry, the figure brings down the staff, the energy unloading into the ground.

A skeletal arm shoots out of the dry, cragged ground, the bony fingers scrabbling around for a few moments, before finding purchase. Nearby, more arms come out of the ground, almost in a grotesque parody of growing plants, shooting for the sun. The arms assert their undead strength, bestowed by necromantic magic, pulling the rest of their skeletal bodies from the ground, as they shamble to unlife, eyes aglow with green flames.

Above the dim glow around a large group of shambling undead, slowly moving back and forth, performing a weird reenactment of fragments from hundreds, maybe thousands of different battles. There is little order in their performance but, as if guided by some outside force, some puppeteer masterfully pulling hundreds of strings, they never collide, never interfere with each other as they perform their macabre play.

While the hoarse cry is still echoing between the walls, a still figure is surrounded by an aura of green and purple, dead flesh getting infused with fel magic, the cry getting louder until it reaches a crescendo and the magic dies away, if only for a moment. In the sudden silence, a strange sound, almost akin to a mix between sigh, groan and a deflating balloon is clearly audible and the still figure is no longer, its limbs twitching and shuddering.

A group of warriors, clad in gleaming, metal armour marches through a gloomy darkness, their eyes aglow with dim, silver light. With each of their uniform steps, their long, metal spears strike the ground and their heavy, oaken shields strike against their armour, creating an echo to the relentless cadence of their march. In the middle of their formation, protected by walls of flesh and steel, march three figures in grey robes, their staves matching the spears around them in length, adding their own beats to the rhythm of war.

Far above the undead, a shadow forms, massive, dark wings unfurl and a pair of shining, silver runes appear. In the light of the setting sun, clouds of billowing mist refract the light, creating a mirage-like effect as shadows fall across the countless undead and the mist starts to roll down the slope, quickly reaching the first of the shambling skeletons.

The formerly dead, twitching figure begins to move, woodenly, almost as if there are too few threads to fully control the puppet but move, it does. Another, wordless cry echoes between the dark, damp stones and the control smoothes out somewhat and the dead body, mostly decayed, stands, its eyes filled with unholy fire. Streamers of Power surround the figure and around the decayed limbs, metal is forming, creating heavy, protective armour and within the figure’s hand, a sword is forming, black and foreboding, the edge dripping with something foul.

Moving skeletons freeze, their heads suddenly turning to all stare in a single direction. Out of the gloom, the line of warriors emerge, standing side to side, their shields forming a solid wall, while their spears stick out, giving that wall some thorns. Hidden behind them, the robed figures are chanting their voices echoing with otherworldly power. The warriors, standing ready to do battle, join in the chanting, the conviction in their voice making up for their lack of otherworldly power. As if to answer the challenge, the skeletons start moving towards the line of battle, dark power gathering around their limbs.

The moment the drifting mist hits the first skeleton, they all react, moving towards the slope, even as the saps their energy, causing them to slowly stumble forwards, towards the shadowy wings far above.

The black-armoured figure moves forward, causing soft sounds of rasping metal to follow its footsteps, while the robed figure follows behind. Around them, the forest seems to lose its vitality, grass wilting and leaves falling. Ahead of them, a massive bear notices their approach and starts rushing towards them, it’s angry roars causing the trees around to shake.

Rushing skeletons crash into braced spears and gleaming tips slide harmlessly past bone, never touching, but silver light around the spears corrodes the skeletons, causing bones to crack and movement falters. But the rushing skeletons know no fear and pain is merely a distant memory of their mortal days, long discarded as irrelevant. Without those impairments, they easily shamble over the bones of their fellow Undead, all in an attempt to circumvent the gleaming spears, bypass the protective shields and tear at the delicious flesh of the living, in an attempt to induct them into their undying horde.

Skeletons crumble, as the cold mist erodes their limbs, bones scattering on the floor, even as their fellow undead shamble over them. Like waves crashing onto a beach, each wave pushing the water a little further ahead, the skeletons march on, desperately trying to get through the mist, up the slope and to that shadowy figure. One of the skeletons manages to make it out of the mist, only to be shattered by a tall, armoured figure, swinging a massive, double-bladed axe.

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A beam of green energy arcs around the black-armoured figure, striking the charging bear, causing it to stumble for a moment, as the energy forms lingering patterns on the bear’s skin, shining through the fur. Moving forward, to meet it’s staggered foe, the armoured figure raises its sword, swinging down even as the bear swipes in retaliation. Blood scatters into the wilting grass, even as the armoured figure is swatted aside.

The chanting voices reach a crescendo, the silver glow on the warriors in front of them explodes outwards, causing the skeletons to melt, the flames in their eyes snuffed out and their bones scattered on the ground. The warriors form a circle around the three robed figures who quickly start setting up their staves in a triangle, each figure taking one of the points, their chanting now less urgent but just as fervoured.

The last skeleton falls to the mist and suddenly, wind starts to move the mist, causing it to swirl through the valley, revolving around a point in the middle. There, a figure starts to coalesce, bones forming from the dust in the air, shadows melting to become weapons and armour. The swirling wind stops, and unholy flames erupt from between the gaps of the armour, bringing the figure to a mockery of life and after a moment of pause, it starts to move, charging through the mist that seems to almost melt out of its way.

Bear and armoured figure continue to exchange blows, the armour denting under the powerful swipes of the bear, even as the bear’s fur is matted with blood, drawn from the strikes of the blades. But where the armoured figure is relentless, the damage shrugged off and exhaustion long forgotten, the bear is getting worn, blood loss, foul blade and fel magic all working together to sap its strength, weakening the proud guardian of the forest.

Around the chanting figures, runes start to form, lines of power starting to connect the runes, driving back the surrounding darkness. From that darkness, more skeletons start to emerge, throwing themselves at the guarding warriors, skeletal hands forming into claws, even as gleaming metal shatters bone. Wave after wave, crashing against the solid wall of wood, metal and flesh.

The charging, armoured figure gets staggered by soaring blades of ice, right before axe and glaive crash into each other in a single, brutal exchange. But instead of engaging it’s armoured foe, the undead side-steps the tall figure, taking a quick, glancing blow in the process, even as yet another figure manifests in its shadow, dark blades trying to find a gap in its armour. And even that figure gets ignored, the undead focused on a target further back. The undead’s target, a crowned, avian figure, it’s hands aglow with magic, steps back, escaping into the sky with cackling laughter, only to be forced back to the ground by deadly bolts of energy, shot from the undead’s glaive.

After another bolt of green, cursed energy strikes the weakened bear, the armoured undead wastes no time, burying its sword into the bear’s skull, bringing it down. The robed figure, who had comfortably waited in the back, now moves forward, stepping up to the quickly perishing bear and dipping a finger into the warm blood that is flowing from deep wounds.

The chanting ebbs and flows, the runes gathering more and more power, even as more and more undead charge into the light. Slowly, even the solid walls of flesh and steel get pushed back, forced inwards, but the warriors are holding the line, their protection impenetrable.

The armoured undead swipes at the avian figure, only to get evaded again and again. The other figures try to bring down the undead, only to have their attacks glance off the armour, the cracks they cause quickly fading away and even if they manage to score a direct hit, the unholy flames undo the damage instantly. With a snarl, the avian moves forward, clawed hands gripping on the undead skull, even as the glaive buries itself into the avian’s side. Magic corruscates around both figures, the avian’s eyes aglow with power and in a heave of mundane and magical exertion, the avian manages to rip off the Undead’s skull, holding it aloft and the air starts to swirl once more.

Using the blood of its vanquished foe, the robed figure starts drawing runes onto the bear’s fur, at times using an obsidian blade to cut into the flesh beneath. Behind them, the armoured undead keeps watch, silently waiting. Stepping back, holding their staff aloft once more, the robed figure starts chanting again, the magic now gathering around the bear’s fallen body. And suddenly, the bear starts twitching again, only that there are fel flames burning away its eyes, mirroring its armoured killer.

The three chanting figures raise their staves, the runes around them rising into the air to mirror. With a single, echoing voice, all of them call out a prayer, bringing down the power of their God as the robed figures bring down their staves, the runes following again, striking the ground with indomitable might, shaking the earth as they sink in. Around them, the air stills and above them, the gloomy sky breaks up, moon and stars shedding light onto them.

The swirling air centres on the skull, held aloft by the avian figure and with each revolution, the wind seems to pick up, more and more power flowing into the skull, slowly turning it into crystal, even as two gems take form in the eye-sockets. Finally, once the air in the dry valley has cleared, all the gathered power is sucked into the skull, the avian drops to their knees, wings folding in obvious exhaustion and blood soaking their side.

With cackling laughter, the robed figure directs their newest tool to lead the way, while the armoured undead follows behind, guarding their back.

The exhausted warriors, together with the robed figures, take a knee, as they speak a prayer of gratitude to their deity, thanking them for the invested power that allowed them to vanquish their foe.

The winged figure, skull still in hand, turns blurry, falling forward while their companions rush to them, in an attempt to stop their collapse.

A world, covered in blue fire appears.

Sometimes, even the dead have to walk on The Road to Purgatory.