There were things he needed but were gone. A tent, blanket keep warm during the cold nights, food. Raylas could get some if it during his trip through traps and hunting, but there were a few things which were immediate concerns. Such as how he could defend himself as his armor was extremely damaged.
He could get most of what he needed if he went back to the caravan. The main question was was it worth it, and would the undead still be there? If they were then he’d be walking into a death sentence since he had no ways to fight off the remaining horde alone, but to go without any supplies at all would be just as dangerous. Even a roaming goblin party could be a danger with the gaps in his armor.
Raylas decided to risk the undead for supplies. If he was lucky the remains of his armor could be salvaged, and maybe a map of the area remained in the Captain’s tent. Not like he could read much of it, but the lines on the map were paths for him to take, right? He had seen Captain trace them while planning out missions.
He shook his head and hardened himself. He couldn’t get lost in his head right now since he was at his most vulnerable. He started back the way he came. The air felt colder now, biting into him. He shivered and sighed. He had to find not only supplies but cover. A cloak or secluded area in which he could sit down and rest. The exhaustion from the night before was finally starting to get to him, weighing him down with fatigue.
Raylas licked his lips, realizing he struggled all night and hadn’t drank anything since he had that wolf meat the night before. He was not quite hungry yet, but he felt extremely parched. Maybe he could remove the rotten taste of death from his mouth too?
He had been walking for a while when he saw a plum of dark smoke rising. He knew he was getting close as the smell of burning flesh reached him. He crouched down and started a slow advance on the battlefield.
He refused to cover himself in the bushes as the undead loved to ambush their prey, so moving at a near crawl through the center of the road was the best way to sneak up on them. They also had ways to sense the living which did not use the basic senses, so being in line of sight of them meant nothing.
He crossed the top of a rise which overlooked the camp. A few carts appeared to have also caught fire from the night before, but the undead were nowhere to be seen. Even the corpses from the night before were missing. Raylas shivered at the thought. As often as you killed the undead, they always found a way to keep their numbers.
He slowly started forward, ready to abandon his plan if he saw the slightest movement from the forest. Undead were not active during the day, but it was still not unheard of to stumble upon them and reawaken the horde.
He arrived at the old food wagon he sighed. It was one of the ones to burn down, so most of the food was gone. He already doubted that they would remain due to the unending hunger of the dead, but the satisfaction that they didn’t get any didn’t ease the disappointment of it being gone.
He scavenged around the grass next to it and found his missing gauntlet and boot. They were dented from the attack, but they remained in surprisingly good condition. He also found his chestpiece which was yanked off. The straps which used to hold it onto him were destroyed, but the iron was valuable. If he couldn’t get it repaired he could at least sell it for some silver to commission a new set.
The remaining bits were warped and shredded to the point of uselessness, and Raylas hesitated to leave them behind. Unfortunately their bulk outweighed their value as scrap. He gathered them up and piled them into a neat pile before giving them a respectful gesture for their good service to him, then he moved further into the camp.
The Patron’s carriage as well as two other merchant wagons were burned to the ground. Raylas picked through the ashes of each of them, finding a few pieces of value. A necklace, a few rings, a pouch of cobber with at least a half dozen silver. His eyes widened at the fortune.
No wonder bandits raided merchants. With spoils like this they should be living like kings.
Raylas snorted and shoved away the temptation. He was scum of the world, like every other mercenary, but he was no bandit. He placed his findings inside his pouch. It was getting surprisingly full, which did not bode well. What he needed was a pack.
Raylas continued his search of the camp. A number of weapons were found, each one of them holding the memory of a companion from the group. He gathered them up and stuck them in the ground near his armor, giving a small prayer that their bodies were quickly found and given eternal rest.
The last two merchant carts did not have anything useful. They were filled with pots and pans and other necessary utensils for a village. The wolf pelts from the night before were also piled up in there, though they had not been fully prepped before the attack so they wouldn’t last long once Raylas left. They’ll rot away and become useless before the freeze of winter truly set in.
He sighed at the loss, but there was nothing he could do. He didn’t know how to tan the fur to make it last, so taking any of them would just be a waste of energy.
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He did find a very useful item, though. A large pack, typically used by merchants. It had a solid frame which comfortably fit on his back and supported the weight of the bag. Tied to it was also a sleeping mat which the unfortunate merchant never had time to set up. There was not much inside except a nice pile of copper and some clothes far too small for him to wear.
Raylas also went over to a nearby chest and opened it. He found a few precious gems inside. They were enormous and their value made his eyes widen. A variety of colors sparkled as he picked them up. Two red ones, a green, and one he knew was a diamond. Each one was about the size of the nail on his pinkie finger.
He placed them in his pouch and continued to sort through the chest. One item appeared to be a harp, but on the strings were a lot of balls. He tossed the useless instrument after attempting to play it. No notes sounded as he plucked the strings, so it must have been far out of tune. Perhaps it was just an item for collectors? Merchants were weird like that, wanting useless things because they look good or are rare. All Raylas needed was something useful. Outside use it just became extra space to carry.
The final items inside were just stacks of papers which meant nothing to Raylas. He closed the chest and left the wagon. He did a quick run around to the other campsites but nothing remained. Every item had either been ripped to shreds or were trampled into uselessness. He found his own pack, about half burned. He pulled out his favorite cloak, now barely longer than a basic towel.
He sighed as he dumped the useless pack and looked to the center of the camp. Just one place remained.
When he finally arrived at the Captain’s tent he hesitated for a few moments. He was going to steal from the Captain. Technically it was abandoned, but Raylas knew who the true owner was and the idea of taking it felt troubling.
A cold breeze blew over the camp, slightly removing the smell of death and smoke. Raylas shivered, but the wind broke him out of his head. He needed items to survive. Captain and the rest had each other to make it to Gloomscrest, but he had only himself.
Besides, if he met the Captain again he would give the items back. So right now he would only be borrowing them. It isn’t theft if you planned to return it, right?
Coming to a decision he slowly made his way inside. As he pulled the tent flap aside he peered inside.
The tent was a wreck. The table was flipped and there was a pool of black on the ground. Standing in the middle of the room was a still figure. As the light entered the tent the figure slowly turned, and then groaned.
Raylas leapt back from the tent and pulled out his dagger. It felt familiar in his hands now, almost as familiar as his polearm. He growled as the tent flap rose up and a zombie shuffled out. His chest was ripped apart and had intestines spilling out from the hole in his stomach, but his blood stained clothes seemed to shimmer under the light. The strings were lined with gold, and gems were sewed into the collar and trims.
The Patron moaned as it started to reach for him. Raylas smiled and started to swing the dagger in a circle, mimicking what he did the night before.
The Patron stumbled forward as Raylas launched the dagger forward, only for it to miss completely and pierce into the tent. When he tried to pull it back the hood on the dagger caught the fabric and stopped.
Raylas swallowed and jumped to the side as the Patron lumbered forward, missing him by a hair. Raylas got a hint of rot from the fat man, but the smell was not nearly as bad as the undead from the night before.
The zombie stumbled, giving Raylas a moment to run to the tent and grab the dagger by the handle, tearing it out of the thick fabric. It felt familiar, but it also did not move the way he expected. He repeated the spin and launched the dagger at the zombie again, but the Patron stumbled causing the dagger to fly past harmlessly.
Raylas growled and punched the Patron in the face. His gauntlets cracked into his face but the Patron barely flinched as he opened his mouth and tried to bite his fist. Raylas tried to kick the dead man but his foot squished into the hanging organs in the man's chest, not getting a solid purchase to push him off.
The Patron’s arms swung around and collided around Raylas, grasping him and pulling him close. Raylas’ leg bent and sank deeper into the man’s body, and his hand opened to hold back the patron’s face. The Patron snapped at him and used an unnatural strength to pull him close. His muscles were still in basically pristine condition, meaning they held a large amount of strength.
“Piss off,” Raylas growled as he stabbed upward and into the Patron’s forearm. The smell of searing flesh and the pained roar of the Patron sounded as the dagger pierced. The grip loosened slightly and Raylas pushed with his leg as hard as he could. He hit what felt like a rod and shoved it forward.
The Patron flew back and crashed into a pile of boxes piled in the middle of the camp. Raylas coughed looking at his filth covered booth, but ignored it as he rushed into the Captain’s tent. He quickly scanned the room and noticed a few items of interest.
He grabbed the pack lying on the floor and flung it over his shoulder, as well as an ink-stained piece of paper with what appeared to be drawings on it. Raylas hoped it was the map but did not have time to check. The final item was a cloak lying on a chest near the broken cot. He snatched it then ran out of the tent as the Patron managed to finally regain his feet.
Another groan sounded in the distance and Raylas’ heart quickened as he saw movement in the woods. The others were returning due to the commotion caused by the Patron.
He gave the new pack a shrug to get it more comfortable next to the other pack and started to run. He didn’t go toward the burnt wagons but instead went the way they came before. There was an abandoned fort a half day away he could use to defend against the horde. The caravan stopped there for the night to rest after a particularly difficult day, so he knew it wasn’t filled with monsters.
Giving the battlefield one last look he gave a respectful salute toward the markers of his dead companions, and then gave the dead Patron a rude gesture before charging off.