[https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/929765243184357380/1117900521458638980/gbheader3.png]
Chapter 3 - Corpsescrew
“Huh, you can talk?” Goreblaster groaned out, his voice sounding odd to his hearing ears.
“Same as you, bud,” the animated corpse replied.
This was unusual. While there was some element of moans and the normal warblings of the lesser undead (in both their voices), there was also understanding. Zombies had never spoken before; maybe they were special ones.
“What you guys up to?” He awkwardly hid Impureheart behind his back.
“Jus’ out for a bite to eat,” the zombie raised his arm towards the twinkling torches of the nearby village, “On orders of the boss.”
“Who’s your boss?” The barbarian licked his lips as he gazed towards the town - he was pretty hungry too.
“Mistress Death.”
“Like, is that some poeticism you are trying to burden me with, or is there an actual person that chose that name?”
“You’re one to talk,” the zombie rolled his eyes with a crack of his neck, “Your name is… uh, strange; for some reason, I thought I knew you.”
Goreblaster scoffed. Every evil being the world over knew and feared the name G… wait, what was it again? He strummed at his sword hilt with grey fingers. It was something really cool, and self-explanatory, he felt. A mononym, easier for the populace to remember… those tasty populace.
“You look like a death knight or revenant,” the talkative undead continued, “Still got some dexterity to ya. Perhaps the Mistress sent you here to lead us?” With that phrase uttered, more of the small horde stopped to look in his direction.
Deathsmack? Braingorer? Bloodbust? Corpsescrew? Oh, he liked that last one.
“Ah, yes. I, Death Knight Corpsescrew, take charge of this unmerry band of, uh, inevitable decay in the name of the Mistress.” It was perhaps not the best speech he had ever given, but his brain was moving a bit slower than usual, and he didn’t have his assistant P… Peter to feed him lines. Or brains. Peter didn’t sound right - would the great undead hero Corpsescrew have an assistant called Peter… or… Penguin? No, not right either.
“Okay boss, whatcha want us to do - go eat the villagers still?”
Corpsescrew looked down through the sparse woods down the slight hill to the sleepy, unsuspecting village. It would be an easy meal, the quaint little morsels unprepared for the advancing horde of head-munchers. Something didn’t feel right in the back of his head though, and his brow furrowed in thought.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Does anybody know much about the town?” he gestured with a shrug.
“I usssed to live there,” a female zombie hissed out through clenched jaws.
“What can you tell me about this place?”
The zombies had all gathered around the death knight now, in a loose semi-circle as they listened in to hear their new leader’s plans.
“Sssimple place really, mossstly out of the way. Hasss a problem with banditsss, that’sss how I died - sstabbed in the ssss-”
“Okay, okay,” Corpsescrew held up a hand to shush the spittling corpse. “Sorry to hear that, but, are the bandits nearby?”
“Yesss, about ssss-”
“Good, I think we should go and eat their brains. Vanquish them?” Maybe both, he considered.
The undead shrugged in meandering acceptance. “Aren’t they going to be tougher - they’ll be armed and more wary,” a smaller zombie with no arms groaned.
“Yes, but you’ll have me - the world-famous anti-hero, Corpsescrew, on your side. Bandits won’t stand a chance.”
A resigned murmur made its way through the small group. Although the task seemed more difficult, they were under no inclination to argue - at least not to someone with a hefty weapon that had smote a few of their shambling brethren.
“To arms then!” Corpsescrew cheered with an unearthly growl, only feeling slightly ashamed at the loose arm he had recently plucked from the astonishingly polite zombie nearby.
The throng of undead started to shamble in his wake, in the rough direction away from the town that the female zombie had indicated the bandits may be. He would have to stop every so often to let them catch up, or untangle one from the various bushes or tree roots littering their path.
“So, uh, how long have you been a zombie?” The death knight made awkward small talk with the female shambler while they waited for a rather portly zombie to dislodge his foot from a rabbit hole.
“We are not at liberty to discuss - union rules.”
“You have a union?”
“No outbursts of unified singing, no discussing length of reanimation, and no rebellion against the boss.” The zombie shrugged and looked away.
Corpsescrew considered asking what the benefits were, but it seemed likely that it would probably entail guaranteed animation for certain term limits and an all-you-can-eat brain buffet. It was a shame, as he felt a good song would surely pick up the spirits (not literally) and foot speed (literally) of the group.
Instead, he watched the moon make its way across the sky. It had been a few hours since he had woken up, by estimation, and they would not have a great deal of time left before dawn. He couldn’t remember if anything bad happened to zombies in the daytime - but for the sake of his new friends, he wasn’t about to find out.
As luck would have it, after but a few further groaning pauses as they made their way through the increasingly dense woods, the light of a campfire became visible in the near distance.
There was no time to pause and survey the situation; the hunger struck the group as one and foul eyes lit up in crimson lust for the warm meal before them.
“Oi, who goes there?” A bushy man with a crossbow stood, alerted by the sound of moving branches and footfalls against the undergrowth.
“Blarrggehhgah!” Came the battle cry in response from the Death Knight Corpsescrew, as he careened out of the greenery with the blunt sword raised high, and followed by a horde of the ravenous undead.