As the loud crash reverberated through the grand throne room-like area, I raised my newly claimed Wandsword. Well, suppose it was just on loan until I apparently proved myself. My heartbeat picked up, and the familiar sensation of pure adrenaline filled my blood. Something about this particular encounter seemed…well, different. The air suddenly felt heavier, charged with an unspoken threat. Dust motes danced in the air, disturbed by the commotion.
From the shadows of the massive doorway, an eerie silence followed the crash and dread settled over me. Even Sav stopped his cheese-chomping and ax-swinging, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the gloom. Otho's spectral form shimmered, his movements hurried and nervous.
Then, I heard it—a chorus of otherworldly groans and hisses that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. The sounds seemed to slither through the air, intertwining with the heavy, deliberate bootfalls that reverberated ominously off the high walls. It was like the soundtrack to every nightmare I never wanted to have. The groans had this sorta guttural depth to them, resonating with a sorrow and rage long festering, while the hisses were sharper, more sinister, like whispered death threats.
I glanced at Sav, seeing his grip tighten on the gigantic ax, his knuckles whitening. Otho, for all his ghostliness, seemed to be anxiously awaiting whatever this was. I tried—unsuccessfully—to calm my racing panic. The pulsing of my jugular was a wardrum, my vision tunneled—I think I was damn near at the precipice of hyperventilation. But I had nowhere to go. There were only one exit and it was about to get smashed down by a many-legged so-and-so.
As the sounds grew louder, closer, the tension closed in around me. The anticipation was almost worse than the sight of our adversaries—it left too much to the imagination, and my imagination was working overtime—miserable sumbitch it was.
"Get ready," I whispered, tightening my own grip on the Wandsword. "Whatever's coming, it ain't here to congratulate us."
The groans and hisses were nearly upon us now, the sound of those heavy footsteps thundering in our ears.
Finally, slowly, figures began to emerge from the darkness, materializing into the dim light of the room. They weren’t just any figures—they were armored warriors.
“The hell?” I wondered, my voice quaking.
Their armor was tarnished and dented, covered in moss and vines as if they had been part of the swamp for ages. Each one bore weapons and shields that were rusted yet looked like they were mean enough to slice through bone.
Behind these…guess I’d call ‘em knights, a larger, more imposing figure loomed. Clad in what once must have been regal armor, now corrupted by time and swamp, stood a giant of a man—or what used to be a man. His helmet was a twisted visage of terror, and through the slits, two glowing points stared out with malevolent intent. Marshlore—ever-helpful little minx it was—bubbled up to let me know just exactly what his whole deal was:
DULMÁLSFORINGI EINN
Then, a moment later:
CRYPT COMMANDER ONE
Well, this just got a lot worse, I thought to myself. Anytime somebody’s got a name, it’s bad news.
The whole mass of them paused in the doorway, immediately halting their advance as they made themselves visible, as if waiting for some signal to move. And that was somehow even scarier than the idea of ‘em going into an immediate charge. There was another additional option to gain some more insight on this…’Crypt Commander’ with Lore—which would also slow time down and give me time to think. So…I did.
In days of yore, the elder scion of the ill-starred Lord Hyrus was he, rightful heir to the ancient bastion, now but a shadowed ruin. A titan in stature, mighty in strength, and grand in aspiration, destined was he to ascend and become the lord. Yet, the threads of fate wove a tapestry most cruel. Beguiled and usurped of his inheritance, cast into the realm of specters, his rightful lordship snatched away by his younger sibling’s cunning and treachery. His true name struck from the accords.
In the labyrinthine catacombs beneath the tower where the House’s dead are interred, the man’s spirit festered, consumed by a sense of betrayal and loss. His role transformed from a one-day lord to a spectral warden, the Dulmálsforingi Einn — the first Dulmálsforingi of many that inhabit the swamp—bound to the very halls he should have commanded. Over time, his resentment and bitterness coalesced into a formidable force, his soul intertwined with the swamp itself.
Commanding his ancestors and descendants alike, he marshaled an army, each knight a vestige of his once-noble lineage. Together, they stood guard over the relics and secrets of the tower, a silent pact to defend their tarnished heritage against any who dared to challenge their dominion.
Dulmálsforingi Einn’s strength was not just of the body, but of an indomitable will. He wielded his power with a fierce determination, his essence melding with the very stones and mist of the Boglands. In his eyes burned the eternal flame of a ruler wronged, a relentless drive to protect what he believed to be rightfully his.
And yet, amidst the whispers of the swamp, some say his soul yearned for release, for the redemption of his name and the restoration of his lost honor. In every clash, in every challenge, he sought a worthy adversary, one who could perhaps end his torment and restore the peace that had been denied to him.
“Heavy…” I muttered to myself. “So the toad was his older brother and tricked him? Damn, almost makes me thankful to be an only child.”
The world sped back up, and I noticed now that Otho floated beside me, his form flickering with an intensity that matched the tension in the room. "These be the guardians of the Relic, methinks, lad.”
“Yeah, no shit, Otho,” I hissed back. “How do we fight them, though? There’s a whole gang of these mothers.”
“Ye can’t expect me to know!” Otho exclaimed. “Never seen the likes of them before.”
“Just perfect,” I said.
Sav grunted. "Looks like trouble."
I couldn't help but agree. "Yup, trouble with a capital ‘OH-SHIT.’"
“Suppose this is my cue to exit,” Otho said softly, though it did sound like he was a little hesitant. “Can’t help anyhow.”
“Fine,” I said, shaking my head, my eyes never leaving the horde ahead of us. “I’ll resummon you after we somehow whip the britches off these baddies.”
Suddenly, the apparition was gone, and the warmth of the attavita in my bandolier returned, indicating he’d deposited himself back into the object.
“Sav,” I said. “You said you found that cheese in a coffin?”
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He grunted in the affirmative.
“How many were there? The coffins, I mean.”
“Goodly sum,” he said.
I released a sigh of pure unadulterated frustration.
“And you didn’t think to mention that?”
“Only one had cheese in it,” he said.
“What did the others have in them? These guys?!”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Found the cheese on my first try.”
“Gah,” I groaned. “Well, fine, whatever. Have you ever—”
But I was interrupted by movement. The giant at the army’s rear—the Crypt Commander— raised an arm, and the air around us seemed to chill. I could feel the power emanating from him, a dark energy that made my skin crawl.
"Well, reckon it's time to see what this Wandsword can do," I said.
Sav nodded, stepping forward, colossal ax ready. "I'll take the big one."
“Great,” I said. “So that means I have to take everyone else?”
“Unlucky,” he said.
“Some Squire you are.”
The Commander, looming at the back, let out a bellow, a sound so primal and guttural it shook the very air around us. It was like the roar of a lion, fierce and commanding. As if this was the signal they'd been waiting for, the small army suddenly charged.
They were fast, shockingly so. Their movements were jerky, erratic, but that did nothing to slow them down. It was like watching a bunch of suddenly-animate scarecrows, their bodies swaying almost comically as if they were running too fast for their mass to counteract. But the terror of their actions counteracted anything humorous I could have taken away from it. They spread out in a horrifying formation, and I quickly estimated there were indeed about twenty of them.
In the thick of impending chaos, I clutched the Wandsword tightly, a storm of thoughts raging in my mind. My focus narrowed on the relic in my grasp, a silent plea to Marshlore to guide me through the fog of uncertainty.
Come on, you, I begged my incorporeal Galdur, willing it to work. Tell me what I need to do to survive this damn thing!
The air around me crackled with an unspoken energy, waiting for a revelation to break through.
I promise, you help me and my next kill will be dedicated to the Bog. I might not like it, but—
Suddenly, a cascade of insight flooded into my consciousness, unearthing knowledge that felt both ancient and freshly learned. I reeled from the instant gout of information, swaying and almost takin’ a tumble.
The Wandsword, I realized, weren’t just a weapon—it was like a partner—meant to be understood—something akin to a being that required a mutual bond. Pretty wild, if you ask me. It dawned on me that to truly harness its power, I needed to impart a piece of myself, a fragment of my…essence.
“Well, shit—what do I have time for?” There wasn’t much available that didn’t take at least a bit to do. Damn Galdur—why hadn’t I discovered anything that was like “Instant Fireball?” Maybe that kind of Galdur didn’t even exist? Dammit, I’m going on a tangent! I had one idea, so I went with it—I mean, what else can you do in a crisis?
With urgency clawing at my throat, I whispered an incantation: "May the marsh allow my passage o'er fluid terrain." The words resonated deep within the core of my head, spiraling out of the base of my skull, echoing through the chambers of my soul. There wasn’t any water, but I had the gist that it would do in this pinch.
In that moment, something profound and ineffable shifted. The Wandsword vibrated gently, like an acknowledgment of something. It was as if a finicky tupperware lid had clicked into place. The Wandsword's presence intertwined with an inner section of my existence, a shared rhythm pulsating.
“Woah…” I muttered. “This feels…interesting!”
I raised the Wandsword and stood my ground, the weapon poised and ready, a beacon of defiance.
As the first of the gaunt, rust-armored figures lunged towards me, I braced myself, the Wandsword held firmly in front of me. The creature, its movements jerky yet still awful-damn swift, swung a rusty maul with deadly precision.
With a clashing of forces, metal met the mysterious wood of my handy new Wandsword. A loud crack echoed through the room, the impact sending shivers up my arm and wrenching the weapon wide from its intended path. My defense had opened up, leaving me vulnerable.
“Shi—”
Before I could even think of a counter, another enemy, this one brandishing a long, jagged sword, thrust forward. The point of the blade aimed straight at me with a deadly precision.
Instinctively, I sidestepped, but not fast enough. The sword's tip grazed past, piercing my clothing and raking a searing line across my ribs. Pain flared up, hot and immediate. My first thought, ludicrously, was of tetanus again.
“GAH!” I roared, trying to banish the panic back from whence it came. I couldn’t be worrying about surviving battle and lockjaw right now!
Git! I commanded my own anxiety, focusing more on the pain than the potential poison.
The creatures surrounded me, five of them encircling with a hunger for carnage in their undead eyes. They were a grotesque sight—armored in plates that looked like they had been forged in despair, covered in moss and vines. Their helmets obscured their faces, but the vile intent in their postures was clear as moonshine glass.
One of them lunged forward, rusty sword raised high. I dodged to the side, feeling the air shift as the blade missed me by inches. I countered with a quick jab of the Wandsword, the tip connecting with a satisfying thud against the creature's armor. It staggered back but didn’t go down.
Another came at me from the left, its movements erratic but fast. I parried with the Wandsword, sparks flying as the weapons clashed. The Wandsword's wood held up against the onslaught, a testament, I guessed, to its mysterious and powerful nature. I pushed the creature back, gaining a moment’s respite—and to catch my breath.
I spun around just in time to block a downward strike from a third assailant. The force of the blow was immense, almost driving me to my knees. I gritted my teeth, pushing back with all my strength.
In that instant, the fourth and fifth lunged simultaneously. One swung a mace, the other thrusting with a spear. I ducked under the mace, feeling its wind brush against my hair, and sidestepped the spear. The spearman overextended, and I seized the opportunity, driving the Wandsword forward. The tip pierced the creature’s armor, sinking into whatever semblance of flesh it had. It let out an otherworldly groan before crumbling to the ground.
“Ha!” I shouted back, more to comfort myself than any idea of hurting their undead feelings—I mean, they were walking corpses. “That’s what ya get, ya sumbitch! Didn’t know I was fast and slippery like a—OPE!”
The one with the mace recovered quickly, swinging in a wide arc. I jumped back, narrowly avoiding the swing. The mace crashed into the ground, leaving a small crater in its wake.
I was panting now, huffing all pretty-like, adrenaline coursing through my veins like wildfire. Each movement was a dance with death, each breath a borrowed moment in time. The remaining creatures regrouped, their rusted weapons raised, ready for another onslaught.
While I was busy tangling with my own mess of trouble, part of me couldn’t help but keep an eye on the ruckus Sav was raising with that big ol' Crypt Commander. Now, I ain’t a stranger to a good brawl, but this? This was like watching two mountains decide they had a score to settle. The air around 'em crackled with so much tension, you could’ve lit it with a match, even over here where I was performing my own deadly two-step.
Sav, the big lug, was swinging his fifteen-foot ax like it was a twig. I knew it was deceptively light, but, I tell ya, it was something else watching him move. He wasn't just strong, he was quick as a cat, making those wide, swooping swings look easy. The ax whooshed through the air, threatening to chop down anything more solid than a breeze.
Then there was the Crypt Commander. Clad in armor that looked like it’d seen better centuries, the guy was massive, a real juggernaut. He pulled out a sword that was more like a slab of iron—a good eight feet of it—and I reckon it was as wide as a barn door. Just looking at it, you’d think it’d take three men and a mule to even lift it, but he swung it around like it was nothing.
The two of 'em were like some kind of macabre dance partners, with Sav ducking and weaving, staying just out of reach of that gargantuan sword. Something about it was sort of primal—like watching a monkey with a big knife. Sav would drop low, use one arm to stabilize himself, only to burst up with a wide swing. Quite an acrobatic style of fighting for somebody who looked like they were made out of biceps. It was clear the big teenager knew his way around a fight—but he seemed to be a natural—in his element here—like he’d been tangling with things bigger than him all his life. Though I dunno how the hell that’d be possible—he was a big’un himself. Even so, I'd be hard-pressed to imagine he’d tangled with anything that topped the Commander.
Still, the Commander wasn’t some slow, lumbering oaf. No sir, he blocked every one of Sav’s swings with a kind of grace you wouldn't expect in something that big—or maybe you would, I dunno—it was impressive is all. The sound of their weapons clashing was like a thunderstorm in a metal factory.
Just when it seemed like they might be evenly matched, the tables turned. The Commander pushed Sav back, and for a moment, there was this eerie sort of calm. Like the eye of a hurricane, you know? Then he let out this roar—a bone-shaking, soul-chilling roar that made the air itself feel like it was freezing.
Suddenly, the room turned colder than a witch’s titty in January. The frost started creeping out from where they were standing, like winter itself was invading the room. My breath turned to mist in front of my face, and I could feel the cold starting to nip at my toes through my boots. Sav, though, he just kept on truckin’, ax in hand, like he didn’t give two hoots about the cold. He was breathing out these big clouds of steam, looking like a bull ready to charge.
That brought me back to my own issues—namely the whole host of assholes trying to wipe me off the map. I brought the Wandsword up again as they converged on me, taking a step back to give myself some clearance. My stomach dropped out of my body suddenly as I felt myself slip and lurch. In my haste to make some room, I hadn’t paid attention to what was going on below me. The frost had turned to ice and I’d stepped right on a patch and fallen backward.
“Gyuhhh!” I roared as I slammed onto my back, weapon still poised with the tip pointed at my enemies. As I collided, something else happened, the power I’d been gathering in the Wandsword—pulled from my own skull—had finished and with my sudden jostling, something erupted from the end of the sword. Water.
A geyser flashed out, as Marshlore informed me the Wandsword had bound itself with the Galdur of the element of water in my own spell. The jet however was affected by the sudden shift in temperature. In midair, the gout of water transformed into a pike of ice that then sliced right through three of the undead armored ruffians.
I stared, shocked, and then looked down at the Wandsword in my hand.
“Oh….yeah,” I practically moaned. Then I slid up and to my feet windmilling the sword once or twice to test its weight. I smirked. These guys had just fucked up. Bad.
“Alright then, ya swamp bastards,” I said, pointing the tip outward again. “Let’s fucking go.”