Britina and Prunhiline jolted awake from their respective nightmares, assaulted by the stench of decay and death. The reek was so pungent it made their eyes water. Britina covered her nose with the sleeve of her robe, and Prunhiline cupped both hands over her nose. They both looked at each other.
“It wasn’t me this time!” Prunhiline coughed, waving her hands in the air.
“Are you sure?” Britina gasped.
“You're still conscious,” Prunhiline smirked from behind her hands.
“Good point,” Britina agreed. She knew if Prunhiline had farted, she would not still be standing. Prunhiline was infamous for her noxious flatulence.
A mournful moan echoed up the small road leading to the gate. Both women peered down the road to see that the lone figure had finally approached far enough for them to determine details.
It appeared to be a human wearing a long black cloak with a hood pulled low. They couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but both assumed it was a man. It was holding an object in both hands. The smell seemed to be coming from the man.
“I’m not big on baths, but he needs one,” Prunhiline whispered.
“I agree, dear love,” Britina whispered back.
The two women watched as the man shambled and stumbled up the path. Prunhiline gripped her war hammer, still tense from her nightmare. She wasn’t giving it up. Britina relaxed and allowed her magic to fill her.
The man stopped several yards before them. The figure tilted its head, letting its hood fall back to reveal a partially rotted face. Cold, dead eyes stared lifelessly at them. The women recoiled in horror as it simply stood there, staring.
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“Do you think he’s a friend of Jerald’s?” Prunhiline asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Britina responded in a hushed tone.
The undead raised his hands, revealing what he’d been carrying: a dented dwarven chest plate. The leather straps were broken, but it looked like it had once been a fine piece of armor. The two women stared at it.
The vile creature opened its black mouth and groaned, “Refill.”
The undead, the mage, and the warrior stared at one another. A thick silence hung in the air, and even the birds, insects, and the wind held their collective breaths, waiting. The undead lifted the Dwarven armor again and shook it. Prunhiline and Britina looked at each other.
“Burn it?” Prunhiline asked, her eyes wide with confusion.
“Yes, dear love, burn it.” Britina hissed with disgust.
Prunhiline hefted her great war hammer over her head, swinging it down onto the undead’s head. A sickening crack echoed through the ravine. The creature buckled and broke under the assault. The Dwarven armor shot from its hands, landing at Britina’s feet.
Britina readied her fire spell, and with a loud crack, she released it. Her blue eyes glowed blue-white as fire erupted from her outstretched hands, engulfing the crumbling undead. The smell of burning rotten flesh assaulted the two women as the creature screeched from the flames engulfing its dead body. It writhed but couldn’t move due to its crushed spine, preventing any attempt at escape from re-death.
Both women covered their noses, attempting to protect themselves from the horrid smell of burning rotten undead flesh. They were both surprised to find that burning it had thankfully smelled better than it had upon arrival.
Britina picked up the dwarven armor. Though dented and scratched, the ornate engraving on the front was still mostly intact and looked familiar to the mage.
“Prun!” Britina shouted, “This armor belongs to the prince!”
"What?" Prunhiline asked, her eyes still watering from the burning corpse. "How do you know?"
Britina pointed at the name tag inside the armor. “It says, ‘If found, please return to Prince Darren of the Dwarven Kingdom of Nagitha.’”
Prunhiline looked inside and read the note. “That’s not a bad idea.”
"What?" Britina asked in confusion.
Prunhiline pointed at the label. “I need to put labels on my weapons and armor too.”
“Dear love,” Britina said urgently, “we need to inform the king!”