History

The rusty blades, leaving a trail of rust behind, clashed with the edge of the two-handed sword. For a while, the opponents exchanged blows until the gleaming sword managed to graze the monster's torso. Pus mixed with stale beer gushed from the cut. "What will you do when you face a severe beer deficiency, Vissy?" Lokken croaked, twitching his eye. "I'll unleash one of my insignificant minions," replied the hairy one, grabbing the nearest creature, tearing off its head, and drenching himself in beer directly from the half-decayed esophagus. Arandor finally snapped out of his stupor and decided it was time to act. But what should he do? Meanwhile, more and more undead were emerging from the ground. Turning around, Arandor rushed towards the meditating Neyra. The trance was broken, and with kicks, curses, and screams, they grappled in a struggling heap. Lokken noticed that the zombies had stopped, shuffling uncertainly in place, and this moment of confusion was enough for the main creature to deliver its underhanded blow. The blow landed on the forearm, piercing a centimeter of armor. Lokken cried out, parried the blade, and stumbled back a couple of steps. His face paled, a few hairs fell out, and his eyes turned red. "Not feeling too well, are you?" Vissy mumbled. "This wonderful weapon is steeped in the oldest beer, which causes great suffering to the victim when it enters the bloodstream, leading to an imminent fatal outcome." "Too... much... talking for an undead," the knight muttered, feeling his vision blur and waves of pain wash over his body. "Undead..." Vissy's eyes momentarily took on a more meaningful expression. Looking at his own hair in surprise, he shook off the enchantment. Shuffling towards the warrior, who had fallen to one knee, he raised the dirty, gnarled, rusty sword for the final blow.