Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

Pulling and stretching, pulling and stretching.

It wouldn’t stop, it won’t stop, it refuses to stop.

The pain was getting greater, yet lessening at the same time, colours and shapes were blending together, was it his vision deteriorating or was it the effects of the approaching miasma?

He was having difficulties telling reality from the hallucinations brought by his malnourished body, slowly approaching death, its grasp was cold and the fear it installed into his heart didn’t fall.

Aware that death was inevitable, he thought that the terror would eventually begin to fade away, dilute as he slowly began to decay alive.

He was wrong.

Standing up to his feet, he was unable to stop himself from scanning his surroundings, still looking for a way out.

Few goblins still retained coherence and autonomy, despite being blessed by intelligence and sapience, they weren’t high up on that scale, starvation and dehydration ravaged them much faster than one might expect.

Imigob enjoyed the luxury of a greater mind, he was able to see his brethren falling apart, the proud hunters, much more skilled and powerful than he was, they wouldn’t be able to put up any fight in the state they were in.

"Still not stopping…" he sounded like an old tree collapsing under its own weight, his throat completely dry, the thought of quenching himself with the pungent water forced its way into his brain for an instant.

He looked up as a shadow was cast over him.

Was the chieftain here? The figure seemed tall enough to be the old goblin, but the rays of sunlight passing through the shape’s body was a clear indicator proving otherwise.

Loimos had stepped out of the water, looking straight ahead, where the two strongest of the tribe were standing.

Pokzgob, the earth mage was out cold, he had exerted himself trying to prevent the undead from hitting the tribe with throws of rot.

Gobstroz and Stolgob had done their best to retain their strength and lucidity, but they had still fallen tremendously from their peaks, meanwhile, as the miasma progressed and engulfed more and more life-

Loimos hadn’t stopped growing stronger bit by bit, the arm lost to The First Seed wasn’t back yet, but it was steadily reforming.

Still, it seemed doubtful that he would be able to face them head-on, doubtful in their eyes, but obvious in his hollow sockets, he focused on the closest goblin.

Imigob’s eyes widened as he tried to step back, but he was too weak for any sudden movements, he felt the world turn around as he fell to the ground, not any further from danger.

He raised his arms defensively but his actions couldn’t matter less, none could reach and assist him in time, the chieftain and prodigal hunter tried to take aim, strike the undead with something and force him away.

They had failed to properly evaluate their state, Stolgob missed entirely, his stone knife landing straight into the corrupted water behind the undead.

As for Gobstroz, he tried to focus too hard, more than what his mental capacity would allow in just an instant, his club didn’t leave his hands, his vision doubled and felt like he was more likely to hit anything but the skeleton.

Loimos bit right into Imigob’s arm, grabbing him by his other arm, he dragged him away with ease, like an adult picking up a small child.

Struggling amounted to nothing, Loimos submerged himself alongside his prey, not giving a thought about the fact that he was killing a monster with a bright future ahead of himself, Imigob was a genius never seen before in the tribe.

Talent and potential couldn’t save him from drowning.

It didn’t take long for him to stop moving, the rotten waters, now constituted of more vile blood than anything else corroded his eyes, lips and any soft tissue, invading his throat and lungs, he passed out from pain before suffocating.

His life force dissipated, turning and transforming, shifting into death force.

Loimos didn’t bother to turn the corpse into rot, he quickly reemerged onto the shore, facing the only two goblins capable of fighting back.

The chieftain rested his stone club on his shoulder, shaking his head and cracking his neck, he assumed a disgruntled expression as he stared at Loimos.

The downfall of the goblins signified the fall of this entire, little world.

As if reacting to the prospect of wiping out all life present around, his hollow sockets were ignited with a glow much different from that of the other undeads.

The dark flames burning within that of the others were dreadful and threatening, this was entirely different.

There was no fire burning in Loimos’s eyes, as if two lanterns had been lit, he casted a dark purple light in front of him, blinding the chieftain as an intense fear tried to consume him whole.

All undeads inspired a strong dread, all undeads reminded without fail to the living that death would eventually claim them.

The stronger the undead, the most powerful that sensation was.

Loimos wasn’t very strong, but the terror he emitted was nearly paralysing.

"Stolgob, take your beauty and do your best to run" Gobstroz was the chieftain of this tribe, he had no other choice but to be buried alongside his tribesmen.

Stolgob had no such obligations and it could always be justified as an attempt to preserve their heritage and legacy.

The goblin didn’t attempt to go against the chieftain’s orders and did as he was told, running deeper in the forest with rapid steps as he carried Irgob on his back.

"Come over here! Face me like a man!" Gobstroz didn’t have any fuel left for insults, so he just began making his way toward the walking corpse.

Stone club in hand, he couldn’t help but notice that Loimos wasn’t looking at him, staring at the back of Stolgob as he disappeared behind the foliage.

The chieftain didn’t know that Loimos didn’t have to make such an obvious head movement to be able to clearly perceive them, he didn’t even know what an undead was.

So he truly believed that he had his sights solely on the run-aways.

He rushed forward, toward his imminent end.