The fog roils behind him as he strides toward the churchyard. Nearing the edge of the lawn, the smell of freshly turned earth, moist and dank, assaults him first. A step later and it is followed by the dry, musty smell of old age and ancient things. Another step and he pauses as the smell becomes the rot of the recently dead. With practiced movement, he lifts the war hammer from its home on his waistband and raises his shield. The fog blankets his world and his normally excellent vision is for naught, even his infrared vision is thwarted as the fog makes everything little more than blurred shapes in a shifting sea of white.
He freezes, straining to hear beyond the silence of the graves at his feet. He waits for what seems a long while. No sounds above his own shallow breathing are detected. But the scent of death is unmistakable. With a gesture of faith and devotion, he concentrates, searching for the feeling that will lead him toward the evil in this place. There. To his left. At the edge of his perception. He pauses no longer, warily crossing the broken ground, watching for the evil thing in front of home, and carefully picking his way through the graves at his feet. Several have been unearthed, leaving mounds of dirt for him to navigate. From each comes the scent of death disturbed. A palpable agony that reaches inside him and makes his soul ache. The desecration of their slumber is enough, but that the dead have been raised, their mortal remains animated by some necromancer’s dark arts, it is unforgivable. The punishment is written in the Great Book — the one responsible must be beheaded, drawn and quartered. Each of the parts to be disposed of using the rituals of GihnShe, MangSto, and HorronJa. For this purpose was he called.
The village elders sent word of their travails to the Abbey less than a week ago. Thirteen children wen’t missing one day. That night, as the searchers combed the forest and fields about town, a dense, white fog flowed forth from the church and its grounds. Two nights later, zombies of long dead citizens walked the night. The town’s curse worsened when the watch commander and three of his men were slain by a pack of the monsters. The next night, those four good men joined the ranks of the undead and returned to slay their comrades. Without a watch, the town was in a hopeless situation and so sent their missive. Upon its receipt, the Brethren deliberated and prayed all day and through the night. The next morning, Brother Stormweaver was summoned to the Hall of the Great Lord where he was blessed and anointed, armed and armored. Horses were provided, massive white chargers. His travel was with haste lest the Necromancer flee before the Great Lord’s Justice could be brought forth.